On Being Someone Who Has Something To Say

If there were something to know, would the novice know it?

A self-proclaimed ‘businessman’, from London, who’s spent his whole life in the city and immersed in city ways, says (over and over again) that a farm is a business like any other business.

A farmer, not from London, who’s spent their whole life in the countryside and immersed in rural ways, says that a farm is not a business like other businesses. It might have some businesslike aspects, but these do not define what farming is because there is far more to it than that and, in the end, those other aspects define the farm more than its business. You could take the ‘business’ away completely and, if all the other activity carried on, it would very much still be a farm.

There’s a disagreement here. One of them is wrong. Who do we think might have it right? And who, blinded by ignorance, isn’t seeing things as they really are?

Is the farmer ignorant about business? That would be a strangely insulting thing to think, given that the farmer’s spent their entire life successfully running one of the very ‘businesses’ that the businessman is so keen on labelling as such, which is their family’s farm.

Is the businessman ignorant about farming? Yes.

That’s the end of that sentence. Yes, they are ignorant about farming. Put them on the farm and see what they do. They will do nothing, because they can do nothing, because they know nothing about anything to do with farming. Ask them a few very simple questions – only point to things, as you would with a toddler, and say ‘what’s that?’ – and they will quickly expose how little they know.

But if they can be so easily shown to know so little, what sense can we make of their claim to know better?

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When Socrates wants to talk about courage, he talks to soldiers who became generals, because if anyone knows anything about courage it is likely to be them, and for the sake of that he wants to hear what they have to say about it. And these generals, in turn, are happy to talk with Socrates because they know he was brave on the battlefield when he served as a soldier under them.

Both speakers recognise and acknowledge one another as being ‘someone who has something to say’, which is a pre-requisite for any serious discussion. Without it, there’s a danger that anything said might be ‘mere words’. Empty words; words without substance; words that no one lives by or stands behind: prattle, babbling, idle speculation.

When Plato explains this requirement for ‘serious discussion’, he describes it as a harmony between logos and bios: your words align with your actions; your understanding is shown in your way of life. You say what you are and you are what you say.

When there’s a disharmony in these things, it undermines what you say and, more importantly, who you are to say it.

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It’s not just about knowing what you’re talking about. Someone can know very little and still be worth talking to, because of the kind of person they are. And someone can know a great deal and yet be a worthless conversation partner, if they are arrogant and only talk in order to show off: we see a lot of that these days.

Plato, the original ‘academic’ philosopher, is forever prioritising knowledge over all things, but even he reminds us that a harmony requires at least two notes: in serious discussion, these two notes are knowledge and character.

Good knowledge can be ruined by bad character. Plato uses a specific (ancient Greek) word (deinós) for this type of person – the discordant combination of good knowledge and bad character – which often gets translated as ‘clever’ but could easily be translated as ‘terrible’.

(It’s the same root word as the ‘dino’ in ‘dinosaur’, meaning ‘terrible lizard’: I can’t help but hear ‘clever lizard’ and wonder why dinosaurs deserve that insult.)

The ‘clever’ person presents a special danger, possessing both the ill-will that’s liable to harm others for their benefit and the skill to achieve exactly that. We should rightly fear the effect they might have on us, with their clever words. Knowing what they are, we should only listen if we are equipped with a healthy scepticism, so as not to be too easily persuaded.

But while knowledge alone can’t determine whether or not you’re someone who ‘has something to say’, ignorance can. A harmony requires at least two notes. Knowledge without character is empty (and dangerous), but character without knowledge is blind. There is a minimum requirement of knowledge and understanding: you need to know what you’re doing if you expect to do it well.

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I don’t have serious philosophical conversations with my toddler. It’s no mystery why. We can play at a kind of parody of it, and perhaps something curious might come out of this, but it’s never going to be a serious discussion.

Regrettably, the situation is not so different with grown ups.

I can talk about philosophy, and I can talk about other things in a way that might sound philosophical, but I can’t really do philosophy with anyone who isn’t a philosopher. This becomes very obvious, very quickly, in conversation. Like playing tennis with someone who can’t serve or return a serve: that doesn’t look like tennis but only one person hitting balls in another’s general direction.

Perhaps that sounds elitist, but philosophy is not so unusual in this regard. As with anything, it’s a matter of experience and education. Try playing ‘tennis’ with a toddler: it’s not really tennis but a parody of it. Try playing ‘music’; try doing ‘cooking’; try ‘writing’. Then try to do these things with adults who don’t know the first thing about it: when played between an experienced player and a complete novice, tennis isn’t a game but a lesson.

To hear two experienced and highly-educated musicians play together is a joy; to hear two novices, each of whom has only just picked up a violin, is not. The difference isn’t subtle.

We show our respect for things by acknowledging these differences. If I, as a novice, refuse to acknowledge the difference between the novice me and the seasoned veteran that you are, I show that I have no respect for what you are. I show that, as far as I’m concerned, there’s nothing of any substance in what you know.

Sometimes we might be right to show this disrespect, although politeness encourages us to try to hide it. If someone has been duped by some kind of cult (they come in many forms), and is an ‘expert’ in this silly thing, we will refuse to acknowledge the worth of their knowledge. We won’t take them seriously. Because it’s junk, and knowledge of junk is no different from junk knowledge: in the end they know nothing that matters.

Whether we’re right to be so dismissive is a very important question, and so we should make very sure we’re sure of ourselves before doing so. Otherwise it’s just an unwarranted prejudice. For me, if I don’t know anything about it, I will be charitable and presume there’s more to it than I know. (This ‘principle of charity’ is drilled into every first-year philosophy student, and for good reason.) I will ask questions. And if it can be shown that I don’t know as much as I think, I’ll happily take the correction and think again.

But when we discover that someone knows nothing, or that what they know is worthless, or if they do not or cannot live by what they know, we are right to lose respect for what they say. It is revealed to be ‘mere words’. Empty talk. Prattle. Babbling. For all their fancy words, they say nothing. And if they say nothing then why should we listen?

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A harmony requires at least two notes. Knowledge without character is empty; character without knowledge is blind. The ideal is the harmony of good knowledge and good character.

Ideally, what we know determines what we are. But of course it can and often does go in the other direction: what we are too often determines what we know.

When the privileged Meno, rich in inherited wealth, puts forward a theory of justice that says that what’s good is the power to acquire goods – that is, wealth: the very power he inherited at birth – we’re a little bit justified in replying sarcastically (with Socrates): don’t you think it matters how you acquire your goods, whether by just or unjust means?

Do you deserve what you have?

Socrates says this, not to judge Meno or to belittle him, but only to draw his attention to something that matters: there is goodness beyond material wealth. Can’t you conceive of someone being good and poor?

What Meno’s said reveals a blind spot, and this blindness is very likely a product of his upbringing, his circumstances, his culture, his family, his friends, and his education. What Meno knows is a product of what he is. He was born and raised into a life of wealth and ease, and this has made him a lazy lover of money. Without giving it a second thought, he says that the power to acquire goods (i.e., having lots of money) is what goodness is. This definition suits him very well and so he has no reason to question it. Socrates’ task, therefore, is not only to question Meno’s silly definition but to give him a reason to question it. For the sake of that, Socrates will poke at him and make him uncomfortable.

How does Socrates do this? He tries to engage in a serious discussion; he tries to plant a seed of doubt; he tries to show Meno what he doesn’t know. All of this fails, because Meno is lazy and stupid and arrogant. And so in the end Socrates leads Meno to make a fool of himself: he persuades him to believe something completely stupid, then encourages him to go and tell everyone about what he knows. It’s a cruel joke, but if someone’s too arrogant to learn, the first lesson they need is humility.

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I wish someone would play that kind of joke on anyone in the British government. I wish someone would publicly quiz them on their basic knowledge of nature and farming. But better than that, I wish someone would make them do anything that they couldn’t simply talk their way out of with ‘mere words’, and in that be shown to be what they are: an empty talker of empty words.

I wish someone would make them work a day on a farm and film it. I wish someone would give them a simple task, like moving stubborn cattle, and see what happens.

We all laughed at Clarkson, as he invited us to, but at least he was trying and made no pretences, and in the end his sincerity won the day. He’s the wrong person to talk about the farm inheritance tax but in other ways he’s shown a lot of good. Often that good came about from the contrast between him (the novice) and those around him: it showed a difference that is too often overlooked.

Clarkson himself acknowledged that difference: that’s what made it work. It would’ve been a very different show if he’d been correcting them all the time.

Clarkson showed good character and admitted his lack of knowledge, which resulted in an eagerness to learn. He showed his respect for farming by doing exactly this, which is precisely what the British government does not do.

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To really be ‘someone who has something to say’, you need a harmony of good knowledge and good character: to have something worth saying and to be someone worthy of saying it.

If you lack either then we have reason not to take you too seriously. Anyone who doesn’t know what they’re talking about should ask more questions. And we should hope that anyone of bad character should have no influence for the damage they could do.

People with neither knowledge or character do not deserve our serious attention. Because of who and what they are, they have nothing to say. We should not listen. We should shout them down.

If anyone in the British government, in their attitude to farming, showed either good knowledge or good character, I would listen to them. But for now that remains an ‘if’. Until then I will continue to shout them down.