It often bugged me when every history of rhetoric began with the Greeks. Did the ancient civilizations of China or Egypt find any interest in the intricacies and processes of persuasion? Of course they did. But their socio-political structures didn’t demand a sustained inquiry; we start with the Greeks because of their experiment in Direct Democracy. It befell to you to dispute a claim in court—no outsourcing of duty to a lawyer. (This claim deserves some nuancing, since there were certainly rhetoricians who would help you construct the speech; but nevertheless, you had to be the one to deliver it.)
In addition, the art of speaking (orality) was prized much more than it is today: senators regularly delivered speeches to hundreds of people in the Agora; theatre was a crucial means for entertainment as well as education; and people argued (in the sense of respectful dialogue) in the streets much more readily. The culture of democracy—especially the fact that is was a direct democracy—created the climate and necessity for a sustained and systematic inquiry into the nature and function of rhetoric.
The sophists played a key role in the cultivation of knowledge about rhetoric. They were itinerant teachers—peripatetic pedagogues, roving rhetoricians—who would instruct you on how to influence other for a price. (But don’t think ‘em necessarily more greedy than Plato & Co., who operated with a “gift culture”—the philosophers were doing just fine.) The sophists came from outside of Athens (which didn’t help their credibility) and had seen how other cultures operate. This led them to question cultural claims that suggested “this is the only way to do it and the right way to do it.” Their travels and observations played a role in the development of their philosophy of relativism, which held that truths, beliefs, and behaviors can only be understood in a context—that there’s always a frame of reference operating that organizes meaning according to that particular society at that particular time.
The questioning of absolute truths and morality (“this is THE way to do things”) didn’t exactly win them friends. Plato especially held a distaste for the sophists, as he was developing a philosophy of universalism, which held that there are truths that unchangeable and eternal. No matter who you are, where you’re at in history, certain things are True. One way to think of these two positions is that Plato believed in Truth (with a capital ‘T’) while the sophists believe in truth(s) (with a lowercase ‘t,’ since truth, they argued, may change over time or be different for folks living elsewhere.
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** Disclaimer **
These very important (and by that I mean influential historically and culturally) views are presented here in a rather reductive format. But despite the black and white presentation, please keep your active and inquisitive eye at work: there are shades of grey everywhere.
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You will recall that epistemology is the study of knowledge. It asks,
- What is knowledge?
- What can we know?
- How do we know that we know?
- What are the limits of knowledge?
So, while the sophists would say that 100% certain truth (Truth) is unavailable, we can gain and use probable truth.
Think about it like this: We can’t be absolutely certain the sun will “rise” tomorrow. But we can be pretty damn sure. It’s highly likely, no?
Probable knowledge might as well be synonymous with “debatable knowledge.” Recall the argumentation clinic we had: we can offer reasons—some better than others—for our claims and through the back-n-forth of asking questions and offering reasons we can “advance” our knowledge in certain areas.
For the sophists, probable knowledge and a relativist epistemology suggested that “there’s always another side” to a claim or argument. One of their pedagogical methods—and one of ours—is to “hear the other side.”
AUDI ALTERAM PARTEM = Hear the Other Side.
One of the oldest texts in rhetorical studies is the “Dissoi Logoi” (literal translation: “Different Words”). As a pedagogical text, it asked you to understand the topic more comprehensively and deeply by seeing it from the other side (which was often your “opponents” side). So, while death may be considered bad for those who die or the family they leave behind, it’s good for the undertakers and grave-diggers, who feed their family with that income.
All this emphasis on contextual, situated truth and the process of receiving and distributing knowledge led the sophists to place great emphasis on language. They argued this:
What we know is inextricably bound up with how we communicate.
In other words, there is a fundamental connection between discourse and knowledge and therefore, discourse and truth. Or, put differently yet again: what may be said and how it can be said cannot be disentangled.
As I mentioned in class, I often think of my sister here. After years of saying to her, “What you say isn’t as important as how you say it,” I’ve come to see what the sophists mean: you can’t separate that “what” from any possible “how.” You’re always selecting a particular way of expressing something out of a wide variety of options. There is no recourse to a stable, central, neutral way of expression.
Today these ideas are discussed in terms of Framing.
We all operate with frames of reference—organizing schematas that order and hierarchize information—and these frames of reference shape the way we “see” the world. Frames allow for the rapid mapping and understanding of information—but in a particular way. Let’s consider an example:
“Tax Relief” triggers a frame that includes an implicit reference to oppression of some type, and also includes then an “oppressor,” a “victim,” and a “reliever.” When we hear this phrase a particular frame of reference is called forth—a string of associated content that we flesh out almost automatically (that is to say, without much critical reflection.”
Now take “habitat loss.” This term doesn’t trigger a frame that has such active agents like those in “tax relief.” What would happen if we changed it to “habitat theft?” Now our frame of reference includes a “thief” and prompts us to inquire who that thief is. But “habitat theft” isn’t a phrase we hear at all, is it? Why do you think “habitat loss” is the common term?
These everyday phrases—terms and colloquialisms that are common to everyday speech—are repeated with such frequency that we tend to forget their constructedness. They become familiar terms. They become codified within the popular vernacular. And because of that we will often forego what frames of reference they trigger. But the frames are always there, asking us to see things one way and not another.
Give consideration to the words you choose. They shape the way your see the world; and because they shape how we think—and what we think—they shape the principles we structure our actions on. The words we choose ultimately play a large role in structuring our actions. That’s the lesson for the day.
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