What’s in a Textbook?
Howard Gardner © 2024
As one gets older, one forgets many things—yet another reason not to run for the presidency of the United States! But one may also remember things that one had long forgotten. In my case, for example, I have for decades failed to appreciate the importance in my early life of my experiences over a seven-year span as a Cub Scout, Boy Scout, and—eventually—an Eagle Scout.
Such memories can be prompted by many things. In my case, I recently reconnected with John Brewer, a distinguished historian whom I knew in the late 1960s when I was involved in doctoral study at Harvard, and he was a visiting fellow. In reading some of John’s writings, listening to a series of podcasts (on YouTube, you can listen to Part 1, Part 2, Part 3, and Part 4, or you read through the interview transcript, linked here) and then re-connecting with him over a lengthy lunch, I came to the following realization: Unlike most of our colleagues in the academic disciplines, John and I had ventured quite far and wide in writings—as my colleague Steven Pinker once phrased it, we had not “stayed in our lane.”
John Brewer
In John’s case, as an historian of modern Europe, he has written about the arts, politics, economics, the law, consumption, geology, the imagination, crime—the list goes on. Recently, and impressively, he has explored the niche occupied by volcanic Mount Vesuvius in the public imagination and in scholarship over the past few centuries (Brewer 2023).
In my case, I had started out my academic career as a developmental psychologist, interested principally in cognition, in the spirit of the great Swiss scholar Jean Piaget. But over the years, I have written about the arts, leadership, creativity, ethics, the professions, and human virtues—just to name a few topics. (For evidence in support of this claim, see Gardner, 2020; 2024a; 2024b.)
That said, in thinking of John Brewer and my somewhat similar careers, the term “textbook” did not spring to mind. Nor has that category of writing been something that I’ve thought much about.
But let’s say that you had asked me point-blank: “Have you written textbooks?” I would have paused a bit, and then responded, “Well, as a doctoral student—to make some money—I ghost-wrote a textbook on social psychology. It did not have much influence, but it provided a summer’s salary.”
Continuing: Then, a decade later, I was approached by a publisher to write a textbook on developmental psychology. In that case, I did have something to say and, yet again, not having a regular job (I was living off research grants, always a risky proposition), I agreed to undertake this commission. The textbook was successful, it went into a second edition a few years later. But then, I was fortunate enough to win a major financial award and to receive an offer to join the faculty at the Harvard Graduate School of Education. At that point, I heaved a huge sigh of relief and said to myself: “Well, I’ll never have to write another textbook again.”
At least explicitly and consciously, that seemed the correct conclusion. And it reveals that I did not consider textbooks to be as significant as my other writings—I might even have quipped that there are “textbooks” and “real books”—or perhaps less snobbishly: “course books” and “general books.”
But now, I’ve come to realize I had not thought clearly enough about the implications of these facile reactions. In fact, over half a century, I have often studied and then chronicled topics about which I initially had scant knowledge. Expanding on the list above, these included: aesthetics, several art forms (from ballet to poetry), structuralism, neuroscience, cognitive science, epistemology, media, technology, and the list could go on…
And how did I go about exploring these topics?
Here’s my answer: I explored these topics much as if I were going to write a textbook on the topic. An example: How could I possibly write knowledgeably about leadership unless I familiarized myself with the relevant literature from history, politics, business—and indeed, novels, plays, even poetry? Or, by the same calculus: How could I possibly write about truth, beauty, and goodness without exploring the relative literatures in philosophy, morality, ethics, law, science, aesthetics?
The ostensible difference from “ordinary” textbook writing: I did not perceive the need to cover the landscape of each field; it was enough to wander— and to wonder!—sufficiently so that I could speak and write knowledgably (or at least not embarrassingly) for those with some expertise. Nor was I writing primarily for teachers or students of a particular course, e.g. a course on leadership, creativity, or the arts. So, no need to cover the waterfront. (Though, of course, I was delighted if teachers or students happened to alight upon my book—and sometimes they did.)
And occasionally, as with a “real” textbook, I have felt the need to update the book—taking into account new discoveries, findings, questions, or conclusions.
Reflections
Samuel Johnson
I did not (and do not) think of myself primarily as a writer of textbooks—nor of my audience as willing (or unwilling) readers of textbooks. But I should not be judgmental about the genre of textbooks.
Broader concerns: Why do we need textbooks—and why do individuals write them?
Certainly, as long as we have formal education with respect to various topics and disciplines, some kind of basic information source (whether text, website, film) will be needed. And this demand seems as true in a digital age as it has been in an age of print...or even of papyrus. A good textbook is as important as a good general book.
English wit Samuel Johnson famously quipped: “Only a fool writes for anything but money.” Clearly this statement is hyperbolic; some individuals write books—and even textbooks!—because they want to. Still, I imagine that, as in my case, most textbook writers want and need the remuneration that successful texts can provide—immediately and (via multiple editions) over the long-run.
Those writers who do not “stay in the same lane” over time need to do at least some of the same research as those who are commissioned—or commission themselves—to write textbooks.
And yet, because our goal is different, we do not feel that we need to cover the waterfront—and nor do we feel any pressure to present consensual views, so long as we don’t unduly distort work by earlier thinkers and writers.
A Broader Takeaway
As readers of this blog know, ever since writing my memoir A Synthesizing Mind (published in 2020), I have been obsessed by the topic of synthesizing: what it is; how we (or at least some of us) accomplish it; how important it is for our time; how it relates to large language instruments like ChatGPT; going forward, what role synthesizing should occupy in our educational system. Textbooks are certainly an important continuing part of the overall story of synthesizing.
Rather than denying or disparaging the writing of textbooks, I should value them. Moreover, it’s past time that I should have realized that I have long-been engaged—at least in part—in this endeavor.
Anyone who undertakes the study of (and the writing about) any topic with which he or she is not already familiar must engage in a fair amount of synthesizing—in the manner of a textbook writer. Those who read (or otherwise learn) about the synthesis will benefit from the extent to which the synthesis is adequate (drawing on what I call the disciplinary mind) and be enriched to the extent that the synthesis is mind-expanding (drawing on what I call the creating mind). And indeed, whether planned or not, whether intentional or not, a work originally commissioned as a routine or standard textbook may on rare occasion end up as a creative breakthrough—and will in turn shape the content and the course of future textbooks.
Thanks to John Brewer, for stimulating these reflections; and thanks to Shinri Furuzawa, Annie Stachura, and Ellen Winner for thoughtful and helpful comments on earlier drafts.
References
Brewer, J. (2023). Volcanic: Vesuvius in the age of revolutions. Yale University Press.
Brewer, J. (2023). Interviewed by David Zierler for the Caltech Heritage Project.
Gardner, H. (2020). A Synthesizing Mind. MIT Press.
Gardner, H. (2024a). The essential Howard Gardner on education. Teachers College Press.
Gardner, H. (2024b). The essential Howard Gardner on mind. Teachers College Press.