Without being as widespread as it might be, and as it will be,
education is very, much in vogue. We live less and less, and we learn
more and more. Sensibility surrenders to intelligence. I have seen a
man laughed at because he examined a dead leaf attentively and with
pleasure. No one would have laughed to hear a string of botanical terms
muttered with regard to it; but there are some men who, while not
ignorant of the handbooks, believe that true science should be felt
first as a pleasure. It is not the fashion. The fashion is to learn in
books alone, and from the lips of those who recite books.
Cornelius Agrippa, who possessed all the learning of his time, and
more, amused himself by writing a "Paradox on the uncertainty, vanity,
and abuse of the sciences."[1] This might be rewritten to-day, but
on another note. For a science does not have to be uncertain, vain
and abusive in order to be useless to one who cultivates it; and,
on the other hand, the certainty of a science, its interest and
its legitimacy, do not confer upon it an absolute right to mental
governance. We would even gladly agree as to the absurdity of a debate
upon the certainty or uncertainty of the sciences. Some are aleatory,
but the light-minded or interested alone call them so. The word science
involves, by definition, the idea of objective truth, and we must abide
by that, without further dispute, even conceding this objective truth,
whatever repugnance may be felt for the indissoluble union of two words
which then become ironical.
It is, moreover, a question not of science, but of education, for
which science furnishes the matter or the pretext. What is the value
of education? What sort of superiority can it confer upon an average
intelligence? If education be sometimes a ballast, is it not more often
a burden? Is it not also, and still more often, a sack of salt which
melts upon the ass's shoulders in the first storms of life? And so on.
Education is of two sorts, according as it is useful or decorative.
Even astrology can become a practical science, if the astrologer finds
his daily bread in it; but what good can it do a magistrate to know
geometry if not perhaps to warp his mind? Everything that concerns his
trade--draughtsmanship and archaeology, even, and all notions of this
order--will prove profitable to an intelligent carpenter; but of what
use could an aesthetic theory be to him if not perhaps to hamper his
activity? When it does not find some practical application or turn
itself into cash, education is an ingot sleeping in a glass case. It is
useless, not very interesting, and quite devoid of beauty.
There is much talk, in certain political circles, of integral
education. This means, doubtless, that everybody should be taught
everything--also, that a vague universal notion would be a great
benefit, a great comfort for any intelligence whatsoever; but,
in this reasoning, there is a confusion between matter and form.
The intelligence, which has a general and common form, has also
a particular form for each individual. Just as there are several
memories, so there are several intelligences; and each of these
intelligences, modified by its own physiology, determines the
individual intellect. Far from its being a good thing to teach
everybody everything, it seems clear that a given intelligence can,
without danger to its very structure, receive only those kinds of
notions which enter it without effort. If we were accustomed to attach
to words only those relative meanings they admit of, integral education
would signify the sort of education compatible with the unknown
morphology of a brain. In the majority of cases the quantity of this
education would amount to nothing, since most intelligences cannot be
cultivated.
At least by the methods at present employed, which may be summed up
in a single word--abstraction. It has come to be admitted in teaching
circles that life can be known only as speech. Whether the subject be
poetry or geography, the method is the same--a dissertation which sums
up the subject and pretends to represent it. Education has at length
become a methodical catalogue of words, and classification takes the
place of knowledge.
The most active, intelligent man can acquire only a very small number
of direct, precise notions. These are, however, the only ones of any
real depth. Teaching gives nothing but education. Life gives knowledge.
Education has at least this advantage, that it is generalized,
sublimated knowledge and thus capable of containing, in small bulk,
a great quantity of notions; but, in the majority of minds, this too
condensed food remains inert and fails to ferment. What is called
general culture is usually nothing but a collection of purely abstract
mnemonic acquisitions which the intelligence is incapable of projecting
upon the plane of reality. Without a very lively and universally active
imagination, notions confided to the memory dry up in a dead soil.
Water and sun are required to soften and ripen the sprouting seed.
It is better to know nothing than to know badly, or little, which is
the same thing. But do we know what ignorance is? So many things have
to be learned in order to appreciate and understand it! Those who might
enjoy ignorance, since they possess it, are under too many illusions
concerning themselves to find any frank refreshment in it; and those
who would be glad to do so, have left their first innocence too far
behind them. There have been moments of civilization when men knew
everything. It was not much. Was it much less than all the science
of to-day? This relativity may well make us reflect upon the value
of education. It will aid us also to indicate its true character.
Education is never other than relative. It ought, then, to be practical.
M. Barrès, in his last novel,[2] makes a deputy of Burdeau's type
say: "Virtue, like patriotism, is a dangerous element to arouse in
the masses." To these two abstractions should, perhaps, be added all
the others, in order to decree a general ostracism against every
idea that has not first been defined. And this would not mean the
proscription of virtues or of patriotic sentiments, but simply this,
that nothing is worse for the health of an average intelligence than
playing with abstract words--than that false verbal science which is at
once found inapplicable on entering real life. It is not a matter of
being virtuous; how realize a word which is the synthesis of several
contradictory ideals? It is a matter of accommodating one's nature to
the vital conditions and moral traditions of his environment. It is
not a matter of being patriotic. It is a matter of defending, against
strange beasts, the purity of the spring where one drinks. It is not a
matter of knowing the abstract principle in which the broad river of
general ideas may find its source. It is a matter of making life at
once an act of faith and an act of prudence. It is a matter first and
foremost of preserving enough simplicity to breathe joyfully the social
air, and enough suppleness to obey, without cowardice, the elementary
laws of life.
Life is a series of sensations bound together by states of
consciousness. Unless your organism is such that the abstract notion
redescends towards the senses the moment it has been understood;
unless the word Beauty gives you a visual sensation; unless handling
ideas gives you a physical pleasure, almost like caressing a shoulder
or a fabric, let ideas alone. When a miller has no grist, he shuts
his sluices and sleeps, or goes and takes a walk. He never dreams of
running his mill when it is empty, and wearing out his stones grinding
air. Education is often nothing but the wind raised by the whirling of
the bolts, and felt as words.
Teaching, from top to bottom--from the official to the popular
universities, from the village school to the École Normale--is little
else than a phrase-factory. The most valuable of all is the primary
school, where one learns to read and write--acquisitions, not of a
science, but of a new sense. If there were cut from the programme of
the rest everything useless--everything inapplicable to life or to
some profession or trade--scarcely enough would be left for eighteen
months' schooling.
The greater part of the people still escape the tortures of listening
to gentlemen who recite books. The children of the poor, freed from
the scholastic prison, learn a trade, which is an enhancement of one's
self, and begin to live at an age when their rich brothers still spend
their time handling words which correspond to nothing real--tools
which sculpture the eternal void.[3] This is about to be remedied, and
here is the subject of a night lecture in a people's university: "The
Development of the Idea of Justice in Antiquity." Even supposing--what
is little likely--that the professor said nothing on this subject that
could not be absorbed by a healthy intelligence, of what use could such
a discourse possibly be to a popular audience, and what could such
an audience derive from it applicable to its own humble existence?
Less, assuredly, than from the old-fashioned sermons which were not
afraid to flout its vices and to play upon its cowardice to keep it
from low pleasures. But the clergy of the lay religion is grave and
disdainful of facts. Souls speak to souls. The ideal descends upon the
people. The first Christians at least met both to pray and to eat in
fraternal union. After the repast, some arose to utter prophecies. The
modern prophets live only on abstractions, and they gladly share this
economical and ridiculous food with their brethren.
The man who has slowly acquired a science, has, aside from the social
advantages which it offers him, conferred, by that very fact, a special
force and agility upon his organs of attention. He possesses not only
the desired science, but a whole hunting outfit in good condition, and
all ready for new quarry. When he has carefully and patiently acquired
a foreign language, he can afterwards, with far less effort, master
the other languages of the same family. But, if he has had recourse
to some time-saving method, the acquisition no longer possesses its
proper value, and may even deteriorate more or less rapidly. Water,
boiled very quickly, grows cold equally fast--a fact ignored by the
manufacturer who had set up public boilers. By the time it had crossed
the street, the water was as cold as if it had come from a cool spring.
It is for this same reason that quick teaching by the lecture system
is so particularly useless. The listener learns to believe and not to
reason, which would still be a way of acting and of living.
Educational baggage is composed almost entirely of beliefs. Literature
and science are taught like a catechism. Life is the school of prudent
doubt. The school is a pretentious church. Every professor is equipped
with an arsenal of aphorisms. The youth who refuses to let himself be
made a target is despised. The inversion of logical values is carried
to the point where certain intellectual acts--resistance to scientific
faith, Cartesian reserve--are considered signs of unintelligence.
M. Jules de Gaultier has invented a new Manichaeism whose prudent
employment will prove very useful in clearing up certain questions.[4]
To the vital instinct he opposes the instinct of knowledge; but the
former is not the good principle, any more than the latter is the bad
principle. They have both their rôle in the work of civilization; for,
if the latter develops in man the need to know at the expense of the
forces which conserve his vital energy, it permits the intelligence,
at the same time, the better to enjoy both itself and the life of the
feelings. The spontaneous and unconscious genius of growing races
refuses obedience to neither of these great instincts. Life does not
exhaust its energy, which is immutable, but the modes of energy which
it has assumed. We tire of feeling before we tire of knowing. This
is what Leibnitz has naïvely expressed, and what has been repeated
with him by all those whose intelligence is the vulture: "It is not
necessary to live, but it is necessary to think." When this aphorism
reaches the people, it means that the decadent vital instinct has begun
to give up the struggle. The glorious flowering-time has arrived, but
the plant will die once the insect horde has fertilized it and the wind
has borne its seed to a virgin soil.
An ignorant mass forms a magnificent reserve of life in a people. Our
civilization has failed to recognize this. It is an immense field of
little flowers which exhausts the earth's vigour for the sake of a
senseless effulgence.
Such ideas, even in the attenuated form of images, may seem barbarous
to those who believe in the "benefits of education"; but it begins to
be easier to find adjectives than arguments to regenerate this ancient
and almost exhausted theme. Hearing so many journalists and deputies
speak of education as a sovereign elixir, it is clear that they have
tasted it at the sound, authentic source--that of the handbooks and the
encyclopedias--but not from those detestable jars in which the evil
genius of analysis slumbers. The true science, the "gay science," is
singularly poisonous. It is quite as poisonous as it is salutary. It
contains as many doubts as there are specks of gold in Danzig brandy.
One never knows just where the intoxication produced by this heady
liquor may lead an intelligence not too strong or too sceptical.
Compared with science, education is so slight a thing that it scarcely
merits a name. What are elementary notions of chemistry worth, when
we think of the chemist who handles bodies, composing and decomposing
them, who counts the molecules and weighs the atoms? And what
difference does it make whether a hundred thousand bachelors know the
elements of the air? But already they know it no longer. Had they been
taught to breathe, they would, perhaps, have escaped two or three
diseases, a predisposition to which, or whose germs, they transmit
joyfully to their children. It is necessary (despite a celebrated
irony) to have a chemistry and chemical industries, but not to teach
the man in the street the obscure principles of a vain science.
This is only an example, but it could be extended to almost all the
elements of general culture. An average brain to-day resembles those
experimental gardens in which flourish specimens of all the flora. Yet
this garden has its special utility, whereas brains rich in little of
everything are good for nothing. The ground has not even been turned
into a parterre, but into a herbarium, and the dried plants are so
commonplace, so defective, that they can be put to no decent use. The
majority of the flower-beds, at least, should have been reserved for a
profound and passionate culture. When this is done, the dead corners of
the garden acquire once more a certain importance. They furnish manure
and mould to warm the heart of the living garden.
We do not, then, pretend to say that general culture is useless. It
is indispensable as an auxiliary and a reserve, but as such only, and
on condition that the general, superficial culture is accompanied by
one or more sections of intensive culture. Alone, it has no value. If
from the average level, we descend to the little gardens of the people,
we now see, replacing rank but luxuriant grass, mere sickly growths
already frozen by life. All the natural flora has been weeded out, and
what was sown instead, in a soil poorly cleared and prepared, has been
unable to come up because there was neither sun nor water. The sole
interest of these ridiculous little kitchen-gardens is a tree, which
is often tall and stately--some chestnut or linden. This is the trade
in which the man has resolutely perfected himself. One of these trees
alone is worth all the general cultures which have relegated it to a
stony corner. It dominates them by its utility and by its beauty.
Man's justification in life is that he is a function. His days on
earth must produce a result. That is why we shall eternally regret the
abolishing of the trades by the extreme division of labour. Industrial
civilization has withdrawn from a vast number of men the pleasure
that they used to find in their work. A high salary may make a man
satisfied to have worked, but it does not give him satisfaction in the
work itself, the joy of employing the present hour in the realization
of a definite object. Industry has operated against the artisan to the
advantage of the idler, and also to the advantage of capital against
labour. Any mechanical invention whatsoever has been more harmful
to humanity than a century of war. The hedemonic value of muscular
activity has been so far diminished that the only moments when workmen
are conscious of living are those when the normal man relaxes--the
moments of repose; and, necessarily, the temptation has been to dilate
these hours of negative sensation to the point of absorbing in them the
whole pleasure of living. Alcohol has afforded the means.
In order to suppress this source of excitation, people with good
intentions but unhealthy minds--that is to say, out of touch with
reality--have contemplated opposing the pleasure of learning to the
pleasure of drinking. If such a task were possible, physiological
intoxication would be replaced by cerebral intoxication, and that
would not be a very desirable result. To follow a day of muscular
effort with an evening of intellectual effort, is to double the total
fatigue without real profit to the man subjected to such a régime.
Consider the poor wretch who, after ten hours of shoving a block of
wood under the sharp teeth of a circular saw, comes back, after a
picked-up supper, to listen to a gentleman address him on the holiness
of justice! But justice would require the preacher to take turns with
the artisan in shoving the blocks of wood and in comfortably studying
the fruitful principles of social charlatanism. Poor people who, with
their instinctive need of priests, believe themselves victors because,
having denied a dogma, they now applaud the moral aspect of this same
dogma, but deformed by hypocrisy and hatred! It is through education--a
very ancient invention--that the clergy has dominated the people and
the world; and it is through education also, that the lay preachers are
determined to clip the last claws of the vital instinct.
For all these teachers teach desperately the negation of life. They
infect the healthy section of the people with their own unhealthy
habits of receiving sensation only by reflex, of watching in a glass
the life they dare not encounter, and they do so with a certain
good faith. The real object of this education is the implanting of
a morality--a singular morality, whose precepts are almost entirely
negative. By weakening the will to live, to the profit of an instable
cerebrality, they fashion those enervated, obedient, docile generations
which are the dream of second-rate tyrants. At the very moment when a
race needs, merely to persist, all the forces of which its instinct
is perhaps still the depository, they pour out for it, though in an
impoverished, poisoned form, that very liquor with which the Roman
apostles tamed the surplus energy of the barbarians. If a rationalistic
or religious protestantism were to pre-empt the sovereign place of
our traditional, pagan Catholicism, we should share the fate of those
conquered peoples.
But how is it possible not to be tempted to furnish rules of conduct
along with rules of grammar? All we ask is that these precepts should
not be depressants, but that the young should find in them, on the
contrary, an incitement to activity--to all the activities. Education,
in itself, is nothing. It can be judged only when its surroundings are
examined by the light of this torch. A torch is useful, not because of
its light, but because of the object on which its light falls. We see
also an oven methodically heated with brushwood and faggots; but this
heat is merely a sterile blaze if, when it dies down, the dough of the
eternal bread be not given it to bake.
Education is a means, and not an end. It is painfully absurd to learn
for learning's sake, to burn for the sake of burning. The very song of
the birds is not in vain. During the periods of sexual calm the great
love concerts are rehearsed. Considered as the precise instrument of a
future work, education may have a very great, even absolute importance.
It may be the necessary condition of certain intellectual achievements.
It will be the staff of the intelligence; but, offered to a second-rate
brain, directed simply and solely to the enlargement of the memory, it
has no power to regenerate sick cells. It will rather serve to crush
them. It will make them dull. It will divert from the natural needs of
life the activities merely meant for daily exercise. Education ballasts
unstable genius, giving it subjects for comparison and motives for
reflection. To genius already established, it affords a little of that
uneasiness which is the source of irony. It is sometimes a support for
certitude, sometimes the cause of gravitation towards doubt. But it has
an influence only upon intelligences in action or capable of action.
It does not determine, it inclines. Above all, it does not create
intelligence. We are constantly offered examples of men who, educated
in all that is taught, remain mediocrities, and who, though they have
written for twenty years, have not even learned how to write. And, on
the other hand, there are others who know but one trade, and who have
read nothing but life. Their lucidity sometimes shames even genius.
1900.
[1] "A work," continues the translator, "which can profit the reader,
and which brings marvellous contentment to those who frequent the
courts of the _grands seigneurs_, and who wish to learn how to talk of
an infinite number of things opposed to the common opinion." S. 1. 1603.
[2] _L'Appel au soldat_.
[3] Someone remarked in the course of a conversation: "The peasant is
a real person; he is a scientist, a physicist." All modern political
effort tends to turn the physicist into a metaphysician. This effort
is well under way for the working-man, who begins to despise toil and
value phrases. His surprise is great when he finds that the word has no
effect upon reality.
[4] _De Kant à Nietzsche_.