Chapter 7 Rhetoric #2
Good is the root of human nature. Goodness, like a vine, grows and twists into itself, tangling in the dirt that is our skin, further connecting us all as one shared blood.
Good is the mother of all that we know. It flows from the wellspring of the soul and the belly of the deepest love.
It is the sun and the night, the moon and the morning.
It is everything we are born knowing. It is an innate hunger, a primal instinct, a dream and a wish.
It is warmth. Goodness is the birthright of humankind, the marker of civility.
When we are good, our lives take on a deeper meaning, a richness that resonates within our bodies like the ring of a bell.
At its heart, and in our hearts, goodness is something that we feel, and know, we are.
That’s… good. It’s lyrical and novel and intricate. Yes, that’s really good. Pleased with herself, Claudia lays down her quill and turns the paper over, then slides it to the corner of the desk that is out of Cassius’s reach.
“You’re making a mess,” Cassius says.
“What? Oh, shit.” Her quill is spilling out the rest of its ink onto the table. When she picks it up, black stains her hands. She wipes it on her robe over and over again until she gets as much off as possible. It blends right in; thank the gods for the black clothing.
“And don’t use crass language in class. You’re a rhetoric student now, Jolicoeur. Speak like one.”
“Class hasn’t started yet,” she bites back. “Bastard” slides under her breath. If he heard her, he doesn’t react to it.
Finally, Professor Olivier walks in. She’s older—not quite as old as Mrs. Schottstaedt from the Wanderer’s Wonders, but her pinned-up hair is turning gray at the roots, and the lenses in her glasses are thick as bone.
Her hazel eyes are enlarged by her prescription.
Long robes of crushed red velvet accentuate her impressive height.
She waits to speak until the room is quiet, then lifts her chin.
“‘The use of rational speech is more distinctive of a human being than the use of his limbs.’ Who said that?”
Cassius raises his relaxed hand, his elbow still resting on the desk. “Aristotle.”
“Excellent. What does that mean?”
Another young man raises his hand. “It can be expressed as a simple syllogism. Distinctive features of humans are those that are not shared with animals, and thus, rational speech is more human than even our corporeal form.”
“That’s an enthymeme, George,” the girl next to him scolds. “You’re only implying the minor premise that rational speech is uniquely human. You need to say it directly for it to be a syllogism.”
“An enthymeme is a type of syllogism, Florence.”
“It’s an incomplete syllogism. That’s why there’s a different word for it.”
Wagging his finger in her face, he says, “But you admit that it is, categorically, a syllogism.”
Florence rolls her eyes and offers no retort. Her opponent, George, smirks and straightens his spine as if he’s won something.
“It’s nice to see that the holiday has only strengthened your spirit of debate, Mr. Abdo and Miss Char. That’s what we’re here to do, for Aristotle also tells us that rhetoric is a necessary counterpart of dialectic. We’re here to find truths by ways of reasoning, argumentation, and persuasion.”
“And sometimes the truth hurts,” George says, glaring at Florence, who pays him no mind.
“A simple but accurate maxim. I’d go as far as to say that sometimes, when shared with poor rhetoric, the truth kills.”
“If truth can kill, can it still be good?” a young red-haired woman asks.
Excellent question, Claudia thinks. She’d love to know. If truth can sometimes kill, and truth is good, then that means killing is also sometimes good. Right? There’s a good syllogism for you.
Professor Olivier points to the prompt on the board. “What is good, Miss Rowland?”
“Virtuousness.”
“Hm,” she says, dissatisfied. “True, to an extent. Virtue is good, as it’s indicative of sound condition. Virtuous people are productive of good things. But there is more to be discussed.”
A brunette with bangs smirks. “But virtue ceases to be good when it negates pleasure, for pleasure is also good.”
“Fair point, Miss Gibson, but not all that yields pleasure is good. As Isocrates said, pleasure without honor is the worst thing in the world. It’s one of his few coherent philosophies.”
“So good is pleasure attended by honor,” says a young man behind Claudia.
“But what is pleasure?” Olivier asks. She points to Claudia.
Her mouth goes dry. “Enjoyment?” she guesses. Her cheeks burn red.
Olivier shakes her head. “More.” The professor looks around the room for someone with a better answer, and Claudia wants to swallow her tongue and never talk again. She’s so sick of saying the wrong thing, so sick of sounding dumb.
“Comfort,” says another student.
The professor paces, frustrated. She waves her arms like a conductor before an orchestra. “More. Bigger!”
Students throw out a few more guesses before someone lands on something Olivier likes.
Satisfaction is the word that catches the professor’s attention.
“Satisfaction of?” Olivier asks.
“Satisfaction of needs,” the student continues, and the professor groans, tugging the front pieces of her hair out of her careful bun.
“You’re thinking in primal terms. Open your mind. Think about human nature. Remember what separates us from animals.”
Finally, Cassius says, “Desire.”
Professor Olivier’s eyes sparkle with approval. “Yes. Satisfaction of desire.” She says it as if every word is its own sentence.
“And for desire to be virtuous, it must be absent of vices,” Miss Rowland says.
Olivier claps twice. “So that leads us to what definition?”
“Good is anything desirable for its own sake,” Miss Gibson says in her low, sultry voice.
“And?” Olivier looks at Claudia, but her mind is silent. She has nothing to contribute. She can hardly keep up.
“It’s the common aim pursued by anyone possessing reason and wisdom,” a young woman calls from the back of the room.
“Excellent. Absolutely excellent.” Olivier sighs with relief. “So, is truth good? Is it desirable for its own sake? Is it a goal shared by those of virtuous and sound mind?”
The class barks out one unified “Yes” so sudden and powerful that it sounds like a warning beat on a war drum.
“Yes,” Professor Olivier echoes, dragging out the word until it becomes a satisfied hum.
“And the reason it’s so important for us to define goodness is because it is the spectrum by which we measure the purpose and the efficacy of rhetoric.
We must always ask: Who is arguing toward the good?
Toward Aristotelian eudaemonia?” She paces across the floor, her robes puddling around her feet.
“And good always implies a relation with evil, so how do we discern between the two? And if the loss of evil is equal to the acquisition of good, how do we determine lesser evil in the case where there is an absence of good?” She stands before the blackboard and points to the prompt.
“We must define good in order to uphold it. If we cannot universally accept what is to be good, then we no longer have the capacity to understand what is true. And without truth, we render useless the most important and serious of human pleasures: learning.” She’s speaking so fast that she has to pause to catch her breath.
Centered, she continues. “Aristotle says the epitome of delight comes from learning true things—more specifically, to know and speak true things in a world of confusion.” Students swiftly write that down.
Claudia follows messily, her ink smeared, her words sloppy.
“The point of training your rhetorical abilities is to strengthen your truth. The truth is of the utmost importance, but just as important, alongside it, is persuasion. There is no point in truth if it is not believed. Truth ceases to exist when it is not believed.”
As class continues, Claudia deems Professor Olivier the most captivating, inspiring, intimidating person she has ever met.
Throughout the lecture, Cassius is sharp and attentive.
He meets Olivier at the end of every sentence, spinning their dialogue into an intricate dance.
Claudia burns with envy seeing her rival drop casual philosophical references and literary quips.
He’s so effortlessly brilliant; it’s like he was born well-read.
His mind is of someone far older. He’s wise.
He’s worldly. He’s experienced. Somehow, he’s found some way to fit a century’s worth of knowledge into his twenty-three years.
Olivier concludes her lecture with, “I understand you want to learn more than rhetoric; you want to master linguistic magic. Trust, I will teach it to you once you understand what it means to make the world better, for that is the real reason you are here: not for power, but for progress.”
At the end of the class, the students approach Olivier’s desk to turn in their papers and head to their first meal of the day. When the room is nearly empty, Claudia walks up to the professor’s desk and smiles. “Hello, Professor Olivier. I’m Claudia Jolicoeur. “
“Ah yes, Cygnus’s first second-term student. How do you feel about your first class?”
Looking down, she tucks her hair behind her ear. “Ill-prepared. I was wondering if you had any recommendations for how I might catch up to the others.”
“I’d suggest finding a friend willing to tutor you. You walked in with Mr. MacLeod, yes? He’s an exceptional scholar. That’s why I sat you two next to each other—I’m sure he would be willing to help.”
Her shoulders sink. “I’m positive he wouldn’t.”
“Why is that?”
Oh, maybe because Cassius thinks she’s a murderer, and worse, an idiot. But Claudia doesn’t want to tell Olivier about that. What if Olivier took his side? “He’s made it very clear that he thinks I don’t belong here and he doesn’t want me bothering him.”
The professor places her hand on her hip and ponders. “I’ll talk to him about it.”
Claudia’s eyes go wide. “I think that would make it worse. I’m sorry, Professor Olivier, but if it’s possible, I’d prefer to work independently.”
With a sigh, Professor Olivier turns to the tall bookshelves behind her desk and pulls a dozen titles. She thrusts the stack of books into Claudia’s arms. “Then get to reading, Miss Jolicoeur. Read like your magic depends on it. Because it does.”
She was hoping for a faster solution. It’ll take weeks for her to read all these, which means weeks of still being stupid. With a defeated sigh hidden in the back of her throat, Claudia thanks Olivier and turns to leave.
“Wait,” her professor says just before Claudia steps out of the room.
“Yes?”
“I do have some better advice for you, and it’s something that many of your fellow Cygni consistently fail to do.
” Olivier gazes around the room, ensuring that no one else is present before she says, “If you’re not keen on working with others in this class, I implore you to befriend those outside your major.
Learn from them. Let the wider world shape your perspective. ”
That may prove to be harder, given her bloody reputational damage. But she can try. “Yes, Professor.”
She gives Claudia a soft smile and squeezes her hand. “I believe in you, Claudia. ‘The roots of education are bitter, but the fruit is sweet.’”
“Is that Aristotle?” Claudia guesses.
Olivier’s smile grows. She nods. “See? You’re going to be just fine.”