Richard Smith

Education in the west has become a very knowing business in which students are encouraged to cultivate self-awareness and meta-cognitive skills in pursuit of a kind of perfection. The result is the evasion of contingency and of the consciousness of human finitude. The neo-liberalism that makes education a market good exacerbates this. These tendencies can be interpreted as a dimension of scepticism. This is to be dissolved partly by acknowledging that we are obscure to ourselves. Such an acknowledgement is fostered by the mythic dimension of experience, which also recommends a degree of humility to the citizens of democratic states.

This paper addresses what some view as a progressive and decades-long devaluing of the liberal arts in our educational institutions and society at large. It draws attention to symptoms of this trend and possible contributing factors, identifies benefits commonly attributed to the liberal arts, and then shows how insights from recent research on neuroplasticity provide good reason to believe that a traditional liberal education has positive effects on a person's brain. The paper supports the thesis that well-designed liberal arts courses can literally transform students' minds and lives as a result of unique and synergistic brain processes activated and strengthened by the leaming experiences such courses provide. It finishes with recommendations to help reinvigorate and promote the value of liberal education.

In doing philosophy we need to be aware of the awkwardness of thinking in terms of having a method, still more any kind of 'methodology'. Instead we might consider the different ways in which philosophy has been conceived in terms of contrasts: for example between the written and the spoken word, between exposition and dialogue, and between—in Richard Rorty's terms—systematic and edifying philosophy. This article offers no easy answer to how to proceed, suggesting rather that those who attempt philosophy need to be alert to the possibilities and dangers that lie on either side. This is not just any kind of alertness, but a matter of close reading rather than skimming, of carefully attending—listening—to those with whom we engage, whether they are people or texts.

The recent wave of interest in 'teaching happiness' is beset by problems. It consists of many different emphases and approaches, many of which are inconsistent with each other. If happiness is understood as essentially a matter of 'feeling good', then it is difficult to account for the fact that we want and value all sorts of things that do not make us particularly happy. In education and in life more broadly we value a wider diversity of goods. Such criticisms are standard in philosophical treatments of happiness and can be found across a range of imaginative literature—perhaps the kinds of books that would no longer be read if the proponents of 'teaching happiness' were to have their way.

The idea that educational research should be 'scientific', and ideally based on randomised control trials, is in danger of becoming hegemonic. In the face of this it seems important to ask what other kinds of educational research can be respectable in their own different terms. We might also note that the demand for research to be 'scientific' is characteristically modernist, and thus arguably local and temporary. It is then tempting to consider what non-modernist approaches might look like. The purpose of this article is to sketch a case for one particular reaction against modernist thinking: romanticism. How might our understanding (apprehension, sense) of education be changed by readmitting the insights and perspectives of romanticism? And, crucially, what confidence could we have in educational research that was thus inspired and that took the 'romantic turn'?

This paper responds to Tröhler's charge that my paper ‘As if by Machinery: The levelling of educational research’ takes Francis Bacon's vision of scientific research out of context. I distinguish four senses of ‘decontextualisation’: as ignorance, as belief in ‘timeless truths’, as comparison of contexts, and as genealogy. I argue that Tröhler has a case against the first sense and aspects of the second, but that his argument against the last two makes philosophy and philosophical conversation impossible and his own case self‐annulling

The language of self‐belief, including terms like shyness and diffidence, is complex and puzzling. The idea of self‐esteem in particular, which has been given fresh currency by recent interest in ‘personalised learning’, continues to create problems. I argue first that we need a ‘thicker’ and more subtle moral psychology of self‐belief; and, secondly, that there is a radical instability in the ideas and concepts in this area, an instability to which justice needs to be done. I suggest that aspects of deconstruction are helpful here, and offer a deconstructive reading of Kipling's poem, If—, in order to illustrate the power of literature and a certain kind of philosophy to destabilise and resist closure

This book evaluates the increasingly wide variety of intellectual resources for research methods and methodologies and investigates what constitutes good educational research. Written by a distinguished international group of philosophers of education Questions what sorts of research can usefully inform policy and practice, and what inferences can be drawn from different kinds of research Demonstrates the critical engagement of philosophers of education with the wider educational research community and illustrates the benefits that can accrue from such engagement.

Self-esteem has become an educational shibboleth. But over-valuing it brings dangers, particularly of dishonesty, manipulation and devaluation of human relationships. Yet there is clearly something here we want to save: a gentler culture with wider possibilities of self-fulfilment. Here I try to distinguish three levels of self-esteem talk. There is the exaltation of self-esteem as the chief aim of education, the therapeutic approach to education and the recognition of self-esteem as one educational value among many. It is the latter, I argue, that can preserve the benefits of the idea of self-esteem while avoiding the worst of its pitfalls.

This chapter enquires into the nature of university teaching. I consider whether Alasdair MacIntyre's notion of a practice, together with some of his related ideas, is useful to us here. My argument is that MacIntyre's talk of incommensurable rationalities tells in the end against the fragmentation of higher education and rather points to one distinctive and important role for the university: that the university should be conceived in some respects as a therapeutic community, whose function it is to encourage and enable its members to think together.

Paul Standish:Some people might expect us to start by explaining why we have written this chapter as a dialogue. Leaving aside the fact that Plato – to whom all philosophy, it has been said, is a series of footnotes – wrote in dialogue form, and never seems to have felt the need to tell us why, we might say that we have written it in this way because it is a dialogue. We push ideas to and fro, question each other, disagree with each other, and so on.Reader:You say that it is a dialogue. Do you mean that this chapter is a transcription of an actual conversation between you?Richard Smith:There have been so many conversations among us that these pages are pretty well bound to be true to our spoken words at some time or another. And of course these conversations have involved Paul Smeyers too, and – for many years – Nigel Blake, whose presence can also be detected in these pages.Reader:So you are saying that there has been something essentially dialogic in your relationship with Paul Smeyers, and you felt that only a dialogue could do justice to that.Paul:Pretty much so. And while there is something worryingly self-confirming in justifying the dialogue form with a dialogic explanation, it would be odd to cast the justification in some other prose form, as if that were superior to dialogue in respect of clarity or persuasive power or in some other way.Richard:Then too dialogue is a fine medium for reminiscence, allowing for uncertainty, different perspectives, and debate rather than assuming that veridical record is what is at issue here.Paul:In any case, reminiscence is largely a way of revisiting philosophical projects and arguments from the past in order to subject their soundness to fresh critique.Reader:So, if I understand you, this dialogue is both true and fictive, and reminiscence looks forward, as much as back.Richard:Splendid. I only hope that what follows isn’t a disappointment to you.

Readers are invited to spot the errors in the references below. Answers to the Editor by March 1st, 1999: successful entries will be drawn out of a hat and the winner will be sent a copy of an attractive book on the philosophy of education that we cannot find a reviewer for. Those whose entries contain more than two mistakes of commission and/or omission will be either named and shamed in a future editorial or reported directly to the latest arbiter of the quality of educational research or thanked for their interest and their effort, depending on the political climate prevailing at the time. If anyone finds more errors than those deliberately included then the Editor will of course name and shame himself.

There is a longstanding difficulty in distinguishing philosophy (and philosophy of education) from other kinds of writing. Even the notions of clarity and rigour, sometimes claimed as central and defining characteristics of philosophy at its best, turn out to have ineliminably figurative elements, and accounts of philosophical method often display the very rhetoricity that they describe philosophy as concerned to avoid. It is tempting to wonder how far notions of philosophy as austere and analytic are responsible for ideals of educational research as unnaturally tidy and formal, and even for conceptions of the practice of education in schools and universities as focused on targets, performance indicators and statistics. Perhaps the nature of philosophy is best understood through its history. Then the philosopher must “go to school” not only with the poets, but also with the historians, so that the disciplinary divisions here become ever harder to mark out, to the enrichment of those who practise them.