whose simplicity should be preserved for as long as possible. Rousseau prefers that children remain “ignorant and true” rather than “learn their lessons and lie” (102; 4:336). The task of the educator is therefore “to do nothing and let nothing be done” (93; 4:323).
But Rousseau follows this general rule by raising “another consideration,” one that suggests an altogether different reason for “doing nothing” and invites us to reconsider the idea of a purely negative education. Rousseau advises the educator to observe the child closely and over a long period of time before beginning to educate—indeed, before saying “the first word to him.” His rationale is that “one must know well the particular genius of the child in order to know what moral diet suits him. Each mind has its own form.” The educator must let the germ of the child’s unique individual character “reveal itself freely” (94; 4:324). If childhood must be allowed to ripen, it is not simply to preserve a universal, original state as long as possible but to allow the development (unfettered, without distortion) of the child’s unique self, which is revealed over time. Thus, although Rousseau argues vehemently against turning children into miniature adults with a precocious pseudomaturity, he also conceives of growth and maturation within childhood. “Each age, each condition of life, has its suitable perfection, a sort of maturity proper to it” (158; 4:418). Is “doing nothing” sufficient to bring about this maturation?
What exactly Rousseau means by the distinctive maturity of childhood, and how it is cultivated, complicates the notion of a purely negative education while bearing on several fundamental issues with regard to his views on the education of judgment. The mark of a child’s having reached “the perfection of his age” (161; 4:423) is precisely the development of a certain species of judgment, not simply physical maturation. While initially in book II Rousseau insists that children are incapable of judging, he later refers to their capacity to exercise good judgment, at least with regard to the physical world. And he concludes book II with an anecdote about a child whose judgment he praises as “incisive” (163; 4:425). This refers to a rudimentary form of judgment that is distinctly appropriate to children as children, but at the same time sets the stage for—and in some ways serves as a model for—good judgment at any age. “One must have a great deal of judgment oneself to appreciate a child’s” (162; 4:424). Rousseau’s admiration of the incisive child is matched by his admiration for the child’s father, who is able to perceive this trait in his child. This ability marks the father not only as a good father but as a wise man. Such wisdom is rare. “None of us is philosophic enough to know how to put himself in a child’s place” (115; 4:355). Time after time, in the course of explaining the limitations and characteristics of a child’s perspective, Rousseau offers parallel reflections on various adult figures and their good or poor judgment. Specifically, in order to achieve the distinctive maturity of childhood, children must be taught both to run well and to see well. Rousseau’s treatment of each of these lessons unfolds in two registers. Learning to run entails learning to exist as a being whose nature cannot remain static but rather moves (since we are, after all, perfectible beings). Learning to see means developing not only visual acuity with regard to physical distances but also the ability to discern the nature of reality. By attending to both registers of Rousseau’s lessons on these points, we can better understand the broader significance of this educational stage of Emile.
On one level, then, Rousseau’s concerns center on physical education of the body and the senses in order to prevent the stimulation of imagination or any passions before their time. On another, he explores the nature of judgment, which is rooted in the “natural” perspective of a purely physical being but not reducible to it. The point of this second stage of Emile’s education is not simply to preserve the simplicity of his existence (and to establish the importance of such simplicity for human beings in general), but rather to establish the complexity of what it truly means for a being whose origins lie in a purely physical existence (in which Emile represents human beings as such) to learn to judge.1 In this chapter, I explore this complexity with regard to the relationship between the physical and the intellectual in Emile’s education and, more broadly, in Rousseau’s understanding of good judgment.
The Child as a Physical Being
Inasmuch as Rousseau continues to emphasize the importance of a negative education, book II in some ways simply extends the principles developed in book I to the growing child. The prepubescent Emile is primarily a physical being, and his lessons reflect this. On this issue Rousseau is critical of Locke, who maintains that one must reason with children. “The masterpiece of a good education is to make a reasonable man, and they claim they raise a child by reason! This is to begin with the end, to want to make the product the instrument. If children understood reason, they would not need to be raised” (89; 4:317). Attempting to use reason with children does not simply miss the mark; its impact turns out to be harmful rather than neutral. Reasoning with children involves the use of language that they are not equipped to comprehend. They may in fact learn to speak as they are spoken to, but this is only a façade, Rousseau insists. Their apparently sophisticated bons mots are at best empty chatter, and at worst pernicious indicators that they are well on their way to becoming miserable adults (civil men) who speak and live inauthentically.2
What language, then, is appropriate for the child learning to speak? The language of the body. At this stage the tutor couches all lessons in the language of the body and encourages Emile to interpret the world around him based on two bodily experiences that children have on a regular basis: hunger and illness. For example, Emile learns the utility of astronomy when he is lost in the middle of the forest at lunchtime, and he is inspired to run faster for the sake of a very specific prize: a cake. The tutor also mentions another child who was taught geometry “by being given the choice every day of waffles with equal perimeters done in all the geometric figures. The little glutton had exhausted the art of Archimedes in finding out in which there was the most to eat” (146; 4:401). If Locke’s motto can be said to be “lead them with reason,” Rousseau’s is surely “lead them with cakes,” for “a child would rather give [away] a hundred louis than a cake” (103; 4:338). Even complex human emotions can be explained to children in purely physical terms. What does a child see when looking at an angry person, for example? “He sees an inflamed face, glittering eyes, threatening gestures; he hears shouts—all signs that the body is out of kilter.” Thus one should tell the child calmly, “This poor man is sick; he is in a fit of fever” (96; 4:328).
Thus moral lessons must be postponed, Rousseau contends, because attempts to inculcate them at this age will inevitably result in unintended consequences due to the bodily character of the child’s perspective. At the same time, Rousseau suggests that the child must begin to move beyond this limited perspective. Book II opens with the announcement that we have entered into “the second period of life,” which refers to the period just beyond infancy through age twelve. However, this second stage is actually a first insofar as it is only now that, “strictly speaking [proprement], the life of the individual begins” (78; 4:301). This birth of individuality functions as a second beginning and prefigures the “second birth” at the beginning of book IV (that is, the beginning of the significance of the individual’s sex/gender). It is the first of these two rebirths.3
Just as it is only after infancy that, strictly speaking, the life of the individual begins, so too is it only at this point that the story of Emile truly begins. In other words, Emile is “reborn” for the reader as a concrete example rather than an abstraction; he is particularized. To be sure, the idea of Emile figures briefly in book I, when Rousseau first sets up his thought experiment, but the child does not yet come alive on the page. We are told that Emile is an orphan, and then in effect he disappears into a field of generalities. Rousseau’s subsequent remarks refer to “one’s child” or “all children.” Occasionally, he mentions his imaginary pupil in passing (with a pronoun), but Emile does not actually appear as a character. We are not invited to picture little Emile crawling about. Rather, “the child” functions as an abstraction in book I. Only in book II do the details of Emile’s particular experiences become significant. From this point forward, Rousseau
