Tuesday, December 6, 2011

92. DO YOU WONDER WHY PEOPLE CAN'T THINK CLEARLY? -- Excerpts from "The Functions of a Teacher", by Bertrand Russell

Excerpts
from

"Unpopular Essays",

by
Bertrand Russell,

Simon and Schuster,
New York,
1950,
pages  112 - 123.


Chapter Eight

The Functions of a Teacher


Teaching,
more even
than most other professions,
has been transformed
during the last hundred years
from a small,
highly skilled profession
concerned
with a minority
of the population,
to
a large and important branch
of
the public service.
 
The profession
has
a great and honorable tradition,
extending
from the dawn of history
until recent times,
but
any teacher in the modern world
who allows himself
to be inspired
by the ideals of his predecessors
is likely to be made
sharply aware
that
it is not his function
to teach what he thinks,
but to instill
such beliefs
and prejudices
as are thought useful
by his employers.

In former days
a teacher was expected
to be
a man
of exceptional knowledge
or wisdom,
to whose words
men
would do well to attend.
 
In antiquity, teachers
were not
an organized profession,
and
no control was exercised
over what they taught.

It is true that they were
often punished afterwards
for their subversive doctrines.
 
Socrates
was put to death
and
Plato
is said to have been
thrown into prison,
but
such incidents
did not interfere
with
the spread of their doctrines.
 
Any man
who
has the genuine impulse
of the teacher
will be more anxious
to survive
in his books
than
in the flesh.
 
A feeling
of
intellectual independence
is essential
to the proper fulfillment
of the teacher's functions,
since it is his business
to instill what he can
of knowledge
and
reasonableness
into
the process
of
forming public opinion.
 
In antiquity
he performed the function
unhampered
except
by
occasional spasmodic
and
ineffective interventions
of tyrants
or mobs.
 
In the middle ages
teaching became
the exclusive prerogative
of the church,
with the result
that
there was little progress
either
intellectual
or social.
 
With the Renaissance,
the general respect
for learning
brought back
a very considerable
measure of freedom
to the teacher.

It is true
that the Inquisition
compelled Galileo
to recant,
and
burned Giordano Bruno
at the stake,
but
each of these men
had done his work
before being
punished.
 
Institutions
such as
universities
largely remained
in the grip of the dogmatists,
with the result
that
most of the best intellectual work
was done
by independent men of learning.
 
In England, especially,
until near the end
of the nineteenth century,
hardly any
men of first-rate eminence
except Newton
were connected with universities.
 
But the social system was such
that this interfered little
with their activities
or their usefulness.
 
In our
more highly organized world
we face a new problem.
 
Something
called
education
is given to everybody,
usually by the state,
but
sometimes by the churches.

The teacher
has thus become,
in the vast majority of cases,
a civil servant
obliged to carry out the behests
of men
who have not
his learning,
who have
no experience
of dealing with the young,
and
whose only attitude
towards education
is that of
the propagandist.

It is not very easy
to see
how,
in these circumstances,
teachers
can perform the functions
for which
they are specially fitted.
 
State education
is obviously necessary,
but
as obviously
involves certain dangers
against which
there ought to be safeguards.
 
The evils to be feared
were seen
in their full magnitude
in Nazi Germany
and
are still seen
in Russia [1950].
 
Where these evils prevail
no man can teach
unless he subscribes
to a dogmatic creed
which
few people of free intelligence
are
likely to accept
sincerely.
 
Not only must he
subscribe to a creed,
but
he
must condone abominations
and
carefully abstain
from speaking his mind
on current events.

So long as he is teaching
only
the alphabet
and
the multiplication table,
as to which
no controversies arise,
official dogmas
do not necessarily
warp his instruction;
but even while he
is teaching these elements
he is expected,
in totalitarian countries,
not to employ the methods
which he thinks
most likely
to achieve the scholastic result,
but
to instill fear,
subservience,
and
blind obedience
by demanding
unquestioned submission
to his authority.
 
And as soon as he
passes beyond
the bare elements,
he is obliged to take
the official view
on
all controversial questions.

The result is
that
the young
in Nazi Germany became,
and
in Russia become,
fanatical bigots,
ignorant of the world outside
their own country,
totally
unaccustomed to free discussion,
and
not aware
that their opinions
can be questioned
without wickedness.

This state of affairs,
bad as it is,
would be less disastrous
than it is
if the dogmas instilled
were,
as in medieval Catholicism,
universal
and
international;
but
the whole conception
of
an international culture
is denied
by the modern dogmatists,
who preached
one creed in Germany,
another in Italy,
another in Russia,
and yet another
in Japan.
 
In each of these countries
fanatical nationalism
was what was
most emphasized
in
the teaching of the young,
with the result
that
the men of one country
have no common ground
with
the men of another,
and that
no conception
of a common civilization
stands in the way
of warlike ferocity.
 
The decay of cultural internationalism
has proceeded
at a continually increasing pace
ever since
the First World War.
 
When I was in Leningrad
in 1920,
I met
the Professor
of Pure Mathematics,
who was familiar
with
London,
Paris,
and
other capitals,
having been
a member
of various international congresses.
 
Nowadays [1950]
the learned men
of Russia
are very seldom permitted
such excursions,
for fear
of their drawing comparisons
unfavorable to their own country.
 
In other countries
nationalism in learning
is less extreme,
but everywhere
it is far more powerful
than it was.
 
There is a tendency
in England
(and I believe,
in the United States)
to dispense with
Frenchmen and Germans
in
the teaching
of French and German.
 
The practice
of
considering a man's nationality
rather than his competence
in appointing him to a post
is damaging to education
and
an offense against the ideal
of international culture,
which was a heritage
from the Roman Empire
and
the Catholic Church,
but
is now being submerged [1950]
under a new barbarian invasion,
proceeding
from below
rather than
from without.
 
In democratic countries
these evils have not yet reached
anything like
the same proportions,
but
it must be admitted
that there is grave danger
of similar developments
in education,
and
that this danger
can only be averted
if those who believe
in liberty of thought
are
on the alert
to protect teachers
from intellectual bondage.

Perhaps the first requisite
is a clear conception of the services
which teachers can be expected to perform
for the community.
 
I agree
with the governments of the world
that the imparting
of definite
uncontroversial information
is
one of the least
of the teacher's functions.
 
It is, of course,
the basis
upon which the others
are built,
and
in a technical civilization
such as ours
it has
undoubtedly
a considerable utility.

There must exist
in a modern community
a sufficient number of men
who possess the technical skill
required
to preserve
the mechanical apparatus
upon which
our physical comforts depend.
 
It is, moreover,
inconvenient
if any large percentage
of the population
is
unable to read and write.
 
For these reasons
we are
all in favor
of
universal compulsory education.
 
But governments
have perceived
that it is easy,
in the course of giving instruction,
to instill beliefs on controversial matters
and
to produce habits of mind
which may be convenient
or
inconvenient
to those in authority.
 
The defense
of the state
in all civilized countries
is quite as much
in the hands of teachers
as
in those of
the armed forces.
 
Except
in totalitarian countries,
the defense of the state
is desirable,
and
the mere fact
that education
is used for this purpose
is not
in itself
a ground of criticism.
 
Criticism
will only arise
if
the state
is defended by
obscurantism
and
appeals
to
irrational passion.
 
Such methods
are quite unnecessary
in the case
of
any state worth defending.
 
Nevertheless,
there is
a natural tendency
towards
their adoption
by those
who have
no first-hand knowledge
of education.
 
There is
a widespread belief
that
the nations are made strong
by
uniformity of opinion
and
by the suppression of liberty.
 
One hears it said
over and over again
that
democracy weakens a country in war,
in spite of the fact [in 1950]
that in every important war
since the year 1700
the victory
has gone to
the more democratic side.
 
Nations have been
brought to ruin
much more often
by insistence upon
a narrow-minded
doctrinal uniformity
than
by
free discussion
and
the
toleration
of
divergent opinions.
 
Dogmatists the world over
believe that
although the truth
is known to
them,
others
will be led
into false beliefs
provided they are allowed
to hear the arguments
on
both sides.
 
This is a view
which leads
to one or another
of two misfortunes:
either
one set of dogmatists
conquers the world
and
prohibits all new ideas,
or,
what is worse,
rival dogmatists
conquer different regions
and
preach the gospel of hate
against each other,
the
former
of
these evils
existing
in the middle ages,
the
latter
during the wars of religion,
and
again
in the present day [1950].
 
The first
makes civilization
static,
the second
tends
to destroy it completely.
 
Against both,
the teacher
should be
the main safeguard.
 
It is obvious
that organized party spirit
is
one of the greatest dangers
of our time [1950].

In the form
of
nationalism
it leads to
wars between nations,
and
in other forms
it leads to
civil war.
 
It should be
the business of teachers
to stand outside
the strife of parties
and
endeavor
to instill into the young
the
habit of impartial inquiry,
leading them
to judge issues
on their merits
and
to be on their guard
against accepting
ex parte
[partisan;
for one side only]
statements
at their face value.
 
The teacher
should not be expected
to flatter the prejudices
either
of the mob
or
of officials.
 
His professional virtue
should consist
in
a readiness
to do justice to all sides,
and
in an endeavor
to rise above controversy
into a region
of
dispassionate
scientific investigation.
 
If there are people
to whom
the results of his investigation
are inconvenient,
he should be
protected against their resentment,
unless it can be shown that
he has lent himself
to
dishonest propaganda
by the dissemination
of
demonstrable untruths.

The function of the teacher,
however,
is
not merely
to mitigate the heat
of current controversies.
 
He has
more positive tasks
to perform,
and
he cannot be
a great teacher
unless he is
inspired by
a wish to perform
these tasks.

Teachers are
more than any other
class
the guardians
of
civilization.
 
They should be
intimately aware
of what civilization is,
and
desirous
of imparting
a civilized attitude
to their pupils.
 
We are thus
brought
to the question:
what constitutes
a civilized community?
 
This question
would
very commonly
be answered
by pointing
to merely
material tests.
 
A country is
civilized
if it has
much machinery,
many motor cars,
many bathrooms,
and
a great deal
of rapid locomotion.
 
To these things,
in my opinion,
most modern men
attach
much too much
importance.
 
Civilization,
in the more important
sense,
is
a thing of the mind,
not
of material adjuncts
to
the physical side
of living.
 
It is a matter
partly of knowledge,
partly
of emotion.
 
So far as
knowledge
is concerned,
a man should be aware
of
the minuteness of himself
and
his immediate environment
in relation
to the world
in time
and space.
 
He should see
his own country
not only as
home,
but
as one
among
the countries of the world,
all
with an equal right
to live
and think
and feel.

He should
see his own age
in relation
to the past
and
the future,
and be aware
that its own controversies
will seem
as strange to future ages
as those of the past
seem to us now [1950].
 
Taking
an even wider view,
he should be
conscious
of
the vastness
of
geological epochs
and
astronomical abysses;
but
he should be aware of all this,
not as a weight
to crush the individual human spirit,
but
as a vast panorama
which enlarges the mind
that contemplates it.
 
On the side of the emotions,
a very similar
enlargement from the purely personal
is needed
if a man is
to be truly civilized.
 
Men pass from birth to death,
sometimes happy,
sometimes unhappy;
sometimes generous,
sometimes grasping and petty;
sometimes heroic,
sometimes cowardly and servile.
 
To the man who views
the procession as a whole,
certain things stand out
as
worthy of admiration.
 
Some men have been inspired
by love of mankind;
some
by supreme intellect have
helped us to understand
the world in which we live;
and some
by exceptional sensitiveness
have created beauty.

These men have produced
something of positive good
to outweigh
the long record
of
cruelty,
oppression,
and superstition.
 
These men have done
what lay in their power
to make human life
a better thing
than
the brief turbulence
of
savages.

The civilized man,
where he cannot admire,
will aim rather
to discover
and
remove
the impersonal causes of evil
than to hate
the men
who are in its grip.
 
All this
should be
in the mind and heart
of the teacher,
and
if it is in his mind and heart
he will convey it
in his teaching to the young
who are in his care.
 
No man can be
a good teacher
unless he has
feelings of warm affection
towards his pupils
and
a genuine
desire to impart to them
what he himself believes
to be of value.

This is
not the attitude
of the propagandist.

To the propagandist
his
pupils
are
potential soldiers
in
an army.
 
They
are to serve purposes
that lie outside
their own lives,
not
in the sense in which
every generous purpose transcends self,
but
in the sense
of ministering to unjust privilege
or
to despotic power.

The propagandist
does not desire
that
his pupils should survey
the world
and
freely choose a purpose
which
to them
appears of value.
 
He desires,
like a topiarian artist,
that their growth
shall be trained
and twisted
to suit the gardener's purpose.
 
And
in
thwarting their natural growth
he is apt to destroy in them
all generous vigor,
replacing it
by
envy,
destructiveness,
and cruelty.
 
There is no need
for men to be cruel;
on the contrary,
I am persuaded
that
most cruelty results
from
thwarting
in early years,
above all
from
thwarting what is good.
 
Repressive
and
persecuting passions
are very common,
as the present [1950]
state of the world
only too amply proves.
 
But
they are
not an inevitable part
of
human nature.
 
On the contrary,
they are,
I believe
always the outcome
of
some kind of unhappiness.
 
It should be
one of the functions
of
the teacher
to open vistas
before his pupils
showing them
the possibility of activities
that will be
as
delightful
as they are
useful,
thereby letting loose
their kind impulses
and
preventing
the growth of a desire
to rob others of joys
that they
will have missed.
 
Many people
decry
happiness as an end,
both
for themselves
and
for others,
but
one may suspect them
of sour grapes.
 
It is one thing
to forgo personal happiness
for a public end,
but
it is quite another
to treat
the general happiness
as a thing
of no account.
 
Yet this is often
done in the name
of some supposed heroism.
 
In those who take
this attitude
there is generally
some vein of cruelty
based probably
upon an unconscious envy,
and
the source of the envy
will usually be
found
in childhood
or youth.

It should be
the aim of the educator
to train adults
free from
these psychological misfortunes,
and
not anxious
to rob others of happiness
because they themselves
have
not been robbed
of it.
 
As it stands
today [1950],
many teachers
are unable to do
the best
of which
they are capable.
 
For this
there are a number of reasons,
some
more or less accidental,
others
very deep-seated.
 
To begin with the former,
most teachers are overworked
and
are compelled to prepare
their pupils
for examinations
rather than
to give them
a liberalizing mental training.
 
The people
who are
not accustomed to teaching --
and this
includes
practically all educational authorities --
have no idea
of the expense
of spirit
that it involves.
 
Clergymen
are
not expected to preach sermons
for several hours every day,
but the analogous effort
is demanded
of teachers.
 
The result is
that
many of them
become harassed and nervous,
out of touch
with recent work
in
the subjects that they teach,
and
unable
to inspire their students
with a sense
of
the intellectual delights
to be obtained
from
new understanding
and
new knowledge.

This, however,
is
by no means
the gravest matter.
 
In most countries
certain opinions
are
recognized as correct,
and others
as dangerous.
 
Teachers
whose opinions
are not correct
are expected to keep silent
about them.
 
If they mention their opinions
it is propaganda,
while
the mentioning of correct opinions
is considered to be
merely
sound instruction.
 
The result is
that
the inquiring young
too often
have to
go outside the classroom
to discover
what is being thought
by
the most vigorous minds
of their own time.
 
There is
in America
a subject called Civics,
in which,
perhaps more than in any other,
the teaching
is expected to be misleading.
 
The young are taught
a sort of copy-book account
of how public affairs
are supposed to be conducted,
and are
carefully shielded from all knowledge
as to how
in fact they are
conducted.
 
When they grow up
and discover the truth,
the result is
too often
a complete cynicism
in which
all public ideals are lost;
whereas
if they had been taught
the truth
carefully
and with proper comment
at an earlier age
they might have become men
able to combat evils
in which,
as it is,
they acquiesce with a shrug.
 
The idea
that falsehood
is
edifying
is one of the besetting sins
of
those who draw up educational schemes.
 
I should not
myself
consider
that
a man could be
a good teacher
unless he had made a firm resolve
never
in the course of his teaching
to conceal truth
because it is what is called
"unedifying."
 
The kind of
virtue
that can be produced
by
guarded ignorance
is frail
and
fails at the first touch
of
reality.
 
There are,
in this world,
many men
who deserve admiration,
and
it is good
that the young should be taught
to see the ways
in which
these men are admirable.
 
But it is not good
to teach them to admire
rogues
by concealing their roguery.
 
It is thought
that
the knowledge of things as they are
will lead to cynicism,
and
so it may do
if the knowledge comes suddenly
with a shock of surprise
and horror.
 
But if it comes gradually,
duly intermixed
with a knowledge of what is good,
and
in the course of a scientific study
inspired
by
the wish
to get at the truth,
it will have
no such effect.
 
In any case,
to tell lies to the young,
who have
no means
of checking what they are told,
is morally indefensible.
 
The thing,
above all,
that
a teacher should endeavor to produce
in his pupils,
if democracy is to survive,
is the kind of tolerance
that springs from
an endeavor
to understand
those
who are different from ourselves.
 
It is
perhaps
a natural human impulse
to view with horror and disgust
all manners
and customs
different
from
those to which we are used.
 
Ants and savages
put strangers to death.
 
And those
who have never traveled
either
physically
or
mentally
find it difficult
to tolerate the queer ways
and
outlandish beliefs
of other nations
and other times,
other sects
and
other political parties.
 
This kind of ignorant intolerance
is
the antithesis of a civilized outlook,
and is
one of the gravest dangers
to which
our overcrowded world
is exposed.
 
The educational system
ought to be designed
to correct it,
but
much too little is done
in this direction
at present [1950].

In every country
nationalistic feeling
is encouraged,
and
school children are taught,
what they are
only too ready to believe,
that
the inhabitants of other countries
are morally
and intellectually
inferior
to those
of the country in which
the school children
happen to reside.

Collective hysteria,
the most mad
and cruel
of all human emotions,
is encouraged
instead of being discouraged,
and
the young are encouraged
to believe
what they hear frequently said
rather than
what
there is some rational ground
for believing.
 
In all this
the teachers
are not to blame.
 
They are not free
to teach
as they would wish.
 
It is they who know
most intimately
the needs
of the young.
 
It is they
who
through daily contact
have come to care for them.
 
But
it is not they
who decide
what shall be taught
or
what
the methods of instruction
are to be.
 
There ought to be
a great deal more freedom
than there is
for the scholastic profession.
 
It ought to have more
opportunities
of self-determination,
more independence
from
the interference of bureaucrats
and bigots.
 
No one would consent
in our day [1950]
to subject
the medical men
to
the control
of non-medical authorities
as to
how they should treat their patients,
except of course
where they depart
criminally
from the purpose of medicine,
which is
to cure the patient.
 
The teacher
is a kind of
medical man
whose purpose
is to cure the patient
of childishness,
but
he is not allowed
to decide for himself
on the basis of experience
what methods
are
most suitable
to this end.
 
A few great historic universities,
by the weight of their prestige,
have secured virtual self-determination,
but
the immense majority
of
educational institutions
are
hampered
and
controlled
by men who do not understand
the work
with which they are interfering.
 
The only way
to prevent totalitarianism
in our highly organized world
is
to secure a certain degree of independence
for bodies performing useful public work,
and
among such bodies
teachers deserve a foremost place.
 
The teacher,
like the artist,
the philosopher,
and
the man of letters,
can only perform his work
adequately
if he feels himself to be
an individual
directed by an inner creative impulse,
not
dominated
and
fettered
by an outside authority.

It is very difficult
in this modern world
to find a place
for
the individual.

He can subsist at the top
as a dictator
in a totalitarian state
or
a plutocratic magnate
in a country
of large industrial enterprises,
but
in the realm of the mind
it is becoming
more and more difficult
to preserve
independence of
the great organized forces
that control the livelihoods
of men and women.
 
If the world
is not to lose the benefit
to be derived from its best minds,
it will have to find some method
of allowing them
scope and liberty
in spite of organization.

This involves
a deliberate restraint
on the part
of those who have power,
and
a conscious realization
that
there are men
to whom
free scope must be afforded.
 
Renaissance Popes
could feel in this way
towards Renaissance artists,
but
the powerful men of our day
seem to have more difficulty
in feeling respect
for exceptional genius.
 
The turbulence
of our times
[1950]
is
inimical
to the fine flower of culture.
 
The man in the street
is full of fear,
and
therefore
unwilling to tolerate freedoms
for which he sees
no need.
 
Perhaps
we must wait for quieter times
before the claims
of civilization
can again override the claims
of party spirit.
 
Meanwhile, it is important
that some at least
should continue to realize
the limitations
of what can be done
by organization.
 
Every system
should allow loopholes and exceptions,
for
if it does not
it will
in the end
crush all that is best in man.
 
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