“The beginning is the most important part of any work,” Plato writes in The Republic, “especially in the case of a young and tender thing; for that is the time at which the character is being formed.”
What Plato knew—and what we’ve forgotten—is that a healthy civil society does not begin in politics. It begins in education. And not education in the narrow, technical sense, but education in first principles: freedom, equality, law, justice, reason, and the responsibilities of the citizen. These reflect values and ideals by which we live, but their meaning is not self-evident —they must be discovered and debated, learned and earned, and intentionally taught.
And the most enduring forms through which to teach them are the “Great Books,” the enduring classics of our intellectual tradition, from the Bible and the Iliad to works by authors ranging from Plato to Augustine, Shakespeare, Montaigne, Nietzsche and beyond. These are the foundational works that have shaped our ideas of truth, justice, beauty, and the self. The Great Books movement viewed direct reading and discussion of such classic texts as foundational to undergraduate education and to an educated citizenry. Core curricula at the University of Chicago and Columbia University have roots in this movement, as does my own institution, St. John’s College. This approach is central to the ever expanding K-to-12 Classical Education movement.
But as with everything today, the Great Books are widely misunderstood, because they are viewed through the lens of political ideology. On the right, they are often treated as cultural property—prized more as artifacts of Western identity than as living texts that challenge us and demand moral seriousness. On the left, they are still too often dismissed as relics of a colonial, misogynistic, or patriarchal past, a curriculum of dead white men irrelevant or antithetical to our struggles for freedom and equality.
But the Great Books are neither conservative nor progressive. They are human and belong to all of us. They explore the soul and the state, and they wrestle with power, truth, tyranny and freedom. They contain both the roots of liberal democracy and the seeds of revolution. They challenge the reader to think, not conform. Above all, they provide a language with which to argue about our most fundamental commitments. They are not a museum. They are a mirror.
We abandon them at our peril.
Abandon them we have. Across the political spectrum, American institutions that once embodied liberal-democratic principles—free expression, civic dialogue, individual dignity—are faltering. Those on right and left alike have allowed tribal loyalty to replace enduring values.
On the right, the collapse of principle is breathtaking. Media outlets that once extolled restraint, constitutional fidelity, and the rule of law now amplify conspiracies, attack judicial oversight, and vilify democratic processes. Public figures who built their platforms defending free speech and open discourse fall silent—or worse, become active participants—when those norms are threatened by ideological allies
On the left, media and advocacy organizations have become tangled in internal battles over ideological purity. Universities face protest and paralysis. Newsrooms fracture over publishing controversial views. And while some institutions are beginning to course-correct in the face of renewed threats to democracy, early timidity helped entrench the climate of distrust we face.
The result? Principle is subordinate to tribe.
How, then, do we rebuild a civil society rooted not in identity or grievance, but in shared foundations? We must return to first principles. And we must teach them—intentionally, seriously, and in community.
This is what the Great Books make possible. Rousseau wrote that “the citizen’s first education is in the principles of the state.” Jefferson insisted that liberty could not survive without an educated citizenry. Hannah Arendt argued that education exists to prepare the young for a world they did not choose—and to prepare that world for the new words and deeds by which the young will inevitably reshape that world.
But we have grown negligent in this task. Our educational systems train students in technical skills or, a layer deeper, in analysis and argument, but rarely in first principles. Students learn to critique power, but not to understand and justify its proper uses. They are taught to question traditions, but not to distinguish between just and unjust ones. They graduate full of opinions, but without the habits of judgment, patience, and intellectual humility that democracy requires.
The result is not just fragility. It is fanaticism. When students are not taught how to think with seriousness and care about justice, freedom, and truth, they will seek substitutes. And when our institutions no longer serve as shared spaces for reasoned disagreement, their authority collapses—often into cynicism or radicalism.
If we are serious about rebuilding civil society, we need an education that forms citizens, not just professionals. That values the building of a meaningful life over a financially lucrative one. That welcomes disagreement. That prizes clarity over conformity. That insists on the difference between persuasion and performance and between persuasion and coercion. That teaches students to listen before they speak—and to speak with care, not certainty. That forms hard-won independence of mind, not the cheap validation of groupthink.
This is not a luxury. It is a necessity. For all our political reforms and cultural reckonings, none will take root unless we rebuild the moral and intellectual architecture on which they depend. And that means looking not just at our institutions—but at the people who will inherit and shape them.
And it also means looking in the mirror. Those on the right must acknowledge that their embrace of grievance politics and tribal loyalty has jeopardized the very constitutional and civic norms they once claimed to defend. Those on the left must recognize that their moralistic zeal and narrowing of intellectual discourse have turned educational and cultural institutions into engines of alienation, not trust. Both have been part of the problem. Both must reform.
The Great Books can help with that, too. Because the most important conversations they prompt are not with our adversaries—but with ourselves.
A civil society is not a spontaneous achievement. It is something taught and transmitted, practiced and defended—starting with first principles, which are the life blood of Great Books.
J. Walter Sterling became the eighth president of St. John’s College, Santa Fe in July 2024. He has been a member of the teaching faculty since 2003 and served nine years as dean of the college.
The views expressed in this article are the writer’s own.
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