Bulletpoint Philosophy

“The man whose horse trots a mile in a minute does not carry the most important message.” — Henry David Thoreau

 

“Do you think we spend too much time thinking about life instead of living it?”

I’ve always wanted to begin an essay that way. The question raises all kinds of paradoxes. In asking it, am I already guilty of an excess of reflection? In reading my asking it, are you too prioritising thought and reflection over action? For that matter, why do we dichotomise thinking and living—as if to think were to be frozen in time, like Rodin’s sculpture?

I was at a Starbucks in New Haven working on an essay (“Describe the two-component account of moral weakness, and explain what you think is the most serious objection facing that theory.”) It was early morning in New Haven, but therefore early evening on the other side of the world when one of my closest friends sent me a text asking that troubling question. She gave no context, she said nothing else, she simply asked the question and it appeared on my screen in a little blue bubble designed by Apple in California, accompanied by a childish sound suggesting that a pigeon had just flown the question half way around the world. 

The short answer—the tl;dr—is: no. No, I don’t think we spend too much time thinking about life instead of living it. The slightly longer version: that seems to be our problem, really. 

This essay is, in its entirety, the answer I wanted to give my friend, but felt at the time incapable of. For as much as I wanted to answer her there and then, I felt that to do so—to send messages in glossy bubbles and to fill her ears with those tinny pigeon-noises—would be to belie my lack of thought, whatever I happened to say. I believed then, and I believe more strongly now, that the very form in which we present our thoughts can say almost as much as the thoughts themselves. A truism, perhaps proven by modernism itself. But invert this, and we get another truth: that what we say—and, prior to that, how we think—depends upon the form which we have available to say it. At a time when technology has changed these forms more in the past decade than in the few centuries before, now seems a good time to stop, to assess. Just what are we saying, and how are we saying it?

I propose we call ours the age of the bulletpoint philosophy. It is a time of quick fixes and strange philosophical mixes to life’s pressing problems. I could cherry-pick examples, but I scarcely need to. Websites like LifeHack, LifeHacker, Study Hacks, Zen Habits: as I check them while writing this, I get articles from “Get a Better You: Powerful workouts, easy recipes and wellness tips for an awesome life”, to “The Life-Changing Magic of the Inbox Sort Folder”; “How To Write Every Day” and “All The Passive Aggressive Stuff You Should Never Do In A Relationship”. In such philosophy (and I am one who believes philosophy is naught but counsel in the problems of living) we find Stoicism meeting Buddhism, hippie culture meeting the corporate incarnation of the Protestant ethic. Google is even more helpful. Ask for the meaning of life and I get 86 million answers in 0.76 seconds, with the best answer highlighted in a box at the top, lest I were to feel overwhelmed. (1. Stop Playing by the Rules; 2. Step Outside of Your Comfort Zone; 3. Find Your Joy; 4. Listen to Your Intuition; 5. Appreciate the Individual Moments.)

For some years I have been simultaneously attracted to and revolted by this kind of writing. On the one hand, it seems to help. I’m inspired to change my life, to find my joy. It has persuaded me to be an early riser, and to become vegetarian; to get rid of some of my possessions, and to try meditating. Admitting this, I’m horrified. Surely someone who attends a so-called elite university should be more discerning, taking life lessons from Shakespeare rather than Tim Ferris? 

Like an anonymous street artist whose work is soon framed and placed in bourgeois living rooms, this writing first appeared on personal blogs but before long became its own genre with a proud place on major media websites. It has so far remained nameless as a genre. But “to name a sensibility”, wrote Sontag—“to draw its contours and to recount its history, requires a deep sympathy modified by revulsion.” 

I have both. Let us examine.

— — — — 

A simple chronology: first there were philosophers; then came professors of philosophy; now we have the bulletpoint philosophers and those who love to live. First there were those who loved to examine life; then came those who loved to reflect on those who reflected on life; then came those who said screw it all, get on with living by the most simple and immediate means—“Stop Playing By The Rules.”

The shift, in other words, has been has been away from thought and towards action. It mimics the decline of the public intellectual and the rise of the “hustle”, the latter growing up in Silicon Valley among coders in garages and venture capitalists on Sand Hill Road. Hustling: from the world of gangs and live fast, die young, to the world of t-shirts, computers and “fail fast”. The “hustle” is a response to a world seen as too focused on thought; it is a backlash against a world too intellectual, the world of professors of philosophy who spend their lives reflecting upon others’ reflections upon life. Far better, the hustle imagines, to do, to act, and to “make a difference”. Change the world. In this conception, progress is seen as coming exclusively from action, not thought—if you’re talking you’re not walking, if you’re thinking you’re not winning. 

The term “hack”, which has now entered daily language and the titles of numerous blogs I read, has clear origins. Urban Dictionary, ever-accurate, suggests “a clever solution to a tricky problem”. A coder in a garage gets stuck on a tricky problem in an algorithm, but sits up with it long enough, drinks enough Red Bull, and develops a clever solution. The next day his mother dies; but he knows that if he looks for it (or cogitates on it for a moment) there will be a clever solution somewhere, an “elegant” way of dealing with his feelings. LifeHacker matches the coder’s website HackerNews: there is no longer anything to separate life’s problems and those of web development. Two professors recently brought out a book based on their popular Stanford course: Design Your Life: How To Build a Well-Lived, Joyful Life. Build it, as Jobs and Wozniak once built the Macintosh; design it, as Facebook designs its icons.

Productivity cults sprang up to match the new hustle mentality with the technologies that Silicon Valley was creating. In 2001 we get the book Getting Things Done: The Art of Stress-Free Productivity, as if the markets’ failures a year before were simply a failure of productivity. David Allen’s book soon creates “GTD” cults of those committed to squeezing every bit of “value” out of their minutes and seconds (the author boasts of having more than 35 different careers by age 35—a fact to be obscured at all costs anywhere other than in this brave new world). 

A drive towards productivity was hardly unique to that era. But what made this something different, something more far-reaching, was how the idea of the “hustle” developed among precisely those people who were building technologies that the rest of the world would soon use. Consumer technologies were developed in their creators’ image—an image of productivity, efficiency and action. 

It is tempting to speak of big-brother-like powers and the forces of authority. But the deadening of the philosophical imagination is far more innocent than all that. Paul Starr’s important book The Creation of the Media: Political Origins of Modern Communications sets about showing, very effectively, this: that “The constraints in the architecture of technical systems and social institutions are rarely so clear and overpowering as to compel a single design.” The technologies we end up with are not at all inevitable—they could have taken on multitudes of other forms. And yet “At times of decision—constitutive moments, if you will—ideas and culture come into play… ”

Those directly involved in the creation of technologies are not aware of the ideas and culture that constrict their work, and nor do they see how those restrictions will extend, through their devices, apps and websites, to the minds of all those who use them. Yet through these constitutive moments, Silicon Valley’s hackers have inadvertently shaped our present philosophical imagination.

Why say in 1000 words what you can say in 140 characters? Why keep a commonplace book when you can save everything into Evernote and search it in an instant? Why send letters when email, and nowadays Facebook Messenger, are so freakishly efficient? In a world that believes in action over thought, life over reflection, brevity is the order of the day. Eloquence is for professors condemned to reflect on others who once did.

As Facebook and Twitter became mainstream, so too did the concepts of life that undergird them. We never saw it happen, but in beginning to think in 140 characters the public took on the hustle mindset. In writing emails instead of letters we too came to favour brevity over eloquence. In using an iPhone, productivity and efficiency become our ends rather than our means.

— — — — 

There will be no women or men of letters in the age of action. The mundanity of email precludes their existence. 

The term always meant something more expansive than the actual letters that those men and women wrote. But correspondence was symptomatic of the minds behind them. To read letters themselves is an experience in seeing the development of a philosophy—the disagreements a mind had with itself, the examination of ideas from many angles, the contradiction of oneself through dialogue. The Waste Land came to us fully formed, and it was only years after Eliot’s death that we could see the fraught years behind the philosophy. For a finished work shows none of its process, none of the internal wrangling and grappling that genuine thought requires—“A line will take us hours maybe;/ Yet if it does not seem a moment’s thought,/Our stitching and unstitching has been naught,” Yeats put it. The paradox of all genuine philosophy: it must appear fully-formed and complete, yet behind it must stand insecurity and hesitancy.

None of that today; no hesitancy. Philosophies on life’s greatest problems are formed in an instant, and no years of struggle or dialogue stand behind them. The technologies of craft and communication discourage, if not outright prevent it. 

Email, Twitter, Facebook—technologies created by those who came of intellectual age (to give them the benefit of the doubt) during the time and in the place of the hustle, of productivity, of action. As a car drives on roads so our minds move along the tracks society lays. The car can turn any direction we wish—over there, over that grassy field, quick, round the corner, through the first gate, into our first world. But turn that direction it does not; on asphalt it stays. Our minds too are free to leave the tracks laid for us, but they do not. It does not occur to us to turn off, and even if it did, we wouldn’t know where to turn.

The three parts of the development of bulletpoint philosophy: 1. The development of communities and a culture that favour action over thought, productivity over reflection, hustle over cogitation. 2. The extension of that culture into consumer technologies through Starr’s “constitutive choices”. 3. The restriction of minds to those roads that technology lays. 

Write me a profound email and I will post you a letter. Profundity seems not to occur to one on a busy screen, sent from an “address” containing the @ of the internet and a corporate logo (I use Gmail). Insight seems difficult when one is interrupted, constantly, by the dings of incoming messages; or when the ‘note’ you are about to send will soon make a swooshing, whooshing noise from your computer’s speakers, as those messenger pigeons take flight. There is something childlike and innocent about these technologies, whether it be the colourful, playful letters of Google staring at you from the upper left-hand corner, or the conversion of brackets and colons into smiling yellow faces. Everywhere there are reminders that the ‘hacker’ who made this tool is the same person who last week published on Medium, “I Lost an Argument with a Vegan. Here’s what I Learned.”

There will be no collected letters published, no record of the growth of great minds. If emails are kept at all, their content will match the mundanity of their form. Instead we get 86 million answers to the meaning of life, each posted immediately and without reflection or correspondence.

Sometimes, it seems, everyone is a philosopher and no one a thinker. 

— — — — 

Perhaps sensing the debasement of philosophy in the public realm, professors of philosophy have turned inwards. They have tried to re-intellectualise the discipline that now seems so un-intellectual. It is an honest response, perhaps even a noble one. But of course they pulled on the public pendulum slightly too firmly. They overcompensated.

Professors of philosophy killed philosophy, as Thoreau told us, but they now find themselves in the position of trying to resuscitate it. Yet as in politics, so in the academy: as bulletpoint philosophy took over the middle ground, professors of philosophy found themselves retreating far further to the wings, back to a kind of “core base”. If the public’s philosophy was now too easy to understand, professors certainly made it less so. Now no one understands them. 

One article, noting upon the death of Derek Parfit, put it: “Parfit was an outstanding philosopher. However, few people outside academic philosophy could name one of his books.” Tellingly, the same article notes the 1950s to the 1990s as the “golden age” of academic philosophy. I have dated the growth of bulletpoint philosophies to the late 1990s. 

Academic philosophy is now more impenetrable than ever before. Parfit’s On What Matters was published in 2011, and readers are presented with two volumes of clearly rigorous thinking on… what? Moral philosophy, but what more can a lay-reader say? Academic philosophy has always been written for small circles in the thought that it would in its own way “trickle down”, through those educated at universities, into organisations and public debate. But when academic philosophers write more than ever for themselves, and when the public has shifted away from public intellectuals towards bulletpoint philosophy, those who can stand with a foot in both worlds, able to translate one for the other, are few. (Sontag, where are you?)

We’re now in the old high-brow, low-brow binary. Professors of philosophy don’t read bulletpoint philosophy, and dismiss all those who do, retreating back into their own circles of self-satisfied work. Those who read bulletpoint philosophy don’t understand a word of what those professors write, and so cannot “lift” their intellectual sights. As with politics, so with philosophy: the area of intersection in views is now nowhere to be found. Left and right have never been further apart, never less able to reconcile differences, and philosophy has never before been wrenched to such extremes. This state of affairs is self-perpetuating. Oil and water do not mix.

I hold my iPhone close to my chest when reading bulletpoint philosophy because I do not want to be seen in public reading such stuff. It is a high-brow response to lower-brow work; a philosophical equivalent of Clement Greenberg being seen reading The New Yorker. I am blameworthy for this, I’m sure. Better, these days, to be like Sontag, to embrace all culture. But even she recanted that view. Culture must have some moral depth, she seemed to say in her later work.

— — — — 

I should be pleased by the simplification of philosophy, by its return to more direct intervention in people’s lives. The academicism of philosophy has frustrated me deeply—my college philosophy classes are notable only for how removed they were from anything resembling wisdom and life (I’ve not had a Cavell). I’ve been drawn to stoicism for its directness, its sincerity in helping with the problems of life. Stoicism was (is) my youthful overcompensation to what I saw as the irrelevance of academic philosophy. Bulletpoint philosophy is similarly direct, and similarly earnest. (Seneca would write on Medium should he write today). So why do I resist it?

Partly it is having read enough philosophy to know the difference, and to know that bulletpoint philosophies do not deserve a claim to philosophy at all. But again, that is just a high-brow response. The contradiction in it is that if the test of real philosophy is its helpfulness in living life, then bulletpoint philosophies can indeed claim that. And yet still I resist; still I look for some genuine reasons to justify my aversion. I shall hazard some:

  • Form, more than content, contains powerful lessons. And life is shown to be simple by the simplicity of the bulletpoint form. (The bulletpoint is the essence of simple form: it merely posits, while eschewing any regard for order or argumentative development.) We are therefore led astray, simplifying life when what we need most is to understand its complexity—to understand that we may not understand it all. 
  • The subtextual lesson we learn from bulletpoint philosophies is that there is a simple, external answer for all of our problems. That the sole difficulty is in finding the right answer; as if application did not matter.
  • Philosophy is turned into statements of certainty via bulletpoints. It comes here strangely close to science. In a weird way this is continuous with at the other extreme the pre-eminence of analytic philosophy (intended to produce rigour and a degree of certainty unknown to the continental tradition—to move philosophy closer to science, in other words). But philosophy’s necessity is in answering all those human concerns that science can never answer. Science tells how to do, not what should be done. Our age is in dire need of the latter; our problem is too much of the former.
  • Value is placed on information over understanding. Find the bulletpoints, the logic says, and your problems will be solved. Philosophy of old knew that the challenge lay in understanding philosophy in terms of one’s own life. Its form, leading us along in prose and metaphor and ideas, aids the business of understanding. It thereby leads to real wisdom—wisdom being applied knowledge. Bulletpoint philosophy is readily understood in terms of its words, but this paradoxically hinders us from application.
  • There is no philosophical dialogue. We do not enter into the great debate. We simply consume tenuous self-help, as we consume the news, needing our next fix the following morning.
  • Complexity is seen as deficiency. Simplicity is the order of the day. But some ideas are complex, and can only be expressed as such. 
  • We are given no sense of philosophical categories or oppositions. We are simply given a worldview without any understanding of what else might exist, or what the counterarguments are. 
  • Genuine philosophy is often complex because human lives are so complex. We cannot solve the problems of life like we can solve a blocked drain, by searching Google for a local plumber.

— — — — 

Bulletpoint philosophy proves this, if little else: that life’s problems are keenly felt. In its proliferation, questions of the soul have been directly asked, and directly answered. 

In history political turbulence has often been met with a turning inwards, and the inwards-looking world of philosophy is both a challenge and an answer to dictators and fascists. The period of the Warring States in China gave us Confucianism and Mohism, Legalism and Daoism. French existentialism grew out of the carnage of the Second World War. Philosophy says to tyrants: you can challenge my possessions and my material existence, but I have another life which you cannot see nor understand nor diminish. 

What I’m getting at is that philosophy laughs at Trump. Bulletpoint philosophy, however, is understood by him. 

Suddenly cynicism of sincerity seems outdated. Postmodernism mocked questions of the meaning of life, but Trump mocks the postmodern. If it was a politics that took itself too seriously that led to the ironic mode, it is a politics that embarrasses itself that draws us back to earnestness. 

Academic philosophy takes itself so seriously to the point of impenetrability. Bulletpoint philosophy sees itself with an ironic expression, and thinks that more than 1000 words on the meaning of life were to risk sincerity. An age as fraught as ours will turn back into philosophy as a kind of spirituality. Let us hope, then, that the philosophy it encounters is a genuine philosophy, and not one built on the flawed poles of equations and bulletpoints.

What can I say? Alain de Botton seems to have it right after all.

 


 

This essay was completed in March 2017.

Montaigne on the Education of Children

“The greatest and most important difficulty in human knowledge,” Montaigne says, “seems to lie in the branch of knowledge which deals with the upbringing and education of children.” That seems right; and yet it’s hard to argue that we’ve solved the difficulties.

The problems Montaigne diagnosed with education in his day, almost five hundred years ago, are really no different to the problems we still see today. He pleas for an education system that focusses on the individual, even going so far as to advise the person to whom his letter is addressed to not send her son to school, but to instead find a full-time private tutor. Our education focusses so much on the masses that it fails to give anyone a real education:

“If, as is our custom, the teachers undertake to regulate many minds of such different capacities and forms with the same lesson and a similar measure of guidance, it is no wonder if in a whole race of children they find barely two or three who reap any proper fruit from their teaching.” 

What is the ultimate point of our education? We debate that question keenly, but for Montaigne it was clear: “The gain from our study is to have become better and wiser by it.” By this he means understanding or a kind of judgement that informs thought and action. Memorisation is the enemy of understanding:

“It is the understanding… that sees and hears; it is the understanding that makes profit of everything, that arranges everything, that acts, dominates, and reigns; all other things are blind, deaf and soulless. Truly we make it servile and cowardly, by leaving it no freedom to anything by itself. Who ever asked his pupil what he thinks of rhetoric or grammar, or of such-and-such a saying of Cicero? They slap them into our memory with all their feathers on, like oracles in which the letters and syllables are the substance of the matter. To know by heart is not to know; it is to retain what we have given our memory to keep.”

Memorisation is unrelated to education, for an education properly understood must be about understanding and judgement. And yet our schools continue to teach to tests, and tests require almost nothing but memorisation. This recalls Seneca’s lament that “We learn not for life, but for the schoolroom.” Likewise, when studying history, our schools focus on the irrelevant parts that are easily taught, and not on the essence of how what we learn could inform our lives:

“But let my guide (the teacher) remember the object of his task, and let him not impress on his pupil so much the date of the destruction of carthage as the characters of Hannibal and Scipio, nor so much where Marcellus died as why his death there showed him unworthy of his duty. Let him be taught not so much the histories as how to judge them.

Montaigne makes what is today a most controversial argument, arguing that science should be left entirely aside until students have acquainted themselves thoroughly with the philosophy of how to live. The common logic today is that students should prepare themselves with technical skills first, and learn about life later; but Montaigne entirely reverses this:

“It is very silly to teach our children ‘What effect have Pisces and Leo, fierce and brave,/Or Capricorn, that bathes in the Hesperian wave,’ the knowledge of the stars and the movement of the eighth sphere before the knowledge of themselves and their own movements.”

It is an argument for the humanities: that our first task in education is to come to know ourselves, so that we can then devote ourselves to a vocation once we are sure on the direction we wish our life to take. The sciences are a luxury; if we don’t know how to live, there’s no point in thinking about them. Montaigne argues, again following Seneca, that the reason so many people leap straight to vocational training before having learned how to live is because they misunderstand philosophy. Philosophy has been confused with complex constructions of logic (and philosophers are mostly to blame for that), when its essence is how to live.

I think all too often we feel the problems Montaigne diagnoses—the rote learning, the mass production that education has become, the sense that we leap into a career before we truly know ourselves—but are inclined to put these down to modern education. His is an important reminder that formal education throughout the ages has changed but little, with students, teachers, parents and public figures all concerned about the same things, but with entirely no idea what to do about it on a system-wide level. If anything, Montaigne demands that we—as students or as parents—take responsibility for our own education and the education of those around us, limiting whatever harms are done, and guiding towards a lifelong ability to learn in order to understand.


The edition I’ve quoted from is The Complete Essays of Montaigne from Stanford University Press, translated by Donald Frame.

Commodified Learning in the Flipped Classroom

Formal education has always seemed a paradox for me. On the one hand I am passionate about learning and passionate about what schools and universities can do for individuals and societies. This perhaps stems from my having attended over ten different educational institutions in six different countries. But on the other hand, my own experience in formal schooling, most especially my high school years, was an exemplary case of education getting in the way of someone’s learning. At times this has led to some hard-to-reconcile positions, like when, as an International Baccalaureate scholar at my high school, I complained in an interview to a local newspaper about not learning enough in school.

But the paradox makes sense, I think, when one separates what education is at its core from its present manifestation. One could love architecture but nevertheless live in a less-than-stellar house; one could be an artist yet hang prints on their walls. So long as there is an attempt to improve what one believes in, I don’t see the paradox as being real; the frustrations, the desire to fix and improve, merely emphasise the depth of one’s passion.

At some point during my second to last year in high school I discovered the term “flipped classroom”. The idea was to return education to its roots in learning: have students consume information at home through books and online videos, and then in class turn that information into knowledge through questioning and discussing with the teacher. As each day I went to school and sat through hours of teachers merely repeating back the reading I’d done at home (not all of them, to be sure, but certainly the majority), the idea seemed to recapture the belief in what education was meant to be about.

It was very exciting, then, to attend a talk last night by Professor Eric Mazur of Harvard, the man who is generally recognised to have come up with the flipped classroom model (or what he calls peer instruction). Eric spoke at Yale-NUS of his “confessions of a converted lecturer”, how he realised as a teacher that he was wasting his own and his students’ time by merely repeating what books already said, focussing on transfer of information rather than the understanding of knowledge. The audience was actually made up of Yale-NUS professors, rather than students, which made for a different perspective than the one I’ve so far been used to thinking from.

Through examples, data, and an interactive session, Eric had seemingly all the professors convinced of the flipped classroom model. This was true at least for those whose subjects require transfer of information at some point; there is a great difference between philosophy, which I think focusses on knowledge from the start, and the sciences, which begin with information and must move to knowledge.

But to my surprise, by the end of the talk I wasn’t convinced. I had gone into the lecture already convinced of the flipped classroom model, merely wanting to hear the idea from its inventor’s mouth; I left with serious doubts, at least about the extent to which it is being taken. And what struck me was how the one class I’ve taken that was the most faithful reproduction of a flipped classroom model was the one class I and my peers came to despise most. Eric’s talk inadvertently ended up explaining why.

Eric’s goal with the flipped classroom is to have every student prepared for every class. To achieve this, he encouraged teachers to focus on ensuring that everyone has the information needed before the start of class. His new company produces an online reading tool that has students annotate their readings and ask questions of each other on a web platform. Through an algorithm, the software analyses the highlights and comments and determines how “thoughtful” students were, then assigning a grade. The advantage of this is that teachers then know exactly what students understand, what they don’t, and what questions they have. Teachers can also test students’ dedication to their readings through short quizzes at the start of class. All of these annotations, questions and quizzes will contribute to a student’s grade.

What I hated most about that class (well, really two classes, each which focussed on slightly different aspects) that most faithfully lived up to the flipped classroom model was that everything I read was done with a grade hanging over my head. The passages I chose to highlight and question on the course website would be graded! If something struck me as interesting, I first had to think about whether I should highlight it or not; what if it wasn’t a “good” annotation? The annotations were, after all, public for my classmates and professor to see. I found an interesting passage, highlighted it, and also wanted to write a comment to myself on something to remember. But what would my professor think of that? Would my comment be good enough to receive an “A” grade? All the while I had to focus on memorising the information on every page, since the first ten minutes of every class would be a test on my recall and ability to apply what I had read.

The extent to which Professor Mazur has taken the flipped classroom model has essentially commodified learning entirely.

Students are now incentivised to learn, to turn information into knowledge, it is true. And data shows that this works! Students will remember information better, and in class they will come to grasp its implications more clearly. But what data can never show is how that knowledge comes to affect students’ lives. And as a student in an entirely flipped classroom, I came to see how nothing done for class was done for an intrinsic reason. A flipped classroom requires extrinsic motivators, and though these work in improving both recall and understanding, they necessarily work against the last step of education—how knowledge affects life. Reading, annotations and comments in the margin are done for classes’ sake, and what the flipped classroom forgets is that the classroom is only the starting point of education. It is what happens when a student leaves a classroom with knowledge that determines the success of education. It seemed as though Professor Mazur and his model of a flipped classroom has thought so much about the classroom that he has seemingly forgotten that the classroom is merely instrumental, not in itself the end of education.

Imagine a philosophy class practising the flipped classroom. The contradiction would become absurd. Philosophy, which takes knowledge as useful for its own sake, which hopes to ask and instruct how we should live, would then be reduced for students merely to “intelligent” and “thoughtful” annotations, and pop quizzes at the start of class. The point of a philosophy class is for students to discover for themselves how to live; to have tools with which to think about material, but ultimately leaving the application of that material up to students. It can only have intrinsic motivators, where a flipped classroom can only have the extrinsic.

So we’re back to a kind of paradox like the one I began with. I haven’t given up on the flipped classroom, but I am now far more aware of its limits and its dangers. The task is to find or encourage intrinsic motivators (if that is not too great a contradiction), so that the flipped classroom can remain merely an educational tool. The danger with any great educational innovation is that it forgets education is really only what happens afterwards.

Eric Mazur flipped classroom Yale-NUS

Note: Emphasis was added to make clear that two different classes I’ve taken tried to replicate the flipped classroom model, and each focussed on slightly different aspects of it.