The Problem of Humanist Knowing
We can begin to understand how differently from ourselves Renaissance
humanists thought about "knowing" by asking first about our own late
twentieth-century sense of it. What is it about knowing that makes it
hard? That is not an easy question, but certainly a likely answer would
begin with our sense of the immensity, the unboundedness, of the task.
No modern would ever think that s/he could know all there is in the world
to know, or that anyone could ever even know enough to get along by
themselves. This is reflected in our divisions of the knowable. In
college one majors not in everything, but only in a particular subject,
and even then, although we do try to know that one thing well, still we
divide up even our major disciplines, and then re-divide even those divisions.
In English you can be an expert on either modern or
Renaissance literature, or even an expert just on early Renaissance
literature, or perhaps just on the drama. And all without loss of
reputation for not being well-informed about Nineteenth Century
literature, let alone electron microscopy.
So our sense of the problem of knowing, and of its solution, depends
upon what we take to be a demonstrated infiniteness of possible things to
know, and on how we choose to cut that infiniteness down to a manageable
size. Then consider not just how we subdivide the knowable, but also the
ways in which we hierarchialize the kinds of things we know about our
various subjects. At the very top of the kinds of knowing we value, most
of us would place "facts": facts about society, about people, about
nature. And certainly we also value highly as a kind of knowledge
"knowing how." We want children to know how to swim, to know how to use
computers.
Yet there are other matters no less important to us in terms of how
we run our lives (indeed, some would argue more important) that we often
don't even think of as knowledge at all, or at best take to be less
valuable as things to know. Primary among these are moral issues. I think
it is fair to say that as a society we take morals to be a commonplace
matter, and perhaps not even worth serious study. Though we have
courses--indeed whole majors--on forestry, rocks, chemistry, writing, we
don't have any courses named "How to Live a Better and more Ethical Life."
To be sure, there are ethics courses in many philosophy departments, but
they are more concerned with theory than they are with helping you decide
how to make better decisions about your life. Moreover, what is studied
in ethics courses are not particular codes of ethics, but rather the more
general problem of what are ethics, how can one be said to know, or act,
ethically. It is true that other college courses indirectly take up the
subject of "How People Live Their Lives" (usually literature courses of
one kind or another), but even there the subject of Life-Living is
mediated by the texts one reads. We don't read and think about How to
Establish a Sense of One's Own Identity, but about how Dickens (say)
writes about the way Pip establishes his identity.
Further, we also have certain assumptions about the way we know
things. We privilege (generally) factual knowledge above moral or ethical
knowledge at least in part because of how it is known, as well as (perhaps
as much as) because of its essential nature. Factual knowledge owes
itself to description, to measurement, to exactnesses of one sort or
another. That sort of knowing seems to us concrete and reliable. Much of
our ethical thought, by contrast, is analogical and narrative. Situation
A is like situation B, and therefore we should do such and such. But in
general the twentieth century has held analogical reasoning in low esteem,
thinking it less valid, less "real" than "scientific" reasoning.
Further, we also find ourselves uncomfortable with moral rules and
commonplaces. We live in an age of relatively and diversity, and the idea
that one could make a list of rules for good behavior that all human
beings would agree on seems incredibly naive. (We could probably get MOST
to agree to a restriction on indiscriminate killing, but more than that
would be difficult to negotiate.)
Yet like it or not, moral knowledge cannot help but be a matter of
precepts, of experience, of an eye cocked, guesses made which try to bring
the force of experience and commonplace to bear upon a particular action.
By its nature it is a matter of "judgment," and more often than not we
guide ourselves by analogies, by metaphors--and by the narratives which
underlie or are implied by them--whether we want to or not. But even if
that is what we actually do, the open-endedness of ethical questions, the
difficulties about being exact (or even reliably right) on such matters
seem to have made us question the status of such knowing, as well as the
analogical reasoning upon which it is based. Though we make ethical
decisions every day, and while we may think hard about them, we are rarely
very systematic about them. We tend (again, speaking generally) not to
think of the process by which those decisions are made as something which
could itself be a discipline, something subject to analytic and discursive
thought.
Thus in planning our educations, many of us work from the assumption
that a subject like chemistry or business administration is in some way
more "practical" than literature, that literature (and other "pure"
humanities) are good enough for relaxation, or variety, or "breadth," but
that for the real living of life they are like the background music we
hear while shopping at a grocery store. Nor is this entirely wrong, since
in terms of getting jobs, "fact knowledge" and "how-to knowledge" often
seem, and often are, more useful. But the result of this is that knowing
what something "is" seems more important than knowing what something "is
like." Or rather, we value knowing something scientifically (as we know
"facts") over knowing things metaphorically or analogically (as we know
ethical issues). Given the nature of moral thought, it's something of an
ironic paradox that when engaged in argument most people think that
because analogy depends for its force only on similarity, and not on
identity, it's a valid challenge to their opponent's case to observe that
he or she is arguing "by analogy."
I summarize these commonplaces not to argue with them, but only to
establish some sort of ground against which to contrast the Renaissance
problem of knowing. For it was different in several important ways.
First, for most "educated" Renaissance men and women the knowledge which
mattered most was not "scientific" in our sense at all. Rather, it was
quite straightforwardly moral: those things which when known could
provide insight on choices for action. That didn't necessarily exclude
the study of nature, but when one looked to nature, it was often as a book
in which to read the universal order which governed all of creation,
including the world of human affairs. Thus nature, in general, was very
often not so much a subject of study as it was a means of study.
Further, knowledge in the Renaissance was in an important sense
"bounded." Early in the sixteenth century Erasmus wrote that virtually
all "knowledge" could be found in the books of the Greeks and Romans. By
this, of course, he didn't mean that everything we moderns--or even he,
the Renaissance philosopher--would call "knowledge" could be found there.
That, even in a world that thought differently than we do about knowing,
would have been absurd. But Erasmus' concept of knowledge differed from
ours by focusing (after the Bible) first on the litterae humanae, the
books of literature, history, theology, and moral philosophy. Thus when
Erasmus locates all knowledge in the ancients, he only means that
everything which seemed to him truly to matter was there. Other factual
knowing such as the best way to mine silver, or how to market wool in the
low countries, would not have entered his consideration as the kind of
knowledge an education would be aiming toward. Sapientia, in fact (for it
was in Latin that this conversation would be carried out anyway), was the
thing to be known: "Wisdom." In a spirit which matches that of his friend
Erasmus, Sir Thomas More in his Utopia describes the far-reaching change
in Utopian culture caused by the arrival on their shores of a library of
classical texts. Those very quickly become Utopia's basis for education
as the Utopians enthusiastically embrace Greek and Latin letters. But
that can happen only because everything the Utopians read in the classics
only demonstrates that good farming, good living and good government are
all matters whose principles had already been fully established in the
ancient world, and which can now, for the first time, be understood fully
by means of the artful discourses they find in the books handed down from
ancient Greece and Rome. It was precisely in that rather abstract sense
of a complete and bounded set of first principles that all wisdom could be
said to be available through the books of ancient classical world. To the
humanists, for a while, that seemed plenty knowledge enough.
Of course, there were other knowledges about, and as the century
develops, "natural" knowledge more and more becomes both available and
respectable. But even as the century ends, knowing nature is not for the
most part the sort of knowing with which the educational establishment was
much concerned. This is at least part of the point of Sir Francis Bacon's
late-century attack on the humanist educational system. In contrast to
what seems to him to be humanism's old- fashioned educational practice, he
makes the radically innovative case for an education based on knowing
nature, and knowing it on its own terms. Yet even Bacon, a man as
convinced as any late sixteenth- century man that older modes of defining
knowledge would have to change, had no real sense of how daunting was the
task. For imagined that the study and assimilation of the knowledge of
nature could be accomplished in something like just sixty years. 400
years later, with science still madly researching thousands of mysteries,
Bacon's original estimate seems incredibly naive.
But returning to the sixteenth century generally, I've suggested that
the knowledge which matters to humanists is ethical and bounded--literally
by the corpus of classical texts. To these characteristics we can add
three more. First, because the knowledge which matters to Renaissance
humanists is that of the Bible and of the classics, it is also verbal, and
especially, "textual." It is stored in written words, in books, and is
therefore available only to those who are trained such as to be able to
recover them. It is not by accident that this is an age of education.
The setting up of schools is a necessary consequence of the notion that
the things people must know are available only through texts.
Second, knowledge is timeless. Adjustments of particulars are
obviously necessary, since Rome is not London, but very often the humanist
claim is that in all crucial ways, though admittedly with the not minor
exception of the addition of Christian truths to those of the pagan
classics (and in some cases the replacement of ancient truths with those
Christian truths), the process of learning is largely to be one of the
recovery of what was once already known.
And third, it matters greatly that knowledge is in an important sense
inherently analogical. This is an age (like that before it) which found
it easy to move from the natural fact that there were seven known metals
and seven known planets to the observation that a lot of things came in
sevens (like the seven days of the week), and that this number thus seemed
to be a principle of cosmic--and therefore moral--ordering. Of course,
other things came in other numbers, but again, the correspondence of
different kinds of things in the numbers in which they occurred seemed a
sign of an underlying structural likeness--indeed, a sign of God's divine
wisdom. The fact of likeness itself (either of characteristic, as the
sun's brightness to Gold's brightness, or of number, as with the seven
metals and the seven planets) thus becomes both a structural principle of
the noetic economy, and a means by which relationships between different
points in that economy are to be sought out and evaluated. If you know
there are seven metals and seven planets and seven days, you can either
look for other series of sevens to posit as correlate, or you can look for
series of sixes or eights and try to reconceptualize them into sevens.
Even more important, it becomes quite easy to see a cosmic relation
between these (seemingly God-given) natural sevens on the one hand, and
ethical sevens like the Seven Virtues, or the Seven Deadly Sins on the
other.
Summing up these commonplaces about knowing, it is for Renaissance
Humanists essentially:
1)bounded, static, timeless, universal
2)ethical
3)verbal
4)analogical
If we now ask what follows from this for understanding Renaissance
literature, it is clear that if analogy is a central feature of "knowing,"
then literature--and indeed, any and all analogical discourse--finds
itself precisely at the center of the knowledge enterprise. That's very
different from our own culture's point of view. For as this century ends
those of us who've committed ourselves to the study of books seem quaintly
useless ("So just what exactly are you going to DO with that English
degree of yours?"). But it has not always been so. Renaissance poets and
scholars found it much easier than do their modern counterparts to imagine
that the work they did was central to the culture, and to expect that
centrality to be properly recognized and attended to. People have often
wondered why the sixteenth century in England--a little island nation
whose population then was only about two-thirds that of Washington State
now--saw such a vigorous outpouring of "great literature." At least in
part that productivity must have started from their much greater sense of
confidence that the knowledge they worked with in their writings might
truly be taken seriously by those who had the power to rule the world.