Philosophy, Education, and the Cycle of Enlightenment
ONE NARRATIVE in the history of philosophy is a story about the search for truth. This narrative reveals an underlying story about a particular model of philosophical education and how that truth can be attained. Yet, in spite of its own attempts at self-critique, and in spite of the variations on how truth and knowledge are defined, philosophy continually appropriates the same model of education. Although it appears to take different forms, the model of education, which doubles as the model of philosophy, expresses the same features: a master teacher who not only does not learn but who also has trouble teaching, and a student who, in spite of being taught by a master teacher who has attained wisdom, needs to be self-motivated in order to learn what the teacher knows—and this is something that cannot be taught by the master teacher. The student is unable to hear what the teacher wishes to convey, and the teacher is unable to identify what the student needs in order to learn. The model reveals the paradox of education: teaching cannot teach precisely what is needed to learn—the student’s internal desire to learn. Additionally, insofar as the roles are discretely circumscribed, the real teaching that takes place goes unacknowledged. Teachers continue to remain ignorant of why their students misunderstand them and the message they wish to communicate, and students remain frustrated in their attempts to attain the knowledge that their teachers wish to convey.1
Briefly, we can describe the dominant, Platonic model as follows—we are presented with a master teacher, although we have no idea from where he originates,2 and someone designated as the student, or there are many students or disciples. The problem with the imbalanced relationship between teacher and student is less that it is asymmetrical than that it is nonreciprocal. The boundaries and the tasks of each in his respective role are tightly circumscribed. A “learner” leaves the community, although the mechanism and the means for doing so vary in each education narrative. He then attains enlightenment or knowledge, which is often thought to be a form of self-knowledge. The educated one then returns to the masses in order to convey this knowledge or simply rule over them. The model often follows this equation: community equals mass thinking equals corruption of creative, individual thinking. Thus, the teacher has something to offer, or simply rules over, the students. Here again the motivation and means for the return also vary. However, in almost all of the narratives, the process is a failure, at least with regard to its stated goal. My concern lies in this cycle of enlightenment, or this description of the process of education.3
This essay explores this model of education, which is still viewed as the standard today. My interest lies in why it remains so seductive and why it is ultimately ineffectual. I return to two teachers: Socrates as portrayed by Plato and Nietzsche’s Zarathustra, in Thus Spoke Zarathustra, both of whom exemplify this model. Both are of interest precisely because of how each teacher presents himself to others: Socrates presents himself as open to learning, as not knowing anything, and as someone who is aware of both of these facts about himself. Although scholars disagree about Plato’s presentation of Socrates and whether it is intentional, anyone who has taught the dialogues to unsympathetic audiences knows that Socrates’ method of teaching, for all its novelty and insight, is frequently received as patronizing.4 Finally, I turn to Levinas’s philosophical work, which I argue embodies a Talmudic model of education, in order to provide an alternative to the standard philosophical model of teaching and learning.
Plato’s dialogues are carefully, and artfully, crafted, and we are led to believe that Socrates is the hero. He is more frequently than not referenced as the ideal teacher, and many of us secretly wish we could choreograph our classroom discussions so that we too could gently lead our students to see the error of their own arguments and unsupported beliefs. For me, that wish is often tempered by an accompanying discomfort with the model. What if we were to consider that Socrates simply upholds a model of teaching that is not only ineffective but also dishonest? Is Socrates who he presents himself to be? Similar to the problems encountered by Zarathustra, what does this mistaken identity mean for Socrates? What does it mean for the teacher in general? Additionally, and not unrelated to these other questions, we can ask what role listening plays in teaching. In what ways do students have something to teach teachers, not simply about the material at hand but about who the teachers are as individuals? How might students’ responses reveal that identity? What if the image we think we convey about ourselves is not the one that our students see, and what if our students can give us a more accurate accounting? How might we understand the relationship between teacher and student differently? How might we understand the model of education differently? My point in raising these questions is to acknowledge, on the one hand, that both Socrates and Zarathustra are pivotal figures in philosophical education. Socrates is offered as the model teacher, the exemplar of teaching; Zarathustra is presented as a radical critic of philosophy and education. Yet, on the other hand, both reveal that they subscribe to a model of education that is conventional and ineffective.
What is common to both Socrates, as represented by the Platonic model of teaching, and Nietzsche’s Zarathustra is an emphasis on the privileged position of the teacher of virtue who, as a result of this position, stands above his students.5 As Daniel Conway notes, the teacher of virtue “views the construction of his position as neither contingent nor arbitrary. He consequently exempts himself from his own teaching on the grounds that [in Zarathustra’s case] he has already renounced his belief in God.”6 But as Conway also notes, Zarathustra has “invented” the conditions of his success as a teacher.
I do not dispute that Zarathustra is searching; his frustration with his students, which leads him to rethink his teaching methods, is a sign of this searching. However, his search lacks inward reflection; he does not search himself. His focus on his students as the location of the flaw in the teaching leads to the second level of the pedagogical problem. In order to correct the teaching, Zarathustra journeys alone in the search. The reciprocity necessarily inherent in an effective and sophisticated model of education is disregarded. These models assume that education is static for the teacher. The teacher is oblivious to the other, the student, and therefore remains untouched and unchanged by the other—or, at least, is unable to acknowledge these changes as a result of contact with the other.
We see this model throughout the history of philosophy. In light of the little attention philosophy of education is given by philosophers today, one might be led to believe that education is not important to philosophers. Yet, the history of philosophy is in fact a history of the philosophy of education: someone has gained an insight, or attained wisdom, and the all-consuming question is how to convey this insight to others. The paradox of this model lies in the manner in which one attained the wisdom and the pedagogical stance one now assumes. Thus, the educational model begins in, to put it mildly, a flawed state.7
Who is Nietzsche’s Zarathustra? Heidegger raises this question in an essay in which he investigates the relationship between two of Zarathustra’s teachings: the overman and the doctrine of the eternal return.8 The question is not so easily answered. Heidegger presents a compelling case that while Nietzsche thought he was bringing an end to metaphysics, Zarathustra reveals a fundamental reliance on metaphysics. I am convinced by Heidegger’s reading of these two teachings and their link to each other. However, my interest lies not in the unity of the teachings but in the project as a whole: the link between these teachings and Zarathustra’s pedagogy. In the end it does not matter what the teachings prove if Zarathustra is not equal to the task of trying to teach them. Put more simply, I am interested in the unity of Zarathustra himself. And we see this problem revealed in the representation of Zarathustra’s identity to others. For example, in part 2 of Thus Spoke Zarathustra, Zarathustra says, “My friends I do not want to be mixed up and confused with others” (TZ 100). Although Zarathustra implores his disciples not to confuse him with others, his demand is too late. Throughout part 2 we continually see that Zarathustra is trying to distinguish himself, even if unsuccessfully. What then is the source of this confusion?
Zarathustra’s question at the end of part 2, “Who am I?” indicates that Zarathustra himself is confused about his own identity. The confusion then can be seen from two perspectives: who he is as seen from the point of view of his disciples, and who he is as someone whose identity remains obscure even to himself. It is not clear that these two perspectives are mutually exclusive, and they might even be necessarily intertwined. The disciples’ “confusion” might not be a confusion at all but rather an identification of the Zarathustra that is presented to others even if unwittingly so by Zarathustra himself.
We see evidence of this problem early in part 2 when a child holds a mirror to Zarathustra, and in the reflection he sees himself as a demon.9 The mirror could be said to represent his disciples, and the image reflected back to Zarathustra represents how his disciples see him. But we cannot ignore the level of self-reflection—Zarathustra sees this image of himself also, or put even more simply, this image is the one that he in fact unintentionally projects.
There are several sources in part 2 that aid in this confusion: Zarathustra’s teaching of the doctrine of justice; the characteristic of revenge that he may have in common with those from whom he is trying to distinguish himself; and his understanding of himself, attributed in part to his inattentiveness to what his disciples say to him. We find Zarathustra’s doctrine of justice in the seventh speech, “On the Tarantulas.” Here Zarathustra asks, “What would my love of the overman be if I spoke otherwise?” (TZ 101). But the teachings of Zarathustra with regard to such a doctrine have led his disciples to misunderstand him and reveal how tightly they cling to the old ideal of justice, i.e., justice as equality. Those who preach equality are also preachers of Zarathustra’s doctrine of life—but what distinguishes them from Zarathustra is that they also preach tarantulas (TZ 99). Those who preach equality—though they claim to love life—in actuality, harbor a hatred of it. Thus, the justice of equality reveals the jealousy that ultimately breeds revenge.
In order to distinguish himself from others, Zarathustra must be clear about his doctrine. He must be clear that justice is a justice of inequality. Yet, his disciples still misunderstand him, since they hear within his teaching the justice of equality. At the end of “On Tarantulas,” Zarathustra is bitten by a tarantula, symbolizing that he has been infected with the spirit of revenge. If he now embodies the spirit of revenge, we can ask whether Zarathustra is actually similar to those he has called the teachers of revenge (TZ 99).10
This experience of revenge plays a role in Zarathustra’s confusion.11 At the end of part 2, Zarathustra’s ressentiment evolves into bad conscience—“I am ashamed.” According to Gilles Deleuze, each of these reactive types are made bearable, as well as possible, by an ascetic ideal.12 These “moments” of revenge parallel Zarathustra’s movement toward self-realization. During the time when Zarathustra is caught in the spirit of revenge—ressentiment or bad conscience—he is confused about who he is.
The necessity of first moving through revenge is revealed in Deleuze’s comment that “our knowledge of the will to power will remain limited if we do not grasp its manifestation in ressentiment, bad conscience, the ascetic ideal and the nihilism which forces us to know it.”13 The spirit of revenge gives us insight into spirit itself and thus gives us insight into the will to power. As part 2 progresses, Zarathustra begins to move out of revenge toward self-discovery.
The final source of his disciples’ confusion can be found in the later speeches of this second part. We see emerging from this confusion Zarathustra’s initial awareness regarding his own confusion. Zarathustra shakes his head at his disciples in three particular speeches, “On Poets,” “On Great Events,” and “On the Soothsayer,” indicating his own disappointment with his disciples’ inability to understand him. In “On Redemption,” we are given the means to understand the soothsayer’s prophecy; Zarathustra’s confusion over his own identity becomes apparent.
“On Redemption” hints at the eternal return, although it is not mentioned explicitly. We learn that what will redeem has been transformed. The will to power was first expressed as self-overcoming; the self is connected to the body and the body to life. Life must continually overcome itself (TZ 115). This moment of linking the will to power to the eternal return is the key to Zarathustra’s own identity, to his own discovery about who he is. His confusion regarding his own identity is more apparent in light of his moments of self-discovery. As the hunchback notices in “On Redemption,” Zarathustra speaks differently to others, to his disciples, and to himself. Yet, this could be an indication that Zarathustra is not only misunderstood by his disciples, if indeed he is misunderstood, but that Zarathustra misunderstood them.
At the end of part 2, Zarathustra believes that he must make a complete split from his disciples; he must make the journey to the overman alone. He misunderstood his disciples when he believed that the way of the overman was for them. It was not; it was for him alone. Yet, in spite of his new awareness, in spite of knowing what needs to be done, Zarathustra “reflected for a long time and trembled. . . . But at last [he] said what [he] said at first: I do not want to” (TZ 145). His identity unfolds at the end of part 2. Nonetheless, we are left with a less than satisfying answer to the question regarding Zarathustra’s success at distinguishing himself from the other “false prophets.” How different is he from his disciples and from how his disciples view him?
The confusion about Zarathustra’s identity is significant since it is upon Zarathustra’s discovery about who he is that he also recognizes his mistaken assumption about whose task it is to go on the journey to the overman. Upon realizing who he is, Zarathustra also sees his disciples for who they are, and, more important, who they cannot be. At the end of part 2, Zarathustra realizes that it is he alone who must assume this task. I use the term “realizes” with hesitation, since it is not clear his realization is accurate or even authentic. This belief, however, grounds what we see as a standard model of education, and, more specifically, teaching. The teacher must go the distance alone, without the students. And the intended message sent by the teacher is not always the message received by the students. In spite of Zarathustra’s insistence that he will not return from his journey to the overman, he does return.
We find a similar return in Plato’s cave allegory in book 7 of his Republic. The allegory poses the possibility of the “return” as hypothetical—what would happen if the escapee who now has seen the light were to return to the cave? However, Socrates can certainly be viewed as the most famous escapee, who not only returns to the masses repeatedly but whose return eventually motivates others to kill him. Like Zarathustra, Socrates cannot help himself. We see his return in Plato’s Republic, Euthyphro, Meno, and Apology, to name only a few. The Republic begins with Socrates’ announcement that he went down to Piraeus. The Euthyphro shows him engaged with a young man who, returning from the courthouse, tells Socrates that he has just charged his father with impiety; Meno elucidates the problem with teaching virtue; and the Apology recounts Socrates’ final act of the return—that of trying to convince a jury of his peers that he is innocent of the charges against him.
Levinas is acutely aware of the paradox—of how to convey philosophical insight to others—and in this sense embodies the Talmudic approach to education.14 The Talmudic approach rejects the equation set out above. Instead, it views a community of learners as precisely how one cultivates a creative, thinking mind.15 In their essay “The Babylonian Talmud in Cognitive Perspective,” Jeffrey Kraus and Marjorie Lehman demonstrate this point.16
Kraus and Lehman begin with a discussion of the Talmud’s structure, which they see as argumentative as opposed to dialogical. In addition to this argumentative structure, the polyphony of opinion in the text is also emphasized or noted as fundamental to the structure of the text. Talmudic scholars do not see this polyphony as undermining the significance of the text. Rather, they believe that it indicates that the Talmud is teaching the more important point—that truth is often indefinable. Ironically, this point brings Nietzsche into a closer relationship with the rabbis than he, or we, might have thought. The method of learning takes precedence over the content, without undermining or erasing it. In answering the question, Why have a sacred text that does not even pretend to give the answers? the authors cite Talmudic scholars who speculate that the text must be about something more than providing dogmatic responses. The text actually models the way we are to think about the questions of daily life—ethical questions that require us to think about how to treat other people.
Additionally, within the process of this kind of learning, the questioning between the two study partners requires each participant to admit that there is always something more to be known and that truth is indefinable. This process intends to develop humility and a certain integrity regarding truth. The interaction between the study partners aids in developing the respect one has for the other, in addition to building a close bond of friendship. If nothing else, this process teaches both partners that dependency and vulnerability and the willingness to be open to learning from the other are not only a good thing but are necessary for any real learning to occur. The Talmudic model explicitly rejects the model we found in Plato. Not only is the polyphony of views not a form of mediocre thinking; it is viewed as precisely the way that creative, independent, and critical thinking is produced.
If we look at Levinas’s work, we see that not only does he, too, repeatedly reference teaching and the teaching relationship but his project also assumes a model of education that is necessary for cultivating the very ethical subject he describes.17 Additionally, his philosophical writings perform a similar task to that of the Babylonian Talmud (Bavli). Levinas’s references to the Hebrew Scriptures ask us to think about the context in which we find these references and what they might mean. His repeated references to the Other ask us to think not only about the human other but the text as other. To use Levinas’s term, the text becomes a third in the relationship with the other. Teaching and learning are transformed. The teacher is someone who knows but also someone who engages in self-doubt. The student is someone who learns but also someone who teaches. It is not that the roles are so confused that the student does not learn and the teacher has nothing to teach. Rather, the journey undertaken by both is part of a dynamic and transformative experience; the journey is something that must be taken together even if the second level of learning, the individual level identified by the Russian psychologist Lev Vygotsky, is a dimension of learning that happens “intrapsychologically,” that is, within the child—or the adult.18
Levinas’s view of the ethical relation not only points to a pedagogy that includes reading biblical narratives Jewishly; it also relies on this model of education to cultivate an ethical subject. Levinas’s insight reveals the role that alterity plays in midrash, since the role of midrash is to open up the text and allow voices that are otherwise muted to be heard. Thus, for Levinas, to read Jewishly is precisely to read such that one is open to the other. Additionally, the process of questioning that we find in the Talmudic tradition is intended not only to teach students to question in order to be attuned to the material at hand. The Jewish tradition of learning recognizes something unique about the journey one takes in the educational process—it reveals an approach to education that is less concerned with the notion of absolute truth. Instead, its role is to engage the mind and to join the learners in a community of education. It might be that this role is what philosophy always intended—that philosophy was less concerned about a single truth than it was about identifying wisdom by inflaming the creative mind—and that this kind of learning was to be done communally. Unfortunately, this is not the standard view of philosophy or of education.19
The Talmudic model of learning outlined above radically challenges the model we find throughout the history of philosophy. It not only resists an absolute truth; it also explicitly teaches this resistance. This point draws the rabbinic pedagogical model closer to one that Nietzsche might have envisioned. In both cases, the context for pedagogy would be an opposition to many of the values we find in modernity. These values emerge out of an extreme liberalism that cannot offer a positive vision in the cultivation of humanity but only a view of individuals as free to make choices on their own, and out of a society that is engineered to guarantee the widest range of these freedoms. Both Nietzsche and the Talmudic rabbis would agree that, left to their own devices, people, though free, frequently do not make good choices, or even choices that would best serve them. Freedom, while an important part of humanity, cannot be the overriding value that determines how individuals are cultivated. Both Nietzsche and the Talmudic rabbis have a vision of how to refashion human beings. However, this is the point at which Nietzsche and the Talmudic rabbis would part company.
For Nietzsche, “community” is negotiable. Although Zarathustra rejects the life of the hermit, it seems clear that most of his teachings reflect a view of humanity that is at least suspicious of dependence if it is anything other than propadeutic or temporary. He cannot envision dependence on others as healthy or positive. By contrast, for the Talmudic rabbis, the context of the Jewish community and the larger community in which they live is nonnegotiable. The community is what drives the entire Talmudic project in its positive vision of cultivating humanity. What the Talmudic rabbis discovered and exploited is the way that individuals contribute not only destructively to relationships but also positively. Healthy competition, vulnerability and dependence, and erotic desire in learning fundamentally drive healthy human relationships. For the rabbis, these are not simply “facts of life,” though they are that. They are also what it means to be human. Like Nietzsche, the Jews do not deny their animal nature, nor do they deny the unhealthy tendencies that can accompany that nature. Instead, the Talmudic tradition is geared precisely toward constructing a community that takes all of these elements of human life into account.20
In his essay “Hegel and the Jews,” Levinas analyzes a few of Hegel’s writings, presented by Bernard Bourgeois, that were intended to be incorporated into the Hegelian system (in DF). As is familiar to most of us, neither Christianity nor Judaism is at the end of the Hegelian system. They are steps along the way, but both are superseded by something else. Levinas observes that while it is true that both are superseded, each is represented quite differently from the other. Christianity, though not necessarily recognizable to some Christians, is not offensive either. The critical discourse surrounding Judaism, Levinas notes, has nurtured anti-Semitism.21
Levinas’s primary concern is that Hegel’s characterization of Judaism as the negation of spirit leads to an anti-Semitism that “is based within the System” (DF 236). The most common charge against Judaism is that it is “particular” as opposed to “universal.” It is tribal and exclusive. But the more damning comments from these Hegelian meditations are the ones that refer to Judaism, and in particular Abraham, as material and bestial, focused only on self-preservation and animal needs. And, of course, this is put in opposition to freedom. This essay was first published in 1971, but in 1935 Levinas had already countered these simplistic critiques of both Judaism and materiality.
In De l’evasion, Levinas teaches us that the seductive call of freedom presented to us by modern philosophy is a mythology.22 First and foremost, our bodies require food, nurturance, and warmth. Our bodies betray us. Levinas’s ethics, the response to the other, which recognizes the possibility of sacrificing one’s life for the other, is prior to any sense of freedom or choice. And here Levinas sees the mythology of freedom in the same way that he sees the mythology of autonomy.
Levinas nonetheless recognizes that even before the call of the other, before any ethical response, we are not free. Thus, it is on this model that we can see how a Jewish pedagogy, how a Jewish model of education would be founded. And we can see that unless one is willing to step out of the tradition set forth by modern philosophy, and step out of it radically, this kind of pedagogy might not reveal itself. Levinas’s implicit identification of the Talmudic approach to learning not only radicalizes his philosophical project; it also transforms how we think about education, our understanding of both teaching and learning.23 The individualism that dominates theories of education and the philosophical journey itself, in spite of their attempt to portray themselves in terms of the social, can now be understood in its social dimension. The radical individualism that is valorized throughout most of the history of philosophy, even if also unwittingly undermined by those same philosophers who champion it, is critiqued and transformed through the influence of Jewish philosophy and theology in Levinas’s philosophical work. Levinas’s use of Jewish wisdom in his philosophical discourse transforms how we might think about education.
The Jewish religion described by the Torah, the Talmud, and the Jewish philosophers who followed them does not describe a religion of asceticism. It is a religion that enjoys and celebrates life, from the birth of the child to the sexual encounter that made that child possible. It encourages us to enjoy food, dance, music, wine, song, and relationships with others. I do not dispute that contemporary Judaism and many contemporary Jews have fallen prey to the values of modernity that contribute to ressentiment and asceticism. Nor do I dispute that strains of asceticism can be found within traditional Judaism—either as theological opinions fundamental to the religion or in the practices of Jews who have adopted the cultural practices and attitudes of the milieu in which they live. However, this is a very different matter from what Judaism might have to offer, in spite of and even because of its association with modern culture. Judaism’s commitment to include the minority position as part of its theological canon not only allows Judaism to resist being characterized as monolithic; it also provides the very substance and model for the educational process.
Nietzsche represents someone who almost gets it right. Like Rousseau before him, he can identify the problem, but he cannot solve it on his own. Nietzsche’s Zarathustra clarifies, more than any other book in the history of philosophy, the flaws in the standard model of teaching and philosophical education; it seems that this is precisely Nietzsche’s intention. Nietzsche’s description of and admiration for the agon might have led him to admire the Talmudic approach to education, which is often criticized for its competitiveness.24 The primary problem with Nietzsche’s analysis is his apparent conflation of Christianity and Judaism. No doubt, Christians have their own complaints about how Nietzsche has characterized Christianity. My concern here is how he has characterized Judaism. Much of this characterization results from Nietzsche’s own ambivalence towards Judaism, some of which is probably the result of his lack of knowledge of it. Most readers of Nietzsche recognize that his admiration for Judaism is the Judaism of the Torah—the Kingly Jews, the Jews who were warriors, and Yahweh, a God whose wrath was feared. It is the post-Diaspora Jews, the Jews represented by the Prophetic and Priestly periods, whom Nietzsche does not completely respect (AC §25). For Nietzsche, the rabbinic period is simply more of the same.25 To his unschooled eyes, these later stages of Judaism simply look like Christianity. Yet it is precisely in these periods that we find the radical distinction between Judaism and Christianity, for it is in the rabbinic period that gave rise to the Midrash and then later to the Talmud that we find Jewish wisdom, a love of life, and a unique educational model. Nietzsche’s disdain for this Jewish period and his naïve view that it resembled Christianity precluded him from seeing precisely how Judaism was different in one of the most significant ways. Judaism does not begin with an ascetic ideal.26 As a result, problems like ressentiment are pseudo problems.
However, if I am right that the radical critique of this model of education could only come from wholly outside of it, then the solution is one that Nietzsche could have only have glimpsed. He might never have been able to find it on his own. In fact, one might even say that this is precisely the moment where Nietzsche’s ambivalence with regard to Judaism betrays him. Nietzsche’s diagnosis of the problems in philosophy and philosophical education is correct, but he needed the help of the Jewish “doctors,”27 whom he dismissed as part of the problem, to help him cure the disease.
NOTES
Another version of this paper is published in New Nietzsche Studies, Special Issue on “Nietzsche and the Jews,” coedited by David B. Allison, Babette Babich, and Debra B. Bergoffen, vol. 7, no. 3/4 (Fall 2007). I would like to thank Bettina Bergo, Debra Bergoffen, Daniel Conway, and Jill Stauffer for their comments on previous drafts.
1. See Claire Katz, “Witnessing Education,” Studies in Practical Philosophy 3, no. 2 (2003): 107–31.
2. More often than not the person designated as the teacher is male. However, one of the recurring themes throughout these treatises on philosophy of education is that it is the women who are ultimately the most effective teachers—and who in fact know more about themselves and others—even if these points are not acknowledged explicitly.
3. Philosophy is itself the story of the return to the masses and the cycle of education. The problem of the return and the issue of what can and cannot be taught, first seen in Plato’s Cave Allegory, reappears in Eugen Fink’s analysis of phenomenology and the phenomenological turn. How do those who have made the “turn” convey to those who have not, the dogmatists, the significance of making the turn? The problem, as Fink indicates, is that the motivation for making the turn is the turn itself. The problem of motivation reveals the problem with teaching.
4. A typical exchange in an introductory philosophy class includes the students condemning Socrates for his arrogance—in the Apology—and his insensitivity in the Crito and Phaedo. The typical response to this view, even if muttered to oneself, is for the teacher to declare that the students simply do not get it. While admittedly this is true, part of the problem lies in delivery of the message. It often does not occur to us that the models for instruction are, quite simply, ineffective at best and misleading at worst.
5. See Daniel Conway, “Nietzsche Contra Nietzsche: The Deconstruction of Nietzsche,” in Nietzsche as Post-Modernist, ed. Clayton Koelb (Albany: State University of New York Press, 1990), 91–110, 304–11.
6. Conway, “Nietzsche Contra Nietzsche,” 95.
7. We do not need to return to the ancient Greeks to find the flaw. We can see it in the modern period exemplified by Rousseau’s educational treatise, Emile. For a longer analysis of Emile, see Claire Katz, “Teaching the Other: Levinas, Rousseau, and the Question of Education” Philosophy Today 49, no. 2 (Summer 2005): 200–207; Claire Katz, “Educating the Solitary Man: Dependence and Vulnerability in Levinas and Rousseau,” in Levinas Studies: An Annual Review, vol. 2 (Pittsburgh, Penn.: Duquesne University Press, 2007), 133–52.
8. Martin Heidegger, “Who Is Nietzsche’s Zarathustra?” in The New Nietzsche, ed. David Allison (Cambridge, Mass.: MIT Press, 1995), 64–79.
9. It should not be lost on us that references to the devil are often anti-Semitic references—references to Jews. Is Zarathustra worried that there is a Jew in their midst?
10. Heidegger wonders if Zarathustra’s doctrine delivers him from revenge (“Who Is,” 76). For Heidegger Zarathustra himself is not free from the spirit of revenge until he recognizes the Being of beings as represented in the eternal return. It appears that the deliverance from the spirit of revenge is the crossing over to the overman (74). In Heidegger’s view, Zarathustra’s doctrine does not actually bring deliverance from revenge.
11. This view is supported by Gilles Deleuze’s reading of Zarathustra in Nietzsche and Philosophy, trans. Hugh Tomlinson (New York: Columbia University Press, 1962); Nietzsche et la philosophie (Paris: PUF, 1962). Hereafter cited by the English and the French page numbers unless otherwise specified.
12. Deleuze, Nietzsche, 146 (not in the French version).
13. Deleuze, Nietzsche, 172/198.
14. See Claire Elise Katz, “Levinas—Between Philosophy and Rhetoric: The ‘Teaching’ of Levinas’s Scriptural References,” Philosophy and Rhetoric 38, no. 2 (2005): 159–72.
15. This community of learners is typically in the yeshiva, which is first and foremost filled with male members of the community. Moreover, there is a distinction made between those who study in the yeshiva and those who do not. My point is that the rabbis nonetheless see the value of a communal approach to education.
16. See Jeffrey Kress and Marjorie Lehman, “The Babylonian Talmud in Cognitive Perspective,” Journal of Jewish Education 69, no. 2 (2003): 58–78.
17. Levinas was associated with the Alliance Israélite Universelle for more than fifty years, and he directed the Ecole Normal Israelite Orientale for about forty years.
18. See Kress and Lehman, “The Babylonian Talmud.”
19. Also see Claire Elise Katz, “‘The Presence of the Other Is a Presence That Teaches’: Levinas, Pragmatism, and Pedagogy,” Journal of Jewish Thought and Philosophy 14, nos. 1–2 (2006): 91–108.
20. We see this demonstrated by the very substance of the Talmud, which raises questions about all aspects of daily life from the food we eat to our obligations in marriage.
21. DF 236. Unfortunately, Hegel’s characterization of the Jews has influenced not only non-Jews but Jews themselves. For more on anti-Semitism in both Hegel and Nietzsche, see Yirmiyahu Yovel, Dark Riddle: Hegel, Nietzsche, and the Jews (University Park: Penn State Press, 1998).
22. See RH. This essay was originally published in 1934 in Esprit, and De l’evasion was published just one year later in 1935.
23. He makes this reference explicit in his writings on Jewish education, some of which are collected in Difficult Freedom.
24. See for example, Friedrich Nietzsche, “Homer’s Contest,” The Portable Nietzsche, ed. and trans. Walter Kaufmann (Middlesex, U.K.: Penguin, 1976).
25. For more on this “ambivalence,” see Yovel, Dark Riddle. In particular, see 145 ff. In this discussion, Yovel asserts that Nietzsche is clear—all ambivalence is gone and Nietzsche “decries” the priestly period just as he decried anti-Semitism and Christianity (145). However, even here we see a more complex ambivalence. For Nietzsche, the Jews of the Diaspora are the “promise” of the cure for Christianity. While Nietzsche blames the Jews—precisely for bringing Christianity into being—it is the Jews of the modern period whom he believes can cure modernity of its ills. Thus, the children are to cure what the ancestors wrought. My intent here is not to solve the problem of Nietzsche’s ambivalence nor of his attitude toward the Jews. Rather, I call attention to it and ask us to think about the ways in which Nietzsche remained trapped within the very system he hoped to escape.
26. Although there are dietary restrictions and rules governing sexual activity, the enjoyment of both food and sexuality for its own sake is neither prohibited nor frowned upon. Admittedly, there are conflicting rabbinic views on sexual activity—to be sure, Judaism is not monolithic. Nonetheless, the canon explicitly maintains the minority views precisely to indicate the nuances of Jewish tradition.
27. Levinas refers to the Talmudic and midrashic rabbis as “doctors.”