Erôs and Insight
Aristotle With a Bust of Homer, 1653, Oil on
canvas; 56.5 x 53.75 inches, by Rembrandt Harmenszoon van Rijn |
1 | 2 | 3 | 4 |
5 | An
Introduction to Amherst: First-Year Seminars
At
11:15 on an icy December morning, a full 15 minutes before class, every
desk in Fayerweather 117 is already occupied. There is an excited buzz in the
classroom as students talk animatedly among themselves, pore over lecture notes
and read each other passages from Rilke’s Love and Other Difficulties and
Thomas Merton’s Love and Living. The word “love” seems
to be everywhere, and yet neither embarrassment nor fashionably hip aloofness
is anywhere in sight. The 30 students of Erôs and Insight are deep into
the “erôs” part
of the course. And, although the semester is coming to a close, the energy in
the room indicates that something powerful is just beginning. Something, very
possibly, life-changing.
Upton and Zajonc enter the room at exactly 11:30, and the students immediately
turn in their seats to face their professors. The shy wariness of four months
ago is gone, replaced by a sense of engagement and warm affection. Opening the
class with a quote from the German poet Friedrich Hölderlin, Upton reads,
with relish: “‘But where danger is, grows the saving power also.’” A
pause. “We have, in this class, come to the most dangerous part of all.”
At the word “danger,” the students, along with Upton and Zajonc,
break into wide grins. Upton, they know, is not referring to a risky chemical
experiment or a proposition to turn Fayerweather 17 into a revolutionary cell
(times have changed since 1968, when Upton and Zajonc were themselves college
students). Instead, the professor is challenging his students to re-imagine a
more complicated concept of love: one that embraces the very contradiction between
erôs and insight as the animating force of learning—and deep knowing.
Envision erôs as one of two pillars holding up the academic enterprise.
Together with its opposite pillar, insight, erôs becomes a necessary force
in education—a dangerous notion in a temple dedicated to reason. For the
past four weeks, the class has read and studied myriad articulations of love,
including, most importantly, the poetic writings of nun and mystic Marguerite
Porete, who was burned at the stake for her heresy: “Love, love, and do
as you will.”
“Do as you will” is not, to the disappointment of some, permission
to frolic at the drop of a hat—or a habit. Porete is offering a living
embodiment of agape, an absolute love that acts as a moral guide to all
human actions. The teachings of a rebel nun may seem an unusual choice in the
classroom—and
yet the professors of “Erôs and Insight” insist that the college
(whose earliest model is the Greek gymnasium) is the ideal environment
in which to explore the principle of critical thinking animated by erôs. This union,
they have tried to demonstrate, can transform reason into insight, and lust into
erôs. And, they tell the class, it can elevate acquisitiveness into authentic
aspiration. In response to this, one student spoke with blunt honesty: “I
don’t know what’s authentic. All I know is I’m supposed to
be making six figures by the time I’m 30.”
A large number of students in the class seemed to know just what he meant.
What, then, is authentic aspiration? This question came up early in the
discussion, and both professors welcomed it. Isn’t the purpose of education
to prepare one for a competitive world? Is it wrong to want a good job, to have
a comfortable life?
“Not at all,” Upton says, gesturing merrily at Zajonc and himself. “Look
at us! We have great jobs, wonderful lives.” Zajonc, with a laugh, nods
in agreement. And yet they both agree that without an inner discipline to complement
the outer, without the self-knowledge and compassion for others that comes through
a practice of contemplative knowing, worldly achievements provide hollow satisfaction.
There is more, they teach. More to education, more to life.
Today, Plato’s Symposium, the classic philosophical dialogue on
love, and, in a sense, the crown jewel of the class readings, will point the
way to what that “more” can be. First, there is love as defined as
by one of the first speakers, Agathon, who delivers a much-praised speech on
love’s “beauty.” Upton, text in hand, queries the
class: “What else does he say love is?”
“Supreme beauty and excellence.” The class nods in unison as a serious
young man in the third row offers this definition.
“Yes, very good. Supreme beauty and excellence!” Upton repeats, striding
around the room and waving his book. “Sounds like love, no? Or does it?
What else?”
Students begin calling out definitions, interrupting each other and laughing: “Wise.” “Just.” “Young.” “All
things good.” “Moderate.” “Sensitive.” “The
happiest of the gods!” “Perfection!” “Graceful, gentle,
courteous!”
“Ah, yes, gentle, graceful love,” Upton sighs, swooning comically. “Do
you agree? Is this all there is to love?”
“Before Diotima’s speech, I would have agreed,” a young woman
offers, tossing long dark hair over her shoulder. “But now….”
“No!” several students cry out together. “There is more!”
Zajonc, smiling, rises from his seat. “What does Socrates say before he
leads us through Diotima’s speech? Does anyone remember?”
A student in a heavy wool sweater raises his hand: “He says, ‘Good
speech. But I’m prepared to tell the truth! It was your tongue that promised,
not the heart.’” Two or three students begin to applaud, and the
young man, who has just spoken for the first time in class, ducks his head, smiling
broadly.
“This,” Zajonc announces, “is where Socrates comes to know
the true nature of love. Now, if this god is not ‘beautiful,’ then
what must this god be?” He waits a beat, then continues in a low but warmly
expressive voice: “Neither beautiful nor ugly, but in between. In between
wisdom and ignorance, between the godhead and humans—love as an intermediary
spirit. Love that can sustain all the human contradictions, that can embrace
the flaws and the perfection equally.”
“Remember Rilke’s ‘Letters on Love’,” Upton reminds
the class, jumping in. ‘“Each should stand guard over the solitude
of the other.”’
A thoughtful silence descends at this definition of love, which seems in direct
opposition to popular sentiment.
“It’s a different way of thinking about it,” a young man says,
thoughtfully, putting down his pencil. “Harder. It’s not one person
or one thing meeting all your needs.”
“That’s an important insight,” Zajonc agrees. “Diotima
teaches that you must have confidence in the difficult. It is a labor.
It’s
a deeply moral interior dialogue. We don’t arrive here knowing it. We must
learn to love.”
Love, in this sense, stands as a repudiation of what Upton calls the “impoverishment” of
true erôs in our culture. Erôs, in its pure state, encompasses far
more than physical desire (and often transcends it: one can now “fall in
love” with learning, with a work of art, with the beauty of a Japanese
garden). It rejects sentimental love. And it stands apart from prevalent campus
practices like “hooking up,” an act that means, according to virtually
the entire class, no strings, no expectations and, quite often, no heart.
“I didn’t know there was an alternative,” one young man softly
volunteers, looking at the ground. “It seems like it’s hooking up…or
nothing. If those are the choices, I’d rather have nothing.” He looks
up, flushing but steadfastly meeting the eyes of his fellow students. Expressions
of understanding and sympathy are returned to him, and for a moment no one speaks.
“There are always alternatives,” Zajonc tells the class. “You
need never swallow convention whole, either on campus or in the world. You have
choices. You can have conversations like this. You can study, question yourself.
You can forge your own path of authenticity.”
“Counterfeit abundance versus authentic abundance,” Upton adds.
Arthur Zajonc and
students remain after class to continue the discussion in the Rosen Art
Study Room in Fayerweather Hall. |
Zajonc
nods and continues. “The question is: what do you want? What kind
of life are you choosing? Who do you want to be? Think back to Goethe, and our
talk of different ways of knowing. Ratiocination is one way, but it won’t
get you to the depths. You need episteme, the aperçu, the
moment of insight when you perceive the true dimensions of life.”
Upton leaps from his seat, heading for the chalkboard. “We want to help
you know who you are as individuals and human beings so you can connect to the
world. Lean on Porete; lean on Rilke and Merton. Bring their teachings home to
your own aspirations. What matters to you? What do you love in this world? What
would you love to learn, to do? Here, now, this moment: the time has come for
you to find out.”
“To put away childish things,” one student offers, recalling St.
Paul from the first day of class.
“To put away childish things,” Upton echoes, his eyes bright.
“The deep and fundamental ground we stand upon,” Zajonc tells the
class, “is the faith we have in each of you. It’s why we’re
here. We have faith in what you will do. It’s a special privilege to be
here with you, on the first step of your journey.”
A long, full silence follows. The students, many looking down at their desks
as if a gift had been placed there, sit in stillness. Upton, mindful of the time,
glances at the clock. If there were a bell, it would ring now.
“See you next time,” Zajonc smiles, although no one, yet, is making
a move to leave.
Continued >>
Rembrandt painting: The Metropolitan Museum of Art,
Gift of Archer M. Huntington, in memory of his father, Collis Potter Huntington,
1926
Classroom photo: Frank Ward
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