Richard Lanham, The “Q” Question

For my first blog response of the semester, I would simply like to move through the reading and discuss various portions of the text that flagged my attention. In his early paragraphs, Lanham introduces the construct he calls “the Weak Defense,” which “argues that there are two kinds of rhetoric, good and bad. The good kind is used in good causes, the bad in bad causes” (155). This construct caused me to immediately recall several readings discussed in Dr. Barnett’s fall 2012 course, Rhetoric and Professional Communication. As rhetoric students, we learned how good causes — when reflected through another lens, from a different perspective — might be seen as bad causes, and vise versa. As a result of these teachings, I question the validity of Lanham’s Weak Defense.

I wonder, however, how the Weak Defense and Strong Defense constructs, or these “two basic orchestrations of reality,” (166) will become visible in the writings or practices of those students enrolled in Freshmen Composition. Some students will take the position for a particular issue, while others may argue against. In this event, these students are likely to use the same rhetoric, but tailor it (i.e., use it as evidence of a good or bad cause) to support their individual claims. This practice would reinforce Lanham’s writing of “the Weak Defense.” “The Strong Defense” points out the shift from Peter Ramus’ two divisions of rhetoric. In his “modern times” definition, Ramus separates the larger umbrella of rhetoric into philosophy and rhetoric. He situates invention, argument and arrangement within philosophy, and places style and delivery with rhetoric. If freshmen composition students write according to these two categories, they will enact “the Strong Defense” and argument will be open-ended. Some students will separate rhetoric and philosophy (“the Weak Defense”), and others will argue new systems and assume that “truth…is man made” (“the Strong Defense”) (156).

The “Q” Question is double-barreled, and as a result, it brings forth an additional level of complexity. The question insists that action be taken in designing a curriculum that “situates and justifies the humanities” (156). Can we answer the first question (Does education in discourse lead to virtue more than vice?) without and/or before answering the second (Are good rhetors good people?), or vise versa? And furthermore, how are we to interpret these questions without operationalizing the terms (e.g., virtue, vice, good)? What does it mean to be virtuous? Lanham answers: “Train someone in it, and… you have trained that person to be virtuous. ‘Virtuosity is some evidence of virtue’” (170). While some of my questions, like this, were answered throughout my reading, a few continued to pose additional thought.

Lanham uses the idea of the law courts to communicate his message regarding the humanities. He writes: “…the “Q” question is coming after us these days. It presses on us in the university, for the university is like the law courts: it cannot dodge the “Q” question” (156). In the law courts, laws are defended and the truth sheds light; however, this truth is decided upon by which party presents the better case. Persuasion is present in the law room, just a much (if not more) than evidence of the sided claims. This is where the truth is formed. If neither institution — the law courts or the university — can dodge the “Q” question, what law-biding institution, if any, can?

   

I enjoyed the paragraphs pertaining to the table-of-contents curriculum. If rhetoric and thought are disconnected disciplines, it can be understood how this disconnect exists within education and the various disciplines taught within it. Elementary-aged students study the basics of social studies, science, Language Arts, and History; they are exposed to this “supermarket conception” of curriculum that is likely to continue throughout their years into middle and high school. Perhaps it is not until they reach higher education that these students begin to narrow their study focus and push their carts down only one aisle of the supermarket. What I find slightly confusing, however, is the claim that Lanham makes: “No part of the curriculum offers any moral education. That education takes place elsewhere — anywhere but in the curriculum” (173). This same thought is retouched in later pages: “Humanist inquiry, indeed the whole life of the mind, has nothing to do with the moral life” (180). To some extent, I believe this claim, but I still find myself asking how it can always be true.

 

Here is another question: If rhetoric and philosophy are separate as humanistic, moral thought is from the university, how can the university represent the “last best hope of humankind,” as Sidney Hook and Allan Bloom suggest? Does it all come down to how one views the conception of humanism? There is much at work in this chapter, and much of it surpasses me in the first few readings. I plan to revisit Lanham’s work throughout the week, and I will post again if something enlightens me in my additional readings.