The Rudolf Steiner Archive

Educational Issues in Adolescence Related to the Artistic Design of Instruction II

[ 1 ] Today, therefore, I would like to offer a few brief, aphoristic remarks on various pedagogical topics that we discussed during our first course and have continued to add to, as I believe is necessary at this time. I have not yet been able to have the Christmas course I held in Dornach—which, in many respects, serves as a supplement to my other writings on pedagogy—printed from the transcripts. Hopefully, that will happen at some point. But for now, it has been published in installments in the Goetheanum in Steffen’s reports. This series of articles in the Goetheanum will now also be published in book form, so that, for the time being, at least these reports by Steffen on this Christmas course—which I consider particularly important for those interested in pedagogy—will be available.

[ 2 ] Today I would like to begin by pointing out some feelings that a teacher or educator should always have, and which he should continually—I would say, through meditation—bring to the forefront of his consciousness. The fundamental feeling must, in fact, be the one I have expressed in various ways: reverence for the child’s individuality. We must be fully aware that a spiritual and soul-based individuality is embodied in every child, and that what we see before us as the physical child is not, in fact, the true expression of the child’s individuality. The laws governing the structure of the human organism are, as you have no doubt observed from the many things that have come before our souls since the first teachers’ course, extraordinarily complex. And for a wide variety of reasons, the true individuality of a child is hindered by obstacles in both the physical and the etheric organism from fully manifesting itself, so that what we actually have before us in the child is, at first, the more or less unknown true individuality and that which is actually masked by the child’s physical form. It is also possible to express this same truth in that other form, which I also attempted to convey in the public lectures in Vienna: We must be aware that within any child’s individuality, if we characterize it radically, there could lie a genius, and it could well be that we ourselves, as teachers and educators, are not geniuses. If this relationship exists—that the child is a genius and the teacher is not—then it is a completely legitimate relationship, for not all teachers can be geniuses, and pedagogy deals with general laws. But it would, of course, be entirely wrong if the teacher were then to try to instill his own individuality—or even his own likes and dislikes—into the child, if he were to teach the child to regard as right, desirable, and so on, whatever he himself considers to be right and desirable. He would then, of course, hold the child back at his own level, and we must not allow that under any circumstances. We can be of great help to ourselves in this regard if, I would say, through meditation we bring to our consciousness quite deeply the fact that all education, at its core, has nothing to do with the true individuality of the human being; that, as educators and teachers, our essential task is to stand in reverence before individuality, to offer it the opportunities to follow its own laws of development, and to remove only those obstacles to development that lie in the physical-bodily and the bodily-soul aspects—that is, in the physical body and the etheric body. We are called upon only to remove these obstacles lying in the physical-bodily and bodily-soul aspects and to allow individuality to develop freely; so that what we teach the child in terms of knowledge should, in essence, be used only to advance the physical aspect—both the physical-bodily and the etheric-bodily—to such an extent that the human being can indeed develop freely.

[ 3 ] My dear friends, this may seem abstract, but it is the most concrete aspect of education and, at the same time, points to the very area where the vast majority of mistakes are made. Many people say that we must develop the child’s individuality. This is just as true as it is, on the other hand, devoid of substance. For if it weren’t for the physical and etheric inhibitions, the individuality of every child would develop properly in life. But it is precisely these physical and etheric inhibitions that we must remove. You see, you need only bring to mind the terrible thing we are actually doing when we casually teach six-, seven-, and eight-year-old children to read and write. We do not bring this home to ourselves with sufficient severity often enough. For as the child grows up to the age of 6, 7, or 8, it truly brings nothing with it that could point to those little demonic things that appear before it on the paper—or that it is even supposed to imitate. There are no human connections to today’s letter forms. Therefore, we must be clear that there is actually a tremendous gulf between what has developed as writing in the later course of human civilization and what a child is at around the age of seven. Today, we must teach the child something it certainly does not desire at all, so that it can grow into today’s civilization. And if we do not want to completely ruin the child, then we must proceed in such a way that we approach the child during these years exactly as it must be approached, so that the developmental obstacles are removed and the child is gradually guided—once these obstacles have been cleared away—to the state of the soul, to the condition of the soul, that adults possessed during the cultural period when today’s written forms came into being. The child’s nature itself, of course, provides the impetus for this.

[ 4 ] You see, experiments are being conducted today on children’s fatigue. The fact that figures such as those currently being recorded are emerging should not mark the end of the research, but rather the beginning. One should ask: Why is it that children become so fatigued in the first place? — One considers the nervous system, the brain system, and likely also the metabolic and limb systems, which do become fatigued, while the rhythmic system—which is at the height of its development from the change of teeth to sexual maturity—does not, in truth, become fatigued. For the heart continues to beat even during fatigue, and the respiratory rhythm and all other rhythms proceed undisturbed by any fatigue, so that the current findings of experimental psychologists suggest something different from what is commonly assumed today. They indicate that far too little consideration is given to the rhythmic system in children’s education. The rhythmic system, however, is directly stimulated by the soul when the entire lesson is structured artistically, through plastic arts, or through music. One will then notice that children hardly ever become significantly fatigued as a result of such lessons. And the teacher should actually cultivate a keen eye for whether the children are becoming overly fatigued; the teacher should develop a certain instinct for whether the fatigue is much greater than it ought to be based on purely external conditions—such as the classroom air being somewhat poorer than it should be, or the children having to sit for hours on end—that is, the purely physical factors that tax the metabolic and limb systems. Then again, the child must think. When thoughts linger gently in rhythm, they do not tire the mind too much. They tire it somewhat, but not too much. The very thing that must be particularly engaged in the child as the physical organ of education and instruction is precisely the rhythmic system. Now, in those subjects that are not directly focused on the arts, we must strive to make instruction as artistic as possible. This must be taken very seriously, for it is the only true means of education: the artistic approach between the change of teeth and sexual maturity.

[ 5 ] I said yesterday that what is of particular importance at this stage of life is that we transform everything into an image—either a musical image or a visual image. Now, of course, you might find it extraordinarily difficult to convey ideas through images in some school subjects. It will be relatively easy to teach through imagery when dealing with history, where one can shape what one is describing into a visual image; it will be relatively easy in certain subjects, such as natural history, where one should also convey what one wishes to teach the child through imagery as much as possible. This will prove more difficult in other subjects. In languages, for example, it will not be so difficult to convey concepts visually, provided one places some value on taking the visual nature of language into account in instruction. One should really not miss any opportunity, even with ten-, eleven-, or twelve-year-old children, to point out how sentences are structured—let’s say, for example, a three-part sentence structure consisting of the main clause, the relative clause, and the conditional clause. Isn’t that right? The grammatical aspect of it isn’t the main point; we should treat it merely as a means to arrive at the visual image, but we shouldn’t fail to give the child—I would even say—a spatial, concrete conception of a main clause and a relative clause. Of course, this can be achieved in a variety of ways. One can have the main clause be a large circle, the relative clause a small circle that is perhaps off-center—without getting too theoretical, by staying within the visual image—and one can make the conditional clause, the “if” clause, so vivid that one, for example, draws rays toward the circle as the conditioning factors. It is not necessary to overdo these things, but it is truly necessary, after thoroughly preparing your lesson material, to return to these elements again and again. And even with ten-, eleven-, and twelve-year-old children, one should address—I would say—the moral and character-forming aspects of imagery in style. Not that one should teach formal rhetoric at that stage. We discussed yesterday where this should fit into our lessons. Rather, the subject should be grasped more from an inner, intuitive perspective. One can go very far in this regard. For example, one can take an individual reading passage—not the pedantic ones found in our readers, but those that have been carefully selected—and approach it with an eye toward the child’s temperament. One can speak not of the content, but of a melancholic style, of a choleric style. So please set aside the content entirely—even the poetic content; I’m referring here to the sentence structure. There’s no need to pick things apart—in fact, one should actively avoid that—but the transformation into an image, into the moral and characterological, should be cultivated. One can certainly find ways to have a stimulating effect on children in their 10th, 11th, 12th, and 13th years if one disciplines oneself accordingly and undertakes the necessary studies.

[ 6 ] You see, my dear friends, I don’t mean to criticize anyone; I just want to describe something. I’ve once again been able to make some very revealing observations—at least for me—at our Vienna Congress, when I compared the demeanor and style of those who spoke, let’s say, from northern Germany, with those of our Viennese, who were appointed to serve here, I always wondered, whenever Baravalle or Stein or some other Viennese came, whether he’d start his lecture with “If.” That’s so characteristic of what it means to be Austrian; it’s incredibly telling—starting with a conditional clause—and it immediately leads into the realm of morality and character. I believe you’re hardly even aware of how you’ve begun your lectures with “If”! The North Germans and the Swiss—they don’t start with “If”; they blurt out an unconditional, affirmative sentence right at the very beginning. This is so characteristic, and you should also learn to approach things in this way—first, so that, if I may put it that way, you may free yourself from your own conditions, and so that, in this process of liberation, you may also achieve an artistic treatment—one that is not pedantic—of every subject matter. If one learns to pay attention to such things, one can achieve an artistic approach to any subject matter. And I would like to point out that it is extraordinarily important to immerse oneself in the artistic in such a way that one pays attention to artistic details if one wants to be a good teacher for children from the time they lose their baby teeth until they reach puberty. Take another look at the photographs*; observe how Dr. Kolisko stands, how Walleen stands, and view this not with an interpretive, commentating eye, but with an artistic sensibility—then you will see how immensely much this gives you. It is, after all, very important not to force such things; of course, nonsense immediately results if you use your intellect to pass judgment—such as noting that someone always holds a portfolio in a certain hand position and the like. But when you grasp it with an artistic sensibility, something emerges that cannot be fully put into words, yet which infuses your very being with artistry in an immensely significant way—something you need precisely as an educator. It is very important to put oneself in a position to transform things into images, for it is the image that truly brings the things we wish to teach the child to life.

[ 7 ] With regard to our own academic education—which we have, after all, undertaken and which constantly confronts us whenever we prepare for a class—the books we use to prepare are, after all, full of abominations— we grapple with what constitutes scientific systematics, and if we don’t have enough time to get to the bottom of it all—when we’re preparing for a class, we have to use a contemporary textbook in which things are arranged scientifically—then it haunts our minds. If we then pass this on to the children, it simply won’t work. And we must be clear about the fact that this causes us great difficulties ourselves, that today scientific systematics—not human systematics—has crept into even the preparatory books we can use. So we must free ourselves completely from that. We must rid everything we bring into the school for this age group of all scientific systematics.

[ 8 ] And so it is good to recall a time when older children—older young people—were taught in such a way that it was taken for granted that one did not appeal to the head alone, but to the whole person. One need only recall that medieval training: grammar, rhetoric, dialectic—where the point was not to teach this or that, but to enable the child to express himself or herself in a grammatically correct sentence. They did not teach grammar there, but rather offered the child the opportunity to think so vividly that their sentences took on a pictorial character. Then, of course, rhetoric: the child was to become accustomed to sensing the beauty of the word in its form; dialectic: the child was to become accustomed to freeing the thought within themselves, and so on; it all came down to skill. And fundamentally, even with the most spiritual matters—from the change of teeth to sexual maturity—it must come down to skill. But this skill is only achieved at this age if everything is brought down to the level of imagery.

[ 9 ] Well, sometimes trivialities play an extraordinarily large role. For example, it really makes a difference whether, say, when teaching mathematics, you arrange a row of letters that is wider and then follow it with another that is shorter—whether you place the shorter one at the beginning or in the middle. Ultimately, one can turn a mathematical operation into a visual image that the students have before them, and place a certain value on the fact that what is written on the board also becomes a visual image; that even in the minor details, these things are taken into account. Sometimes opportunities arise to bring that image out of a very special corner of life, so to speak. Mathematical formulas or sequences of formulas can sometimes be framed by figures that can be perceived as beautiful in and of themselves. We should not let such opportunities pass us by. It is a sin and a shame if we let such opportunities pass us by—opportunities where one can make something concrete—which may be nothing more than a kind of unnecessary embellishment for those who are capable of thinking only in a philistine-logical manner. That philistine-logical way of thinking—we should gradually eradicate it from our souls at this stage of life, if I may put it that way. Today we are instilling it far too much, more and more. We should eradicate it; we should strive with all our might toward the imaginative or the musical, and then, at this stage of life, we will truly come to understand rhythm.

[ 10 ] And now we must not close our minds to the realization that the imponderables truly play a major role in the overall educational process. You see, in our very first pedagogical courses here, we spoke about the four temperaments in a pedagogical context. To study these four temperaments in children continuously is, in fact, the task of the educator in every respect; to study them in such a way that he also takes them into account continuously. For, I would say, the proper karma of a class unfolds in the correct handling of the temperaments of the children in his class. After all, such a class is a unified whole; these are souls who are together. As they work together with the teacher and among themselves, a part of their life karma unfolds. All sorts of threads of life are woven into this, but a part of karma unfolds; specifically, a significant portion of karma unfolds between the ages of 7 and 14. And the way in which the individual temperaments work into this karma is precisely what we should take into account. In this regard, the class—by allowing this to be the subtle undertone of our pedagogical work—can continually serve as a source of inner insights. And above all, we should not allow a situation to arise in which there are students in any class who are dozing off or sleeping through the lesson. By “students who are half-asleep,” I mean those who engage with their whole being for only half, three-quarters, or a quarter of the lesson. It can happen that, time and again, the same few “more gifted” students—as they are usually called (though they are not always so)—raise their hands, while the others sit there drowsy. Then the lesson actually unfolds with liveliness among just a few, while the others are essentially always a kind of background cast, and that is precisely what must be avoided at all costs. For, of course, this tendency to become a background figure or a chatterbox—I don’t mean that in a negative sense here—is naturally based on other factors as well. But it is certainly also based on the contrast between temperaments. There are, of course, some students who have, let’s say, a sanguine temperament or even a choleric one; they will constantly raise their hands, and one will constantly have to deal with them if one isn’t particularly careful from a pedagogical standpoint; and there are others—the more melancholic or phlegmatic types—who then become the background figures. This must be avoided at all costs, because we do the greatest service to the students who think a bit faster and are a bit more talkative when we encourage those who think more slowly and are not inclined to speak up so quickly to always participate in everything—to join in the discussion, contribute to the work, and so on. It is absolutely necessary that we put up with this inconvenience. We may feel that, for a short time, we are making less rapid progress than if we were to leave the passive participants to their own devices; but in the long run, things will turn out differently. In the long run, it will become clear that, above all, we have an immensely strong effect on the children’s ability to retain information in their memory by not allowing any “extras.” What is legitimate about memory is essentially supported by the fact that we do not allow any “extras.”

[ 11 ] And so I would like to say that the ability to make a vivid impression depends on the effectiveness of these intangible factors as well. Experience will show us that if we allow all temperaments and all types of aptitudes within a class to truly express themselves, we are much more likely to achieve a vividness rooted in the soul during the period from the loss of baby teeth to puberty than if we do not. Of course, a certain—I would say strong—dedication to teaching is necessary if one is to consistently present the material with the intention of making it visual; yet one should never end a school lesson for children of this age without giving them something visual to take with them. Those who, from the outset, are able to paint with the children naturally have it easier in this regard; but on the other hand, those who, let’s say, provide the children with imagery in subjects such as languages or arithmetic have an even greater impact on the children. And, when it comes down to it, there is really no other genuine preparation for this work with imagery for the educator than what I have suggested: to sharpen our sense of observation of life to such an extent that we approach, with complete objectivity, what life reveals—particularly as revealed in human beings. In fact, a healthy artistic physiognomy—not just physiognomy of human beings, but also, for example, of the animal world—should be revived, especially among educators; a healthy one, not the sentimental Lavaterian physiognomy and the like, but a healthy physiognomy in which the pictorial is sought out, without going so far as to reach the closed-off nature of the concept—that is, remaining within the image, being content with it once things have been brought to the level of the image; such a healthy physiognomy ought to be revived once more, and it will then naturally flow into all manner of undertakings, into all manner of processes that the teacher develops during the lesson. Nowhere else should the focus be so much on the “how” and not so much on the “what” as in teaching and education. It is by no means the “what” that matters, but rather that the “what” emerges in a certain “how,” in a certain manner within the lesson. And there is no greater enemy for the teacher than incomplete preparation, for it always causes him to remain stuck at the “what”; whereas thorough preparation always leads one to move from the “what” to the “how,” so that one takes pleasure in seeing how one can present it to the child, how one can shape it before the child, as the shaping itself has first become like an inspiration and the like. We should not shy away from the fact that, in this regard, we often present the children with things that are incomprehensible to them. Incomprehensible things that the children accept on the basis of our authority—and for children between the loss of their baby teeth and puberty, authority is what matters—are better than trivial matters that are understandable to them and that they grasp through their own intellect.

[ 12 ] These are, I would say, quite subtle nuances of what the teacher, the educator, should do with his or her own inner life. If you were to take another look at the Christmas Course on Education, you would notice that throughout it, great emphasis is placed on answering the question: How do we shape the outer aspects of the human being—the physical body, the etheric body? —not, how do we shape the individuality? That shapes itself on its own. When one asks, “How do we shape the physical body?”—the fact is that today, in a materialistic age, people simply have no idea that the physical body is shaped precisely through the spiritual-soul processes and activities developed during lessons.

[ 13 ] Let’s take, for example, a child who stumbles over his own words and can’t find the next one. You see, in a child who has not yet reached sexual maturity, this stumbling over one’s own words is a characteristic that is still rooted in the physical body of the higher human being. The higher human being is, after all, the human being in a physical sense who undergoes his or her primary development during the first—and indeed, the childhood—period of life. If you can find the right pace for what you have the child sing or tell, if you can establish the right pace for someone who makes us wait while they search for the transition from one word to the next, then you are in a position to completely cure this in the child—from a soul-level perspective—by the time they reach puberty. You are removing a physical inhibition. If you have not removed it from the physical level by the time of puberty, then you have formed its counterpart in the metabolic-limb system; it has become a characteristic of the intestines, and you will not be able to eliminate it. Then nothing you do in the ordinary sense—such as spiritual exercises—will help you. These exercises must be performed with such intensity that they influence the digestive system, and of course it is not always possible to, as I would say, introduce this as a general practice. That would lead to the misuse of certain exercises. But with children, we must carefully observe whether they transition from one word to another, from one thought to another, at a slower-than-normal pace. And with children, we can still restore the body to health. We make the digestive system sick if we do not cure this tendency to linger from one word to the next during childhood. This is our responsibility and is more important than imparting any specific content—which we do need, of course, because we must teach something and therefore must have content—to the child. This is simply how the spirit works throughout the entire physical organism. Precisely in order to learn to master the physical organism in the right way, we must know spiritual science, because it is the spirit that acts within the physical organism. Thus, we are dependent on bringing healthy medical thinking back into pedagogical thinking in a certain way. So that we actually know how to take seriously, for example, when the Old Testament relates that someone was plagued by bad dreams; there the expression is not used: “My brain has arranged something special here; God has plagued me through my brain.” — No one active in the Old Testament would have said that. Instead, they would have said: “God is afflicting me through my kidneys.” — Why? For the simple reason that it is true. People today pride themselves on knowing that psychological phenomena originate in the brain, and they dismiss with arrogance what is written in the Old Testament. Isn’t it true that not only is the brain spiritualized, but the entire organism is spiritualized? Dreams, for example, come from the kidneys; the expression from the Old Testament is to be taken quite seriously. Just as it is, admittedly, clever in the modern sense to say that compassion also comes from the brain—but in a deeper sense, it is nonsense, and the Old Testament formulation that compassion comes from the bowels is the correct one.

[ 14 ] And so we must realize that when we approach the child through the soul-spiritual realm, we are treating the child’s entire body. After all, we are precisely the ones who, with medical wisdom, care for the child’s physical body when we do this or that in sentence structure, in the use of colors, in the use of sound, or in the handling of this or that object. We do, after all, exert an influence on the entire physical realm; for within the physical realm lies the spirit, and we act upon this spirit—not merely upon the spirit that is situated directly within the brain, for, curiously enough, it is there that the least effective aspect resides. And so, as educators, we must see ourselves either as people who continually nurture and foster life within the children, or as those who introduce toxic elements that weaken the body. If we overemphasize formalism in any way, if we make children think to the point of exhaustion—well, then we are condemning them, between the ages of 7 and 14, to fall into sclerosis relatively early. We must simply be aware that we are working on the whole of life when we develop this or that aspect of the child’s environment in education and instruction. And we will certainly not approach educational issues in this regard in the right way if we are not aware that we are actually justified in removing only those obstacles and hindrances that arise from the physical and etheric nature of the human being.

[ 15 ] As for the rest, modern people—who are far more selfish than they realize—will naturally say: “This seems right to me; that seems wrong to me”—and will then raise their children in such a way that they feel and think as much as possible like themselves. That, of course, is the wrong approach. What is right in terms of all substantive matters is life itself—not the individual teacher’s personality—and it is to life that we must turn for answers. Of course, we must teach a child to write today. I must admit that I find within myself no aesthetic judgment that would give me an answer—arising directly from what it means to be human—as to whether a child should learn to write or not; it follows solely from a consideration of the development of civilization. Humanity has now reached the point where a certain content of civilization is conveyed through reading and writing. Now, in order for the child to be educated not for another world but for this one, we must teach the child to read and write. This is, after all, something we must accept as a condition of civilization, and so we must remove the obstacles to development that, simply because we live in a certain age, also affect human beings. We have an enormous amount of work to do if we are to answer the question: How do we make the materials—which are already given for the child’s human development—as harmless as possible? —For we can always assume that, by having to introduce a certain subject matter to the child, we are more likely to harm the child than to benefit it. So we must always ask ourselves: How do we avoid the harm that, strictly speaking, is inevitably caused whenever we teach the child anything? Well, this applies, of course, all the less the more the subject leans toward the artistic, and all the more the more it leans toward the cognitive. But this fact must, strictly speaking, always be at the forefront of our minds. And now we must be perfectly clear about this: the proper authoritative relationship that should exist between the educator and the child—from the time of the change of teeth until sexual maturity—this proper authoritative relationship is brought about under no other circumstances than when we strive to structure instruction in an artistic and pictorial way. If we can do that, then the authoritative relationship will most certainly arise. You see, what undermines the authoritative relationship is one-sided intellectualism. Cultivating one-sided intellectualism is, of course, easiest in subjects such as mathematics, the natural sciences, and so on. But it is precisely there that we should work to incorporate imagery. Often, we also make our language lessons too abstract. Now, we must simply be clear about this: when we teach in a vivid, imagery-rich way, it requires a certain selflessness. It is much easier to think cleverly—and much more selfish to do so—than it is to teach in a vivid, imagery-rich way; and we approach the child selflessly when we teach in this way. Once the child has reached puberty, and knowledge is to give way to understanding, the child—precisely because his or her intellect has now awakened—simply rejects the teacher’s or educator’s judgment of its own accord. Then nothing can be achieved through mere authority; we must be able to compete—indeed, we must actually compete with the child; for in reality, at age 17 one is just as intelligent as at 35 in terms of judgment. Certain nuances exist, but essentially, at age 17, as far as formal logic is concerned, one is just as intelligent as at age 35. So one really must compete with the child as soon as they reach sexual maturity. And that is why what I said yesterday must hold true: one must not expose one’s weaknesses in any way. This comes naturally when dealing with younger children, of course, if one devotes oneself to an artistic approach to teaching. And one will achieve a great deal by developing a sense of how various parts of one thing or another can be artistically shaped in the most diverse ways. Let’s say, for example, that you take the children through a number of plants. You discuss the flowers; now you try, in your entire tone—I would even say down to the inflection of your voice—to describe the flowers in such a way that all the words and ideas flow, that they are light. Now, as you develop this, try to address the sanguine children specifically, so that they can contribute to the whole class what they particularly possess in terms of perceptiveness—a light, quick grasp, so to speak—for the kinds of ideas that an artistic person develops when describing flowers. If we now turn to the leaves, it is entirely possible to strike a tone that arouses the interest of the melancholic children more when discussing the leaves; the dialogue with the class now shifts to the melancholic children. If one describes the roots—which are usually not seen at all, but which can be described in such a way that one senses their power in the flowers—if one describes what is actually usually invisible, then one must no longer describe them statically but dynamically, and that is where the choleric children help foster a meaningful dialogue. In this way, one can use the entire class to foster mutual inspiration, provided one develops a sense for it—a sense that can become instinctive. But, isn’t it true that one must pay attention to such things?

[ 16 ] Well, the truth of the matter is that it seems much harder than it actually is. Because once you’ve spent a quarter of a year moving in that direction, you’ll feel the need to keep moving in that direction on your own. But—there’s a catch. You start something like this with great enthusiasm. You tell yourself: I want to do this now; I really want to make my lessons visual; I’ll start tomorrow. — It goes on for eight days, but then you start slacking off; and that’s the catch. It’s essential to stick with it for a quarter of a year; then you’ll be able to keep it up longer. Eight days aren’t enough, but a quarter of a year makes a difference if you seriously commit to training yourself for a quarter of a year.

[ 17 ] And now, my dear friends, I did not intend to give you any specific rules today regarding this or that aspect of teaching. Perhaps at future gatherings we will always organize educational lectures so that we can continue to make progress. But today I would have liked to offer you something that would help you enter, through meditation, into an educational and instructive state of mind. I would sometimes like to see an arm move differently here or there in a classroom, so that it might create a different image for the students. I would like to see, for example, that brusqueness—which is always unartistic—not be part of classroom conduct. I would sometimes like to see this or that less graceful way of erasing the blackboard replaced by a more graceful one. All of this happens quite naturally. The transition from the unartistic to the artistic is worked into the process when the general sensibility for it is present, and that general sensibility is actually much more important to the educator than any individual dogmatic rule. I would like you to take this to heart today—this emphasis on the importance of the passion with which one approaches pedagogy, which draws your attention to this very importance.