On Studying Philosophy

Dear Lena,

I know a lot of time has passed since you asked me how you might get started with studying philosophy. I imagine by now you assume I’ve either forgotten or given my word on something I never intended to follow through with. I’m writing you today, finally, so that you may lay those assumptions aside. In truth, your question has preoccupied me for quite some time, and it may sound dubious, but I’ve needed this past year to reflect on how best to respond to you.

It’s no small question, “How might I get started with studying philosophy?” The easiest response would have been to tell you to pick up Cooper’s Plato and read it cover to cover, but you already knew to do that. So I wanted to give you a more thorough response, which forced me to reflect on my own philosophical training, what went well with it and what didn’t; it forced me to consider what I would do if I were to start along this noble path again; and perhaps most importantly, it forced me to reflect on what precisely I take philosophy to be. I also had to develop an actual reading list for you, and, of course, consider how best to share my response with you. Well, I’m finally hazarding that response now, for better or for ill.

My response, in short, is that in order for you to start studying philosophy, you would do well to not start studying it at all. That might sound odd, since I just told you the easiest response would have been to recommend Cooper’s Plato to you—

Do I contradict myself?
Very well then . . . . I contradict myself. [1]

—but I hope to make myself clear by the close of this letter. I’m led to offer you this apparently contradictory advice because I don’t think that we are any longer properly trained to undertake studying philosophy. One of the very first challenges a student faces as an undergraduate studying philosophy is how much endurance the reading requires. Knowing that your professors expect you to have read the week’s reading two or more times before the start of class only makes matters worse. (I used to fall asleep reading Plato as an undergrad because of how taxing it was.) But endurance isn’t the half of it, or to phrase it as academic philosophers love to do, endurance is “necessary but insufficient” for studying philosophy. In order to do so, you must truly know how to read—and once this is stipulated, we’re on shaky ground.

To read philosophy, to truly read it, requires the ability to understand and deeply appreciate every word, sentence, paragraph, chapter, and so on that you encounter and to understand and deeply appreciate how each element named comes together to create a network of local and global, micro and macro meaning. Such reading isn’t mere literacy; it’s what the ancient Greeks call a τέχνη (tékhnē), a kind of skill, art, or craft that requires specific theoretical and practical knowledge. Mere literacy, in contrast, is more akin to what they call an ἐμπειρίᾱ (empeiríā), a kind of knack one has for doing something. [2] For example, I may be good at assembling prefabricated furniture, but that doesn’t make me a cabinet maker, the latter of which requires the ability to carve wood and so on. Instead, I merely have a knack for assembling furniture. In the same way, most of us have a knack for reading, but few of us know how to truly read, to read as the cabinet maker works a bench plane. To read like this requires endurance, yes, but also specific theoretical and practical training that is, by and large, lacking in our mandatory and higher education today. Reading as τέχνη would require the careful study of grammar, logic, and rhetoric, collectively known as the trivium, the lower division of the seven liberal arts. In order to get started studying philosophy, then, I’m suggesting you need to start with the trivium.

You might find this suggestion somewhat vexing. After all, most of us are taught aspects of the trivium throughout our education. So, to appreciate why you might begin your journey with studying the trivium, it might help to better understand what precisely grammar, logic, and rhetoric entail; how mandatory and higher education has failed to train us in these three disciplines; and how grammar, logic, and rhetoric directly benefit the study of philosophy. If you bear with me, then, I would like to do precisely that.

What is grammar? Grammar is the knowledge of “the set of rules governing how words are put together in sentences to communicate ideas.” [3] This set of rules naturally changes depending on the target language; but in the case of the English language, grammar is traditionally broken down into the parts of speech—nouns, pronouns, adjectives, verbs, adverbs, prepositions, conjunctions, and interjections—syntax (how words are formed and used), and punctuation. So, in essence, to study grammar is to study how to effectively structure language.

We all have studied grammar to an extent in the US, but the quality of this study has depreciated over the past century. In fact, since the turn of the 20th century, a cultural push against grammar has occurred in the US, while prior to that, grammars were some of the most popular books in print (as evidence, try looking up the name Lindley Murray). This push began with many being dissatisfied with students’ inability to practically demonstrate their knowledge of grammar. [4] (This dissatisfaction, I believe, is the result of confusing grammar with rhetoric. Rhetoric teaches you to apply “the set of rules governing how words are put together in sentences to communicate ideas,” not grammar—or at least not directly. Of course, there now exists an intermediary discipline between grammar and rhetoric known as “rhetorical grammar”; I will recommend you an excellent text on that subject below.) Then, in the middle of the 20th century, proponents of “transformational grammar,” largely influenced by Noam Chomsky’s research in the 1950s [5], pushed back against the idea of formal grammar, preferring instead to describe how grammar emerged in native discourse. [6] This push has continued to the present day with many critical of the idea of formal grammar because such grammar is inherently exclusionary. After all, who determines what counts as Standard American English? [7]

I sympathize with the well-meaning in the push against teaching formal grammar in the US. At the same time, though, I recognize the value and importance of didactic, or prescriptive, teaching. Often the point of education is to teach students a set of rules they are expected to transgress afterward. As an example, most who study physics know the modern physical theories of Max Planck and Albert Einstein usurped the classical physical theories in the 20th century, and yet students still begin not with quantum theory but rather with classical mechanics. Why is that? For one reason, as an educator it’s easier to scaffold students’ progress rather than throw them directly into the deep end. For another, in the case of physics, studying classical mechanics helps students better understand the challenges that Planck and Einstein were raising for classical theory. For yet another, classical mechanics still has use value in day-to-day life, despite being, well, wrong. Consider a more pertinent example, the American poet E. E. Cummings, whose early work has all the hallmarks of a classically trained poet:

When thou hast taken they last applause, and when
The final curtain strikes the world away,
Leaving to shadowy silence and dismay
That stage which shall not know thy smile again,
Lingering a little while I see thee then
Ponder the tinsel part they let thee play;
I see the red mouth tarnished, the face grey,
And smileless silent eyes of Magdelen. [8]

This next stanza, taken from “A Chorus Girl,” is a far cry from his mature work, which utterly overthrows his classical roots:

2 little whos
(he and she)
under are this
wonderful tree

smiling stand
(all realms of where
and when beyond)
now and here

(far from a grown
-up i&you-
ful world of known)
who and who

(2 little ams
and over them this
aflame with dreams
incredible is) [9]

Do you think Cummings would have been able to accomplish what he did in his mature style if he were not classically trained? I suspect not. Anyway, I hope these two examples illustrate the value to be had in teaching students the formal grammar of American Standard English. It would give them the outline of what constitutes effective communication, thereby leveling the linguistic playing field, while providing them with the means to transcend language use.

This brief aside highlights some ways in which studying grammar is beneficial, but I would like to be more explicit and say that studying grammar is important because it effectively underwrites everything we, as humans, are and do. In the first book of the Politics, Aristotle writes that “a human being is by nature a political animal” (Pol. 1253a1). [10] What he means is that we are drawn toward community due to our social nature. Of course, what makes us social, or communal, is our ability to communicate, through language. So language is at the core of our nature, and to communicate effectively, we rely on a specific set of rules that govern our language. Consequently, the better versed we are in grammar, the better we are able to communicate, and the more poorly versed, the less able. Many philosophers have argued as much, perhaps most notably Ludwig Wittgenstein, who is often quoted for saying, “The limits of my language mean the limits of my world.” [11]

Grammar is beneficial for studying philosophy because it helps you to determine precisely what philosophers are trying to communicate. Often times there can be subtle differences in the way philosophers choose to communicate an idea, and the grammatical structure they choose serves to translate that idea from them to you. Philosophers also leverage grammar to investigate subtler shades of meaning in their ideas. For example, the German philosopher Friedrich Nietzsche opens Jenseits von Gut und Böse with the question, “Assuming that truth is a woman—how?” [12] He then goes on to shift subtly between woman and truth by emphasizing the fact that “truth” in German is a feminine noun: die Wahrheit. He writes,

Vorausgesetzt, dass die Wahrheit ein Weib ist —, wie? ist der Verdacht nicht gegründet, dass alle Philosophen, sofern sie Dogmatiker waren, sich schlecht auf Weiber verstanden? dass der schauerliche Ernst, die linkische Zudringlichkeit, mit der sie bisher auf die Wahrheit zuzugehen pflegten, ungeschickte und unschickliche Mittel waren, um gerade ein Frauenzimmer für sich einzunehmen? Gewiss ist, dass sie sich nicht hat einnehmen lassen: — und jede Art Dogmatik steht heute mit betrübter und muthloser Haltung da. [13]

Here, Nietzsche is drawing our attention to the reverent and formulaic manner in which philosophers approach truth by juxtaposing it with the reverent and formulaic manner men treat women (in the 19th century, anyway), but to appreciate the nuance requires a deeper understanding of his play on German grammar.

What I’m trying to suggest is that in order to fully comprehend language, whether it be written, spoken, or thought, you must fully comprehend the set of rules that allow meaningful language to arise in the first place. Something else to consider is that grammar also teaches us to identify the constituents of our world; it teaches us to name—

Lara walked along the tracks following a path worn by pilgrims and then turned into the fields. Here she stopped and, closing her eyes, took a deep breath of the flower-scented air of the broad expanse around her. It was dearer to her than her kin, better than a lover, wiser than a book. For a moment she rediscovered the purpose of her life. She was here on earth to grasp the meaning of its wild enchantment and to call each thing by its right name . . . [14]

—and by learning to name, we reintegrate with the ensemble of the world.

What is logic? Logic is the knowledge of identifying and composing sound arguments while avoiding fallacious ones, with the express goal of producing factual, trustworthy knowledge. I recognize that this definition is circular, with knowledge assuming knowledge, but it is not viciously so. What this circularity reveals instead is what I understand to be the hermeneutics of thinking, or, at least, the axiomatic position logic holds in the mind. Plato held a similar view when he argued that knowledge is merely the recollection of what one knew all along. [15]

Logic is variably known as dialectic because, as I understand it, logic first began as a verbal exercise, the best example of which we see Socrates exhibit in Plato’s dialogues (in fact, dialectic is sometimes simply called “Socratic logic”). Socrates often uses dialectic in the manner of a sport or exercise to overthrow others’ (and his own) views. The strength of that dialectic rests on his ability to maneuver his opponents’s views through the use of sound reasoning. The physicality I’m trying to draw out from Socrates’ use of dialectic is captured in the Greek word ἔλεγχος (élenkhos), which also denotes the moment a wrestler turns his opponent over on his back during a match. What we have here is thought in action. But logic can also refer to what is called formal logic, which is something like the symbolic representation of dialectic.

To better see the distinction between dialectic and formal logic, consider an example using Stoic logic. The ancient Stoics recognized five syllogisms, or “indemonstrables,” and held that any argument could be reduced to one of these five forms by means of the four rules of inference (also known as the themata). The five syllogisms are as follows:

1. If the first, then the second; but the first; therefore the second

2. If the first then the second; but not the second; therefore not the first

3. Not both the first and the second; but the first; therefore not the second

4. Either (exclusively) the first or the second; but the first; therefore not the second

5. Either (exclusively) the first or the second; but not the first; therefore the second (DL VII.80–81; my adaptation) [16]

These five syllogisms are deductive arguments, meaning that if the premises are true, then the conclusions necessarily follow. (Deductive arguments contrast with inductive arguments, where if the premises are true, then the conclusion likely follows. For example, “I have two-hundred birds; 198 of them are chickadees; therefore, all two-hundred birds are chickadees.” It is not necessarily true that all two-hundred birds are chickadees, but it’s likely given the sample size.) They would be leveraged in conversation to lead interlocutors toward the truth. So, for clarity, imagine that a friend and I are trying to determine if you were out past curfew. If it proceeds dialectically, the conversation might go as follows:

SOCRATES: Tell me, my dear friend, do you believe that Lena was out past curfew, and that is why the guards apprehended her?

RYNE: Certainly, Socrates. For what other reason would they have done so?

SOCRATES: Well, tell me, then, do you agree that if it is day, it is not night, and if it is night, it is not day?

RYNE: Yes, of course. It cannot be both day and night at the same time, Socrates.

SOCRATES: An astute observation, Ryne—precisely the reason why I asked you before anyone else. So it is either day or night, and it cannot be both. Now, do you agree that curfew is at sundown, not before, and not after?

RYNE: Again, yes, for what other reason would the guards maintain a curfew if not to protect us from thieves and robbers, who, like bats, only come out at night?

SOCRATES: Splendid! Exactly so. And I don’t have to remind you that Lena was apprehended in the marketplace this afternoon after acquiring what she needed to prepare supper, is that right?

RYNE: Yes, that is what I heard, Socrates.

SOCRATES: So you agree that Lena was not in fact apprehended because she was out past curfew.

RYNE: I think you’ve drunk too much hemlock again, Socrates. We just established that Lena was apprehended because she was out past curfew.

SOCRATES: Always one for a laugh, Ryne, but spare no expense for my reputation; I’m sure I can handle as much! Recall, you agreed that for Lena to be apprehended for being out past curfew, it would have to be night when the guards seized her.

RYNE: Yes, that’s what I said.

SOCRATES: And Lena was apprehended during the day after visiting the market.

RYNE: I think so.

SOCRATES: So you agree, then, that Lena was not apprehended for being out past curfew, but for some other reason.

RYNE: I guess so, Socrates.

You can see that Socrates is using dialectic to drive me to the conclusion that you were not in fact appraehended for being out past curfew. The moment he reaches this conclusion (“so you agree, then . . . ”) is the moment of ἔλεγχος: the conclusion necessarily follows from the premises. Socrates’ argument can be formalized as follows:

Table 1: Socrates’ Argument

Importantly, note that it does not follow that if you were not out past curfew, then the guards did not apprehend you. To assert as much is to commit the formal fallacy known as “denying the antecedent.” It is still the case, then, that the guards apprehended you in this example; we just don’t know why.

Unfortunately, logic has suffered worse than grammar in the US in that it is not taught at all during our mandatory education. However, students usually encounter logic through a course called Critical Thinking when they enter college, though the quality of this course has suffered over the years. Critical Thinking used to be known as Informal Logic, which betrays its connection with dialectic, but administrators determined some time in the 20th century that the name sounded too intimidating for students, so they changed it. Then they turned their eye toward the course content, and soon that changed too, for the worst. When I was a graduate student, we taught the following in Critical Thinking: basic nomenclature (what statements, premises, and arguments are, and so on), deductive arguments (like the Stoic indemonstrables provided above), a few inductive argument forms (again, like the example provided above), and a handful of formal and informal fallacies (like denying the antecedent and the sunken cost fallacy). What we didn’t teach them, of course, was dialectic: the application of logical thinking. Regardless, the course had an awful reputation, so much so that incoming freshmen tried to avoid it at all costs. So the department was actively rewriting the entire course to bolster the number of students who would take it. As they were doing so, the unit on deductive arguments was cut entirely. This might not strike you as incredible, but keep in mind that deductive argumentation is the foundation of logic, its roots traceable all the way to ancient times. I’m not really sure what students are learning in a course on informal logic if they aren’t learning deductive arguments.

I can only speculate why Critical Thinking has changed so much over the years, but I suspect it has a lot to do with the fact that US universities today are nothing more than business enterprises, and administrators are financially incentivized to make courses as palatable as possible because students fund it all. I mean, Critical Thinking courses practically support philosophy departments financially today, given, for example, that at an average university of fifty-thousand students, five-thousand of them will be freshmen obliged to take it. To put it in perspective, Georgia State University will make anywhere from $4,474,4050 to $13,993,050 per semester in the 2023–2024 academic year from students taking Critical Thinking alone. [17] Wild. But perhaps this isn’t shocking to you, since the primary means of economic survival in the US is to find any way to extract maximum profit from each other while cheapening whatever it is we’re convincing one another to buy. Maybe these reflections only betray my own naivety, my own inability to turn away from what I believe the world should be to face the world for what it is.

Regardless, the study of logic is of tremendous value to the individual because it teaches you how to think, and dangerously. I mean, what could be more dangerous than someone who knows how to filter the views of others, the claims of institutions, the dictates of religions and sects? I wish we as educators emphasized how liberating the study of logic can be for the mind, but somehow that’s lost—somewhere between the unbearable stress the faculty and graduate students are under and the alterer motives of the administrators. Logic is also indispensable for the study of philosophy because it just is the language of philosophy. I mean, what is philosophy if not the sustained practice of sound reasoning? No, you can’t study philosophy if you don’t study logic.

What is rhetoric? Rhetoric is the knowledge of applying well-formed, well-reasoned language to instruct or persuade a listener or reader. It is the art of communication, and the effective transmission of ideas.

Fortunately, we still encounter rhetoric regularly during our education. We encounter it, for example, in the “language arts” of mandatory education and the composition courses of college-level English. Nevertheless, the discipline has drifted somewhat from its roots, which the systematicity the ancients engaged rhetoric with makes clear. Aristotle, for example, held that rhetoric appealed to three specific domains of the human psyche: logos (λόγος), or reason; pathos (πάθος), or emotion; and ethos (ἠθικός), or right conduct. [18] If rhetoricians effectively leveraged these three domains, then they were guaranteed to persuade their audience. The Roman’s held that in order to build an argument (argument being used here in the broadest terms), five so-called “canons,” or guides, must be followed:

1. Inventio (Invention, or Discovery): to search for an effective means of persuading the target audience to believe not P but Q (for example) and determine what appeals to make in service of that effort

2. Dispositio (Disposition, or Arrangement): to determine how best to structure the argument

3. Elocutio (Elocution, or Style): to determine how best to present the argument, in what manner, with what gestures, and with what flourish

4. Memoria (Memorization): to commit the argument to memory (specifically when the argument will be presented in the form of a public speech)

5. Pronuntiato et actio (Presentation and Action, or Execution): to execute the argument, being mindful of the various parameters governing the speech, or piece of writing, and adjust based on live feedback

This systematic engagement even continued through the Medieval era and Renaissance, when rhetoric was seen as one of the three critical disciplines to be studied for individual liberation (rhetoric is a liberal, or liberating, art after all).

Today, however, rhetoric is typically conflated with learning to write, which in the US means learning to implement various different style guides (like MLA style, or the superior CMS style). Rhetoric is even looked down upon in some academic circles, I believe, because it appeals not only to cold hard logic and ethics but also the emotions. Academic philosophers in particular seem to only recognize rhetoric insofar as it serves as a vehicle for rational argumentation. The result is that academic philosophy is often insipid, lifeless, and even unbearable at times (read any academic paper from any academic journal from the past fifty years to see my point.) So, while we certainly encounter rhetoric frequently during our education, it is a rhetoric that has come down to us ragtag and threadbare.

For what it’s worth, I see rhetoric’s fall from grace prefigured in the ancient debates about its nature and purpose. For instance, Socrates is famously critical of the morality of rhetoric in the Gorgias, since it persuades without regard for what is just, right, or true (Gorg. 459b–460a). [19] He even suggests that rhetoric is nothing more than a kind of knack (ἐμπειρίᾱ) one has for speech and is inferior to dialectic, which is a true craft (τέχνη) (Gorg. 463a6–465e1). [20] Of course, what dialectic reflects insofar as it proceeds with regard to what is just, right, and true is an emphasis on what is rational, or logical, and what is pertinent, or ethical. In fact, much of ancient philosophy puts logical reasoning and ethical conduct on a pedestal such that there is no lack of treatise on the two. What’s missing, of course, is an emphasis on what feels good (or better, what feels salubrious), which would necessitate a body of knowledge that is largely missing in ancient discourse: the knowledge of healthy passions, how they are conjured, and how they are sustained. I would retroactively identify such a body of knowledge as “pathics” (πάθική), from the Greek root πάθος, but those who know ancient Greek know that the word πάθική simply does not exist. What we have instead is the word “pathological,” which connotes mental illness, not healthful emotion. The ancients, indeed most in the history of Western philosophy, tend to lambast the passions. The Stoics, for example, were largely critical of the passions and held that the resultant turbulence of soul resulting from being passionate was the effect of reasoning incorrectly. (To be fair to the Stoics, they did identify good passions, claiming they were the effect of reasoning correctly, but notice the subordination of passion to logic.)

Anyway, perhaps the evil eye academics cast on rhetoric today is largely due to this thousands-year-old bias for logic and ethics rather than the passions, but if logic and ethics were sufficient to persuade people, you might expect the public to make more ado about academic articles. This is not the case, of course. The only people who read academic articles are the very people who write them. I mean, there is a reason why we are moved not so much by David Lewis’s treatise on the plurality of worlds as the opening line of Albert Camus Le myth de Sisyphe—“Il n’y a qu’un problème philosophique vraiment sérieux : c’est le suicide” [21]: it appeals to all three domains of the psyche at once, to the emotional (the fear of death), the logical (positing a controversial claim with the implicit promise to defend it throughout the course of the essay), and the ethical (whether or not suicide is justified). Fortunately, a few philosophers have concerned themselves with understanding the passions. I’m thinking specifically of René Descartes’ Les Passions de lâme and Jean-Paul Sartre’s Esquisse d’un theorie des emotions.

Nevertheless, the study of rhetoric is paramount to both the individual and the student of philosophy. Taking the perspective first of the rhetorician, and then the audience, in both cases will demonstrate this fact. From the perspective of the rhetorician, having studied the art of persuasion ensures that the rhetorician’s ideas are communicated simply, effectively, and eloquently. If the rhetorician is a philosopher, rhetoric develops in the philosopher the ability to argue logically, ethically, and passionately (humans aren’t “complex meat machines,” as an old professor of mine maintained, nor should they be engaged as such.) From the perspective of the audience, rhetoric teaches the audience member to consume media responsibly and to avoid falling prey to the persuasion of baseless arguments. If the audience member is a philosopher, it teaches the philosopher to rigorously analyze others’ arguments and assess whether the appeals they make are warranted. In sum, the study of rhetoric anchors you in the moment and bolsters your capacity to think as you channel your knowledge of grammar and logic into language—rhetoric being, after all, the fruit borne from the entwined trees of grammar and logic.

At this point I lack all confidence that the words I’ve written are worth anyone’s consideration, let alone yours, and I’m tempted to discard them altogether. My goal was to show you how the careful study of grammar, logic, and rhetoric would aid you as a preliminary to reading philosophy, but I’m not confident I’ve succeeded on the front. I’ve certainly not given you any practical advice on how to actually begin studying philosophy, as you had originally asked, nor do I have the time now given the length of the present letter. I will do my best to write to you again now that I can move on from thinking about the trivium. I hope at least to have convinced you why revisiting the trivium is worth your while. I truly believe that you would be prepared to tackle nearly any discipline critically and effectively if you were to study it.

To close I would like to say a word about what I take philosophy to be, since your initial question instigated me to reflect upon it. I will say, yes, philosophy is the stuff you encounter when you read Plato’s dialogues, Lewis’s On the Plurality of Worlds, or Hannah Arendt’s The Origins of Totalitarianism; and it is a rigorous academic discipline. But philosophy is also a word that identifies our fundamental relationship with the world, as the etymology of the word makes clear. Within it, φῐλόσοφος, “the love of wisdom,” holds the threefold appeal of rhetoric: we have the pathical in the word love (φῐ́λος) which identifies our wonder for the world; we have the logical, indicated by wisdom (σοφός), which arises through our wonder for the world; and, finally, we have the ethical, which is indicated by the act of drawing wisdom from our wonder for the world. Such is the definition, then, of philosophy: it is the act of drawing wisdom from our wonder for the world. If this is correct, I think you’ll find that to have studied the trivium is, in a way, to have already studied philosophy as well. I’ll leave you with Henry D. Thoreau’s own words on philosophy, since they are far more elegant than mine, and far more brief:

There are nowadays professors of philosophy, but not philosophers. Yet it is admirable to profess because it was one admirable to live. To be a philosopher is not merely to have subtle thoughts, nor even to found a school, but so to love wisdom as to live according to its dictates, a life of simplicity, independence, magnanimity, and trust. [22]

A Practical Reading Guide for Studying the Trivium

The key to studying the trivium is to determine your target language first. If you were a proper medievalist, you would be studying Latin and reading Cicero until your eyes bled; but such a course of study has limited application today, so let’s assume your target language is English. (Nevertheless, I can’t stress enough how important it is to be multilingual, especially for studying philosophy.)

For grammar, I recommend you study the following texts, in the following order:

1. The Chicago Guide to Grammar, Usage, and Punctuation by Brian A. Garner

2. Rhetorical Grammar by Martha Kolln and Loretta Gray

Garner’s grammar is the most robust one we have to date for American Standard English, and it strongly correlates with his grammar guide in The Chicago Manual of Style (a book you should also purchase, if only for reference). Kolln and Gray will teach you how to apply what you learn in Garner’s grammar while also giving you a peak into English linguistics. You could of course supplement these two texts with The Elements of Style by William Strunk Jr. and E. B. White.

After thoroughly studying American Standard English grammar, move on to studying logic. I recommend the following texts, in the following order:

1. Socratic Logic by Peter Kreeft

2. Informal Logic by Douglas Walton

3. An Introduction to Formal Logic by Peter Smith

Kreeft’s Socratic Logic will take you through dialectic from a historical perspective. Walton’s Informal Logic will do the same but from a contemporary perspective while also introducing you to elements of formal logic. Smith’s An Introduction to Formal Logic will do precisely what its title suggests.

Once you’ve thoroughly studied grammar and logic, you will finally be ready to study rhetoric. I recommend the following texts for studying rhetoric, in the following order:

1. Classical English Rhetoric by Ward Farnsworth

2. Classical English Metaphor by Ward Farnsworth

3. Classical English Style by Ward Farnsworth

4. Classical English Argument by Ward Farnsworth

There are several excellent texts for studying rhetoric, but Farnsworth’s Classical English series is a great place to start.

---

1. Walt Whitman, Leaves of Grass: The Complete 1855 and 1891–92 Editions (New York: Library of America, 2011), 87.


2. For more on the distinction between τέχνη and ἐμπειρίᾱ, see Plato’s Gorgias in John M. Cooper, ed., Plato: Complete Works (Indianapolis: Hackett, 1997).


3. Brian A. Garner, The Chicago Guide to Grammar, Usage, and Punctuation (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 2016), 1.


4. Percival Chubb, The Teaching of English in the Elementary and the Secondary School (New York: Macmillan, 1910), 205.


5. See Noam Chomsky, Syntactical Structures (The Hague: Mouton, 1957).


6. Garner, The Chicago Guide, 4.


7. The contemporary grammarian Brian A. Garner believes the correct way to formulate the question is to ask what determines what counts as Standard American English, the answer being frequency of use.


8. E. Estlin Cummings, “A Chorus Girl,” in Eight Harvard Poets, ed. Laurence J. Gomme (Binghamton: Vail Ballou, 1917), 4.


9. E. E. Cummings, “2 Little Whos,” Poetry 97 no. 3 (1961): 276.


10. Aristotle, Politics, trans. by C. D. C. Reeve (Indianapolis: Hackett, 1998), 4. It is common practice to cite Aristotle using what is known as “Bekker numbering” (August Immanuel Bekker was the editor for the Prussian edition of Aristotle’s complete works). I follow that practice here but also provide a direct source for ease of reference.


11. Ludwig Wittgenstein, Tractatus Logico-Philosophicus, trans. D. F. Pears and B. F. McGuinness (London: Routledge, 2001), 68.


12. Friedrich Nietzsche, Jenseits von Gut und Böse, Neuausgabe, vol. 5, Kritischen Studienausgabe, ed. Giorgio Colli and Mazzino Montinari (München: de Gruyter, 2007), 7.


13. Nietzsche, Jenseits von Gut und Böse, 7.


14. Boris Pasternak, Doctor Zhivago, trans. Max Hayward and Manya Harar (New York: Pantheon Books, 1986), 75.


15. Plato develops his so-called “doctrine of recollection” in the Phaedrus and the Meno; see Cooper, ed., Plato.


16. See Brad Inwood and L. P. Gerson, trans., Hellenistic Philosophy: Introductory Readings, 2nd ed. (Indianapolis: Hackett, 1997), 122–123.


17. “Undergraduate Tuition and Fees: 2023–2024 Academic Year—Fall/Spring/Summer Semesters,” Tuition and Fees Charts, Georgia State University, accessed January 5, 2024, https://sfs.gsu.edu/files/2023/05/FY24-Undergrad.pdf.


18. See the first book of the Rhetoric in Aristotle, Rhetoric, trans. C. D. C. Reeve (Indianapolis: Hackett, 2018).


19. Plato, Gorgias, in Cooper, ed., 803–804.


20. Plato, Gorgias, in Cooper, ed., 808–809.


21. Albert Camus, Le Myth de Sisyphe (Paris: Gallimard, 1942), 15.


22. Henry D. Thoreau, Walden, ed. J. Lyndon Shanley, The Writings of Henry D. Thoreau, ed. William L. Howarth (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1971), 14–15.