In the vast and nuanced intellectual landscape of the 12th century, few images have endured with as much resonance as that of the nani gigantum humeris insidentes—“dwarfs standing on the shoulders of giants.” Attributed to Bernard of Chartres and reported by his student John of Salisbury in the Metalogicon, the metaphor has long been interpreted as emblematic of a medieval sense of historical humility and progress. Yet beneath this seemingly modest image lies a complex web of theological, philosophical, and cultural associations, from classical mythology to Breton hagiography.
A Metaphor of Progress or Reverence?
Bernard of Chartres, a pivotal figure in the so-called “Twelfth-Century Renaissance,” famously stated:
“We are like dwarfs perched on the shoulders of giants, so that we can see more than they, and things at a greater distance—not by virtue of any sharpness of sight on our part, or any physical height, but because we are carried high and raised up by their giant stature.”
This saying, as transmitted by John of Salisbury in his discussion of Aristotle’s Perihermenias, has been heralded as a precursor to modern notions of intellectual progress. But as Jacques Le Goff provocatively asked: is this really the fullest expression of progress the Middle Ages could conceive?
Le Goff’s answer is nuanced: while the medieval world often saw itself as growing old and diminished—a fin de partie of history—some thinkers cautiously revalorised the present, suggesting that age brings not just decline but cumulative knowledge. In this light, Bernard’s metaphor cleverly reconciles reverence for antiquity with a modest claim to advancement.
Yet the tone is ambiguous. As Umberto Eco noted, the metaphor could just as easily be read as humble—our knowledge depends entirely on the past—or subtly proud: we see further, therefore we know more, albeit thanks to those who came before.
Beyond Scholasticism: A Breach into Breton Lore
15th century manuscript image – Library of Congress, Rosenwald collection, 4, ms. no. 3, fol. 5r
To understand the deeper implications of Bernard’s image, one must look beyond the scholastic frame and into his cultural and geographical roots. Thanks to the research of Hubert Guillotel, we now know that Bernard of Chartres likely ended his life as Bishop of Quimper, in Brittany, under the name Bernard of Moelan. This identification suggests that the intellectual matrix of Bernard’s thought might include elements from Breton hagiographical and folkloric traditions.
In the Vitae of Saints Corentin and Ronan—possibly authored or inspired by Bernard himself—we see motifs drawn from both Christian and classical traditions. For instance, poetic descriptions of dawn evoke Virgil’s imagery, with the sun as Titan rising from the waves:
“Et nitidum radiis Titan caput extullit undis.”
Such allusions hint at the continuity between classical myth and Christian poetic imagination—a continuity that also underpins the metaphor of the giants.
Giants, in this context, are not just allegories for past intellectual greatness. They may also recall the mythic Titans and Gigantes, conflated in Christian tradition with the sinful pre-Flood generation. The giants are thus ambiguous figures—both venerated ancestors and symbols of a fallen world.
The Chartres School and the Logic of Accumulation
A 16th-century depiction of John of Salisbury teaching philosophy – BNF MS Français 1145 fol. 3r
Bernard’s intellectual heirs—Guillaume de Conches, Henricus Brito, and Alain de Lille—further refined and expanded the metaphor. Guillaume, drawing on Priscian, suggested that the moderns are more perspicacious, if not wiser, because they inherit all the texts of the ancients and add their own. This is not a straightforward declaration of superiority. As Guillaume notes, discovery requires more genius than repetition.
John of Salisbury, too, was careful to avoid triumphalism. While acknowledging the cumulative power of inherited knowledge, he reveres the antiquity of the classical authors: their words possess a majestas antiqua that demands respect, even when the modern reader surpasses them in clarity.
These nuances matter. The metaphor is not merely a cliché of scholastic optimism. It encodes a pedagogy—a vision of learning grounded in study, imitation, and dialogue with the past. Bernard, though no texts of his have survived, seems to have taught his students to climb the shoulders of the giants not to displace them, but to better understand and extend their vision.
Giants and Memory: Between Folklore and Philosophy
The persistence of the metaphor across several generations of the Chartres school may also reflect deeper mythological and symbolic currents. Giants had long haunted the margins of Christian imagination, whether as echoes of the rebellious Titans or as literal figures in local legend and hagiography. That Bernard, a Breton with ties to hagiographical literature, chose this image is perhaps not accidental.
In Breton lore, giants represent both a prehistoric otherness and a monumental presence—a past that looms, sometimes threateningly, over the present. By climbing upon them, the dwarf does not destroy them; he acknowledges their stature and uses it to see more clearly. In this sense, the metaphor functions as an act of cultural memory, binding together past and present in a relationship of debt, continuity, and tension.
A Modern Lesson from Medieval Modesty
To read Bernard of Chartres’ metaphor as a proto-Enlightenment celebration of human progress is to risk flattening its richness. What it offers instead is a medieval model of humility combined with ambition. Knowledge is cumulative, yes—but it is also inherited, cultivated, and refined through effort and reverence.
The image of the dwarf and the giant invites us to consider how we relate to those who came before. It reminds us that progress is not always rupture but often careful continuation, that our intellectual stature depends on our willingness to study the towering figures of the past—even if we can, from our perch, see horizons they never imagined.
In this respect, Bernard’s metaphor remains profoundly relevant. Whether we stand on the shoulders of modern scientists or saints, of Virgil or Chartres theologians, the real question is not merely how far we can see—but whether we remember who lifted us up.
Dr Lorris Chevalier, who has a Ph.D. in medieval literature, is a historical advisor for movies, including The Last Duel and Napoleon. Click here to view his website.
By Lorris Chevalier
In the vast and nuanced intellectual landscape of the 12th century, few images have endured with as much resonance as that of the nani gigantum humeris insidentes—“dwarfs standing on the shoulders of giants.” Attributed to Bernard of Chartres and reported by his student John of Salisbury in the Metalogicon, the metaphor has long been interpreted as emblematic of a medieval sense of historical humility and progress. Yet beneath this seemingly modest image lies a complex web of theological, philosophical, and cultural associations, from classical mythology to Breton hagiography.
A Metaphor of Progress or Reverence?
Bernard of Chartres, a pivotal figure in the so-called “Twelfth-Century Renaissance,” famously stated:
“We are like dwarfs perched on the shoulders of giants, so that we can see more than they, and things at a greater distance—not by virtue of any sharpness of sight on our part, or any physical height, but because we are carried high and raised up by their giant stature.”
This saying, as transmitted by John of Salisbury in his discussion of Aristotle’s Perihermenias, has been heralded as a precursor to modern notions of intellectual progress. But as Jacques Le Goff provocatively asked: is this really the fullest expression of progress the Middle Ages could conceive?
Le Goff’s answer is nuanced: while the medieval world often saw itself as growing old and diminished—a fin de partie of history—some thinkers cautiously revalorised the present, suggesting that age brings not just decline but cumulative knowledge. In this light, Bernard’s metaphor cleverly reconciles reverence for antiquity with a modest claim to advancement.
Yet the tone is ambiguous. As Umberto Eco noted, the metaphor could just as easily be read as humble—our knowledge depends entirely on the past—or subtly proud: we see further, therefore we know more, albeit thanks to those who came before.
Beyond Scholasticism: A Breach into Breton Lore
To understand the deeper implications of Bernard’s image, one must look beyond the scholastic frame and into his cultural and geographical roots. Thanks to the research of Hubert Guillotel, we now know that Bernard of Chartres likely ended his life as Bishop of Quimper, in Brittany, under the name Bernard of Moelan. This identification suggests that the intellectual matrix of Bernard’s thought might include elements from Breton hagiographical and folkloric traditions.
In the Vitae of Saints Corentin and Ronan—possibly authored or inspired by Bernard himself—we see motifs drawn from both Christian and classical traditions. For instance, poetic descriptions of dawn evoke Virgil’s imagery, with the sun as Titan rising from the waves:
“Et nitidum radiis Titan caput extullit undis.”
Such allusions hint at the continuity between classical myth and Christian poetic imagination—a continuity that also underpins the metaphor of the giants.
Giants, in this context, are not just allegories for past intellectual greatness. They may also recall the mythic Titans and Gigantes, conflated in Christian tradition with the sinful pre-Flood generation. The giants are thus ambiguous figures—both venerated ancestors and symbols of a fallen world.
The Chartres School and the Logic of Accumulation
Bernard’s intellectual heirs—Guillaume de Conches, Henricus Brito, and Alain de Lille—further refined and expanded the metaphor. Guillaume, drawing on Priscian, suggested that the moderns are more perspicacious, if not wiser, because they inherit all the texts of the ancients and add their own. This is not a straightforward declaration of superiority. As Guillaume notes, discovery requires more genius than repetition.
John of Salisbury, too, was careful to avoid triumphalism. While acknowledging the cumulative power of inherited knowledge, he reveres the antiquity of the classical authors: their words possess a majestas antiqua that demands respect, even when the modern reader surpasses them in clarity.
These nuances matter. The metaphor is not merely a cliché of scholastic optimism. It encodes a pedagogy—a vision of learning grounded in study, imitation, and dialogue with the past. Bernard, though no texts of his have survived, seems to have taught his students to climb the shoulders of the giants not to displace them, but to better understand and extend their vision.
Giants and Memory: Between Folklore and Philosophy
The persistence of the metaphor across several generations of the Chartres school may also reflect deeper mythological and symbolic currents. Giants had long haunted the margins of Christian imagination, whether as echoes of the rebellious Titans or as literal figures in local legend and hagiography. That Bernard, a Breton with ties to hagiographical literature, chose this image is perhaps not accidental.
In Breton lore, giants represent both a prehistoric otherness and a monumental presence—a past that looms, sometimes threateningly, over the present. By climbing upon them, the dwarf does not destroy them; he acknowledges their stature and uses it to see more clearly. In this sense, the metaphor functions as an act of cultural memory, binding together past and present in a relationship of debt, continuity, and tension.
A Modern Lesson from Medieval Modesty
To read Bernard of Chartres’ metaphor as a proto-Enlightenment celebration of human progress is to risk flattening its richness. What it offers instead is a medieval model of humility combined with ambition. Knowledge is cumulative, yes—but it is also inherited, cultivated, and refined through effort and reverence.
The image of the dwarf and the giant invites us to consider how we relate to those who came before. It reminds us that progress is not always rupture but often careful continuation, that our intellectual stature depends on our willingness to study the towering figures of the past—even if we can, from our perch, see horizons they never imagined.
In this respect, Bernard’s metaphor remains profoundly relevant. Whether we stand on the shoulders of modern scientists or saints, of Virgil or Chartres theologians, the real question is not merely how far we can see—but whether we remember who lifted us up.
Dr Lorris Chevalier, who has a Ph.D. in medieval literature, is a historical advisor for movies, including The Last Duel and Napoleon. Click here to view his website.
Click here to read more from Lorris Chevalier
Further Readings:
Merdrignac, Bernard, “Chapitre IV. Les géants bretons et Bernard de Chartres?” Les saints bretons entre légendes et histoire, Presses universitaires de Rennes, 2008.
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