Thucydides was not a romantic

Every Columbia College student reads Thucydides’ “History of the Peloponnesian War.” But does everyone agree with the philosophy it represents?

“History of the Peloponnesian War” is a laborious work. It lacks the flippant style, whimsical anecdotes, and evocative character developments of Herodotus’ “Histories.” Yet, as we learn in Literature Humanities, that is part of what makes Thucydides a genius and gives him a rightful place in our Core. His work is a seminal text of historiography, one that forgoes unnecessary jocularity and colorful narratives in favor of a more objective and straightforward historical account.

But, alas, ours is a Herodotean world. Our contemporary global discourse is one of rash sensationalism and gaudy attention-grabbing. Moderate, levelheaded writing is insipid, stilted, demoded. Without provocation, one can hardly find a Way. A modern-day Thucydides would hardly make a living.

Perhaps those of us sheltered between Broadway and Amsterdam can take advantage of our insularity and construct a community of splendid isolation, a Thucydidean haven. We have a whole lifetime to take on civilization and all its discontents. For now, then, perhaps we can put our worldly pretenses on temporary hold, as we build for ourselves a happy oasis, one free from the dizzying polarization of discourse that surrounds us.

Let us, then, follow true Columbian tradition. Let us be radicals. And let us do this by having a conversation that isn’t radicalized.

What would it mean to have a respectful, rational, constructive dialogue on this campus? Such a discourse would call for the subservience of one’s individual interests for the greater good. It would mean an unabashedly open forum, in which each community member could participate with perfect candor and forthrightness—but not for his or her own personal benefit. Rather, the impetus to contribute to a discussion would arise from the conviction that differing opinions “share the truth,” as John Stuart Mill would say, and that the collision of contrasting opinions catalyzes the creation of a better, greater opinion. An open conversation would thus call for each member of the community to surrender any personal attachment to his or her own ideas for the sake of general progress. And such a conversation could only take place in a space free from extreme polarization, in a forum free from fear of the domination of one opinion because of the forcefulness with which it is presented. Too often do we sensationalize—and I say this because I, with my obvious predilection for bombast and fustian, am perhaps the guiltiest party.

Tragically, we find in academia, in the substance of our study at Columbia, a crying absence of such a paradigm of positive, constructive discourse. We are trained—or perhaps we train ourselves, in our mimicry of those whom we revere as historical paragons of intellectualism—to sensationalize, to seek to impose on others the most alluring arguments through the force of our persuasion. This, to a large extent, is understandable. We live in a culture that values individualism, personal identity, and self-promotion. In a world full of intelligent people, and in a college community where everyone is smart, we find the urge to differentiate ourselves, to stand out like we did in high school. Often, this is impossible to do without a little bit of hyperbole, without expressing our opinions forcefully or developing opinions that are deliberately provocative.

But we must resist this urge, this natural tendency to favor splashiness. To have a truly fruitful dialogue, perhaps we must temper the expression of our thoughts to put them in more agreeable, less radical terms. This does not suggest equivocating or prevaricating—it is possible to be candid and forthright without being temerarious. In fact, an earnest, sincere conversation can only take place in an environment free from vitriol and outlandishness, and we must create that environment on our campus, even if it is wanting in the rest of the world.

Thucydides writes, “And it may well be that my history will seem less easy to read because of the absence in it of a romantic element… My work is not a piece of writing designed to meet the taste of an immediate public, but was done to last for ever.”

Our arguments at Columbia certainly have a “romantic element.” Do they occur, then, merely to meet the taste of an immediate public, or are they conversations directed toward a better community, with an influence that will last forever?

Amin Ghadimi is a Columbia College junior majoring in East Asian Languages and Cultures. He is a former Spectator editorial page editor, a former senior editor of Columbia East Asia Review and served as secretary of the the Bahá'í Club of Columbia University. He is studying abroad at the Kyoto Consortium for Japanese Studies. The Way That Can Be Told runs alternate Tuesdays.