Give Your Teen a Head Start: Join The Liberal Studies Program – Fall Online Classes Start Soon

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About the Liberal Studies Program

Fr. Joseph Fessio, SJ

Fr. Joseph Fessio, SJ

Ignatius Press and Angelicum Great Books Program have joined with cooperating colleges in the US, Australia, and Europe, to launch the Ignatius-Angelicum Liberal Studies Program (LSP), an online course of studies combining the best of home and distance learning with live, online classes.

Under the leadership of Ignatius Press founder and editor Father Joseph Fessio as Chancellor, the Liberal Studies Program provides unrivaled educational opportunities for homeschoolers, students enrolled in traditional high schools, and other students aged fourteen (9th grade) and up, to earn college credit while acquiring the foundations for a Catholic liberal education and lifelong learning.

LSP offers something unique among the many ways high school students can earn college credit — an online program specifically for Catholic students who want to embark on acquiring a liberal education using the Great Books approach pioneered by the great philosopher, educator, and Catholic convert Dr. Mortimer J. Adler.

Fidelity to the teaching of the Catholic Church is fundamental to the LSP program. Pope John Paul II’s Apostolic Constitution on Catholic higher education, Ex Corde Ecclesiae, guides the LSP’s Catholic mission.

LSP is accepted for college credit at Benedictine College (Atchinson, Kansas, USA); Campion College (Australia); St. Bede’s Hall (Oxford, UK); Catholic Distance University, (online); and other colleges and universities. The growing list of collaborating colleges — the Universities of Western Civilization.

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Why the Angelicum Academy Curriculum?

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Education has ends and means to those ends. For Catholics the end is ultimately supernatural – heaven. Short of that the ends are those means that lead to the ultimate end, including proper training and education of the mind and will, and to a lesser degree, the body. PE, sports and some health education and biology address the body, with the more delicate aspects left to the parents, who may now reference Pope John Paul II’s theology of the body. Regarding the mind and will, Aristotle has this to say: “If there is some end of the things we do…will not knowledge of it have a great influence on life? Shall we not, like archers who have a mark to aim at, be more likely to hit upon what we should? If so, we must try, in outline at least, to determine what it is.” Notice that Aristotle mentions here both knowing and doing – that is, training the intellect and the will. Elsewhere Aristotle, when asked what the difference was between the educated and the uneducated, replied it is like “the difference between the living and the dead.”

Catholic education seeks to transmit the truths of the faith (supernatural truths) and the truths of nature. Why nature – because grace builds on nature. If nature is deformed or absent then grace either cannot effect improvement or with limited effect (except in the case of the miraculous). Supernatural truths are primarily taught in religion or theology classes and are, as the Pope recently mentioned – essential to Catholic education. The Catechism of the Catholic Church and the Compendium (abbreviated version) form the basis for this education. But how are natural truths to be taught in Catholic schools? The will is moved most by example. So parents and teachers – by their lives – are the primary schools of virtue. Added to living examples are dead examples – the lives of the saints, and their autobiographies (such as the Story of a Soul by the Little Flower), and good biographies of saints and virtuous men and women including pagans such as Socrates. Finally, by the study of bad examples and the resulting evils, such as Anna Karinina by Tolstoy and the Brothers Karamazov by Doestoyevsky. In other words, good literature – of all these types – is critical to a good education, Catholic or otherwise. Ethics needs to be restored as a philosophy course – to order and help students understand and generalize (universalize) these good examples – at least in secondary education.

It has been removed from almost all Catholic and public schools. The results are a lamentable decline in morality and ethical standards. The mind must be formed to be able to appreciate great literature. For this we need to learn to read, write, listen and speak. Thus phonics, grammar, composition, storytelling, discussions, speaking and rhetoric are necessary very early on. Math on through the calculus reveals to the mind in an indubitable way the order of the universe, its comprehensibility, and the precision of truth and its reliability. These tools are necessary to read the works of the absent and the dead, and to understand those present to us in conversation and lecture. Foreign languages, especially ancient Greek and Latin, form the mind to think in patterns like the glorious Greek and Roman sages who founded classical civilization. It is not a mere matter of learning those languages so we can understand English better – no, those languages form our minds to think like those great peoples of the past so that we can fully grasp who we are and how we got to be so, because our culture and civilization is largely founded upon theirs.

Likewise, our Catholic culture began in Greek and Latin as well (Hebrew is far less important, as the only book it is particularly useful for is the Massoretic text of the Old Testament – so it would be important for biblical scholars, but a very distant third even for them). Philosophy is a necessary component of all courses in varying ways, and in itself in courses beginning in 3rd grade and up (Philosophy for Children series) to form the mind to understand the data of sense and early education in properly ordered and organized ways. Why read if one cannot understand, but only sense. That is like watching the movie “The Passion of the Christ” and only being repelled by the bloodshed and cruelty, and not understanding the meaning of it all – as some did indeed complain. Our civilization and culture are transmitted to each generation by our art and our music, but primarily by our literature. One who has not read our great classics from Aesop and Mother Goose to Shakespeare, from Homer to Virgil to Dante to Milton; from Euclid to Einstein, etc. cannot be considered a well-educated person and is unprepared to participate in the great conversation, the on-going dialogue of our culture spanning three millenia. Such a one is like the person that drops in on a conversation nearly over and catches only the occasional word or phrase, gathering glimmers of light but no real enlightenment and making no contribution to the conversation.

From the above, one can easily understand how the liberal arts are oriented to prepare minds for reading and discussing the great masterpieces of our culture (in secondary and tertiary education); math and philosophy for ordering and understanding them. Our teachers may very occasionally be “great” men or women but more likely they will be less than that. But they can be great teachers if they lead us to great authors (and artists), both secular and religious, who in turn open up the natural and supernatural reality to us, unwarped by other personal agendas. Thus literature – particularly the great children’s classics in elementary school and the great books in secondary education, form the backbone of a classical liberal education. This means more than 2 or 3 or 5 books a year. It requires 10-20 good books per year at a minimum, and 30 or so great books per year in high school. Otherwise the result will be more of the only functionally literate, at best, ready perhaps for some particular, narrowly-skilled job but not ready for life.

Thinking will be reduced to processing data, like a computer, not understanding like a man. SAT scores may go up, but wisdom will go down (or, more accurately, never develop). But besides reading, there is discussion – conversation about what is read. This is equally important. Without it one misses much of the meaning revealed in discussions with others. Errors in reading pass by unnoticed and are unconsciously absorbed; the mind is left unsure and unsteady – like the poorly educated Catholics who embrace even Jehovah’s Witness or New Age myths because they never really understood their own faith – they merely parroted back answers not discussed and thus neither grappled with nor understood the deeper realities involved. So Catholic education to achieve its end must utilize the means to do so – the liberal arts and the backbone of a liberal education: the classics of literature (beginning with childrens’ and ending in the greatest). Besides reading them, they must frequently be discussed in a conversational setting – in the same manner we learn most of our day.

Questions must not only be allowed, but actively encouraged to blossom into discussions and debate, so that the mind grapples with truths, refines them and exposes and defangs errors. Mere lectures cannot begin, or rather, can only begin to do this – in any course. Without a serious reading plan of excellent literature, and equally serious encouragement of Socratic discussion, all is in vain. As Mortimer Adler noted so well 60 years ago, Catholic education has a huge advantage in possessing supernatural truths, which it squanders when it neglects the nature of man and treats students as if they were merely memories rather than reasoning beings. Again, grace builds on nature. The Holy Father Pope Bendict XVI has emphasized the importance of Logos – reason and mind – not just memory. Our culture is awash in data, facts, trivia – and almost completely deficient in understanding and wisdom. Education must restore these or utterly fail in its purpose, be it Catholic or otherwise. The model of Catholic education from the post-WWII era largely failed in its purpose. The evidence is all around us. The babyboomer generation is largely lost to the Church or so poorly educated that it cannot understand the faith well and so rejects this or that dogma and accepts this or that error willy-nilly. Understanding and wisdom were neglected in favor or memory. We forgot the doctrine of St. Thomas on understanding and wisdom – on the human person. This error was rooted in our loss of an understanding of what philosophy is. We forgot philosophy is a way, a stance towards reality, initiated by wonder, not merely a body of data or series of principles to memorize. Great literature and frequent Socratic discussion are the natural remedies for this, as is a correct understanding of wonder and philosophy. Our curriculum is completely integrated, K through 12, utilizing these means. One need not utilize our curriculum to reach the end, but “Shall we not, like archers who have a mark to aim at, be more likely to hit upon what we should?”

Patrick S.J. Carmack

Pres. The Angelicum Academy

6th Grade Socratic Class is Now FULL (We have added another class time for new students)

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Class Dates and Times 6th Grade Socratic Class 
1:00 PM Pacific Standard Time  This class is now full and closed to new students.
2:00 PM Pacific Standard Time 

First class is on Sept. 20

This is a new class now open for new students.

 

Click here for more information on our Socratic online classes.

Notes on the Angelicum Good Books List by Dr. Taylor

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Dr. James Taylor

Dr. James Taylor

It is assumed that in the age of the “Nursery” (ages 2-7) the child is being read to and the selections (Good Books List) remind us that children can listen to, and enjoy, many books they cannot yet read for themselves.

In my nursery age I was raised on the rhythms and rhymes of Mother Goose, Robert Louis Stevenson, and numerous poems and songs found in anthologies. Later, I heard the stories of the Brothers Grimm and Hans Christian Anderson. The Steadfast Tin Soldier I still know by heart. Also, The Fox and His Travels, though I do not remember the author. Perhaps it was by the famous, Anonymous.

Years later I took my first formal course in Children’s Literature from Dr. Dennis Quinn at the University of Kansas and also had many conversations concerning these poems and stories with his colleague, Dr. John Senior. I have taught Children’s Literature at the high school and college levels for nearly two decades. What I have to say about the selections in this book draws from my childhood memories and adult reflections and my conversations with Quinn and Senior.

None of the age and literature categories used in the Angelicum Academy Good Books grade list are absolute. Think of the selections (grade levels) as notes of music with the freedom to work up and down the scale as you see fit. This is especially true of the Nursery and Preschool selections since the latter category is relatively new and could just as well signify Nursery. Even within the category of Nursery there are titles that one would want to withhold until a particular child is about to enter first grade. Seven years old was the traditional age the child went to school. Custom has changed for beginning school but the child’s intellectual stages of development have remained the same. Therefore, never rush the child into the book; it well may be that he or she will want to hear or begin to read one book over and over again. If so, remember that each time the child experiences the story or the poem, read to and or reading on his own, he is learning a great deal about how language works and becoming a good reader.

Now in Print! ~ Good Books Literature Guide for 3rd Grade

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Dr. James Taylor

Dr. James Taylor

Our 3rd grade Good Books Guide comes with a full-color front cover, Answer Key for each guide, True/False questions, and Essay questions to encourage young writers, and a synopsis of each book, written by Dr. James S. Taylor, author of the widely acclaimed Poetic Knowledge: The Recovery of Education 

Grades 4 and 5 will be in print this coming week.  We will announce their arrival as soon as we have them in stock. 

We will be giving these new guides away FREE to our enrolled 3rd graders during the month of August.  If you have a 3rd grader enrolled with the Angelicum Academy, we will send you free, the 3rd Grade Good Books Study Guide.  To receive your free guide for enrolled students only (if you enroll a 3rd grader in the month of August, we will send you the guide as well), please email us at: angelicummailbox@aol.com

This Good Books Study Guide is currently for sale in our bookstore HERE.

 

 

 

Encyclopædia Britannica Online User Name Change for Students

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Dear Parents and Students:  We had to change our user name and password to our online resources for students.  Please email us for this information.  We will respond quickly to your emails.  Thank you!  Mary Lee for the Angelicum  Academy angelicummailbox@aol.com

 

“The Wing-And-Wing” Book Report by Angelicum 7th Grade Student

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“The Wing-And-Wing” is a novel by James Fenimore Cooper. It is a sea fiction story.

The story is set in the very late 1700’s in Portoferrario, Elba, near Tuscany. It begins with a mysterious lugger approaching the shore, causing concern among the city’s residents because of French invasions. Among the people who gather to watch the lugger sail nearer to land are Tommaso Tonti, an experienced mariner; Vito Viti, the magistrate of the city; and Ghita, an eighteen-year-old girl who was left in Portoferrario by her uncle, she also seems to express much concern over the lugger.

Once the lugger arrives on shore, the captain emerges, and Vito Viti takes him to Andrea Barrofaldi, the governor of Elba. The captain apparently pretends to be in service to England, and gives the name of his lugger as “Wing-and-Wing”, as well as his own name as “Captain Jack Smith”. The governor nor the magistrate fully believe the captains story, however, as they acknowledge the English have never used luggers to travel on the seas, only the French and Spanish. After the captain laves, with an invitation to dinner with Barrofaldi later on, he meets with Ghita, whom he knows. The captain’s real name is then revealed to Raoul Yvard, and he has come there to see Ghita, his fiancée. But she does not like the fact that he is a deist. Fearing they’ll be seen together, they both leave, but plan to meet again.

In the meantime, the governor and magistrate’s suspicions remain about “Captain Smith” and the Wing-and-Wing, so they visit a lady named Benedetta’s tavern to discuss the issue with Tommaso. Soon their conversation is interrupted when two people, Ithuel Bolt from the Wing-and-Wing and a Genoese interpreter, enter the establishment. As the five of them converse with each other, Ithuel tells them how he, being from a state in America, was captured by the British and has since then hated anything having to do with Great Britain. When Ithuel is asked why he still serves England, when he has no difficulty in escaping, he replies that there are English all across the seas and he could easily be caught. In reality, however, he was captured by the British along with Yvard, and they both escaped in the French frigate Feu-Follet, which was being disguised as Wing-and-Wing. A short while late, an English frigate under the name of Proserpine arrives in Elba. Yvard has secret fear because of this, and convinces Vito Viti that the frigate might be French disguised as British, so he tries to drive the ship away. Later on that evening, Yvard and Ghita meet again and she asks him if he would transport her and her uncle to someplace else. He agrees to do so. In the meantime, Lieutenant Edward Griffin of the Proserpine enters Elba and convinces the authorities of Captain Smith and Wing-and-Wing’s real identities. With the governor now aware of the Feu-Follet, the Proserpine makes a full attempt to capture the Feu-Follet, but the crew’s signals are disrupted by Ithuel, who sets off rockets, thus allowing the lugger to escape. This starts a hot pursuit by the Proserpine, trying various schemes including the trickery of vessel flags, but when Yvard realizes they are the English, he kills several of them on board. The Proserpine crew even attempts to ignite a fire, hoping it would pass to Feu-Follet. So sure of this plan, they are stumped the next day after realizing that the Feu-Follet had passed Portoferrario earlier that morning.

The Feu-Follet soon lands in Naples, where Ghita’s grandfather, Admiral Francesco Caraccioli, is to be tried for treason. Despite Ghita’s pleas, Lord Nelson refuses to pardon Caraccioli, but she is able to see him one more time before he is executed. Ghita and her uncle are taken back to the Feu-Follet by both Ithuel and Yvard and they set sail again. Soon Yvard and Ithuel are approached by the Proserpine and are taken onto the ship. Vito and Barrofaldi recognize Yvard, and Ithuel is recognized as being a deserter of the Proserpine, so they are both tried soon for their crimes. Yvard is found guilty of being a French spy, and is to be executed the next day; however, after conversing with the Proserpine’s captain and officers, they begin to feel pity for him, and decide to send a messenger to Lord Nelson to revoke Yvard’s punishment. Afterwards, Barrofaldi and Vito Viti pay a visit to Yvard, and get into a heated argument. While the Proserpine’s officers are distracted by this argument, Ithuel emerges to take Yvard and they escape in the Feu-Follet’s yawl. Soon afterwards, the yawl arrives near St. Agata, where Ghita and her uncle leave the ship to visit a relative of theirs. Yvard once again asked Ghita to marry him, however even though she wants to accept she cannot because of their religious differences. After Yvard and Ithuel leave St. Agata on the yawl, they are taken back on board by the Feu-Follet’s crew. They then meet with the messenger who helped prevent Yvard from being executed. They capture him, thank him for his service, and release him afterwards.

Wanting to see Ghita again, Yvard decides to turn the Feu-Follet around and sail forward telling the rest of the crew that they will capture a British ship. Soon the4y actually come into conflict with the British, resulting in significant bloodshed. The Feu-Follet is sunk along with the remaining crew on it, and Yvard is seriously wounded. Ghita and her uncle ride out to the wreckage on a boat after the bloody battle, and are able to stay with Yvard during his last few hours of life.

I enjoyed this story because it was adventurous and suspenseful. One of my favorites scenes was when Ithuel was in the tavern criticizing the British people and their customs. I would recommend this story to anyone that enjoys sea novels or James Fenimore Cooper’s works.         

Interview of Patrick Carmack by Wendy Wise on Relevant Radio

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Click below on “Play Stream” to listen to the interview.

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One hour interview of Patrick Carmack with Wendy Wise of Relevant Radio.  The interview focuses on our exciting new Liberal Studies Program.

The Brilliant but Confused Radicalism of George Orwell

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Note from Angelicum: The article below is worth reading as it shows how the classic book 1984 was written, in part, to reflect the school system George Orwell encountered in his youth.  This same Spartan starkness and militarism of his school can increasingly be seen in our public (and private) school systems today. 

The Brilliant but Confused Radicalism of George Orwell
by Jeff Riggenbach on June 24, 2010
[This article is transcribed from the Libertarian Tradition podcast episode “Eric Arthur Blair aka George Orwell (1903–1950).”]

Eric Arthur Blair, who is best known under his pseudonym, George Orwell, was born 107 years ago this month in India, where his father was a British civil servant. His father’s job, according to Orwell biographer Gordon Bowker, “was to oversee the growing of opium, mainly for export to China.” Though young Eric’s mother had herself grown up in Burma, the daughter of yet another British civil servant, she had long since tired of Asia; and when her son was only a year old she successfully lobbied her husband to ship her and their two children — Eric and his older sister, Marjorie — back to England. Eric did not see his father again for eight years, until he was Eric years old and had come home for Christmas vacation from his “prep school,” St. Cyprian’s. Here in the States, a “prep school” is a high school; it preps — that is, it prepares — its students for college, which, on this side of the Atlantic is something that comes after high school and comprises, in effect, grades 13 through 16. In the England Eric Blair grew up in, however, a “prep school” was for children 8 to 13. What it was preparing these children for was what we would call “high school,” but what Eric grew up thinking of as “college.” College, in turn, prepared you for university.

Eric was sent to St. Cyprian’s when he was 8 years old and remained there until he was 13, whereupon he transferred for another five years to Eton College — a very famous and very expensive private high school, long favored by the British upper classes. After Eton graduated him in 1921, he never went to school again. Why? Orwell answered that question in an autobiographical essay called “Such, Such Were the Joys,” written in the early 1940s but never published until the early ’50s, a few years after his death, and then only in the United States. It was not published in England until nearly 20 years after his death.

In this essay, Orwell judged the education he had received at St. Cyprian’s to be inferior. “The whole process,” he wrote, was frankly a preparation for a sort of confidence trick. Your job was to learn exactly those things that would give an examiner the impression that you knew more than you did know, and as far as possible to avoid burdening your brain with anything else. Subjects which lacked examination value, such as geography, were almost completely neglected, mathematics was also neglected … science was not taught in any form — indeed it was so despised that even an interest in natural history was discouraged — and even the books you were encouraged to read in your spare time were chosen with one eye on the “English paper.” Latin and Greek, the main scholarship subjects, were what counted, but even these were deliberately taught in a flashy, unsound way. We never, for example, read right through even a single book of a Greek or Latin author: we merely read short passages which were picked out because they were the kind of thing likely to be set as an “unseen translation.”

At St. Cyprian’s, Orwell remembered, history was a series of unrelated, unintelligible but — in some way that was never explained to us — important facts with resounding phrases tied to them. Disraeli brought peace with honour. Clive was astonished at his moderation. Pitt called in the New World to redress the balance of the Old. And the dates, and the mnemonic devices. (Did you know, for example, that the initial letters of “A black Negress was my aunt: there’s her house behind the barn” are also the initial letters of the battles in the Wars of the Roses?)  He also remembered the history teacher calling out dates to the class and “the keener boys leaping up and down in their places in their eagerness to shout out the right answers” — the historical events that had taken place on those dates — “and at the same time not feeling the faintest interest in the meaning of the mysterious events they were naming.”  But worse than the pedagogical limitations of the place — in Orwell’s memory, at least — were the cruelties and brutalities it employed and encouraged among its students. Orwell remembered his years at St. Cyprian’s as like “being locked up … in a hostile world,” a world in which you had “to be perpetually on your guard against the people surrounding you. At eight years old you were suddenly taken out of this warm nest and flung into a world of force and fraud and secrecy, like a gold-fish into a tank full of pike.”

Orwell knew, of course, that not everyone’s home was really a “warm nest.” He considered his own home to be far from optimal, for once he had become reacquainted with his father, he had learned that, as he put it, “I … disliked my own father … who appeared to me simply as a gruff-voiced elderly man forever saying ‘Don’t.'” Still, he wrote, “your home might be far from perfect, but at least it was a place ruled by love rather than by fear.” For that reason alone, Orwell argued, “boarding schools are worse than day schools. A child has a better chance with the sanctuary of its home near at hand.”

School life was not only ruled by fear, it was best symbolized by the image of a soccer, or perhaps a rugby match. “Football,” he wrote, is not really played for the pleasure of kicking a ball about, but is a species of fighting. The lovers of football are large, boisterous, nobbly boys who are good at knocking down and trampling on slightly smaller boys. That was the pattern of school life — a continuous triumph of the strong over the weak. Virtue consisted in winning: it consisted in being bigger, stronger, handsomer, richer, more popular, more elegant, more unscrupulous than other people — in dominating them, bullying them, making them suffer pain, making them look foolish, getting the better of them in every way. Life was hierarchical and whatever happened was right. There were the strong, who deserved to win and always did win, and there were the weak, who deserved to lose and always did lose, everlastingly. One of the main ideas inculcated in students at St. Cyprians, was, as Orwell put it, “something called ‘guts’ or ‘character,’ which in reality meant the power to impose your will on others.”

The will of the headmaster of St. Cyprian’s — and the will of his wife, who ran the school with him — was imposed on the students in the form of a series of beatings — beatings administered, sometimes by the headmaster himself, sometimes by certain favored older boys who were, in effect, licensed to beat younger boys. “I … remember, more than once,” Orwell writes, “being led out of the room in the middle of a Latin sentence, receiving a beating and then going straight ahead with the same sentence, just like that.” All in all, Orwell wrote, attending St. Cyprian’s was about “as bad as [being] in an army,” but perhaps not quite as bad as being “in prison.”

“There are no laws or clear-cut rules of conduct for Winston Smith to obey; he, like a child, may transgress without meaning to. He must not only do what is right, he must be good.”
C.M. Kornbluth

After five years at St. Cyprian’s and another five years at Eton, Eric Blair decided he’d had enough of school and never went back. Instead, he followed in his father’s footsteps, signing up for the British civil service. But after spending yet another five years as a police officer in Burma, he knew a civil-service career in Asia was not for him. He had enough saved from his years as a policeman to live for about a year, so he quit his job and moved to Paris, where he had decided to try to make it as a writer.

His eccentric, bohemian Aunt Nellie, his mother’s sister, lived there — she was, in fact, living there in sin with an anarchist named Eugène Adam — and she was helpful to young Eric in many ways in the nearly two years he spent in Paris, 1928 and 1929. She fed him as often as he’d let her, and her elderly anarchist boyfriend gave young Eric much to think about under the heading of politics. Orwell biographer Gordon Bowker says that young Eric went to Paris with “an almost anarchistic hatred of authority,” and returned to England nearly two years later with “an even more anti-authoritarian outlook.” He was unwilling, however, to live off his aunt’s largesse.

Though it took him only a few months in Paris to get into print — under the name “E.A. Blair” — he was unable to earn enough from his writing to pay his bills. When he ran out of money, he lived as a bum rather than sponge off his Aunt Nellie. He continued this practice after returning to England late in 1929, and it was this period of living hand to mouth that provided him with the experience he needed to write his first book, a piece of thinly fictionalized reportage called Down & Out in Paris & London, which was published in 1933 under the name “George Orwell.”

Up to then, all of young Eric’s journalism — mostly book reviews and articles on cultural and political subjects for weekly, fortnightly, and monthly magazines — had appeared under the name “E. A. Blair.” It continued to do so for another couple of years, but starting in 1935, all those articles and reviews, as well as a steady flow of books, came out under the name George Orwell: a novel called Burmese Days; other novels called A Clergyman’s Daughter, Coming Up for Air, and Keep the Aspidistra Flying; there were also two volumes of reportage — Homage to Catalonia on the Spanish Civil War and The Road to Wigan Pier on poverty in Northern England.

None of these books sold particularly well — decently, but not particularly well — and though the periodical work became more and more frequent, it was never especially remunerative. Eric Blair — George Orwell — scraped by, but little more. He did this through the ’30s and through the war that followed, and then, suddenly, he hit it big.

The vehicles for his breakthrough were a short, satirical novel called Animal Farm, which tells of the efforts of the animals at Manor Farm to overthrow their human rulers and establish a communist utopia under the leadership of the pigs — this was published in 1945 — and a much longer, brutally naturalistic novel of a totalitarian future called Nineteen Eighty-four, published in 1949. These two books made Orwell rich, but he was dead from tuberculosis before the winter of 1949–1950 had ended, aged 46, so he had precious little time to spend any of his new riches on anything but medical bills.  A few years after Orwell’s death, as I have noted, his unflattering memoir of his years at St. Cyprian’s finally saw print in the United States. And when it did, it became the subject of an essay in the New Yorker by the British journalist Anthony West.

West noted that “most of [the terrifying things in Nineteen Eighty-four] “clearly derive from the experience described in ‘Such, Such Were the Joys.'” At St. Cyprians, West reminds his readers, “the headmaster’s wife … seemed to be spying on Orwell all the time” and “seem[ed], by some kind of magical omniscience, to know what every boy does and even what he thinks.”

In Nineteen Eighty-four, of course, every room of every dwelling is equipped with a device called a “telescreen” — a sort of two-way TV. “The telescreen received and transmitted simultaneously,” Orwell wrote.

Any sound that Winston made, above the level of a very low whisper, would be picked up by it; moreover, so long as he remained within the field of vision which the metal plaque commanded, he could be seen as well as heard. There was of course no way of knowing whether you were being watched at any given moment. How often, or on what system, the Thought Police plugged in on any individual wire was guesswork. It was even conceivable that they watched everybody all the time. But at any rate they could plug in your wire whenever they wanted to. You had to live — did live, from habit that became instinct — in the assumption that every sound you made was overheard, and, except in darkness, every movement scrutinized.

Anthony West contended that if you read Nineteen Eighty-four closely, you would see — must see — that “the whole pattern of society [in the novel] shapes up along the lines of fear laid down in ‘Such, Such Were the Joys’ until the final point of the dread summons to the headmaster’s study, for the inevitable beating. In ‘1984,’ the study becomes Room 101 in the Ministry of Love, and the torturers correspond closely to the schoolmasters.” In effect, West argued, “what [George Orwell] did in ‘1984’ was to send everybody in England to an enormous [St. Cyprian’s] to be as miserable as he had been.”

The American science-fiction writer C.M. Kornbluth agreed with West. In a lecture he delivered at the University of Chicago early in 1957, Kornbluth pointed out a few other parallels between Orwell’s experience at St. Cyprian’s and Winston Smith’s experience living in Airstrip One in Oceania in the year 1984 — parallels which West had either overlooked or felt it unnecessary to identify explicitly. Kornbluth noted, for example, that “sexual activity is forbidden to Winston Smith as it is to a boy under pain of dire punishment.” He noted also that “there are no laws or clear-cut rules of conduct for Winston Smith to obey; he, like a child, may transgress without meaning to. He must not only do what is right, he must be good.”

Orwell biographer Gordon Bowker acknowledged in 2003 that Anthony West’s way of reading Nineteen Eighty-four “has been rather dismissed by critics, but,” he wrote, “that there are associations and reverberations [connecting Nineteen Eighty-four and “Such, Such Were the Joys”] cannot be denied.” According to Bowker, Orwell “certainly developed” the “individual consciousness to pit against unreasonable authority” while at St. Cyprians.

The small boy waiting outside [the headmaster’s] study for a beating is only the youthful version of Winston Smith waiting to be summoned to Room 101. The deceitfulness of authority, the feeling that spies are everywhere, the harsh cross-examinations, the rote learning in an atmosphere of threat — these are all present in both essay and novel.

It seemed to Orwell, according to Bowker, that “whereas most English people found it impossible to understand what life under a totalitarian regime might be like, boys who went to boarding schools were better prepared.”

In one of the radio talks he wrote and presented for the BBC during World War II, Orwell said, “A human being is what he is largely because he comes from certain surroundings, and no one ever fully escapes from the things that have happened to him in early childhood.” The following year, in an essay called “Why I Write,” he elaborated on this idea a bit. Before a writer “ever begins to write,” Orwell asserted, “he will have acquired an emotional attitude from which he will never completely escape.” For “if he escapes from his early influences altogether, he will have killed his impulse to write.”

Few of us today go to boarding schools. Few went to them a hundred years ago, when young Eric Blair did. Why, then, did so many millions of readers on both sides of the Atlantic Ocean respond so strongly to a political nightmare based on its author’s unhappy experience at an English boarding school? Why did these readers make Nineteen Eighty-four not only a huge and perennial bestseller on both sides of the Atlantic, but also, probably, the most widely influential libertarian novel ever published? Because, as Orwell himself acknowledged, “everything that happened to me at St Cyprian’s could happen in the most ‘enlightened’ school, though perhaps in subtler forms.”

The totalitarian essence of the St. Cyprian’s experience — the experience of being dominated, bullied, spied on; the experience of being made to suffer pain and to look foolish by more powerful others against whom one had no defense — this could be visited upon a child at almost any sort of school one could imagine. It is, then, the compulsory school experience we have to examine, not just the St. Cyprian’s experience, or the early-20th-century British boarding school experience. Some libertarians, like John Holt, have thought about all this and decided that a society without schools — at least for those too young to choose for themselves whether to attend one — would be a better society. The “homeschoolers” who populate the movement Holt launched back in the 1970s agree.

One doesn’t have to read far into the works of George Orwell to discover that he had no understanding of economics whatsoever and was not personally a libertarian in the sense we have in mind when we use that word today. He was a permanently confused but authentically and radically antiauthoritarian democratic socialist. He was the kind of modern leftist few modern-day libertarians would have any trouble getting along with, making common cause with, collaborating with. George Orwell presents us with yet another case of a writer who was not himself a libertarian as we understand the term today, but whose last two novels, Animal Farm and Nineteen Eighty-four, have earned him a place in the libertarian tradition.

This article is transcribed from the Libertarian Tradition podcast episode “Eric Arthur Blair aka George Orwell (1903–1950).”