1
20
218
-
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b4087987691c40aa114bd196d3308567
Dublin Core
The Dublin Core metadata element set is common to all Omeka records, including items, files, and collections. For more information see, http://dublincore.org/documents/dces/.
Description
An account of the resource
Items in this collection are part of a series of lectures given every year at St. John's College. During the Fall and Spring semesters, lectures are given on Friday nights. Items include audio and video recordings and typescripts.<br /><br />For more information, and for a schedule of upcoming lectures, please visit the <strong><a href="http://www.sjc.edu/programs-and-events/annapolis/formal-lecture-series/" target="_blank" rel="noreferrer noopener">St. John's College website</a></strong>. <br /><br />Click on <strong><a title="Formal Lecture Series" href="http://digitalarchives.sjc.edu/items/browse?collection=5">Items in the St. John's College Formal Lecture Series—Annapolis Collection</a></strong> to view and sort all items in the collection.<br /><br />A growing number of lecture recordings are also available on the St. John's College (Annapolis) Lectures podcast. Visit <a href="https://anchor.fm/greenfieldlibrary" title="Anchor.fm">Anchor.fm</a>, <a href="https://podcasts.apple.com/us/podcast/st-johns-college-annapolis-lectures/id1695157772">Apple Podcasts</a>, <a href="https://podcasts.google.com/feed/aHR0cHM6Ly9hbmNob3IuZm0vcy84Yzk5MzdhYy9wb2RjYXN0L3Jzcw" title="Google Podcasts">Google Podcasts</a>, or <a href="https://open.spotify.com/show/6GDsIRqC8SWZ28AY72BsYM?si=f2ecfa9e247a456f" title="Spotify">Spotify</a> to listen and subscribe.
Contributor
An entity responsible for making contributions to the resource
St. John's College Greenfield Library
Title
A name given to the resource
St. John's College Formal Lecture Series—Annapolis
Identifier
An unambiguous reference to the resource within a given context
formallectureseriesannapolis
Sound
A resource primarily intended to be heard. Examples include a music playback file format, an audio compact disc, and recorded speech or sounds.
Original Format
The type of object, such as painting, sculpture, paper, photo, and additional data
wav
Duration
Length of time involved (seconds, minutes, hours, days, class periods, etc.)
01:07:10
Dublin Core
The Dublin Core metadata element set is common to all Omeka records, including items, files, and collections. For more information see, http://dublincore.org/documents/dces/.
Title
A name given to the resource
On Parts and Wholes in Living Things: Harvey, Descartes, and the Heartbeat
Description
An account of the resource
Video recording of a lecture delivered on August 25, 2023, by Suzy Paalman as part of the Formal Lecture Series.
Ms. Paalman describes her lecture: "William Harvey and René Descartes famously disagreed in their accounts of what the heart is doing as it gives its characteristic beat. Both authors recognize that the heart alternates between squeezing and opening up. Harvey posits that the beat occurs as the heart squeezes closed while Descartes believes the beat happens as the heart opens up. Both have access to similar observations. How is it that they come to opposite conclusions? I’ll discuss how their differing views of how to think about living things likely play a role in this disagreement. I'll examine what we have learned since their time about how the heart beats. Finally, given what we’ve learned, I'll ask the question: What can we say about the nature of living things?"
Ms. Paalman's lecture is the first formal lecture of the academic year. Previously referred to as the Dean's Lecture, this lecture is now called the Christopher B. Nelson Lecture.
Creator
An entity primarily responsible for making the resource
Paalman, Susan R.
Publisher
An entity responsible for making the resource available
St. John's College
Coverage
The spatial or temporal topic of the resource, the spatial applicability of the resource, or the jurisdiction under which the resource is relevant
Annapolis, MD
Date
A point or period of time associated with an event in the lifecycle of the resource
2023-09-25
Rights
Information about rights held in and over the resource
Permission has been given to make this available online.
Type
The nature or genre of the resource
sound
Format
The file format, physical medium, or dimensions of the resource
mp3
Subject
The topic of the resource
Heart beat
Descartes, René, 1596-1650
Harvey, William, 1578-1657
Language
A language of the resource
English
Identifier
An unambiguous reference to the resource within a given context
LEC_Paalman_Susan_2023-08-25_ac
Christopher B. Nelson Lecture
Deans
Friday night lecture
Tutors
-
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Dublin Core
The Dublin Core metadata element set is common to all Omeka records, including items, files, and collections. For more information see, http://dublincore.org/documents/dces/.
Title
A name given to the resource
Photographic Archive—Annapolis
Description
An account of the resource
<p>The Greenfield Library photographic archive houses over 5,000 photographs. The photographs in the collection document the history, academic, and community life of St. John’s College. The Library’s mission is to organize and preserve these unique visual materials, and to provide access to this collection. </p>
To learn more about our photographic use policy or to obtain high resolution images, please see the <strong><a title="Photographic Archive Use Policy" href="http://www.sjc.edu/academic-programs/libraries/greenfield-library/policies/#photographicarchivepolicy" target="_blank" rel="noreferrer noopener">Library’s Photographic Archive Use Policy</a></strong>.<br /><br />Click on <strong><a title="Photographic Archives" href="http://digitalarchives.sjc.edu/items/browse?collection=7">Items in the Photographic Archive—Annapolis Collection</a></strong> to view and sort all items in the collection.
Publisher
An entity responsible for making the resource available
St. John's College
Contributor
An entity responsible for making contributions to the resource
St. John's College Greenfield Library
Coverage
The spatial or temporal topic of the resource, the spatial applicability of the resource, or the jurisdiction under which the resource is relevant
Annapolis, MD
Identifier
An unambiguous reference to the resource within a given context
photographicarchiveannapolis
Still Image
A static visual representation. Examples include paintings, drawings, graphic designs, plans and maps. Recommended best practice is to assign the type Text to images of textual materials.
Original Format
The type of object, such as painting, sculpture, paper, photo, and additional data
paper
Resolution
Resolution of the image in dpi.
300 dpi
Dublin Core
The Dublin Core metadata element set is common to all Omeka records, including items, files, and collections. For more information see, http://dublincore.org/documents/dces/.
Title
A name given to the resource
Eva Brann, circa 1986
Description
An account of the resource
Photograph of Eva Brann used on pg. 47 of a catalogue of St. John's College. The markings on the front state, "86 S.F. G.I."
Creator
An entity primarily responsible for making the resource
West, Robin
Coverage
The spatial or temporal topic of the resource, the spatial applicability of the resource, or the jurisdiction under which the resource is relevant
Annapolis, Md.
Date
A point or period of time associated with an event in the lifecycle of the resource
circa 1986
Rights
Information about rights held in and over the resource
Copyright undetermined.
Type
The nature or genre of the resource
still image
Format
The file format, physical medium, or dimensions of the resource
jpg
Subject
The topic of the resource
Brann, Eva T. H.
Identifier
An unambiguous reference to the resource within a given context
COM-FAC-BRANN-P-0021
Deans
Tutors
-
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Dublin Core
The Dublin Core metadata element set is common to all Omeka records, including items, files, and collections. For more information see, http://dublincore.org/documents/dces/.
Title
A name given to the resource
Photographic Archive—Annapolis
Description
An account of the resource
<p>The Greenfield Library photographic archive houses over 5,000 photographs. The photographs in the collection document the history, academic, and community life of St. John’s College. The Library’s mission is to organize and preserve these unique visual materials, and to provide access to this collection. </p>
To learn more about our photographic use policy or to obtain high resolution images, please see the <strong><a title="Photographic Archive Use Policy" href="http://www.sjc.edu/academic-programs/libraries/greenfield-library/policies/#photographicarchivepolicy" target="_blank" rel="noreferrer noopener">Library’s Photographic Archive Use Policy</a></strong>.<br /><br />Click on <strong><a title="Photographic Archives" href="http://digitalarchives.sjc.edu/items/browse?collection=7">Items in the Photographic Archive—Annapolis Collection</a></strong> to view and sort all items in the collection.
Publisher
An entity responsible for making the resource available
St. John's College
Contributor
An entity responsible for making contributions to the resource
St. John's College Greenfield Library
Coverage
The spatial or temporal topic of the resource, the spatial applicability of the resource, or the jurisdiction under which the resource is relevant
Annapolis, MD
Identifier
An unambiguous reference to the resource within a given context
photographicarchiveannapolis
Still Image
A static visual representation. Examples include paintings, drawings, graphic designs, plans and maps. Recommended best practice is to assign the type Text to images of textual materials.
Original Format
The type of object, such as painting, sculpture, paper, photo, and additional data
paper
Resolution
Resolution of the image in dpi.
300 dpi
Dublin Core
The Dublin Core metadata element set is common to all Omeka records, including items, files, and collections. For more information see, http://dublincore.org/documents/dces/.
Title
A name given to the resource
Eva Brann, circa 1984
Description
An account of the resource
Portrait of Eva Brann, circa 1984. The back of the photograph reads, "Eva Brann, reproduce as is, Sept. 1984 Reporter."
Creator
An entity primarily responsible for making the resource
unidentified
Coverage
The spatial or temporal topic of the resource, the spatial applicability of the resource, or the jurisdiction under which the resource is relevant
Annapolis, Md.
Date
A point or period of time associated with an event in the lifecycle of the resource
circa 1984
Rights
Information about rights held in and over the resource
Copyright undetermined.
Type
The nature or genre of the resource
still image
Format
The file format, physical medium, or dimensions of the resource
jpg
Subject
The topic of the resource
Brann, Eva T. H.
Identifier
An unambiguous reference to the resource within a given context
COM-FAC-BRANN-P-0020a
Deans
Tutors
-
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Dublin Core
The Dublin Core metadata element set is common to all Omeka records, including items, files, and collections. For more information see, http://dublincore.org/documents/dces/.
Title
A name given to the resource
Photographic Archive—Annapolis
Description
An account of the resource
<p>The Greenfield Library photographic archive houses over 5,000 photographs. The photographs in the collection document the history, academic, and community life of St. John’s College. The Library’s mission is to organize and preserve these unique visual materials, and to provide access to this collection. </p>
To learn more about our photographic use policy or to obtain high resolution images, please see the <strong><a title="Photographic Archive Use Policy" href="http://www.sjc.edu/academic-programs/libraries/greenfield-library/policies/#photographicarchivepolicy" target="_blank" rel="noreferrer noopener">Library’s Photographic Archive Use Policy</a></strong>.<br /><br />Click on <strong><a title="Photographic Archives" href="http://digitalarchives.sjc.edu/items/browse?collection=7">Items in the Photographic Archive—Annapolis Collection</a></strong> to view and sort all items in the collection.
Publisher
An entity responsible for making the resource available
St. John's College
Contributor
An entity responsible for making contributions to the resource
St. John's College Greenfield Library
Coverage
The spatial or temporal topic of the resource, the spatial applicability of the resource, or the jurisdiction under which the resource is relevant
Annapolis, MD
Identifier
An unambiguous reference to the resource within a given context
photographicarchiveannapolis
Still Image
A static visual representation. Examples include paintings, drawings, graphic designs, plans and maps. Recommended best practice is to assign the type Text to images of textual materials.
Original Format
The type of object, such as painting, sculpture, paper, photo, and additional data
paper
Resolution
Resolution of the image in dpi.
300 dpi
Dublin Core
The Dublin Core metadata element set is common to all Omeka records, including items, files, and collections. For more information see, http://dublincore.org/documents/dces/.
Title
A name given to the resource
Eva Brann at the St. John's College Commencement, May 1997
Description
An account of the resource
Eva Brann at the St. John's College Commencement, May 1997
Creator
An entity primarily responsible for making the resource
unidentified
Coverage
The spatial or temporal topic of the resource, the spatial applicability of the resource, or the jurisdiction under which the resource is relevant
Annapolis, Md.
Date
A point or period of time associated with an event in the lifecycle of the resource
1997-05
Rights
Information about rights held in and over the resource
Copyright undetermined.
Type
The nature or genre of the resource
still image
Format
The file format, physical medium, or dimensions of the resource
jpg
Subject
The topic of the resource
Brann, Eva T. H.
Commencement ceremonies
Baccalaureate addresses
Identifier
An unambiguous reference to the resource within a given context
COM-FAC-BRANN-P-0019
Commencement
Deans
Tutors
-
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Dublin Core
The Dublin Core metadata element set is common to all Omeka records, including items, files, and collections. For more information see, http://dublincore.org/documents/dces/.
Title
A name given to the resource
Photographic Archive—Annapolis
Description
An account of the resource
<p>The Greenfield Library photographic archive houses over 5,000 photographs. The photographs in the collection document the history, academic, and community life of St. John’s College. The Library’s mission is to organize and preserve these unique visual materials, and to provide access to this collection. </p>
To learn more about our photographic use policy or to obtain high resolution images, please see the <strong><a title="Photographic Archive Use Policy" href="http://www.sjc.edu/academic-programs/libraries/greenfield-library/policies/#photographicarchivepolicy" target="_blank" rel="noreferrer noopener">Library’s Photographic Archive Use Policy</a></strong>.<br /><br />Click on <strong><a title="Photographic Archives" href="http://digitalarchives.sjc.edu/items/browse?collection=7">Items in the Photographic Archive—Annapolis Collection</a></strong> to view and sort all items in the collection.
Publisher
An entity responsible for making the resource available
St. John's College
Contributor
An entity responsible for making contributions to the resource
St. John's College Greenfield Library
Coverage
The spatial or temporal topic of the resource, the spatial applicability of the resource, or the jurisdiction under which the resource is relevant
Annapolis, MD
Identifier
An unambiguous reference to the resource within a given context
photographicarchiveannapolis
Still Image
A static visual representation. Examples include paintings, drawings, graphic designs, plans and maps. Recommended best practice is to assign the type Text to images of textual materials.
Original Format
The type of object, such as painting, sculpture, paper, photo, and additional data
paper
Resolution
Resolution of the image in dpi.
300 dpi
Dublin Core
The Dublin Core metadata element set is common to all Omeka records, including items, files, and collections. For more information see, http://dublincore.org/documents/dces/.
Title
A name given to the resource
Scene in Coffee Shop, St. John's College, circa 1960s
Description
An account of the resource
Scene in Coffee Shop, St. John's College, circa 1960s
Creator
An entity primarily responsible for making the resource
unidentified
Coverage
The spatial or temporal topic of the resource, the spatial applicability of the resource, or the jurisdiction under which the resource is relevant
Annapolis, Md.
Date
A point or period of time associated with an event in the lifecycle of the resource
circa 1960s
Rights
Information about rights held in and over the resource
Copyright undetermined.
Type
The nature or genre of the resource
still image
Format
The file format, physical medium, or dimensions of the resource
jpg
Subject
The topic of the resource
Brann, Eva T. H.
Coffee shops
Reading
Identifier
An unambiguous reference to the resource within a given context
COM-COF-P-0001
Coffee Shop
Deans
Tutors
-
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Dublin Core
The Dublin Core metadata element set is common to all Omeka records, including items, files, and collections. For more information see, http://dublincore.org/documents/dces/.
Title
A name given to the resource
Photographic Archive—Annapolis
Description
An account of the resource
<p>The Greenfield Library photographic archive houses over 5,000 photographs. The photographs in the collection document the history, academic, and community life of St. John’s College. The Library’s mission is to organize and preserve these unique visual materials, and to provide access to this collection. </p>
To learn more about our photographic use policy or to obtain high resolution images, please see the <strong><a title="Photographic Archive Use Policy" href="http://www.sjc.edu/academic-programs/libraries/greenfield-library/policies/#photographicarchivepolicy" target="_blank" rel="noreferrer noopener">Library’s Photographic Archive Use Policy</a></strong>.<br /><br />Click on <strong><a title="Photographic Archives" href="http://digitalarchives.sjc.edu/items/browse?collection=7">Items in the Photographic Archive—Annapolis Collection</a></strong> to view and sort all items in the collection.
Publisher
An entity responsible for making the resource available
St. John's College
Contributor
An entity responsible for making contributions to the resource
St. John's College Greenfield Library
Coverage
The spatial or temporal topic of the resource, the spatial applicability of the resource, or the jurisdiction under which the resource is relevant
Annapolis, MD
Identifier
An unambiguous reference to the resource within a given context
photographicarchiveannapolis
Still Image
A static visual representation. Examples include paintings, drawings, graphic designs, plans and maps. Recommended best practice is to assign the type Text to images of textual materials.
Original Format
The type of object, such as painting, sculpture, paper, photo, and additional data
paper
Resolution
Resolution of the image in dpi.
300 dpi
Dublin Core
The Dublin Core metadata element set is common to all Omeka records, including items, files, and collections. For more information see, http://dublincore.org/documents/dces/.
Title
A name given to the resource
At the retirement party for Eva Brann, the dean reads with surprise at a galley copy of her newest book, The Past-Present, delivered by tutor Pamela Kraus and designer Adrienne Rogers, 1997
Description
An account of the resource
At the retirement party for Eva Brann, the dean reads with surprise at a galley copy of her newest book, <em>The Past-Present</em>, delivered by tutor Pamela Kraus and designer Adrienne Rogers, 1997.
Creator
An entity primarily responsible for making the resource
Harvey and Harvey Photographers
Coverage
The spatial or temporal topic of the resource, the spatial applicability of the resource, or the jurisdiction under which the resource is relevant
Annapolis, Md.
Date
A point or period of time associated with an event in the lifecycle of the resource
1997
Rights
Information about rights held in and over the resource
In copyright.
Type
The nature or genre of the resource
still image
Format
The file format, physical medium, or dimensions of the resource
jpg
Subject
The topic of the resource
Brann, Eva T. H.
Kraus, Pamela, 1945-
Rogers, Adrienne
Retirement
Identifier
An unambiguous reference to the resource within a given context
COM-FAC-BRANN-P-0023
Deans
Tutors
-
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Dublin Core
The Dublin Core metadata element set is common to all Omeka records, including items, files, and collections. For more information see, http://dublincore.org/documents/dces/.
Title
A name given to the resource
Photographic Archive—Annapolis
Description
An account of the resource
<p>The Greenfield Library photographic archive houses over 5,000 photographs. The photographs in the collection document the history, academic, and community life of St. John’s College. The Library’s mission is to organize and preserve these unique visual materials, and to provide access to this collection. </p>
To learn more about our photographic use policy or to obtain high resolution images, please see the <strong><a title="Photographic Archive Use Policy" href="http://www.sjc.edu/academic-programs/libraries/greenfield-library/policies/#photographicarchivepolicy" target="_blank" rel="noreferrer noopener">Library’s Photographic Archive Use Policy</a></strong>.<br /><br />Click on <strong><a title="Photographic Archives" href="http://digitalarchives.sjc.edu/items/browse?collection=7">Items in the Photographic Archive—Annapolis Collection</a></strong> to view and sort all items in the collection.
Publisher
An entity responsible for making the resource available
St. John's College
Contributor
An entity responsible for making contributions to the resource
St. John's College Greenfield Library
Coverage
The spatial or temporal topic of the resource, the spatial applicability of the resource, or the jurisdiction under which the resource is relevant
Annapolis, MD
Identifier
An unambiguous reference to the resource within a given context
photographicarchiveannapolis
Still Image
A static visual representation. Examples include paintings, drawings, graphic designs, plans and maps. Recommended best practice is to assign the type Text to images of textual materials.
Original Format
The type of object, such as painting, sculpture, paper, photo, and additional data
paper
Resolution
Resolution of the image in dpi.
300 dpi
Dublin Core
The Dublin Core metadata element set is common to all Omeka records, including items, files, and collections. For more information see, http://dublincore.org/documents/dces/.
Title
A name given to the resource
Eva Brann playing the flute, circa 1980s or 1990s
Description
An account of the resource
Eva Brann playing the flute, circa 1980s or 1990s.
Creator
An entity primarily responsible for making the resource
unidentified
Date
A point or period of time associated with an event in the lifecycle of the resource
1980-1999
Rights
Information about rights held in and over the resource
Copyright undetermined.
Type
The nature or genre of the resource
still image
Format
The file format, physical medium, or dimensions of the resource
jpg
Subject
The topic of the resource
Brann, Eva T. H.
Identifier
An unambiguous reference to the resource within a given context
COM-FAC-BRANN-P-0022
Deans
Tutors
-
https://s3.us-east-1.amazonaws.com/sjcdigitalarchives/original/a9ff2c4c5b2e04f5f6e821981191fbff.mp3
745559bc83ab4b481015b4d7b021fac4
Dublin Core
The Dublin Core metadata element set is common to all Omeka records, including items, files, and collections. For more information see, http://dublincore.org/documents/dces/.
Title
A name given to the resource
St. John's College Lecture Recordings—Santa Fe
Contributor
An entity responsible for making contributions to the resource
St. John's College Meem Library
Coverage
The spatial or temporal topic of the resource, the spatial applicability of the resource, or the jurisdiction under which the resource is relevant
Santa Fe, NM
Sound
A resource primarily intended to be heard. Examples include a music playback file format, an audio compact disc, and recorded speech or sounds.
Original Format
The type of object, such as painting, sculpture, paper, photo, and additional data
m4a
Duration
Length of time involved (seconds, minutes, hours, days, class periods, etc.)
00:54:21
Dublin Core
The Dublin Core metadata element set is common to all Omeka records, including items, files, and collections. For more information see, http://dublincore.org/documents/dces/.
Title
A name given to the resource
A Timely Untimely Education
Description
An account of the resource
Audio recording of a lecture given by Dean Sarah Davis on August 25, 2023 as part of the Dean's Lecture & Concert Series. The Dean's Office has provided this description of the event: “I hate everything that merely instructs me without augmenting or directly invigorating my activity.” Nietzsche opens “The Advantage and Disadvantage of History for Life” with this quote from Goethe. It appropriately frames Nietzsche’s own meditation, which does not just walk us through different ways to relate to the past, giving us a schema for making sense of history, but invigorates and leads to a quickening within us. But how? This lecture investigates Nietzsche’s claim that the “excess of history” in modern times compromises the health and vitality of human life. It then considers “The Advantage and Disadvantage of History for Life” itself as presenting an alternative way to relate to history. Finally, it asks how, if at all, this alternative informs a St. John’s education.
Creator
An entity primarily responsible for making the resource
Davis, Sarah
Publisher
An entity responsible for making the resource available
St. John's College
Coverage
The spatial or temporal topic of the resource, the spatial applicability of the resource, or the jurisdiction under which the resource is relevant
Santa Fe, NM
Date
A point or period of time associated with an event in the lifecycle of the resource
2023-08-25
Rights
Information about rights held in and over the resource
Meem Library has been given permission to make this item available online.
Type
The nature or genre of the resource
sound
Format
The file format, physical medium, or dimensions of the resource
mp3
Subject
The topic of the resource
Nietzsche, Friedrich Wilhelm, 1844-1900. The advantage and disadvantage of history for life.
Language
A language of the resource
English
Identifier
An unambiguous reference to the resource within a given context
SF_DavisS_A_Timely_Untimely_Education_2023-08-25
Deans
Friday night lecture
-
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a7defdefa7114cd33acc482cfc216759
PDF Text
Text
Friday Night Lecture
St. John's College, Annapolis
September4, 1998
What, then, is Time?
Eva Brann
When our dean asked me to lecture this September it was because he had heard that I'd just
completed a book on time, and he thought I might like to talk about it. He was right, and here are
three possible kinds of profit that, on thinking it over, I figured might come to you and to me if I
gave what I guess one might call a book report.
First, even if the writing of books is a few decades off for most of you here tonight, it
turns out that writing papers and annual essays is not so different from writing books, and I
thought I might be able to tell you something useful. In fact I'll do it right now. \Vhen the time
comes to write, whether it's a small paper or a long annual essay, never think: "I've got to write
this thing! Help! I need a paper!" Instead search your soul for a question you have nursed for
quite a while, whether articulately or inarticulately, somethingj:hat bothered and puzzled you,
something that might be very intimate but is capable of public expression. Then flip mentally
through the books you've studied, or the music you've sung, or the theorems you've proved, or
the experiments you've re-enacted, and ask yourself which have a bearing, taken in the largest
sense, on your issue. What will happen next is the result of a mixture of concentration and luck:
some paradox or analogy or some other significant array will jump out at you. Seize that and
slowly pummel, stroke, and shape it into an articulate order. Of course, none of that can happen at
1
�the last minute. For looking into yourself, for calling on your studies, for finding a crystallizing
moment, for working all of it into a well-shaped' whole, time is of the essence.
My second thought was that time is one subject concerning which it does not matter
whether one is a freshman finishing the second week at the college or a senior beginning the fourth
year, or even a tutor who has taught most of the program. Stormy love is not a pressing issue to
all ages, nor is looming death, but there is, I think, no one, at any time of life, for whom time does
not become a problem in some way or other. I know this from experience. Of the things that have
urgently interested me from time to time, the mention of Being and Non-being, for example,
provokes mostly stupefied non-interest, the mention of the Imagination elicits an account of
people's favorite fantasy series, but the mention of Time gives rise to intelligently companionable
puzzlement. People have a different relation to the question concerning time than to other deep
matters, which they are either willing to bypass as too obscure for their taste or to treat with the
most unreflective but familiar particularity.
The title of this lecture -- and of my book -- is "What, then, is Time?" It is a quotation
from the most famous sentence ever written on time by the man who was most deeply immersed in
its elusive familiarity, Augustine. It comes from the eleventh book of his Confessions, which we
read in the sophomore year. Here is the \vhole sentence:
What, then, is time? If no one asks me, I know; if I want to explain
it to the questioner, I do not know.
My own concern with time started from two ends at once, intellectual puzzlement and deepfelt irritation, and it developed, as really good questions do, from annoyed fascination to serious
interest. The intellectual puzzlement was just that expressed by Augustine: What sort of a being, if
it was a being, could be so handily familiar in daily usage and so fugitive to the grasp of thought?
Here I did as all my fellow humans do: I make time, kill time, manage my time, waste time. To be
sure, I've never "done" time, though but for the grace of God I might have. I know that time heals
all wounds and ravages all the beauties of the world.
2
But if I ask myself what it is that does this, I
�see and touch nothing and think of less. That is at first just a puzzling and then an engaging state
of affairs.
The irritation I experienced had a superficially different source. In all the departments of
life people talk of time as a force or a power, not just in the sort of dead metaphor that makes up
the unconscious poetry of popular usage, as in all the phrases cited above. No, they mean it
literally, especially when they are talking of the so-called "phases" of time. "Phase" will be the
most important word in this lecture. It is my word -- different authors use different words -- for
the three parts of time, past, present, future. Perhaps I should have said the three parts of human
time, for I will argue that only human, or human-like, beings have pasts and presents and futures.
It is the future with which these people mostly play infuriating havoc. They say and they
inean that there is a future coming and our business is to form a reception committee for it. Some
see this Future with a capital Fas a doom, as in Yeats's great poem, "The Second Coming":
And what rough beast, its hour come round at last,
Slouches towards Bethlehem to be born?
Far more of our contemporaries see it cheerfully as a benefactor, though a totally manipulative one:
It is the Information Age or the Global Age or the Age of Megacorporations, you name it, and our
duty is to be ready or to be run over by time. They engage in what I call to myself proactive
passivity. This time-mode -- the adjective, incidentally, is "temporal," so I will say, this temporal
mode -- strikes me as paralyzing the human will, and that is one form of immorality.
So besides the intellectual desire to understand the nature of time and whether it is a being
or a nothing, I also began to think about time in its human effects. Almost everyone who has lived
for some time has neat observations about these effects. For example, I have been at this college
forty-one years or almost fifteen thousand days. Sometimes it seems like forever and sometimes it
seems like a day. What accounts for this mad elasticity of time? But besides these timernminations there is also that sense I have of the important moral consequences of not thinking
about the nature of time, about accepting what seem to be abuses of our phase-nature. In fact, a
new hero of mine, Octavio Paz (whom I did not in fact discover for myself but through one of our
3
�Mexican alumni, Juan Villasenor) put my thought much more expansively than I would have had
the courage to do. He says in his book on India:
I believe that the reformation of our civilization must begin with a
reflection on time.
Recall that I am still laying out the possible profit of telling you about my book, and here is
the last one, chiefly to myself. Imagine what a pleasure it will be to come on campus and to be
able to fall easily into a conversation about this magical subject with some proportion of the people
that live and learn here -- with the more virtuous part, I might add, those who come to Friday night
lectures.
Now let me tell you of two discoveries or devices -- it's always hard to tell whether it's one
or the other -- about which the book crystallized. One was the discovery -- and I became
persuaded that it was a discovery, was really there to be found-- that writers on time who lived
millennia apart in time and who were worlds apart in thought were at crucial moments driven into
the same understanding, or at least the same problem. Once I had discovered one such pair of
time-twins I came on three others. And finally I came to believe that amongst them they pretty well
established the perennial possibilities and the pertinent problems concerning time. In a moment I
will tell who these writers are and what deep notion each pair shares. But let me say here that it
'
was a blessing to find such a principle of selection. For it is hard for most of us to think about
these enigmas without help. The trouble is, there is too much help on offer. I own a bibliography
of time which tells of nearly two hundred thousand books and articles written between 1900 and
now. Of course, much of it is piffling, but much of it is, I am sure, though!1'ul. I chose four great
writers, and they paired quite naturally with four more, and by good luck these are the eight among
the ancient and modern writers generally agreed to have the deepest theories. The pairs, then, are
Plato and Einstein, Aristotle and Kant, Plotinus and Heidegger, Augustine and Husserl. Since
many of you will not have read them, though all but Husserl are on the Program (and he ought to
be), I'll present their time-theories as simply and as unencumbered by terminology as possible.
But I'll omit completely telling you about one pair, Plotinus and Heidegger, because it is too tricky
4
�to do, although their similarity on the point of time is most spectacular in view of their diametric
opposition on everything else that matters.
The other discovery was that a human effect which never ceases to enchant me, namely the
images that arise before the mind's eye in our imagination, had a certain remarkable similarity with
our sense of time, a formal sort of similarity. Images are absent presences or present absences;
they are not what they are, they are made of Being and Non-being. What I mean is that any image,
but particularly a mental image, presents someone or something not actually present. To imagine
an absent friend is to have him there, but not really. Time as well, it turns out, has this curious
character of being and not-being, of being there but not really, of being present only in its absence.
My all-time favorite time-saying is by the priceless Yogi Berra. When someone asked him: "What
time is it?" he replied: "You mean now?" It is the wisest of answers, because you can't tell time,
and yet we do. It is always and never Now.
So the book began to have two parts. One part was a study of these eight philosophers for
the purpose of seeing what kinds of answers could be given to the question "What is time?" and
what problems were inherent in the answers. But studying, while a help to thinking, and for most
of us an indispensable help, is not thinking, since to understand what others think is simply a
different activity from the thinking that goes directly, without intermediary, to the question. So in
a second part I tried to go directly to the question, having absorbed all the help I could.
Therefore in this lecture, too, after telling what some of the best writers I could find have
thought about time, I will try to tell what I think. I should say right now, lest you be disappointed,
that what I conclude first and last is that it is a true mystery. I mean a potent effect whose
characteristics are poignantly clear but whose nature is finally unfathomable. You can specify a
mystery but you can't resolve it.
If you have a huge field of apparently possible answers to a question, it clears the decks
somewhat to begin by removing the answers that are simply unacceptable. In thinking about the
ways time is spoken of, it seemed to me that whatever else is said, time is spoken of either as
5
�occurring in nature or as being within the human being. Time is either external or internal, or
perhaps both.
External time has attracted by far the greater interest. Time is written of in religion, where
it is a great question how an eternal God acts in created time. Time is treated in history, where it is
a great question whether the times make history or people do. But above all time is a great subject
in physics, where the best-grounded and most remarkable theories of time are developed.
Without question, the physicist who has done most to make other physicists and people in
general think about time is Einstein. The work I chose to examine is his 1905 paper on what came
to be known as the Special Theory of Relativity. \Vhat struck me first was that every mention of
time was in quotation marks. This habit conveyed to
me that I was dealing with the most careful
and thoughtful of writers, one who knew that time in physics is a most problematic notion.
Einstein says right away:
It might appear possible to overcome all the difficulties attending the
definition of "time" by substituting "the position of the small hand of
my watch" for "time." And in fact such a definition is satisfactory ....
At least it is satisfactory when we are talking only of time here and now. Before Einstein,
physicists had believed what everyone believes: that it is the same time throughout the world, that
every other Here simply has the same Now as my Here. This situation was called simultaneity and
was regarded as a chief feature of external, I mean natural, time. Einstein goes on to show that for
any stationary Here far away from my own, it takes some calculating to synchronize our watches.
And when we are moving relative to each other one of our most entrenched senses about time is
overthrown, namely that what time it is is independent of our state of rest or motion. Einstein's
theory turns out to have to do entirely with the measurement of time -- what my local clock and
your local clock tell under different physical conditions. That is why Einstein puts "time" in
quotations: He is warning us that not the nature of time but its measurement is at issue.
Now I'll jump back two and a half millennia and quote to you what is the most famous, .
most often cited definition of time. It comes from Plato's dialogue called Timaeus. Timaeus is a
6
�made-up character, a visiting physicist. He and some of Socrates' friends have planned an
amusement for him. On the day before Socrates had produced for them a picture in words of the
ideal political community -- some people think it is the one set out in the dialogue called The
Republic. Now Timaeus will reciprocate by painting for Socrates' entertainment the cosmos, the
ordered world within which such an ideal city might fit. In the course of giving a mathematical
account of such a cosmos, Timaeus says this about the way the maker of the world introduced time
into it:
He planned to make a movable image of eternity, and as he ordered
heaven into a cosmos, he made an image of that eternity which stays
one and the same, an eternal image moving according to number.
And that is what we call time.
What Timaeus is saying is that the heavens move like a great cosmic dial and that this motion
allows us to tell time.
So the mythical early physicist and the greatest of modem physicists are saying the same
thing: Time is what the clock tells, in one case the cosmic clock, in the other a local watch. And so
say all working physicists in between. It is a working, a so-called operational definition of time,
and it works just fine -- until you begin to think about it. That time is what the clock tells is what
one might call a dispositive definition. It disposes of time as an issue. But if you turn it around
and try to say that the clock tells time you're in trouble. Time never appears on the face of a clock.
Nor does it appear anywhere else in nature, ever. All other natural phenomena appear somehow to
sight or hearing or touch. Of time not a trace.
What does appear is motion. An analog clock is a standard cyclical motion. A digital clock
"
is a standard
progressive motion. Clocks are calibrated motions. There is no time actually used in
physics and none that actually appears in nature. There is much more to be said about this
shocking claim, and I'm sure you'll want to argue it out in the question period.
Among other points then to be made, the seniors, who have read Newton, might want to
point out that Newton, at least, does stipulate true natural time, an equable flux that comes before
motion. And I would answer that it is not only as physicist but also as theologian that Newton
7
�puts time into nature. For this so-called absolute time, which has no <:>bservable features, is
probably not so much in nature as in God's mind, in that part of God's mind, called his
"sensorium," with which he is receptive to all of nature, its infinite spaces, its primary forces, its
ultimate bodies. My point at the moment is, however, only to reinforce a conclusion I came to:
Wherever time is seriously considered, mind, soul, consciousness and sensibility come on the
scene. Time can only be internal, meaning within a mind, possibly God's mind.
So I disposed to my own satisfaction of the vast majority of theories of time. Intricate and
interesting as they are, they are really theories of motion, not of time, and they don't tell what time
is. But time is the sort of subject for which every settling of the mind in one respect is punished by
a complementary problem popping up in another. You can, and I think you have to, take time out
of nature, b·ut I am not so perverse as to claim that the outside world isn't full of variations:
locomotions, processes, alterations. The mystery that has now popped up is that we have no idea
what is really going on in this time-deprived world. Let me show you what I mean.
Human time, internal time, will be distinguished by its phases, past, present, future. But
nothing in nature, except perhaps the near-human mammals, apes and dolphins, has a past or a
present or a future. Edwin Muir says in a poem called "The Animals":
But these have never trod
Twice the familiar track,
Never turned back
Into the memoried day.
All is new and near
In the unchanging Here ....
Animals and sticks and stones do not have a past, though they might be scµd to be their past. But
I, for one, just cannot imagine what it is like to live in the unchanging Here and not the have
memory, how such a being gets itself into and out of existence, in short how anything can change
without having phases of time. But then again the effort is love's labor lost: Hmv could I have
empathy with, feel my way into, that which has no inside? So the outer world becomes in this
'fespect opaque, and this is the price to be paid for making a philosophical choice. In corning to
conclusions in philosophical inquiries, I want to say as an aside, it is always a matter of what we
8
�can best live with for the time being -- which is why all philosophy as carried on by human beings
is ultimately moral philosophy.
There is perhaps a solution to the timelessness of nature. It is a commonplace for writers
o.n time that there are two kinds of time. They might be called succession-time and phase-time.
Phase-time is dynamic in the sense that the human present, about which time breaks into past and
. future, continually shifts -- as Yogi Berra's counter-question, "You mean now?" makes clear in its
unavoidable absurdity. Succession-time, on the other hand, is static. It is merely the endless chain
of before-and-after, established once and for all. It' is time all by itself, no one's time, the time of
all events taken only with relation to their succession and to nothing and nobody else. Perhaps
nature does have its time, succession-time. But even the successions of nature tum out to be more
intelligible as causal than as temporal sequences.
This is the moment to introduce Aristotle, who produced the first extensive treatment of
time ever, in Book Four of his Physics. Here is what he says time is:
Time, then, is not motion but that by which motion has number.
Aristotle seems to be making spectacularly short shrift of that mysterious power, time. It is
nothing but an attribute of motion . Then he says what sort of attribute:
Time ... is the number of motion with resnect to before and after.
L
'What th~ deep meaning of all this is can't come out unless we follow up what Aristotle means by
motion, number, before-and-after. But we might guess at two problematic elements of this
understanding of time. .
The first, which is by far the less deep of the two but is endlessly dis~ussed, is this. If
time is the number of motion as a progression in which the parts come before and after, if it is in
fact the succession-time I just introduced, it must somehow share in a chief feature of motion,
namely continuity. Physical motion borrows this feature from the fact that it takes place over
distance. Distances are representable as mathematical lines, and these lines, as the freshmen have
just begun to see, must be continuous -- no elements can be missing. So time, as Aristotle himself
9
�emphasizes, is continuous, like a line. Wherever you cut the line you get a point that belongs to
both parts of the cut. This point is the Now. Time is in every way like a line of geometry: It lies
upon its points, each of which is a Now. The only difference is that the geometric points are static,
whereas the Now moves forward, ever the same in its features, ever different in temporal location.
But as you know by now, a point is that which has no parts, so the Now has no parts . .Therefore
it has no extent, no bulk, no force, no presence. Therefore the point-Now of the mathematical
model of time is as far removed as anything can be from the humanly experienced present, which
is vivid, full, and altogether the most impressive phase of time. Insofar as time is continuous it is
not very human.
But then Aristotle has also said that which will make time totally discontinuous. For time is
a number by which motion is counted, and a number is a collection of completely discontinuous
units -- there is no way one unit can be tangent to another. Motion, locomotion at least, is bound
to distance and borrows from that fact its continuity. But number is bound to something else
which reinforces its discontinuity. Many things in the world are collections of items. Aristotle
mentions herds of horses and flocks of sheep. Other things, such as distances of all sorts, can be
marked off into artificial units. All these things have a number that belongs to them. But nothing
in nature gets its number unless someone is counting. Aristotle says that it is the soul that counts.
So time, in order to be the number of motion, requires a wide-awake counting soul. Now I shall
say a sentence, or rather a question, which is underlined in my typescript: When the soul is
countin2. does it take time to do it? Does it get its numbering from some motion? What distance
does that psychic motion cover?
Aristotle is in big - and I must say unacknowledged - trouble. Time in nature is only the
number of motion, but what is the counting that announces that number? I don't think he knew,
but perhaps in the question period someone will make his case.
Now let me leap two thousand plus years ahead. For Aristotle time originates with the
counting soul. To my mind, Aristotle's true modem successor, the one who takes Aristotle's
10
�thought and turns it thoroughly and precisely upside down, is Kant. Here is an aside: This kind of
inversion of thought, so that it is the same in name but utterly different in significance, is the chief
moving force of the philosophical tradition we study at this college. By "force" I don't mean some
magical attribute of the passage of time, but the way of proceeding that is congenial to those
immersed in this tradition. At any rate, whatever time is, if it has power it has it only as an aspect
of human consciousness.
Back to Kant. You will be relieved to hear that I do not plan to tell you what is in the
Critique of Pure Reason, Kant's founding book, although everything in there. is sooner or later
related to time. In any case, the Juniors will be studying it in spring, and it is that which makes
February a month of delights. Instead I will focus on a few sentences which show what it is that
brings Kant so very close to Aristotle in the letter, though he is worlds apart in meaning.
Kant regards time as a constitutional part of our receptive capacity, our ability to take in
what is given to us. Such a capacity is called "sensibility," and we are so made that whatever
comes to us, the world of nature especially, comes in the form of temporal sensibility. The
Critique is a great work of philosophical art, and I omit the many factors that feed beautifully into
rounding this notion out, in order to concentrate on just one thing: When we ask what it means that
nature comes to us in the form of time, the answer is that whenever we think about nature we begin
by noticing quantities, and we do that first of all by numbering-- not top-of-the-head counting, but
a deeply interior kind of beating out of units that add up into a number. Here is Kant's word on
what is happening in this counting: "I generate time itself .... "
So Aristotle and Kant agree that time is a kind of psychic beating or counting. It does not
save Kant from the question I asked of Aristotle that he calls time a form of the sensibility. Is this
form, I now ask, itself static or is it fluid? If it is static, how does it produce the psychic flow of
pulses? If it is fluid, is there yet another time behind Kant's deep constitutional time? Let me say
right now that all the authors who put time within the soul run into this trouble. And those who
put the origin or ground of time outside of the soul run into other and worse troubles.
11
�Both Aristotle and Kant have been primarily interested in what I have called successiontime, the steady chain of before-and-afters found in nature, though apprehended by our counting.
Now is the time to speak of human time, phase-time.
To my mind, Augustine is the greatest writer on time -- and the most beautiful one. Here's
another aside: Very broadly speaking, philosophers come in two kinds, those who inquire serenely
and hopefully into a subject they long to know and believe they can approach and those who
question severely and disenchantedly a matter they think is ultimately hopeless. Augustine
certainly has travails of the soul, and I would not be unfair to call Husserl, who takes up two
millennia later exactly where Augustine had left off, a fusspot. But both are not so much driven as
led by faith in their subject, and I want to say that these are the philosophers I trust and prefer to be
with.
Augustine wants to know what time is because it is the human counterpart of God's
eternity, the eternity of the God he has just found and acknowledged. But there is nothing exalted
about his questioning -- it is very down-to-earth. He loves to sing hymns, and the question is:
How do I measure times, the long and short syllables, the lengths of the stanzas? Distances are
easy to measure. They stay put while you lay a measuring stick alongside them. But the moment
slips away, the past is no longer, the future not yet, and there is no way to lay a time-stick along an
elapsed time. Lengths measure lengths, motions measure motions -- what measures time? Here is
his answer, as I said, to my mind the most illuminating thing ever uttered about time, a new
discovery, as he himself says:
Time is nothing else but a stretching out, though of what I do not
know. Yet I marvel if it be not of the mind itself.
Our mind or soul is distended and that makes it capable of holding time, so to speak. How
distended, how stretched? Here is Augustine again:
This then is clear and plain, that neither things to come nor things
past are, nor should we properly say: "There are three times, past,
present, and future." But probably we should say: "There are three
times, a present of things past, a present of things present, and a
present of things future" .... The present of things past is memory,
12
�the present of things present is sight [or perception], the present of
things future is expectation.
So we can measure times gone by and times to come because they are now present to us. But the
solution of the measuring problem is the least of it. What Augustine has done is to tell what makes
a human being temporal, how time is in us.
To be human is to be present and to have things present before or within. Yet another
aside: Certain so-called postmodern writers, ta19ng their departure from Heidegger, think that this
is a very derivative way of approaching human Being and that to think of human beings as
containing presences within and confronting things present without demeans the originality of
existence. But Augustine does think that to exist is both to be in the present and to be in the
presence of things.
Augustine's book on time in the Confessions is preceded by a book on memory, and this
book is the indispensable preparation for his understanding of time. For there he shows how we
can also be in the presence of absent things: We have the whole spacious world, its fields and
palaces, within us, not, however, the things themselves but their images. Here you can see how
the imagination, as a power for making the absent present, is essential to our inner sense of time.
For with it we can have memory of past times and also expectation of future things, since
expectation is a forward-directed imagination. And since much of what has happened to us is now
present to us or is now recoverable, we can not only measure time somewhat as we do space,
which is all there simultaneously. We can also see how our mind is a temporal image of God's
mind, who holds all creation toget~er there at once, in the eternal Now.
a
To be human, then, is to have mind so stretched that it encompasses in its present both
memory and foresight. One way to depict that condition is in a diagram like a coordinate system.
The horizontal axis is the time of the world, of Creation; it is succession-time. God knows how it
works; we don't. Astride of this horizontal coordinate sits a vertical stretch of line, our mind.
·Where the two intersect is the moment of sight, of perception, our point of intake for the world.
The segment below 'represents remembered events, dropped out of sight but not out of mind. The
13
�part above represents the dreams and plans we now have for the future -- and that is all the future
that actually exists. As the world passes by, our memory line grows longer and our expectation
line shortens. Then one day it ends.
Husserl, who actually draws diagrams of this sort, in fact marks one of his lines as the "tug
towards death." It is not, however, one of the axes he is marking in this way, but one of the
oblique lines with which he connects the horizontal axis of succession-time and the vertical axis of
phase-time. These oblique lines show how each perception offered by the horizontal successionline sinks away into vertical memory in an orderly and continuous manner, without any scrambling
or dislocation. Husserl's time-diagrams are clever and complex, and I had a lot of fun -- fun
bordering on agony, that is -- working them out. But I didn't give you any handouts, because then
you'd be trying to figure them out now instead of listening; I should know.
Many of you will not have heard of Husserl, and I'll say just enough for my purpose. He
is the founder of a way of inquiry called Phenomenology. Its chief feature is that is excludes all
questions of existence and reality, such as whether time is real. Instead a Phenomenologist pays
attention to the appearances within consciousness, articulating and ordering them. Our sense of
time is a perfect subject for Phenomenology and Husserl's lecture-series known as The
Phenomenology of Internal Time-Consciousness is the great first-fruit of his method.
Husserl makes hundreds of acute observations, but his main advance on Augustine is to
puzzle seriously over the extent of the present. Recall that the point-Now of mathematics is too
skimpy to live in, but consider also that an extended present is going to be part past, part future.
Husser! finds a way, fairly technical, to show that there is a discernible immediate past and an
immediate future that are so bound in with the present as to give room, so to speak, for perception,
so that there is time for a time-sequence, say a melody, to be taken in. He shows how the present
has time for the world to impress itself on us.
One last word about Husserl. The horizontal axis, which represented the world's time for
Augustine, represents an internal time-flux, a continuous sort of subjective succession-time, for
14
�Husserl. For he is withholding all claims about the reality of the world and its time, and attending
only to our inner experience, to our internal time-consciousness. In trying to understand this
internal flow Husserl is drawn into questions beyond Phenomenology. The question that finally
preoccupies him is the familiar one: How can this flux, which is one aspect of our sense of time
and for him the deepest, be spoken of? Are we fluid through and through, or is this flux grounded
in a stable form? But how can a fixed form be the source of a flow? Husserl, a man who is
willing to admit ultimate perplexity without losing faith in the worth of his problem, says:
For these things we have no names. ·
Now is the time for me to say what I think time is -- maybe it would be more sensible to
say "how time works."
I thiiik that phase-time is the fountain and origin of all time. Every phenomenon of time is
derivative from the fact that we have past, present and future. To me the most astounding
circumstance of our temporal life, surpassingly strange but apparently unavoidable, is the crux and
center of the three phases: the present. All that is ever real for us, all that is really there, really
present; occurs in these point-by-point moments of presence. This is the instant of perception
when we see and hear and touch the world. The rest, the long stretches behind and before, is
absence -- what has gone by and what is yet to come.
Human life would therefore be very pointillistic and poor if present existence were all we
had. Happily there are ways of being that are even more potent than present reality and momentary
existence. There is the actuality of imaginative memory and of imaginative expectation. The
present of perception is the point of intake for the novelties that the world offers to our senses, but
the past and the future are also present to us as images, as memories of things past and plans for
things to come. These are the present actualities, the powerfully present absences that give
coherence and resonance and significance to the moment They also make it possible for us to
measure time directly, not by observing external motions as of the hands of the clock which never
displays time at all, but by the thickness of the image-pictures we flip through or leap over to get to
15
�moment from which we want to estimate a stretch of time. Our memory is like a laminate of
transparencies or a carousel of slides, and my claim is that this accumulation we call the past and
this projection we call the future is what produces our inner sense of time. And this thickening of
the present by past and future is what Augustine calls "the stretching of the mind."
Now note that I have described the present as punctual, instantaneous, momentary. And
this description seems to be supported by the observations of all kinds of people, perhaps poets
above all. The Nows that matter are somewhat isolated - instants of recognition, moments of
meaning. In his book The Labyrinth of Solitude Octavio Paz calls the Now "explosive and
orgiastic" and wonders how it fits into ordinary historical passage.
But much of the time of our lives passes in seeming continuity, and this sort of time, the
time that seems like a continuous passage, usually called duration, has to be accounted for as well.
I think it works as follows.
Our present appears punctuated by the ever-varying world and our perception of it. Now
. we see our friends, now they've disappeared around the. corner; now we hear one note, now
another. But there is another time experience that we become conscious of when we are deprived
of most external sensation or when our inner images are pushed out of sight by fear and anxiety.
Or we can deliberately close off our senses and empty our minds to concentrate simply on our
inner duration. What then comes to the fore is a sort of inner pulsing, the very beat of our mere
consciousness, empty life itself. I am trying to describe the soul's aboriginal counting that both
Aristotle and Kant discovered. This inner beat then is the origin of that succession-time that is
mirrored in the before-and-after of physical motion and that plays so large a role in our practicaL
life.
Now most of the time we are not taking note of this pulse, or paying much attention to our
inner life at all. The beats recede and merge as in a long perspective; time's passage appears
continuous and acquires all the characteristics and problems of a line in space. Then,
16
�retrospedively, time is thought of -- not felt -- as a continuum that is continuously cut by a pointlike Now, the kind of Now in which nothing can happen.
So my description of time, which leaves time as what I call "a well-specified mystery,"
ends with the point-Now. And that is where a review of the various pathologies people attach to
the phases of time begins. I'll give the sketchiest summary of our time-troubles, partly because
time is short, partly because every one of us has a lot of personal experience with this aspect of
time, and it will make a good subject for the question period.
One way, then, to think of the way people wreak havoc with the perceptual present is that
they treat it as a mere, point-like Now, monotonously empty and featureless, while racing
unrestrainably forward. To try to live in this Now is to long to fill it with strong stimulation and
increasing novelty. Now-life is the pathological counterpart of present-life.
Similarly some people deprive themselves of the image-filled memory that gives the present
its anchor of significance by rushing to keep up with novelty and trashing not only their own past
but that past which their communities have in common, their external memories.
And finally, some people are so dominated by a future that is supposedly coming at them
that they give up what they really care about to make themselves into ready servants of this
oncoming power. But according to my understanding the future is nothing but the dreams and
plans we currently have, and as far as the humanly-made world is concerned, nothing is coming
but what we actively or passively agree to. It is that passivity which is, to my mind, the greatest
time-pathology.
Arid now time's up.
17
�
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Description
An account of the resource
Items in this collection are part of a series of lectures given every year at St. John's College. During the Fall and Spring semesters, lectures are given on Friday nights. Items include audio and video recordings and typescripts.<br /><br />For more information, and for a schedule of upcoming lectures, please visit the <strong><a href="http://www.sjc.edu/programs-and-events/annapolis/formal-lecture-series/" target="_blank" rel="noreferrer noopener">St. John's College website</a></strong>. <br /><br />Click on <strong><a title="Formal Lecture Series" href="http://digitalarchives.sjc.edu/items/browse?collection=5">Items in the St. John's College Formal Lecture Series—Annapolis Collection</a></strong> to view and sort all items in the collection.<br /><br />A growing number of lecture recordings are also available on the St. John's College (Annapolis) Lectures podcast. Visit <a href="https://anchor.fm/greenfieldlibrary" title="Anchor.fm">Anchor.fm</a>, <a href="https://podcasts.apple.com/us/podcast/st-johns-college-annapolis-lectures/id1695157772">Apple Podcasts</a>, <a href="https://podcasts.google.com/feed/aHR0cHM6Ly9hbmNob3IuZm0vcy84Yzk5MzdhYy9wb2RjYXN0L3Jzcw" title="Google Podcasts">Google Podcasts</a>, or <a href="https://open.spotify.com/show/6GDsIRqC8SWZ28AY72BsYM?si=f2ecfa9e247a456f" title="Spotify">Spotify</a> to listen and subscribe.
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St. John's College Greenfield Library
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St. John's College Formal Lecture Series—Annapolis
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formallectureseriesannapolis
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paper
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17 pages
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What, Then, Is Time?
Description
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Typescript of a lecture delivered on September 4, 1998, by Eva Brann as part of the Formal Lecture Series. <br /><br />Brann's lecture is based on her book <a href="https://rowman.com/ISBN/9780847692927/What-Then-Is-Time">What, Then, Is Time?</a>, published by Rowman and Littlefield in 1999. <br /><br />The typescript of the lecture was reprinted in <a href="https://digitalarchives.sjc.edu/items/show/553">The St. John's Review, volume XLV, number 3 (2000)</a>.
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Brann, Eva T. H.
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Annapolis, MD
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1998-09-04
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St. John's College has been given permission to make this item available online.
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text
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pdf
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Time
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English
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LEC_Brann_Eva_1998-09-04
Deans
Friday night lecture
Tutors
-
https://s3.us-east-1.amazonaws.com/sjcdigitalarchives/original/ca6ef9c474cbf75e1c9265c3504594c9.mp3
e4ade901d18aef817aabecb731659ee7
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St. John's College Lecture Recordings—Santa Fe
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St. John's College Meem Library
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Santa Fe, NM
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m4a
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01:01:50
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Moments in the Liberal Education of Frederick Douglass from ‘My Bondage and My Freedom’
Description
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Audio recording of a lecture given by Dean Joseph Macfarland on March 3, 2023 as part of the Dean's Lecture & Concert Series.
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Macfarland, Joseph C.
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St. John's College
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Santa Fe, NM
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2023-03-03
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Meem Library has been given permission to make this item available online.
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Sound
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mp3
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Frederick Douglass
Liberal Education
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English
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SF_MacfarlandJ_Moments_in_the_Liberal_Education_of_Frederick_Douglass_2023-03-03
Deans
Friday night lecture
-
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61b1de35add0f4a809aa04152c184c62
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St. John's College Lecture Recordings—Santa Fe
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St. John's College Meem Library
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Santa Fe, NM
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m4a
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00:49:52
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“Freedom of the Intellect is a Sacred Thing”: A Brief Exploration of Freedom, Liberal Education, and the St. John’s Program.
Description
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Audio recording of a lecture given by Dean J. Walter Sterling on August 26, 2021 as part of the Dean's Lecture & Concert Series. The Dean's Office has provided this description of the event: "Mr. Sterling will explore the contested idea of freedom that underlies any authentic liberal education, including the St. John’s Program of Instruction. He will argue that the difficulty of specifying the end of such an education reinforces, rather than undermines, the necessity of undertaking with courage the attempt to free one’s mind. He will briefly discuss the role of books in such an attempt."
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Sterling, J. Walter
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St. John's College
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Santa Fe, NM
Date
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2022-08-26
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Meem Library has been given permission to make this item available online.
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sound
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mp3
Subject
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Freedom
Liberal Arts Education
St. John's Program
Language
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English
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SF_SterlingW_Freedom_of_the_Intellect_is_a_Sacred_Thing_2022-08-26
Deans
Friday night lecture
-
https://s3.us-east-1.amazonaws.com/sjcdigitalarchives/original/e69cfd4b302a71f33edc2994888691f4.mp4
19e81d94888bc4f519a01f57c4160c5f
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Description
An account of the resource
Items in this collection are part of a series of lectures given every year at St. John's College. During the Fall and Spring semesters, lectures are given on Friday nights. Items include audio and video recordings and typescripts.<br /><br />For more information, and for a schedule of upcoming lectures, please visit the <strong><a href="http://www.sjc.edu/programs-and-events/annapolis/formal-lecture-series/" target="_blank" rel="noreferrer noopener">St. John's College website</a></strong>. <br /><br />Click on <strong><a title="Formal Lecture Series" href="http://digitalarchives.sjc.edu/items/browse?collection=5">Items in the St. John's College Formal Lecture Series—Annapolis Collection</a></strong> to view and sort all items in the collection.<br /><br />A growing number of lecture recordings are also available on the St. John's College (Annapolis) Lectures podcast. Visit <a href="https://anchor.fm/greenfieldlibrary" title="Anchor.fm">Anchor.fm</a>, <a href="https://podcasts.apple.com/us/podcast/st-johns-college-annapolis-lectures/id1695157772">Apple Podcasts</a>, <a href="https://podcasts.google.com/feed/aHR0cHM6Ly9hbmNob3IuZm0vcy84Yzk5MzdhYy9wb2RjYXN0L3Jzcw" title="Google Podcasts">Google Podcasts</a>, or <a href="https://open.spotify.com/show/6GDsIRqC8SWZ28AY72BsYM?si=f2ecfa9e247a456f" title="Spotify">Spotify</a> to listen and subscribe.
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St. John's College Greenfield Library
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St. John's College Formal Lecture Series—Annapolis
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formallectureseriesannapolis
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mp4
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00:56:10
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Moments in the Liberal Education of Frederick Douglass from <em>My Bondage and My Freedom</em>
Description
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Video recording of a lecture delivered on August 26, 2022 by Joseph Macfarland as part of the Formal Lecture Series. First formal lecture of the academic year, previously referred to as the "Dean's Lecture", but now called the "Christopher B. Nelson Lecture".
Creator
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Macfarland, Joseph C.
Publisher
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St. John's College
Coverage
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Annapolis, MD
Date
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2022-08-26
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Permission has been given to make this available online.
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moving image
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mp4
Subject
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Douglass, Frederick, 1818-1895
Education, Humanistic
Slavery--United States
Slaves--United States--Education
Language
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English
Identifier
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LEC_Macfarland_Joseph_2022-08-26_ac
Christopher B. Nelson Lecture
Deans
Friday night lecture
Tutors
-
https://s3.us-east-1.amazonaws.com/sjcdigitalarchives/original/9f8a18ab961b3c1b924eb6e0ebcad19e.mp3
09cb4672fdd6266304ee457c07d5508b
Dublin Core
The Dublin Core metadata element set is common to all Omeka records, including items, files, and collections. For more information see, http://dublincore.org/documents/dces/.
Description
An account of the resource
Items in this collection are part of a series of lectures given every year at St. John's College. During the Fall and Spring semesters, lectures are given on Friday nights. Items include audio and video recordings and typescripts.<br /><br />For more information, and for a schedule of upcoming lectures, please visit the <strong><a href="http://www.sjc.edu/programs-and-events/annapolis/formal-lecture-series/" target="_blank" rel="noreferrer noopener">St. John's College website</a></strong>. <br /><br />Click on <strong><a title="Formal Lecture Series" href="http://digitalarchives.sjc.edu/items/browse?collection=5">Items in the St. John's College Formal Lecture Series—Annapolis Collection</a></strong> to view and sort all items in the collection.<br /><br />A growing number of lecture recordings are also available on the St. John's College (Annapolis) Lectures podcast. Visit <a href="https://anchor.fm/greenfieldlibrary" title="Anchor.fm">Anchor.fm</a>, <a href="https://podcasts.apple.com/us/podcast/st-johns-college-annapolis-lectures/id1695157772">Apple Podcasts</a>, <a href="https://podcasts.google.com/feed/aHR0cHM6Ly9hbmNob3IuZm0vcy84Yzk5MzdhYy9wb2RjYXN0L3Jzcw" title="Google Podcasts">Google Podcasts</a>, or <a href="https://open.spotify.com/show/6GDsIRqC8SWZ28AY72BsYM?si=f2ecfa9e247a456f" title="Spotify">Spotify</a> to listen and subscribe.
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St. John's College Greenfield Library
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St. John's College Formal Lecture Series—Annapolis
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formallectureseriesannapolis
Sound
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mp3
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00:49:53
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Comedy and the Virtue of Divine Puppets
Description
An account of the resource
Audio recording of a lecture delivered on August 27, 2021 by Joseph Macfarland as part of the Formal Lecture Series. First formal lecture of the academic year, previously referred to as the Dean's Lecture, but now called the Christopher B. Nelson Lecture.
Creator
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Macfarland, Joseph C.
Publisher
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St. John's College
Coverage
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Annapolis, MD
Date
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2021-08-27
Rights
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A signed permission form has been received stating: "I hereby grant St. John's College permission to: Make an audiovisual recording of my lecture, and retain copies for circulation and archival preservation in the St. John's College Greenfield Library. Make an audiovisual recording of my lecture available online. Make a typescript copy of my lecture available for circulation and archival preservation in the St. John's College Greenfield Library. Make a typescript of my lecture available online."
Type
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sound
Format
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mp3
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<a href="https://digitalarchives.sjc.edu/items/show/7586">Typescript</a>
Subject
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Comedy
Plato. Laws
Plato. Republic
Virtue
Language
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English
Identifier
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Macfarland_Joseph_2021-08-27
Christopher B. Nelson Lecture
Deans
Friday night lecture
-
https://s3.us-east-1.amazonaws.com/sjcdigitalarchives/original/89b849ef04ab118959d4c10bc7a0b8b6.pdf
df1e351180fe413f4f4c503ea6df510c
PDF Text
Text
This .naienai may De protected by
Gopynght iavi- (Title 17 U.S. Cod^
1794
DEPTH
AND
DESIRE
EVA BRAl'IN
St. John’s College
Annapolis, Friday, August 31, 1990
�St. John’s College Library.
.Apn.T.iolis. Marv'and-
DEPTH AND DESIRE
Eva Brann
Annapolis, Friday, August 31, 1990
y an old tradition the first lecture of the year is dedicated to
____the new members of our college, to the freshman students and
the freshman tutors. It is a chance to tell you something about the
shape and the spirit of the Program that governs St. John’s Collegeand not only to tell you but perhaps even to show you.
I think I am right in this spirit v/hen I begin by examining
the class-name I just called you by: freshmen. A freshman, my
etymological dictionaries tell me, is a person "not tainted, sullied or
worn," a still-fresh human being, where "fresh" means, so the
dictionary points out, both "frisky" and "impertinent." Later on in the
year you will learn a weighty Greek word applicable to persons of
frisky impertinence. They are said to have thvmos. spiritedness or
plain spunk, a characteristic necessary for serious learning. This
spirited frame of mind is perfectly compatible with being shy and
secretly a little scared. In fact, to my mind, it is a sign of quality in
newcomers to be anxious for their own dignity in the way that shows
itself in spirited shyness. It is our business, the business of the
faculty and of the more responsible upper class students, to help your
spiritedness to become serious, to emerge from the shyness- whether
it be of the quiet or the boisterous sort, to help you channel your
energy into a steady desire for learning and to direct your boldness
toward the discovery of depth and, moreover, to help you without
leaving you tainted, sullied, and worn out. I keep saying "help,"
because although great changes are bound to take place in you in
these next years- do but behold the seniors: unsullied, untainted,
unworn and transfigured- we none of us know who should get the
most credit besides yourself: the Program, our teaching, your
friendships or just plain time passing.
At any rate, the spirit of the college is invested in
seriousness, a certain kind of seriousness— not dead seriousness but
live seriousness, you might say. This seriousness shows itself on
many occasions: in deep or heated conversations in the noon sun or
at midnight, in marathons of effort and in the oblivion of sleep, in
devoted daily preparation and in glorious goofing-off, in the
B
1
�BRANN
DEPTH AND DESIRE
willingness to try on opinions and in the need to come to conclusions.
What does your school do to induce this very particular kind of
seriousness?
When you chose to come to St. John’s you were, perhaps,
attracted by the fact that the mode of teaching normal in higher
education is quite abnormal here. I mean lectures. Only one lecture
a week is an integral part of the Program, on Fridays at 8:15 P.M.
Now the chief thing about a lecture is that it is prepared ahead of
time. For instance, I began working on this lecture in March. A
lecture ought to be the temporarily final word, the best a speaker has
to give you at the moment. It should not matter whether the surface
of the speech is brilliant or drab, as long as it is a deliberate and
well-prepared opening of the speaker’s heart and mind to the
listeners. As such it carries authority. These authoritative occasions
are obviously important to the life of the school.
Yet our normal way is not the prepared lecture but the
focused conversation which is effervescent rather than prepared,
provisional rather than authoritative, and participatory rather than
reactive. Your tutors will not tell you but ask you; they will not
demonstrate acquired knowledge, but the activity of learning. One
reason why the teaching of new tutors- and some of your classes will
be taught by newcomers- is often most memorable to freshmen is
that their learning is genuinely original and keeps sympathetic pace
with yours. There is an irresistible but false local etymology of the
word tutor as "one who toots," perhaps his own horn. What the word
tutor really signifies is a person who guards and watches learning.
We are deliberately not called professors because we profess no
special expertise.
Since you will not be told things, you will have to speak
yourselves. What will you speak about? The Program will ask you
to focus your conversation on certain texts- they might be books or
scores or paintings. These texts have been selected over the years by
us because they have the living seriousness I am trying to speak
about. To my mind texts, like people, are serious when they have a
surface that arouses the desire to know them and the depth to fulfill
that desire. Here then, is my announced theme for tonight: the
depth that calls forth desire.
To delineate that depth I must once again distinguish our
kind of conversation, the kind associated with such texts, from the
2
BRANN
DEPTH AND DESIRE
kind of fellowship to be found in other places. All over this country,
and wherever the conditions for some human happiness exist, there
are people who know all there is to know about some field that they
till with a single-minded love. This is the blessed race of buffs,
aficionados and those rare professionals who have had the grace to
remain amateurs at heart. They study history or race stock cars or
do biology or fly hot-air balloons. My own favorite fanatic is the
young son of a graduate of St. John’s. This boy is persistently in love
with fish, with the hooks, flies, sinkers, leaders, reels and rods for
catching them, with the books for studying them, with the aquaria,
ponds, lakes and oceans for observing them. When I first met him
he looked up at me shyly and asked if I knew what an ichthyologist
was. Since I knew some Greek I knew the etymology of the word
and could tell him that it is a person who can give an account of fish,
so he was satisfied with me. This boy may have his troubles but he
is also acquainted with bliss.
TTiis kind of concentrated bliss we cannot deliver to you,
except perhaps in limited extracurricular ways. Instead we, or rather
the Program, will drive you through centuries of time and diversities
of opinion, while depriving you of the freedom and the serenity to till
and to master a well-defined field of your own choosing. You will
study Greek and invest hours in memoiizing paradigms, but your
tutorial is not a Greek class- it is a language tutorial in which Greek
is studied only partly for its own virtues, and partly as a striking and,
for you, a novel example of human speech and its possibilities. You
will study Euclid and demonstrate many prepositions, yet your
tutorial is not intended to make you geometers but to allow you to
think about the activity of mathematics. In short, you will be asked
to read many books carefully and to study many matters in some
detail only to find them passing away, becoming mere examples in
the conversation. And these fugitive texts will almost all bear their
excellence, their worthiness to be studied exhaustively, on their face,
for we try to pick the ideal examples. This procedure is practically
guaranteed to keep you off-balance, even to drive you a little crazy,
since you will not often have the satisfaction of dwelling on anything
and of mastering it. How do we dare do this to you?
Here is a strange but unavoidable fact: Those who plow
with devotion and pleasure and increasing mastery some bounded
plot on the globe of knowledge often undergo a professional
3
�BRANN
DEPTH AND DESIRE
deformalion. They lose first the will and then the ability to go deep.
To be sure, specialists are often said to know their subjects "in
depth," but that is not the depth I mean. Let me illustrate with an
example I have a special affection for. I began my academic life as
an archaeologist, and the first thing archaeologists do is to dig deep
past the present surface of the earth, or rather they scrape it away
layer by layer. But with every stratum they scrape away they find
themselves at a new surface, the surface of a former age. They poke
into time- a magical enough activity-but they do not pretend to
pierce the nature of things. For example, there would come up from
the depths of a well-shaft an ancient pot. I would catalogue it by
naming its form, say; kotvle. a kind of cup; by giving its dimensions:
H. 0.108 m.; diam. 0.135 m; by describing its proportions: deep
bodied, narrow-footed; by interpreting the picture painted on it: a
rabbit- this is the pot-painter being funny- jumping a tracking
hound from behind; by conjecturing about the provenance and the
stylistic influences: made in Attica under Corinthian influence; and
by assigning a date: third quarter of the seventh century B.C.
Was I required to consider what I meant by dimensions,
proportions, styles, images, funniness, influences, places? Not a bitthat would have meant time out and profitless distraction from my
business, which was to know all about the looks and appearances of
the pottery of Athens in early times. What this Program of ours
offers you is exactly that time out, and that splendid distraction.
People will say of you, when you have graduated, that you have
4
BRANN
DEPTH AND DESIRE
acquired a broad background. But your education will have been
broad only in a very incidental and sketchy way- certainly not in the
fashion of a close-knit tapestry that is a continuous texture of
interwoven warp and woof. Many of the books you are about to read
do tie into one another. Sometimes a book written by an ancient
Greek will (I am not being funny) talk back to one written by a
modern American, or the opposite— the strands that connect these
books seem to run back and forth and sideways through time. But
some books will stand, at least as we read them, in splendid isolation,
and all in all the texts we study do not add up to a texture of
knowledge: There is no major called "Great Books. How could
there be competence in a tradition whose moving impulse is to
undercut every wisdom in favor of a yet deeper one? There is not
even agreement whether this tradition of ours advances or
degenerates with time, whether its authors are all talking about the
same thing, though in a different way, or in apparently similar ways
about quite incomparable things.
Here is what the books do seem to me to have in common:
They intend to go into the depths of things. All the authors, even
those subtly self-contradictory ones who claim that there are no
depths but only surfaces, are deep in the way I mean. This desire for
depth, then, is what will hold your studies here together. There is a
word for this effort, to which it is my privilege to introduce you
tonight. The word is philosophy. The term is put together from two
Greek words, philos. an adjective used of someone who feels friendly,
even passionate love, and sophia. which means wisdom or deep
knowledge.
When I say that your school is devoted to philosophy, the
love of deep knowledge, I mean that all our authors want to dravv you
deep into their matter, whether by words, symbols, notes or visual
shapes. Incidentally, in a few weeks a lecturer, a tutor from Santa
Fe, will come and contradict me; he has told me that he will say that
what we do needn’t bear the name of philosophy at all.
Let that be a subject for future discussion, and let me come
to the heart of my lecture tonight. It is .he question what depth is
and how is possible. 1 think we are alj inclined to suppose that
literal, actual depth belongs to bodies and space and that people or
texts are deep only by analogy, metaphor cally speaking.
I want to propose that here, as sj often in philosophy, it is
5
�BRANN
DEPTH AND DESIRE
really the other way around: it is the body that is deep merely
metaphorically, as a matter of speaking, while the soul and its
expression alone are deep in the primary sense.
Certainly the depth of a body or a space is elusive. If a body
has a perfectly hard and impenetrable surface, its depth must be
forever beyond our experience— a kind of hard, inaccessible
nothingness. On the other hand, let the physical body have a hollow
in it— such caves are powerful allegories of depth and you will in the
next four years come across some famous holes: the grotto of
Calypso, the underground chamber in Plato’s Republic. Don
Quixote’s cavern of Montesinos. Now ask yourself: Where actually
is the depth? The containing boundaries of the hollow are all faces
of the body, and no matter how deep you seem to be inside the body,
you are still on its surface, just as I argued before about
archaeological excavations.
Now consider matterless bodies, geometric solids. Euclid
says in Book XI that a solid has length, breadth, and depth, but he
gives us no way to tell which is which: it depends on your
perspective- in fact all three dimensions are lengths delineating the
surfaces that he says are the extremity of the solid. What is inside
that solid, what its inwardness or true depth is, he does not feel
obliged to say. These are questions you might want to raise in your
mathematics tutorials: Can one gel inside a geometric solid? How?
Bodies, I am suggesting, are either too hard or too involuted
or loo featureless or loo empty to have true depth. Only divine or
human beings and the texts they produce- texts made of words,
notes, paint, stones, what have you- can be literally deep or
profound. For I attribute depth or profundity to that which is of a
truly different order from the surface that covers and hides it. And
it must be the inside and foundation of just that surface, so that we
can gain entrance to it through that particular outside and through no
other. Every depth must be sought through its own proper surface
which it both denies or negates and supplies with significance: the
surface that hides its own depth is never superficial.
Human beings seem to me the most obvious example of such
depth. All human beings have a surface, namely the face and figure
they present. I personally think that in real life almost all people
also have an inside, their soul, their depth. But there are some
famous novels in which characters are described who are nothing but
6
BRANN
DEPTH AND DESIRE
empty shells. Against their impenetrable surface those whom they
attract by the insidiously unflawed beauty peculiar to facades that
hide nothing break themselves, or if they tear through, they fall into
nothingness.
However, these are fictions, and actual human beings have
by the very fact of their humanity an inner sanctum. We begin by
noting, casually, their face, their demeanor. As our interest awakens
we proceed to read more carefully, to watch their appearance
ardently for what it signifies. If we are lucky, they may open up to
us, as we do to them. If we go about it right, this interpretative
process need never come to an end, for the human inside, or to give
it, once again, its proper name, the soul, is a true mystery. By a true
mystery I mean a profundity whose bottom we can never seem to
plumb though we have a persistent faith )n its actuality. I think that
for us human beings only depths and mysteries induce viable desire.
For love entirely without longing is not possible among human
beings. Many a failure of love follovs on the- usually falseopinion that we have exhausted the other person’s inside, that there
is no further promise of depth.
It is not only in respect to living human beings that depth
calls forth desire. This college would not be the close human
community that it is if you did not get to know some human beings
deeply- which is called friendship. But such love is only the essential
by-product (to coin a contradictory phrase) of our philosophical
Program, a program that encourages the love of certain para-human
beings. These para-human beings are the expressions of the human
soul, our texts, as well as the things they talk about.
Let me take a moment to ask whether this particular desire
for depth I keep referring to is common among human beings or
even natural. I say it is absolutely natural and very common. You
will see what I mean when I tell you what I think is the nature of
desire. Desire seems to me to be a kind of negative form or a
shaped emptiness in the soul, a place in the spirit expecting to be
filled, a kind of psychic envelope wailing to be stuffed with its proper
contents.
Now take a long leap and ask yourself what a question is.
A question is a negative form or shap^ emptiness in the mind, a
place in thought waiting to be filled, a psychic envelope ready to be
supplied with its proper message. Questions therefore have the same
7
�BRANN
DEPTH AND DESIRE
structure as desires. In fact questions are a subspecies of desire: a
question is desire directed upon wisdom or knowledge. Therefore I
might go so far as to say that this school teaches the shaping of
desire— because here we practice asking deep questions. Now I think
that very many, probably all, human beings would like to ask such
questions if they only knew how. That is why the desire for depth is
both common and natural.
What we most often, or at least most programmatically, ask
questions about are those texts I have been mentioning. As I have
intimated, such a text, particularly a text of words, is a curious kind
of being, neither a living soul nor a mere rigid thing. What a book
might be, such that it could have genuine depth, is a question that
should arise over and over in the tutorials and the seminars. That
books do have depth is shown by the fact that they induce questions,
the directed desire to open them up. I want to end by giving a
sample of a deep text and a demonstration of the beginning of a
reading, a mere knock at its gate, so to speak.
The text is a saying by Heraclitus. Heraclitus flourished
about 500 B.C. He was early among those who inquired into the
nature of things, and he had a contemporary antagonist, Parmenides.
You will see from your sheets that Heraclitus said that it is wise to
agree that "All things are one." Parmenides said things that, on the
face of it, seem similar, but whether he meant the same thing as
Heraclitus, or something opposite or something incomparable- that
is a matter of ever-live debate. In any case, Heraclitus and
Parmenides together embody the great principle of our tradition that
I mentioned before; you might call it the "the principle of responsive
differentiation." However, I shall not try to talk about Heraclitus’s
actual wisdom tonight- that along with the previous questions; "What
is philosophy?," "What is a solid?," "What is a cave?," "What is a
book?," I leave to future discussion. I shall attend only to the
preliminaries with which Heraclitus surrounds his wisdom.
Heraclitus’s book is largely lost, though as far as we know it
was not a treatise but a book of sayings. Even in ancient times it
had a reputation for depth; the tragedian Euripides said of it that it
required a Delian diver- the divers from the island Delos (which
means the "Manifest" or "Clear") were evidently famous for diving
deep and bringing things to light.
DEPTH AND DESIRE
BRANN
The saying I have chosen goes:
oOk tuou dXXdc Tou Xdyou dxouaavTas
dpioXoydv 90ip6v laTiv Iv -irdvTa flvai
Transliterated it reads
ouk emou alia tou logou akousantas
homologein sophon estin hen panta einai.
On the surface this saying is in Greek and needs to be
translated. Since I have argued that surfaces are, like traditional
Japanese packaging, an integral part of the contents, they must be
carefully and patiently undone. Now to put Heraclitus’s Greek into
English is, up to a certain point, not hard. Your Greek manual will
tell you about the "accusative absolute" and about various infinitives,
and your Greek dictionaries will give you the meaning of "listening,"
of "wise" (which you are already familiar with in philosophy), and of
"agree."
But then you look up logos. "Logos" is one of the
tremendous words of our tradition, to which it is, once again, my
privilege to introduce you. Without even looking it up, I can give
you the following meanings: Word and speech, saying and story, tally
and tale, ratio and relation, account and explanation (that was the
meaning which occurred in the word "ichthyologist"), argument and
discussion, reason and reasoning, collection and gathering, the word
of God and the son of God. As you learn Greek you will see what
it is about the root-meaning of logos that makes this great scope of
significance possible.
But how are you to choose? You are
caught in a vicious circle: Unless you know what Heraclitus means
by logos you cannot choose the right English translation, and unless
you discover the right English word you cannot know what he means
by his saying. However, sensible people find ways to scramble
themselves out of this bind. Try a meaning that makes good
immediate sense: choose "reasoning."
Listening not to me but to my reasoning,
it is wise to agree that all things are one.
This yields a saying that is particularly pertinent to us, since
8
ov'er
dcor.
For
J
�BRANN
DEPTH AND DESIRE
look into each other’s faces, we must not get stuck on personalities.
Each seminar member has a right to say: "Never mind me, answer
my argument." Heraclitus is introducing a great notion into the
Western world here: Not who says it matters but what is said.
But there is more signifying surface to the saying. Listen to
its sound and notice that in the second line the word homologein
sounds like logos. "Agree" is a good first meaning but it does not
preserve the similarity of sound. Homologein literally means "to say
the same." Let me try that, and for "my reasoning" I will substitute
"the Saying."
BRANN
DEPTH AND DESIRE
Here I shall stop. But although I am ending, I am not
finished— and neither, of course, are you. If you have in fact listened
not only to me but also to my argument, and if you are possessed by
the proper freshman spirit, now is your moment, the part of the
Friday night lecture that is the true St. John’s: the time for
questions.
If you listen not to me but to the Saying,
it is wise to say the same: that all things are one.
Now what sense does that make? What Saying? Whose saying other
than Heraclitus’s own? Suppose the translation did make sense, then
Heraclitus is saying that there is a saying that can be heard beyond
his own, a speech to which we must listen, a speaking that it would
be the part of wisdom to echo in what we say. What impersonal
speech could that be? Heraclitus in fact tells us not what the logos
is, but what it says, for he bids us to say the same: "All things are
one." What if this saying, of which no human being is the author,
where a power whose saying and doing were one and the same?
What if its speech were an act? Let me play with a third, somewhat
strange, version:
Once you have listened not to me but to the Gathering,
it is wise similarly to gather all things into one.
Here logos is translated as gathering or collection. It is the power
that gathers everything in the world into a unified whole, the
organizing power we are invited to imitate by giving a comprehensive
account of the universe in speech. The logos speaks primally; our
logos becomes deep by imitating it.
I think by now the text has begun to draw us through its
surface into its depth. You can see that it demands of you the playful
seriousness I mentioned at the beginning, a seriousness that calls out
all your capacity for careful attention to surface detail as well as your
willingness to dive into the depths.
10
11
�A NOTE ABOUT THE
TEXT
This lecture was written and
edited in WordPerfect 5.1.
All headings, subheadings,
and body text are set in
Times Roman. Typesetting,
editing, and printing were
done at the St. John’s Print
Shop.
�ST. JOHN’S COLLEGE PRESS
ANNAPOLIS, MARYLAND
�
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Depth and Desire
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Typescript of a lecture delivered on August 31, 1990 by Eva Brann as part of the Formal Lecture Series.
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Deans
Friday night lecture
Tutors
-
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PDF Text
Text
Speaking Freely and the Conversational Virtues
Joseph C. Macfarland
A lecture given at St. John’s College, Annapolis, MD
August 23, 2019
“Except for the requirements of common courtesy, there are only two rules [in
seminar]…” I am quoting from the Statement of the St. John’s Program… “First, all opinions
must be heard and explored, however sharply they may clash; second, every opinion must be
supported by argument—an unsupported opinion does not count.” Skipping ahead a little: “The
course of the discussion cannot be fixed in advance; it is determined rather by the necessity of
‘following the argument,’ of facing the crucial issues, or of seeking foundations upon which a
train of reasoning can be pursued. The argument does not necessarily lead to the answer to a
question. More often than not the question remains open but with certain alternatives clearly
outlined. The progress of the seminar is not particularly smooth; the discussion may sometimes
branch off and entangle itself in irrelevant difficulties. Only gradually can the logical rigor of an
argument emerge within the sequence of analogies and other imaginative devices by which the
discussion is kept alive. A seminar may also degenerate into rather empty talk, without being
able for some time to extricate itself from such a course. At its best, the seminar may reach
insights far beyond the initial views held by any of its members.”
About this passage, I want to draw two observations: first, it would appear that seminar
is characterized by the “freedom of speech” therein: “all opinions must be heard and explored,”
“the course of the discussion cannot be fixed in advance,” “more often than not the question
remains open.” We are committed to this freedom even at the risk of the conversation
occasionally devolving into “empty talk” or getting entangled in “irrelevant difficulties.” The
second observation: the phrase, “freedom of speech,” which carries so much weight in
American political culture, is not mentioned, not invoked, as if its presence were an unintended
consequence of other intentions. The freedom with which the seminar conversation moves
serves a deeper freedom of thought, the substance of a liberal education.1
1
From elsewhere in the Statement, about seminar: “The demands of the individual and those of the group are in
continuous interplay, setting limits within which the discussion moves with the utmost possible freedom.” And:
“These [the liberal] arts enable all human beings to know the world around them and to know themselves in this
1
�In the last several years, it has become common for colleges to declare their
commitment to freedom of speech or freedom of expression. Several years ago the University
of Chicago released a statement on ‘freedom of expression’; some version of this statement has
been endorsed by sixty odd colleges and universities. This past spring, the president of the
United States signed an executive order mandating that colleges uphold free speech lest they
jeopardize federal research funds. The order, as framed, will have little practical impact on
colleges.2 But observers of all kinds found the action alarming, as it seemed designed to ignite
partisan political skirmishes within the academy, and to demean the noble principle through its
patently partisan deployment. I feared that even to mention the president’s action could do the
same to the discourse I’ve embarked on tonight—should I have censored myself, lest I
introduce partisan strife? Can we hear the fact, without slipping into the mode of discourse
initiated there?
Regarding the more principled defense of freedom of speech in the academy, I will note
that in some respects the Chicago statement echoes our own and there is much to admire in it.
For example, “Universities should be expected to provide the conditions within which hard
thought, and therefore strong disagreement, independent judgment, and the questioning of
stubborn assumptions, can flourish in an environment of the greatest freedom.” The conditions
for this hard thinking and strong disagreement require valuing civility and nourishing a climate
of mutual respect.3 The Chicago statement avers that “free inquiry is indispensable to the good
life.”
Yet in some respects, I find the Chicago statement does not suit a community of learning
as I understand it, the one I believe we share. While the statement begins by emphasizing
freedom of inquiry, it settles more firmly on freedom of expression. At the same time, not
world, and to use that knowledge with wisdom. Under the guidance of these arts, they can free themselves from
the constraint of prejudice and the narrowness of beaten paths.”
2 Chronicle of Higher Education, Andy Thomason, March 21, 2019: “But public colleges are already legally bound to
do so by the First Amendment. And private colleges will be required only to ‘comply with their stated institutional
policies regarding free inquiry,’ according to Politico, which cited an unnamed senior official in the Trump
administration.” (“Trump's hyped free speech order asks colleges to do what they already have to,” Politico,
Benjamin Wermund, March 21, 2019).
3 Although the statement pointedly adds: “concerns about civility and mutual respect can never be used as a
justification for closing off discussion of ideas, however offensive or disagreeable those ideas may be to some
members of our community.”
2
�coincidentally, it often emphasizes the value of “uninhibited debate and deliberation.”4 In this
mode, conversation is envisioned as a place for competition. The word “debate” is derived from
battere, a word in early Romance languages which meant, “to fight.” The English word debate
originally meant to “fight” or “strive with” in the literal sense; it acquired its current, figurative
sense—to dispute a matter of public interest—soon after.5 A debate is a “contest”; it has
contestants, judges, an audience. An invisible wall is erected between the participants and the
auditors—the speakers strive to persuade; they are not themselves available for persuasion;
the auditors—the judges, the audience—are passively worked upon by the persuaders. The
historical analogy may be to the lists, where knights in armor meet on chargers with pointed
lances; the modern analogy is to the courtroom.6 The adversarial arrangement is designed to
elicit arguments framed with maximum force, to clarify the choice to be made by a third party,
the audience or the jury. The freedom being articulated is a freedom of expression: each may
outwardly unfold his own conceits and supporting arguments without impediment. And from
time to time, it offers the ephemeral sweetness of victory.
The analogy to the courtroom reminds us that debate has a function essential to a free
political society, but one may still question its usefulness in shared, free inquiry. Often in
classes, we aim at a mode of understanding that is more secure, more certain, than mere
persuasion; we aim at demonstration or knowledge. Yet even when we tread the territory in
which demonstration becomes doubtful, and we must resort to judgment and imagination, we
still speak less to express ourselves than to find and articulate the obscure but solid contours of
our subject matter. Returning to the Statement of the Program: “The course of the discussion
cannot be fixed in advance; it is determined rather by the necessity of ‘following the argument,’
of facing the crucial issues, or of seeking foundations upon which a train of reasoning can be
pursued… Only gradually can the logical rigor of an argument emerge within the sequence of
analogies and other imaginative devices by which the discussion is kept alive.” Our dialectical
activity is not exclusively logical—it employs analogies and imaginative devices—but the
4
The brief document mentions “debate” five times, including in the introduction. Four times it appears in the
phrase, “debate and deliberation.”
5 OED online gives as an example of the figurative sense: “1609 Shakespeare Sonnets xv. sig. B4 Wastfull time
debateth with decay To change your day of youth to sullied night.”
6 OED: “1590 Spenser Faerie Queene ii. i. sig. M7v Well could he tourney and in lists debate.”
3
�underlying “argument” has enough of an inherent shape that we gradually conform to it as we
clumsily discover it. “All opinions must be heard and explored, however sharply they may
clash,” but, “every opinion must be supported by argument.”
The type of inquiry we pursue requires a small enough community that we can tear
down the barrier between speaker and auditor; each person in class speaks and listens; each is
mover and moved. Conversely, vigorous debate as a model for learning may become more apt
as the scale of the learning community grows: in a lecture hall, in a research university, in a
research field, we are almost always auditors. After the courtroom, this brings me to the
second analogy implicit in the defense of free speech: the marketplace. The tacit assumption
seems to be that we will accumulate the greatest intellectual wealth where the movement of
information is most free. In the commotion and competition of diverse arguments, true and
useful notions will achieve their appropriate market share, one trusts, so long as their public
expression is sustained and uninhibited.7 As John Locke said (in a work I will soon discuss): “For
truth certainly would have done very well, if she were ever left to herself.”8 The auditors, the
jury members in a courtroom, become consumers, and the discernment exercised by
individuals is replaced by an invisible hand or the wisdom of the crowd.9
It is a serious question, of the greatest import, whether the free expression of
competing ideas inevitably leads to the gradual prevalence of true ones; I am not able to judge;
I am intrigued by the notion. It is of limited use, however, in thinking about our classroom—
true, each participant, sharing in a common logos, will walk away with somewhat different
impressions and opinions, but the classroom is not a marketplace of ideas. The importance of
scale, from many to few, is noted in the Gorgias when Polus says to Socrates, “Do you not think
that you have been refuted Socrates, when you say such things as no one among human beings
would assert? Just ask anyone of these men [who are listening]”; to which Socrates responds, “I
7
A market is efficient when information about products, including prices, moves most freely; as a result, the
market itself is thought to be the best distributor and aggregator of information.
8 Letter Concerning Toleration, in, Locke on Toleration, ed. Vernon (Cambridge University Press, 2010), page 31.
Locke is concerned with the employment of government and law to persuade people about religion. On the
analogy between freedom in the development of property and in the care of the soul, page 18.
9 In fairness, the Chicago Statement does not allude to the marketplace. I do think the analogy is implicit in much
popular discourse about how free expression leads to the prevalence of correct notions.
4
�am not one of the political men… so do not bid me to put the vote to those present,” and, a
little later, “all other men agree with you except me, whereas for me you, being one man alone,
are quite enough to agree and bear witness… I put the vote to you alone and bid the others
farewell.”10
Occasionally engaged in conversations on this subject, I was struck by the question of a
colleague: why is it that, in reference to freedom of speech in the academy, we do not speak
instead about toleration? If one wishes to create an environment that cultivates openness to
different opinions, why emphasize one’s right to speak, rather than one’s obligation to listen?
Within the American regime, free speech and toleration share a common source, the first
amendment to the Constitution. They would seem to be complimentary parts of a coordinated
intention. Within our sub-political community, a very small college, could toleration be a more
fitting way to conceive of the space within which we pursue free inquiry? In order to think
about this, I wanted to turn to a classic work on the subject to assist me; and I note that there is
no such work on the program. And we might wonder why, when religious toleration is one of
the most distinctive and, I would say, valuable, features of modern liberal democracies—
answering this query is not easy. For the purposes of this talk, I will spend some time with
Locke’s Letter Concerning Toleration, and, though it is off-the-program, it has the virtue of
sharing many principles with the much more familiar Two Treatises of Government. This will
constitute the second part of my talk; the third will move further back in time, to the virtues
concerning “actions and speeches” in Aristotle’s Ethics.
I will sketch what I take to be several principles of Locke’s account of toleration and the
manner in which toleration is extended. This will bring us to a few surprising features in the
doctrine, additional questions about how it is extended, and how it is relevant to our own
community.
10
Gorgias 473e and 475e-476a, Nichols trans. (Cornell University Press, 1998). Of course, later, it is enough if only
Callicles agrees with Callicles (482b); self-agreement under sustained examination is the necessary but not
sufficient criterion for knowledge. Socrates is somewhat disingenuous here; he is, after all, conducting the
argument as a demonstration for Gorgias.
5
�Locke’s account of toleration has two starting points, one, his reading of the Gospel, the
other, his philosophy of politics. The Letter begins from the teaching of the New Testament.
Very simply, being a Christian requires charity, gentleness, and goodwill (3); Locke flatly denies
that persecution of others on the basis of their beliefs is compatible with charity and goodwill
(3-4). Christ sent out his disciples, “to subdue nations and compel them to come into the
church[,] not with swords or spears… but with the Gospel, with the message of peace[,] and
with the exemplary force of holiness” (5).”11 The word toleration, in its earliest sense, means to
“endure” or “sustain hardship” (OED), and, as Locke says, “the Gospel everywhere testifies that
the true disciples of Christ must expect persecution and bear it” (11). That is, even if one were
to set aside charity as a reason for toleration, toleration on its own appears to follow from
Christ’s teaching.
The second starting point for the account of toleration is Locke’s political philosophy:
“the commonwealth seems to me to be a society of men constituted only for preserving and
advancing their civil goods… life, liberty, bodily health and freedom from pain, and the
possession of outward things” (JWG, 67). For the sake of this end, preserving civil goods,
governments institutes law, and rulers have the force with which to punish anyone who breaks
the law and “violates the rights of others” (7).12 The salient feature of Locke’s teaching, of
course, is that the power of government is limited: he aims to show, “that the whole
jurisdiction of the magistrate is concerned only with these civil goods,… that all the right and
dominion of civil power is bounded and confined solely to the care of these [civil] goods; and
that it neither can nor ought to be extended to the salvation of souls.”
With the exception of this last phrase about “souls,” all of this is familiar from the Two
Treatises on Government, and still more familiar as a principle of American government from its
first establishment. What is curious is that, although the Two Treatises on Government and the
11
For “compel,” Vernon refers us to Luke 14:23, “And the lord said unto the servant, Go out into the highways and
hedges, and compel them to come in, that my house may be filled.” This was evidently frequently referenced in
the polemical literature of the age. (Locke’s Latin in this passage, cogendas, differs from the Vulgate in Luke 14:23,
compellere; perhaps the polemical literature warrants the connection?) Quotations are from the Vernon
translation, except for those noted as being from the J.W. Gough edition (JWG): Epistola de Tolerantia: A Letter on
Toleration (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1968).
12
6
�Letter Concerning Toleration were published in the same year, both anonymously, and although
both works rest on the same political principles, the Second Treatise on Government is silent on
the question of religious toleration.13 One might wonder, is the doctrine of toleration essential
to Locke’s philosophy of politics, or is it an optional, dispensable supplement?
Locke’s analysis of the question has as its primary object, the “church”: the “church” is
the entity whose toleration is being examined. Locke’s definition of “church” is laid out as if it
belonged to his political philosophy: a church is a sub-political association that is framed in
partial analogy to the commonwealth. A church is a “free [and voluntary] society of men,
joining together of their own accord for the public worship of God in such manner as they
believe will be acceptable to the Deity for the salvation of their souls” (JWG, 71).14 No one is
born into a church or bound to one by nature; each has the same liberty to leave it as they had
to enter (9). Every free association has its rules, and the right of making these rules belongs to
the association, or to whomever the association has approved by its consent (10).15 In terms of
this rule-making autonomy, Locke says the church is similar to an association of businessmen or
an association of “learned persons pursuing philosophy.”16 Especially in the case of the church,
membership is a free choice because the path to salvation is for “every individual to investigate
by his own efforts, thinking, searching, judging, and reflecting for himself, in sincerity of heart”
(sincera mente, 19).17
13
Both were published in 1689, the Two Treatises in English, the Letter in Latin. Incidentally, Locke’s authorship of
the Letter was revealed much before his authorship of the treatises. Also, Laslett notes passages in the Two
Treatises that correspond to passages in the four letters on toleration, e.g., II.3, II.108, II.134, etc. (Two Treatise of
Government, ed. P. Laslett (Cambridge University Press, 1960, 1996). Although the Second Treatise does not
explain toleration, in the list of causes that might lead the people to resist their government, we find, in one
instance, “when their Estates, Liberties, and Lives are in danger, and perhaps their Religion too” (II.209, emphasis
added). In the following section, among the actions of the ruler that could prompt the dissolution of the
government, Locke includes, “that Religion underhand favoured (though publicly proclaimed against) which is
readiest to introduce [arbitrary power]” (II.210).
14 Elsewhere Locke does say that “true religion” comes into the world “to ground a life of goodness and piety…
holiness of life, purity of morals, goodness of heart, and gentleness” (Vernon, 3).
15 It is strange that, in discussing rule-making within the church, Locke mentions the importance of consent
(assensus, JWG, 73), but when discussing the commonwealth, he omits it—strange, since consent is such a central
feature in his political teaching (Second Treatise, ch. 8). Perhaps the Letter Concerning Toleration, written in Latin,
was intended equally for readers on the continent.
16 Societas literatorum ad philosopham; not quite following Gough (73) or Vernon (10).
17 “The only real way to spread the truth [is] to combine the weight of reason and argument with humanity and
good will” (15).
7
�The argument for toleration seems to be advanced as much as possible on the grounds
of political philosophy. According to Locke, the articulation of the civil power, including its
limits, is religion-independent: “Civil power is the same everywhere, and it can bestow no more
authority on a church if it is in the hands of a Christian prince than it can in the hands of a pagan
prince” (14). Political philosophy appears sufficient “to mark the true bounds between the
church and the commonwealth” (JWG, 65). In order to do this, one more principle is requisite:
“The care of souls cannot belong to the civil magistrate, because his power consists wholly in
compulsion. But true and saving religion consists in the inward persuasion of the mind, without
which nothing has any value with God; and such is the nature of human understanding, that it
cannot be compelled by any outward force [JWG, 69].” To Locke’s political philosophy is added
a principle from another part of philosophy: that the mind cannot be compelled by force. If true
religion consists in the inward persuasion of the mind, and if the civil power exercises a
compulsion which has no effect on the mind, then the civil power is simply incapable of
favoring one religion over another. “It is light that is needed to change a belief in the mind;
punishment of the body does not lend light” (8).
In judging whether a church should be tolerated, Locke identifies three salient features
to be considered: its modes of worship, its speculative doctrines, and its practical or moral
doctrines. Toleration appears to be unconditional when it comes to two of the three features,
modes of worship and speculative doctrines. Regarding matters of worship, most are
“indifferent in their own nature”: “the sprinkling of water, and the use of bread and wine, are
things in their own nature and in ordinary life altogether indifferent” (JWG, 107). They are not
indifferent to the members of the church who practice them, who regard them as instituted by
God. But since they are indifferent in their own nature, the civil magistrate has no cause to
prefer one over the other; and as they belong to the inmost beliefs of the worshippers, the civil
power is obliged to respect these choices. As far as the civil power is concerned, if a Christian
“should want to sacrifice a calf, that (I say) should not be forbidden by law… That does no harm
to anyone, takes nothing from any man’s possessions” (25).
Toleration is equally broad in relation to speculative doctrines: the ruler ought not
prohibit the speculative opinions of any church, “because they have no bearing on the civil
8
�rights of the subjects.”18 “Laws are not concerned with the truth of opinions, but with the
security and safety of the commonwealth and with each man’s goods” (JWG, 123). Locke
resorts to the principle I mentioned before: truth “does not need force to find entrance into
men’s minds, nor is she taught by the [voice] of the laws.”
The limits and perplexities concerning toleration enter with the third feature of a
church, its practical doctrines. Both the civil power and the church are concerned with instilling
good morals; while the commonwealth requires that its citizens have good morals, the church
appears more able to instill them.19 Locke admits that this may lead the church to infringe on
the commonwealth, or vice versa, but he asserts that such infringements will be rare; few sects
are likely to teach doctrines that undermine the foundations of society, as the given sect would
endanger the peace and respect it enjoys.20
As the force of the argument for toleration arises from demonstrating the limits of the
civil power, the argument of the Letter focuses on explaining why the civil power, the ruler,
must tolerate all qualifying churches. Yet, in Locke’s view, it is very often a church having
influence with the civil power that seeks to use that power to persecute a competing church.
The rhetorical objective of the Letter therefore is to persuade each church why it must tolerate
others. Locke emphasizes that toleration is, of its very nature, mutual or reciprocal: the
condition for receiving it, is granting it (36). If a church is intolerant towards others at home, it
cannot expect to be tolerated abroad; if it is intolerant now under advantageous political
circumstances, it cannot expect to be tolerated in the future under disadvantageous ones (15).
The aim appears to be to persuade churches not to avail themselves of the civil power in order
to suppress competing faiths. Or to put it more strongly, while the central argument for
toleration is mounted from the philosophical analysis of the powers of the commonwealth, the
18
JWG, 121. “To believe this or that to be true is not within the scope of our will” (JWG, 121).
Good morals “are a major part of religion” and “play a role in civil life” (31). For example, Christianity is opposed
to vices such as adultery, fornication, and lasciviousness (5), as well as bigotry and fanaticism (6).
20 “No doctrines, incompatible with human society, and contrary to the good morals which are necessary for the
preservation of civil society, are to be tolerated by the magistrate. But examples of these are rare in any church”
(JWG, 131). Locke does imply that if the civil power seizes civil goods on the basis of disfavored religious belief, the
result could be civil war (“Who shall be judge between them? I answer: God alone” [JWG, 129]; cf. Second Treatise
2.168, 2.241). Locke also considers cases where a sect deceptively teaches a doctrine that would give its members
civil power over member of another sect.
19
9
�rhetorical thrust of the work suggests that toleration ought to be practiced, most of all, in
society generally, below the level of politics.
Having laid out several fundamental aspects of Locke’s argument, let me ask a few
questions. First, how far does toleration extend? Locke is categorical in extending toleration to
Jews, Muslims, idolaters, and even pagans (41). “No one… should be deprived of his earthly
goods on account of religion, including [those natives of America] who have been subjected to
a Christian prince… if they believe they please God and attain salvation by their ancestral rites,
they should be left to God and themselves” (27). Locke impresses us with his humanity on this
point.
Famously, however, and a little shockingly to modern sensibilities, the Letter implies
that Catholicism should not be tolerated if, by its practical doctrines, it claims to limit the civil
power of the commonwealth, or to assert its own civil power (35).21 Locke does maintain that
there is nothing in the speculative doctrines of Catholicism to merit intolerance (31). This may
be a fitting moment to mention, as you may have recently heard, that our own Greenfield
Library holds a brief, very early document in Locke’s own handwriting, which considers the
advantages and disadvantages of tolerating Catholicism.22
Equally provocative to modern sensibilities is the total intolerance of atheism. “Lastly,
those who deny the existence of the Deity are not to be tolerated at all. Promises, covenants,
and oaths, which are the bonds of human society, can have no hold upon or sanctity for an
atheist; for the taking away of God, even only in thought, dissolves all. Furthermore, a man who
by his atheism undermines and destroys all religion cannot in the name of religion claim the
privilege of toleration for himself” (JWG, 135). Here, too, the argument for intolerance appears
to be based on practical, moral doctrine: atheists do not keep promises or contracts,
21
Locke does not mention Catholicism explicitly when implicating these doctrines. When discussing another
doctrine that was attributed to Catholicism and would preclude its toleration, Locke hypothetically attributes it to
a Turkish Muslim instead (36). The letter seems crafted to leave open the possibility of tolerating Catholics, if those
doctrines were not held. Also: “Is worshipping in the Roman manner permitted? Then permit the Genevan also. Is
speaking Latin allowed in the marketplace? Then allow those who so desire to speak it also in church” (40).
22 Walmsley and Waldmann, “John Locke and the Toleration of Catholics: A New Manuscript,” The Historical
Journal, 2019; http://digitalarchives.sjc.edu/items/show/6528?_ga=2.23967930.1816383851.15666713691602710236.1564332443.
10
�presumably because they do not expect rewards or punishments in the afterlife. Yet the
doctrine for which they are criticized—that God does not exist—is speculative, not practical.
This brings into question Locke’s separation of speculative and practical doctrines: it turns out
not to be true that all speculative doctrines should be tolerated. Locke had said that the
commonwealth has no care of the soul; the intolerance towards atheism appears to contradict
this.23
As we are instinctively inclined to extend toleration further than Locke’s Letter, some
readers have endeavored to rescue Locke from the opprobrium of having been intolerant in
these two cases, and to discover in his various writings a more tolerant attitude to these
groups. I am unable to judge these interpretations. The intolerance of the Letter, however,
suggests that the attempt to articulate with precision the grounds of toleration inevitably leads
to articulating the grounds for intolerance as well. As the indictment of atheism implies, at the
very least, intolerance of whatever kind must itself not be tolerated. Insofar as we, inhabitants
of a liberal democracy, are strongly predisposed in favor of toleration, it is vaguely troubling to
think that, if toleration is not extended without limit, we must finally be resolved, at some
point, contrary to our disposition, to be intolerant.
A second question: is toleration extended exclusively on the basis of political philosophy?
Just as Locke said, “civil power is the same everywhere,” so he also says, “ecclesiastical
authority is the same everywhere”; everywhere it is true that the church “has no competence
in civil matters and no power to compel” (40). The Letter freely extends toleration to Jews, yet
it also notes that, in the Biblical commonwealth of the Israelites, there was no distinction
between church and commonwealth; in that commonwealth, the civil laws dictated religious
ritual and punished idolaters (28). The Biblical commonwealth appears not to meet the criteria
for a “church.” Locke himself argues in favor of tolerating idolaters, and he argues that idolaters
were in fact tolerated in the Biblical commonwealth (30). Toleration evidently depends on the
23
Locke originally said that the civil power is not concerned with “the salvation of the soul” (JWG, 67); later, it is
not the responsibility of the civil power if a citizen “neglects the care of his soul” (17). If “care of the soul” means
exclusively care for salvation, then perhaps it is true that the commonwealth has no care for the “soul”; but if “care
of the soul” includes speculative belief that supports moral rectitude, then it seems the commonwealth does in
fact have care of the soul, in contradiction to the earlier statement. The first interpretation may be correct.
11
�non-enforcement of some laws of the Biblical commonwealth.24 To frame the matter in general
terms: admission to toleration requires that each religion conceive of itself in a way
conformable to Locke’s definition of a church; that is, Locke’s definition of church is in some
measure normative rather than descriptive. The same might be said of Locke’s claim that “the
true… religion consists in the inward persuasion of the mind.” Readers will approach this
question differently: some will say that all churches are conceived to conform to the contours
of Locke’s own church (whatever it may have been), that is, that the ultimate grounds of
toleration are theological rather than philosophical. I would be inclined to say that the specific
conception of a church is designed to attain a pragmatic end, civil peace and prosperity. Either
way, an objectively philosophical derivation of the nature of a church seems wanting.
A third question: what import would this conception of toleration have for our own subpolitical community, “our association of learned persons pursuing philosophy”?25 I turned to
Locke’s account of toleration with the hope of discovering a principle that could explain how
freedom of speech is enjoyed in a small community, without focusing directly on the right to
that speech. And in some measure toleration meets that end: as I said, the practice of
toleration is inherently mutual; it puts the emphasis on what you are willing to hear and
endure, rather than what you are free to say. Toleration requires something hard of us, to
endure heresy with equanimity, to hear speech that contradicts our most dear convictions
about the highest matters.
The doctrine of toleration appears most stable, most defensible, when it focuses on how
the civil power is—by its own nature—limited; that is, it seems that toleration is established
most securely at the level of political society. The activity of religion simply lies beyond the
scope of the state’s coercive power. Yet because we cannot be confident that every religion
would, from its own doctrine, conform to Locke’s specific definition of a “church,” the
argument for toleration below the level of politics, in society more generally, appears to rest on
24
Perhaps Locke thinks that this was the only such regime, and so, an exception easily excluded? “For the
commonwealth of the Jews was very different from others, being based on theocracy” (28). Locke is then at pains
to establish that, once the commonwealth was established, men were not punished for idolatry, that is, idolaters
were tolerated rather than punished by the civil power (30).
25 In addition to the philosophical society, at a lower level, Locke adds, the society “of men-of-leisure seeking
conversation and entertainment” (10).
12
�a moral injunction: toleration is charitable. Yet it likewise cannot be assumed that every religion
eligible for toleration will place the emphasis on charity needed to inspire toleration. In the
absence of charity, perhaps toleration can rest on vaguer notions of “humanity and goodwill,”26
but we would still be lacking a demonstration of “humanity” as a virtue. Personally, I am willing
to accept “humanity” as a reason to be tolerant, and I would recommend toleration to a peer as
a salutary condition for serious conversation, this despite the fact that, so far, I cannot
adequately delineate the scope or the grounds of that toleration.
I turned to Locke’s account of toleration in order to think about free inquiry and free
speech without depending on the right of the individual, but attending more to the
conversational culture where free inquiry occurs. The turn to toleration served those ends
insofar as Locke’s defense of it emphasizes mutual respect and forbearance more than
individual rights. But in the case of Locke, one might be little more than the obverse of the
other: if one person is obligated to tolerate the religion of another, in Locke’s framework of
limited government, doesn’t this imply that the other has a right to the free practice of his
religion as well as a right to public speech about it? So for the last part of this lecture I wanted
to push back further from the range of modern thought, again, in order to think about the
cultivation of free speech within a community of learning.
In antiquity, of course, there was no doctrine of rights—no right of free speech or
freedom of the press—and yet “free speech” is nevertheless a theme for our Greek authors. I
am thinking of the word parrhesia and its cognates. It is a compound word, coming from pan,
meaning “all” or “everything,” and rhesis, a “speech” or “saying.”27 Literally, it could mean, “to
say everything,” or, “to speak completely”; more colloquially, it means “frankness” or
“outspokenness.” An example from the Gorgias might be useful: Socrates credits Callicles with
his, “knowledge, goodwill, and outspokenness,” parrhesia, because he was willing to say openly
26
Humanity and Christianity appear separable: “The magistrate is not obliged to put off either humanity or
Christianity” (JWG, 69).
27 For the general conception of parrhesia, I have drawn on Michel Foucault’s “Discourse and Truth: The
Problematization of Parrhesia,” a transcription of six lectures from 1983
(foucault.info/downloads/discourseandtruth.doc). I have not much attended to the trajectory of Foucault’s own
thinking on the subject which leads to developments of parrhesia in Hellenistic thinking.
13
�what appeared shameful to others.28 And even without a doctrine of civil or natural rights, this
free speech was understood to be the inheritance of equal, free-born citizens in a democracy,
especially in Athens. The one who lacks it is a slave.29
So let me pose a question: where does “free” or “frank speech” fit in among Aristotle’s
account of the virtues of “actions and speeches”? These virtues are found at the end of Book 4
of the Nicomachean Ethics. Let me say a few words about the structure of that book. It
describes eight virtues; and, as many of you have observed, the first four—liberality,
magnificence, greatness of soul, and ambition—form a set. The first two deal with wealth, the
second two with honor; the first and fourth, that is, liberality and ambition, deal with wealth or
honors in moderate measures; the second and third, magnificence and greatness of soul, deal
with wealth and honor in extraordinary measures.30 The third virtue, greatness of soul, forms a
sort of peak among the virtues, both locally and within the Ethics as whole: worthy of great
honors, the great-souled man is the best of men, having complete virtue.31
Aristotle identifies the last three virtues in Book 4—friendliness, truthfulness, and wit—
as the virtues concerning “associations of actions and speeches.” Of these three, the first and
third, friendliness and wit, are sibling virtues: both have to do with pleasure, the first has to do
with pleasure “in the affairs of life”; the third, with pleasure in amusements.32 In between these
two, Aristotle inserts truthfulness—we will have to think about why these three form a set, and
why truth-telling is situated in between the two sibling virtues.
28
Gorgias 487a, also 487d.
Foucault, page 9-10, interpreting The Phoenician Women; on the need to inherit parrhesia, page 19. Gorgias
461a, Socrates to Polus: “you would certainly suffer terrible things, best of men, if you came to Athens, where
there is the most freedom (exousia) to speak in Greece, and then you alone had the misfortune not to get any
there.” Also see the Republic 557b.
30 Aristotle says, magnificence has to liberality the same relation as greatness-of-soul has to the virtue having to do
with moderate honors (4.4.1125b1). This virtue is without a name; it seems to be found in the way one might find
a “fourth proportional” in geometry. I have mostly followed the Rackham translation (Loeb Classical Library,
Harvard University Press, 1926, 1982), although I have also sometimes followed the Sachs translation (Focus
Philosophical Library, 2002) and the Bartlett and Collins translation (University of Chicago Press, 2011).
31 Ethics 1124a24. Thirty years ago I took an extended class on the Nicomachean Ethics with Leon Kass at the
University of Chicago. It is not possible to accurately trace or to properly acknowledge what I owe to him and to
others in the class for my understanding of this book.
32 Ethics 2.7.1108a11; also 4.8.1128b5.
29
14
�The last thing I will say about structure of Book 4 is that the fifth virtue, gentleness,
seems to serve as a transition between the first four—the virtues of wealth and honor—and the
last three, the virtues of “associations in actions and speeches.”
Having sketched the structure of Book 4, I ask: where do we find “free” or “frank
speech” among these virtues? Surprisingly, not among the virtues of “actions and speeches,”
but in the great-souled man. And it is also surprising how much Aristotle has to say about the
great man’s way of talking. Recall that he has wealth and virtue, he seeks great honor and is
worthy of it, and so he is “haughty towards men of position and fortune,” but measured
towards the middling sort. He cares more about truth than opinion; he speaks frankly and
truthfully (parresiastes and aletheutikos). If he did not openly say what he thinks, he would
suggest he was fearful; his outspokenness affirms his greatness and his disdain for others
(4.3.1124b27). With the humble sort of people he refrains from frank speech and, instead, he is
self-deprecating or ironic. In addition to this: he does not talk about other people, he is not a
gossip, for he does not wish to be praised in conversation, nor does he want to speak ill of
others. He has a deep voice and a firm way of speaking (stasimos lexis, 1125a13). He seems to
be not an eager conversationalist, and not likely to tell a joke.
Let’s turn to the so-called virtues of actions and speeches: why does “speaking frankly”
not appear there? After all, the great-souled man is said to be frank and truthful, and one of
three virtues under consideration is truthfulness: How does being truthful get separated off
from speaking frankly?
Of the first two of these virtues, friendliness and truthfulness, Aristotle says they are
nearly about the same things (4.7.1127a13). It is important to digress briefly and note, about
both virtues, that they do not have a name—like all ethical virtues, they are means between
two extremes, two vices, an excess and defect, and the virtues are known only negatively, only
by the absence of the vices. Now, Aristotle does fall into using provisional names for these
virtues, the ones I have been using—friendliness and truthfulness—but it will be important to
remember that they are nameless.
15
�Friendliness is the settled disposition of hitting the mean with respect to giving pleasure
to associates, and not giving them pain. For the reasons I noted, friendliness is seen more
clearly in contrast with its correlative vices: those who object to everything, who don’t care
whether they cause pain, are peevish and contentious (or eristic, duserides, 4.6.1126b15). At
the other extreme, those who never raise an objection, who studiously avoid ever being a cause
of pain to others, are obsequious or flattering.33 Now this virtue, the mean between
contentious and flattering, doesn’t have a name, but Aristotle says this is the sort of person
whom we often call, “a good friend” (epieikes philos, 1126b21); hence, the virtue could be
referred to as “friendliness.”34 The good friend is not someone who is always pleasant; he takes
into consideration what is honorable and what is advantageous; he does not join in what is
shameful or harmful; he will be somewhat unpleasant, or cause pain, when there is cause
(1126b31). In deciding whether to be pleasant or, if needed, unpleasant, he considers whether
the person he is with is a friend, a mere acquaintance, or a stranger, someone high in society or
low. I propose that we think of this “good friend,” the opposite of the flatterer, someone
occasionally willing to give pain in speech, as the replacement for the man of free speech. The
flatterer conceals his thought, or lies, in order to please; in the same circumstances, the good
friend, like a frank speaker, says what he thinks, but gauged to his audience.35
As I said, the virtues of friendliness and truthfulness are closely related, so let us turn to
truthfulness to fill out the picture. Once again, properly speaking, this virtue has no name;
Aristotle introduces only it as “the mean in relation to boastfulness,” a vice; it concerns those
who tell the truth and those who lie, in deeds and in words (4.7.1127a13). Aristotle has in mind
especially speech about oneself: at one extreme, the boaster exaggerates and gives to himself
qualities he does not have; at the other extreme, the ironic person makes himself out to be less
33
When Aristotle first names the vice, he names only obsequiousness (4.6.1126b12); only at the end of the
chapter, does he add the flatterer (kolax), when someone gives pleasure for the sake of gain (1127a10). In English I
believe flattery is often motivated by gain, but need not be, that is, its sense seems broader.
34 In Book 2, when sketching the virtues, Aristotle calls it “friendship,” philia (2.7.1108a28), not “friendliness,” but
in 4.6., he says this virtue is not friendship per se; hence, I am using the word “friendliness” in order to distinguish
the virtue from the relationship. It would be truer to Aristotle’s diction to use “friendship” in both cases, although
also more confusing.
35 Of course, the great-souled man also gages his speech to his interlocutor, either those comparable to him in
greatness, or those below him. The good friend appears to mix with those beneath and above him.
16
�than he is. Boastfulness is most common when one stands to gain something from deceit, and
deceit about one’s ability is hard to detect: Aristotle gives as examples divination, medicine,
and philosophy: boastfulness looks like an occupational hazard.36 He does not fail to remind us,
on the other side, that Socrates was charmingly ironic or self-deprecating.37 This truthfulness,
however, is not simply about oneself: Aristotle explicitly excludes from this virtue telling the
truth or lying about business matters and contracts; these cases would fall under the virtue of
justice instead (4.7.1127a33). Here he is discussing someone who tells the truth, not only about
himself, but when nothing particular is at stake. His speech is direct; he calls each thing by its
name (authekastos, 1127a24). He seems to be “a good” or “equitable person” (toioutos
epieikes) because he is a “truth-lover” (4.7.1127b3, following Bartlett and Collins).
The equitable truth-lover and the “good friend” form a reciprocal pair: one tells the
truth about all things, but especially about himself, and the other is generally pleasant, but tells
the truth to a friend even when it may sting. Or more likely, in a sound pairing, each person
plays each role, as needed. The condescending frankness of the great-souled man is replaced by
something equally truthful, but more equitable. They are lovers of truth, wary of false
appearances, but their truthfulness is not intended to communicate anything august about
their status.
Let us quickly consider the two virtues surrounding friendliness and truthfulness:
gentleness before and wit after. As I said before, gentleness marks the transition from the high
virtues of greatness of soul and magnificence to the virtues of action and speech. Gentleness
(praotês) is the disposition of feeling anger in the right measure and in right way. 38 The gentle
person is not quick to anger, nor does he dwell on his anger; he is not inclined to revenge, and
he is more likely to forgive (4.5.1125b31-1126a3). He is thoughtful or considerate about those
36
Ethics 4.7.1127b18. To be accurate, Aristotle says a “wise man” (sophos) not “philosopher.”
Aristotle notes that the Spartans are self-deprecating in a way that, paradoxically, turns out to be boastful;
perhaps this too is a danger for students of philosophy (e.g., Diogenes).
38 Here, too, Aristotle says that the virtue does not have a name, although, unlike in the earlier cases, he refers to
the virtue by the name he has given it (“gentleness”) from the beginning of his discussion of it (4.5.1125b26).
37
17
�around him,39 but in a way that is dispassionate rather than sentimental. He becomes angry
when there is cause, for someone who never becomes angry, who is not ready to defend
himself, is base or vile (4.5.1126a6).40 Gentleness is thus a virtue fitting for a free and equal
citizen; the ruler, by contrast, is likely to err a little on the side of too much anger; such rulers,
Aristotle says, are called “manly” (andrôdeis; 4.5.1126b2). The insertion of gentleness lowers
the pitch of the analysis from the great-souled man back to the liberal one, a free person, which
is where Book 4 began. Gentleness also seems to establish the dispassionate environment
where the good friend and the truthteller engage in commerce and conversation.41
The virtues of action and speech are concluded with wit. Wit discovers a “harmonious
way of associating with people—[the] sorts of things one ought to say, and a way of saying
them,” as well as the way of hearing them.42 Often jokers—buffoons—are called “witty,” but
true wit is distinguished by the addition of tact. The buffoon, over eager for a laugh, is oblivious
to the shame or pain caused by his jest; he resembles the contentious person, who, insensible
to the offense he gives, indulges in raillery and vilification. By contrast, the genuinely witty
person will say and give ear to those things fitting for a “free and good person” (eleutherios and
epieikes).43 Wit accompanied by tact distinguishes the free person from the base, the educated
from the ignorant. Others readers have pointed out that, Aristotle, making a pun, derives the
word “witty” from a word meaning “full of ‘good turns’ or ‘versatile’.”44 Wit puts on display the
graceful movements of character, just as athletics or dance displays the movements of the
body. The playful, well-turned phrase lands on what is base but does not dwell there; it drives
39
Apt to forgive is suggnomonikos; forgiveness is later associated with the minor intellectual virtue of
“consideration” (gnôme, 6.11, see 1143a20). The one who is forgiving is equitable or decent, epieikes. Note the
frequency of epieiekes in these chapters. I refer the reader to an earlier lecture, “Two Good Men in Aristotle’s
Ethics, or Does a Liberal Education Improve One’s Character?” which discusses the differences between two good
men, the virtuous or spoudaios and the decent or epieikes.
40 Aristotle notes that flattery is slavish (4.3.1125a2); it would seem that friendliness, too, befits the free person.
41 The arc of this part of Book 4 is shown by Ronna Burger, Aristotle's Dialogue with Socrates: On the "Nicomachean
Ethics" (University of Chicago Press, 2008), pages 87-89. Burger emphasizes the turn away from the noble in the
last several virtues of Book 4 and the appearance of grace in two of those virtues, self-deprecation and wit
(1128a31-32, 1127b22-24).
42 Ethics 4.8.1128a1, Sachs trans.
43 Ethics 4.8.1128a19. Sachs translates eleutherios, “generous,” pointing back to the first virtue in Book 4, liberality;
Rackham translates it a “gentleman,” as a free and liberal man is still a person of some stature.
44 Ethics, 4.8.1128a10. See R. Burger, page 89: witty, eutrapeloi; full of “good turns,” eutropoi. Bartlett and Collins
suggest “versatile.”
18
�one’s thinking beneath the surface. Wit is frank and open in its own way; it gives voice to things
we would normally be ashamed to say, but it does so with a grace and playfulness distinct from
the frank speech of the great man. In sum, the last four virtues of Book IV collectively transform
the free and frank speech of the great-souled man into something more gentle, nimble,
occasionally vulgar, but nevertheless truthful and revealing.
I would not want to exaggerate the effects of these virtues—we are loitering among the
last of the ethical virtues. We have probably observed or read novels of refined society that is
gentle, witty, and friendly in its conversation, without being illuminating or penetrating. These
virtues seem to establish the conversational milieu in which several intellectual virtues could be
developed, but naturally without guaranteeing their attainment. I have approached this
question from the point of view our attitude or stance entering a conversation, but in
retrospect it may have been wiser to ask what sort of demands participation in an illuminating,
penetrating conversation makes on us. What is required of us if our end is a shared logos that is
open and rigorous? Through my title I meant to consider truthfulness and friendliness (and
toleration as well) as “conversational virtues,” a term we loosely use now and again, but the
phrase “conversational virtues” refers equally or more often to strictly dialectical capacities
that are also required for penetrating discussions.
Finally, I would not want to assume the attainment of even these virtues: for all ethical
virtues, it is all-too-easy to get it wrong, to miss the mark going too far, or falling short. It is easy
to miss the mark, without knowing it: making a joke, I could be much pleased with my wit, only,
without knowing it, to have played the buffoon, and everyone in earshot too polite to say so.
And even when we hit the mean, we may not recognize it—one could respond to an affront
with just the right measure of anger, and nevertheless feel convinced that one has been too
irascible, or too gentle. Still worse, it does not help that several of these virtues do not even
have names—they may be too obscure to give us a clear target to aim at.45 It is quite hard to be
courageous in fact, but the nobility of courage is somehow vivid in our imagination, calling us to
it. The unnamed virtues lack this nobility, and they lack the same clarity in our imagination. The
tenor of Aristotle’s description is analytical rather than exhortative. The account reveals the
45
Again, R. Burger, page 89.
19
�parameters within which we inevitably act and speak, the structure inherent in the various
ways we go wrong. In speaking quite frankly, am I being unpleasant or offending my listener, or
growing too contentious, or making a fool of myself? Or being truthful? If I hold back, if I am
more guarded or self-deprecating, am I being too pliable, or flattering, or morose? Sometimes
we get it wrong, but if our conversation partner is gentle, we may at least expect to be forgiven.
Parrhesia is mentioned at least one more time in the Ethics, much later, in the
discussion of friendship. I have been discussing virtues, of course, and Aristotle clearly
distinguishes the virtue of “being friendly” from the reality of friendship. Someone can be
‘friendly’ to anyone; the friendly person gives pleasure and pain in due measure to all comers,
correctly gaging whether the other is familiar or a stranger, high or low in station. He acts
“friendly” not from the warmth of passion, but simply on the basis of his character. By contrast,
friendship is shared between two or more persons; each must hold the other in some regard
and must feel something for the other (4.6.1126b23). Those who are friendly with one another
might well become friends, even if just friends of utility or pleasure. Much later, in the
discussion of friendship proper, Aristotle considers unequal friendships and equal ones, for
example, what one owes a parent or an elder, as opposed to a brother: “we should pay to all
our [elders] the honor due to their age, by rising when they enter, offering them a seat, and so
on. Towards comrades and brothers on the other hand, we should use frankness of speech and
share all our possessions with them” (1165a30, emphasis added). The frank speech of the greatsouled man, who looks down on others, is eventually displaced by the frank speech of
comrades in friendship. This last kind of free speech, among friends, is what we wish for most
of all, although it will suffice, I hope, to avoid the vices of contentiousness and flattery, and to
practice toleration, however indeterminate its limits and grounds.
20
�
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Speaking Freely and the Conversational Virtue
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Typescript of a lecture delivered on August 23, 2019 by Joseph Macfarland as part of the Formal Lecture Series. First formal lecture of the academic year, previously referred to as the "Dean's Lecture", but now called the "Christopher B. Nelson Lecture".
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Macfarland, Joseph C.
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2019-08-23
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Toleration
Locke, John, 1632-1704. Epistola de tolerantia.
Aristotle. Nicomachean ethics
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Macfarland_Joseph_2019-08-23_Typescript
Christopher B. Nelson Lecture
Deans
Friday night lecture
Tutors
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Our Polity
A lecture given at St. John’s College, Annapolis, MD
Joseph C. Macfarland
August 28, 2020
It customary for the dean’s lecture to do two things: to reflect on our common education, but,
more than this, to do so in a way that aims to exemplify the kind of learning that we undertake
in common, to deepen our understanding of some book or question. The longer I serve as dean,
the less time I find for such learning. So tonight’s lecture will not explore any particular book or
speculative question; instead, I mean to reflect on the nature of our small community, drawing
a little too easily from books we read in common, from many of my colleagues writings (past
and present), and from the ways we sometimes talk about our community, especially in
imaginative terms.
My talk has three parts:
1. Our polity
2. Liberal arts, and
3. The citiless
The first part: Our Polity
In speaking about our community we refer to the “polity.” There is a written document which
defines the parts of our community, its officers and directors, and their powers and
responsibilities; the document is called the “Polity.” But more casually we use the word to refer
to the community as presently embodied, the human beings who collectively make it up.
Parallel to this, a part of our community, the largest part, the student body, has their own
governing document; this is called “the Student Polity,” often “the Polity” for short, and in this
context, the body of all students is sometimes called “the polity.”1
There is a similar ambiguity at the origin of the word, “university.” When the first universities
came into being, the Latin word, universitas, referred to a number of persons joined in any kind
of association, for example, a “university” of barbers or a “university” of carpenters (Haskins,
9). In the middle ages, the students of Bologna, Italy, formed a student union, and in doing so
they coined the word, more or less as we now use it. They formed a union in order to gain
leverage in negotiating the terms of their residence in the city, and the responsibilities of the
1
The student polity is provided for in an article of the Polity per se.
1
�faculty in teaching them. The first “university,” as a student union, excluded faculty; conversely,
the first so-called “university” in Paris was a union of teachers, and excluded students.2
Our union of faculty, students, and staff, is not a “university,” [not a union], but a “polity.” St.
John’s has a charter that goes back to 1784, but it was in the early 1940’s, in the first decade of
the New Program, that a committee of tutors, consulting with the entire faculty, drafted the
first “Polity” as a supplement to the charter (JW Smith 48). The inaugural president,
Stringfellow Barr, asked the faculty, “to investigate thoroughly the type of polity that… would
be appropriately adapted to and coordinated with the aims of the program” (emphasis added).
I wonder if there is any other college in America—or the world—that sought to discover the
correct type of polity to serve its educational ends, or that continues to refer to itself in this
way? As most of you know, the word “polity” is a transliteration—via Latin—of the Greek word
politeia. And politeia is derived from the word polis, or city, a complete, self-sufficient political
community. For Aristotle, at least, the polis exists by nature and, like everything that exists by
nature, it has material and a form. The material of the city is the population, especially the
citizens. Citizens come to be and pass away, immigrate and emigrate, so that the whole
population, the material, is continually flowing. Yet through all this, the city, the polis, somehow
remains the same as itself (Politics 1276b12): it must therefore have a form separate from the
material. The word for the form of the polis is politeia: this is its enduring structure or
arrangement (taxis), a kind of fundamental law (1274b39; 1326a30). Cities come in many
forms, and there are different types of polity: monarchy, oligarchy, democracy, and so on, and
mixed forms as well. Thus, Barr’s question to the faculty: which type of polity is adapted to the
aims of our education?3
Of course, there is an element of foolish affectation in our common use of anglicized Greek
words like this—entirely fitting for a college located in “Annapolis.” 4 If we speak with precision,
the college is not a city; it is not a complete and independent community; it relies in infinite
ways on the political communities within which it is situated; so we cannot have a “polity.” It’s
a metaphor. Someone wishing to speak with precision might say that the college is a not-forprofit business in the service sector. The central function is an exchange of goods: the student
tenders payment for instruction, and instruction concludes with a recognized, valuable
credential. The relationship lasts as long as the terms of the exchange are met: faculty and staff
2
Haskins, 18. The “college” (collegium) was originally a hospice or residence hall.
Of course, one of the six forms of polity is called, simply, a “polity,” and it is a mixed form, a blend of democracy
and oligarchy.
4 Coincidentally, Francis Nicholson, the colonial official who seems to have given the name “Annapolis” to “Anne
Arundel’s Town,” also founded the King William School, predecessor to St. John’s (Murphy, 3, McWilliams, 18-21).
3
2
�are obliged to perform services faithfully, to deliver the product; students are obliged to meet
the conditions necessary to be awarded the degree. As a friendship based on utility, it is only as
durable as the exchange. In referring to the college as a polity, we signal that our community is
not defined by or limited to the activity of exchange. Aristotle says the city is distinguished from
a business in that it nourishes a stronger kind of friendship, one that aims at living well, that
might aim at human excellence (1280b5-1281a8). So there is some truth in our metaphorical
claim to be a polity.
In other ways, too, from the beginning St. John’s has imitated the well-arranged polis. Forgive
me if I take time to say things apparent to many, but it is, I think, an opportune time to repeat
them. The polis is small by nature (1325b33ff.): the good administration of a city requires that
the citizens be acquainted with one another, that they know one’s another’s character
(1326b15); this cannot happen when there are too many. In fact, too large a city cannot be
well-ordered, cannot have good laws, cannot be a polis at all (1326a25). Moreover, there is
greater beauty in what is measured. If the population grows too great, the appropriate remedy
is to send out a colony, to send out citizens who will form their own their own polis, a new
independent entity, with its own form and material, sometimes even destined to eclipse its
parent in beauty or greatness, as Syracuse eclipsed Corinth. And so also the college, smaller
than it is now and wishing to be no larger, established a second campus with the expectation
that more would follow.
Another sign of the best-formed polity is that it attends to the education of everyone on a
common plan (1337a30). In Sparta, famously, all citizens enjoyed the same education; they
shared hardships and trials of all kinds, and meals and conversations as well, aimed at
developing self-control and excellence in war. The end sought was not high, but the fact that
the education was elaborately contrived and common in character distinguished the city from
all others. St. John’s is perhaps most distinctive for its education being in common. Its original
raison d’être was the rejection of the elective system: no electives, no departments, no majors.
In the university, by contrast students differentiate themselves by their major, and within their
majors, by their subfields, and by their electives as well—they project and confirm their
individuality by these choices. Their education is á la carte: everyone sees, discusses, and has a
taste of what others at the table are having. In our small polity, the education is common to
students and tutors alike—despite our widely ranging interests and abilities, we share the same
trials and rewards. There is no one among us with whom you cannot talk about what you are
studying and what you are thinking. The commonness of the enterprise compresses or erases
hierarchical distinctions—there are no ranks in the faculty; and each tutor and student
addresses all others as equals, for in the classroom, “reason is the only recognized authority”
(Statement of the St. John’s Program), and each one of us needs others for our own learning.
3
�The commonness of the education enables the members of the polity to become friends, albeit
in varying degrees. Each achieves some understanding of himself by being reflected in a friend;
this mutual recognition is realized through shared activities of all kinds, high and low: athletics,
dance, singing, or philosophizing (cf. Ethics 1172a3).
The city is by nature, and human beings are political animals by nature, because they possess
speech, logos: our sounds express not merely pleasure and pain, but the beneficial and harmful,
just and unjust, good and bad (Politics 1253a10ff). More than any concrete, true polity, ours is
constituted by this shared logos; it is our principal work. We discuss the pleasurable and the
painful, just and unjust, good and the bad, but for the most part not in the way that citizens talk
about these things. For our principal work is not the rectification of injustice, or the acquisition
of goods, but investigation and understanding of these things. Certainly, as friends of a kind, we
do not tolerate injustice among ourselves, but when we are focused on the execution of justice
rather than its form or idea, we have descended from the higher purpose of our logos in order
to attend to its low but necessary conditions. For our polity, like the city, is grounded on
exercising the human capacity for logos, but about the pleasurable and painful, or the just and
unjust, mostly as they are related to the true and the false [the pair not present in Aristotle’s
list of four, given above].
Finally, the college may resemble a finely-formed ancient polity in being largely indifferent to
the arts and technology, focusing rather on the development of character and abilities. The arts
and technology are always pushing forward, the new cleverly superseding the old, whereas the
laws of a polity, especially the unwritten laws and practices, gain strength with time and are
weakened by change (1269a20). The advance of the arts can bring wealth, but the best city
aims at wealth only as condition for the development of character and mind (1323a39).
Aristotle notes that the pursuit of wealth is often achieved through trade by sea, but with
wealth thus subordinated, the best city stands only close enough to the sea to allow some
trade, but far enough from the sea to deter the citizens from becoming mariners.5
Part Two: Liberal Arts
We sometimes say we study the “liberal arts” or practice “liberal education.” I will not concern
myself with whether “arts” or “education” is the appropriate noun—although it is a good
5
Politics 1327b8. In the best practicable government, the “polity” in the narrow sense, the citizens are largely
farmers (compare 1292b25 with 1298b34). The city in isolation can be happy if it is well-governed (1325a1).
4
�question—I will muse instead on connotations of the adjective, “liberal.”6 One of the first
notable appearances of the phrase, “liberal arts,” is in the works of Cicero, and the root of the
Latin word for “liberal,” liber, is familiar even to us Johnnies from our punning Latin motto,
Facio liberos, et cetera.7 Something is liberal when it is free, or befitting a free-born person. In a
classical polity, free-birth is the lowest and broadest criterion for citizenship; it is the criterion
for citizenship used in a democracy, the rule of the multitude, the rule of the poor. To be “free”
means to be a citizen, to have a share in the polity, not to be ruled tyrannically or
monarchically.8
A liberal art or discipline prepares the citizen for participation in the polity; in the best polities,
education aims at a good life or some human excellence (Pol. 1337a34ff.). A good education
includes arts that are necessary and useful, such as grammar, arithmetic, or gymnastic, but only
if they are not pursued so far that the mind or body becomes impaired or less disposed to
virtue. No art should be pursued to the point that it makes the student less free, more servile.
In this context, opposite of “liberal” or “free” is “base” or “vulgar” (banausos). Cicero
distinguishes the “liberal” arts or trades from “base” ones (sordidus): the base trades include
manual labor, retail, and services providing pleasure [e.g., dance]; those trades requiring
serious thought (prudentia) are liberal, such as medicine, architecture, teaching, and farming. 9
These quasi-aristocratic connotations linger in the English word “liberality,” the virtue
characteristic of a free person. The liberal person may not be wealthy, but he is at least free
from material necessity; he has the capacity to make gifts in a fitting and beautiful way.10 In a
classical polity, to be free, to be a citizen, while broadly shared, is still a mark of distinction, it
separates the free citizens from non-citizens, from slaves or resident aliens. Freedom does not
imply universal equality, but often entails some degree of elevation. It is not uncommon, of
course, for free citizens to elevate themselves precisely by denying this freedom to others: as
the notable freedom of the Spartans was contingent upon on the slavery of the Helots.11
6
See the fine 2015 lecture by Dan Harrel, “The Lost Idea of a Liberal Art.” My own quick sketch: liberal arts are part
of a classical and medieval heritage; liberal education is a modern formulation, and can imply an aversion to the
traditional list of arts. Even Dante, to the seven arts, added physics, metaphysics, and ethics (cf. Convivio).
Furthermore, arts implies that we acquire skills and competencies, and that there are disciplines that we come to
know or master. Education appears to be a way to renounce this focus on skills and competencies in favor of
metastrophic recognition, coming to know that we don’t know.
7 Prior to Cicero, Aristotle refers to the liberal sciences (eluetherai epistemai; Politics 1337b15). It is hard to say
that the phrase or notion has a chronological origin.
8 Cite the Politics on the criterion of citizenship in a democracy; check Cicero, De republica 1.32.48 (cited by Lewis
and Short).
9 De Officiis 1.41.150ff. Compare Politics 1337b4ff.
10 Politics 1338a32: there is a sort of education pursued not as “necessary or useful,” but “liberal and noble”; at
1338b3, “great-souled and free.”
11 Compare Machiavelli’s characterization of stance of the Roman people to those whom they conquered
(Discourses, Book 2), or Montesquieu’s Considerations of the Causes of the Greatness of the Romans.
5
�If it is base for liberal education to be too deeply engaged in the useful or necessary
occupations, it seems to follow that whatever serious disciplines are not in the least necessary
nor useful, and do not serve external ends, but are pursued only for their own sakes, would be
the most free or liberal. Here, of course, the freedom of the liberal art depends less on the
status of the human being who pursues it, and more on the inner character of the art itself.
According to Aristotle, nature seeks not only that we labor (askolein) as we should, but, when
not working, that we use leisure well (1337b30; cf. Klein 165). Insofar as a virtuous action is
done for its own sake, insofar as it attains beauty, liberal education may aim at it. But the
courageous act, even if beautiful in itself, is generally also useful to the city, sometimes
indispensable. The education of the free develops not only one’s character but one’s mind
(1337a38-42), and the activities of the mind, inasmuch as they are for the sake of themselves,
are more free. Geometry and astronomy are liberal arts because they culminate in free
contemplation. In late antiquity, when the liberal arts came to be defined as exactly seven in
number, architecture and medicine were excluded from the list for dealing with mundane
rather than celestial matters.12
The liberal arts under this second understanding pull away from the city and the citizen, away
from the community of the free. Political freedom may be a condition for liberal learning—in
order to study well one needs some leisure—but the liberal arts in this mode do not
reciprocally serve or augment that political freedom. One can certainly imagine a city where the
entire education is designed to foster the very highest activities of the mind—I mean Kallipolis,
of Plato’s Republic—but this effort results in a highly stratified society, a city with very few free
persons in it.13
The “liberal” in “liberal arts” skews in one way to the city—to the community of free persons—
and in another way outside or beyond the city, to the celestial, to speak metaphorically. The
opposing movements are still evident in the way we speak about liberal education today,
although transformed in important ways.
12
Martianus Capella, 346. Cicero’s De oratore is cited as one of the first appearances of the phrase, “liberal arts,”
has artes quibus liberales doctrinae atque ingenuae continerentur (3.32.127). In this dialogue, an interlocutor
points out the incompatibility between having the leisure to pursue these arts, and the employment of rhetoric
amid political responsibilities (3.32.131).
13 And in this city, those who engage in the highest or freest activity, are the least free, being compelled to rule.
Klein: “It is important to see that there is a definite tension between the exigencies of political life and the selfsustained goal of liberal education. This tension is very great” (169). The death of Archimedes makes us see, “the
ultimate incommensurability between this kind of searching and questioning, the basis of all liberal learning, and
the implacable conditions of our existence” (170).
6
�The founders of the New Program were not shy about affirming the importance of liberal
education for citizenship in a democratic republic. On the eve of U.S. intervention in World War
II, Stringfellow Barr wrote that, “colleges like St. John’s,” were established to teach students,
“to practice the liberal arts, to use their intellects, to reflect, to make choices, in order that a
free society might be able to govern itself wisely, freely, and justly, and not fall prey to a
government by force” (Report of the President, May 1941). Self-governance as a nation stands
on the self-governance of the individual, and education in the liberal arts strengthens and
disciplines the powers by which young people come govern themselves.14
This connection between liberal education and free government comes without the ancient,
quasi-aristocratic distinction between the free and the unfree, between the liberal and the
base. According to Scott Buchanan, writing in 1945, in a democratic republic, there is no
division of labor between “higher functions” and lower: “it is an integral part of the American
dream that each man in our society may and must perform the highest functions. These
functions consist in the intelligent free choice of the ends and means of both our common and
individual life. This is a most glorious and most difficult proposition to which we are dedicated.
Among other things it means that each man must have his measure of liberal education…”
(Catalogue 1945).15
I am not the first to note that Barr and Buchanan connect liberal education to free citizenship
more closely than is now common for us.16 They echo the ancients, that education prepares
adults to act virtuously as free citizens—as our motto asserts—but education here does this not
by directly shaping the character of citizens, but by cultivating intellectual freedom. Education
challenges and sharpens the mind, and insofar as the mind is strengthened and disciplined, it
supplies the means by which the individual citizen may choose to act well.17 A liberal arts
14
“We live and enjoy liberty that we may pursue happiness, and the man who penned this triune phrase was
perfectly aware of where that happiness law: in the fullest possible development, and use, of man’s most human
powers, the powers of the intellect.” Cf. Buchanan, “Liberal Education and Politics” (1944): “For various reasons
the European citizen of the republic of learning would not have said that liberal education is for everybody. That is
the great revolutionary American contribution to our knowledge of what the liberal arts are….”
15 Buchanan: “Inner freedom or human liberty is indicated, not primarily civil liberties and economic freedom
about which modern liberalism is concerned. But as all the founding fathers of our institutions have insisted, inner
liberal education is a vital necessity if free men are to maintain and protect their external liberties in a democratic
state” (“In Search of a Liberal College,” 1937, 4.1).
16 Recent versions of the Statement of the Program have tended to be more modest about the connection
between liberal education and democratic citizenship, emphasizing the intervening steps between developing
powers and exercising them in citizenship. The direct work of the college is the “pursuit of fundamental
knowledge,” which entails “awareness” of “social and moral obligations,” and incidentally confers “the means and
will” to become a “free citizen.”
17 “The aim of the liberal arts is the inner freedom that comes from knowledge of the truth, a freedom to match
and justify the freedom that we liberals seek in the outer world” (“In Search of a Liberal College,” 1937, 3.19).
7
�college supports free government only through the medium of its students, and through their
sustained intellectual development.
This emphasis on freedom through intellectual development marks, I believe, a notion of what
it means for an education to be “liberal” that is more at home in a modern democratic republic
than a classical polis. Civil government is now instituted for the purpose of preserving freedoms
enjoyed by its citizens: freedom of speech, of assembly, and of worship. The responsibilities and
powers of civil government are circumscribed: government seeks the safety of the state, and
the security of its citizens and their property; the force of government has no effect on the
minds of citizens; its laws do not touch upon the truth or falsity of opinion; limited government
carves out a free domain for religion and, in doing so, for speculative thinking as well.18
Education at St. John’s may be called “liberal” most of all on account of this intellectual
freedom, one fostered within a modern democratic republic. As is said in the Statement of the
Program, there are only two rules in class: “all opinions must be heard and explored, however
sharply they may clash; [and], every opinion must be supported by argument.” As participants
in the discussion, we are constrained to give reasons for our opinions, and we are constrained
as well by the necessities we encounter within the logos itself, but as the questions we ask
nevertheless often remain open—better defined in the wake of our analysis—we are each free
to pour over the contours of the arguments again privately, to draw our own conclusions, and
to live accordingly.
Our democratic republic provides the conditions for this exercise of intellectual freedom, but, if
Barr and Buchanan are right, our exercise of this intellectual freedom, in turn, serves the
preservation of the republic. Yet despite this reciprocal relationship, the fact that this freedom
is internal, that it has its roots in our hearts and minds, means that the cooperative exercise of
such freedom requires a large measure of detachment from the wider, fortuitous political
circumstances which foster it.
A liberal education eschews utility and specialization; it assumes a detachment from the
constructed world and contemporary polemics. Our direct task is studying and discussing books
that raise persistent questions about the greatest themes in human experience, books that
have stood the test of time and have elicited various alternative, coherent interpretations.19 It
18
Locke in the Letter Concerning Toleration: “It is light that is needed to change a belief in the mind; punishment of
the body does not lend light” (8). Note Buchanan: “The individual citizen of this secular republic, as pupil, teacher,
or official, as well as the universities and schools, enjoyed this same liberties and immunities from the political
state that the church enjoyed. Freedom of thought and freedom of religion have this common history” (“Liberal
Education and Politics,” 397, in 1944).
19 Cf. J. Winfree Smith, 24; Buchanan, 1945 Catalogue.
8
�takes a sustained effort to read such books well, and through this effort to grasp the arguments,
to be transported in thought, to pose these questions for ourselves, and to pursue them
wherever they lead. Such questions shake our assumptions and cause us to see what is familiar
and gaze upon it now, as if, for the first time; we become detached, disoriented, turned around
(Klein 162). The experience of detachment is the cost of thinking deeply and well.
Penetrating inquiry requires the greatest freedom from contemporary common opinions; they
require that one not just “entertain,” but hear and methodically think through seeming
nonsense and heresies. To comprehend what a number is, one has to take seriously the
thought that the square-root-of-two is not a number, or that one is not a number; or to think
clearly about the cosmos, one has to take seriously the thought, confirmed, after all, by all the
appearances, that the ground beneath my feet is motionless. And it is no different in the
religion, ethics, or politics: to think thorough what justice is, one has to take seriously the
argument that the best regime is the kingship of the wise and the subjection of the unwise. It is
natural to feel a rush of derision, as you read how the heavens revolve about the earth, or to
feel a shudder at the argument that inequality is natural. If, despite your prior opinions, you felt
nothing as you contemplated these jarring thoughts, you would not be taking them seriously;
following the argument would be reduced to a verbal game of maneuver. But we also suspend
these felt responses, lest they prematurely tether our thinking.
Is freedom simply the end? Perhaps not. We are also lovers of wisdom—let it be very briefly
supposed that, if wisdom were achieved, and opinion were replaced by knowledge, then
everything one thinks would be constrained by necessity, and freedom might be reduced to
actively thinking what is true. But as lovers of wisdom, and so lacking it, the range and nature of
freedom itself remains one of our persisting questions, and provisionally, at least, a more ample
notion of freedom is sufficient to animate our community.
As a tiny community of learning, we embrace the ethos of a Greek polity: small, intimate,
sharing a way of life with long established, unwritten laws, nourishing a kind of friendship, and
ambitiously aimed at human excellence. But this tiny community is not a city in fact. We
embrace the shared ethos of a Greek polity for the sake of an intellectual freedom that was
unknown to those polities, one native to our present democratic republic. We speak with one
another frankly, freely, for the sake of following the argument wherever it leads—as modern
free thinkers—but, as citizens of our tiny polity, we do so as friends, tactfully, generously,
gently, neither expressing nor provoking anger.20 We suspend—or at least mute—our private
religious and political commitments, in order to take our place in a community whose activity
20
Drawing on my lecture from 2019, “Speaking Freely and the Conversational Virtues.”
9
�and end is conversation that questions, challenges, and deepens those individual thoughts and
commitments.
Part Three: Citiless
A “campus” is a field. For centuries, colleges were not campuses, not fields, but walled cloisters.
Students were kept in; the public was kept out (Delbanco, 38). Students were sequestered for
the quiet, long work of study. Extra-curricular activities were intra-mural, literally, “within the
walls.” The oldest continually existing college, the College of Spain (1364), at the oldest
university in Bologna, Italy, was designed as a refuge for international students, the ultramontani. At St. John’s, of course, we have no walls—unlike our neighbors across the street.
Students do, however, often speak of another barrier surrounding us: the “Johnnie Bubble.” It
is transparent, difficult to discern, and so difficult to penetrate; higher than any wall. When I
hear it referred to, it’s with a measure of satire, and a pinch of unease. There’s no gate, no
porter keeping us in, but one may bristle a little at the thought of not being able to get out.
The bubble is an indirect consequence of deliberate choices: we choose to inhabit a small polity
that enables our common way of life, although it can get claustrophobic; and we deliberately
cultivate a degree of detachment from the world of human action. To read long and well is
already to become a little “lost in thought” (cf. Zena Hitz); we lose ourselves in books whose
original era and worldly stance is generally foreign to our own. One in every five St. John’s
students hails from another nation; the nation in which the college is located is not their own;
insofar as we lose ourselves in the books and in the arguments that we spin out of them, we are
all resident aliens, for a time more present to one another and more present to the voices of
our authors than to the active world. For the sake of conversing with one another and with our
distant authors, we are temporary exiles from the public world of political activity; for a time,
we are citiless.
It is this quality of being citiless, detached and immersed in the arguments, that keeps us one
“college” in two disparate locations. Campus cultures and extracurricular activities differ; the
books on the reading lists vary; but in our central work, as liberal artists, we are much the same,
as if the location is not essential. In some degree, the same might be said of all the alumni who,
in their busy lives, continue to put a high value on the reading and thinking they did here and
continue to do. Detached from the world, searching in thought for what endures, the cloistered
10
�becomes somewhat other-worldly, so that while the cloister contracts one’s community
materially, it surprisingly also expands it.21
At the college we have actively cultivated this detachment. Decades ago, according to lore, the
faculty discussed whether it was wise for the coffee shop to have a newspaper box. It sounds
comical now that each of us carries in our pockets more news than we can read. The intention
was serious: could heightened concern for the news of the day, the active world, distract us
from our shared work, the study of venerable books and persisting questions? The skirmish was
reignited about a decade ago, as inevitably happens, when considering whether wifi should be
installed around campus: by limiting wireless connectivity, many tutors sought to make it easier
for us put away our devices and converse, face-to-face, in person, over a book. The skirmish
was won, but the war was not, as the Johnnie Bubble does not repel electromagnetic waves.
A bubble, of course, is fragile; it can vanish in a moment. But we would not, on the other hand,
wish the barrier to be too sturdy: a bubble may serve us better than a wall. As the Statement of
the Program says, the books, “illuminate the persisting questions of human existence and…
bear directly on the problems we face today.”22 We would not devote the time and effort to
reading the books if they did not provoke and deepen our thinking about our present lives.23 If
our shared conversations were perfectly separated from our private, lived concerns, it would
imply an analogous complete separation of theoretical and practical wisdom. It would imply
that the question, what can I know?, is entirely separate from, what must I do? It is difficult to
reach clarity about exactly how much detachment is salutary for our inquiries because the
relationship between theoretical wisdom and practical wisdom is itself one of the persisting
questions that occupy us. It would be destructive of our inquiries to assume that “every frame
of thought is an ideology,” that every speculative question is nothing but a practical question in
disguise.24 But neither would we want to erase the practical import of our speculative
inquiries—we hold it in abeyance, rather, to preserve the freedom and the rigor of our
thinking—and then let it back in, when we are better informed. As conversation partners, we
live as if citiless, as if aliens, for so long as necessary to think well and follow the argument
freely.
21
I have in mind Arendt, The Human Condition 2.7.53.
The Statement continues: “They express most originally, and often most perfectly, the ideas by which
contemporary life is knowingly or unknowingly governed. Their authors can speak to us almost as freshly as when
they spoke for the first time, for what they have to tell us is not of merely academic concern, nor is it remote from
our true interests.”
23 The books “change our minds, move our hearts, and touch our spirits.”
24 Eva Brann: “It is the fashion now to claim that all is politics, and that every frame of thought is an ideology. From
this claim it follows that theory and practice are nearly indistinguishable, since every theoretical proposition is also
a political ploy.”
22
11
�This is all less dramatic than I make it sound. True, if humans were political by nature, then
someone without a city would not be human at all, he would be beneath politics or above it, a
beast or god (1253a25). But I have argued that the college has its fitting home in a democratic
republic, in which the scope of government is fundamentally limited. And as it carves out a
domain of freedom for its inhabitants, we are assured a limited domain within which we can be
citiless.25
There is a second way in which we are now citiless, by which I mean, of course, that I am here,
alone, in the King William Room, and you are watching me from your home. Just as formerly St.
John’s-Annapolis and St. John’s-Santa Fe formed a single college, now all of us Annapolitans,
still much more dispersed are trying similarly to remain one college. When the lecture ends
(soon), we will not mingle, shoulder-to-shoulder in the FSK Lobby, a cup of coffee in hand, and
gossip about last night’s seminar, or the lecture, or incidental pastimes, as the buzz of mingled
voices in the background reminds us that we are citizens of an incessantly talking polity.
Instead, you will close the browser window, the same way you exit Facebook or Netflix.
While we have always detached ourselves from the world in order to engage in serious study
and conversation, this detachment did not mean removing ourselves to ours homes, the private
place where we provide for and satisfy bodily necessities. As members of the college, our
detachment used to mean retiring to our metaphorical polity, where our lives remain public,
where we venture our thoughts and questions in one another’s presence, to be heard and
responded to. Instead, most of us are now “working from home,” trying to carry on our public
lives from a private place, which does not serve either very well. You appreciated the irony of
the story of the faculty discussion about whether to install wifi on campus: not a decade after
worrying about whether it would too easy to lose oneself in a screen, we have been furiously
upgrading the wifi and making infinite other technological preparations—never quite
adequate—so that we can converse only through screens.
Early in the summer, a colleague drew an analogy between the predicament of the college
in the face of the pandemic, and Athens before the onslaught of the Persians. The analogy
was hyperbole, of course, but instructive, and a hyperbole I will embrace for this reason.
The course he recommended was the course we only belatedly followed: that we abandon
the city and take to the ships; that we rebuild our city when the perilous threat has
25
If the modern democratic republic is originally designed to tolerate multiple religions, then each person is
permitted to be both a citizen of the republic and a citizen of the city of God, in whatever form of it he believes in.
Religious toleration creates the conditions for multiple, coexisting, extra-political societies; those societies may be
essential to the well-being of the republic.
12
�receded; that “we are Athens, wherever we are, in the Agora, on our ships, or on Zoom.”
The decision was a vexed one; in retrospect, the counsel seems wise.
When the Athenians had fled Athens and yielded the sacred ground to the Persians—the
Acropolis in flames—the Athenian general Themistocles sought to persuade the other
Greeks—Spartans and Corinthians—to keep their ships nearby, so that they could fight the
Persians at sea. A Corinthian responded that Themistocles was a “citiless man,” aner apolis,
and so he had no right to speak: losing one’s city means losing one’s voice in counsel.26
Themistocles’ famous reply: “True, wretch, we have left behind our houses and our city
walls, for it is not worth being enslaved for the sake of lifeless things, but we still have a
city, the greatest in Hellas, our two hundred triremes.”27 At first Themistocles appears to
say that the Athenians in their ships, without fixed harbor or home, alone constitute the
city—he does subsequently relax the claim to say that, by means of such a navy, they can
conquer or establish a new fixed home. So, at St. John’s we, too, have taken to the ships—
to Zoom and YouTube—and even here, if we read long and well, ask questions freely, and
publicly venture our thoughts before the faces of our friends, we can continue to do our
distinctive work, continue to be the finest college of liberal learning.
There is another side to the story, however: as Plato and Plutarch observed later, taking to
the ships transformed Athenian political culture. Themistocles turned the Athenians from
typical “steadfast hoplites” into “sea-tossed mariners,” from honorable warriors and farmers
into lowly rowers.28 A change in the dominant technology accelerated changes in the character
of the people. The qualities required for success shifted from steadiness and courage to
quickness, cleverness, and duplicitous maneuver. Recall Artemisia at the battle, an Ionian
fighting with the Persians: when pursued by the Athenians, she had her ship ram an allied
Persian ship, in order to deceive the pursuing Athenians into thinking she was on their side. And
prior to the battle, the very mobility of the fleet, floating on the water, gave each of the Greek
admirals a strong incentive to stealthily withdraw rather than engage, to seek safety rather
than risk an outcome here and now.
Themistocles’ wisdom liberated Athens, indeed, liberated all Greece. But by means of this
newly-recognized power, he contrived not merely to free Athens from the Persians, but to erect
26
Herodotus 8.61, cf. 7.104 (about Demaratus, a Spartan exile). Citiless is clearly an insult here. Compare Politics
1253a3.
27 Plutarch, trans. Perrin, 35; trans. slightly modified.
28 Plutarch, 13, explicitly citing Plato’s Laws. To be fair, Athens as a city of merchants and mariners is evident
already in the social strife described in Plutarch’s life of Solon: perhaps Themistocles (and the Persians) only
accelerated Athens’ development.
13
�a new empire over others, Persians and Greeks (Plutarch 55-57). Taking to the ships opened up
new avenues for Athenian ambition, and ultimately stimulated an unsustainable longing for far
off places. Themistocles himself was pulled back from his ambitious design by more measured
comrades, yet nevertheless his design forecast the future of the city, for better and for worse.
At the critical moment, it is true that the Athenians took to their ships and abandoned their
city-walls and their temples, but they did not go far, a few miles only to Salamis and then, in the
straights of Salamis, even upon the yielding water, they “stood their ground” behind a wall of
wood, in order to reclaim their polis—citiless no more.29
29
Themistocles urges Eurybiades to stand his ground (Herodotus 8.62); Themistocles tells Aristides that the Greeks
(in their ships) were unwilling to stand and fight (8.80), so they had to be compelled to do so, by inducing the
Persians to enclose their position. Of course, Aristides, exemplary for his moderation, and no mariner, joined the
clash of fleets by standing his ground on a small island in the middle of the battle (8.95).
14
�Sources referenced
Arendt, Hannah. The Human Condition. University of Chicago Press, 1958.
Aristotle. The Politics. Tran. H. Rackam. Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1932, 1990.
Aristotle. The Nicomachean Ethics. Tran. H. Rackam. Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press,
1926, 1982.
Brann, Eva. “A Manifesto for Liberal Education.” The Imaginative Conservative (online). March
27, 2015.
Buchanan, Scott M. “In search of a liberal college : A program for the recovery of the classics
and the liberal arts” [manuscript]. 1937.
Buchanan, Scott M. “Liberal Education and Politics.” American Scholar (1944): 396-398.
Cicero. De Officiis. Trans. Walter Miller. Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1913, 1997.
Cicero. De Oratore. Trans. E.W. Sutton and H. Rackham. Cambridge, MA: Harvard University
Press, 1942.
Delbanco, Andrew. College: What It Was, Is, and Should Be. Princeton University Press, 2012.
Harrell, Daniel. “The Lost Idea of a Liberal Art.” SJC Digital Archives, given July 8, 2015.
Haskins, Charles Homer. The Rise of the Universities. New York: Henry Hold and Company, 1923;
Cornell University Press, 1957.
Herodotus. The Histories. Trans. David Grene. University of Chicago Press, 1987.
Klein, Jacob. Lectures and Essays. Annapolis, MD: St. John’s College Press, 1985.
Locke, John. Locke on Toleration. Ed. Richard Vernon. Cambridge University Press, 2010.
Martianus Capella. Martianus Capella and the Seven Liberal Arts. Trans. William Harris Stahl and
Richard Johnson. Vol. 2. New York: Columbia University Press, 1977.
McWilliams, Jane Wilson. Annapolis, city on the Severn: a history. Baltimore: The Johns Hopkins
University Press, 2011.
Murphy, Emily. “A Complete and Generous Education”: 300 Years of Liberal Arts. Annapolis,
MD: St. John’s College Press, 1996.
15
�Plutarch. Lives: Themistocles and Camillus, etc. Trans. Bernadotte Perrin. 1928, 2001.
Smith, J. Winfree. A Search for the Liberal College: The Beginning of the St. John’s Program.
Annapolis: St. John’s College Press, 1983.
16
�
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Items in this collection are part of a series of lectures given every year at St. John's College. During the Fall and Spring semesters, lectures are given on Friday nights. Items include audio and video recordings and typescripts.<br /><br />For more information, and for a schedule of upcoming lectures, please visit the <strong><a href="http://www.sjc.edu/programs-and-events/annapolis/formal-lecture-series/" target="_blank" rel="noreferrer noopener">St. John's College website</a></strong>. <br /><br />Click on <strong><a title="Formal Lecture Series" href="http://digitalarchives.sjc.edu/items/browse?collection=5">Items in the St. John's College Formal Lecture Series—Annapolis Collection</a></strong> to view and sort all items in the collection.<br /><br />A growing number of lecture recordings are also available on the St. John's College (Annapolis) Lectures podcast. Visit <a href="https://anchor.fm/greenfieldlibrary" title="Anchor.fm">Anchor.fm</a>, <a href="https://podcasts.apple.com/us/podcast/st-johns-college-annapolis-lectures/id1695157772">Apple Podcasts</a>, <a href="https://podcasts.google.com/feed/aHR0cHM6Ly9hbmNob3IuZm0vcy84Yzk5MzdhYy9wb2RjYXN0L3Jzcw" title="Google Podcasts">Google Podcasts</a>, or <a href="https://open.spotify.com/show/6GDsIRqC8SWZ28AY72BsYM?si=f2ecfa9e247a456f" title="Spotify">Spotify</a> to listen and subscribe.
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St. John's College Formal Lecture Series—Annapolis
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formallectureseriesannapolis
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16 pages
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Our Polity
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Typescript of a lecture delivered on August 28, 2020 by Joseph Macfarland as part of the Formal Lecture Series. First formal lecture of the academic year, previously referred to as the "Dean's Lecture", but now called the "Christopher B. Nelson Lecture".
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Macfarland, Joseph C.
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St. John's College
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Annapolis, MD
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2020-08-28
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A signed permission form has been received stating: "I hereby grant St. John's College permission to: Make an audiovisual recording of my lecture, and retain copies for circulation and archival preservation in the St. John's College Greenfield Library. Make an audiovisual recording of my lecture available online. Make a typescript copy of my lecture available for circulation and archival preservation in the St. John's College Greenfield Library. Make a typescript of my lecture available online."
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text
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pdf
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Student-administrator relationships
Polis (The Greek word)
Education, Humanistic
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English
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Macfarland_Joseph_2020-08-28_Typescript
Christopher B. Nelson Lecture
Deans
Friday night lecture
Tutors
-
https://s3.us-east-1.amazonaws.com/sjcdigitalarchives/original/b7b105abbc76a64470bdfac7044ead6b.mp3
23f3d2fccc9ca91b0d6e17303be8dd6f
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St. John's College Lecture Recordings—Santa Fe
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St. John's College Meem Library
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Santa Fe, NM
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wav
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01:15:22
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"The greatest thing in the world is to know how to belong to oneself" : Reflecting with Montaigne on liberation of the intellect and education in times of crisis
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Audio recording of a lecture given by J. Walter Sterling on September 11, 2020 as part of the Dean's Lecture and Concert Series. Dean Sterling provided this description of his lecture: "The lecture will blend reflections on education in times of crisis, including a discussion of the founding of the St. John’s Program, with an examination of Montaigne’s understanding of education and its ends. Montaigne, who lived through plague and civil war, is one of the few authors who can stake a claim to have forged the modern individual. His response to the crises of his times was to cultivate a new literary form, the 'essay,' devoted to a new topic, 'myself,' and to send out a renewed or radicalized call for freedom of thought, independent judgment, and self-possession."
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Sterling, J. Walter
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St. John's College
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Santa Fe, NM
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2020-09-11
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Montaigne, Michel de, 1533-1592
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SF_SterlingW_Reflecting_with_Montaigne_on_Liberation_of_the_Intellect_and Education_in_Times_of_Crisis_2020-09-11.mp3
Deans
Friday night lecture
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https://s3.us-east-1.amazonaws.com/sjcdigitalarchives/original/ea0224501ba2d0795847c24af1193597.mp3
d091ce51dc23419988871a3502539734
Dublin Core
The Dublin Core metadata element set is common to all Omeka records, including items, files, and collections. For more information see, http://dublincore.org/documents/dces/.
Title
A name given to the resource
St. John's College Lecture Recordings—Santa Fe
Contributor
An entity responsible for making contributions to the resource
St. John's College Meem Library
Coverage
The spatial or temporal topic of the resource, the spatial applicability of the resource, or the jurisdiction under which the resource is relevant
Santa Fe, NM
Sound
A resource primarily intended to be heard. Examples include a music playback file format, an audio compact disc, and recorded speech or sounds.
Original Format
The type of object, such as painting, sculpture, paper, photo, and additional data
wav
Duration
Length of time involved (seconds, minutes, hours, days, class periods, etc.)
00:59:20
Dublin Core
The Dublin Core metadata element set is common to all Omeka records, including items, files, and collections. For more information see, http://dublincore.org/documents/dces/.
Title
A name given to the resource
Something before her time delivered : wonder, grace, and time's creation in The winter's tale
Description
An account of the resource
Audio recording of a lecture given on August 30, 2019 by J. Walter Sterling as part of the Dean's Lecture and Concert Series.
Creator
An entity primarily responsible for making the resource
Sterling, J. Walter
Publisher
An entity responsible for making the resource available
St. John's College
Coverage
The spatial or temporal topic of the resource, the spatial applicability of the resource, or the jurisdiction under which the resource is relevant
Santa Fe, NM
Date
A point or period of time associated with an event in the lifecycle of the resource
2019-08-30
Rights
Information about rights held in and over the resource
Meem Library has been given permission to make this item available online.
Type
The nature or genre of the resource
sound
Format
The file format, physical medium, or dimensions of the resource
mp3
Subject
The topic of the resource
Shakespeare, William, 1564-1616. Winter's tale
Language
A language of the resource
English
Identifier
An unambiguous reference to the resource within a given context
SF_SterlingW_Something_Before_Her_Time_Delivered_2019-08-30
Deans
Friday night lecture
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https://s3.us-east-1.amazonaws.com/sjcdigitalarchives/original/300e06d23ecf6c56dc40320ad224a634.pdf
a9935cc64a5610128e58a07878947dbd
Dublin Core
The Dublin Core metadata element set is common to all Omeka records, including items, files, and collections. For more information see, http://dublincore.org/documents/dces/.
Title
A name given to the resource
The Bulletin
Contributor
An entity responsible for making contributions to the resource
St. John's College Greenfield Library
Description
An account of the resource
<em>The Bulletin</em> was published quarterly by St. John's College from 1932 to 1968. It was distributed to alumni, faculty, and staff. Some issues include Reports of the Presidents and Dean's Statements.<br /><br />The publication was continued by <a href="https://digitalarchives.sjc.edu/collections/show/12" title="The College (1969-1981)"><em>The College</em> (1969-1981)</a>.<br /><br />Click on <strong><a title="The Bulletin" href="http://digitalarchives.sjc.edu/items/browse?collection=37&sort_field=Dublin+Core%2CDate&sort_dir=d">Items in The Bulletin Collection</a></strong> to view and sort all items in the collection.
Text
A resource consisting primarily of words for reading. Examples include books, letters, dissertations, poems, newspapers, articles, archives of mailing lists. Note that facsimiles or images of texts are still of the genre Text.
Original Format
The type of object, such as painting, sculpture, paper, photo, and additional data
paper
Page numeration
Number of pages in the original item.
22 pages
Dublin Core
The Dublin Core metadata element set is common to all Omeka records, including items, files, and collections. For more information see, http://dublincore.org/documents/dces/.
Title
A name given to the resource
Supplement to the Bulletin, July 1937, The New Program at St. John's College in Annapolis
Description
An account of the resource
Supplement to the Bulletin, entitled "The New Program at St. John's College in Annapolis". Published in July 1937.
Creator
An entity primarily responsible for making the resource
St. John's College
Publisher
An entity responsible for making the resource available
St. John's College
Coverage
The spatial or temporal topic of the resource, the spatial applicability of the resource, or the jurisdiction under which the resource is relevant
Annapolis, MD
Date
A point or period of time associated with an event in the lifecycle of the resource
1937-07
Rights
Information about rights held in and over the resource
St. John's College owns the rights to this publication.
Type
The nature or genre of the resource
text
Format
The file format, physical medium, or dimensions of the resource
pdf
Language
A language of the resource
English
Identifier
An unambiguous reference to the resource within a given context
Bulletin_Supplement_1937_July
Deans
Presidents
Tutors
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https://s3.us-east-1.amazonaws.com/sjcdigitalarchives/original/1c0346148cb49eb3f4e4b16e6662dfb2.mp4
20c3977bd20226690a1dbf2ee47418f1
Dublin Core
The Dublin Core metadata element set is common to all Omeka records, including items, files, and collections. For more information see, http://dublincore.org/documents/dces/.
Title
A name given to the resource
SJC Films
Contributor
An entity responsible for making contributions to the resource
St. John's College Greenfield Library
Moving Image
A series of visual representations imparting an impression of motion when shown in succession. Examples include animations, movies, television programs, videos, zoetropes, or visual output from a simulation.
Original Format
The type of object, such as painting, sculpture, paper, photo, and additional data
16 mm film
Duration
Length of time involved (seconds, minutes, hours, days, class periods, etc.)
00:34:13
Producer
Name (or names) of the person who produced the video
Fordel Films, Inc.
Director
Name (or names) of the person who produced the video
Barnes, John
Dublin Core
The Dublin Core metadata element set is common to all Omeka records, including items, files, and collections. For more information see, http://dublincore.org/documents/dces/.
Title
A name given to the resource
St. John's College
Description
An account of the resource
Film entitled "St. John's College" produced by Fordel Films in 1962. Originally distributed as marketing material, and describes the program and campus.
Creator
An entity primarily responsible for making the resource
Barnes, John (Director)
Publisher
An entity responsible for making the resource available
Fordel Films, Inc.
Coverage
The spatial or temporal topic of the resource, the spatial applicability of the resource, or the jurisdiction under which the resource is relevant
Annapolis, MD
Date
A point or period of time associated with an event in the lifecycle of the resource
1962
Rights
Information about rights held in and over the resource
St. John's College owns the rights to this film.
Type
The nature or genre of the resource
moving image
Format
The file format, physical medium, or dimensions of the resource
mp4
Contributor
An entity responsible for making contributions to the resource
Livesey, Michael (Photographed by)
Johnson, Robert (Edited by)
Gunst, Dennis (Recorded by)
Fisher, Sandy (Music Recorded by)
Allanbrook, Douglas (Composer)
Gilbert, David (Flutist)
Barnes, John (Written and Directed by)
Brann, Eva T. H.
Zuckerkandl, Victor
Bart, Robert
Darkey, William A.
Klein, Jacob
Weigle, Richard Daniel, 1912-
Relation
A related resource
<a title="Original Uncompressed File" href="https://s3.amazonaws.com/sjcdigitalarchives/original/VTS_01_1.VOB">Original Uncompressed File</a>
Language
A language of the resource
English
Identifier
An unambiguous reference to the resource within a given context
'St. John's College' film, 1962 Compressed
Subject
The topic of the resource
St. John's College (Annapolis, Md.). History.
Alumni
Deans
Presidents
Tutors
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