[A chreia is an ancient Greek rhetorical exercise, in which a student was required to expand on a well-known saying or action of a famous person by using certain methods or "headings." This one was composed for a rhetoric course final.]
Quintilian wrote that “Everybody prefers to have learned rather then to learn!” (Institutio Oratoria III.1)
This is a trustworthy saying, for Quintilian was not only a practitioner of rhetoric, but one of its great teachers; his entire work is dedicated to nothing else than the instruction and formation of a perfect orator. That is too immense a topic to praise here, but surely we can honor him for this bare bit of insight, spilled out(almost carelessly) from the great storehouse of his wisdom.
For he is saying that what students have already mastered is very hard to replace with later instruction, even if what they have learned originally is faulty or incomplete. The cause of this is not difficult to determine, since it lives in every man’s experience.
Who does not remember agonizing over some approaching final exam in his school days, knowing that mountains of effort and rivers of sweat had been used up in trying to anchor the needed facts in the memory? Every student knows that learning is tough, and often tedious. The raw clay of the mind is being pressed into a different mold; when it finally emerges bright, shining, and ready to be displayed to others, there is a genuine pride in the achievement.
But then another rushes up, secure in his own superior learning, and attacks the hard-won treasure with words of scorn! “They were poorly instructed, they were wrongly taught, they should instead listen to a newcomer and begin again.” Even if the newcomer is right and everything he says is as true as the face of God, the one being instructed instantly revolts. Admitting this new point means that all previous effort has been vain. Not only this, but it means he must own up to being wrong—worse, being a deceived fool in the presence of someone who knew even more about a subject. Pride, embarrassment, and anger combine to stifle the humility of confessing error.
On the contrary, a man who can be convinced of his own faults is rare—he has disciplined his wayward emotions and is prepared to do whatever needs to be done to arrive, not at mere knowledge, but at truth. What teacher would not travel many miles to find such a student? The very rarity of those who prefer to learn contributes to their worth, compared to those who prefer to have learned.
This saying proves that labor is hard and men are proud, and that once they have mined a bit of knowledge for themselves they are reluctant to throw it away, even if it is proved that what they clutch is nothing more than fool’s gold.
Consider with what reluctance Quintilian admits in a few places that he had changed some positions on pedagogy since his younger days! Here the one doing the correcting is not even another, but his own older, wiser self—the one person every human being on the earth will proclaim incontestably superior to who he used to be. And yet he is reluctant to admit even an improvement in his system before the sharp eyes of others, and defends his change of course with many reasons and proofs; afraid of appearing weak and inconstant as the wind.
Therefore, as Solomon has written, Wisdom calls to her children: “Hear instruction, and be wise, and refuse it not.” He joins his testimony to the orator’s: refusal to learn is not the path of the wise few. It is instead the path of the mulish multitude—but the pride of the foolish blinds them to which road they are traveling, leaving them in the dark even while they claim sight.
With all this in mind, it is quite clear that Quintilian has given us a great and memorable saying of education. May we always keep it as something we are learning rather than have learned.
