Foucault’s Pendulum

Some years ago, I read Foucault’s Pendulum, written by the famed Italian novelist Umberto Eco.

The novel itself could best be described as the “elite” or (dare-we-say?) “intellectual” version of The Da Vinci Code. The premise revolved around a small group of scholars intent on solving an ancient mystery, seeking clues inscribed upon old marble columns and recorded cryptically in dusty, crumbling texts.

Like the works of Dante, a fairly intimate familiarity with Italian history and literature was necessary to understand the many cultural and linguistic references that were made in the novel. These were lost upon me, regrettably, yet I was still largely unmotivated to search for their meanings in the web world. To exacerbate matters, either by the virtue of an overzealous translator or by Eco himself, many of the words in the English version were positively draconian in nature. By the first ten pages of the book I had written a list of words whose inclusion would have shocked even the GRE, to say nothing of their effect on a high-schooler.

All such matters in consideration, it can be best said that I charged through the reading of Foucault’s Pendulum, employing little caution and paying scant attention to detail (that is, to invoke Heinrich Schliemann, except if I were in his place I may have destroyed three Troys instead of just one).

And to think, the ease with which I could have gained a complete and thorough understanding of the book and its requisite vocabulary and cultural knowledge, with a simple flick of a wrist and a cursory glance at a computer screen. I do really pity (and admire) the students of the not-so-distant past, armed with nothing but books, libraries, and librarians. The effort and time it would take me to locate knowledge is infinitesimal compared to the Herculean labors of these not-very-ancient scholars. But I digress. (And I should very likely give Herodotus due credit for the ease with which I did so.)

The reason I am writing this is because the study of Isocrates, Cicero, and the origins of the liberal arts tradition has suddenly prompted remembrance of a passage in the book, even after all these years and a haphazard first reading. The passage is reproduced below, and it deals with the subject of teaching:

“I believe that what we become depends on what our fathers teach us at odd moments, when they aren’t trying to teach us. We are formed by little scraps of wisdom.”

What does this imply? Despite our best efforts to structure a carefully-crafted curriculum that would expose our children to a broad spectrum of knowledge, do the most significant moments in teaching occur unplanned and unpremeditated? What would linger in the mind of a student, the precepts taught in Day 67 of Grade Six, or knowledge passed in the form of friendly banter with parents, teachers, and mentors?

There may be a glimmer of truth in this tendency, possibly due to the nature of the human psyche itself, and it is worth investigating. I can attest personally to experiencing this adverse reaction to “formal education”, reverting quickly to curious diligence the moment any pretense of formality is dispersed. Surely this is not a phenomenon of the 21st century, but as to whether or not Isocrates dealt with the issue, I tend to remain in doubt. He taught only six students at a time and prescribed entrance requirements; any interactions students would have had with Isocrates would invariably have resembled free banter than any sort of institutionalized, formal learning. Alas, in our classrooms of thirty and our lectures of two-hundred, we have no such luxury. Currently, it is the duty and responsibility of the student to approach the teacher to engage in such exchanges, but responsibility should be placed equally.