“Words, words, words.” Such was the enigmatic reply of Hamlet to Polonius’ question, “What do you read, my lord?” And as always, Hamlet’s feigned madness displays the ironical insight of a verbal sense of humor. After all, what is anyone reading these days, but merely words, words, and more words?
Of course, Polonius interprets this as a depressive comment on the meaninglessness of reading, with a unique philosophical twist. But perhaps it can represent for us an important claim regarding the purpose of education in language and the humanities: words are meant to be played with, not merely learned.
In the previous installment of my “Flow of Thought” series, we took a stroll down the liberal arts lane, stopping for a moment to contemplate grammar among the Trivium arts of language, before hopping over to the Quadrivium arts of science and math, especially under the modern lens of STEM. Our goal was to counter the utilitarian focus of the educational establishment. The theme was the joy of thought and invention, and not merely its utility, as we develop arguments for classical education from an unlikely source, the famous positive psychologist Mihaly Csikszentmihalyi.
Hamlet’s witty banter, in spite of his seemingly depressive state, seems to serve as a good example of the flow of thought uniquely attainable through the “play of words.” Hamlet’s one-liners and verbal antics are some of the funniest and most enjoyable moments of the play. Perhaps they are even what keeps Hamlet relatively sane as long as possible, even if they are a part of his excuse to stall and wait for certainty.
Our psychologist issues a clarion call for the value of such witty repartee in his book Flow: The Psychology of Optimal Experience:
“Utilitarian ideologies in the past two centuries or so have convinced us that the main purpose of talking is to convey useful information. Thus we now value terse communication that conveys practical knowledge, and consider anything else a frivolous waste of time. As a result, people have become almost unable to talk to each other outside of narrow topics of immediate interest and specialization.” (129)
Such a comment could equally be a tribute to the glories of an Oscar Wilde play or the narrator of a Jane Austen novel, which turns even the drab and dull dialogue of the most boorish characters into a source of endless amusement… But not just amusement, also of manners, in the broader sense of human morality and conduct… And apparently of learning something human and crucial enough that we would put Jane Austen novels in the curriculum.
There’s something about the play of words that is liberating, enriching and deepening, even if it is also enjoyable and exciting. And so, in this article we will discuss another lost art or tool of learning: what our psychologist calls “the lost art of conversation” (129). He quotes Caliph Ali Ben Ali, saying, “A subtle conversation, that is the Garden of Eden” (129). If so, then let’s try and map out the territory of Eden a bit.
The Play of Words as Dialectic
First to note is its connection with the liberal art of dialectic. Socrates’ method of “teaching” (if we should call it that, since by his own admission, he knew nothing…) was really all about having a conversation. True, he would often announce some problem to be solved near the beginning, and he would chase down various possible solutions through elaborate trains of reasoning and question-and-answer with his dialogue partner or partners. But it was fundamentally a conversation nonetheless.
He could be very persistent in his questioning, but he also seems not to have been afraid of talking too much, if that seemed the best way to advance the discussion. Dialectic, as opposed to rhetoric, was Socrates’ proposed method of discourse, because the back and forth of conversation was to him more real and genuine, than the prolonged persuasion of one speaker (see Plato’s dialogues of Gorgias or The Apology).
Skilled orators could spin a speech of impressive length and strategy. But if you pinned them down and questioned them about each of the points in turn, much of it came up wanting, in Socrates’ experience. Dialectic allows for the discussion of different words, the distinctions between them and the careful parsing out of what is actually meant by them. This requires a certain playfulness in looking at the words themselves, trying them on for size and seeing if they fit the whole body of reality.
St. Augustine’s De Dialectica, for instance, begins with a discussion of types of words, both simple and complex, in a way that we would be inclined to classify as grammar, rather than simply logic. But grammar was first about the skill of reading and interpreting. Parts of speech, however, are as distinguishable in “speech,” as in writing, if you have mastered the art of a subtle conversation. In fact, we might even say that it is more natural to think out distinctions in speech.
But the fact that Socrates was almost annoyingly focused on discovering the truth—or at least displaying the ignorance of his conversation partner—didn’t prevent Socrates and his students from having a time of it. Plato’s dialogues, at least, are full of witty banter and the play of words. You get the impression that Socrates was enjoying himself. The flow of conversation gathered quite a following among the youth because Socrates’ dialectical method was fun, unlike some types of logic textbooks and exercises today.
Small Talk and the Play of Words
But so much of the experience of normal conversation consists in small talk and pleasantries. High-minded people are inclined to despise these small beginnings. At least, I can recall comments of my own in disparagement of the endless chatter about the weather or sports at parties. But the art of face-to-face small talk may be something our children are missing out on, with all their mediated communication through texting and social media. And we should reckon on the necessity of a prelude into the profundities of an extended conversation.
Because of his expertise our psychologist is able to note some of the overlooked value of small beginnings in the dialectical art from a psychological perspective:
“When I say to an acquaintance whom I meet in the morning, ‘Nice day,’ I do not convey primarily meteorological information—which would be redundant anyway, since he has the same data as I do—but achieve a great variety of other unvoiced goals. For instance, by addressing him I recognize his existence, and express my willingness to be friendly. Second, I reaffirm one of the basic rules for interaction in our culture, which holds that talking about the weather is a safe way to establish contact between people. Finally, by emphasizing that the weather is ‘nice’ I imply the shared value that ‘niceness’ is a desirable attribute.” (129-130)
Modern communication theorists have called this phatic communication and connected it with the exordium of classical rhetoric. In the opening of a dialogue or a speech there needs to be a connection of persons, a development of trust or ethos, and this is established through following some simple social rules for interactions.
Such reflections raise legitimate questions over whether, in abandoning training in politeness and the proprieties of social interaction for our children, we are crippling them from stepping into the longer walks of conversation. After all, a conversation or connection must begin somewhere, and why not with a few clichés?
Philologists, those pedantic lovers of words (like myself), may object, but they would do better to laugh and continue playing the game themselves. This reminds me of the opening scene from J.R.R. Tolkien’s The Hobbit, where Gandalf humorously nitpicks Bilbo Baggins’ pleasantries:
“Good morning!” said Bilbo, and he meant it. The sun was shining, and the grass was very green. But Gandalf looked at him from under long bushy eyebrows that stuck out further than the brim of his shady hat.
“What do you mean?” he said. “Do you wish me a good morning, or mean that it is a good morning whether I want it or not; or that you feel good this morning; or that it is a morning to be good on?”
“All of them at once,” said Bilbo. “And a very fine morning for a pipe of tobacco out of doors, into the bargain. If you have a pipe about you, sit down and have a fill of mine! There’s no hurry, we have all the day before us!” Then Bilbo sat down on a seat by his door, crossed his legs, and blew out a beautiful grey ring of smoke that sailed up into the air without breaking and floated away over The Hill.
It’s not that we should view Gandalf’s playful questioning of the convention as out of bounds. In fact, it’s part and parcel of a Socratic dialectic. But we could all use more of Bilbo’s cheery openness to conversation. He is here the paragon of hospitality, and it is his very politeness that opens him up to adventure. The first step out your door and into the adventure of a true conversation can be the most important.
Journeying on in the Play of Words
The art of conversation must begin somewhere and mastering the basics of cultural conventions is a suitable training for even the very young. But that doesn’t mean that there isn’t a danger represented by hiding under the conventions of politeness. As our psychologist states,
“The pity is that so many conversations end right there. Yet when words are well chosen, well arranged, they generate gratifying experiences for the listener. It is not for utilitarian reasons alone that breadth of vocabulary and verbal fluency are among the most important qualifications for success as a business executive. Talking well enriches every interaction, and it is a skill that can be learned by everyone.” (130)
The move of turning conversation into a learnable skill puts it back in the realm of education, where it ought to have stayed. Of course, it is useful in preparing the future “business executive,” but it also simply enriches life to be able to carry on a deep conversation with a few friends. In fact, even if it had no utility in the workplace, such a skill would be invaluable to the one who attained it, a veritable Garden of Eden.
As a matter of course, though, conversations with other people are an endless source of learning throughout life. The British educator Charlotte Mason tells the story of how Sir Walter Scott found himself sitting on the coach with a man, whom he could not get talking for anything. After “a score of openings” that were unsuccessful, he finally hit upon “bent leather,” and “then the talk went merrily for the man was a saddler” (vol. 6 Toward a Philosophy of Education p. 261). Everyone has something interesting and useful to share, if you know how to ask the right questions.
Each conversation can be an adventure, when we view it as a quest in search of what the other has to share. If we are open and hospitable like Bilbo, we never know where the road of conversation will lead.
But how do we train our children in the dialectical art of conversation?
Training Children in the Play of Words
Conversation skills don’t often appear on the lists of educational standards. At least, I’ve never seen it there. And it must be admitted that it’s hard to test objectively whether a student has sufficiently mastered a verbal sense of humor to pass grade level.
But classical educators and home educators can embrace such qualitative goals, even without penalizing students who are naturally more obtuse. It’s worth asking whether, just because an educational goal is not easily testable, and may be nearly impossible for some students to ‘master’, it should be abandoned as a legitimate pursuit. The play of words is one of those legitimate pursuits of the humanities that deserves a place on our radar screens, if not our standards lists.
The first way to train students in the play of words is the class discussion. Home educators will probably have to play Socrates a little more. But teachers can simply open up discussion between students and give them lots of practice discussing in a variety of subjects and contexts. How this will differ from the conventional class discussion can be left to the imagination and skillfulness of both teacher and students. The main shift is in viewing the goal as not simply the “mastery of content” but the development of sub-skills in the subtle art of conversation. Listening well to others, interacting with previous comments, disagreeing confidently yet respectfully, and covering over it all with a playfulness in language and thought that makes the conversation sparkle—these are all ideals that can be sown and sub-skills that can be practiced.
The second way is more akin to the teacher playing the role of Socrates, or Gandalf, if you prefer. Having practiced this one religiously since my youth, and not only in my teaching, I was tickled to see Csikszentmihalyi endorse it publicly in his book. For some years I have called it deliberate misunderstanding. Here is how he describes it:
“One way to teach children the potential of words is by starting to expose them to wordplay quite early. Puns and double meanings may be the lowest form of humor for sophisticated adults, but they provide children with a good training ground in the control of language. All one has to do is pay attention during a conversation with a child, and as soon as the opportunity presents itself—that is, whenever an innocent word or expression can be interpreted in an alternative way—one switches frames, and pretends to understand the word in that different sense.” (130)
One of the assumptions I must contend with in the paragraph above is the assumption that “puns and double meanings” are “the lowest form of humor for sophisticated adults.” My high school English and Latin teacher taught me quite the opposite, that puns were the very finest form of humor. And if one thinks for a moment of the other types of humor that are common in conversation, my high school teacher has a leg up on our psychologist or whomever he got such disparagement from. But we digress….
The pretense of misunderstanding creates the shock factor for the listener that alerts them to the possibilities and ambiguities of their words and expressions. There is no easier or more natural way to “teach” the play of words, than to play with a child’s own words in her very presence. Its power lies in shocking them out of the complacency of conventional communication:
“In fact, breaking the ordered expectations about the meaning of words can be mildly traumatic at first, but in no time at all children catch on and give as good as they are getting, learning to twist conversation into pretzels. By dong so they learn how to enjoy controlling words; as adults, they might help revive the lost art of conversation.” (130)
This need not wait until some supposed “logic phase”; young children love a good pun, riddle or dad joke. But it does reach new levels of sophistication with witty older students. Some of my most enjoyable teaching experiences are in the witty banter of a group of high school students, discussing a great book, at least ostensibly, but also playing with words and the thoughts and ideas that they represent. What students are really doing with some (at least) of their side comments and rabbit trails is connecting the experiences of the difficult texts we are reading with their own thoughts and experiences as budding young adults.
At least that is what I tell myself when we take a trip down digression lane….
One of the ways we have institutionalized the art of conversation or skill of dialectic at the school where I work is through a monthly practice we have called a colloquium (from the Latin word for a conversation or discussion). Our whole high school gathers together for an entire humanities class focused on a single conversation around a perennial question, like “What is truth?” or “Why is there so much pain and suffering in the world?” or “What is the best form of government?”
Like Socrates’ dialogues, there is no set text or “curriculum”; the discussion is the curriculum, and the leader’s goal is the make sure the inquiry is genuine through putting up road blocks, countering sloppy thinking and in every way making things as hard as possible for the students. There are ground rules, but the colloquium includes much witty banter alongside the genuine inquiry. Sustaining an hour and a half to two hour long discussion on a single topic is an educational experience in itself. It’s also a highlight for many of our students.
Previous articles in this series, The Flow of Thought:
Part 1: Training the Attention for Happiness’ Sake; Part 2: The Joy of Memory; Part 3: Narration as Flow; Part 4: The Seven Liberal Arts as Mental Games
Future installments: Part 6: Becoming Amateur Historians; Part 7: Rediscovering Science as the Love of Wisdom; Part 8, Restoring the School of Philosophers, Part 9, The Lifelong Love of Learning.
What other ideas do you have for cultivating the lost art of conversation in our students? Share them in the comments!