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Monday, Oct 13, 2008
When the Socratic method gets out of hand, students can learn to think -- and to draw blood
Oct 1, 1999 | Socrates' fatal flaw, or "hamartia," showed up again in my class last week. Traditionally considered the "father of philosophy," he pioneered the notion that the process of questioning is more important than any answers humans might achieve. He relentlessly interrogated anyone who pretended to know anything, and died at the hands of his fellow Athenians for his trouble. Socrates defended his enterprise on the grounds that he was "searching for truth," and I usually present him as a great hero to my classes because of his search, his method and his martyrdom. But idolizing a dead Socrates is different than encountering one in person, and when I've witnessed individuals actively employing his method, the results are often far from the enlightening, benign image that the sagacious Socrates usually invokes.
It happened again last week. Jane, a woman approaching 40 and one of my most provocative students, was discussing Socrates' concept of happiness. Extremely smart in an oblique manner, she always approaches things from the edges, occasionally bewildering younger students with pithy insights. She asserted that Socrates connected happiness with virtue. That a person couldn't be truly happy if he continually did things he knew deep down were wrong. This, she explained, was part of Socrates' notion of being true to oneself.
"Happiness is a function of consciousness," Jane declared. "If we have a refined enough consciousness, nothing can ever disrupt our contentment. The stuff of everyday life -- disruptive, troublesome -- means nothing, if we are truly aware of ourselves. For example, my being here in this classroom could make me unhappy, but I know that what I am saying is exactly how I feel, so I am happy. Socrates is right."
Most of Jane's classmates had tolerated, even grudgingly respected her utterances until now, but something about her slightly pompous, exaggerated manner aroused people in the last row. Linda, a young blond who slouched against the back wall with the insouciance and occasional thoughtlessness of the naturally pretty and privileged, jumped in.
"Don't you think there are real things in life that could make you unhappy, no matter how you are processing them?" Linda's head was still planted against the wall so her face looked tilted up, disdainful.
"What kinds of things?" Jane shot back. "How could anything disturb my happiness if I don't let it?" But she didn't look very happy. The atmosphere suddenly grew thick, dangerous.
Linda pursued her: "What if you had epilepsy or somebody died, would you be happy then? Are you that immune to stuff happening? Sometimes it feels like you don't really think about what you are saying, and now, when I ask you a question, you get defensive. You start out playing Socrates' game, and now, when somebody starts playing it back, you get offended. What do you really believe? Let's hear it."
Jane, suddenly having lost her confidence, began sweating. "What do you want me to do?"
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