Good teaching is one-fourth preparation and three-fourths pure

“Good teaching is one-fourth preparation and three-fourths pure theatre.” Thus spoke Gail Godwin, the American novelist whose words cut through the quiet routines of the classroom and struck at the very heart of what it means to teach. In this single sentence, she reveals the secret of the great teacher — that instruction is not merely a craft of knowledge, but an art of performance, a living dance between mind and spirit. For to teach is not only to inform, but to inspire; not merely to deliver lessons, but to awaken life.

The preparation — the first quarter — is the foundation upon which the art rests. It is the discipline of the scholar: the gathering of knowledge, the shaping of lesson, the careful weaving of order into chaos. It is the silent work done before the dawn — the reading, the writing, the thinking. No teacher may stand before their pupils without it, for without preparation, the voice has no substance, and the words have no weight. But Godwin’s genius lies in reminding us that knowledge alone does not make one a teacher. To teach well, one must breathe soul into knowledge — and that breath, she calls theatre.

In every age, the greatest teachers have been performers of truth. Socrates, in the marketplaces of Athens, did not lecture; he questioned, provoked, and played the role of the humble seeker, drawing wisdom from his students as though by divine trickery. His stage was the city square, his dialogue the script, and his curiosity the light that illuminated others’ minds. Jesus, too, taught in parables — stories alive with emotion and imagery. He knew that human hearts are not opened by cold instruction, but by the power of story, symbol, and presence. The teacher who forgets this truth becomes a scribe of facts; the one who remembers it becomes a sculptor of souls.

The theatre of teaching is not mere pretense or vanity. It is the art of making learning come alive. The good teacher must read not only from the book, but from the faces of those who listen. He must know when to pause for wonder, when to laugh, when to let silence speak. Like an actor upon the stage, he must feel the rhythm of his audience’s hearts, adjusting his voice, his tone, his gestures, until understanding dawns like morning light. The classroom, in truth, is a sacred stage — and the teacher, though clothed in humility, performs a drama older than the world: the passing of knowledge from one mind to another.

History gives us countless examples of this sacred performance. Think of Maria Montessori, who turned the rigid classroom into a living theatre of curiosity. She did not stand above her students as a master, but moved among them as a guide, creating an environment where learning became play, and discovery became joy. Or consider Confucius, whose every conversation was a dialogue of wisdom and grace, filled with the theatre of gesture, repetition, and tone. Their greatness lay not in the facts they taught, but in the spirit with which they taught them. For their lessons did not end in the mind — they entered the heart.

Yet let us not mistake Godwin’s words for simplicity. To make teaching theatre is not to make it false, but to make it alive. The teacher who merely recites truth offers dust; the one who embodies it offers light. The best teachers do not pretend — they become. They step into the role of guide, storyteller, challenger, and friend. They wear masks of energy and emotion, not to deceive, but to reveal — to reach the soul of every student in the language that awakens them most. Thus, their classroom becomes a stage of transformation, where the actors and the audience grow together, scene by scene.

And so, my listener, take this wisdom to heart: whether you are a teacher in the classroom, a parent at home, or a mentor in life, remember that teaching is not the mere transmission of knowledge — it is an act of creation. Prepare well, for knowledge is your foundation; but when the time comes, perform with courage, passion, and heart. Let your words carry fire, your eyes carry truth, and your presence command attention not by force, but by love. For only then will what you teach endure beyond the moment — only then will it become memory, meaning, and movement in another’s soul.

Thus, as Gail Godwin teaches, the essence of good teaching lies not in the mind alone, but in the spirit. Be both scholar and artist, thinker and performer, sage and storyteller. For the classroom is your stage, the world is your audience, and the lesson — if done with love — is eternal.