The Harkness method is a powerful but simple technique for fostering classroom dialogue. First developed at Phillips Exeter Academy in the 1930s, it envisions the teacher organizing a general framework for discussion and then deliberately withdrawing from the ensuing conversation, taking copious notes as students pursue the topic in their own fashion. Like its close cousin, the so-called fishbowl, I find Harkness to be particularly valuable in classrooms where teacher-led discussion seems halting and tentative, failing to develop self-sustaining rhythms; the method works in these circumstances, I think, because it obliges students to recognize their own agency in an ongoing conversation, making them responsible for guiding its development. (And, perhaps, having a teacher who is singularly focused on observing the conversation and documenting each student’s contributions creates a salutary perception of accountability for participants.) I first encountered Harkness as a graduate student, when I had a spell of long-term substitute teaching in a nearby prep school where the method was practiced in every subject area. The teacher’s advantage in such a situation, of course, is that students are already habituated to the Harkness classroom’s particular tempo and demands. Yet I’ve found that the rules are intuitive enough that any class can quickly grasp them.
Here’s an example of the way I have adapted the technique for a lesson at Sewanee. Teaching Act 5 of Shakespeare’s Romeo and Juliet in an introductory literature and composition course, I begin by asking the class to consider the concept of closure in broad terms. What does it look like in the popular cinematic genres with which they’re most familiar – action movies, romantic comedies, or spy thrillers? What does each sort of narrative require in order to produce what the late literary critic Frank Kermode calls the “sense of an ending,” instead of merely stopping? As this preparatory framing exercise runs its course, we turn to Romeo and Juliet. On the board, I have written down textual references for three key passages from the play’s last scene: Friar Laurence’s confession (5.3.229-269), the Prince of Verona’s moralizing sentence (5.3.286-295), and the proposals by Montague and Capulet to erect golden statues in honor of their children (5.3.296-304). Together, the students should in turn read each passage closely to analyze the tone, syntax, diction, and any imagery, striving to notice as much as possible in the language; I emphasize the importance of anchoring every idea in textual evidence, a key skill in their academic writing. Once an individual passage has been adequately explored, they should consider the way that this pivotal moment either provides or denies (or, sometimes, both provides and denies) the audience a feeling of closure. Then I tell them that as they do this, I will be taking a vow of silence and sitting in the corner to listen to the discussion. They’re still welcome to pose any factual or clarifying questions to me that they wish, which I’ll do my best to answer. But my primary role will be to take notes, and between each passage I will present what I intend to be a thoughtful response to their discussion, including follow-up questions. Since I’ll know from my notes exactly who introduced different ideas at different points, I can tailor my comments to advance particular pedagogical goals: highlighting key themes, correcting any misapprehensions that may have cropped up, or inviting quieter members of the class to expand on their remarks. With Romeo and Juliet, my hope is that students will recognize irony: while both marriage and death are common forms of narrative closure, their coincidence in the families’ inapt commemoration seems to unsettle any tidy sense of resolution.
Although it can be tempting to intervene energetically when a conversation seems to be idling, I’ve found occasional forays into this methodology to be a rewarding and surprisingly versatile mode of instruction, especially as a change of pace during the stretch run of the semester. There are, however, a few important considerations I’ve noticed over time concerning Harkness’s usefulness. It does require a bit more preparation on my part than an extempore discussion, and it’s far more appropriate, of course, to smaller classes: personally, I wouldn’t attempt it with more than about 15 students. Many Harkness schools furnish their classrooms with special oval tables designed to facilitate these conversations, and while I haven’t found the table necessary, a classroom configuration that promotes eye contact among students does seem essential. Finally, perhaps I should add that in classes with whom I’ve enjoyed an easy socratic rapport, it’s been my impression that the students may find the Harkness style a bit cumbersome. It seems to bear the most fruit with shy or even recalcitrant groups, rather than naturally lively ones. For anyone interested in learning more, Phillips Exeter Academy maintains a webpage with many resources: https://www.exeter.edu/programs-educators/harkness-outreach/
Ross Macdonald, Department of English, CfT Advisory Board Member