. . . Do not go lightly or casually to
hear lectures; but if you do go, maintain your gravity and dignity and do not
make yourself offensive.
When you are going to meet any one, and
particularly some man of reputed eminence, set before your mind the thought,
'What would Socrates or Zeno have done?' and you will not fail to make proper
use of the occasion. . . .
—Epictetus,
The Handbook, Chapter 33 (tr
Matheson)
I used
to consider my days playing the game of higher education as a time of trial,
because I was so frustrated by all the pettiness of small minds. I still
consider it as a time of trial, but I now see it as the opportunity given to me
to learn to not be petty and small-minded myself.
If you
were a serious undergraduate you were strongly encouraged, and if you were any
sort of graduate student you were absolutely required, to attend the usual
evening and weekend lectures by visiting scholars. I never much liked the
lengthy hagiographies in the introductions, but I learned quite a bit from
those talks themselves. I still have pages and pages of notes I took back then,
complete with my own thoughts and observations.
What I really
never looked forward to, however, were the lengthy question and answer
sessions. As a follower of Socrates, I hardly hate either questions or answers,
but what irked me so was that these questions were usually not about a love of
truth, but rather about a desire for recognition. Like some twisted political
press conference, people stepped into the arena to challenge, and hopefully to defeat,
a reigning champion. If they could manage it, they thought their fame would
spread far and wide.
I recall
one such lecture, by a very well respected Classical scholar, about the proper
division and order of the books in Aristotle’s Metaphysics. I hardly know if he was right or wrong, but I was
fascinated by the argument, and I was grateful for being given something to
mentally chew on.
The talk
had actually filled a rather large lecture hall, easily many hundreds of seats.
When the lecturer opened the floor to questions, a man stood up in the back and
started speaking. He spoke for some time. I still have no idea who he was, but
I think I was supposed to recognize him. He surely thought we should all
recognize him.
I could
already tell that his question was hardly a question, but a personal attack. “Your reading of the text is clearly flawed, because you don’t understand the nuances of the Greek.”
The
lecturer politely thanked him for the comment, and offered, as I recall, a four
point reasoned response, even admitting that there were indeed issues still to
be resolved.
The
fellow wouldn’t stand down. “I don’t think you’re
hearing what I’m saying. I have
studied the language of Aristotle for many years, and I find it absolutely
ridiculous that you are making such
an obvious mistake.” By this point all heads were turned back to look at this
man, and even from a distance, I saw a broad, self-satisfied grin.
“I
believe I have answered your question as best I can, and I’d like to move on to
other questions, if I may.”
Here’s
where it got ugly. As he was sitting down, the man in the back pretended to
mumble an aside, even though he was shouting it from the top of his lungs.
“Well, they sure don’t make philosophers like they used to!” I was startled to
hear a good number of people laugh, and some even clapping, in approval of the
comment.
Again, I
am not one to judge about the merit of the argument about Aristotle’s Metaphysics. It hardly matters, because
what was really at stake, right there and then, was a judgment about respect
and decency. I walked away that night realizing that I had learned an important
lesson, that philosophy hardly amounted to a hill of beans if it didn’t
encourage the practice of loving one’s neighbor.
What
would Socrates and Zeno have done? These men were hardly obsequious, and many
people downright despised them for challenging the usual norms. But I also hardly
think either of them ever thought that a lecture or a debate was about puffing
up their own self-importance.
Written in 6/2009
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