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<h1>Man and His Circumstances:<br>Ortega as Educator</h1> 

<h3>Robert McClintock</h3>

<blockquote>Originally published in <i>Studies in Culture and Communication</i><br>Martin S. Dworkin, General Editor.<br>New York: Teachers College Press, 1971</blockquote>
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<div class="cent"><p class="h6">General Editor's Foreword</p><h2 style="margin-top:-0.8em;"><i>PRAECEPTOR HISPANIAE</i></h2></div>

Ortega said, many times and in many ways, that the true hero is the man with the will to be himself. In himself, such a man negates all values and associations he does not choose; that he chooses so much of what he has been given is to define the authenticity of his belonging—and his inevitable alienation. That he repudiates so much else, naming the dead gods and dying rituals of his epoch, is to assert his own being. Such a man stands out, inevitably, even if not purposively, in any crowd or collectivity — the while he maintains his consciousness, his critical self-awareness, at a deliberated distance from the elemental drives, instincts, and preconscious processes of his integral selfhood.

In this view, to think for oneself becomes an act of essential courage, a fateful heroism in a titanic enterprise, the creation of reality as it may be known: ordained as preëxistent, yet always coming-to-be; inescapably contingent and dimensional, yet ever potential and perilously unformed. To think — if we would understand so bold a purpose — is to accept responsibility for oneself, despite one’s circumstances but not entirely at war with them; it is, with all critical awareness of history — but no deference to what is merely past — a commitment to beginning anew, to the invention of desirable alternatives, to the creation of “a new revelation” out of a belief in reason and its powers to define and direct the destinies of men.

—A post-Nietzschean conception, to be sure, along the way of so much of modern thought, seeking to find the essential individual in the mass of men, to assert a meaningful selfhood amid the enveloping forces of history and community. But it is as punctually and profoundly counter-Nietzschean, in its affirmation of rational self-governance and redefined moral responsibility. Even more is it counter Marx-Engels and other post-Hegelian ideologies of individual sublimation in fictions of collective rationality. In this sense, for all his profound awareness of the darker tendencies of man’s nature, primordial or infinitely civilized, Ortega stands against the fashionable denigrations of human capacity that make abstract forces into idols of new superstitions.

In despair of reason, men turn easily to ideas of thinking as somehow determined, beyond governance of will and measurement of virtue and responsibility. That such anti-reasoning is thinking, too, offers small reassurance — except, perhaps, to the cynically inclined, or those so self-indulgent as to pretend that any reasoning is irrelevant to behavior. To despair of reason is all too simple, and all-too-simply corroborated in the outcomes of uncritical action. But much worse may be to proclaim as rational the mystification of reason as mechanical or foreordained, and notions of human action as ultimately senseless manifestations of uncontrollable processes — call them destiny, or history, or transcendent purpose, or nature, or biological causality, or any other names for what are finally generalizations of individual livelihood. For Ortega, “vital reason,” recognizing that reason is inherent in human living, repudiates not only the cult of rationalism, with its myth of pure, disembodied intellect, but also a romanticism that invokes the passions as autonomous forces in the organismic whole, raising them to be mindless judges of the mind.

The argument for the integration of reasoning and responsibility is made with topical specificity, to deliberately oppose the rising unreason of the age. But, on a longer scale of timeliness, Ortega is clearly in the line of humanistic teachers since the Greeks. Further, he is surely recalling his own native preceptors of virtue, reaching as far back as the Iberian Seneca, but most vividly Gracín, demanding <i>Hombre de Entereza</i>,<ref>Baltasar (“Lorenzo”) Gracián, <i>Oráculo Manual y Arte de Prudencia</i> (c. 1647), No. 29. A charming, modern bi-lingual edition is by L. B. Walton, <i>Baltasar Gracián, The Oracle: A Manual of the Art of Discretion</i> (London: J. M. Dent & Sons, 1953).</ref> the man of integrity, holding to reason in the face of the mob and its fickle passions, and despite the tyrant and his witless force. The spirit, the sense, and even the sound of it are so much like the insistence on being nothing less than a whole man, <i>Nada menos que todo un hombre</i>, of Unamuno,<ref>The title of one of his most famous stories, included in Miguel de Unamuno, <i>Three Exemplary Novels</i>, Angel Flores, trans. (New York: Albert & Charles Boni, 1930; Grove Press, 1956).</ref>, who is so often hailed as the defender of a purified Hispanic self-identification, against an imputed denial by Ortega. Ortega the Spaniard is not so well-known, curiously enough, as is Ortega the Spanish European. 

That the oversight has often implied political, as well as philosophical, misunderstandings may be perfectly exemplified by Jean Cassou, who managed to give the lecture on “Spanish Culture” at the opening session of UNESCO in Paris in 1946, without once mentioning Ortega — not even in disparagement.<ref>Published in <i>Reflections On Our Age</i>, Lectures Delivered at the Opening Session of UNESCO At the Sorbonne University, Paris, Introduction by David Hardman, Foreword by Stephen Spender (New York: Columbia University Press, 1949), pp. 151-164.</ref> So soon after the Civil War, the fratricides among the anti-Fascists still went on, and Ortega’s vehement enmity to totalitarianism was still not sufficiently orthodox, it may be surmised, to give him status better than that of a literary “non-person.” A mere decade later, the sociologist Enrique Gomez Arboleya, following less invidious standards of cultural importance, would bluntly call Ortega, “one of the greatest Spaniards of all time,” adding, quite pertinently here, that “He merits the rare title of <i>Magister hispaniae.</i>”<ref>In the article, “Spain,” in Joseph Roucek, Editor, <i>Contemporary Sociology</i> (New York: Philosophical Library, 1958), p. 832.</ref> Now, for Robert McClintock, in <i>Man and His Circumstances: Ortega As Educator</i>, he is <i>Praeceptor hispaniae</i> — but in the many meanings that make him a teacher for all men, the more he is the Spaniard and the European.

The Spaniard, however, is also the proto-European, perhaps uniquely so among the peoples of the Continent. And the strands of Ortega’s thought run as straightly back to the pre-classical heroes of the awakening of critical intellect in the West, most notably Xenophanes, Heraclitus, and Democritus, as they weave inextricably through the fabric of philosophies and counter-philosophies following Plato, Aristotle, and the ensuing schools. But Ortega is heritor of past formulations of thought primarily as re-discoverer of rational beginnings, and only thereafter as re-interpreter — and not at all as epigone or publicist. Indeed, Ortega’s relationship to the thinkers and ideas of his own epoch is even more clearly signal of his commitment to criticism as the essence of understanding.

Characteristically, he could be the enthusiastic student of the Neo-Kantians Hermann Cohen and Paul Natorp, later praising them as his <i>maestros</i>,<ref><i>Obras completas</i>, VI, p. 383, note; cited in H. Spiegelberg, <i>The Phenomenological Movement: A Historical Introduction</i>, Second edition, Volume Two (The Hague: Martinus Nijhoff, 1965), p. 612.</ref> while hardly becoming a votary of their school. Again, he could avow strong admiration for Max Scheler, whom he called “my great friend,” as well as “the first man of genius in the new land of phenomenology,” and, later, a “thinker par excellence, whose death in 1928 has deprived Europe of its best mind,”<ref>Spiegelberg, <i>Ibid</i>., p. 614.</ref> while subjecting his work to searching, often sharply censorious judgment. It was wholly consistent for Ortega to be at once an immensely influential expositor, and a profoundly dubious critic, of the several strategies of analysis and speculation, in philosophy proper and the social sciences, that came to be generalized as “phenomenology.” Similarly, his rôle in the related surge of systematic self-consciousness taking all the varied forms of “existentialism” is not easily assessed according to formulas of doctrinal association and determined influence. Not only his ideas, but his activities as editor and publisher, as well as teacher, reverberate powerfully in its development. Thus, there need not be wonderment at parallels and resemblances between Ortega’s historical vitalism and the existentialism of, say, Jean-Paul Sartre — to choose the most widely-publicized exemplar of the school — prompting David Bidney, for only one, to remark that, “Contemporary existentialism ... is not quite as novel as it has been made to appear.”<ref>In “On the Philosophical Anthropology of Ernst Cassirer and its Relation to the History of Anthropological Thought,” included in Paul Arthur Schilpp, Editor, <i>The Philosophy of Ernst Cassirer</i> (Evanston, Ill.: The Library of Living Philosophers, 1949), p. 492.</ref> In a way, it may be propriety, as well as respect, that has F. H. Heinemann, who created the name <i>Existenzphilosophie</i> in 1929, dedicating “To the Memory of José Ortega y Gasset” his authoritative <i>Existentialism and the Modern Predicament</i>,<ref>New York: Harper & Bros., 1958.</ref> which does not treat Ortega in the text.

Such difficulties in fitting Ortega within schools of thought are quite in accordance, it may be said, with his own insistence that man’s nature and his situation may not be comprehended in the formulas of doctrinaires, the party men he despised as “walking suicides.” It is this spirit that, after all, may be the essence of Ortega’s thought, evoking an ideal of man reasoning-in-living, that, of all ideals, is most surely integral in such definitions of individual personhood as do not dissolve uniqueness, privacy, and potential freedom of thinking and choice in abstractions of collective identity. And it is in this spirit that one may read his famous indictment of massness as personal attack, if one is himself only ensorcelled or cajoled by the grandeur, verve, and rhetorical fluency of Ortega’s writing. There is much to be questioned and disagreed with in Ortega’s philosophy, as interpreted in the relatively few works of sustained systematic articulation, or in the immense body of variegated writings he produced originally for periodicals. But of his philosophizing, there need only be recognition of the sovereign commitment to thinking for oneself, for there to be vindication of Ortega’s essential enterprise. There are thinkers with whom one must disagree on behalf of thinking, of philosophy as the method and measure of thinking. Ortega, a true philosopher, one questions rightly in order to understand, reénacting the prototypal encounter with the teacher we must always seek, as Socrates taught, in order to become the proper teacher of ourselves.

Thus, it is not mere academic presumption to perceive Ortega’s intention as firstly and finally pedagogical, as does Dr. McClintock — provided that “pedagogy” is understood in its full, implicit meaning, conveyed in the felicitous translation of “la pedagogía social” as “civic pedagogy,” and not as only the tutorial and invigilative functioning of schoolmasters. A true sense of pedagogy involves the discovery, definition, and critical measurement of the aspirations of civilization, and takes fully into account the multi-various ways of teaching and occasions agencies, media, and practices of a living society. the Such a conception antedates Plato, yet its recognition now is a signal of a renewed vigor of educational philosophy since mid-century, after years, even generations, of academic disparagement, too often self-corroborated by educationists, as somehow second-rate philosophizing.

At stake is no less than man’s meaning to himself, and hence, his meaning in the only universe he can know. In this age of tragic actuality and more horrendous possibilities, a call for pedagogy takes on unprecedented urgency, and the teacher from whom we can learn to think for ourselves is more than ever a preceptor for the very survival of reason. And the spirit of urgency of Dr. McClintock’s study of Ortega is plain. This is a young man’s book, directed hopefully, but insistently, to the young. It is grounded firmly on history, but as criticized memory, eternally relevant. Above all, it is devoted to reconstituting the destiny of a civilization in fatal crisis, one that, without such effort, must surely be, as Ortega denounced it, bankrupt and devitalized.

There are serious questions to put to the work, but they themselves become part of its own questioning of the future. Ortega had called upon the young to invent, to criticize and originate, to invigorate the forms of living, creating worthy alternatives and acting to realize them. Such teaching risks infinities of danger, but also bears all the hope there is of humane learning, that may advance the growing edge of mankind only in each man’s striving beyond fixities of dogma, ignorance, and circumstance; beyond the self defined as somehow less than its aspirations, and their responsibilities. For the teachers, there are agonies and disappointments, needless yet inevitable; but there are special rewards, too, as the young renew the perdurable wonder of education, learning to teach themselves.
<div class="source up">Martin S. Dworkin<br>New York City<br>July 1971.</div>
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<h3 class="cent">Preface</h3>

<blockquote>I see in criticism a vigorous effort to give power to a chosen work... . Criticism is not biography, nor is it legitimate as an independent activity unless it aims at perfecting the work. To begin with, this means that the critic has to introduce in his essay all the emotional and intellectual devices thanks to which the average reader will receive the most intense and clear impression of the work possible. The critic proceeds by pointing his effort towards the affirmative, and by directing it, not to correcting the author, but to giving the reader a more perfect visual organ. One perfects the work by perfecting the reading of it.</blockquote>
<div class="source up">ORTEGA<ref><i>Meditaciones del Quijote<i>, 1914, <i>Obras<i> I, p. 325.</ref></div>

OVER TEN YEARS AGO, While browsing in the Princeton University Bookstore, my eye was caught by What Is Philosophy? Good question!, I thought. I had entered my undergraduate studies with an instinctive reverence for philosophy as the first among disciplines; but the philosophy courses I then took were all disappointing: invariably they concerned philosophies, not philosophy. The author of the book that chance had brought me to, José Ortega y Gasset, was unknown to me, but on quick perusal he seemed worth reading. Read him I did, and I have been doing so since.

<i>What Is Philosophy?</i> — with its concern for the ego living in the world, for the person thinking, choosing, doing — is a work well calculated to move a young man in his last year of college as he begins to face seriously the question of what he would do with his life. Ortega offered no substantive answers to this perplexity, for answers depend on the unique actualities of each separate self and its particular circumstances, but he greatly reinforced my developing sense of the importance, the continual importance, of deciding on one’s future. We live, not for a final answer, but by endlessly asking the question, what am I going to make of the coming instant? By constantly asking this question, one shapes a continual present according to the vision of the future and the comprehension of the past that one commands at each successive instant. Such thoughts, which had already been germinating in me, were brought to Ortega’s prose; hence from the very start, he convinced was part of the past that I should seek to comprehend life by me that he should I want to shape my present according to a vision of a future.

In quick order, thereafter, I read <i>Man and People</i>, <i>The Modern Theme</i>, and <i>The Revolt of the Masses</i>. Here I encountered Ortega’s public relevance, a relevance that has grown as the prospect of public affairs has become monotonously more bleak. At the time of first encounter, the Kennedy-Nixon campaign was moving towards its denouement, and the contrast between the noble man mass man that Ortega so sharply drew seemed to resonate with the contrast between Kennedy’s apparent style and the perfectly of aspiration and Nixon’s self-satisfaction. Thus, despite his own pessimism about the politics of any nation, Ortega at first seemed to explain the why and the wherefore of the political hope dawning within me. After all I had learned from others to think that America was special, exempt from the foibles of the European nations.

Events soon shattered these first hopes and relentless retrospect has made me doubt their reality. Being American for me has ceased to be sufficient, no more significant in itself than my being from New York and you perhaps from Milan or somewhere else. During the last decade, events and Ortega have made me into a European: I pledge my allegiance to that chancy, uncertain, but constructive process of transcending the nation, transcending the state, and transcending coercion in the conduct of public affairs in the post-industrial West. And much of what I have to say about Ortega is intended—in keeping with his own example—as a small but serious contribution to the creative effort of devising a future for the West.

I have shaped this book, however, not only in response to my general circumstances, but to my more immediate ones as well. I went to graduate school with strong intellectual interests and weak disciplinary commitments. David Steward and I recurringly argued over whether one could follow one’s interests within the academic grind. With some luck, some faith, and lots of friendly help, one can. Help first came to me from Lawrence A. Cremin, whose colloquium in the history of American educational thought redeemed an otherwise desolate Spring term in 1962. He convinced me not to drop out of graduate school and to take up the history of education, pointing out that it was a field undergoing thorough revision with plenty of room within it for the pursuit of my interests. His advice was excellent, and his teaching has been central to my development into a professional scholar.

In the Department of Philosophy and the Social Sciences at Teachers College, I studied with George Z. F. Bereday, Philip H. Phenix, R. Freeman Butts, and, most importantly, Martin S. Dworkin. Dworkin is a committed educator; he pours his energy into teaching, into imparting his engagement with the life of reason, into opening access to all he knows. In his seminar on “Education, Ideology, and Mass Communications” I encountered Ortega in a course for the first time, and my work in this seminar was the beginning of the long process by which Ortega became the topic of my dissertation. But Dworkin’s teaching has been invaluable to me in other respects. I had studied Ortega on my own, and also knew the work of Camus and Jaspers fairly well. But through a torrent of references to all sorts of thinkers, Dworkin opened to me the diverse elements of nineteenth- and twentieth-century thought. And equally important, he drove me to the Greeks, especially to the pre-Socratics and Plato, not to decide that they held this or that, but to contend on my own with the questions they raised.

During the academic year of 1963-64, I participated in the doctoral seminar on European intellectual history jointly given by Jacques Barzun and Lionel Trilling. Together, they elicit what the aspiring graduate student thinks is his best effort, and each then subjects that effort to thorough constructive criticism. With the criticism I began the unfinished task of learning how written language works. In my seminar paper, which was on Ortega, I contended that a commitment to educate informed all his activities. Professor Barzun encouraged me in this view —  one would not be far off applying the same thesis to his own varied accomplishments — and he became co-sponsor with Professor Cremin of my dissertation. Professors James F. Shearer and Francisco Garcia-Lorca commented on the prospectus of the dissertation and the former agreed to oversee the Hispanic side of my studies. Thereafter, my work was cut out for me, and my main intellectual interest was, at last, the center of my academic endeavors.

I spent the summer of 1965 in Madrid working in the archives of the Hermeroteca Municipal and of <i>Revista de Occidente</i>. In particular, José Ortega Spottorno and Paulino Garagorri helped make my research in Madrid fruitful and have encouraged me considerably through their continued interest in my work. Garagorri has directed me to much material that I would not have known to look for without his help.

A number of continuing conversations with friends have also deeply influenced this work. In one sense, the book is an attempt at an operational answer to a problem Philip Weinstein and I have repeatedly discussed: how can the critic avoid being a mere parasite living off the work he criticizes? A number of ideas in the book have been sharpened through conversations with Francis Schrag about freedom and the responsibilities of the intellectual who is at once committed to pursuing truth and to acting in an imperfect world. My conception of Rousseau and of the state owes much to discussions with Dan Brock about the limits of authority and abstractions such as the general will.

In producing the book itself numerous persons have helped, particularly Janet M. Simons and Robert Bletter. Here I again especially thank Martin S. Dworkin, this time not as teacher, but as editor. He has had the fortitude to keep me from deciding prematurely that the work was finished. It now embodies my best effort, one which I hope will be found worthy of its subject.
<div class="source up">Robert McClintock</div>
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<h2 class="cent">Man and His Circumstances: Ortega as Educator</h2>

<h3>¡Salud! </h3>

<blockquote>The lord whose oracle is at Delphi neither speaks nor conceals, but indicates.<div class="source up">Heraclitus, Fragment 93 (DX)</div></blockquote>

<blockquote>Let my words appear to you as they may. They ought only to lead you to produce in your mind the same thought that I have produced in mine.<div class="source up">Fichte, <i>The Vocation of Man</i></div></blockquote>

<blockquote>I judge a philosopher by whether he is able to serve as an example.<div class="source">Nietzsche, <i>Schopenhauer as Educator</i></div> </blockquote>

<blockquote>He who would teach us a truth should situate us so that we will discover it ourselves.<div class="source up">Ortega<ref>1<i>Meditaciones del Quijote</i>, 1914, <i>Obras</i> I, p. 336. (Unless otherwise indicated, all translations are by the author.)</ref></div></blockquote>

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<p>Who was Ortega? Where did he stand? What did he accomplish? How should one judge the worth of his work?</p>

<p>Spokesmen for both the right and the left opine that he was a conservative elitist, a gifted, arrogant exponent of aristocratic prerogatives. More moderately, many scholars locate him in the tradition of liberal elitism, contending that he continued the work of men like John Stuart Mill and Alexis de Tocqueville. Those familiar with Spanish history appreciate his effort to reform society and politics, an effort that made him one of the moving forces in creating the Second Spanish Republic. In recent years, his stature among professional philosophers has been rising, for his posthumous tomes back up his living pretense to have made a significant contribution to Western thought, especially to ontology. His books, always well phrased, have won diverse readers, who may value him for his contribution to social theory, to esthetics, to the philosophy of history, to literary criticism, to Spanish literature. Other persons, fortunate to have met the man, not just his work, remember him as a great teacher, an absorbing lecturer, an engaging conversationalist, a professor who helped, for a time, to reform Spanish higher education. A growing number agree with Denis de Rougemont, seeing behind Ortega's work a visionary pan-Europeanist, one of the spiritual founders of a Western future.</p>

<p>During his span of seventy-two years, from 1883 to 1955, Ortega was intensely active, a fact that complicates the effort to characterize his life and work. Ortega did many things. He taught philosophy for twenty-five years; founded several magazines and an important newspaper; campaigned against corruption, dictators,  and the King. For these efforts he later endured a decade of wandering exile. He wrote voluminously: hundreds of commentaries for the daily press, numerous articles for diverse journals, and books and more books. Ortega talked: he toured the world giving lectures, he stumped Spain making speeches; with everyone he loved to converse in the animated Spanish manner. He took part in politics, in both the politics of Spanish reform and the politics of European union. In short, Ortega met life with chest out, without stopping to bemoan lost opportunities and without bothering to correct misimpressions.</p>

<p>In the United States, special difficulties complicate understanding Ortega's integral character. To begin with, important information about him is hard to come by. The best introduction to his thought in English is José Ferrater Mora's <i>Ortega y Gasset</i>, but this work gives few biographical details, even though Ortega insisted that his personal experience was integral to his thought. Almost invariably, American translations of Ortega's works have lacked adequate introductions. For instance, readers of <i>The Revolt of the Masses</i> have had no way to know that they were reading a series of newspaper articles that had first appeared in a particular paper, <i>El Sol</i>, in a particular place, Madrid, at a particular time, during the decline and fall of the dictatorship of General Primo de Rivera. These circumstances help clarify the argument of the book, yet knowledge of them is not generally available. When readers do not know the real context of a work, they supply whatever context close at hand seems most useful. This practice has led to misinterpretations.</p>

<p>Another complication for Americans seeking to understand Ortega's character is that people are more likely to have read Ortega than to have studied him. This condition has arisen because the works available in English do not fit within a single discipline; instead, each has independently gained a modicum of currency in separate disciplines. Estheticians are likely to have read <i>The Dehumanization of Art</i>; philosophers know <i>What Is Philosophy?</i>, and perhaps <i>The Origin of Philosophy</i> and <i>The Modern Theme</i>; sociologists are acquainted with <i>The Revolt of the Masses</i> and, if interested in sociological theory,<i> Man and People</i>; political theorists will also have studied <i>The Revolt of the Masses</i>, as well as <i>Concord and  Liberty</i>; persons interested in historical synthesis will most probably have read <i>History as a System</i> and <i>Man and Crisis</i>; literary critics will have consulted <i>Notes on the Novel</i> and <i>Meditations on Quixote</i>; educators will have reflected on <i>The Mission of the University</i>; and romantics in each discipline may well have mused <i>On Love</i>. Owing to this variegation of his work, one encounters one, two, ... many Ortegas in casual references.</p>

<p>But difficulties in stating precisely who Ortega was do not, by any means, arise solely from problems of translation. The most ambitious biography, to date, <i>Ortega—1: Circunstancia y vocación</i> by his disciple, Julián Marías, loses the vocation in the complexity of the circumstances. In a bewildering manner, Ortega seemed to combine a number of different careers, simultaneously pursuing a separate course in each, yet remaining faithful to none. From the time that Ortega finished his schooling up to the Spanish Civil War, he pursued at least four concurrent careers: he was a professor of philosophy, a politician, a journalist, and a literary artist. His pursuit of these professions was not always steady, and unsympathetic critics have called him a dilettante, a gifted, erratic, vacillating personality.</p>

<p>The man's protean life, the changing complexity of his activities, presents interpreters with a serious challenge. Ortega insisted over and over again that each man has a destiny, an integral mission, a single task in life that lays down before him his personal path to self-fulfillment. Dabblers were damnable. "We are our Destiny; we are the irremediable project for a particular existence. In each instant of life we note if its reality coincides or not with our project, and everything that we do, we do in order to bring it to fulfillment.... All iniquity comes from one source: not driving oneself to one's proper destiny."<ref>"No ser hombre de partido," 1930, <i>Obras</i> IV, pp. 77 and 79.</ref> It will be a significant criticism of Ortega himself, if biographers prove unable to define his mission. Difficulties in doing so point straight to the central issue of his biography. Was he able to live by the very standard of human life that he upheld?</p>

<blockquote>Character for man is destiny<div class="source up">Heraclitus, 119</div></blockquote> 
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