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APA Newsletters
Spring 2000
Volume 99, Number 2


Newsletter on Teaching Philosophy

Article

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Why Teach Plato, et al.?

William Evans
St. Peter's College

In a recent book, Martha Nussbaum argues for the central place of philosophy in a liberal arts curriculum on the grounds that it promotes critical thinking. She construes critical thinking as the ability to analyze, evaluate, and construct arguments, which enables one to question and justify one’s own beliefs and those of others, and thus to think for oneself and make one’s beliefs one’s own. Her paradigm is Socratic examination. Such examination is indispensable to cultivate our humanity. She links the content of philosophy courses with her goal because the goal is not likely to be well met without teaching Plato et al.1

Nussbaum’s view of the goal of teaching philosophy is widespread among philosophers. In this paper I offer a redescription of this goal, for two reasons: to preserve the connection between the content of the course (what Plato et al. said) and its goal, and to embed critical thinking skills in a broader, more inclusive goal.

I want to begin with an example of course content in philosophy. Philosophers, notoriously, doubt many things. Doubt, or skepticism, looms large in philosophers as diverse as Socrates, Descartes, Hume, Nietzsche, and James. There may be no model of doubt that fits all of them, for what single model would fit Socrates’s doubts about what the Oracle of Delphi said about him or about his fellow Athenians’ claims to wisdom about human virtue, Descartes’s hyperbolical doubts, and Hume’s doubts about the power of the human mind to answer ultimate questions? Yet doubt, in some guise, is something that we should want students to learn. They should learn when to doubt and when not to doubt; good and bad reasons for doubt; the difference between denying a thesis and merely criticizing an argument; the difference between Socratic doubt and Cartesian doubt. Amidst this variety there is a common thread students should grasp: doubt admits of extremes—doubting virtually everything, thus criticizing without understanding, and doubting virtually nothing, thus becoming credulous (or perhaps bored). Neither extreme appreciates the appropriate occasions for doubt. In short, I submit that doubt is an example of one of the intellectual virtues that students ought to learn.

The intellectual virtues comprise at least the following: determining relevance in a philosophical discussion; distinguishing between different sorts of questions, and the different sorts of answers called for; assenting to or dissenting from ideas in graduated, not absolute, terms; fairness in evaluating the arguments of others; the ability, or willingness, to submit to criticism and refutation; curiosity, or the desire to learn, including the ability to admit that one does not know, which is akin to humility; intellectual courage, the willingness to examine unpopular ideas and persevere in the face of opposition (until one has been shown to be wrong); and intellectual honesty, including the ability to admit that one is wrong.2 These virtues should be construed as forming a unity, if not in the strong sense of unity suggested by Socrates in the Protagoras, then at least in a weaker sense one can glean from Aristotle’s ethics: you can’t have one without having all the others. For example, if you lack intellectual honesty, then it is unlikely that you will submit to deserved refutation or criticism, or admit that you are wrong or simply do not know—or if you do, you will be like Thrasymachus in Book I of the Republic, merely acting, and thus dishonest. (Thrasymachus, at least, seems to have known he was insincere in his pretense.) The intellectual virtues are also intimately connected with moral virtue. Intellectual honesty, for example, is not to be distinguished in kind from moral honesty, and learning to submit to criticism and refutation involves respecting another person as an equal in dialogue. These intellectual virtues, then, are what I claim is the proper goal of teaching philosophy.

There is, however, a problem with seeing this as our goal: we have no expertise in the intellectual virtues because there are no such experts. We rightly claim expertise of various sorts because we have studied the classical and contemporary texts, and the interpretations and criticisms that make teaching philosophy a matter of expertise. We can assign exam questions and paper topics, about which there are right and wrong, and better and worse, answers. But intellectual virtue is not a matter of expertise. For example, learning the appropriate occasions for doubt is not simply a matter of learning the arguments of philosophers and their interpreters, including teachers of philosophy courses. Are we, who have the expertise to teach Socratic doubt, Cartesian doubt, and so on, also experts on the virtue of doubt? It is at least doubtful that we are, if the virtue is not learned merely in learning the arguments and methods of philosophers.

If not, then there is a difference between course content, the topics and methods on which we have expertise, and the goal of the course, intellectual virtue, on which we lack expertise. Yet despite this difference, content and goal are inseparable. Consider, again, the virtue of doubt. This virtue is learned partly in learning what philosophers said; indeed, it can only be learned in learning about the doubts of philosophers (and other people). For there is no learning of the virtue of doubt that is not learning about somebody’s doubts about something. Doubt does not float free of its occasions, topics, and doubters. To see the point, we should examine how one acquires intellectual virtue, and I propose that we use Aristotle’s argument that moral virtue is not a techne, a skill or craft or art, about which one acquires expertise, though it is like one.

For Aristotle, moral virtue is like the arts because it is acquired in a similar way, by producing the same "product" that we must "produce" once we have learned the virtue: we become just by doing just actions, courageous by doing courageous actions, etc. It is also like the arts, and like health, because it is ruined by excess and deficiency. But it is unlike the arts because the "product" of moral virtue, an action, is unlike the products of the arts, and the moral agent and the artist differ in expertise. The good of an art lies in the product, produced by the expert. For moral virtue, the good does not lie in the action; instead the agent must decide on virtuous actions for their own sake and for the sake of what is fine, from a firm and unchanging character, and the knowing or expertise counts for nothing.3

Analogously, intellectual virtue cannot be learned in the abstract, apart from its occasions. Generosity, as a state of character, is one goal of ethical education, but while it is different from generous actions, it is inseparable from them, because it cannot be learned otherwise. So for intellectual virtue: as a goal it is different from particular "products," such as a student’s doubting Euthyphro’s claims to expertise about piety, but is inseparable from them, because it cannot be learned otherwise. One learns the virtue of doubt by doubting, and by doubting particular claims of particular people.

Further, this Aristotelian-style account allows us to identify the "good" of intellectual virtue. The "good" does not lie in any action, but in a state of character that decides on certain actions and does them in the right way, at the right time, with respect to the right people, for the right ends, and so on. One has to learn to decide to do something, e.g., to doubt some argument for its lack of evidence, for the right reason and not for some ulterior purpose, such as pleasing the teacher, impressing one’s fellow students, or getting a good grade. Students ought to learn not merely to appear honest, or even to be honest, but to prize the truth.4 Neither does the "good" lie in applying the right rule to the occasion, for reasons Aristotle gives for the paucity of rules for ethical behavior: questions about what is fine, what is just, what is good, have no fixed and invariable answers, and on particular occasions the answer lies with perception.5

If there is no set algorithm for teaching the intellectual virtues, how are we to go about inculcating these virtues in our students, which inculcation, I have argued, should be our goal in teaching philosophy? My answer is this: since the intellectual virtues are learned from especially outstanding examples and since some of best material on the virtues (and some of the worst vices) is to be found in the writings of philosophers—writings that we have studied and so are in a position to teach—we are well placed to pursue the goal of having our students learn the intellectual virtues. To illustrate, on determining relevance in a discussion, Hume tells the reader in his Dialogues that he is discussing natural religion, not revealed religion, so that what may be relevant to the latter may not be relevant to the former. On distinguishing between different sorts of questions and the appropriate answers, Socrates asks Euthyphro what piety is; Euthyphro replies that it is prosecuting wrongdoers, and Socrates tells him that is not the sort of answer he wanted. Aristotle distinguishes between the exactness appropriate to answers in demonstrative sciences like mathematics and that appropriate to persuasive arguments in ethics and rhetoric. On understanding assent and dissent in graduated, not absolute terms, Hume argues that assent and dissent depend on evidence, and less than conclusive evidence requires less than conclusive assent and dissent, to the point where a hypothesis may be a mere conjecture or guess. Various virtues, such as the ability to submit to criticism, intellectual honesty and the ability to recognize that one does not know, and intellectual courage and the ability to persevere in the face of opposition, are perhaps best exemplified in Socratic dialogues (even if—or perhaps because—Socrates’s interlocutors often failed to exhibit them).

Teaching the virtues by dispensing with philosophers, then, would be like teaching scientific method, as Israel Scheffler argues, without "the specific material of science in the concrete." Such method (which notoriously cannot be reduced to a list of rules) is not "an airy abstract entity that can be skimmed off the concrete body of thought and practice."6 For us the concrete body of thought and practice of philosophy is indispensable. We should teach what Plato et al. said—even when students later forget much of that—for the sake of the virtues.

Rather than describe the goal of teaching a course on Greek philosophy, or on ethics, or even on critical thinking as students’ learning critical thinking, it is best to redescribe the goal as their learning the intellectual virtues. For we should see the good of critical thinking as promoting the virtues.7 We should want students to learn to think critically—to analyze, evaluate and construct arguments, clarify concepts, be sensitive to context and to the vagaries of natural language—not for its own sake, but for the sake of the virtues: intellectual honesty and courage; the ability to admit that one is wrong and that one does not know; fairness in examining the arguments of others and recognizing another as an equal in dialogue; and so on. In Aristotle’s terms, these virtues constitute the highest good of the mind or the intellect, for the sake of which we learn to deal critically with arguments in the first place.8

Notes

1. Martha Nussbaum, Cultivating Humanity: A Classical Defense of Reform in Liberal Education (Cambridge, Mass.: Harvard University Press, 1997).

2. For similar understanding of the particular intellectual virtues, see Michael Oakeshott, "Learning and Teaching," in The Voice of Liberal Learning: Michael Oakeshott on Education, ed. Timothy Fuller (New Haven: Yale University Press, 1989); Iris Murdoch, The Sovereignty of Good (London: Routledge and Kegan Paul, 1970); Israel Scheffler, "Moral Education and the Democratic Ideal," in his Reason and Teaching (Indianapolis: Hackett Publishing Co., 1989); Linda Trinkaus Zagzebski, Virtues of the Mind: An Inquiry into the Nature of Virtue and the Ethical Foundations of Knowledge (New York: Cambridge University Press, 1996); James Montmarquet, Epistemic Virtue and Doxastic Responsibility (Lanham, Md.: Rowman and Littlefield, 1993).

3. Aristotle, Nicomachean Ethics, ii, 4, 1105a27–b5.

4. See Rosalind Hursthouse, "Normative Virtue Ethics," in How Should One Live: Essays on the Virtues, ed. Roger Crisp (New York: Oxford University Press, 1996), p. 27.

5. Aristotle, Nicomachean Ethics, ii, 2, 11041–5; ii, 9, 1109b 20–23; and iv, 5, 1126b 2–4. See also John McDowell, "Virtue and Reason," in How Should One Live, ed. Crisp (note 3); and David Roochnik, "Teaching Virtue: The Contrasting Arguments (Dissoi Logoi) of Antiquity," Journal of Education 179 (1997): 1–13.

6. Scheffler, "Moral Education and the Democratic Ideal," (note 5), p. 143.

7. Nussbaum seems to share this view: critical thinking, the paradigm of which is Socratic examination, is "essential to full humanity," and the Stoics’ ideal of the world citizen "is intrinsically valuable: for it recognizes in people what is fundamental about them, most worthy of reverence and acknowledgment, namely their aspirations to justice and goodness and their capacities for reasoning in this connection" (note 1) p. 40, p. 60.

8. Oakeshott, in "Learning and Teaching" (note 5), offers a useful way of distinguishing the content and goal of a course. We instruct students in a lot of complex information, the ideas and arguments of philosophers, but we impart to students what he calls judgment, comprising the intellectual virtues. Judgment, he says, "cannot be learned separately; it is never explicitly learned and it is known only in practice; but it may be learned in everything that is learned, in the carpentry shop as well as in the Latin or chemistry lesson. . . . It cannot be taught separately; it can have no place of its own in a timetable or a curriculum." It is imparted "unobtrusively in the manner in which information is conveyed, in a tone of voice, in the gesture which accompanies instruction, in asides and oblique utterances, and by example. . . . In imitating the example, [the pupil] acquires not merely the model for the particular occasion, but the disposition to see everything as an occasion" (pp. 61–62).

We should see intellectual virtue, then, as Oakeshott describes judgment: "the shadow of lost knowledge." It is what remains when the information that was learned—Plato’s theory of recollection, Kant’s categorical imperative, Nietzsche’s eternal recurrence—has been forgotten.


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Copyright 2000, The American Philosophical Association.
Last revised: May 16, 2001