Deconstructing contiguity

Garry Gillard

Chapter 11 of: Terry Evans & Daryl Nation eds, Reforming Open and Distance Education: Critical Reflections from Practice, Kogan Page, London, 1993: 182-195.

I work as an instructional designer in a school of humanities; I also teach in the School in both the internal and external modes. So it is logical—if not inevitable—that I should be trying to relate the two parts of my daily work, as I do in this chapter.

Important work is being done in the humanities with the concepts of production and reproduction. It is said by some feminists, for example, that under patriarchy woman is produced as a sign or as exchange value and reproduced as use value (Rubin, 1975, for example). So that in a traditional Christian marriage ceremony a man 'gives' the woman to be married to another man. Women are exchanged by men as part of the network of the transactions that maintain patriarchy and the control of women by men. Women are not allowed to see themselves as actors and producers, but only as acted upon and produced.

An analogy can be drawn between this scenario and that concerning students under contiguous education—being taught face-to-face. [1] They are also produced as listeners and learners, partly in order to maintain the status quo of the educational institution and of its main beneficiaries, lecturers; students are also reproduced as citizens through the agency of this most powerful because most latent of Ideological State Apparatuses: the Educational (Althusser, 1971).

In the distance education situation, on the other hand, institutional control over the construction of the learner is considerably weaker, and learners are given the opportunity to produce themselves as such in a dialectical movement between ideological reproduction and individual production. With that freedom of course goes greater responsibility—which is one reason for the higher dropout rate in distance education as compared with contiguous education. Taking responsibility for self-production is considerably harder than allowing oneself to be subjected to processes of reproduction. But there it is: 'In its essence, distant study is individual study (Bååth, 1982, p.7).

In texts produced by face-to-face teachers the voice is one that speaks of authorship—and the texts are produced to some extent for the pleasure of the teachers. On the other hand, and paradoxically perhaps, the text produced in writing by distance teachers is one that produces readership, that interests itself in the implied reader (Gillard, 1981). Because of the opportunity for reflection that the writing situation presents, it is more difficult for producers of distance education texts to speak with authority than for lecturers who, in the stressful demands of the moment, must rely on what they can draw from their individual selves. Distance education writers have the leisure to be empathetic towards their invisible readers.

The relationship between writers and readers is one in which more consideration is given for the situation of the Other. Consideration of theories of postcolonialism, and of the kinds of Other to which teachers relate suggests that distant students are in a much more intimate and sympathetic relationship with their teachers, who typically write to them on a one-to-one basis as to a younger friend or offspring. Students confronted en masse in the lecture theatre by contrast represent a palpable Other with different presuppositions and expectations, often of a different generation, and who are there for different reasons; they are a potential threat: rebellious peasants, uncontrollable children, irresponsible and perennial youth. They must be treated as inferior, kept in their place, controlled by the language of authority. Writers of distance education texts, on the other hand, have, as their historical models, the caring epistles of the apostle Paul, the wise dialogues of the philosopher Plato, the society of the novels of Jane Austen and George Eliot.

This is a reflection on the meaning of 'distance', and on aspects of distance in education, some of which are beneficial, some dysfunctional—attempting to do in a philosophical context what Terry Evans has already done in a sociological one (1989).

When distance educators set out to define 'distance education' they usually proceed by contrast, in the negative, by working from what it is not (Keegan, 1980; Bååth, 1981). What I set out to do here is to deconstruct the ideology which privileges face-to-face or contiguous education over distance education, and also to show in what specific ways distance education is prior to contiguous education. I use an opposition between contiguous and distance education, albeit a rather artificial one, to make some contrastive points about both. I try to show that distance education is not an inferior and regrettable alternative to education on campus, but is in many ways prior to it, more original, better. This is of course something that all distance educators already know, but I think it is still worth considering the philosophical underpinnings of the craft, and the historical basis of the development of one or two of the assumptions which underly the understanding of the place of distance education in the broader context.

I also attempt to suggest, in practical terms, what conventional educators can learn from the designers of modes of education designed for individual use. The main argument of the chapter is in support of the usefulness—for conventional education—of distance-educational techniques and ways of thinking.

In the same way that anthropologists have defined 'the primitive' as being the absence of writing (Lévi-Strauss, 1972, p.101), in this discussion I'm using as the mark of distance education the absence of the teaching voice as the primary medium of teaching. I take it that, whether consciously or not, speaking is perceived as the most essential means of carrying out conventional higher education. I wish to show that it is only one among a great many media and technologies. Contiguous education privileges the voice, and so conceals the availability and effectiveness of these other media in the service of an ideology of control. Distance education offers the use of a greater range of means of communication and modes of teaching in the service of an ideology of empowerment.

The alleged precedence of contiguous education over distance education is a kind of confidence trick, an ideological assumption at best. Contiguous education in its most typical form—as conducted in the lecture theatre—is negative (with regard to the position taken in this chapter) in some of its essential elements. This may be seen, for example, in spatial arrangements which display iconically the unequal power relationships existing between lecturers and students through the binaries centre/periphery, one/many, high/low; and in any other of the elements of power which issue from a politics of education which keeps students in their place, rather than setting out to empower them. The typical structure of the lecture theatre from the centre of which the lecturer's gaze can engage with that of any student is similar in design and intention to the Benthamite Panopticon discussed by Michel Foucault in Discipline and Punish, a prison designed in such a way that the warders at the centre of a wheel-like structure can look down any of the spokes to see what any prisoner is doing at any time (Foucault, 1979). All the prisoners are visible to their guards all of the time. The structure of this environment produces not only unequal power relationships but a magisterial style of teaching as well. And it has these results: alienated and anomic students.

The great Saussurean discovery was the arbitrariness of the sign, [2] the total dependence of meaning on itself, in the sense that at the linguistic level any sign achieves its meaning only in relation to all other signs, and particularly those which are most nearly its opposite; hence its key oppositions: langue/parole, syntagm/paradigm, synchrony/diachrony (de Saussure, 1959). However, the Saussurean moment is only one in a series of binarisms, preceded by others: a/not a (Plato), mind/body (Descartes), nature/culture (Rousseau). And, of course, followed also: the writerly/the readerly, exogamy/endogamy, Self/Other, patriarchy/feminism, centre/periphery ... distance/contiguity.

Such oppositions may have ideological effects and socio-political outcomes, because such oppositions readily become, already are, political. As Wlad Godzich writes, the concepts in such oppositions as centre/periphery are not innocent concepts.

There is nothing 'natural' or 'inevitable' or to be taken for granted in the setting up of center and periphery. It is always the result of specific and discernible operations: rhetorical ones in texts, power ones in the broader social area; though there may well be a gain in describing the latter in terms of the subtle analytics of textual operations (1986, p.11).

Jacques Derrida deals with this at a greater degree of abstraction, a higher epistemological level.

In a traditional philosophical opposition we have not a peaceful coexistence of facing terms but a violent hierarchy. One of the terms dominates the other (axiologically, logically, etc.), occupies the commanding position (1981, p.41).

One might ask: is this the case only in philosophical oppositions? There is an assumption, not necessarily shared by distance educators themselves, but prevalent among those who work in or who are affected in some way by the education system, that distance education is an inferior form of teaching and learning. In this view it is obviously merely a substitute process maintained for the benefit of those unfortunates who cannot participate in the Real Thing, people such as prisoners, the handicapped, those living in places remote from population centres, and women pregnant or with young dependants. It is a substitute for a learning situation where there a is teacher present who speaks, responds to learners, and interacts with them in contiguous space and time. It is inferior because although teaching is also privileged over learning, it is assumed that they share a simultaneity of communication, the instantaneous experience of the meeting of minds.

My purpose in deploying a deconstructive approach to the epistemology of distance education, particularly by the use of some Derridean concepts; is in that—to continue the quotation from him above—'to deconstruct the opposition is above all, at a particular moment, to reverse the hierarchy' (1981, p.41). The hierarchy in question here is that which at this moment still privileges contiguous teaching over teaching-at-a-distance, internal over external, on-campus over off-campus, intramural over extramural, the lecture over correspondence, the school over the home, listening over reading, speech over writing. And the intention is to deconstruct the discourses which this privileging inhabits, from which it derives its being, for the reason given and by the process suggested by Culler:

To deconstruct a discourse is to show how it undermines the philosophy it asserts, or the hierarchical oppositions on which it relies, by identifying in the text the rhetorical operations that produce the supposed ground of argument, the key concept or premise (1983, p.86).

Such a key concept is, paradoxically, the model that namers and definers have in mind: that of the lecture (which etymologically = reading). Whereas in its origin a text was read and exegeted, the lecture nowadays is a spoken text, spoken around the conception of the lecturer (although the whole thing may in some cases be a reading of a fully written-out text). The speaker, it is thought, has something to get across and will preferably talk to the idea in a conversational way suited to the audience. Thus: 'The explanation of DNA you would give to 14-year-olds may be very different from the explanation you would give to second-year undergraduate biochemists' (Brown and Atkins, 1988, p.21). 'DNA' is thought somehow to remain the same, although the discourse is to vary with the needs of speaker and listeners.

I begin where Derrida does, with the undermining of the phenomenological theory of language, in which language is essentially human (and non-natural). A key idea for Husserl is 'expression', which 'is meant, conscious through and through, and intentional' (Derrida, 1973, p.33). That is, meaning is found not just in the meaning of the words used by the speaker, but in what she or he intends them to mean. The concentration on expression leads on to the consequent importance of voice. With clear implications for the situation of a university lecturer, the assumption can be characterised in this way.

In person-to-person speech, the speaker is standing directly in front of the hearer, who can more readily imagine and locate the required act of animating consciousness. In such a situation, the meaning may well seem to be controlled behind the words, especially if the speaker imposes an authoritative interpretation: 'No, what I meant was...', 'No, what I was trying to say was ...' It is as though the very airiness of words on the breath, the very transparency of the medium in which spoken signifiers so briefly live, actually allowed the hearer to look straight through into the speaker's mind (Harland, 1987, p.126).

It is often thought that the availability of feedback is an essential characteristic of contiguous teaching, so that, for example 'non-verbal signals of puzzlement, bewilderment, and so on can be monitored by a lecturer' (Brown and Atkins, 1988, p.21). And the use of locutions such as those in the quotation may be seen as a putative response to the recognition of possible difficulties for an audience. They give something else away, however. What the Husserlian model of language implies is that the speaker already knows what he or she intends to say, and through the transparent medium of the voice will transfer the information to the listeners, filling the little pitchers with the pure fluidity of knowledge. What the redirecting words ('what I was trying to say was') indicate, however, is that the first form of words used might not have conveyed what was desired at all, and another, supplementary, form must be tried. The example—of the speaker casting around for the right words with which to construct her text—shows, not that there is an essence underlying the expression which will be conveyed if the appropriate form is found, but that it is the form of words which conveys the meaning. There is more than one 'DNA' - in fact an infinitude of them.

Brown and Atkins has been chosen as a text representative of a conventional pedagogy which discusses the importance of effective teaching. The emphasis in their writing in the experience of the lecture theatre is on the originary, and on the experience of lecturers (rather than that of students). Brown and Atkins write that lecturers monitor signals from the audience, and modify what they say accordingly. There are several assumptions on which assertions of this kind rely. Learning is assumed to be a transfer of information from the mind of speakers to those of listeners through the pure medium of speech, as it the text of the lecture could be transferred whole, sentence by sentence. If a sentence or paragraph is perceived to have been ineffective with regard to this objective—as observed through audience reaction—another sentence or paragraph will be offered to replace it, until good communication has been achieved. Good communication here comprises a message from a sender to a recipient via a relatively noiseless medium. Knowledge is structured, not merely like a language, but in specific texts, uttered by speakers and received intact by listeners. If the message is correctly structured at source, it will very likely be rebuilt in the knowledge structures of listeners.

There is another assumption which is more concealed and more insidious, more ideological—being more unconscious—and that is that the experience of teachers, the pleasure in the production of the teaching text, is important. Pedagogy is written by teachers for teachers, to some extent for their pleasure and re-empowerment, so the emphasis there is on the body of teaching rather than on the student body. The interests in question are those of the teachers rather than those of the learners—and yet it is always piously assumed to be the case that the enterprise only exists for the sake of learning.

When they turn to the 'Component Skills of Lecturing' Brown and Atkins do not commence, as they might perhaps have, given the assumptions sketched above, with some notes on voice production or reading aloud; they immediately begin with supplements to the lecturer's voice: 'Using Audio-Visual Aids'. The implication seems to be that essential skills in lecturing include the employment of things which are additional to 'lecturing'. Perhaps because there is an assumption that lecturing is a 'natural' activity in which lecturers all engage more or less effectively, according to their inherent talents, the attention turns immediately to those extras which are more manageable by the pedagogue, and which can be wheeled in to improve the given situation. Perhaps there is a simple assumption that all lectures can only be improved by such supplementation.

The supplement is a key idea for Derrida. One of his own examples refers to education. He points out that although Rousseau argues (in Émile) that a child is born in a state close to perfection, and yet it is found to be necessary to subject the child to a process of education, to add something to the fine natural condition in which it arrives in the world. So that it seems that, in this case, although nature precedes culture, and is complete in itself, a plenitude to which education is an external addition, it is nevertheless necessary to supplement nature with education. There is, therefore, an inherent lack or absence within nature (Derrida, 1976, p.145-7). Similarly, it is necessary to supplement the oral lecture. The various processes of supplementation will usually begin well before the lecture hour with the lecturer writing notes, or perhaps the whole lecture. Some of these notes may be given to students as lecture outline 'handouts', some may be reproduced as overhead projections. There may be pre-tests and post-tests. The time of the lecture is a time which necessarily implies a past of pre-learning and preparation and a future containing review and recall.

Thus, for Brown and Atkins, the audio-visual 'aids' are the lecturing skills, and students learn by looking at—reading—the visual aids, and by listening to the audio aids. The spatiality of the visual crosses the linearity of the lecture, with its assumption of additive learning. Time is persuaded to stand still for a moment, and learning is allowed to become relational instead of cumulative. A second dimension is literally added to the unidimensional progression of the lecturing line: the plane surface encourages the invention of mapping.

Thus, Brown and Atkins point out that

'many topics have networks of connections which might be exemplified better by diagrams or maps' and that 'ideas which are linked through visual symbols are also likely to be retained in the long-term memory. It is therefore worth spending a little time,' they continue, 'thinking out a visual presentation for key concepts, relationships, and processes. The effort may well deepen your own understanding of a topic...' (Brown and Atkins, 1988, p.26, emphasis added).

The reversal of the hierarchy which privileged the 'lecture' is completed in this moment. Not only will lecturing be essentially improved by the preparation of material designed to be read, but teachers themselves will actually learn something they did not know beforehand. It is clear by now that teaching, rather than being something prior and superior to learning, interpenetrates with it, and is to some extent at least dependent upon it.

The introduction by Brown and Atkins of the idea of long-term memory tends to deconstruct the assumption of simultaneity of learning in the lecture theatre, and begins to suggest that distance in time and space might actually be functional in the context of contiguous teaching. Where and when does learning actually take place: at the moment of receiving the teaching message? In anticipation of receiving it (remembering the function of the 'advance organiser' [Ausubel, 1968])? At the moment when the lecture ends, as the last element of the whole picture is put into place? Shortly afterwards in discussion with the lecturer or with other students, in the lecture theatre or social club? When the student's lecture notes are reviewed that night or the next day—or the following year, when the crucial context for really understanding the point of the lecture is only just then available? Or possibly all of these? And is not distance in time demonstrably functional in the kind of concept mapping which it is suggested is required for learning?

Furthermore, is the lecturer really in contiguity with the learner? It is hard to resist anecdotal evidence in dealing with this question. I have sat in the back of a lecture theatre towards the end of a course on which I was tutoring, and observed students doing anything but learning from the words being uttered at the front. One student was writing a letter, which I could see began with the situational: she wrote that she was in another boring lecture (although she could actually not have been bored with the given lecture, as she did not pause in her writing for the duration). Another student was reading a 'women's' magazine; two others were completely engaged in conversation for the whole hour, and so on. None of the students within my observational range was apparently listening to the lecturer at all.

Distance, it is claimed, is a reality in non-distance teaching, and can be either beneficial or dysfunctional.

Another key Derridean idea is the trace: internal teaching always already contains the trace of external teaching. From the time that the first teacher drew in the sand a representation of the territory of the tribe, the teaching became iterable: it was immediately alienable from the originary drawing hand, and reproducible in another patch of sand, or on a rock or on a cave wall. From the time that the first singer (such as the one we call 'Homer') composed the first verses of the first inchoate epic narrative, the story—and the technique—became physiologically memorable and capable of repetition. [3]

Lecturers typically read from their written notes (and may supplement the reading with 'handouts', 'overheads', audiotapes). This year's lecture ('on DNA', for example) is an approximation of last year's, being performed in relation to the same set of notes, but this year's lecture may be only a pale imitation of the last one, if the lecturer is not well, and delivers the lecture poorly (although, in another sense, the 'lecture' itself is thought to be the 'same', in its being as the idea of itself: it is the trace in the performance).

So this year's lecture is actually different from last year's, although it is 'the lecture on DNA'. In its textual nature as this performance it exists in its own right, and also in the sense of its reception by this (year's) class, by this individual, and by this aggregation of students. It may differ from what the lecturer intended to say, because she has a cold, because her voice is not working well, and could not convey what she meant. So the listeners, the students, do not get the idea too well, the meaning of what the lecturer was getting at will have to be supplemented, will be deferred, until the students can check with each other's notes, study the lecturer's handout, ask supplementary questions, look the concept up in the textbook, track it down. (But, as Derrida writes: 'Whoever believes that one tracks down some thing? One tracks down tracks.' 1973, p.158)

Derrida has a term for what he sees as this undecidability of meaning: by using the term 'différance', which combines the meaning of two verbs meaning 'differ' and 'defer', he is able to refer to the idea that the meaning always differs from itself and is always deferred. To use our own key term: it is always at a distance.

Note what forms some of the supplements take: they are written, and they pre-exist the lecture: the lecturer's notes, handouts, and the textbook are all in existence prior to the coming into being of the lecture event: they are there during it, and they will be there afterwards, to supplement and to disseminate the teaching.

Why then is there such importance placed on the oral delivery of the lecture, on the voice of the lecturer? It is because of that particular prejudgment which Derrida calls logocentrism, that preference not only for the uttered word, 'the inward rational principle of verbal texts', in that sense of logos, but also a prerequisite belief in 'the inward rational principle of human beings, and the inward rational principle of the natural universe' (Harland, 1987, p.146). The advantages of such a belief obviously reside in the security which any such a metaphysics brings, and which is its raison d'être.

As I have pointed out, lecturers may in many cases, and for much of the time, actually be reading their own texts, or those of others, in the act of lecturing. In terms of its etymology the word 'lecture' in fact means 'reading', and refers to the origins of lecturing in the medieval university, where the reading was of a standard text by someone such as Aristotle, accompanied by an exegesis of it. This procedure is of course still carried out, though the majority of lecturers would think of most of their lecture material as being 'original', as the degree of intertextuality of any given text is for the most part actually not available to the consciousness of the person involved.

Having been written down, these lecturers' texts are then available for reproduction, and conscientious, or 'technologiate' lecturers—to coin a phrase by analogy with 'literate' and 'computerate'—will make use of the textuality of their material, of its commodification—by making use of technologies of writing. These may take various forms of 'handouts': of lecture notes, lecture outlines, even of the whole lecture transcribed. In the process of delivery they will take the form of overhead transparencies, diagrams, summaries and exemplars on various kinds of boards and display apparatuses. These are all, in the broad sense, technologies of writing.

I now want to consider very briefly those aspects of distance education which are of potential or actual great value to contiguous education. I turn to those technologies (in the broadest sense of the word) of distance education which I believe may usefully be regarded as having priority in a fully extended range of pedagogies.

Firstly, there is design per se. Detailed planning is intrinsic to distance education, but not to conventional teaching where ad hoc decisions are more characteristic. Curricula in the two modes are designed in completely different ways. On campus education is only designed at the most global and most particular levels, while distance education is characterised by an even and intensive design process throughout the development of its curriculum design. Let me try to show what I mean by this.

In my experience at least, programs of study, and units within them, are designed with the reproduction of the institution as one of their primary aims. A university decides at the highest level that it is to teach a certain discipline, and it appoints staff who profess appropriate expertise. They then design a program to cover the salient moments in that discipline, break the curriculum up into components of convenient size (units, subjects, courses), assign lecturers to each of these component units, and they in their turn prepare—usually 'write'—a set of lectures to cover that ground. Inasmuch as objectives are conceived of, they would be expressed, explicitly or not, in terms of the needs of the institution. They would characteristically be couched in terms of 'the aims of the unit' being to 'introduce students to', or some such locution indicating an operation to be performed on students, rather than something that students either do themselves or that they acquire. It is typically not their needs that are expressed, but the 'unit's', that is, the staff's or the institution's or both.

The field of distance education, on the other hand, is characterised by explicit principles relating primarily to the organisation of learning. In mixed-mode institutions at least, there is a flow-on effect of this pedagogical planning which in the long term is having an effect on conventional education, not only because independent study materials designed for distant students are being used by conventional educators as part of the on-campus offering, but also because conventional educators are learning—by osmosis—the benefits of good design.

To support this industrialised process, then, there are normally manuals of instructional design which characteristically make explicit, bring to consciousness, the processes of course design in a way, or at levels, that is not done with contiguous education. Such manuals typically begin by inviting unit writers to consider the kinds of people for whom their units are to be designed. Community needs are addressed before those of the university, individuals' before institutions'. I am not arguing that disciplines and institutions should not continue their self-reproductive practices: this is probably in the nature of all institutions. I am, however, suggesting that contiguous education teachers should do as distance educators do, and, in the best interests of their students, consider who they are, where they are coming from, and what their needs might be.

Distance education is also characterised by technical aspects of its pedagogy which are not normally attended to consciously by practitioners of contiguous education. Concepts such as advance organisers, concept maps, sequencing, and so on, usually play little part in the design of contiguous education, but form parts of the staple diet of instructional design in distance education. I am not of course saying that contiguous education lecturers do not consider the sequence in which they present material, and may not attempt to map the network of concepts that they are teaching on overhead transparencies or whatever; what I am arguing is that thinking in these terms is foregrounded in the theory and practice of distance education in a way that it is not in contiguous education. In addition, I am suggesting that there is no intrinsic reason which this should be the case; the reasons are historical and contextual.

Under this rubric I first want to discuss print technologies which are specifically associated with distance education, including verbal text, graphics, illustrations, maps, diagrams, and the like. We are on familiar ground here, in that contiguous educators usually have no difficulty in including these elements in their daily teaching. This will normally occur, however, on a casual basis, as each particular need is perceived. What I want to address is the incorporation of distance education materials as ready-made wholes into contiguous education. This has always been standard practice at mixed-mode institutions like Murdoch and Deakin Universities, but has recently been the subject of a study at the University College of Southern Queensland (all three in Australia), where it is apparently a revolutionary practice (Taylor and White, 1991).

The cases of other communications technologies are a little more complicated in that media such as audiotape and videotape are not as yet as taken-for-granted as print, though this is changing. Some other media, such as broadcast radio and TV, electronic mail, tele(phone)conferencing, and videoconferencing at present are not part of the range of techniques considered under the rubric of contiguous education. What might be the effect of contiguous educators reflecting on these practices? And in what ways might existing forms of communication using these media benefit contiguous practices?

Firstly, and obviously, audio and video material may be used as ancillary material in the lecture theatre. More profoundly, lecturers may come to think in terms of a range of sensory availability, in that hearing is not the only sense able to be employed in learning, and listening not the only mode of mental activity. In the realm of the visual, a range of kinds of seeing/viewing/reading may be mobilised in the presentation of texts (by which I do not only mean those constructed of words) which are stationary, or serial, or in motion. In the auditory realm, it need not be taken for granted that listening always produces orderly concept acquisition. Not only may different kinds of listening, not-listening and partly-listening produce different kinds of learning effects (changes in the organism) but it might be possible for students to talk back.

Then there are: project work, independent study contracts, and other categories of learning which are predominantly learner-initiated and directed, perhaps even assessed. These are the echt distance education activities, but they may also have a place in mainstream contiguous education. Lastly, I might mention student networks—self-help groups and the like. In the distance education situation these may be epistolary or telephone networks, as well as meetings in study centres or homes. They correspond to small-group work in the contiguous education situation.

To sum up this argument we might as our slogan adopt a phrase such as Contextualised Independent Learning. Learning in distance education is supervised but not invigilated, organised but not controlled, student-centred but not anarchic. The context referred to in the slogan is provided by the course, the unit, the program of study, the book, the study guide, but it is also capable of gesturing towards the situation of independent learners—whether they sit in classrooms or not. As Cook (1989) asks: 'Is there liberation in distance?'


1. In this paper I use the term 'contiguous education' to refer to the most typical kind of 'face-to-face' teaching, that is, the kind of education which is conventionally carried on in lecture theatres: other terms which may be used include 'proximal' and 'conventional'.

2. C. S. Peirce was actually the first to state this proposition.

3. See e.g. Lord, Albert (1965) The Singer of Tales, New York, Atheneum, for an account of oral composition, and a deconstruction of the Homeric legend.


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Garry Gillard | New: 23 April, 2016 | Now: 2 March, 2017