That is why we give to children a proverb, or that which the Greeks call chreia, to be learned by heart; that sort of thing can be comprehended by the young mind, which cannot as yet hold more.
For a man, however, whose progress is definite, to chase after choice extracts and to prop his weakness by the best known and the briefest sayings and to depend upon his memory, is disgraceful; it is time for him to lean on himself. He should make such maxims and not memorize them.
For it is disgraceful even for an old man, or one who has sighted old age, to have a notebook knowledge.
"This is what Zeno said."
But what have you yourself said?
"This is the opinion of Cleanthes."
But what is your own opinion? How long shall you march under another man's orders? Take command, and utter some word which posterity will remember. Put forth something from your own stock.
—from Seneca, Moral Letters 33
We are currently more interested in promoting the professional trades, the Servile Arts, than we are in nurturing a deeper human formation, the Liberal Arts, though I’m sure the pendulum will one day swing back again. Beginning with the Greeks and the Romans, and passing through into the Middle Ages and the Renaissance, ran a tradition of measuring learning by how well we understood our meaning and purpose.
For all the remarkable scientific and technological advances of the last few centuries, our moral sense is not something we can afford to lose.
One part of the Liberal Arts model is an awareness of how certain methods of education are best suited to different stages in our development. Before we can learn to express ourselves convincingly, we must first learn how to think clearly, and before we can put order to our thoughts, we must first acquire a competence in language.
As much as it is tempting to skip ahead, all is wasted without the groundwork, and in her wisdom, Nature has made children especially gifted at soaking up patterns, just as adolescents are notably disposed to forming arguments. Whatever the age, there can be no adulthood without attending to the previous inclinations.
Hence the trivium, the first three Liberal Arts of grammar, logic, and rhetoric, were not chosen at random, for they reflect our inner growth, and when we are younger we are most suited to honing the power of memory.
The chreia was a brief anecdote involving a character’s response to a situation, and students were expected to retain certain lessons by memorizing them. I only realized how the Greeks had it completely right when I say my own two children, beginning at around the age of four or five, relating everything in their lives to the telling of stories.
Things change by the age of twelve or thirteen, and then a simple tale is no longer enough to answer a question. The cry of “Why?” cannot be satisfied by an attribution, and now demands a proper explanation; it is a wonderful, and a frustrating, part of growing up.
In like manner, if I am to embrace maturity, I can’t continue relying on what someone else has said, or letting my mind be led by the judgments of another. By constantly quoting the words of this or that authority I am failing to be my own man.
Can I learn from my betters? Of course I can, but once the lesson has been grasped, it is time to move one to becoming responsible for myself. If I have truly assimilated it, then I should have some confidence in my ability to follow my own reasoning. Self-mastery is the key, not resorting to endless references and footnotes.
The very way I write these reflections, working from other Stoic texts, shows me how this is still a work in progress. I turn to Seneca, Epictetus, and Marcus Aurelius every day, though I always keep in mind that these writings are merely a means, never an end in themselves. I hope for a day when I will no longer need to look up an answer and can instead formulate my own—it’s high time to put on the big-boy pants.
I think of one of my favorite chreias about Diogenes, and how much my son also came to enjoy it:
When asked why he was carrying a lamp around the city in daylight, Diogenes said: “I am looking for an honest man.”
Neither Diogenes nor the lamp are ultimately the point here—a personal willingness to evaluate character is the point here.
We are currently more interested in promoting the professional trades, the Servile Arts, than we are in nurturing a deeper human formation, the Liberal Arts, though I’m sure the pendulum will one day swing back again. Beginning with the Greeks and the Romans, and passing through into the Middle Ages and the Renaissance, ran a tradition of measuring learning by how well we understood our meaning and purpose.
For all the remarkable scientific and technological advances of the last few centuries, our moral sense is not something we can afford to lose.
One part of the Liberal Arts model is an awareness of how certain methods of education are best suited to different stages in our development. Before we can learn to express ourselves convincingly, we must first learn how to think clearly, and before we can put order to our thoughts, we must first acquire a competence in language.
As much as it is tempting to skip ahead, all is wasted without the groundwork, and in her wisdom, Nature has made children especially gifted at soaking up patterns, just as adolescents are notably disposed to forming arguments. Whatever the age, there can be no adulthood without attending to the previous inclinations.
Hence the trivium, the first three Liberal Arts of grammar, logic, and rhetoric, were not chosen at random, for they reflect our inner growth, and when we are younger we are most suited to honing the power of memory.
The chreia was a brief anecdote involving a character’s response to a situation, and students were expected to retain certain lessons by memorizing them. I only realized how the Greeks had it completely right when I say my own two children, beginning at around the age of four or five, relating everything in their lives to the telling of stories.
Things change by the age of twelve or thirteen, and then a simple tale is no longer enough to answer a question. The cry of “Why?” cannot be satisfied by an attribution, and now demands a proper explanation; it is a wonderful, and a frustrating, part of growing up.
In like manner, if I am to embrace maturity, I can’t continue relying on what someone else has said, or letting my mind be led by the judgments of another. By constantly quoting the words of this or that authority I am failing to be my own man.
Can I learn from my betters? Of course I can, but once the lesson has been grasped, it is time to move one to becoming responsible for myself. If I have truly assimilated it, then I should have some confidence in my ability to follow my own reasoning. Self-mastery is the key, not resorting to endless references and footnotes.
The very way I write these reflections, working from other Stoic texts, shows me how this is still a work in progress. I turn to Seneca, Epictetus, and Marcus Aurelius every day, though I always keep in mind that these writings are merely a means, never an end in themselves. I hope for a day when I will no longer need to look up an answer and can instead formulate my own—it’s high time to put on the big-boy pants.
I think of one of my favorite chreias about Diogenes, and how much my son also came to enjoy it:
When asked why he was carrying a lamp around the city in daylight, Diogenes said: “I am looking for an honest man.”
Neither Diogenes nor the lamp are ultimately the point here—a personal willingness to evaluate character is the point here.
—Reflection written in 12/2012
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