I was a fairly bright small boy, and sometimes, I felt the overwhelming urge to share with the others the things I knew that I suspected (or hoped) they did not. I was quite rightly called a “smart aleck” and a “know-it-all,” but as a socially awkward child more fond of books than people, even these mild insults were not enough to persuade me to desist.
I was about thirteen when my mother’s cousin Wolfgang came for a visit. Born in Germany, Wolfgang became a very successful industrialist in Mexico after the war. His visits to the family ranch were always happy ones, as he brought gifts, panache, chocolate, and wisdom.
“I read at least three papers every morning, Hugo,” my distinguished cousin told me one summer day. “And then, I go into the office, and I pretend I haven’t. I ask all sorts of people – everyone from my company’s vice-president to the cleaning staff – what’s going on in the world. “
I looked stunned. This was not my way of operating, and Wolfgang had noticed. He explained why:
“People love to tell you their opinion, and if they think you'll listen respectfully to it, they will entrust you with anything and everything. I'm not telling you to lie. I’m telling you to commit yourself to finding other people interesting. So many people find other humans to be dull or annoying. If you can find something interesting in even the simplest and least educated person -- and if you can show them that you find them interesting -- you won't just be successful. You'll be doing a great kindness."
It was my first glimpse of a basic truth: it is both helpful and kind, at least most of the time, to pretend not to know things you do.
I thought of Wolfgang this morning when I checked my Facebook memories, and was reminded that a year ago, I was in Davis, California, for the wedding of a beloved former mentee. Lauren and her fiancé had asked me to read Shakespeare’s sonnet 116 during the service. (You know the one: “Let me not to the marriage of true minds…” etc.)
When I told Heloise that I was going to read Shakespeare at a wedding, my daughter asked if I had the sonnet memorized. She knows I like to memorize things. Sometimes, over the years, I have bribed her to commit poems to memory. I told her I knew sonnet 116 by heart, but I would be reading it during the wedding.
“Why not just recite it?” my first-born asked.
“Because if I go up to recite it, and the bride and groom realize I don’t have notes, they might worry I will flub a line. It will make them unnecessarily anxious. It will also be more about my showing off than saying aloud these glorious words. So even though I know it, I will read it as if I don’t, so as to make everyone more comfortable.”
I was taught to memorize poetry because poetry could be useful in a crisis. When anxious and overwhelmed, you can calm yourself down with poetry. That has worked for me countless times. I was told that if I wasn’t too pretentious about it, I could perhaps impress a girl I liked with memorized verse. That also worked, though only once or twice. I have been told that if you are confronted by an aggressive bear, loudly reciting a rhyming poem will soothe the savage beast. (I have not had occasion to try this.) Bottom line, memorizing is great.
The thing is, a gentleman tries very hard not to boast or brag. Poetry is wonderful and useful and important, but to recite it aloud draws attention to one’s own education and skill, not to the poet. Reading it, even if you know it, reassures, it universalizes, and it at least partially vaccinates you against the very serious charge of being a pretentious show-off and snob.
As my former students will attest, I always lectured without notes. I regret that – I was a very good storyteller, but I came across as an arrogant performer. That was a mistake. If I ever taught again, I would not repeat that error.
To sum up: A gentleman always asks what was in the newspaper he’s already read. A gentleman reads poems aloud from the page, even if he can recite them from memory. A gentleman always pretends not to know things he does in fact know.
It is ever so much better that way than the other way around.
I really like your cousin's way of thinking. I'm curious though if any of your students ever told you that you came across as arrogant for lecturing without notes. Many of my favorite professors lectured without notes as well. For me their dynamic storytelling made the subject matter much more interesting.
loved this one.