I guess everybody's attitudes toward teaching are largely shaped by his/her own experiences.(1) In my case this certainly is true; thus what I am going to discuss here has a very personal background. I deliberately start with some andecdotes from my years as a student and beginning teacher because these experiences are essential to understand my specific concerns about teaching and because most of us probably do not spend enough time thinking about why we are doing what we are doing.
I received my professional training at the university of my home-town, Basel in Switzerland, and held my first teaching position (apart from two years of secondary school teaching in the same city) at the Free University of Berlin, Germany. My favorite subjects in High School (Gymnasium) were the ancient languages and history. Thus with little hesitation I enrolled in these same subjects at the university, planning to become a secondary school teacher at the local Classical or "Humanistic" Gymnasium. My professors in Classics were excellent: representatives of the best German philological tradition. But their interests beyond textual criticism and "Quellenforschung" were limited. For example, very little was made of the close proximity of the splendid ruins of Roman Augusta Raurica: these were Roman provincial monuments, far removed from the heights of "classical" Greek and Roman art, and the responsibility not of classicists but prehistorians. At that time (in the middle 60s) there were frequent discussions about the role of classical subjects in the High School curriculum. At one of our rare student/faculty meetings I suggested that we spend some time talking about the purpose of our pursuits: What role is there for classics in our modern society? What can we contribute? Why are we doing what we are doing? One of my professors looked at me sternly and said: "If you need to think about that perhaps you are in the wrong place."
Eventually I combined my two favorite subjects to become an ancient historian, and got my first appointment in Berlin -- not because I was "better" or more accomplished than my main competitors but because I had thought about what to say to unruly history students if they asked why they should spend two of their precious courses studying "all that ancient stuff". Berlin in the early 70s was a haven for all those who were critical of the establishment and capitalist society or wanted to avoid the draft. In the aftermath of the "student revolt", socialism and communism were still fashionable among students (although I never understood how this was possible when they had the realities of the walled-in East German "socialist paradise" right in front of their noses), and there was a powerful and radical countermovement among right-wing professors who suspected anyone of communist sympathies who "wasted" time talking with students or took their suggestions and ideas seriously. Moreover, many of them insisted on their academic liberty to teach what was useful to their research and careers rather than to the students' education and training.
Most history students were convinced that history proper and worth their consideration began only with the great revolutions of 1917 or, at the earliest, 1789. They took ancient or medieval history courses because they were required to do so, and they did not hide their feelings. Thus in the first half of each semester I had to spend much energy and time convincing those grumblers that ancient history actually was a subject worth their while and that even modern historians could learn a lot from it. Once they understood that -- and most of them did eventually -- we got along fine, and they became quite enthusiastic. I felt, though, that the situation might be improved considerably if the department offered a greater variety of courses on more attractive topics: if the students were obsessed with social and economic issues and with theories, why not include those in our courses? I said so frequently -- probably too frequently -- and was summoned by the chairman of the history department. He predicted that my "Helvetian frankness" would bring me into trouble sooner rather than later, and that I would never get into the position of enjoying a tenured professorship if I continued to waste my time in senseless discussions with "those students". In other words: I was supposed to focus on my research, publish and not let distractions such as teaching interfere with my pursuits more than absolutely necessary.
Obviously, the two individuals I have mentioned were not representative of all German or Swiss professors. But neither were they -- nor are they -- exceptions. These experiences impressed me and bothered me: something seemed to be terribly wrong. After all, the German word for "university" is "Hochschule" ("Highschool") and a "professor" is a "Hochschullehrer" ("Highschool teacher"). Why, then, should our careers be determined solely by our scholarship? Why was teaching taken for granted and considered insignificant for a person's professional record?
When I came to Brown as an assistant professor in the fall of 1978 several surprises awaited me. For one thing, the campus was not politicized; by and large, issues were decided on their own merit, not on the basis of political premises or allegiances. Professors did not view the lowly world of students (or, for that matter, junior faculty) from the lofty heights of pedestals and stilts, but they generally communicated with each other and the rest of the academic community in a humane, reasonable, even collegial way, and they often displayed genuine care for their students. Few of my students took my courses because they had to (for example, in order to fulfill a concentration requirement); most chose them because the subject interested them (at least moderately), and there was a lot of enthusiasm waiting to be ignited. Most significantly (for my present purpose), teaching was considered important and efforts in this area were taken seriously, appreciated and (sometimes) rewarded. Toward the end of the first year my senior colleagues conducted a review of my performance and accomplishments, not only by scrutinizing my research but by examining thoroughly all three areas of academic responsibility, including teaching and "service". In Berlin, when a similar review was conducted for my second degree (the "Habilitation", qualifying me for a tenured university position), the youngest assistant professor was asked to compose a report about my teaching. He did not even know me, but he pulled a lot of positive adjectives out of the air, thus producing a marvelous piece of fiction. At Brown, my colleagues read the student evaluations, talked to people, invited comments by others who had heard me lecture here or there, and even asked me about my impressions. What ended up on paper at least resembled reality.
Enough of that. You get the idea. I have exaggerated, but not too much. Most of my experiences in Basel and Berlin certainly were wonderful, but my impressions particularly of German university life also include unmanageable masses of students, petrified hierarchical structures and a lack of concern for the students' needs on the part of the faculty. Thus I have always been acutely aware of the privilege I enjoy of teaching at a place like Brown, and of the unique humane environment and academic opportunity it offers its students. The latter is equally important, and I want to illustrate it with my last comparison.
The Swiss and German systems of secondary education offer a broad range of subjects. This is especially true for those students (about 20%) who qualify for the most demanding track, the "Gymnasium". My Gymnasium combined Middle and High School, grades 5-12. At that time, in the 50s, the curriculum was still rigidly fixed; electives were only available in the highest grades to the best students, and they had to be taken in addition to the normal curriculum, during lunch break and after school. All in all, I had eight years of German, Math, History and Latin, seven years of French, five of ancient Greek, three of Geography and English, two of Physics, Chemistry, Biology and Italian, not to speak of Physical Education, Studio Art and other non-academic subjects. Not all these subjects were taught in the same intensity. For example, in ninth grade we had something like seven 45-minute lessons per week in Latin, five in Greek and French, four in German and Math, two in History and Biology, etc. And not all those subjects were compulsory; I took English, Italian and Advanced Math as electives after school. What I received in those eight years was a very comprehensive and solid education that reasonably covered all the sciences and mathematics, and focused heavily on the traditional Humanities and on languages. On the other hand, it was an old-fashioned education: I was not trained to work independently and to make choices, and I was not confronted seriously with the problems of our present world and its societies. (This probably has changed somewhat by now, as has the heavy focus on ancient languages; but the principle of a broad and varied curriculum remains.) Then off to university. Germany and Switzerland do not have a four-year college system. You have to make a major decision about your professional career when you graduate from the Gymnasium, at age 19. You then register at the university for the appropriate professional training program. Since I wanted to become a teacher of history and ancient languages, I enrolled in the classics and history departments of the University of Basel and eventually received my degrees. It was possible but neither required nor encouraged to take courses in other disciplines as well. Although I did make some excursions into Philosophy, Art and even Biology, the curriculum in my own subjects was quite demanding and left me little freedom of choice. When I left the university, I had acquired an excellent training in my fields of specialization, but I had had few opportunities to make my own decisions, and again I had not been confronted with the real and urgent problems of our present world.
You see the difference. The education offered by the secondary schools in Germany and Switzerland is much more differentiated, flexible and comprehensive than it is in the U.S. The rigid and unimaginative scheduling system that is typical of many secondary schools in this country allows for only a limited number of courses and, in addition, limits the range of possible combinations (e.g., it is very difficult to pursue two foreign languages over three or four years); the number of required courses is such that only limited use can be made of electives, etc. Looking at the American secondary school system, I sometimes feel that it is designed to deprive its students of, rather than to provide them with, the full opportunity of learning which they deserve during that crucial period in their lives.
But then comes college. Here it is the European students who are deprived of an essential opportunity by being forced into a narrow professional training program too early in their lives. The American college education, as I see it, particularly at the liberal arts colleges, serves various purposes: it gives its students a chance to make up for the shortcomings of their secondary school education (whatever these may be in each case); it allows them to build up reserves for life; it encourages them to increase the range of fields in which they are decently knowledgeable, and therefore to become better informed and more responsible citizens; it urges them to explore their interests, abilities and potential by both seeking out the unfamiliar and probing deeply into one particular field. Moreover, they are given the unique privilege of combining all these purposes according to their own free decision, without being forced to worry too much about how relevant their present work might be for their eventual professional careers. Most importantly, they enjoy these opportunities precisely at that crucial stage of their lives when they grow up to be adults and take charge of their own lives. Coming from a very different background, I consider all this very important: it is not to be taken for granted. How, then, does it affect my teaching?
For one thing, I do not hesitate to talk to my students about my own experiences and background, thus trying to arouse in them a better understanding of the unique opportunity they enjoy at a place like Brown. After all, it is not self-evident that they can choose to take a year-long course on Roman history or to concentrate in Classics -- even though in all probability they will later go to Medical or Law School or enter the business world. In addition, I try to sharpen their sense of responsibility, both concerning their work and education (such great opportunities ought not to be wasted, quite irrespective of the expenses involved) and concerning human relationships and obligations, in small things and large: being in time for class and not interrupting fellow-students and teachers by stumbling into the class room five minutes late; using the library responsibly; keeping in mind that their professors are human beings too, working hard to give their best and thus being entitled to receive their students' best efforts and to be treated with respect and fairness, and so on.
Furthermore, I try to share with my students my own excitement about my work and professional life, and to raise their awareness of the importance of their pursuits. Ancient history, in fact, is not only interesting, it is exciting and fun. More than that: it is thought-provoking and teaches us a lot about ourselves and our own society, the patterns of social and political behavior prevailing in our own time, the achievements and shortcomings of our own system. Let me explain. Put simply, I believe, the study of history serves two main purposes. On the one hand, it satisfies our curiosity about the past, about our origins, about the beginnings and development of our civilization. This I call the "museum aspect" because it is comparable to the service rendered to society by a museum. On the other hand, history offers a vast treasure of human experience in success and failure and is thus comparable to a "laboratory": it allows us to study the efforts of human societies coping with challenges and crises, to analyze the solutions introduced by them, to learn lessons, to observe possibilities, to pick up ideas and suggestions. By stimulating our thinking in many directions, history thus helps us to become more aware of our own situation and problems -- and increased awareness is the first step toward getting involved and finding solutions.
For this purpose, I may add, ancient history is particularly helpful. It deals with societies that are part of our own cultural tradition and thus close enough to still be understandable to us; they are small and "uncomplex" enough to allow us to grasp the essentials; but they are distant and different enough to exclude simple identification and thus to facilitate critical analysis. To formulate it paradoxically, the Greek and Roman societies in their "classical" periods -- the only periods that produced the quality and quantity of sources needed for any thorough attempt at political analysis and comparison -- represent the closest and most familiar "alien civilizations" that are available to our scrutiny. As such they are still accessible through our own patterns of thought and analysis, but they force us to step out of the familiar social, political and cultural framework of our own world and to gain distance from everything by which we are conditioned. Thus they enable us, by studying others, to learn much about ourselves. This in turn is possible only because antiquity has left to us the right kind of sources -- texts, that is, whose authors themselves focus on important political issues.
In other words, ancient history is particularly suitable to serve as magistra vitae even to us: not so much because, as Thucydides believed, human nature is essentially the same and similar patterns of human behavior and conflict are thus likely to recur, but because sometimes the patterns are eerily familiar: the Roman orator, statesman and philosopher, Cicero, spent his whole life worrying and writing about the crisis of a republic that was being destroyed by its own greatness and success, and Livy composed his definitive history of the Roman republic with the conditions and concerns of his own time in mind, "when we can neither endure our vices nor face the remedies needed to cure them" (praef. 9). In other cases, the issues at stake are crucial to any time and society: the Athenians of the fifth and fourth centuries B.C. were so obsessed with the unprecedented political experiences and discoveries of their own time (which included concepts such as liberty, equality or progress, the realization of democracy and empire, and the possibility of designing, in theory and practice, an ideal state) that their entire literature is permeated by discussions of those very questions that every society can recognize as its own.
For all these reasons, invariably, those who study Greek and Roman history are fascinated by the timeless importance and remarkable topical significance of what they read and see. This is a unique constellation which we can use to our advantage in teaching as well. This finally brings me to my thoughts about teaching and the experiences I want to share with you.
Most courses offer opportunities to exploit both the "museum" and the "laboratory aspect" of history. I like to take my students along on a "discovery trip". By relying almost exclusively on the ancient sources, fragmentary and scattered though they are, we follow the emergence and development of an important political concept (such as liberty) or pattern of thought (such as political theory). In being involved in this kind of pursuit, we do something comparable to reinventing the wheel in our own workshop. We realize that for the largest part of human history liberty was known at best as a social concept (opposing the free man to the slave) but not as a political idea, and we understand why this was the case. We perceive as well that in most types of human societies independent political thought was not prized highly; rather, the prime social virtues were obedience and subordination, and we figure out why. We follow step by step how and why at specific junctures of history, in very special circumstances, liberty was discovered as a political value, or people began to think politically. We analyze how the emergence of such values and patterns of thought was related to important changes in social and political structures and how, once they existed, they in turn affected such structures and brought about further change. Thus we are able to trace together some important phases of cultural development and recreate crucial human accomplishments that deeply influenced the evolution of western civilization through our own times. All this is truly exciting, and it inevitably produces a strongly increased awareness of the historical roots and preconditions of our own social and political values, it warns us not to take them for granted, it enhances our sense of responsibility for fostering and developing further what we consider really important in our system.
By studying the origins of developments (be they social, political, or intellectual) that ultimately became important elements of our own civilization, and by following these developments through their individual stages, we use history as a "museum"; by placing these developmental stages in their proper social and political contexts and by analyzing how individual societies reacted to the changes and challenges with which they were confronted, and why they did so, we use history as a "laboratory" or "workshop".
To focus for a moment on this latter aspect, my students never fail to notice the modernness of Roman politics and the Romanness of modern (especially, but not exclusively, American) politics. I alert them to this possibility at the beginning of my course but hardly allude to it explicitly later on. I touched upon this before when talking about Cicero and Livy; indeed, the "crisis without alternative" (the phrase is Christian Meier's) experienced by the Romans of the first century BCE can tell us much about the ways a successful society is stifled by its own success and unable to break out of familiar patterns of thought and behavior although these no longer correspond to the needs of the society; furthermore it demonstrates the almost inevitable breakdown of a political system that, despite its successes in the past, is no longer able to resolve the urgent problems of the present. But there is much more. I mention only two -- rather superficial -- examples: There are the problems caused by the ways power is conceived of and handled -- particularly when public officials take it as a right and property, a source of privileges and benefits, rather than as a responsibility and duty. The Romans at least called their "public servants" magistri (from magis, i.e., those who are more than the rest); our own time prefers to call them ministers (from minus) but that does not change a thing. There is also the tension created by the influence exercised on politics and politicians by a large class of wealthy business people and their corporations, and the discrepancy between their power and their avoidance of political responsibility. Whether such analogies are fully applicable or not is less important than that they stimulate thought and awareness and that, in this sense too, history becomes a magistra vitae.
Although what I have said before about the advantages and opportunities offered by the relative closeness and accessibility of Greek and Roman societies seems to me real and important, I do not overlook the fact that in essential ways they are also very remote and strange, and that names, terms, places and institutions are alien and confusing to modern day students. In some respects, of course, we have to be merciless: there is no excuse (despite many bad examples offered by politicians on every level) for not knowing where important places are located on the map (no history without geography!) and for consistently misspelling the names of Greek historians and Roman senators. But in other respects we should be as helpful as possible.
This is why I have developed my own type of syllabus. As is usual on every syllabus, it lists the topics and readings for each meeting. But it contains some additional elements: (a) a "focus", that is, one to (at most) three passages from ancient sources that are particularly important for the topic under scrutiny and will certainly be discussed in class; they should thus be studied with special care. (b) I like to provide some titles (books and articles) that might serve as further readings on the subject matter of that particular class, or as starting points for research on term papers. (c) The materials the students have to read in my courses usually are rather diverse. In a Roman history course, these might comprise a chapter in a textbook, various documents (passages from ancient authors, inscriptions, papyri) from a collection of sources in translation, and extended passages from some of the most important ancient authors (Livy, Polybius, Sallust, Cicero, Tacitus, Suetonius, etc.). The amount of reading is fairly large, the nature of the sources differs from case to case; often they are scattered, small, fragmentary. There is always the danger that the students get lost and confused and do not succeed in placing some of these readings in their proper context. Thus I provide for each class a number of questions that are supposed to help the students organize their thoughts and focus them on certain important issues. Ideally, these questions will offer another common focus in class, either by being picked up in my lecture, or by being analyzed in open discussion. The student who does the readings and tries to find answers to the questions will be well prepared for class and lay a solid groundwork for the exams. As an example, I copy here one page from the syllabus of my course on the history of the Roman republic.(2)
9. M 2/11: The Impact of the Gracchi, the Rise of Marius, and the Proletarian Army
Sources: Heichelheim/Yeo/Ward, A History of the Roman People (2nd ed. 1984) ch. 15, parts 1-12 (pp.167-77) or
Focus: Lewis/Reinhold, no. 168; Sallust, Jug. War 39-42, 84-85; Plut. Mar. 7 and 9.
Recommended for further reading:
Questions:
On the whole, this syllabus has proved successful and served its purpose well. My main difficulty has always been how to really integrate in a class period lecture, readings, and discussion of the questions. On the surface, this looks easy: you lecture, insert plenty of references to the readings, and interrupt the lecture for brief discussions when you arrive at the points marked by the questions in the syllabus. In reality, I find this very challenging. For one thing, a lot of ground needs to be covered in each class, and I always run short of time. Second, my lectures focus not on the events but on problems. I try to take full advantage of another feature of the American college system that differs positively from its European counterpart: namely that students buy books, are given assignments and prepare themselves for each class. Thus while my colleagues in Europe spend most of their lecture time telling their students what happened, I presume that my students have done their homework and know already not only what happened but also what our main sources are for reconstructing the events. I can thus focus on interpreting the events and sources, drawing connections, making comparisons, providing details and explanations on some crucial points, and so on. My lectures therefore inevitably diverge significantly from the narrative sequence provided, for example, by the textbook. Moreover, in order to give my students a solid impression of the nature of our main sources, I ask them to read large chunks of important authors in translation. These selections do not correspond neatly with the topics discussed in class, which adds to the confusion. Obviously, difficulties are there to be worked out. I think they are not unsurmountable but they require a lot of discipline and careful preparation on the part of the teacher.
Finally, I would like to point out a few other possibilities to make teaching and learning exciting for all involved.
(a) In language and reading courses we will always be confronted with pretty significant differences in language competence. This is particularly true for courses that are open to advanced undergraduates and beginning graduate students. However we decide to pace the course, we will inevitably overwork the slow ones and lose them or risk that the good ones will be underworked and bored. In a recent advanced reading course on Sallust I tried to serve both constituencies by offering two options. The entire class read the Catilinarian Conspiracy, parts of the Jugurthine War and the Second Letter to Caesar (a program that was demanding but manageable for the good undergraduates); the graduate students read in addition all the rest of Sallust's works and met for an additional hour per week to discuss questions they might have on these additional readings. The program of this course looked as follows:
LATIN 106: SALLUST
Readings: Sallust, Catilinarian Conspiracy; selections from The Jugurthine War, Second Letter to Caesar. In translation: Cicero, First Catilinarian; Appian's, Plutarch's and Dio Cassius' reports on the conspiracy.
Section: Graduate students and concentrators who want to read, in addition, the rest of the Jugurthine War, major fragments from the Histories, and the First Letter to Caesar will meet for an additional hour to discuss problems encountered in the additional assignments and to translate selected passages.
SYLLABUS
-- Class Section
1. W 1/23 Introduction: Sallust
2. F 1/25 Cat. 15-16.3; Appian (HO [Handout]) Jug. 1-5.3
3. M 1/28 Cat. 16.4-17; Dio (HO)
4. W 1/30 Cat. 18-19; Plut. Cic. (HO)
5. F 2/1 Cat. 20; Plut. Caes., Crass. (HO) Jug. 5.4-13
6. M 2/4 Cat. 21-22
7. W 2/6 Cat. 23-25
8. F 2/8 Cat. 26-30 Jug. 14-19
9. M 2/11 Cat. 31-32
10. W 2/13 Cat. 33-37.6; Cic. Cat. 1 (HO)
11. F 2/15 Cat. 37.7-42 Jug. 20-30
M 2/18 no class
12. W 2/20 Cat. 43-47
13. F 2/22 Cat. 48-51.8 Jug. 31-39
14. M 2/25 Cat. 51.9-51.43
15. W 2/27 Cat. 52
16. F 3/1 Cat. 53-56 Jug. 40-50.2
17. M 3/4 Cat. 57-60
18. W 3/6 Cat. 1-5
19. F 3/8 Cat. 6-10 Jug. 50.3-62
20. M 3/11 Cat. 11-14
21. W 3/13 Midterm Exam
22. F 3/15 Review of Cat. Jug. 63-78
23. M 3/18 UG: Jug. 1-4
24. W 3/20 UG: Jug. 5-9 Jug. 79-84
F 3/22 no class
MWF 3/25-29: spring break
25. M 4/1 Jug. 85 Hist. Or. Lepidi,
26. W 4/3 Jug. 86-91 Or. Philippi
27. F 4/5 Jug. 92-95 Or. C. Cottae
28. M 4/8 Jug. 96-100 Hist. Ep. Pompei
29. W 4/10 Jug. 101-103 Or. Macri
30. F 4/12 Jug. 104-108 Ep. Mithrid.
31. M 4/15 Jug. 109-114
32. W 4/17 Ep. II. 1-4
33. F 4/19 Ep. II. 5-7 Ep. I
34. M 4/22 Ep. II. 8-10 Seminar: scholarship
35. W 4/24 Ep. II. 11-13 on Sallust
This was a successful experiment: demanding on everyone (not the least on the teacher) but rewarding; everybody made significant progress in reading competence, and the experience of having succeeded in reading the entire corpus of an important ancient author was especially gratifying to the graduate students.
(b) I have made several experiments in shared teaching, and they all have been very rewarding and successful. For example, under Brown's Modes of Analysis Courses program, two or more teachers work together to illuminate several possible approaches to and interpretations of the same materials. I first taught my course on "The Beginnings of Political Thought in Ancient Greece" as a freshmen/sophomore seminar. Most of the students in that course were interested in philosophy, political science, or history; they had never taken a classics course and (with a few exceptions who got "hooked" and became classics majors) were not likely to take another one. I found it sad that these students should only be confronted with some of the great masterpieces of world literature in their function (inevitable in this course) as quarries for our exploration of early political thought. Thus when I planned to give the course again I asked an advanced classics graduate student to co-teach it with me. In my application for funding I gave the following explanation for this change:
First, the course primarily deals with literary sources, among them epic, lyric, tragic and comic poetry for which I am not a specialist. It seems highly desirable to teach the course in collaboration with a specialist in Greek literature who will provide guidance in the literary interpretation of the texts and help the students understand the "multidimensional quality" of Greek poetry, while I will focus on the political and historical interpretation. Second, the combination of these two approaches will give all students more options for papers and participation in discussion; those more interested in literature will feel equally at ease as those mostly fascinated by politics and history. Third, as it happens, the combination of a man and woman as teachers will help further integrate the students in the course and create a happy teaching and learning atmosphere.
Overall this proved true: it was a successful experiment; the format will be kept in future repetitions of the course.
Another time I co-taught a graduate seminar on Augustus together with two colleagues: a Latinist and a specialist in Roman art history. Twenty students participated: classicists, archaeologists, art historians, historians. It was a double-intensity and double-credit course, meeting twice a week for three hours. Each student was expected to give two presentations and write two papers, one in his/her own field, one in a different field. The three teachers were present in all meetings. We focused on four thematic areas: the historians and Augustus; the poets and Augustus; religion and the monuments; selected political issues. At the end of each segment we organized a colloquium with lectures by four or five scholars on questions related to the segment's topic, thus integrating teaching and scholarship even more closely than is usually the case.(3) Overall the seminar was truly interdisciplinary, illustrating and combining three important approaches to the study of history. The experiment was intense (everybody worked very hard) but exhilarating: a highlight in the academic experience of students and teachers alike.
(c) We should not forget that there are other forums for teaching as well, and many of these are extremely interesting and rewarding because the students involved are adults or professionals, highly motivated and experienced in "real life", which adds a whole new dimension to the dynamics and interactions in the course. I am thinking particularly of resumed education courses and summer courses for high school or college teachers. I have participated in several such ventures over the past summers and consider these some of my favorite teaching experiences.
To conclude: teaching ancient history (or, for that matter, classics in general) is exciting and fun indeed; it offers to the devoted and creative teacher wonderful opportunities. Students seeing me sitting behind piles of books and papers in my office often comment that I seem to be working very hard. I do. Everybody does in a profession that combines two (almost) full-time jobs (teaching and research) and spices it with a demanding and time-consuming third (administration). But there is a decisive other side: I do not know of any other profession that would allow me to say honestly that I truly love 90 percent of the work I do. I hope that all of you will be able to say this of your careers as well.
1. This was an informal presentation for graduate students of Brown's Classics Department in the spring of 1991. I have retained the format and purpose for the published version which thus remains a very personal statement: this is why I do what I do and what I find important about teaching in an American college/university environment.
2. The entire syllabus and that of my course on "The Discovery of Freedom in Ancient Greece" are reproduced in Stanley M. Burstein/Sarah B. Pomeroy (eds.), Ancient History: Selected Reading Lists and Course Outlines from American Colleges and Universities (2nd ed., New York 1986) 92-113, 174-197.
3. Now published: Kurt A. Raaflaub/Mark Toher (eds.), Between Republic and Empire: Interpretations of Augustus and His Principate (Berkeley/Los Angeles 1990).