CHAPTER I
THE AIM IN NOTE-TAKING
Ask our friend, the average student, what is the use of taking notes, and he will answer without hesitation: Why, to preserve a record of what a lecturer has said, for the sake of future use, especially in reviewing for examinations. And probably he will go on to assert that the reason why notes are not better than they are is because it is impossible, between listening to a speaker and scribbling upon paper, to make the notes full enough.
False Ideals.—Does it seem absurd to challenge a way of thinking about notes that seems at first glance so self-evident, and that is held, more or less consciously, by so very many people? Yet just because this common view is held to be so obvious, is reason for questioning whether it be not superficial. This, at least, is true: that if there is a better way of thinking about notes, we want to know it, especially if we are entering on a systematic study of the subject. And it is certainly worth our while to review the whole question on its merits,—first the reasons against the accepted theory, then the reasons for holding a different view.
A Shorthand Copy.—Why, in the first place, is not fulness of notes a good thing in itself? Or, to put the extreme case concretely, why would not a shorthand transcript of a lecture be the perfect, though unattain able, ideal of notes? Because, to give the most superficial reason first, such notes would be too bulky to keep, too long to reread, too clumsy to hunt through for particular topics. Much that one hears in a lecture is of no value for record, however useful it may have been in the original presentation of the subject; from all such useless matter, whether digressions or elaborations, we shall do well to keep our notes free. There is a better reason, too, one that goes deeper; but that may well wait, for the present.
Suggestive Jottings.—If not fulness of notes, then, are not ideal notes a record of suggestions,—jottings unintelligible to another reader, it may be, yet sufficient to guide the owner in reconstructing the original ideas? Again, the most obvious objection is superficial, yet sufficient. We are too prone to forget the original substance, or, retaining it, to hold a vague, uncertain idea, perhaps only half true—which is at least no better than forgetting altogether. And are we likely to grasp a subject accurately if we merely jot hasty phrases, putting off till the time of review the test as to whether we have really mastered the subject or no?
Unaided Memory.—Yet another solution of the note-taker’s problem is there, with obvious advantages, yet serious defects: dispense with notes altogether. Instead of dividing the mind between listening and writing, concentrate it on listening carefully, training it to retain what is grasped. For certain individuals this is indeed an excellent way, and it has the general advantage of being based on a sound principle,—that the final value of a lecture is that which reaches the mind of the hearer, rather than that which gets put down in the note-book. But the disadvantages are very serious too: first, that only the exceptional mind can be trusted to rely so wholly on itself; secondly, that the student with only mental notes is at a disadvantage in reviewing a subject; thirdly, that if the listener has a tendency toward vagueness of thought, his system offers no check upon resulting inaccuracy.
The True Ideal.—It remains, then, to determine what the true purpose of note-taking really is, and what is the test of a good set of notes. The problem reaches back to a more fundamental one, as to how far the lecturer, and how far the listener, contributes to a successful lecture. That the listener, indeed, has a share, and an important one, in the success of the lecture is the crux of the whole matter, and needs, therefore, thoroughly to be understood. The lecturer’s part is clear; the listener’s not so much so. One that benefits from a lecture is not content to sit passively and “be pumped into”; that gives no play to his own mind. Nor will he be an automatic recording machine; that calls for industry, but scarcely intelligence. His part rather is one of active mental effort. The speaker’s mind acts, and his reacts and assimilates; it recognizes important matter, observes digressions, takes note of illustrations, relates part to part, and distinguishes the true sense from other meanings likely to become confused with it.
Stated thus, the idea will perhaps be accepted readily enough; but it is so important that a tangible illustration will be helpful to show just how it works in actual practice. If we take up Huxley’s address on A Liberal Education, we come upon a passage of exceptional interest. As we read it we absorb it; but we do more than that: we try to anticipate its main idea, we comment on its significance, we question its validity. In the bracketed remarks in italics that follow there is an attempt to show how an alert reader is likely to react on the ideas as they unfold. Thus:
And by way of a beginning, let us ask ourselves—What is education? Above all things, what is our ideal of a thoroughly liberal education?—of that education which, if we could begin life again, we would give ourselves; of that education which, if we could mould the fates to our own will, we would give our children? [An interesting question: I wonder how his definition will fit the education I am receiving.]
Well, I know not what may be your conceptions upon this matter, but I will tell you mine, and I hope I shall find that our views are not very discrepant. [I have heard it said that education is a development of all one's mental powers. I wonder if that is his idea?]
Suppose it were perfectly certain that the life and fortune of every one of us would, one day or other, depend upon his winning or losing a game of chess. [What's this?]
Don't you think that we should all consider it to be a primary duty to learn at least the names and the moves of the pieces; to have a notion of a gambit, and a keen eye for all the means of giving and getting out of check? Do you not think that we should look, with a disapprobation amounting to scorn, upon the father who allowed his son, or the state which allowed its members, to grow up without knowing a pawn from a knight? [That certainly is true. But how will he make the connection?]
Yet it is a very plain and elementary truth, that the life, the fortune, and the happiness of every one of us, and, more or less, of those who are connected with us, do depend upon our knowing something of the rules of a game infinitely more difficult and complicated than chess. It is a game which has been played for untold ages, every man and woman of us being one of the two players in a game of his or her own. The chess-board is the world, the pieces are the phenomena of the universe, the rules of the game are what we call the laws of Nature. [Yes, the point seems well made. But doesn't that seem to limit education to learning facts, not developing powers?] The player on the other side is hidden from us. We know that his play is always fair, just, and patient. But also we know, to our cost, that he never overlooks a mistake, or makes the smallest allowance for ignorance. To the man who plays well, the highest stakes are paid, with that sort of overflowing generosity with which the strong shows delight in strength. And one who plays ill is checkmated—without haste, but without remorse.
My metaphor will remind some of you of the famous picture in which Retzsch has depicted Satan playing at chess with man for his soul. Substitute for the mocking fiend in that picture a calm, strong angel who is playing for love, as we say, and would rather lose than win—and I should accept it as an image of human life. [Seems convincing from the point of view of success, certainly.]
Well, what I mean by Education is learning the rules of this mighty game. In other words, Education is [Now we're coming to it.] the instruction of the intellect in the laws of Nature, under which name I include not merely things and their forces, but men and their ways [That's the thing to remember. But it's a larger meaning for Laws of Nature than I'm accustomed to. Is it fair to include so much?]; and the fashioning of the affections and of the will into an earnest and loving desire to move in harmony with those laws. [His idea includes character, then, after all.] For me, education means neither more nor less than this. Anything which professes to call itself education must be tried by this standard, and if it fails to stand the test, I will not call it education, whatever may be the force of authority, or of numbers, upon the other side. [Yes, there he has summed it up—the centre of his thought. See if he will show it to be practical as a working theory.]
Results of Good Note-taking.—Now this process of query and comment is not note-taking, but it is presupposed in note-taking. And it makes possible a correct answer to the question as to wherein lies the final usefulness of notes. It shows that behind the accumulation of jottings is our mental attitude as note-takers—the most important thing. Our notes should, indeed, be useful for purposes of review; yet that usefulness is not their chief value. They should be full, yet contain only what the mind has accepted as significant. The practical value of our notes will take care of itself as a matter of secondary importance, if we devote ourselves wholly to their main purpose—to make us alert, clear-headed, and responsible as we listen to a lecture, and to serve as a ready test of the firmness of our grasp. To take good notes is not preliminary to study, but study. itself of the most vital kind; calling at once on all one's. powers of concentration, judgment, and craftsmanship.
Such being the purpose of our notes, how are we to know whether we have successfully accomplished it? The effort is intangible, incapable of being accurately. judged; but the notes remain, a clear test of results. Some way must be found of measuring the degree of success. The standard, clearly, should be high, capable of indicating the ideal perfection of notes. And that, it seems, is no less than this,—that our report be illuminating to one who has not heard the original lecture, selecting for him what was important to remember, setting forth the relation that one part bore to another, and phrasing the whole in a style both brief and accurate. Though we aim, at the time of writing, to hold ourselves to the strictest standard, we realize that we are not the best judges of our own success; notes that are really good should be clear to a stranger who picks. them up to read, or to ourselves long after, when the original subject has been forgotten.
To start with an ideal so high as this might seem to mean discouragement from the very beginning. And should we demand of ourselves that we absolutely meet the standard, such indeed would the result probably be. But the very fact of having a clear aim is enough to satisfy us at first; it matters less how far we have gone on the right road than that we have avoided the wrong road altogether. To go on then with a greater measure of self-confidence is to know that all progress is genuine progress, and no steps need be retraced. For that satisfaction, even some initial discouragement, should it be felt, would be after all but a small price to pay.
Two Divisions of Note-taking.—Thus far it has been assumed that the whole problem of note-taking is confined to the task of the lecture room. Centered there it certainly is, but not confined. We take our notes from articles or chapters read, as well as from lectures heard; and we use them, as will be later seen, for a variety of purposes. In order, therefore, that our practice be flexible enough to adapt itself to varying conditions, it seems wise to apply our principles, as we reach them, definitely to the two great divisions of note-taking,—those based on printed material, and those based on the spoken word. And since it is easier to work with the written article than the spoken lecture, it will be convenient to gain experience and confidence in the simpler problem before addressing ourselves to the more difficult. That idea furnishes a suggestion of method,—first to determine how best to work up notes from a printed article; then to adapt the process to the special conditions of the lecture.