Flourishing University seminar: audio and slides

QMUL’s Centre for the History of the Emotions hosted a half-day seminar on the Flourishing University, exploring well-being and wisdom in higher education, for students, PhDs, staff and the wider society, from a multi-disciplinary perspective. Below is the schedule of speakers along with the link to a Soundcloud audio of the sessions (two talks weren’t recorded). You can download the audio on iTunes here.

You can also download the slides below.

Session One: Introduction

Jules Evans, research fellow at Centre for the History of the Emotions: Why we need an interdisciplinary approach to flourishing in higher education

Rachel Piper, Student Minds head of policy: Co-creating a whole university approach to well-being

Dr Daniel Eisenberg, Healthy Minds Network: What universities can measure in student mental health and well-being

Edward Pinkney, Hong Kong University: Technology as a help and hindrance to student flourishing (audio not available)

Jules Evans slides; Rachel Piper slides; Daniel Eisenberg slides; Edward Pinkney slides

Audio for session 1:

Session 2: Interventions and curricula for undergrads

Dr Michael Pluess, QMUL head of psychology: Teaching well-being / character through Positive Psychology (audio not available).

Dr Oliver Robinson, University of Greenwich psychology lecturer: The transitions of higher education

Professor Nigel Tubbs, programme leader of Modern Liberal Arts at University of WInchester: Liberal arts and flourishing

Dr Karen Scott, senior lecturer in political science at University of Exeter, and Kieran Cutting, political science graduate: Teaching the good life

Dr Siobhan Lynch, researcher in mindfulness at Southampton University: Mindfulness for students

Oliver Robinson ; Teaching The Good Life slides;  Michael Pluess slidesSiobhan Lynch slides

Audio for session 2:

Session 3: The Flourishing University – Phds, staff well-being, engaging with society

Dr Amber Davis: The Happy PhD – PhD student mental health and well-being

Sally Rose, psychotherapist at Leeds University: Staff well-being in higher education

Danny Angel-Payne, public health undergraduate at QMUL: Open Minds and student volunteering in the local community

Amber Davis slidesSally Rose slides

Audio for session 3:

For more interviews and articles from the Flourishing University project, check out our blog.

History of Emotions Blog Round-Up February – August 17

Missed a post? Read our round-up covering February – August 17 (you can read previous round-ups too). Post are listed chronologically by month of publication.

February

Medical Humanities in India: a field ripe for development by Jules Evans

Sadness on the Big Screen: London SadFest March 3-5 by Åsa Jansson

Mental illness: challenging the stigma around India’s big secret by Jules Evans

Meet Our PhD Students: Jane Mackelworth by Jane Mackelworth

No love lost: Antipathy, antagonism and anger in Single magazine, 1977-1982 by Zoe Strimpel

March

Colonial Anxiety and Vulnerability in British India by Mark Condos

The ecstatic experience economy by Jules Evans

How to Keep Calm in Kolkata by Jules Evans

The Museum of the Normal – What You Said by Sarah Chaney and Helen Stark

Faces that matter: history, emotion, transplantation by Fay Bound Alberti

Emotional Experience as a Site of Agency by Jeremy C. Young

April

Autism, Neurodiversity and the ‘Neurotypicals’ by Bonnie Evans

Translating Therapy by Jules Evans

Addressing domestic abuse in general practice: The emotional labour of being a GP by Anna Dowrick

Why getting out of our heads is good for us by Jules Evans

UFOs and the Historians by Greg Eghigian

Emotions, Identity and the Supernatural: The Concealed Revealed Project by Owen Davies and Ceri Houlbrook

New Publications January – March 2017 by Sarah Chaney

May

99.9% of humans are mentally unwell by Jules Evans

Your Emotional Life in Objects by Sarah Chaney

Gut Feelings Blog Take Over: Gut Feelings Week

Gut Feelings Blog Take Over: Diet and Brain Work in Nineteenth-Century France by Manon Mathias

Gut Feelings Week: Neurasthenia – a disorder of the gut? by Kristine Lillestøl 

Gut Feelings Week: The Bitter Taste of Rationing by Kristen Ann Ehrenberger

Gut Feelings Week: Dyspepsia and Navigating Nineteenth-Century Health by Evelien Lemmens

“Ava’s Sigh” Prelude to Mood Shifts: A Sonic Repertoire by Mary Cappello

June

BadFeelings Week:

Negative Emotions: the good, the bad and the ugly by Mary Carman and Tristram Oliver-Skuse

Life’s Anxieties: Good or Bad? by Charlie Kurth

The rational value of political anger by Mary Carman

Itchy Feet: The Value of Boredom by Tristram Oliver-Skuse

Regrets, hot and cold by Carolyn Price

Why pain is not a natural kind by Jennifer Corns

Turning Jealousy into Compersion by Ronald de Sousa

Universities should try and teach wisdom, not just knowledge by Jules Evans

Fears and Angers: Contemporary and Historical Perspectives Take Over: Fears and Angers Week

What do you about anger? Pragmatism and passionate disagreement by Mara-Daria Cojocaru

Requiem for a Bad Dream: Fear of the Night, the Devil and the Nightmare in Early Modern England by Charlotte-Rose Millar

‘Silence that Dreadful Bell!’: Hearing Fear in Shakespeare’s Othello by Kibrina Davey

At the Abyss: The Phenomenon of Self-Reflexive Anxiety by Ruth Rebecca Tietjen

On Positive Psychology and the Positive University by Jules Evans

July

What UK universities can learn from the US about promoting well-being by Jules Evans

August

Anthony Seldon: Universities should promote the flourishing of students and staff by Jules Evans

Jan Plamper On the History of Emotions

This interview with Jan Plamper was originally published in Kritika: Explorations in Russian and Eurasian History 18, no. 3 (2017): 453–60 and is posted here with their permission. You can read the original on Kritika’s website


Jan Plamper, Professor of History at Goldsmiths, University of London, was among the first scholars in Soviet and Russian history to engage the burgeoning field of the history of emotions.

Trained in history at Brandeis University and the University of California, Berkeley, Plamper is perhaps best known for The Stalin Cult: A Study in the Alchemy of Power (2012), a book that grew out of his PhD dissertation.[1] His first forays into the history of emotions began around 2003, with a project, still ongoing, about fear among soldiers in World War I. In those years, Plamper helped organize a series of conferences and conference panels dedicated to the history of emotions, resulting in three collective publication ventures: a special issue of Slavic Review and two co-edited volumes, Rossiiskaia imperiia chuvstv: Podkhody k kul´turnoi istorii emotsii (In the Realm of Russian Feelings: Approaches to the Cultural History of Emotions) and Fear: Across the Disciplines.[2] Plamper also organized and participated in two printed round tables with leading participants in the emotions field: Peter Stearns, Barbara Rosenwein, William Reddy, Nicole Eustace, Eugenia Lean, and Julie Livingston.[3]

As early as 2009, Plamper could point to a large set of imperial Russian and Soviet historians who made active use of emotions as a historical category in print: Mark D. Steinberg, Catriona Kelly, Sheila Fitzpatrick, Árpád von Klimó, Malte Rolf, Ronald Grigor Suny, Glennys Young, and Alexander Martin.[4] Since then, the field has expanded considerably, with historians continuing to find use in interdisciplinary approaches, drawing from anthropology, sociology, psychology (including neuroscience), and philosophy.[5] Yet no Russian or Soviet historian has gone farther in investigating the history of emotions—and the history of the history of emotions—than Plamper himself, whose German-language monograph was translated into English as The History of Emotions: An Introduction.[6]

Plamper’s leading role in developing the history of emotions in the Russian/Soviet context and his personal experience as an interlocutor among the academic cultures of four countries—the United States, Russia, Germany, and Britain—make him a perfect person to discuss these issues. Alongside his current work on fear in World War I, Plamper is writing a popular history of migration to West and East Germany after World War II. The book concentrates on the life stories of individuals to capture the experiences of various groups and generations of immigrants, ultimately aiming to furnish a “usable past” for the new Germany emerging from the Syrian refugee crisis.

* * *

Though the phrase “history of emotions” has become dominant in designating a new scholarly field in Anglophone literature, historians have also used various other terms to designate their topics: most notably, feeling and affect. Does the choice of term matter, or are we playing with words?

“Emotions” is the best choice, because it includes dimensions of appraisal, signification, object-directedness, and consciousness—what these dimensions mean will become clear in a moment. “Emotions” can be replaced by “feelings,” terms that are synonymous in current English. By contrast “affects,” especially in affect theory—a cross-disciplinary field in cultural, literary, visual, and so on studies—have come to designate nonconscious, nonsignified, inchoate states that are neither directed at an object (fear of what?) nor subject to volition or evaluation.[7] In the classroom I demonstrate the difference between emotion/feeling and affect by suddenly clapping my hands. The milliseconds it takes my students to evaluate the audial stimulus of my clapping hands and to determine that it does not pose a threat to their survival are the time in which affect is operative: their bodies are on high alert, their pupils dilate, their hearts race; they cannot yet think, let alone articulate verbally what their bodies are doing, what they are feeling. Or to use the classic example of the encounter with a snake in the woods, in affect theory the snake is a stimulus per se, constituting a threat to my life because it posed a threat in the distant past. It is an evolutionary vestige. It activates the amygdala in the old, limbic part of my brain. It is nonsignifying; it is not connected to a sexual-biographical episode in my own life, as Freudians might have it (representing, for instance, the penis with which my uncle raped me when I was a ten-year-old). Nor does my appraisal or attention play any role—the fact that I have been a snake lover since visiting the terrarium at the Boston Zoo as a seven-year-old.

Now, as you say, the question is, whether the choice of terms matters for historians. Do we need to define emotion? Can we not just use “perturbations of the soul,” “passions,” “affections,” whichever metaterminology people in the past used to talk about their feelings? The gut reaction you will encounter among a lot of historians—let’s call them vulgar social constructionists—is, “oh well, let us use the terms historical actors used, we do not need a metadefinition.” But how, then, can we do history, how can we designate something that is stable and study its changes across time? How can we track—for instance, in a lexical conceptual history (Begriffsgeschichte)—the shift in meaning of the word boiazn´ in Slovar´ russkogo iazyka XVIII veka and strakh in the third edition of Bol´shaia sovetskaia entsiklopediia without assuming a core commonality between these terms?[8] Without that commonality we cannot trace any “shifts” or “changes”: these presuppose the existence of a single metaconcept. We can only speak of two radically disparate words that refer to radically different things.

In short, with history as currently practiced—I word this carefully because I am not making an absolute claim, only a claim about the current conventions of history, which may well change in the future—we need a referent outside language. Consider Carla Hesse here: “realism, as a philosophical stance, is a necessary foundation for any empirical claim to be able to reconstruct facts from evidence and to claim that language (and more broadly any system of signification—visual, textual or aural) has a denotative as well as a connotative function. That language is at some level referential (that it refers to something outside itself, albeit contingently) is critical, moreover, if one is to be able to make sustainable general claims—about culture, or about any other aspect of human existence.”[9] So we are back at the old issue of nominalism: history, as practiced today, is antinominalist. And so yes, we are playing with words, but all play is serious business.

In the introduction to your co-edited volume Fear: Across the Disciplines, you appear to call into question whether indeed a feeling or experience such as fear can be “understood as a stable, enduring experience across time” (10). Does it make sense for historians to write the history of states of mind such as fear, anger, or shame across decades or centuries? Or can we at best hope to study their influence or cultural valence at specific points in time?

The question is, with due respect, mal posée, and this criticism applies to Ben and myself when we wrote what you cite in our Fear volume. This is a good opportunity to show with concrete examples what I mean by antinomalism in my response to the first question. The problem is with “at best”—we here have a dichotomy of experience (states of mind) and expression (influence or cultural valence), a dichotomy that usually goes along with adjectives like “real” on the experience side, localizations “deep inside” the body, and the idea that this is pure, true subjectivity, where I am truly “I” (you don’t know my feelings!) and dissimulation, “display rules,” “mere” social norms, and the like on the other side. Ultimately it goes back to the nature vs. culture dichotomy that emerged in the 18th century. As so many have shown, this dichotomy is obsolete, the two are not separate (and were not separate before the 18th century), and its intellectual bequest is toxic. Recovering its holistic roots and assailing it with certain strands of philosophy or Bill Reddy’s emotive (which holds that emotional utterances are both constative and performative, that they both describe and change the world: when I say “I am happy” I describe a state and exact a change on this state) allows us to move beyond the dichotomy.[10] Cultural valences have feedback loop effects on “states of mind”; the two are inextricably intertwined.

You began research on the history of the emotions over a decade ago, around 2003, and have been active in drawing scholarly attention to the history of emotions ever since. What prompted your original interest in this field?

A couple of things came together. I was living in Germany, and this was an area where German scholars were for once part of the international historiographical avant-garde—with Begriffsgeschichte and Alltagsgeschichte being the other two major conceptual contributions to a discipline conceptually dominated since 1945 by Anglo-American, French, Italian (microhistory), Indian (postcolonial, subaltern), and a few more debates. I was struggling with all kinds of estrangement and adaptation effects (after 11 years outside Germany), and it seemed attractive to join a conversation that extended beyond the subdisciplinary confines of Osteuropäische Geschichte. Second, I started working on war, and fear plainly stood out. Third, I was at a phase in my life (call it a crisis, perhaps a midlife crisis) where few things titillated me and I was drawn to the visceral, as sick as this may sound. (Today I am horrified when reading the soldier first-person accounts, one of the reasons why I keep escaping from my book project.) Connected with that was the promise of the history of emotions: a less discursive gateway to the past, a more “real” access. That promise, by the way, is also the promise of the history of the senses. The promise is elusive, I have come to believe—not in the sense that we will not attain it but in the sense that the dichotomy that underpins it is falsely constructed: discourse/language/mediation vs. raw experience, emotional expression vs. emotional experience, the former exterior to the body, the latter situated within the body (deep inside she felt …). I believe for the history of emotions to be not another fad, yet another “turn,” it must not just deliver empirically, show how it is actually “applied,” but also hammer home the futility of this dichotomy and develop holistic conceptual language that leaves it behind. More generally speaking, there seems to be too much to do, especially in our “post-truth” age of “felt” and “alternative facts.” There is a real need for serious analysis of the emotional dimension of current politics.

When I entered the history of emotions field, it fascinated me that you could come up with a concept and see it cited almost instantly. That was very different from established, saturated fields. I think this partly explains why nobody ever found it strange that a historian of Russia wrote a general book on the new history of emotions. Incidentally, it would be worth considering in greater depth in Kritika the historians who have Russianist backgrounds and came to lead non-Russian fields: David Christian’s Big History comes to mind.[11]

In your The History of Emotions you offer a history of the history of the emotions, a critique of current historical literature on emotions, and a history of scientific writing on emotions. One of your criticisms of recent historical investigations of emotions is of the way in which historians use and have used science, particularly neuroscience. You note that some historians, like Dror Wahrman, readily admit to lacking a background that would allow them to draw on this literature responsibly: “ ‘A more serious obstacle is the fact that historians lack the critical tools for the evaluation of biological and medical discoveries. I myself, for example, am unable to tell whether what I have written here about the findings of neuro-physiological research is correct, controversial or total nonsense.’” [12] Is it appropriate for historians to make use of findings in neuroscience? Where do the limits of productive interdisciplinarity lie?

I believe there is indeed potential for productive cross-pollination, but the danger is—or was, the neurohype seems past its peak—that humanities scholars would latch on to scientific findings that turn out to be false. And by “false” I mean false. Saying that scientific findings are also culturally constructed does not help, because humanities scholars are looking for universal, robust truths from the sciences in the first place, and if the scientific findings turn out to be wrong, entire edifices built on them crumble. So it will take becoming truly conversant with science—experimental designs; sample sizes; internal, external, and ecological validity, and so on (meta-analyses are always the best place to start; a meta-analysis is a survey of more specialized studies). It took me about three years to gain some literacy with regard to major hypotheses in affective neuroscience: mirror neurons, Joseph LeDoux’s two roads to fear, Antonio Damasio’s somatic marker hypothesis, all three of which are now considered pretty much defunct. By the way, hypotheses are just that, nothing more and nothing less (they are tested over and over, and if they do not furnish the same results under the same experimental conditions, they are wrong, something that happens all the time in the sciences and over which scientists lose no sleep). Now it can be done; it is not quantum physics—in fact, my respect for various disciplines has changed, with the history of science and literary scholarship (including its time-honored “philological” methods, its attention to metaphor, narrative, etc.) moving to the top. I needed three years to become conversant with only a few hypotheses; it is difficult to really follow just these and humanly impossible to follow all of “experimental psychology” (including affective neuroscience) on emotions. Also, I had a privileged position to get into the neurosciences, working at Ute Frevert’s Max Planck Center for the History of Emotions alongside experimental psychologists, including a developmental psychologist (developmental psychologists are interested in individuals across the lifespan; they do not universalize college student test subjects to make statements about infants and octogenarians alike) who started using neuroscience methods and got an fMRI scanner while I was there. There was a lot of productive friction between experimental psychologists and historians. For those fellow Russianists who have neither these conditions nor the time, I recommend thinking twice before getting into the neurosciences. Actually, my advice is to steer clear for the time being. I know there’s a double bind here: I say this having done it, having proven that it is possible, only to then tell other historians to stay out of neuroscience.

You have organized and participated in conferences and panels about the history of the emotions in the United States, the United Kingdom, Germany, India, and Russia. In your experience, how do cultural contexts influence the manner in which historians approach emotions as a category of analysis?

For example, it would be interesting to hear how the 2012 American Historical Review (AHR) conversation compared with the conversations you participated in during the 2008 conference on “Emotions in Russian History and Culture” in Moscow, the debates you took part in at the Max Planck Center for the History of Emotions in Berlin, or the 2008 Workshop at Princeton, “Fear: Multidisciplinary Perspectives.” Could the conversations that took place in Berlin have occurred at Princeton? Why or why not?

An interesting question. My initial impulse was to downplay cultural specificity, given how transnational and small the field is and given how hybridic or diasporic many of us are these days, but on second thought there is a “there” there. In Germany, for instance, it quickly became apparent that the history of emotions, especially when it talks about social aggregates and collective feelings, opens a backdoor for “mentality” and ultimately “national character.” At public events, my colleagues and I noticed that the history of emotions unintentionally attracted some very strange bedfellows, including ultraconservative psychologists who argue for the epigenetic, transgenerational transmission of war trauma (e.g., the bombing of Dresden) from those Germans who lived through the war to their children and grandchildren: my generation’s depression, inertia, and unwillingness to found start-ups and to produce enough children for the nation’s demographic survival—in short, our German angst—are purportedly all due to that inherited trauma.[13]

In Russia, the history of emotions seems to attract people interested in “subjective” (as opposed to “objective,” “scientific”) history: for our 2008 Moscow conference we got an abstract from an astrologer in Kamchatka. In India, the history of emotions is seen by many as a fruitful new approach to better understand communal violence among Hindus, Muslims, and others.[14] The United States is the only country I know where a medievalist historian would mobilize experimental emotions psychology and the neurosciences, arguing: “In an age when biblical literalism is on the rise, when presidents doubt the truth of evolution, when the teaching of evolutionary biology in the United States is being dumbed down and school boards talk seriously about creation science and intelligent design, it is all the more important for historians to support their colleagues in the biological sciences.”[15] Unthinkable in secular Europe!


[1]  Jan Plamper, The Stalin Cult: A Study in the Alchemy of Power (New Haven: Yale University Press, 2012), published in Russian as Ian Plamper, Alkhimiia vlasti: Kul´t Stalina v izobrazitel´nom iskusstve, trans. Nikolai Edel´man (Moscow: Novoe literaturnoe obozrenie, 2010), and in Polish as Jan Plamper, Kult Stalina: Studium alchemii władzy, trans. Piotr Chojnacki (Warsaw: Świat Książki, 2014).

[2]  Jan Plamper, ed., “Emotional Turn? Feelings in Russian History and Culture,” special issue of Slavic Review 68, 2 (2009); Plamper, Shamma Shakhadat [Schamma Schahadat], and Mark Eli [Marc Elie], eds., Rossiiskaia imperiia chuvstv: Podkhody k kul´turnoi istorii emotsii (Moscow: Novoe literaturnoe obozrenie, 2010); Plamper and Benjamin Lazier, eds., Fear: Across the Disciplines (Pittsburgh: University of Pittsburgh Press, 2012).

[3]  “The History of Emotions: Interview with William Reddy, Barbara Rosenwein, and Peter Stearns,” History and Theory 49, 2 (2010): 237–65; Jan Plamper, participant, “AHR Conversation: The Historical Study of Emotions,” American Historical Review 117, 5 (2012): 1487–1531.

[4]  Jan Plamper, “Emotional Turn? Feelings in Russian History and Culture,” Slavic Review 68, 2 (2009): 232–33; Mark D. Steinberg, Proletarian Imagination: Self, Modernity, and the Sacred in Russia, 1910–1925 (Ithaca, NY: Cornell University Press, 2002); Catriona Kelly, Refining Russia: Advice Literature, Polite Culture, and Gender from Catherine to Yeltsin (New York: Oxford University Press, 2001); Sheila Fitzpatrick, “Happiness and Toska: An Essay in the History of Emotions in Pre-War Soviet Russia,” Austrialian Journal of Politics and History 50, 3 (2004): 357–71; Árpád von Klimó and Malte Rolf, “Rausch und Diktatur,” Zeitschrift für Geschichtswissenschaft, no. 10 (2003): 877–95; Glennys Young, “Emotions, Contentious Politics, and Empire: Some Thoughts about the Soviet Case,” Ab Imperio, no. 2 (2007): 113–51; Alexander Martin, “Sewage and the City: Filth, Smell, and Representations of Urban Life in Moscow, 1770–1880,” Russian Review 67, 2 (2008): 243–74. Suny’s first printed contribution on the history of emotions appeared only in 2010 as Ronal´d Grigor Suni [Ronald Grigor Suny], “Affektivnye soobshchestva: Struktura gosudarstva i natsii v Rossiiskoi imperii,” in Rossiiskaia imperiia chuvstv, 78–114. An earlier piece by Suny, “Why We Hate You: The Passions of National Identity and Ethnic Violence,” was published in the spring of 2004 in the Berkeley Program in Eurasian and East European Studies BPS Working Paper Series. The 2010 article was followed by Suny, “Thinking about Feelings: Affective Dispositions and Emotional Ties,” in Interpreting Emotions in Russia and Eastern Europe, ed. Mark D. Steinberg and Valeria Sobol (DeKalb: Northern Illinois University Press, 2011), 116–23.

[5]  See, e.g., Andrei Zorin, Poiavlenie geroia: Iz istorii russkoi emotsional´noi kul´tury kontsa XVIII–nachala XIX veka (Moscow: Novoe literaturnoe obozrenie, 2016).

[6]  Jan Plamper, Geschichte und Gefühl: Grundlagen der Emotionsgeschichte (Munich: Siedler, 2012), published in English as Plamper, The History of Emotions: An Introduction, trans. Keith Tribe (New York: Oxford University Press, 2015).

[7]  For examples, see Brian Massumi, ed., A Shock to Thought: Expression after Deleuze and Guattari (London: Routledge, 2002); Massumi, Parables for the Virtual: Movement, Affect, Sensation (Durham, NC: Duke University Press, 2002); William E. Connolly, A World of Becoming (Durham, NC: Duke University Press, 2011); John Protevi, Political Affect: Connecting the Social and the Somatic (Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press, 2009); Steven Shaviro, Post-Cinematic Affect (Winchester: Zero Books, 2009). But see also Michael Hardt and Antonio Negri, Multitude: War and Democracy in the Age of Empire (New York: Penguin Books, 2005); Hardt, “Affective Labor,” Boundary 26, 2 (1999): 89–100; and Hardt, “Foreword: What Affects Are Good For,” in The Affective Turn: Theorizing the Social, ed. Patricia Ticineto Clough and Jean Halley (Durham, NC: Duke University Press, 2007), ix–xiii. My thinking has been shaped by Ruth Leys’s devastating critique of affect theory. See Ruth Leys, “The Turn to Affect: A Critique,” Critical Inquiry 37, 3 (2011): 434–72, and the ensuing discussion: Connolly, “Critical Response I: The Complexity of Intention,” Critical Inquiry 37, 4 (2011): 791–98; Leys, “Critical Response II: Affect and Intention. A Reply to William E. Connolly,” Critical Inquiry 37, 4 (2011): 799–805; and Leys, The Ascent of Affect: Genealogy and Critique (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 2017).

[8]  Slovar´ russkogo iazyka XVIII veka (Leningrad: Nauka, 1984), 118; Bol´shaia sovetskaia entsiklopediia, 3rd ed. (Moscow: Sovetskaia entsiklopediia, 1976), 24, pt. 1, 556.

[9]  Carla Hesse, “The New Empiricism,” Cultural and Social History 1, 2 (2004): 202.

[10] See William M. Reddy, The Navigation of Feeling: A Framework for the History of Emotions (New York: Cambridge University Press, 2001), 128. For philosophical attacks on the dichotomy, see, e.g., Robert Pippin’s reading of Hegel and Cavell (http://nonsite.org/issues/issue-5-agency-and-experience).

[11] See, e.g., David Christian and William H. McNeill, Maps of Time: An Introduction to Big History (Berkeley: University of California Press, 2004).

[12] Plamper, History of Emotions, 276, quoting Dror Wahrmann, “Where Culture and Biology Meet,” review of Daniel Lord Smail, On Deep History and the Human Brain (Berkeley: University of California Press, 2008), Haaretz, 24 April 2008. Even more forcefully stated reservations about drawing on findings in the natural sciences can be found in Rossiiskaia imperiia chuvstv, 31–36; and “AHR Conversation: The Historical Study of Emotions,” 1510–12.

[13] See, e.g., Gabriele Baring, Die geheimen Ängste der Deutschen (Munich: Scorpio, 2011). For a critique, see Jan Plamper, “Die Deutschen als Opfer,” Neue Zürcher Zeitung, 8 June 2015, 15; and, less critically, Burkhard Bilger, “Where Germans Make Peace with Their Dead,” New Yorker, 12 September 2016 (http://www.newyorker.com/magazine/2016/09/12/familienaufstellung-germanys-group-therapy). It is true, however, that the processes that took place between mind-bodies at, say, a Nazi Party rally remain opaque. When it comes to emotions of groups of people in a single space with face-to-face contact, our analytical instruments do not go beyond metaphors of “contagion” (see, e.g., Max Scheler, The Nature of Sympathy, trans. Peter Heath [New Brunswick, NJ: Transaction Publishers, 2008], 14–17). This is one of several exciting areas where serious theorizing is needed.

[14] For a pioneering study, see Lisa Mitchell, Language, Emotion, and Politics in South India: The Making of a Mother Tongue (Bloomington: Indiana University Press, 2009).

[15] Smail, On Deep History and the Brain, 11.

 

Anthony Seldon: Universities should promote the flourishing of students and staff

This week I took the train out to Milton Keynes, then a taxi through the golden fields of Buckinghamshire to the University of Buckingham, where Sir Anthony Seldon recently became vice-chancellor. He was previously headmaster of Wellington School, where he became prominent for his advocacy of happiness classes. Now, he has brought that vision to higher education, outlining his plan to make Buckingham ‘Europe’s first positive university’.

What does that mean? Well, you can listen to our conversation through this podcast. In brief, it’s a holistic vision that includes various measures, from mentoring to mindfulness. The most eye-catching is the introduction of classes in Positive Psychology for all students and staff.

I met the head of psychology, Dr Alan Martin, who has been given this task by Anthony. Imagine – you’re the head of faculty in the UK’s smallest university, your speciality is children’s understanding of science, when a new vice-chancellor arrives and calls you in for a meeting. ‘I’d like to introduce classes in Positive Psychology. For everyone’. ‘All psychology students?’ ‘No, everyone.’

In that first meeting with Alan, Anthony called up Martin Seligman, founder of Positive Psychology, and booked him in as a consultant. Suddenly, Alan is thrust into the fabulously-funded world of Positive Psychology,  the cultish conferences at Penn, the sermons from Seligman, the endless well-being questionnaires. And he is the European apostle – go forth, and make Buckingham flourish. It’s the stuff of David Lodge novels.

His task is made slightly easier by the fact Buckingham only has 2500 undergraduates, and it already has the highest scores for student satisfaction in the UK, thanks to its low student-to-teacher ratio and tutorial system. But it’s still quite a shift in culture for the university – it was founded in the 1970s by two neoliberal wonks from the Thatcherite Institute of Economic Affairs, and opened by the Iron Lady herself, as a way to challenge state control of universities. The previous vice-chancellor was a grumpy libertarian who didn’t believe in staff training. 

Seldon, by contrast, has a much more paternalist vision of the university. The part of our conversation that most struck me  – have a listen yourself on the podcast – is where Anthony says: ‘Universities are helping people to be free. You can’t assume that people suddenly morph from dependent teenagers to autonomous adults over the summer holidays.’  He adds:

This is about liberating but not infantilizing people. Liberty is not license. If you let 18-year-olds without any guidance have lots of money and access to whatever they want to do, without guidance, then it would be a recipe for disaster in some people’s cases. We’re here to try and help people learn how to be free. Many adults aren’t free. I’ve never met an alcoholic who’s free, I’ve never met a sex addict who’s free. I’m sure they were all given huge license to indulge themselves, but life is not about indulgence, indulgence is enslavement.

Cardinal Newman

He quotes Jean-Jacques Rousseau, about the state helping people to be free (or forcing them, rather – Seldon says ‘ there’s a place for coercion in education’) but the educator he really reminds me of is Cardinal John Henry Newman, the 19th-century Catholic thinker and rector of the Catholic University in Dublin. He wrote The Idea of a University, which is the classic defence of the liberal arts model of education, ie the idea that universities shouldn’t just teach vocations but also the intellectual, social and spiritual virtues.

Newman, like Seldon, saw universities as pastors shepherding students to autonomous adulthood. Newman thought that ‘a Tutor was not a mere academical Policeman, or Constable, but a moral and religious guardian of the youths committed to him’. He also thought peer-to-peer education was key – students really mould each other through what Newman called the ‘genius loci’, or ‘spirit-of-the-place’ (through sports, clubs, arts groups, and so on). 

Paul Shrimpton, author of a recent book on Newman’s vision for higher education, writes: ‘Throughout his life Newman was preoccupied with the ‘problem’ of human freedom, and in particular how it played out in a person’s formative years. In all his educational ventures he grappled with how best to negotiate that delicate and gradual process of launching the young person into the world, how to pitch demands and expectations with just that right mixture of freedom and restraint.’

Seldon clearly thinks universities are more in loco parentis than most British universities currently are – his vision is closer to the American liberal arts model, where of course 18-year-olds are still legally minors. I wonder how this vision will go down in the UK. As we emerged from dinner, Anthony greeted three Buckingham students wandering down the village street, pints in hand. ‘Good evening, how are you!’ he beamed. The students seemed startled by running into their new vice-chancellor. ‘We were just discussing student drinking!’ he said. ‘We…er….just came second in the pub quiz’, one of the students responded, while the other two lurked in the background.

Maybe some will find his vision creepy. I’m sure many sullen British academics will say his project is really turning out cheerleaders for neo-liberalism, and that students should actually be taught to be angry at the injustices of global capitalism.  But it must be possible to have an education that both wakes us up to the sometimes harsh reality of life on this planet and also gives us the confidence, equanimity and inner strength to believe we can improve that reality.  Is this not what, say, Martha Nussbaum advocates in her defence of the liberal arts? 

Personally, I wish I’d had a tutor like Anthony at university. He’s an unusual chap, no mistake. On the one hand, a political operator, well-connected, not shy of publicity, who’s written biographies of four prime ministers. On the other hand, a deeply spiritual person who talks of transcending the ego, with whom one can discuss anything from yoga to Gurdjieff.

He greeted me at his cottage and then went off to meditate, and he went off to meditate again after my talk. In between, we sat in his living room with assorted students and staff, for what he called a ‘fireside chat’. ‘Who’s watching Love Island?’ he asked the startled cohorts, who seemed unsure whether to admit such a vice. He has a habit of firing questions at people. ‘What’s your greatest fear?’ he asked me at dinner. ‘When was the last time you took drugs?’ he asked at the fireside chat. ‘About a month ago”, I said. ‘A microdose of psilocybin for psycho-therapeutic purposes.’ Well, Anthony, you did ask!

If you want to hear highlights of our conversation, click here

What UK universities can learn from the US about promoting well-being

A diagram from Donald Harward on the purposes of higher education

 

I’ve recently begun a new research focus, looking at well-being in higher education. British universities have started to focus on this issue a lot more, spurred by worrying headlines about an ‘epidemic of mental illness on campus’. But, judging by the events I’ve attended so far, universities don’t yet get the complexity of this issue, and see it simply in terms of increasing funding for counselling.

Last week, I came across a collection of essays – Well-Being and Higher Education: A Strategy for Change and the Realization of Education’s Greater Purposes – by a group of American academics. It suggests to me that the US is way beyond the UK in its thinking on this topic.

First, the authors take well-being seriously as a core purpose of higher education, rather than something one farms out to counselling services at the campus periphery. Secondly, they understand the importance of knowing the history of higher education as you try to re-frame its purpose. Third, they recognize the philosophical complexity of defining and measuring well-being. And fourth, they’re prepared to try out innovative interventions. British universities are way behind on all four of these issues.

  1. Taking well-being seriously as a core purpose of higher education

The collection begins with an essay by the editor, Donald Harward, a philosopher who was president of Bates College and now heads up an institute called Bringing Theory to Practice. He called for American higher education to ‘recognize well-being as an inextricable, but not sole, dimension of higher education’s greater purpose’. 

Other American universities have embraced well-being as part of their mission. In 2013, Georgetown University President John DeGioia described the university’s responsibility to our students as the following: “Our explicit way of supporting young people engaged in the most important work in which they can be engaged: learning to know themselves and identifying the conditions that will provide for an authentic, flourishing life.”

The same year, George Mason University included well-being as one of twelve strategic goals in its 2015-2025 strategic plan. Nance Lucas and Paul Rogers from George Mason write: ‘Our vision at George Mason University is to become a model “well-being university”—a place at which students, faculty, and staff learn what it means to have lives well-lived and how to respond well to a full range of emotions and challenges.’ Note that George Mason seeks to promote not just student well-being, but the well-being of faculty, staff and the wider community. 

Several other senior American academics put forward well-being, flourishing or virtue as a core purpose of higher education in the collection. In British universities, by contrast, one rarely hears well-being, flourishing, purpose or virtue mentioned as a central purpose of higher education.

2. It’s important to know the history of higher education if you want to re-frame its purpose

The authors in the collection understand the importance of knowing the history of higher education if you want to re-frame its purpose. As Derek Bok, former president of Harvard, writes: ‘Lacking historical perspective, one cannot even be sure whether “new” proposals are truly new or merely nostrums that have been trotted out before with disappointing results.’

It’s important to understand that universities’ focus on well-being is not an entirely new thing, that universities have focused on character and well-being before in their 2500-year history. In fact, the primary aim of universities until the mid-19th century was explicitly to ‘discipline the mind and build the character of students’ (Bok again). But it wasn’t exactly a golden age of education. Bok writes

Until the Civil War, colleges in the United States were linked to religious bodies and resembled finishing schools more closely than institutions of advanced education. Student behavior was closely regulated both inside and outside the classroom, and teachers spent much of their time enforcing regulations and punishing transgressors. Rules of behavior were written in exquisite detail. Columbia’s officials took two full pages merely to describe the proper forms of behavior during compulsory chapel. Yale turned “Sabbath Profanation, active disbelief in the authenticity of the Bible, and extravagant [personal] expenditures” into campus crimes…

Most courses were prescribed in a curriculum that usually included mathematics, logic, English, and classics, with a heavy dose of Latin and Greek. In a typical class, students recited passages from an ancient text under the critical eye of the instructor. Although many colleges offered courses in the sciences, such as astronomy or botany, classes were taught more often by invoking Aristotle and other authorities than by describing experiments and the scientific method. By most accounts, the formal education was sterile.

As a culminating experience, most colleges prior to the Civil War offered a mandatory course for seniors on issues of moral philosophy, often taught by the president himself. Ranging over ethical principles, history, politics, and such issues of the day as immigration, slavery, and freedom of the press, this capstone course served multiple objectives. It set forth precepts of ethical behavior, it prepared students for civic responsibility, and it brought together knowledge from several fields of learning. For many students, it was the high point of an otherwise dull and stultifying education.

The purposes of higher education then gradually changed. In the mid-19th century, American universities followed German counterparts in focusing more on research and PhDs, and launching institutions like Johns Hopkins that were purely research-focused. By the early 20th century, most Protestant universities no longer had enforced chapel or Bible study. But many still tried to form the character of their students through compulsory courses in moral education or Great Books. That idea – of giving students a taste of the best of western culture, giving them an opportunity to form a life-philosophy – has never entirely gone away in American universities, and many still offer courses in Great Books.

However, the popularity of this sort of liberal education has been eroded by three things. Firstly, since the 1960s, the percentage of the population going to college has risen from around 5% to around 40%. University populations have become much more diverse – attracting more women, ethnic minorities and international students. And it’s become more expensive. Students have become more pragmatic in what they want from a college education – Derek Bok notes that ‘since 1970, the percentage of freshmen who rate “being very well off financially” as an “essential” or “very important” goal has risen from 36.2 to 73.6%, while the percentage who attach similar importance to “acquiring a meaningful philosophy of life” has fallen from 79 to 39.6%.’  With a much more diverse student body, a ‘wisdom curriculum’ mainly or entirely constituted of Dead White Men has come to be seen as problematic.

3) Defining and measuring well-being is philosophically complex

Because of growing concerns about the value of mass higher education, university bosses have increasingly looked for ways to define and measure success, to prove they’re succeeding. Bok notes:

The more objective and measurable the goals, the more attractive they will seem to those in charge. As a result, presidents and trustees frequently look to such tangible signs of progress as growth in the size of the endowment, or gains in the average SAT or ACT scores, or new buildings built and new programs begun. Such achievements do not necessarily reflect genuine improvement in teaching, learning and research. But in the absence of better measures, they seem to offer concrete evidence of forward movement and success.

For example, a commission set up by President Obama defined success based on graduation rates and the earnings of graduates. In the UK, notoriously, Gordon Brown’s government tried to measure universities’ success at achieving ‘impact’ on society, while the present government is attempting to measure teaching excellence. None of these measurements are entirely satisfactory, and the Research Excellence Framework introduced by Brown seems to be actively harmful. As Bok notes: ‘Some of the essential aspects of academic institutions – in particular, the quality of the education they provide – are largely intangible and their results are difficult to measure.The result is that much of what is most important to the work of colleges and universities may be neglected, undervalued or laid aside in the pursuit of more visible goals.’

If well-being is embraced as a core purpose by universities, how will it be defined, and can it be measured? This is not a simple question. In the UK, for example, the debate (one might say furore) over campus well-being is driven by frightening but somewhat meaningless statistics, like the NUS survey that showed 78% of students experienced mental health issues. That sounds terrifying, but those issues could be everything from a panic attack to a hangover to a full-blown psychotic episode.

The authors of Well-Being in Higher Education at least seem to understand this is not a simple issue. In fact, several different definitions of well-being are put forward – hedonic well-being (ie feeling good); eudaimonic well-being (defined by Carol Ryff as ‘purpose in life, environment mastery, positive relationships, autonomy, personal growth and self-acceptance); thriving (defined as ‘engaged learning, social connectedness, diverse citizenship and positive perspective’.

There is a recognition that well-being – if defined in an Aristotelian or eudaimonic sense – will probably involve teaching character virtues. Derek Bok suggests developing character is one of the central roles of a university. Barry Schwartz suggests universities should teach the ‘intellectual virtues’: love of truth, honesty, fair-mindedness, humility, perseverance, courage, good listening, perspective taking, empathy, and above all, wisdom, which Schwartz suggests is the ‘master-virtue’. (By the by, the Oxford philosopher Nigel Biggar has also suggested that a central purpose of universities is to teach intellectual and social virtues). Alexander Astin notes that university seems to improve students’ spirituality, and in particular their capacity for the virtue of equanimity – a key virtue in Buddhism and Stoicism. He notes: 

As part a recent national study of college students’ spiritual development, we devised measures of five spiritual qualities, one of which seems especially pertinent to well-being. We call it equanimity. Students with high equanimity scores say they are able to and meaning in times of hardship, feel at peace, see each day as a gift, and feel good about the direction of their lives. Equanimity actually shows positive growth during the college years. Equanimity is most likely to show positive growth when students participate in charitable activities (service learning, donating money to charity, helping friends with personal problems) or when they engage in contemplative practices (meditation, prayer, reflective writing, reading sacred texts). 

Clearly, there are multiple ways universities can define and measure well-being: happiness, freedom from anxiety, purpose in life, equanimity, belonging, connectedness, social conscience and so on. Not all of these are measurable, and those that are might not always be a good guide to success: a university might have a high sense of student belonging because it does not have a very diverse student body. It may be worth measuring multiple factors – as the Healthy Minds survey does – and then using them as helpful tools rather than rigid benchmarks.

4) Innovative interventions 

Finally, the authors in the collection suggest several innovative ways to enhance well-being in universities. In the UK, universities tend to see well-being just as a mental health issue, to be approached through counselling, peer-to-peer training or technology. That’s such a narrow and instrumental way to view it. American universities, perhaps because of their history of liberal arts education, have a much broader and more intellectually-interesting way of approaching it. Several universities offer courses in Positive Psychology, for example, or contemplative studies, or Great Books courses, or courses in moral philosophy or ‘the art of living’ – such general curriculum courses barely exist in UK universities.

Other interventions discussed in the book include:

Engelhard courses at Georgetown University: as part of its commitment to well-being, the university seeks to include modules related to well-being in several different curricula, from biology to history. Riley and Elmendorf write: ‘In foundations of biology, students are required to write a research paper in which students explore the genetic and environmental bases of a mental families and friends directly, so in our predominantly 18–19 year-old population, we often see papers on addiction, depression, anxiety disorders, attention deficit hyperactivity literature and leverage their nascent knowledge of foundational molecular, genetic, and during face-to-face time in the course and in an online environment. Collectively, the Engelhard project has reached 15,126 students in 358 courses over the ten-year period of 2005 to 2015. More than one-third of our first year students take Engelhard courses

Well-being courses involving the sciences and humanities: James Pawelski, a professor in Positive Psychology at Penn University, notes that well-being can be explored and promoted using both the social sciences and the humanities. He notes, for example, that CBT techniques could be taught with reference to Stoic philosophy (something I’ve taught for the last few years), and that flourishing could be taught through literary studies (he co-authored a book on the ‘eudaimonic turn’ in literary studies). Courses in contemplation can also combine both the sciences (the science of mindfulness) with the humanities (the culture and ethics of Buddhism, for example)

Contemplative studies: Mark Edmundson suggests higher education should promote the virtues of ‘courage, contemplation and compassion’, through such contemplative practices as reflective writing, deep reading, quietness, meditation and poetry.

Volunteering and social work: the American Association of Colleges and Universities (AACU) has a programme called LEAP, which aims to help students’ development through initiatives like ‘service and community-based learning’. I’ll write in the next few days about a similar project in some UK universities, called ‘Open Minds’, where medical and psychology students deliver mental health education in local schools.

Focus on mentoring and relationships: the key finding of a recent study, How College Works by Daniel Chambliss and Christopher Takacs, is that relationships matter more to student thriving than curricula:

At a liberal arts college in New York, the authors followed a cluster of nearly one hundred students over a span of eight years. The curricular and technological innovations beloved by administrators mattered much less than the professors and peers whom students met, especially early on. At every turning point in students’ undergraduate lives, it was the people, not the programs, that proved critical. Great teachers were more important than the topics studied, and even a small number of good friendships—two or three—made a significant difference academically as well as socially.

Barry Schwartz also thinks the intellectual virtues are best passed on to students through relationships, particularly through emulation and modelling: ‘We are always modeling. And the students are always watching. We need to do it better. A good start would be to do it deliberately and not by accident.’

There is so much more one could consider if well-being is taken seriously by universities: the importance of sports, of the aesthetics of a campus, of having places of beauty and quiet to enhance reflection, of marking development with rites of passage. Not to mention the fierce debates over feelings of belonging and safety for women, ethnic minorities, trans students, or white working-class male students (a minority particularly badly-served by British universities).

But this collection shows, encouragingly, that American universities are taking well-being seriously, understanding the historical and philosophical complexity of the issue, and thinking about constructive ways to promote it. We in British universities can learn a lot from their experiences.

On Positive Psychology and the Positive University

Earlier this year, Anthony Seldon, the new vice-chancellor of the University of Buckingham, announced he was making Buckingham into the UK’s first ‘positive university’. All students will take a course in Positive Psychology. All tutors will be trained in Positive Psychology. The psychology of happiness will be at the centre of the university, rather like the philosophy of Aristotle and Aquinas was (and sometimes still is) at the centre of Catholic universities.

It’s a radical response to what Liberal Democrat MP Norman Lamb describes as a ‘crisis on campus in respect to mental health‘. Student demand for counselling has risen 50% in the last five years ; student drop-out figures are rising steeply. Post-graduates, academics and staff also report feeling stressed.

Universities increasingly agree that student well-being is important and institutions should help support it. But how exactly? There is no clear consensus, partly because – unlike many American universities – British universities don’t yet measure student well-being so can’t compare the efficacy of different approaches.

Some institutions are focusing on improving funding for student counselling, but that’s dealing with the issue once it’s already become a serious problem. Other solutions include training students in peer support, developing online well-being programmes, and training personal tutors to cope with students’ issues at the departmental level.

But could well-being become more central to universities’ missions? Could universities provide courses in flourishing, as Seldon suggests?

There are some precedents for Buckingham’s ambitious plan. There’s a university in Mexico, TecMilenia, which incorporated Positive Psychology into its main curriculum in 2013. And there are several American universities that have freshmen courses in Positive Psychology – including Harvard, Berkeley, Rutgers and NYU. These courses are apparently very popular, attracting hundreds of students each year and helping their lecturers to lucrative book and lecturing deals – like Tal Ben Shahar, who runs Harvard’s science of happiness course.

Kathryn Ecclestone has called this intersection of well-being, education and the free market ‘therapeutic entrepreneuralism‘. I guess there is a long tradition of that in America – what’s new is that Positive Psychology connects the world of self-help and life coaching to the world of academic psychology.

The lecturers of the NYU course – Daniel Lerner and Alan Schlechter – recently published their own book based on the course, called U Thrive: How To Succeed At College (and Life). It doesn’t break new ground in Positive Psychology, rather it sticks quite closely to a familiar script.

Positive Psychology was launched by University of Pennsylvania psychologist Martin Seligman in the late 1990s. Seligman was impressed by the success of Cognitive Behavioural Therapy (CBT), an intervention for depression and anxiety developed by his Penn colleague Aaron Beck, who was inspired in part by Stoic philosophy. Seligman wondered if self-care techniques could be taught not just to the mentally ill, but to everyone, to raise their general level of flourishing.

Positive Psychologists developed a range of brief interventions to improve flourishing. Lerner and Schlechter’s course includes several of them: teach people how their mind-sets and explanatory styles affect their emotions, and how they can become more resilient in their response to adversity; teach people to develop feelings of gratitude and positivity; teach people to identify their core strengths, and the activities that give them ‘flow’ (pleasant absorption) and meaning; teach people to find good role models. And so on.

Each intervention has been tested out and the reader of U Thrive is constantly re-assured with the results (‘the evidence was clear’, ‘the result was surprising’). In some ways, the results aren’t surprising at all – rather, Positive Psychology presents some of the received wisdom of western civilization (be nice, try hard, control your appetites, be optimistic, emulate heroes, find your hobby). But now there is a scientific evidence base for these moral nuggets. Science rather than God can guide us to flourishing.

Positive Psychology sometimes presents itself as something utterly new. It’s not. As the historian George Marsden has chronicled, before the 19th century, Western universities had an explicitly Christian mission, chapel, prayer and Bible study were compulsory, and students’ behaviour was carefully regulated (Seldon’s plans seems a move back to that sort of paternalism, with more university control over students’ drinking, drugs and even social media use. Animal House it ain’t). During the 19th century, Protestant universities like Harvard or Virginia became less explicitly Christian, but still tried to improve students’ moral character through courses in moral philosophy, moral psychology or Great Books. They believed that science and the humanities could teach students character, without any explicit reference to revelation.

The idea that universities exist to support students’ character and wisdom is not new, therefore. It’s only very recently that universities dropped that mission and focused purely on teaching specialist knowledge. They’ve become huge but rather soulless institutions as a result.

Personally, I struggled with emotional problems while studying at Oxford in the late 1990s, and neither my college nor my degree in English Literature was much help. I had to find help for myself, which I finally did through Cognitive Behavioural Therapy and Greek philosophy. I wrote my first book, Philosophy For Life, to try and pass on the therapeutic wisdom I’d found in Greek philosophy. I’d love colleges to offer basic courses in different wisdom practices as a free add-on to students’ main degrees. That seems normal and healthy to me.

But it’s crucial to find the right balance between the humanities and the social sciences. While Positive Psychology draws heavily on ancient philosophies, it can take a Positivist and scientistic view. Positive Psychologists sometimes insist that science can quantify and measure everything that makes a flourishing life – happiness, meaning, transcendence, even humility (yes, Positive Psychologists think you can measure humility by asking someone how humble they think they are. Donald Trump would score high). Self-reporting questionnaires can’t tell you if you really are living a meaningful, virtuous, transcendent life, only if you think you are, which is not the same thing. To really know if a person is good, psychologists would need to follow them around and spy on them all the time. That’s hard to get approved by the ethics board.

It’s strange that, in a book on how to flourish at university and in life, there’s hardly any mention of ethics. The closest the authors get is when discussing passion and flow – they admit that sometimes passion can be unhealthily and obsessive. But that’s it. No mention of our obligations to others, except in so far as volunteering apparently makes one happier. No mention of how to discriminate ethically between healthy and unhealthy obsessions, between good and bad purposes. On the whole, happiness is taken as the aim of life, although sometimes it’s admitted that achievement or meaning is important too. But how do we weigh-up difficult trade-offs between these goals? We don’t.

We’re told that 75% of undergraduates arrive at university seeking meaning. But what meaning should they find? What is a good meaning? Positive Psychology can’t help us. ‘Whatever gives your life meaning, studies show that finding meaning will have long-term benefits…People who report finding more meaning in life are more likely to enjoy greater well-being, increased resilience, and lower levels of stress and depression.’

There is no mention of God or any model of flourishing beyond this life. How do you quantify closeness to God? Positive Psychology also steers well clear of politics, economics, gender, and race. It’s mentioned in passing that one of the biggest causes of stress for students is finances. Does the university provide enough support for hard-up students? Does society? Who knows. Yes, there’s a lot that individuals can do for their own well-being, but there are also structural barriers to some groups’ well-being.

There’s a lack of self-criticism in the book, a lack of effort to provoke deep and difficult life-questions in students. The student is only encouraged to ask questions within the framework of Positive Psychology – to ask ‘what is my core strength’, but never ‘is it really healthy to spend a lot of time developing my strengths rather than also trying to improve my weaknesses?’

Crucially, the students are never encouraged to question the evidence for Positive Psychology, or to ask ‘are you sure?’ ‘Is that always the case?’ ‘What are the limits and imperfections of this world-view?’

Because the evidence isn’t actually that clear. Meta-analyses of Positive Psychology interventions found some small improvements in positive emotion, but little effect on negative emotion (see here, here, and here). A three-year trial of a Positive Psychology programme in schools in the UK found little long-term impact on well-being or educational performance . I’m not sure the evidence for Positive Psychology is strong enough to warrant it becoming the guiding philosophy of an entire university. And what if a student or staff member disagrees with it? Are they branded a heretic?

There’s a risk of a new Scholasticism, as mindfulness and Positive Psychology become the unquestionable creed of education institutions. A course or institution devoted to wisdom must have room for rebels and heretics – take the example of Brown University’s contemplative studies department. Although it’s a leading institution for the study and practice of meditation, it’s also produced heretical reports showing, for example, that meditation can lead to serious mental health problems. It’s found a good balance between wisdom and free thinking.

To conclude. I think universities should offer voluntary classes in various evidence-based therapeutic interventions, such as Cognitive Behavioural Therapy, mindfulness, and peer-to-peer support. Universities should give students certificates for taking these courses, which count to their degree or at least can go on their CV as an employability skill.

I think these sorts of classes could be offered as part of a course in wisdom or flourishing. But any such course needs to have a place for ethics, philosophy, politics and culture – for the humanities, in other words. Otherwise there is an ethics and meaning gap, and the courses end up scientistic, instrumental, and reductive.

Aristotle wrote that ‘it is the mark of an educated mind to look for precision in each class of things only so far as the nature of the subject admits’. Ethics cannot be turned into a precise science. It requires the development of practical moral judgement – phronesis in Aristotelian terms – and that is cultivated not by presenting endless statistics but by training students in ethical reflection, discussion, and practice. This works best not in lectures to hundreds of students, but in small tutorials, seminars and peer groups.

As a future research project, I suggest we study alternative models of universities where flourishing is seen as the core mission of the institution – from the first Buddhist university of Nalanda in the seventh century BC, through Plato’s Academy and Aristotle’s Lyceum, to Catholic colleges like John Henry Newman’s University College Dublin, to alternative contemporary institutions like Naropa University or Schumacher College. The Positive University is not a new idea. Let’s learn from previous experiments.

At the Abyss: The Phenomenon of Self-Reflexive Anxiety

Ruth Rebecca Tietjen recently (2017) finished her PhD-thesis in Philosophy of Emotions at the University of Tübingen, Germany. She works on self-reflexive and mood-like phenomena of fear and anxiety, on religious and mystical feelings. She is particularly interested in how feelings relate to self-hood and processes of self-transformation. Ruth tries to bridge the gap between analytic and existential philosophy and to explore the boundaries of philosophy by touching the borders between philosophy, literature and performance.


Let’s start by having a look at the picture of an abyss:

Zugspitze

On my last meters to the summit of the Zugspitze, the highest mountain in Germany, I have to descend some pegs, walk some meters on the ridge, a steel cable on my left side and the abyss on my right side, climb two short ladders, and finally pass another steel cable leading me to the golden summit cross. There are crowds of tourists who, together with me, want to reach the cross sparkling in the sun: people without any experience in mountaineering, young children, old people, all of them having reached the huge platform below the summit by cable car. They all are eager to finally climb up the last meters in order to take a picture proving they had been on the top of Germany. Right in front of me one of the most impatient visitors slips, picks himself up and continues pushing forward. This is the moment, when, for the first time of the day, I really become scared: “If he’s right above me on the ladder and slips again, he’ll definitely take me and some other people with him into the depths”, or so I think. So I’m happy to give way to the oncoming traffic and to thereby increase the distance between him and me. But safety with regard to this outer threat does not end my anxiety. Maybe I as well overestimated my skills? What if I slipped myself? What if I got dizzy? Hadn’t this thought – the thought that I might get dizzy – in combination with the sight of the abyss already started to elicit some kind of dizziness in me? I might fall down the precipice thanks to a fault of my own, or maybe even of my own free will.

For an inspiring analysis of a “traditional” self-reflexive emotion see, for example, Deonna’s, Rodogno’s and Teroni’s book on shame.

For reasons of safety, let’s take a step back, and ask which kind of feeling we are confronted with in this description. We are confronted with a feeling of fear; a feeling of fear of a specific kind: First, besides dimensions of world-directed fear – fear directed at outer events –, the feeling contains dimensions of self-directed fear – fear directed at dangers impending from within ourselves. We are afraid of how we might react, of whether our abilities will suffice to reach a presupposed goal, and/or of whether our will will be strong or stable enough to realize our aims. Metaphorically speaking, in being confronted with the outer abyss into which we might plunge, we are, at the same time, confronted with our inner abyss. Philosophically speaking, we are dealing with an at least partly self-reflexive phenomenon of fear.

Remarkably, the debate on self-reflexive emotions is focused on necessarily self-reflexive emotions directed at our past or present self like shame, guilt or pride. On the contrary, anxiety is a non-necessarily self-reflexive emotion directed at our future self. More precisely, self-reflexive anxiety is about our possible self: about who we as persons might be, might become or might have been.

Being afraid of oneself is a widespread phenomenon. We know it from everyday life: we are afraid of inadvertently burping in public or of failing an exam; we see ourselves confronted with impulses, desires or habits of our own with which we partly identify ourselves and from which we partly distance ourselves. We know it from psychology and psychopathology: think, for example, of the categories of performance anxiety or of obsessive-compulsive disorders (OCD). We know it from art: think, for example, of Alice Munro’s autobiographically inspired short-story “Night” or of the whole bunch of movies dealing with a situation in which someone suffering from amnesia is confronted with a horrible crime s/he might have committed. What makes the experience I described in the beginning significant is thus not the quantity of this specific kind of experience, but rather its symbolic and existential character: the fact that it is our (descriptive and evaluative) self-conception itself that is challenged in such situations. Note, that my example inspired by Sartre’s famous description in “Being and Nothingness” thereby is partly misleading.[1] In the example, the possible consequences are disastrous. Thereby, we tend to lose sight of the fact that self-reflexive anxiety is crucially not (only) about consequences, but rather about causes and reasons of events, about the question what our (possible) reactions, behaviour, and actions might reveal about ourselves.

The concept of “existential feelings” was coined by Matthew Ratcliffe.

The phenomena I referred to are diverse. A philosophical analysis may help us to disambiguate them. For example, the description in the beginning contained different forms of self-reflexivity: being afraid of one’s own bodily reactions, being afraid of one’s own failure, and being afraid of one’s own weakness, ambiguity or changeability of will. Having a closer look at the different examples thereby shows that they contain different forms of self-attribution and different degrees of felt responsibility. Furthermore, we can differentiate different dimensions of “generality” that may be involved in experiences of self-reflexive anxiety: the phenomenon I described is an emotional feeling – a feeling directed at a specific situation. At the same time, it holds the potential for presenting itself as an insight into the basic structures of our existence or of human existence as such. For example, self-reflexive anxiety may confront us with the fact that the borders between ownness and otherness, activity and passivity, power and powerlessness with regard to our practical identity are blurred. Finally, the experience bears the potential for “sinking in” our affective live. It may become an “existential feeling”: a pre-intentional feeling that opens up, shapes, and limits the space of experiences, thoughts, and actions possible to us.

In the previous lines, I only could deliver a fragmentary insight into how a philosophical analysis may contribute to our understanding of the phenomenon of self-reflexive anxiety. Nonetheless, I hope that I was able to convey the idea that the commonly neglected phenomenon of self-reflexive anxiety is not only widespread, but also intellectually fascinating and existentially challenging. A philosophical analysis promises to deepen our understanding of self-reflexive anxiety and of self-reflexive emotions, selfhood and processes of self-transformation in more general.

Ruth is always in search of inspiration and discussion, so feel free to contact her: ruth-rebecca.tietjen [at] student.uni-tuebingen.de! For a much more fine-grained analysis of the phenomenon of self-reflexive anxiety, see her thesis “Am Abgrund. Philosophische Theorie der Angst und Übung in philosophischer Freiheit“.

[1]  Cf. Jean-Paul Sartre (1992), Being and Nothingness. A Phenomenological Essay on Ontology, translated by Hazel E. Barnes, New York: Washington Square Press, pp. 65ff.

‘Silence that Dreadful Bell!’: Hearing Fear in Shakespeare’s Othello

This week is Fears&Angers week on the History of Emotions Blog. We’ll be publishing a series of guest posts arising from our upcoming conference ‘Fears and Angers: Historical and Contemporary Perspectives’ where a group of scholars got to grips with fear and anger. In this second post of the week, Kibrina Davey explores fear in Othello. Kibrina is a PhD candidate and Associate Lecturer at Sheffield Hallam University, researching the relationship between violence and emotion in early modern tragedy. Davey’s articles on passions in the tragedies of John Ford and Philip Massinger have recently been published in issues of academic journals, Early Modern Literary Studies and Textus. Her research interests include early modern literature, history of emotions, and Renaissance medicine.


In early modern Protestant England, a bell was not only an auditory warning to alert townspeople of potential threats such as a fire or invasion, but also carried religious and supernatural connotations. In her study on seventeenth century bells, Dolly MacKinnon writes that:

Bells, depending on the context, could be interpreted as remnants of troubling pre-Reformation practices and superstitions, or as sounds of God’s warnings. In early modern society, bell ringing therefore remained problematic, as it “shall seem to incline to superstitions” The more extreme Protestants sought to silence bells altogether.[1]

In her study, MacKinnon details how in the writings of early modern Protestant pamphlets, bells became an indicator of the unholy, considered as signifiers of the supernatural, warnings from God and opposing the Christianity of Reformed England. Undoubtedly then, the sound of bells in Shakespeare’s Othello (1603), would generate fear among the listeners both in the world of the play and in the theatre itself.

In the opening scene of Othello, Machiavellian villain Iago, suggests ringing a bell to alert the townspeople to Desdemona’s elopement with Othello. After waking Desdemona’s father Brabantio with a frightening yell, Iago implores him to wake the rest of the town, exclaiming

Sir, you’re robbed! For shame, put on your gown.

Your heart is burst, you have lost half your soul.

Even now, now, very now, an old black ram

Is tupping your white ewe. Arise, arise,

Awake the snorting citizens with the bell

Or else the devil will make a grandsire of you.

Arise, I say! (1.I.90-96)

Here, Iago describes Desdemona’s elopement as a robbery, portraying her marriage to Othello and abandonment of her father as a domestic crime which affects the entire town. Othello is figured as a burglar, terrorising the neighbourhood and stealing people’s daughters. This passage reveals several early modern anxieties and fears, the first and most obvious of which is the fear of miscegenation, demonstrated through Iago’s description of Othello as an ‘old black ram’ copulating with the ‘white ewe’, Desdemona. This is added to when Iago refers to Othello as the ‘devil’, presenting him as both religious and racial Other to the citizens of Venice. Iago uses sounds, including his own voice and his reference to the ‘bell’, an alarm that signified the ungodly, to awaken the anxieties about foreign cultures that plagued the early modern populace.

In Act 2, Scene 3, a bell actually rings as part of Iago’s plan to have Cassio removed from the position of Othello’s lieutenant. After persuading Cassio to get drunk in order to exacerbate his passions and make him violent, Iago tells Roderigo to alert the town to the disturbance, telling him, ‘Away, I say; go out, and cry a mutiny’ (2.III.138), and moments later, a bell rings. Feigning ignorance, Iago responds to the alarm, asking ‘Who’s that which rings the bell? – Diablo ho! / The town will rise.’ (2.III.142-143) Once again, Iago links the bell with the devil, conjuring up ideas of the unchristian and supernatural, and imbuing the sound of the bell with the power to generate fear. The use of the verb ‘rise’ here, suggests not only that the citizens will be awoken, but that they will react volatilely, implying that the sound of the bell could exacerbate their fears to such an extent that it would result in violence, chaos and rebellion.

As well as Iago’s response, Othello’s reaction to the ringing of the bell, and the fight that caused it is equally important. He asks

Why, how now, ho! From whence ariseth this?

Are we turn’d Turks, and to ourselves do that

Which heaven hath forbid the Ottomites?

For Christian shame, put by this barbarous brawl: […]

Silence that dreadful bell: it frights the isle

From her propriety. (2.III.151-158)

Here, Othello expresses his anxiety about the fight between Montano and Cassio. He refers to their behaviour as unchristian, comparing their violent outburst to the actions of Turks and Ottomites, two groups of people who represent the Muslim religion which Othello signifies himself. Furthermore, he describes their actions as ‘barbarous’, suggesting that they’re unable to govern their passions. This choice of words is not only telling of the cultural and social anxieties of early modern society, but also indicates the fears that trouble Othello himself. Already, by this point in the play other characters have expressed their fears about Othello’s race and through these acts of hateful speech, the anxieties about his own people have transferred onto Othello himself. This fear is then exaggerated by the sound of the bell which greatly distresses Othello. After all, read more literally, the bell could indicate the threat of invasion by the Turkish armies, and ‘Othello would have been reminiscent for contemporary audiences of the Turks that were considered so dangerous in the play.’[2] The bell provokes Othello’s fears about his colour and culture on more than one level.

In the last two lines of the speech, Othello worries about the effect of the bell on the townspeople, using the adjective ‘dreadful’ to describe the sound.  The word ‘dreadful’ here does not merely convey an unpleasant noise, but an alarming one. He worries that the ringing of the bell will ‘fright the isle/ From her propriety’, suggesting once again the transformative effect that fear can have when transmitted aurally. Not only will the alarm scare the citizens, as in Iago’s description above, it may cause them to act improperly, recalling Othello’s fears about ‘turning Turk’ and behaving in an uncivilised manner. The bell which stands for the unholy, the supernatural and the un-Christian, brings out the fearful voices both real and imagined in Othello’s head that tell him that he himself is sinful, savage, and inhuman.


[1] Dolly MacKinnon, ‘”Ringing of the Bells by Four White Spirits”: Two Seventeenth- Century English Earwitness Accounts of the Supernatural in Print Culture’ in Religion, the Supernatural and Visual Culture in Early Modern Europe ed. by Jennifer Spinks and Dagmar Eichberger (Leiden: Brill, 2015) pp. 83-104 (p.84)

[2] Andrew Hadfield, A Routledge Literary Sourcebook on William Shakespeare’s Othello (London: Routledge Taylor and Francis Group, 2003) p.11

Requiem for a Bad Dream: Fear of the Night, the Devil and the Nightmare in Early Modern England

This week is Fears&Angers week on the History of Emotions Blog. We’ll be publishing a series of guest posts arising from our upcoming conference ‘Fears and Angers: Historical and Contemporary Perspectives’ where an interdisciplinary group of scholars will get to grips with fear and anger. This post is by Charlotte-Rose Millar, a Postdoctoral Fellow in the Institute for Advanced Studies in the Humanities at the University of Queensland and an Associate Investigator with the ARC Centre of Excellence for the History of Emotions (1100-1800). Her book Witchcraft, The Devil and Emotions in Early Modern England is forthcoming with Routledge in 2017​.

This post was originally published on the Inner Lives project blog.


Wikimedia Commons (Public Domain).

In 1781, Henry Fuseli painted his now-famous depiction of The Nightmare. The painting (above) depicts a woman lying on her back in bed. She appears asleep or in a deep trance, her eyes are closed, she is wearing a figure-hugging robe, and her hair falls sensually off the bed. On her chest sits a demon, a horrid, blackened creature that gazes unsettlingly at the viewer. A mare peeking through the curtains reinforces that the experience on display is the nightmare: an encounter believed to be caused by a demon or, in some cases, a witch, sitting on the chest.

Descriptions and depictions of the nightmare existed long before Fuseli’s painting and continue to resonate today. But what exactly is the ‘nightmare’? When described in these terms, the experience takes on a completely different meaning than that of a bad dream or disturbed sleep. Rather, ‘the nightmare’ refers to a specific episode, one defined by waking with the feeling of something heavy on the chest and being unable to move. Those suffering from a nightmare encounter were likely to experience: a feeling of pressure or weight, often on the chest; a feeling of a presence; a sense of being fully awake but to appear sleeping to others; keen awareness of physical surroundings; paralysis or very limited mobility; fear, often terror; psychic, visual, or aural hallucinations; and fear of death. The nightmare was also most likely to occur when the victim was sleeping in the supine position, that is, on their back: a point reinforced in Fuseli’s representation. These experiences have been described as the ‘dark other’ of the dream, one that provides insights into our inner selves.

Wellcome Images (CC BY 4.0).

One extremely common way of understanding the nightmare in the early modern world was to attribute it to the Devil or to witchcraft; indeed, I first became interested in these nocturnal ordeals while researching seventeenth-century English witchcraft pamphlets. For some the nightmare represented a sexualised demon such as an incubus or succubus, for others, the hallucinations caused by the nightmare reinforced their belief that they were being tormented by a neighbourhood witch. But nightmare encounters were not confined to the early modern period. Fascinatingly, historians, anthropologists, and psychologists have found accounts of the nightmare over almost 2,000 years of human history, with cases from the classical world right up until the present day. These findings have led many historians to label the nightmare as a form of sleep paralysis, a biological condition that appears to have the same, or extremely similar, symptoms to those of the early modern nightmare. This finding has allowed the nightmare to be labelled a ‘pan-human’ phenomenon, one that –  transcending time and space – can provide insight into changing cultural fears.

Wellcome Images (CC BY 4.0).

In both early modern and modern nightmare experiences, fear appears to be an essential component. One eighteenth-century sufferer, whose torment was reported in John Bond’s 1753 An Essay on the Incubus, or Nightmare, was ‘so much afraid of [the nightmare’s] intolerable insults’ that he slept all night in a chair, ‘rather than give [the nightmare] an opportunity of attacking [him] in an horizontal position’. Another victim ‘imagin’d the Devil came to his bedside, seiz’d him by the Throat, and endeavour’d to choak him. Next day he observ’d the black impressions of his hard Fingers on his Neck’. As a result of these encounters, this man made his servant watch over him at night so that he would wake him and thus ‘rescue him from the Paws of Satan’. The dread in these descriptions is palpable and, in both cases, the sufferers imagine the nightmare as a tangible beast that can hurt them and, in turn, be physically warded off.

In these early encounters, the biological fear that is part of the nightmare encounter became representative of the greater anxiety caused by belief in the Devil’s presence. Today, sufferers of the nightmare, or sleep paralysis, are less likely to assume the appearance of Satan, although this is not unheard of. Instead, many modern day sufferers fear alien abduction; a fear that perhaps has more relevance than the demonic in the modern world. Others have more mundane fears: one Canadian sufferer, interviewed in 1973, claimed that ‘those TV chipmunks’ had ‘hagged’ him in the night, a word used to describe nightmare encounters.

Wellcome Images (CC BY 4.0).

So what does this mean for how we interpret supernatural phenomena or access inner lives? Does it help? Or is it all a fascinating yet essentially unhelpful distraction? It’s clear that nightmare encounters allow us an insight into inner lives; through the hallucinations associated with these phenomena in particular we’re given vivid insight into people’s darkest fears (whether these be devils, aliens, or the suddenly suspect Chip ‘n’ Dale). The biological roots of the nightmare also help us to understand supernatural belief. In cases where men and women claimed they were ridden in the night by a neighbourhood witch who crushed them and left them unable to move, it may very well be the case that the afflicted did indeed hallucinate the appearance of the person they suspected of witchcraft. Thus, the nightmare would act to confirm suspicion and, also, to invoke terror. Through exploring cases where men and women experienced a ‘nightmare’ encounter we gain insight into the very real fear that men and women felt towards certain people, phenomena, or beings and, in turn, learn how these phenomena were believed to act in the world. Through its unique symptoms, the nightmare allows a genuine glimpse into how a biological phenomenon can be culturally constructed and, in turn, allow insights into inner lives.

What to do about anger? Pragmatism and passionate disagreement

This week is Fears&Angers week on the History of Emotions Blog. We’ll be publishing a series of guest posts arising from our upcoming conference ‘Fears and Angers: Historical and Contemporary Perspectives’ where an interdisciplinary group of scholars will get to grips with fear and anger. In this, the first post of the week, Dr Mara-Daria Cojocaru asks what we should do about anger. Mara-Daria is lecturer in practical philosophy at the Munich School of Philosophy. She is working on pragmatist theories of emotion and is interested in the epistemic role of affective states. Her background is in political philosophy. 

Register for Fears and Angers (closes June 12)


I am on a bus in Germany and a passenger is being asked to show his ticket. The man is travelling on a ticket he claims is valid, but the bus driver thinks it isn’t. We are on our way to a book festival and some festival tickets include transportation. However, it seems that there are a number of bus companies operating in the area and there is confusion about which company, and which journeys, are included in the ticket the man bought. The situation gets heated. Another passenger, herself also on the way to the book festival, intervenes and offers evidence in the form of the festival leaflet that this bus is, indeed, not included. The man gets even angrier and begins shouting at both the bus driver and the woman. The woman sides with the bus driver, the bus driver sides with indecision, and in light of the increasing delay to our journey, mixed information coming from his superior (whom the driver calls “mein Meister”, my master), and the man getting ever more agitated and refusing to pay, the bus driver leaves and starts driving again. After a few minutes, he announces over the speaker that he has paid for a ticket for the man out of his own pocket and that this is how he resolved the situation he does not find objectively resolved. The passenger mockingly thanks across the bus and scoffs at the woman who had intervened and sits defeated right behind him. Ten minutes later, we hear the bus driver again: thanks to the woman who had supported him, because, normally, he’d find himself alone in such disputes. She signs a friendly, conspiratorial gesture with her age freckled hand. I have very mixed feelings: I had been wondering whether some kind of prejudice on behalf of the bus driver might have been at play when he attempted to control the passenger since he is not Caucasian. I disapproved of the zeal with which the woman appreciated that the person was double-checked in the first place (she had given the bus driver the thumbs up). It is Germany in 2017 after all. I felt that it is easy to get confused with so many bus companies and that nobody would be harmed, really, if this passenger got a free ride. Having recently returned from the UK, I felt ashamed of the culture of deference to authority in my home country. I thought it a nuisance that we were held up for that long. I was annoyed that the man would refuse to look at that leaflet the woman was showing to him, and I asked him why he wouldn’t take a look: he stuck his tongue out at me. I registered anger dwelling up in me as well – and decided to revise this blogpost, which I had just started, and use this situation in order to make my point: that there must be something that we can do about anger that we currently don’t always manage to do. Let me explain.

Maybe we feel we really shouldn’t, but many of us get angry when we disagree, particularly when we disagree about moral and political questions. Unfortunately, philosophers are of little help here because they are divided on the matter. While already Plato knew why we get angry in such situations, philosophers these days defend two competing views as to what we should do with our anger, if doing something about anger has to do with the way we think about it. Basically, one group of philosophers thinks that anger is an ‘apt reaction to injustice’, the other group regards it as ‘road to perdition in moral and political life’. In the first case, anger is taken to be a faculty, like a sensor: there are certain facts in the world, in particular the destruction of value, that “call for” an angry response. Not responding angrily to these facts is at best a sign of apathy and at worst due to false consciousness. And there are many values that are potentially destroyed in the situation on the bus: Imagine the man was indeed travelling on a valid ticket and neither him, as a victim, nor any of us on the bus who are witnesses to what would be systemic racial prejudice, would protest. Accordingly, the idea that anger is an ‘apt reaction to injustice’ has risen to prominence in feminist and racial justice circles. However, we don’t know whether the man is a victim, and whatever his reasons for being angry, just assuming that he is because the situation fits a pattern we have learned to find upsetting doesn’t seem to be enough. Anger seems to be a somewhat unreliable sensor.

Others, in turn, most notably in recent times Martha Nussbaum, suggested that anger should not be allowed in public life: as the self-righteous reaction by the woman on the bus might illustrate, anger breeds anger, it may be seen as essentially unreasonable, a bad character trait even, and undermining the institutions we have in order to deal with moral and political problems. On this view, the most reasonable thing is to call the authorities and to emotionally transition into a concern for justice. While this comes close to what the bus driver did, imagine that, actually, yes: the passenger was travelling without a valid ticket. However, imagine, too, that the information was really not easily available to an outsider and that at some point he gave up in frustration and took his chances. He may have been in a hurry, and we can think of many other structural aspects that may have co-created the problem. We may not be raging, but, eventually, we may be able to see the problem, too. Thus, it seems too easy to simply dismiss hotheads and people who can come to appreciate anger in other ways from moral and political debates either.

I want to suggest, then, that both views, while each seeming plausible in one way or another, have a problem because they take anger at face value. Anger is either taken to be too reliable or too stereotypically unreasonable. Philosophical pragmatism promises help. For while one pragmatist, William James, was famous for promoting a particular view of what an emotion essentially is, the dynamic and semeiotic conception of emotion we find in pragmatists such as Charles Sanders Peirce and John Dewey helps us in thinking what we could do about them. The most important feature of which is interpreting anger in such ways that the violent disagreement that tends to get us stuck, on the bus or in moral and political life, is turned into one that is simply passionate.