Week 5 Post from My History of Rhetoric Course: Thomas Hobbes Edition
First off, let’s acknowledge that at the end of the first paragraph on page 255 of Reason and Rhetoric in the Philosophy of Hobbes, Skinner accidentally says “yolo.”
Now, with that out of the way, I have to say I agree and disagree with Hobbes. If you accept his definition of rhetoric as the art of sacrificing wisdom for eloquence, then I agree we shouldn’t do that. But I can’t cosign on how he only defines rhetoric in that way. Here’s the problem with Hobbes (and apparently, it seems, the Ramists as a whole): they assume that anyone you converse with are at the same level intellectually that you are. Anyone who’s taught knows that the further away you get from pure academic discourse, the more necessary eloquence is to both keep novices interested and to help them understand. When I first began teaching, I often supplemented information with entertainment, not because I wanted to deceive but because I hadn’t quite yet developed the cache of knowledge I now have. Also, it was a way of keeping the class’ attention as opposed to just dismissing early or giving them a time-eating writing exercise. It’s okay to entertain, as long as you remember you’re a teacher, not an entertainer.
Assuming he uses “eloquence” as a general term for entertaining, I can say that nowadays, I rarely sacrifice knowledge for eloquence, but I wouldn’t have gotten to this point without going through what I went through before. Rhetoric is about process more so than result. Hobbes translates Aristotle as saying “the end of Rhetorique is victory which consists in having gotten beleefe” (Art of Rhetorique 41). I think that’s misleading because if you contextualize Aristotle’s words, he’s talking about a scenario when you have “infallible truthes” (41). I admit that rhetoric as Hobbes presents it has more value when speaking than with writing because if you’re interested enough to pick up a book or article on a subject, eloquence may not be as important as the information. But as we know, even if you love to read and you’re lucky enough to have a job that entails a great deal of reading, you find yourself having to read things that you have little interest in as much or even more so than that which you do enjoy. In that instance, eloquence can add flavor to an otherwise bland bit of information, like putting salt and pepper on grits.
Moving back to Skinner, he discusses Sir Philip Sidney’s comparison of elocutio to “Courtisanlike painted affection,” going on to say that Sidney’s criticism “attacks […] excessive verbal finery” (274). This is where moderation comes into place. Too much makeup and you can look like Jan Crouch, the woman from TBN. But the right amount can accentuate one’s beauty, not obscure it like when Jennifer Anniston or Jada Pinkett Smith appear on the Tonight Show. Criticizing eloquence as being “separated from a proper knowledge of things” reminds me a great deal of the #nomakeup campaign (279). But here’s the thing: if you’re posting a picture of yourself without makeup, but it’s clear you’ve taken great care in making yourself look as good as possible with camera filters and multiple angle shots, choosing the best one and you accompany the picture with a grandiose announcement about how you’re not wearing makeup, then it becomes a self-serving mechanism every bit as much as posting a picture of yourself with makeup. The only difference is that you’re in denial in the picture without makeup. To those who look closely at your actions, you become just as transparent as the annoying guy who would post under the #nomakeup pic, “I think you look even more beautiful without makeup.”
When Hobbes translates Aristotle, he does the equivalent of what he accuses rhetoricians of doing, which is distorting information in order to serve his own ends, making Aristotle’s words “appear to be more or less than indeed they are” (De Cive 123). I’m not talking about omitting examples that he feels are unnecessary or even rearranging certain sections because it’d be easier for his audience to follow. Those are editorial decisions that must get made. But when I read footnotes saying that “Hobbes has greatly condensed […] and omitted […] where Aristotle distinguishes between rhetoric and dialectic and stresses the moral purpose that makes rhetoric an art,” that makes me question his ethos (A Briefe of the Art of Rhetoric 40). I know he’s smart and thoughtful, but is he honest? Speaking of the footnotes, I found them much more interesting and helpful than Hobbes’ discussion. I think that’s because some of Aristotle’s ideas are outdated, significant in their primacy but a relic of a bygone era. Of course, I don’t blame Hobbes for this, but I think it’s worth pointing out.
I agree (like a good rhetorician) with some of Hobbes’ assertions. His discussion about the problem of redefining terms has merit that we can still see today. The difference between generous and prodigal are a matter of the assumption from which you begin your reasoning. I don’t find his discussion on religion too off-putting like when he references the story of Solomon in saying “[g]ive therefore unto thy servant an understanding heart to judge thy people, that I may discern between good and evil” (De Cive 129). It’s easy to think of judging in a negative sense, coupling it with hypocrisy and bullying. Yet in extreme circumstances, we need to judge. For instance, if someone’s a pedophile, I’m keeping children away from him and turning him into the police. That’s an obvious example, but I think it’s important to have prudence or sapientia, especially in civic matters. With some people, religious faith—balanced with thoughtful ideas about politics and human affairs—can help with this. I disagree with Hobbes at how one can arrive at sapientia or how it looks, but I think one should have it, even more so if he or she is running a government.
In the same vein, Skinner asserts that Hobbes believes “practitioners of rhetoric not only fail to join wisdom with eloquence; they almost invariably bring it about that the one is disiungitur or sundered from the other” (284). He has a point, which is why some people are great speakers but terrible writers—the tricks they use in a public setting like talking fast or turning an intellectual discussion into a battle of wills can’t be used. But the other side is that so much of our wisdom literature is, not poetic prose based on proofs—but poetry, eloquent, figurative writing that is not necessarily ratiocentric. That’s not just a Western thing, that’s everywhere. And it’s not relegated to mythic stories. Solomon’s Proverbs, Rumi’s verses, all have what Hobbes hates. It’s possible that I’m falling into an ergo propter hoc fallacy by assuming that he would assume these examples of wisdom literature are actually wise. But based on some of his allusions, I don’t think I am.
This is a good time to include my weekly post on memory. Skinner talks about Hobbes’ view of sapientia, staing that “[t]his has its origins in sense and is shaped by the operations of memory, experience being ‘nothing else but remembrance of what antecedents have been followed with what consequents’” (259). Hobbes contrasts sapience—fact of the future—with the “wisdom” of the past. There always will be a tension between the “prudence” of history, which is cultivated through making sense of memory and the “genius” of the future, which is cultivated by questioning established knowledge in order to bring forth social and scientific breakthroughs. Like so much of our gothic and science fiction literature have taught us, we need both.
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