Joseph
S. Lucas and Donald A. Yerxa, Editors
President's
Corner | On the Edge of the World | The
Greek Age of Heroes |
African
Encounters | Interview with Peter Nabokov |
Globalization and Its Critics | Hungary's
"Great Generation"
The
Pacific War and Civilizational Conflict | The
Cambridge Histories | 2002 Conference |
Regional Reports | Letters
September
2002
Volume
IV, Number 1
President’s
Corner
by
George Huppert
The
recent conference we sponsored in Atlanta
was successful in a number of ways. Those who were there will remember
the pleasant setting and some of the more striking presentations, including
those of David Landes and Seymour Drescher, which provoked long bouts of
debate. Natalie Davis’s paper was another high point.
Each
of us, no doubt, came away with new ideas, but what I found particularly
memorable was the congenial and stimulating mood that reigned throughout
those three days, when we had so many opportunities for getting to know
each other between formal sessions.
This
mood is something worth maintaining at our next national conference. There
is, elsewhere in this issue, a formal Call
for Papers for the 2004 conference. This may seem far away, but proposals
are actually due pretty soon, with a final deadline in December. You will
note that the ground rules are different this time.
Our
past conferences have been focused, more or less successfully, on a single
theme. Even so, most of us have hardly been jolted out of our routine,
basically doing what we have done at other meetings, that is, presenting
the results of our own research in company with two or three others on
the panels, whose interests are compatible with our own. The result was
predictable: a handful of medievalists, for instance, or specialists in
Mesopotamian archeology, attended their own sessions, while others plunged
into equally exclusive sessions. However interesting the presentations
were, one could hardly argue that there was much of a meeting of minds
across the thin walls separating these sessions.
Several
of my colleagues commented on this fact. Meanwhile, at a meeting in Chicago,
the three historians to whom I entrusted the direction of the 2004 conference
had already expressed their desire to overcome the kind of compartmentalization
that plagues our profession.
What
we hope to see happen when we next meet in BoothbayHarbor
is a new kind of conference at which we all learn from each other. We would
like to see, for instance, specialists in U.S.
colonial history meet with colleagues who study other colonial histories.
Another way of shaking loose the rigid boundaries to which we are accustomed
would be to devote a general discussion to the concept of the Middle
Ages, for instance, or to examine the nature of Western Civilization courses.
Could we have economic historians, regardless of their regional or chronological
territory, take a look at Africa since independence?
Why not venture into controversial or unexamined questions and ask whether
historical research can be useful to government policy makers, especially
at this juncture, when the West is the target for such concentrated rage?
Is there anything wrong with selecting topics for research that are directly
related to current preoccupations? Lucien Febvre, the fiery editor of Annales,
did not think so. He spoke of a managed history, “une histoire dirigée,”
and went about commissioning a series of articles that tried to provide
answers to the perplexities of his day—the 1929
Wall Street Crash, for instance.
Within
reason, I urge you to connect your own expertise with broader issues. We
are not just calling for comparative history. We would like to take stock,
to ask where our discipline is heading, by prompting a number of reports
from the field. What is going on in your own field, as you see it?
You
will have noticed the emphasis on “conversation” and “discussions” in the
wording of the Call for Papers. We mean that. We are moving away from the
established model of presentation (three 20 minute papers, a commentator,
and very little time for meaningful discussion). Instead, we ask for your
text in advance, and expect only a brief informal summary before a general
discussion begins.
A
word about the setting of this conference. The inn is not a convention
hotel, even though it provides excellent meeting rooms, accommodations,
and meals. No need for suits and ties. High heels would be positively life
threatening on the lawns, decks and rocks.
The
informal nature of this conference will allow participants a great deal
of latitude. We will entertain full-scale presentations in a 300-seat auditorium,
as well as brief reports, which will also have their place in the published
program. And there is nothing wrong with coming to the conference without
putting yourself formally on the program. Join the conversation. I hope
to see you all there.
George
Huppert is president of the Historical Society and professor
of history at the University of Illinois at Chicago. His most recent book
is The
Style of Paris: Renaissance Origins of the French Enlightenment (Indiana
University Press, 1999).
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the Historical Society and subscribe to Historically Speaking
On
the Edge of the World
by
Barry Cunliffe
In
a few days time[*]
I hope to be excavating at the Iron Age settlement of Le Yaudet
on the north coast of Brittany.
It is an idyllic place, a granite headland with stunning views out to sea
across the estuary of the river Léguer.
The air is clear and there are always present the inexorable rhythms of
the sea underscoring the timelessness of it all. For the excavation team
it’s a welcome contrast to tourist-clogged Oxfordchoking
in its Midlands river valley. But our seasonal
translation is more than just a change of air; it’s a major shift in our
cognitive geography. From Le Yaudet we can
begin to share the experience of the hundreds of generations who have used
the headland: the sense of being in a liminal
place between land and sea—the wooded environment of land behind, difficult
and intricate, the open sea in front, deceptively inviting, and the zone
of our existence with its reassuring array of resources there for the gathering
from the wide littoral, the woodland fringes, the river, and the ocean.
For
archaeologists and historians it is important to try to understand the
cognitive geographies of people in the past. Greek geographers like Hecataeus
and Herodotus held very distinct views of the world. Understandably, the Mediterranean occupied
the center. Around it were land masses stretching to the unknown and encircling
it all, the Ocean. The Graeco-Roman view
was a very simple core-periphery model. And so strong was this view, reinforced
by generations of schoolteachers in the 19th and 20th centuries,
that it still pervades even today. There is, of course, good reason
for this. Much of the Mediterranean littoral was a benign environment where
communities could flourish, and the sea itself—Mare Nostrum—provided
an easy means of communication. Those favored locations that grew into
major ports-of-call, places like Miletus,
soon became information nodes where ideas flourished and fermented. FernandBraudel
summed it up with his characteristic verve in The Mediterranean in the
Ancient World when he wrote:
The
best witness to the Mediterranean’s age-old
past is the sea itself. This has to be said again and again: and the sea
has to be seen and seen again . . . . So we find that our sea was from
the very dawn of its prehistory a witness to those imbalances productive
of change which would set the rhythm of its entire life.
“Imbalances
productive of change” lie at the very heart of what prehistory and history
are about. Since resources, populations, and ideas are scattered unevenly,
there is a constant flow from one region to another. Where there is access
to the sea, the intensity of flow is all the greater. And so it was that
for a brief period of 2000 years or so the Mediterranean
became a hothouse for cultural development.
But
to place such emphasis on the Mediterranean
is to introduce an imbalance. There were other ocean fringes, rich in resources,
with their different rhythms of interaction creating quite distinctive,
and often brilliantly inventive, cultures of their own. One of these is
the long Atlantic fringe of Europe stretching
from Morocco
in the south to Iceland
in the north. Far from being a raggle-taggle
of benighted barbarians deprived by geography from enjoying the benefits
of Mediterranean civilization, the Atlantic arc was a world of its own
and well able to make a unique contribution to European history.
Until
the 15th century A.D., the Atlantic communities conceived of themselves
as being on the edge of the world. What was out there in the ocean lay
in the realms of myth: the Hesperides, Atlantis, the Isles of the Blessed.
Even after the voyages of discovery of the 16th century, mysterious but
non-existent islands constantly appeared on charts. Indeed, it was not
until as late as 1865 that the mythical island of Hy Brazil, supposed to
lie off the west coast of Ireland, was finally removed from official naval
charts.
This
sense of being at the very limit, where land and sea met, cannot have failed
to create a particular mindset, while the rhythms of the monthly tidal
cycles and the inevitability of the daily ebb and flow of the sea would
have given those who viewed it an intimate sense of the passage of time
and the associated significance of celestial movements. In other words,
the cognitive geography of those facing the ocean would have been quite
different from that of an inland dweller or those hardly noticing the sluggish
movements of the Mediterranean.
That
the coastal communities built oceangoing ships and mastered the essentials
of navigation is beyond dispute, but when sea-going first became a way
of life is more difficult to say. However, by the 6th millennium B.C. it
is evident that Mesolithic foragers occupying the coasts had taken to the
sea to fish and were probably following the shoals of fish in the same
way that hunters on land would have followed the herds of animals. It was
probably at this time that navigation skills were learned, and voyages
lasting days or weeks would have brought the fishermen into contact with
more distant communities. In this way, through networks of social interaction,
ideas and beliefs would have been shared. Some such mechanism would explain
the striking similarities seen in Mesolithic burial practice in such disparate
places as Denmark, Brittany, and Portugal, where bodies were carefully
laid out in graves cut into shell middens and adorned with red ochre and
deer antlers. While the distances traveled by individual communities may
have been comparatively limited, the overall effect of these networks of
interaction, functioning over long periods of time, would have been to
create elements of a common maritime culture.
By
the middle of the 5th millennium the concepts and technologies of cereal
cultivation and animal husbandry, which originated in the Near East, were
beginning to reach the Atlantic coastal zone. Food production, as opposed
to gathering, enhanced the stability of the already sedentary coastal populations,
and there emerged the remarkable phenomenon of collective burial in large
megalithic tombs. Tombs of this kind, called passage graves, where the
bones of ancestors were collected together, appear in the Tagus region
of Portugal and in Brittany toward the middle of the 5th millennium, and
by the end of the 4th millennium the idea had spread to Ireland and Britain
as far north as the Orkney Islands. Although there was regional variation,
the basic architectural concept is the same throughout the maritime zone.
No less impressive is the considerable similarity in the range of symbols
carved or painted on the stones, and the fact that some of the tombs are
carefully aligned on celestial phenomena such as the rising or setting
of the sun on the solstices. What we are seeing here is a vivid reflection
of a sharing of beliefs along the length of the entire Atlantic zone growing
out of and enhancing the network of contacts established 2000 years earlier.
Some
insight into the actual mechanisms at work is given by the distribution
of polished stone axes, many of which have been petrographically identified
and can therefore be traced to their source. These, it is believed, were
used as gifts in complex cycles of exchange much like the Kula ring of
the western Pacific studied by the anthropologist Malinowski. On the island
of Jersey, one of the British Channel Islands, 28% of the axes found came
from Brittany and 16% from Normandy even though the island had its own
source of desirable stone which was widely exported, especially to the
neighboring island of Guernsey where 31% of the axes found were from Jersey.
None of this makes sense in terms of simple trade but is easily explicable
in terms of cycles of exchange in which the axes were prestige gifts constantly
being exchanged among elites. One can imagine these social expeditions
setting out by ships along prearranged routes, maintaining social harmony
with the exchange of symbolic gifts and at the same time indulging in the
more normal trade of bulk commodities.
The
Atlantic facade was well-provided with rare resources, those “imbalances
productive of change:” tin in Cornwall, Brittany, and Galicia; gold in
Galicia and southeast Ireland; copper in southwest Ireland, western Britain,
and western Iberia; rare attractive varieties of stone, most particularly
amber along the coasts of Jutland; and salt, easily obtainable in many
low-lying coastal regions. All these commodities and many others moved
through the exchange networks of the Atlantic. As bronze came more widely
into use, so the Atlantic zone was drawn more slowly into the continental
networks. The great rivers, Tagus, Duro, Garonne, Loire, Seine, and Rhine,
provided convenient corridors along which commodities together with knowledge
of beliefs and technologies could pass.
By
the end of what is conventionally known as the Late Bronze Age, about 800
B.C., the intensity of maritime movement, reflected in the distribution
of bronze weapons and tools, must have been very considerable. Distinctive
items—the Irish spearhead found in the sea off Huelva in southwest Spain
or the Sicilian axe found near Hengistbury on the Dorset coast—traveled
long distances. What is even more impressive is the similarity of the value
systems adopted throughout the length of this huge region and expressed
in the weapon sets of the elites and the feasting gear—cauldrons, flesh
hooks, and roasting spits—they used in their social gatherings. It is difficult
to resist the view that by the opening centuries of the 1st millennium
B.C. a distinctive Atlantic community had emerged.
It
was about 800 B.C. that the Atlantic system and the Mediterranean system
began to interact directly. The moment came when a group of Phoenician
merchants from the eastern end of the Mediterranean, mostly modern Lebanon,
set up a trading colony on the island of Gadir (now Cadiz) just off the
Atlantic coast of southern Spain to trade with the local Tartessians, particularly
for the silver the latter produced in great quantity. Gadir was the linchpin
that locked the two oceans together, and it was not long before Phoenicians
were exploring the Atlantic coasts for themselves, setting up trading colonies
down the African coast of Morocco and up the Iberian coasts of Portugal
to take over the supply of African gold and ivory and Galician tin. The
appearance of these alien vessels in Atlantic waters no doubt introduced
many changes, and it is even possible that the indigenous shipbuilding
tradition in this way learned the benefits of the sail.
The
Atlantic was a source of fascination for Mediterranean sailors. Phoenicians
and Greeks alike began to explore the alien waters. Hanno, a famous Phoenician
explorer, may have got as far south as Cameroon in west Africa in the 5th
century, and at the end of the 4th century a Greek called Pytheas from
the Mediterranean port of Massalia (Marseilles) set out to explore the
north Atlantic, quite probably using local shipping. He visited Brittany
and tin-producing southwest Britain before circumnavigating the island,
visiting en route the amber-bearing coast of Jutland. It is even possible
that he got as far as Iceland. These travelers, and no doubt others about
whom history is silent, brought back to the Mediterranean stories of the
mysterious ocean and its barbarian inhabitants to amuse, excite, and entice.
The
developing contact between the Mediterranean and the Atlantic was slow
at first, but after Caesar’s conquest of Gaul in the 1st century B.C. and
the conquest of Britain a century later the Atlantic was opened up to Roman
shipping. Some Mediterranean vessels undoubtedly faced the fierce Atlantic,
as an anchor stock dredged up off north Wales shows, but for the most part
the Atlantic seaborne traffic was in the hands of local seamen who used
vessels built in a native tradition. The late Roman cargo ships found in
the Thames at Blackfriars and in the harbor of St. Peter Port on Guernsey
were little different from the ships of the Veneti, a Breton tribe who
had confronted Caesar more than three centuries earlier. Though the government
had changed, the Atlantic seamen and their ships were the direct inheritors
of a seafaring tradition now 6000 years old. The collapse of the Roman
Empire in the 5th century did little to disrupt the Atlantic sea-ways.
Mediterranean pottery, possibly trans-shipped in Iberia, was reaching western
Britain in the 6th century, and by the 8th century it is clear from the
distribution of French pottery in Cornwall, Wales, Ireland, and western
Scotland that maritime traffic was brisk. In the 9th and 10th centuries
these same routes were used by Norse mariners in their many expeditions
to raid, to settle, and to trade.
The
emergence of the western European states as a powerful counterweight to
the maritime empires of the Italian cities of Genoa and Venice was, to
a large extent, based on the strength of this maritime tradition. The sturdy
cogs and sharp caravels able to sail close to the wind were brilliantly
adapted to the demands of the Atlantic and infinitely more efficient than
the lumbering, overmanned Venetian galleys. And so, when the moment was
right and a new confidence prevailed, it was the ships and the sailors
of the Atlantic facade—Spain and Portugal and later France, Britain, and
the Netherlands—that were to face the ocean and to conquer it. The fury
of the Atlantic had honed the skills of their ancestors over hundreds of
generations, and now they were its masters. No longer was the Atlantic
facade the edge of the world. It had become the center.
Barry
Cunliffe is professor of European archaeology at the Institute of Archaeology,
University of Oxford (Fellow of Keble College). His most recent book, Facing
the Ocean: The Atlantic and its Peoples 8000 BC–AD 1500 (Oxford University
Press, 2001), won the Wolfson Foundation History Prize.
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the Historical Society and subscribe to Historically Speaking
The
Greek Age of Heroes: Myth Becomes History
by
Carol G. Thomas
In
his Sather Lectures of 1984-85, Anthony Snodgrass argued that archaeology
be recognized as more than the handmaid of history—while it does illustrate
or confirm events known through written sources, its evidence and inferences
have an independent scope and value. Archaeology has special significance
for periods from which little or no written evidence exists. The Greek
“Age of Heroes” is a convincing case in point.
When
Heinrich Schliemann set out to demonstrate the historical reality of the
Greek heroic age by digging at a site he judged to be Troy,
he was greeted by at least as much skepticism as good will—and probably
more. In response to his claim that he had uncovered the site of the Trojan
War, the popular German magazine Kladderadatsch
published a satirical “telegram from Troy.”
It expanded on Schliemann’s own reports by announcing the discovery of
Achilles’ grave identified by the ankle bone which, naturally, would reveal
the point of Achilles’ vulnerability. The rest of the body was missing.
The notice concluded, “Achilles stuck in pocket. All well. Schliemann.”
More serious criticism came from contemporary archaeologists like W. J. Stillman
who stated in the London Times (January 9, 1889): “I hope before
long to put all the evidence . . . in such a shape that no one can doubt
reasonable that “Troy” is the Troy of Croesus [i.e. the 6th century B.C.]
and Tiryns
a Byzantine palace of about 1000 A.D.” That is, the dating would be at
least 600 years—and perhaps more than 2000—later than the Bronze Age.
There
were so few known sites, let alone events, to confirm the accuracy of these
particular finds that no consensus had emerged by the time of Schliemann’s
death in 1891. Walter Leaf’s obituary notice indicated one reason: “Dr.
Schliemann was essentially ‘epoch-making’ in his branch of study, and it
is not for epoch-making men to see the rounding off and completion of their
task.”[1]
Indeed, Schliemann was a pioneer in a discipline that has only “come of
age” in the last half century.
Another
factor was at work in the criticism of Schliemann’s efforts: many scholars
refused to find anything historical in the Age of Heroes. In 1938, nearly
half a century after Schliemann’s death, the classical scholar S. E. Bassett
could still declare in the Sather Lectures at Berkeley that “[t]he fabulous
age of Greece must have no place in history. [Homer] created a life that
never was on land or sea.”[2]
By contrast, authors can now state boldly, as J. T. Hooker did in his Mycenaean
Greece: “I propose . . . to discuss, from a historical point of view,
some of the crucial periods in the development of Aegean lands during the
Bronze Age.”[3]
His principal focus was on Mycenaean culture from ca. 1600 to 1200 B.C.
Within these four centuries, major phases, events, and developments were
dated with a fair degree of precision.
How
did myth become history so suddenly? An early step forward occurred with
the expansion of evidence. An early step forward occurred with the expansion
of evidence. As at Troy, heroic tales suggested certain sites where Bronze
Age remains might be discovered. Thus, to prove the reality of the Trojan
War, Schliemann needed not only a site for the war but also another for
the home of the Greek leader of that campaign, Agamemnon. He excavated
successfully at Hissarlik (now generally acknowledged to be the location
of Troy) and Mycenae, which every reader of the Iliad knew as the
home of Agamemnon. However, two sites whose dating was initially unclear
do not constitute a broadly based or chronologically fixed culture. Evidence
from more locations was essential, and the island of Crete presented new
data in abundance in the early years of the 20th century. Sir Arthur Evans’s
excavation of the palace of the (mythical) labyrinth of the (mythical)
Minos at Knossos was followed by a brace of similar discoveries on the
island. Work on the mainland, too, increasingly added dots to the map of
early Greece.
Palaces,
grand burial sites, and precious objects are welcome to archaeologists,
but another form of archaeology has, in the past three decades, added considerably
to our knowledge of the Age of Heroes. Survey archaeology refocuses attention
from major centers to the domain of ordinary people with the goal of understanding
the relationship between the land and its use. The lens is wide: one of
the first major survey projects, the Minnesota Messenia Expedition, studied
the habitation pattern in a region of 1,400 square miles in the southwestern
Peloponnese for all periods from the Neolithic age to the Roman era. Thus
it produced a composite picture of environmental, social, and economic
developments of all levels of the region’s population over an extensive
period. The relationship between the whole region and its palace center
is now much clearer, as it is for other parts of Greece. For instance,
a thorough investigation of the road system reaching out from Mycenae reveals
that the main roads extended only about four kilometers from the citadel.
The earlier notion that the residents of the citadels held sweeping, absolute
power must be modified to accommodate sectors in the nearby countryside
that were independent of the centers. In other words, it is now possible
to examine the political, economic, and social organization of the Age
of Heroes (and non-heroes).
Because
the scope of survey archaeology is so broad, it requires a variety of specialists.
The team organized for the Messenia project included specialists in ethnology,
epigraphy, metallurgy, civil engineering, geology, history, geography,
ceramic technology, soils, agricultural economics, and palynology (analysis
of pollen and spores), along with archaeologists and para-archaeological
personnel. Such cooperation, valuable in itself, is symptomatic of yet
another new direction in archaeology, namely the integration of new technologies
which began about the middle of the 20th century. The current tool kit
of archaeologists includes magnetometers which reveal features beneath
the earth’s surface and objects buried in the seafloor; robots for investigating
caves inaccessible to humans; tools of aerial reconnaissance; and, of course,
computers. Dates can be learned through many techniques from radio carbon
and dendrochronology to analysis of charged atoms. Pots are now tested
to reveal the composition of their clay. The list of new tools is impressive—overwhelmingly
so to non-scientists. And it has made an impression on the discipline of
archaeology, for suddenly archaeologists have been presented with not only
more data but data of another order. The tools give access to evidence
previously unattainable, while the information allows more precise conclusions
on such important subjects as dating and the origin of materials and thus
patterns of exchange both within the Aegean and beyond.
Looking
beyond Greece has also enhanced our knowledge of Bronze Age Greece. In
the early days of archaeology, the study of single sites or regional cultures
was sufficiently arduous work. However, that focus produced isolated snapshots,
not a broad panorama. The wider perspective of the last three decades or
so has set new questions and even provided some reasonable answers. For
example, the prevailing consensus until recently was that the Aegean palace
systems were somewhat reduced copies of Near Eastern and Egyptian organizations.
More careful comparison combined with mounting evidence from Greece—especially
the information made available through the decipherment of Linear B in
the 1950s—has collapsed the earlier consensus. One recent study proposes
that a more apt comparison is with the Hallstatt hill forts in the northern
Alps and the warrior aristocracy for whom they were built.[4]
Or consider the shift in our understanding of the sudden collapse of the
Mycenaean civilization beginning at the end of the 13th century. It was
once easily explained by recourse to warlike invaders entering Greece from
the north. With the realization that virtually all Bronze Age civilizations
of the eastern Mediterranean experienced similar, contemporary difficulties,
scholars began to pursue a more inclusive investigation. Did those invaders
deal first with Greece, then make their way through Anatolia, the Levant,
and into Egypt? Greater precision in dating ruled out this answer. Perhaps
a variety of invaders burst upon the scene at the same time. Possible,
but an explanation grounded in the larger context is sounder. Evidence
from the eastern Mediterranean civilizations shows that the second half
of the second millennium witnessed an intense marine-based internationalism
—which was not only mercantile but also diplomatic, militaristic, and intellectual
in nature. Consequently, problems within that interlocking network most
certainly are at least part of the explanation.
The
broader view has lengthened chronological horizons. The roots of the Mycenaean
civilization were planted five millennia earlier in the first agricultural
villages. And in spite of the devastations of the 13th and 12th centuries—causing
a population decline of 90%—life continued in tiny, isolated hamlets, some
of which have now been found and explored. The four centuries from 1150
to 750 B.C. saw the transformation of the Mycenaean heritage by survivors
hanging on to life in tightly knit communities that would blossom into
polis-communities in the late 8th and 7th centuries. This longer view reveals
a fuller history of life in Greece. Classical Greece has long belonged
to the proper domain of historians; now we can investigate the roots of
that civilization.
In
addition to employing new tools, archaeologists have begun to look at physical
objects in different ways. Object biography is one of the most exciting
of these recent perspectives. Its basic premise is that objects, like people,
are transformed over time, not simply in physical ways but also in their
uses and value. A clay pot, for example, made for a particular function
can become a gift to a friend, valued more for its connection than its
function. So great may its value become that it later serves as a prize
in a competition. Finally, on the death of the victor of that competition,
the pot is perhaps buried with him as a mark of his honor.
Applying
this perspective to early Greece, Susan Langdon tracked two unusual pots
dated to the 8th century.[5]
One, from Argos, had been used for a burial and, when excavated, contained
bones of a woman. Modern scientific dating revealed that her age at burial
was about thirty-five. The pot was not made for this burial; it dates twenty
years earlier. Langdon recreates the story of the vessel and its owner
over the years of their association by placing both in the context of their
world. The pot was made when the woman was in her early teens, that is,
at the stage of preparing for marriage. The shape and appearance of the
pot suggest that it held worked wool of woven textiles; in other words,
it was likely to have played a part in the preparation of dowry goods.
Scenes on the densely painted surface show figures of men with horses,
men wrestling, and women dancing, all known from other evidence to figure
in bridal contests. And both the pot and the burial indicate the high family
status that would warrant such a contest. At age thirty-five, the woman
would belong to the older generation possessed of wisdom as well as status.
We should remember that Penelope, after the twenty-year absence of Odysseus
and now mother of an adult son, would have been about the same age at the
time of her husband’s return. Astute, nobly born, married, and, yes, still
lovely, she was courted by many suitors who believed Odysseus to be dead.
An Argive vase can locate Penelopes within the culture of their own non-literate
time.
By
combining the fruits of research in several fields, we can insert people
and their activities into the story of the Heroic Age of Greece. For instance,
the developments in archaeology presented above cast new light on the tale
of Jason and his Argonauts. More than a myth, the tale reflects certain
realities of the Mycenaean Age which have been demonstrated to have historical
authenticity. Archaeologists have identified a place known as Iolkos—near
modern Volos—with Mycenaean remains. Comparison with other sites suggests
that it was the northernmost citadel-centered kingdom in late Bronze Age
Greece, a society structured around roughly a dozen major centers. Investigation
as recently as the summer of 2000 has produced even more indications of
the ancient vitality of the area around Iolkos in the finds at neighboring
Dimini. Knowledge of the topography demonstrates that the land in the region
was valuable for agricultural production and animal husbandry. It overlooks
a bay with a good harbor, still important today. Through archaeological
evidence we can narrow the time-frame for the flourishing Mycenaean site
to approximately 300 years— ca. 1500–1200 B.C. It is true that Thessaly
continued to be prominent in the Classical and Hellenistic periods, but
in the Classical period Iolkos itself was unimportant. Moreover, a tie
between the Argonautica and Iolkos nicely suits the thesis proposed
seventy years ago by Martin P. Nilsson that myth cycles are linked to major
Mycenaean sites.[6]
Jason
and his adventures were known to bards of the late Dark Age: the Argo
was “widely-sung” according to Homer. That the oral tradition of the bards
reaches back to Mycenaean times is indicated by linguistic similarities
between the Greek of Linear B and that of the Homeric poems. What is more,
it is the nature of oral tradition in a culture without literacy to be
“conservative;” it is the means, by poetic language, of preserving and
passing on important information from one generation to the next. Being
poetic, the language may bear closer resemblance to myth or legend or folktale
than to history, blurring distinctions between those categories. The decipherment
of the Linear B script half a century ago offers evidence from names. A
number of the Argo’s crew, in the accounts that have been preserved,
bear names akin to heroes whose feats were earlier than those of the Trojan
War. Names that end in -eus belong to the pre-Trojan era, and such names
are frequent among the Argonauts. The name Jason itself may appear in the
form of I-wa-so on a tablet from Pylos.
The
larger context of life in the Bronze Age is another clue. By the late Bronze
Age, relatively simple mechanisms of trade had swollen into international
ventures throughout the regions of the eastern Mediterranean, and the Aegean
cultures were active participants;Mycenaean activity escalated from 1500
B.C. Accumulating artifactual evidence shows that the mainland activity
extended beyond the Aegean into the Sea of Marmora and even into the Black
Sea. Mycenaean swords have been discovered in modern Georgia, the region
in which Jason’s destination, Colchis, was located, and the Linear B word
Ko-ki-da can be read as Colchis.
Mycenaean
goods may have been carried in the ships of other peoples. On the other
hand, nautical evidence suggests that the kind of ship necessary to move
through the treacherous waters of the Bosporus was at hand in the second
millennium in the essential form of the Greek penteconter. Further, re-creation
of navigational skills in a galley constructed in accord with Bronze Age
technology demonstrated that wind and the strength of twenty oarsmen could
carry this 1980s Argo from present-day Volos to the eastern end
of the Black Sea.
Finally,
dating of the varied evidence by more precise means tends to converge on
an earlier part of the Mycenaean Age. Iolkos was an important site during
the late Bronze Age, with two successive large buildings. Troy VI, perhaps
the port of call for eastward travel by sea, flourished from ca. 1700 to
1250–30 B.C. Mycenaean finds in the Black Sea include several from the
earlier part of the period. The Argonauts’ names reflect a generation earlier
than those of the Trojan War heroes. Schliemann is said to have exclaimed
“I have looked on the face of Agamemnon” when he excavated the shaft graves
at Mycenae. He was wrong. With the precision of modern dating techniques
we know that the bones he found there date to ca. 1600, while the destruction
at Troy associated with the Trojan War must belong to the 13th century
B.C. Even today, human bones cannot name themselves without clear, accompanying
written evidence, and not always even with that evidence. Yet the picture
of the human past that archaeology now provides is remarkable for the depth,
breadth, and exactitude it can impute.
“Troy”
neatly exemplifies the transformation. When Schliemann hoped to find concrete
proof of a Trojan War, archaeology lacked a rigorous method and possessed
few tools beyond shovels and strong arms. Objects uncovered through excavation
could be classified by types, but absolute dating was seldom possible.
Because Troy was one of the first “heroic” sites to be explored, comparative
study was not possible. And there was no written evidence beyond Homer.
Thus, by definition, the period lay outside the realm of history. Now,
archaeology has come of age; in fact, it has passed through several phases
in advancing to its present maturity. Accumulation of an enlarged data
base marked one of those phases. Troy can be viewed together with a great
many sites in the Aegean, Anatolian, and Mediterranean spheres. The clay
tablets found at citadel centers have proven to be written records that
scholars can now read. Another phase brought scientific tools and new approaches
to the discipline. As a result, the levels of Troy can be dated with a
high degree of accuracy, and these dates, in turn, can be compared with
those of, say, Mycenae.
For
a time, a search for scientific laws led archaeologists to privilege theory
and models at the expense of the putative object of their investigations,
namely, human life in the past. Complaints against this trend have become
more numerous in the past decade or so: enough of processes, many are urging;
let us put people back in the picture. It is unlikely that we will ever
be able to describe the last days of Hektor or Achilles. Yet it is entirely
possible to understand the kind of fighting that occurred at places like
Troy in the late Bronze Age. Recovery of the treasures found by Schliemann
more than a century ago which had been “lost” during World War II has made
it possible to show that Troy was an important emporium in a trade network
by the mid-3rd millennium, a status that continued through most of the
2nd millennium. And, with the discovery during the past decade that Troy’s
citadel was surrounded by a densely built lower city with a population
of 5,000 to 10,000, its importance to contemporaries—say, those living
in Bronze Age Greek citadels—is evident. Myth has become history.
Carol
G. Thomas is professor of history at the University of Washington. Her
most recent book is Citadel to City-State: The Transformation of Greece,
1200–700 B.C.E. (Indiana University Press, 1999).
[1]
In Walter Leaf’s “Introduction” to Carl Schuchhardt,
Schliemann’s Excavations (London,
1891; repr. Benjamin Blom,
1971), xxi.
[2]S.
E. Bassett, The Poetry of Homer
(University of California Press, 1938), 244.
[3]
J. T. Hooker, Mycenaean Greece
(Routledge and Kegan
Paul, 1976), 1.
[4]
Susan Sherratt, “Potemkin Palaces and Route-based Economies,” in S. Voutsaki
and J. Killen, eds., Economy and Politics in the Mycenaean Palace States
(Cambridge Philological Society, 2001), 214-54.
[5]
Susan Langdon, “Beyond the Grave: Biographies from Early Greece,” American
Journal of Archaeology 105 (2001): 579-606.
[6]
Martin P. Nilsson, The Mycenaean Origin of Greek Mythology (University
of California Press, 1932).
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African
Encounters
by
David Northrup
As
I rode in a crowded jitney bus in rural Nigeria in 1966, the old woman
sitting next to me wet her fingertip, rubbed it gently on my arm, and then
scrutinized it to see if any color had come off my pale skin. That memory
came rushing back years later as I read an account of some Africans’ reactions
to the first European visitor to the Senegal River in 1455: “some . . .
rubbed me with their spittle to discover whether my whiteness was dye or
flesh.” A Ugandan colleague who studied in Switzerland tells the story
of a bold little girl in that country who performed the same experiment
on him and reported to her schoolmates that he was “black but not sooty.”
History
is a dialogue between the present and the past, as well as an exercise
in cross-cultural understanding. What we bring to the inquiry influences
what we discover, and what we discover may reshape our understanding of
our own time and place. Sometimes, as in the case of the wet-finger test,
we find a common humanity that transcends time and culture, but often it
is a struggle to bridge the gap between our expectations and the historical
evidence we uncover.
My
decision to become a historian of Africa was very much a product of my
own life and times. I had gone to newly-independent Nigeria as a Peace
Corps volunteer and my many fascinating experiences there moved me to study
it when I returned. I was not alone. The field of African history itself
had arisen in tandem with the independence movements in African colonies
in the late 1950s and early 1960s and in sympathy with their aspirations.
Like other Africanists of my generation, I wanted to discover the “real”
Africa that lay beyond older narratives’ focus on European explorers, merchants,
missionaries, and empire builders. The term “Afrocentric” didn’t yet exist,
but it describes our interest in bringing to light the historic antecedents
of the proud African achievers of the present. Our enthusiasm may have
led to exaggerations, but our desire to dislodge old paradigms forced us
to base our studies on solid research and to pursue the implications of
Africa-centered history to new levels. Despite blind spots and biases,
recent scholars have made solid advances in understanding the African past.
The
new African history has influenced scholars reexamining Atlantic history
and added the names of African states and rulers to the textbooks, but
it has also had to contend with other revisions of African history coming
from historians of Europe and the Americas. Especially in versions intended
for popular audiences, these accounts sometimes seemed to turn the old
Eurocentric narrative of Africa on its head. In place of European heroes
saving Africa, a new generation of anti-colonial historians presented European
villains bringing exploitation, underdevelopment, conquest, and cultural
imperialism. Even though their new narratives were a much needed corrective,
their Eurocentrism tended to relegate Africans to being largely silent,
generally hapless victims of the all-powerful Western world.
Was
it possible to construct a more balanced narrative? I struggled with these
issues while reexamining the encounters between Africans and Europeans
during the four centuries before the imperial conquests of the late 19th
century. A better narrative needed to use the new Africanist scholarship
to show how Africans understood and shaped these encounters. To make African
perspectives vital and valid, I combed the records for historical voices
that might be included. As Africa’s Discovery of Europe, 1450-1850
moved toward completion, these voices from the past reshaped the narrative
in unexpected ways.
For
one thing, there proved to be a lot of African voices. One effect of the
encounter with Europe was that many Africans learned European languages
well enough to voice opinions that were recorded by Europeans, and some
Africans wrote down their own views. Though it was not in my initial plan,
the longest chapter in the book came to be about the many Africans in 18th-
and early 19th-century Europe. But the most significant impact of these
African voices was to broaden and deepen the exploration of many topics.
African voices took the narrative to places that authorial caution, discretion,
and concern for the sensibilities of readers and reviewers might have feared
to go on its own. Among these were religion, slavery, and racism, often
blended in intriguing ways.
For
example, a letter from King Afonso I of the kingdom of Kongo to the king
of Portugal in 1526 is commonly quoted for its chilling description of
the destructive effects of the slave trade. But Afonso’s request that his
kingdom’s trade with Portugal be restricted to “no more than some priests
and a few people to teach in the schools, and no other goods except wine
and flour for the holy sacrament” is less often noted, for our skeptical
and secular age resists the clear implication that contacts with Europe
included some Africans’ sincere acceptance of Christianity. Nor is it commonly
acknowledged that King Afonso’s opposition to the slave trade centered
on the fact that he has unable to stop many of his subordinate chiefs from
selling fellow Kongolese in their desire to obtain the goods the Portuguese
merchants brought. However, when Afonso himself had a great many captives
from foreign wars to sell in 1540, his opposition to the slave trade vanished.
He wrote that no ruler in Atlantic Africa “esteems the Portuguese goods
so much . . . as we do. We favor their trade, sustain it, open markets
[for it].” How widely Afonso deserves to be cited as a spokesman for Africans
may justly be debated, but one can hardly defend citing him so selectively
that it distorts his views.
Though
few wrote it down in so many words, other African rulers were as eager
as Afonso for the goods the Atlantic trade brought, and many were more
adept than he in reaping the profits of the trade from their equally eager
European counterparts. For example, the royal merchants of the kingdom
of Benin in 1724 rebuffed Dutch traders who had tried to convince them
to pay higher prices for the goods they imported because costs had risen
in Europe. The Benin officials asserted that the price in Europe “does
not concern them” and insisted that valuations agreed upon in earlier years
continue in force. Unable to make a profit, the Dutch eventually withdrew
from Benin, but English traders eagerly took their place. One can argue
that Europeans’ command of the seas and colonial America gave them the
upper hand in the Atlantic economy, but on the African coast they not only
had to respect Africans’ perceptions of prices; at Benin as elsewhere in
West Africa, every European ship captain who came to trade also had to
pay African officials hefty customs charges and fees and bestow rich gifts
on local African officials. The European trading forts on the Gold Coast
owed local rulers annual ground rents.
The
fact that some coastal Africans participated willingly in the sale of slaves
does not alter the injustice to those enslaved, but what should we make
of African voices from that era who argued in favor of slavery? Jacob Capitein
from the Gold Coast wrote his thesis on the theology of slavery at the
University of Leiden in 1742. One of two 18th-century Africans to earn
an advanced academic degree in Europe, he argued in elegant Latin that
slavery was fully compatible with Christian theology and was often the
means through which Africans became Christians. Though his case was based
on European sources, Capitein’s defense of slavery would not have seemed
odd to many of his countrymen on the Gold Coast. In 1820, for example,
King Osie Bonsu of the powerful state of Asante pressed a representative
of the British government to explain why his people had turned against
the slave trade, asking “if they think it bad now, why did they think it
good before? Is not your [Christian] law an old law, the same as the [Islamic]
law?” He denied the slave trade was bad for his kingdom, or that it increased
the frequency of war. Rather, he argued, he made war for honorable reasons
and the gold and prisoners he took were his to keep or sell.
Capitein’s
thesis contains a second argument that, on first reading, seems even more
surprising. Far from trying to curry favor with his hosts, Capitein was
concerned that his thesis would upset his Dutch readers. He writes, “It
is clear beyond doubt that most Netherlanders [believe] that Christian
freedom cannot walk in step with slavery.”[1]
Although the enslavement of Africans had rich and powerful supporters in
Europe, Capitein’s words are a reminder that slavery had been banned in
northern Europe for centuries and was unlikely to have much support among
those not dependent on its profits. Before long the abolitionist movement
would begin to tap popular anti-slavery sentiments, and some Africans were
part of that movement in Europe. Fortyfive years after Capitein issued
his thesis, a dozen “sons of Africa” in Britain with a different view of
Christian morality wrote a letter praising the British abolitionist Granville
Sharp for his “long, valuable, and indefatigable labours . . . to rescue
our suffering brethren in slavery” and to curb “the vicious violators of
God’s holy law.”[2]
If
African Christians could hold quite different positions on the morality
of slavery, the presence of free, literate Africans—even advanced students
and professors—in 18thcentury Europe brings into question the common assumption
that racial prejudices there were monolithic. Ignatius Sancho, one of the
most notable of these African intellectuals, was well aware of the range
of treatment an African might experience at European hands. Sancho was
born on a slave ship in 1729 and lost his mother in infancy in Colombia.
Yet when, in 1766, he wrote to the English novelist Lawrence Sterne that
“the early part of my life was rather unlucky,” he was referring not to
these hardships, but to the lack of intellectually stimulating books. He
had been brought to England at the age of two, where his own wit and good
luck in time gained him employment and patronage from the Montagues, who
had his portrait painted by Thomas Gainsborough. When he died in 1780,
he was the first son of Africa to have an obituary in an English newspaper
and the only one whose life was recorded in the Dictionary of National
Biography. Sancho’s fame was due less to his patrons, whose employment
he left to become a humble shopkeeper, than to his literary achievements
as a poet, playwright, musical theorist, and correspondent. His letters,
published in two volumes after his death, are still in print.
Sancho’s
letters also attest to his awareness of the thin line that separated the
social milieu where a black man of talent, manners, and morality might
find honors and the one where racism reared its ugly head. He wrote to
his fellow Afro-Briton, Julius Soubise, who had been raised as a gentleman
by the Duchess of Queensbury, contrasting their fortunate place in good
society with “the miserable fate of almost all of our unfortunate colour”
in slavery and warning of the contempt and “heart-racking abuse of the
foolish vulgar” Soubise would face if he persisted in a life of debauchery.[3]
Sancho’s words might imply that the line between good treatment and bad
was based on class, but the life story of another West African, Ukawsaw
Gronniosaw, who made a humble living in England and the Netherlands after
escaping slavery in Barbados, is full of the kindness and acceptance he
received from both the working poor and his middle-class benefactors. [4]
Sancho
was exceptional in that his wife was of African stock, but the many free
African men who resided in 18th-century Europe were more likely to find
brides from among the majority population. Gronniosaw married a poor English
weaver named Betty, while other Africans married European women from higher
social strata. The fact that such unions were tolerated does not imply
that racist opposition did not exist. A letter signed by “Gustavus Vassa,
the Ethiopian,” printed in an English newspaper in 1788, was predicated
on the notion that intermarriage was a prickly issue: “If the mind of a
black man conceives the passion of love for a fair female, [is] he . .
. to pine, languish, and even die, sooner than an intermarriage be allowed[?]”[5]
The author, better known as Olaudah Equiano, the name he used in his autobiography,
wedded the Englishwoman Susanna Cullen a few years later— without apparent
incident. There is an interesting parallel between these marriages in Europe
and those in coastal Africa in this era. Many European men resident there
entered into long-term unions that seem as full of mutual love, mutual
financial considerations, advantageous family ties, and beloved offspring
as are common to the institution everywhere.
This
brief overview can only hint at the value of looking at these early modern
encounters through the eyes of contemporary Africans, even though the accounts
that survive cannot be expected to represent the full range of experiences.
Europeans and West Africans began their encounters with mutual curiosity
about each other and an openness to the possibilities of continued relationships.
African leaders were as capable as European ones of assessing what they
might gain and were as eager to do so. To note that quite a number of coastal
Africans found opportunities in the Atlantic trade for new wealth and power
does not diminish the calamity of millions of other Africans being robbed
of their freedom. Some Africans were also open to the cultural options
made available by these encounters, including Christianity, literacy, and
occasionally literary distinction in European languages. Appreciating the
full range of the encounters enhances understanding not just of those pre-colonial
centuries but also of the commercial and cultural exchanges that have continued
long after the slave trade ended. If Africans are to appear on the stage
of history as full human beings, then they must strut the boards as powerful
partners as well as victims, as open to the opportunities the Atlantic
brought as they were capable of suffering under its inequities.
David
Northrup is professor of history at Boston College and president-elect
of the World History Association. His latest book is Africa’s Discovery
of Europe 1450–1850 (Oxford University Press, 2002).
[1]
Jacobus Elisa Johannes Capitein, The Agony of Asar: A Thesis on Slavery
by the Former Slave, trans. Grant Parker (Markus Wiener, 2001), 103.
[2]
In Olaudah Equiano, The Interesting Narrative and Other Writings, ed. Vincent
Carretta (Penguin Books, 1995), 326-27.
[3]
Ignatius Sancho, Letters of the Late Ignatius Sancho, an African, ed. Vincent
Carretta (Penguin Books, 1998), ix, xiv-xv, 46, 73.
[4]
A Narrative of the Most Remarkable Particulars in the Life of James Albert
Ukawsaw Gronniosaw, an African Prince, Related by Himself (London, 1774).
[5]
Equiano, Narrative, 329.
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An
Interview with Peter Nabokov
In
an important new book, Peter Nabokov explores
the complexity of American Indian approaches to the past. Nabokov,
a professor of American Indian studies and world arts and cultures at UCLA,
has drawn on decades of his own research and recent findings in ethnohistory,
anthropology, folklore, and Indian studies to write A Forest of Time: American
Indian Ways of History (Cambridge University Press, 2000). The result is
an impressive work of transdisciplinary scholarship. His exploration of
the complex and varied ways that American Indian societies make sense of
the past opens up the subject of American Indian historical imagination
to the general reader. In the process, Nabokov raises a number of important
questions, especially regarding the ways historians approach the history
of non-Western peoples. Readers of Historically Speaking may well find
some of his claims challenging, perhaps even problematic, but there can
be little doubt that Nabokov has focused attention on matters that prompt
historians to reflect on the nature, practice, and limitations of historical
inquiry.
To
provide readers of Historically Speaking with an opportunity to encounter
Nabokov’s provocative work and evaluate it on their own, we have secured
permission from Cambridge University Press to excerpt the concluding pages
of A Forest of Time. Following the excerpt, we provide an interview
with Nabokov, that Donald Yerxa conducted on May
9, 2002.
An
Excerpt from A Forest in Time†
by Peter Nabokov
Casting
a final glance over these chapters, let me highlight a few ideas and themes
that have threaded through them.
First,
like the original Cambridge essay that launched it, this lengthier prolegomenon
to American Indian ways of history has joined with the late historian H.
Stuart Hughes’s “vision of history,” which stresses “the central importance
of symbols in establishing common values of a given culture . . . . The
symbol conveys the implicit principles by which the society lives, the
shared understanding of assumptions which require no formal proof” (History
as Art and as Science: Twin Vistas of the Past [University of Chicago
Press, 1975], 80).
The
different Indian senses of the past that stand as separate trees with their
respective branches in this American Indian forest are not assemblages
of existential happenings that lack organic connection. Usually structured
in ways that may reflect different combinations of socio-economic, political,
religious, and hence historical determinants, they all stress selected
cultural meanings, common aspirations, and preferable social processes
through the media of well-worn multivocal “condensed” symbols that have
swelled in content and stood the test of time. Such symbols and the ritualistic
actions they empower serve to “naturalize” history, to retrospectively
reify the contingent so that, for instance, ethnic communities come to
accept their origins, commemorations, and destinies as foreordained by
higher powers.
Second,
in the articulation of any Native society’s historical consciousness, we
must also remember that these master symbols and root metaphors have almost
certainly undergone transformations, the “plasticity” of which Hughes also
speaks in his book and whose inventive presence has been evinced throughout
this work. Within these Native philosophies of history, moreover, high
value is usually placed upon the maintenance of Indian conceptual autonomy
over time, in as outwardly consistent and inwardly reassuring a fashion
as possible. Sometimes this requires adjusting the facts and calls for
retroactive enhancement in order for history to make sense in Indian terms,
to integrate older claims into new sociopolitical climates, and to pass
on essential meanings distilled from collective experience.
Suspecting
that labels such as “tradition” or “sacred” are employed as “a flag of
convenience to legitimate a position held on other grounds” (Jan Vansima,
“On History and Tradition,” in Paths in the Rainforests: Towards a History
of Political Tradition in Equatorial Africa [University of Wisconsin
Press, 1990], 258), or to exempt subject matter from empirical scrutiny,
should not make us turn our backs on either the persistence of certain
social phenomena or the inherently dynamic nature of culture itself. Uncovering
the synthesized nature of indigenous claims does not mean that they are
composed of thin air. Study of their components and adhesive compounds
identifies cultural processes that can also be upstreamed to identify their
presence and consistency over earlier eras. True, a few “traditions” may
be unmasked as individually perpetrated frauds, public relations strategies,
or examples of collective self-delusion. But the fact remains that “history
is not given and tradition is not static,” as James Collins puts it, and
modulations or recombination of traditions do not make tribal agency and
social identity “unreal or fictive, as terms such as ‘constructed’ or ‘invented’
can imply, but [they do] make them profoundly historical” (Understanding
Tolowa Histories: Western Hegemonies and Native American Responses
[Routledge, 1998], 50–51). The trick lies in simultaneously tracking down
hard facts and their cultural and historical contexts and nuances, without
which they don’t mean much.
Third,
former times may be considered foreign countries by non-Indian historians,
but to Native peoples they usually constitute familiar, contiguous, and
ever-present terrain, whose deceased occupants may even put in their two
cents’ worth. Despite my aversion to simplistic dichotomies, a pervasive
distinction between Indian and non-Indian forms of history is the one between
their “presentist” and “pastist” orientations, respectively. Sometimes
the Native stories of earlier times swing between neighborhood gossip and
lofty vision in order to personalize the past, to bring it in tune with
inherited world views, or to warn about moral consequences so as to have
maximum impact on the “history of the future.” For Indian history is about
nothing if not cultural survival, employing what the writer Gerald Vizenor
likes to call the uniquely Indian skills of “trickster survivance.”
While
unusual permissions to “make history” may seem extended in American Indian
practices for conceptualizing and representing the past, that does not
necessarily mean that the academic sense of historical accuracy [or chronology],
as we have seen, is altogether jettisoned in the process. Indians have
coexisted in many conceptual domains; their historical traditions have
rarely seen any incompatibilities between the world of facts and that of
dreams. Generally, what remains of utmost importance to Indian historians
has been psychological persistence, social congruence, group self-esteem,
spiritual independence, cultural distinctiveness, and perpetuation of core
values—in short, the continuing Native American acculturation of time and
space. For outsiders who complain that this is not playing fair, Indians
might well ask to be shown the historicity—often bearing catch phrases
such as Iron, Bronze, Silver, or Gold Ages, “force majeure,” “Third Reich,”
“the divine right of kings,” “manifest destiny,” “Frontier Thesis,” the
“Monroe Doctrine,” or a fledgling president’s first “Hundred Days”— which
is not underwritten by similar vested interests and cultural claims. One
could even argue that the transparent didacticism of Indian narratives
and histories simply makes them more up front about it.
Fourth,
the study of Indian-white relations from a Native perspective reveals it
less as separate and inviolate entities striking sparks off each other
than as an essentially relational field of interacting and cross-borrowing
cultural identities—often within contexts, to be sure, of unequal power
relations, racial prejudice, gross injustice, and cross-cultural misreadings.
Even so, today’s tillers in historical fields must consider their work
equally relational. Bestcase scenario: they must invite Indians as full
partners into their investigations.
When
they do so, as ethnohistorian Ernest S. Burch, Jr. discovered, they can
tap into fresh historical wells. Upon interviewing Inupiaq people in northwestern
Alaska, for example, Burch uncovered a technology for wholesale intertribal
warfare and the existence of early 19th-century battles that refuted everything
he’d learned from Arctic scholars. “The really upsetting thing about this,”
he writes, “is that if I had been willing from the beginning to pay attention
to what elders were telling me, I would have known all of this ten or twenty
years sooner. As it was, I missed an entire generation of people who probably
knew more than my own informants did” (“From Skeptic to Believer: The Making
of an Oral Historian,” Alaska History [Spring 1991]: 11). Updating this
sense of urgency, Vine Deloria, Jr. asks historians “to look into the controversies
of this century and record from those people still living their recollections
of incidents of a half century ago. Rather than attempting to rebuild the
memories of the Pueblos regarding Coronado and the revolt of 1688, people
should right now be doing extensive writing and interviews of the elder
Pueblo people concerning how they organized and eventually won their lands
in 1924” (“The Twentieth Century,” in Daniel Tyler, ed., Red Men and
Hat-Wearers: Viewpoints in Indian History [Pruett Publishing Co., 1976],
163).
And
even if academic historians remain disinclined to conduct fieldwork, for
their works on Indian-white relations to be anything but culturally cosmetic
they must apprentice themselves to the sorts of social, symbolic, economic,
political, and folkloristic data that are the meat and potatoes of anthropology.
“Only an anthropologist familiar with Indian culture and social process,”
argue Mildred M. Wedel and Raymond J. DeMallie, “can discern the clouded
facts, correctly analyze the misleading commentary, or extract significant
cultural information that appears incidentally in documents written for
quite different purposes” (“The Ethnohistorical Approach in Plains Area
Studies,” in W. Raymond Wood and Margot Liberty, eds., Anthropology
on the Great Plains [University of Nebraska Press, 1980], 110). And,
“If nothing else,” adds Donald B. Smith, “from a good ethnological monograph,
one can obtain a ‘feel’ for a native group, and an idea of what white society
looks like, viewed within a native community” (Le Sauvage: The Native
People in Quebec, Historical Writing on the Heroic Period of New France
[National Museums of Canada, 1974], 91).
Fifth,
this book represents one generalist’s dawning regard for the rich and scantily
addressed history of American Indian intellectual life. It takes issue
with the late Wilcomb E. Washburn’s implication of Native silence, impotence,
ignorance, or compliance when he argues that “Indian history is, for good
or ill, shaped by the white presence. Whether physically in terms of European
immigrants, or intellectually, in terms of Western historical and anthropological
theories” (“Distinguishing History from Moral Philosophy and Public Advocacy,”
in Calvin Martin, ed., The American Indian and the Problem of History
[Oxford University Press, 1987], 92). It takes seriously the proposition
that, in their own ways, Indian communities and individuals have been thoughtfully
preoccupied with their movements through time. It endorses efforts to transcend
old characterizations of Indians as victims or stereotypes and their traditions
as monolithic and intractable.
The
many Indian pasts, I argue, are as much stories of philosophical, ideological,
and symbolic creativity and synthesis, inevitably processed through definitions
of self, community, and destiny, as they are beads of discrete incidents
hung on narrative strings. No less than the ‘“contexts of assumption’ which
exist through time in complex interrelation with each other” that anthropologist
George W. Stocking, Jr. holds up as a far more productive subject for non-Indian
historians than determining their intellectual inheritance by citing an
endless begetting of academic elders (what he terms the “forerunner syndrome”),
a new breed of Indian historians must identify and investigate their own
successive contexts of assumption, whose complexity may have intensified
since first contact, literacy, and modernity, but that certainly possess
their own developmental histories well before then. As I observed earlier,
however, in this effort scholars of American Indian ancestry can find themselves
in a bind. For a precondition of this academic approach is that one should
accept the past on its own terms, while the presentist bias of the traditions
they study—and possibly those they have personally inherited—is instead
to formulate it as a collection of “natural” precedents for our times.
Sixth,
and last, scholars, writers, and publishers should innovate new formats
for representing on page or screen the multiple genres and mixed voices
that are the warp and woof of Indian historicity and Indian-white relations.
How to do conceptual, textual, illustrative, and typographic justice to
the host of Indian ways of history that offer alternative, parallel, or
altogether Other viewpoints can be a liberating challenge for future orchestators
of historical representations, especially where multiple interest groups
and their memories, interpretations, and aesthetics are concerned. To this
end, I concur with Claude Levi- Strauss’s earlier comment that the homespun
range of tribally produced histories may one day be seen as pioneers. These
experiments exemplify the insistently incomplete and evolving nature of
these materials, which conform with James Clifford’s rhetorical questions
concerning the processual nature of our subject:
Is
it possible that historical reality is not something independent of these
differently centered perspectives, nor their sum total, and not the result
of a critical sifting of different viewpoints by independent experts “at
the end of the day”? Can we conceive of historical reality as an overlay
of contextual stories whose ultimate meanings are open-ended because the
contact relations that produced them are discrepant, unfinished? (“Fort
Ross Meditation” in Routes: Travel and Translation in the Late Twentieth
Century [Harvard University Press, 1997], 319).
On
a few occasions, I’ve used the verb bequeathed” to characterize how traditionalist
historians and others preoccupied with ensuring historical continuity often
frame their responsibilities. Perhaps this analogy to material inheritance
also has heuristic value in communicating the senses of property and duty
that are often found in Indian notions of history. Conceiving of the past
as a collective dowry, which subsequent generations must maintain in high
repair and to which they must even contribute, as a sort of cultural capital
from which they can draw ideological, spiritual, and psychological interest,
may help us understand why Indian history must stay receptive to synthesis,
accretion, and refurbishment.
This
book proposes that devising ways to revisit the uniquely American Indian
blends of spiritual, documentary, and opportunistic contemplations of the
past offers American intellectual history a new frontier. When they are
explored, as illustrated by Robert Allen Warrior’s pioneering comparison
of the writings of John Joseph Matthews (Osage) and Vine Deloria, Jr. (Tribal
Secrets: Recovering American Indian Intellectual Traditions [University
of Minnesota Press, 1995]), Ruth J. Heflin’s comparative study of five
generally contemporaneous Lakota writers (“I Remain Alive:” The Sioux
Literary Renaissance [Syracuse University Press, 2000]), or more informally,
as with Deloria’s memoir of lively brainstorming at the University of Arizona
during Bob Thomas’s tenure (“Bob Thomas as Colleague,” in Steve Pavlik,
ed., A Good Cherokee, a Good Anthropologist: Papers in Honor of Robert
K. Thomas [American Indian Studies Center, 1998]), we find ourselves
within subaltern American discourses. We feel freer to question whether
we should ever be speaking of indigenous senses of the past as alternative
histories or alternatives to history. Instead of cramming them into familiar
paradigms, might we not temper the hegemony of Western historiography by
interpreting it into them every now and then?
Without
the opportunity for Indian peoples to tell their historical experiences
in their many different ways, and without the burden upon non-Indian American
historians to somehow weave Native ways of history into the research methodologies
and narrative bedrock of their accounts, the fullness of the North American
experience will remain unwitnessed and alternative visions for its future
unrevealed. Just as there is nothing new about my book’s opening premise
that historical practices are culture-specific, this broader challenge
has also been expressed before. Historian Patricia Limerick followed up
her insistence that her professional colleagues position cultural competition
at the center of their narratives of the American West with her half-humorous
proposal that America be dotted with “Managed Contention Sites” where multiple
points of view and modes of interpretation might have at each other, thereby
honoring the complexity of competing notions of “truth” and ways of getting
at it (The Legacy of Conquest: The Unbroken Past of the American West
[Norton, 1987], 27; “The Battlefield of History,” New York Times, 28
August 1997, A19).
But
if we listen carefully, we hear Indians themselves calling for a historical
discourse that doesn’t quarantine their pasts and their intellectual life
from the broader American experience and its modes of recollection. When
an elder stood up in 1954 to tell the nation’s Commissioner of Indian Affairs
that “We have a hard trail ahead of us in trying to Americanize you and
your white brothers. But we are not afraid of hard trails,” he could have
been talking about American Indian ways of history (Felix S. Cohen, “Americanizing
the White Man,” The American Scholar [Spring 1952]: 178). When the
Lakota author Luther Standing Bear wistfully imagined an alternative to
his own indoctrination by the dominant society’s educational system, he
offered a prospectus we might well resurrect:
So
we went to school to copy, to imitate; not to exchange language and ideas,
and not to develop the best traits that had come out of uncountable experiences
of hundreds of thousands of years living upon this continent. Our annals,
all-happenings of human import, were stored in our song and dance rituals,
our history differing in that it was not stored in books, but in the living
memory. So, while the white people had much to teach us, we had much to
teach them, and what a school could have been established upon that idea!
(Land of the Spotted Eagle [University of Nebraska Press, 1933,
1978], 236).
An
Interview with Peter Nabokov
Donald
Yerxa:What are you
trying to accomplish with A Forest of Time?
Peter
Nabokov: I’m trying to open up a subject that I feel has been neglected
if not suppressed. On a most general level, A Forest of Time is
about the multiple American Indian interpretations, selections, and uses
of the past, depending on which community is telling the story and how
it wants to make constructive use of it. After spending forty years studying
American Indians, I want to pluralize and democratize notions, not only
of what happened, but of how different native traditions transmit, interpret,
and reinterpret what happened for their own purposes and devices. As a
student of oral narratives and of symbolic actions, I am interested in
how this all works. So if I look at a ritual, or if I examine the material
culture which accompanies story telling or which are commemorations of
things that happened in the past, or if I explore geography and what Indian
people have to say about how that anchors the past—all of these are modes
of historical representation. And I like to track those down and follow
through on interpreting and contextualizing them.
A
Forest of Time is only an introduction. I would like to see other people
go into detail as I did, for instance, in my dissertation on the Crow Indian
Tobacco Society, in which I took one simple example of a ritual that a
scholar some eighty years ago had said was very interesting and had recorded
in minute detail. But he concluded that it didn’t add up to much more than
a collection of disparate elements from around the Plains. The sum was
not greater than the parts in his view. So armed with readings that I had
done as a graduate student, I went back to the Crow Indian reservation
and began to ask questions, and also to look in the field notes of the
very anthropologist I was trying to refute. And I found evidence everywhere
to support my contention that this ritual was the way the Crow people had
created their own identity as a separate group on the Plains, having broken
off from another group, a farming people. The Crow Indians quickly became
a hunting people, and in the attempt to create a new birth of themselves
as a separate ethnicity—and to perpetuate and renew that identity—they
concocted a ritual out of old and new elements that was a coded reenactment
of their version of their migratory origins. That was an eye-opener to
me. Once their glossary of symbolic actions was decipherable, a whole story
emerged. I would want my book to encourage others to go in deep that way.
I would like academic historians to become a little more modest when they
talk about histories that involve non- European peoples. But in all candor,
I think that most of them will respond to these case studies and provocations
by ignoring them.
Part
of this attitude has to do with the fact that Indian persistence remains
a lump in the Anglo-American craw. These folks did not die out, which was
the wishful thinking of the “Vanishing Indian” theme around the turn of
the last century. They persist; they continue to endure; they continue
to perpetuate separate histories; and they continue to run rings around
the dominant society in the most intriguing ways while insisting on their
diversity. Many non-Indians, I truly believe, sense this as a threat: it’s
a threat territorially, and I think it’s a threat philosophically on some
level. It’s got to be a threat to a lot of basic tenets of modern American
life, whether it be consumerism, American individualism, Christian fundamentalism,
territorial integrity, or what have you. And the way Indians sometimes
do this; the way they do their capitalism, which is kind of a collectivist
free enterprise; the way they work at maintaining their families; the ways
they overcome the consequences of forced assimilation, of territorial dispossession,
of internalized racism, etc.—are rather marvelous. In my view this astonishing
persistence stands as something of a counterweight to—and a moral comment
on—the rest of America. And I suspect that some non- Indians can only take
so much of that.
Yerxa:
Could you explain your title?
Nabokov:
When I was at the Newberry Library as a pre-doctoral fellow, I came across
a quote from David Beaulieu, who was dissatisfied with the European model
of history. He said the European approach to history may be likened to
a tree with many branches; the trunk contains the common themes of Western
history. Instead, Beaulieu suggested the image of a forest with many different
and varied trees. Then I stumbled upon a number of quotes from different
Indian peoples in which a botanical analogy was utilized to talk about
diversity, whether it be diversity of myths within the tribe or diversity
of notions of what temporality and the purposes of people’s movements through
time were all about. Originally my sub-title was American Indian Concepts
of History, but that suggested that Indians had intellectual traditions
that were conceptualized along the same lines as those of Europeans. So
remembering how Indians would describe in a gentle and non-judgmental form
that “we do it this way, and you do it that way,” I opted for American
Indian Ways of History.
Yerxa:
As your title suggests, you stress that there is no singular Indian viewpoint
regarding the past or history; nevertheless, you have had to structure
a book around certain themes. So there are some commonalities to Indian
ways of history. Would you speak to these?
Nabokov:
There is always a tension in being true to the diversity that one is describing,
and then creating chapter headings in the classic way that one organizes
a book of this nature. When it came time to write A Forest of Time,
I realized that I wanted to break up my treatment of the narrative material
into the classic trio of legends, myths, and folktales. Now legends are
usually the only genre that is considered to contain historical data, at
least that is what folklorists, anthropologists, and even historians have
said. But in my exposure to myths, and the literature about myths, I began
to see that they were more plastic, malleable, and adjustable in terms
of reflecting temporal change than I would have thought. So I devoted a
chapter to discussing the ways myths reflect history. And I was also very
impressed by a sparse but persuasive literature that talked about folktales
as subversive commentaries on breaking events. While they seem to be entertaining
stories about speaking animals, in point of fact some of them can be deciphered
as editorials on the historical experiences that Indians were going through,
and as ways by which they develop a kind of psychological strength and
reinforcement, you might say, in the face of what was otherwise political
and territorial powerlessness. I was excited about the folktales chapter;
it is probably my favorite in the book.
Yerxa:
Beyond the trio of legends, myths, and folktales, what are some of the
other American Indian ways of knowing history?
Nabokov:
Another theme is how American Indians anchored the past in place. There
is material on Indian geographical sensibilities, and about special places
that relate the nonbuilt environment to the past. Material culture provides
another angle on Indian ways of history. I am also interested in the inter-relationship
between the things that Indian peoples made and their role in their history,
either as mnemonic or memory-triggering devices, or as things that had
an almost iconic status. And fortunately, I was able to build on work I
had done for a series of lectures, “The Blood of Things,” at Chicago’s
Newberry Library on this theme of material culture and history. Then there
are those rituals; I emphasize the present tense because rituals remain
a repository of historical knowledge and meaning. I had already written
two books on this, including Indian Running, an account of Indians
creating a kind of concocted ritual in 1980 that mixed symbolic elements
of the past and the present. They reenacted a runner mission that in 1680
had enabled them to rise up against the Spanish in the Southwest, the most
successful Indian uprising in American history. Beyond these ways of knowing
history, I also wanted to deal with the troublesome issue of the impact
of literacy on Indians and how Indians tried to turn writing to their own
advantage, especially through the production of hybrid genres of documentary
and legendary, multi-vocal prose. People today are much more receptive
to literary experimentation in non-fiction, but I think Indians were attempting
this early on because they had no choice if they did not want to submit
completely to non-Indian notions of prose and what history is about, much
of which is embedded in our notions of narrative. And then finally, I wanted
to devote a chapter to the role of prophecy in Indian historical consciousness
—especially to its function of maintaining Indian conceptual control and
autonomy over incomprehensible events and the happenstance of time.
Yerxa:
You state that “thinking about history, especially about the historical
discourses of non-Western societies, is too important to be left to historians
alone.” Why is this the case, and how do you think historians have failed
to understand the American Indian past?
Nabokov:
Let me tackle the second part of the question first. I don’t think historians
have entirely failed to understand the American Indian past. People go
with what’s familiar. You only have so many hours in a day. You’re schooled
in a particular approach. There are an awful lot of books to read. But
reading becomes the primary method of acquiring information; the archives
are considered the historian’s major primary resource. There’s little schooling
in how to interpret the other “primary resources” I’ve been talking about,
such as material culture, unless a historian is willing to jump the fence
and go learn from archaeologists. I think the balkanization of academia
makes it difficult for historians to be multi-talented, in ritual and symbolic
studies, for instance, which would mean they would have to learn something
about anthropology, not just cosmetically—which was the case when anthropology
became the rage among historians about fifteen or twenty years ago. In
addition, you must know something about the land. I try to make an argument
that you have to visit the places—not only on weekends with your
family pushing the stroller, but actually steep yourself in them. Then
things will happen; you will learn things you will not otherwise know;
answers will become apparent as to why people moved around and behaved
in the ways they did. You have to be aware that history is a stream that
everybody swims in—everybody. You have to realize that nobody is stupid
when it comes to history and that there are all kinds of different historical
voices and values. It seems to me that you have to develop a nose for the
persistence of the past and the present in the oddest corners—in street
signs, in place names, and in the changes of topography and plants and
animals that are in a region. And I don’t think that those skills are really
taught. Environmental history, which fortunately the new Western historians
have made a key element in their training, is a relatively recent academic
frontier. Because of all this, I think it would be better for historians
to open up a little bit to these other disciplines—to folklore, to the
study of material culture, to history of religions, to cultural geography.
Yerxa:
Are there particular historians whom you think do a good job examining
the American Indian past?
Nabokov:
With your permission I’d rather trespass disciplinary boundaries and ask
which scholars—let’s just say “narrators”—of what I also prefer to call
“American Indian culture history” have inspired me. I don’t want to trivialize
this fairly eccentric list into some sort of Greatest Hits, so let me free-associate,
and begin with what I still feel is one of the most powerful condensations
of Indian-white relations ever put on paper—the twenty-nine-page personal
narrative of a Cheyenne woman, Iron Teeth, transcribed by Thomas B. Marquis
and included in his compilation, The Cheyennes of Montana (1978).
Other remarkable pieces of precious historical-cultural testimony about
or from Indian women include Sage Birchwater’s interviews published as
Chewid (1995) about the mysterious presence of a Chilcotin Indian
woman in her early 20th-century western Canadian context, and Delphina
Cuero (1991), Florence Shipek’s edited life history of a longsuffering
Southern California Indian woman. Those tributes paid, and looking at longitudinal
studies from three North American regions, I would say that from Lewis
Henry Morgan’s League of the Iroquois (1851) to Anthony F.C. Wallace’s
Death and Rebirth of the Seneca (1970), or from James Mooney’s The
Ghost Dance and the Sioux Outbreak of 1890 (1896) to Alexander Lesser’s
The Pawnee Ghost Dance Hand Game (1933), Raymond J. Demallie’s The
Sixth Grandfather (1984), and Michael Hittman’s Wovoka and the Ghost
Dance (1990), and from Albert S. Gatschet’s Migration Legend of
the Creek Indians (1884) to Theda Perdue’s magnificent collection of
southeastern Indian oral histories, Nations Remembered (1980), it
is mostly historically- aware anthropologists who interest me, rather than
a minority of culturally-oriented historians who I feel have produced the
threedimensional, micro/macro histories, which in James Axtell’s words
“feature strong chronological narratives endowed with sensitive and sweeping
analysis of cultural patterns and functions.” Historian Theda Perdue is
an exception, as is Frederick E. Hoxie’s Parading Through History: The
Making of the Crow Nation in America, 1805–1935 (1995). Having spent
nearly twenty years on an anthology of Indian-white relations as seen through
Indian eyes, I also especially relish regional historical anthologies with
multiple voices, like the Perdue collection I just cited, Gerald Vizenor’s
little-known Escorts to White Earth, 1868 to 1968: 100 Year Reservation
(1968), Malcolm Margolin’s collection on the California Indian experience,
The Way We Lived (1993), and a host of lesserknown, often locally-published,
often anonymous, idiosyncratic “tribal histories” authored by Indian communities
which sometimes break new compositional ground in blending native and non-native
modes of historicity. I shouldn’t end before citing some personal favorites
of Indian history: Joe Sando’s Nee Hemish: A History of Jemez Pueblo
(1987), Terry Glavin’s A Death Feast in Dimlahamid (1990), and Carolyn
Gilman and Mary Jane Schneider’s absolutely magnificent The Way to Independence:
Memories of a Hidatsa Indian Family, 1840–1920 (1987).
Yerxa:
You consider Western historical consciousness to be hegemonic, perhaps
even a form of intellectual colonization of the past. Yet there are those,
such as John Lukacs and V. S. Naipaul, who suggest that Western historical
consciousness might well be seen as a gift to non-Western peoples giving
them greater access to their own history. How do you respond to this notion?
Nabokov:
Given the opportunity to learn, absorb, make positive use of, and monitor
the meaningful integration of Western forms of history into their forms
of history, Indian peoples definitely benefit from Western notions of history.
What is so moving to me are the accounts of Indian people who worked with
anthropologists and historians. These were often curious and intellectually
gifted people in their own traditions, who once they encountered books
and non-Indian ideas, were excited to document the histories of their own
cultures. They spent countless hours, lived multiple lives, devoting themselves
to the intellectual study—sometimes in self-taught ways—of their own peoples
from what they thought was the Anglo-European perspective: to create archives,
to record, to learn. And the unrequited nature of their contributions is
heartbreaking. They suffered insults while they were on these lonely quests
that generated a degree of suspicion and alienation within their own society.
And they never achieved full acceptance in the non-Indian society. Not
uncommonly, their works were published under other people’s names. So in
a spontaneous response to your question, I would say that we do have a
lot of examples of Indians trying to create new historical genres. But
very little sympathy or attention has been given to those folks and those
attempts. I also describe in A Forest of Time the predicament of
American Indian intellectuals who are in the academic system and the difficulties
they encounter with their peers as well as among their own people when
they go home. Sportswriters have observed a similar problem that Indian
athletes often experience when they try to participate in white men’s sports.
They are left trapped between worlds, between the value systems of private
individual gain and collective scrutinized good. And these American Indian
intellectuals would be the ones who would be accomplishing, under the best
of all possible conditions, what you were describing—that is, converting
the benefits of Western tradition for their own peoples. But I’m not sure
Indians want that. They are often looking for a third way, whether it be
in literature, in the arts, or in the processes of pedagogical thinking
and education. They are looking for a third way and, before casinos, without
a lot of resources. And I really must add that one of those things that
critics use to vilify Indians today is, of course, the fact that there
are these garish casinos on the borders of so many Indian communities.
But, ironically, those casinos are using the very greed that had dispossessed
Indians against the people who had dispossessed them, in order to use those
proceeds—not to buy Cadillacs or travel to Vegas—but to create old peoples’
homes, daycare centers, and tribal institutions of higher learning in which
the kinds of hybrid experimentations in education I’m referring to can
take place.
Yerxa:
One might conclude that Indian ways of knowing the past are contaminated
or tamed by their contact with the universitytrained academics. And yet
you mention in your chapter on material culture how archaeological work
in Washington State unearthed a gill net fragment that corroborated the
oral histories of the Makah people. Is this not a model for how multiple
approaches to the past—both Western and Indian—could work together constructively?
Nabokov:
That is a wonderfully dramatic example, but it doesn’t happen every day.
It also seems to me that looking at practical ends as the raison d’etre
for exploring Indian concepts focusing on history is treating Indians as
less intellectually curious and less capable of having delight in the world
than non-Indians. I think that on the level of one’s spiritual and intellectual
growth, as well as for excavating forgotten values regarding how to live
conscientiously on the planet, the study of Indian culture and history
has much to offer.
Yerxa:
Are you optimistic that Indian ways of history can be woven into American
academic life?
Nabokov:
I have no idea.
Yerxa:
I’d like to press you a bit on the implications of advocating pluralism
in historical thinking. Would this not open up, for example, providential
ways of looking at the past utilizing sympathetic interpretations of Christian
stories of healing, miracles, and that sort of thing? Respectful listening,
I gather, must be granted to all peoples and traditions, and to the extent
we do so, the past will become radically pluralized.
Nabokov:
In the best of circumstances what I hope would happen with my book and
its arguments is that some scholars will see the potential for their research
projects to be enhanced and expanded and made more complex by looking at
Indian perspectives on the past. And just maybe they’ll try to get a grant
to go to Georgia, let’s say, and investigate the Indian side to their topics
because some of their work overlaps the period of Indian preand post-removal
from that area. Maybe these scholars might learn something of the consciousness
of the Creek Indians of the 1800s from visiting Creeks today and talking
with them about their views and listening to their folktales—something
which they might never have considered attempting otherwise. And I do endorse
the sort of “radical pluralization” you describe, and relish your example
of respecting and analyzing in good scholarly fashion stories of Christian
miracles, say, from multiple perspectives,
Yerxa:
Might a distinction between history and the past be useful in this discussion?
History is the approach to the past developed in the West using an evidentiary
methodology. It provides “answers” to a wide range of questions about the
past, but history does not exhaust what can be said meaningfully about
the past or how it can be approached.
Nabokov:
Well said. There don’t have to be lines drawn in the sand here, but of
course such distinctions are useful, even critical, so long as they come
under periodic review themselves. I only get aroused when people refuse
to dignify other ways of looking at and thinking about the past, particularly
when those ways are underlaid with an absolutely desperate concern to keep
meanings in life, to salvage meanings that have stood the test of time,
and to celebrate and remember. And when those are denied or trivialized,
then I get irritated, not that my irritation means anything. But I begin
to think, “Wait a minute; after looking at American Indian stuff for forty
years or more, there are some themes of repression and denial that are
continuing here.” I think that if history is offered to Indian kids who
go to Stanford or here at UCLA in the more temperate, less arrogant, less
privileged way in which you’ve just described it, they will be more eager
to pore over the books, burn the midnight oil, and enhance the ways that
its study can both expose the complexities of the past and enrich our own
lives.
Join
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Globalization
and Its Critics
by
Jay R. Mandle
Today’s
economic globalization means that no country is so remote that firms will
be dissuaded from setting up production facilities in it because of location
considerations alone. Advances in communications technology now allow corporations
to make investment decisions with little attention accorded to distance
as a limiting constraint. This, together with advances in education in
poor countries, means that today modern production increasingly is undertaken
in nations that previously were bypassed by the process of economic development.
The
resulting change in the structure of global production is profound. In
1970, 3% of manufactured goods originated in developing countries. Twenty
years later that share was 18%, and today it is even higher. The image
of poor countries as confined to supplying agricultural goods or raw materials
no longer corresponds to reality. With this shift has come an acceleration
of economic growth. Between 1990 and 1998 economic growth in the thirteen
largest poor countries averaged 7.3% per year, higher than in any prior
corresponding period—rapid growth by any standard.
The United
States, far more than any other country,
has had a decisive voice in determining the content of the policies and
procedures that have accompanied globalization. It has been and still is
dominant in multilateral organizations such as the World Bank and the International
Monetary Fund, and the United States was
the most powerful influence in shaping the content of the rules that the
World Trade Organization (WTO) today enforces. The position of the United
States has been remarkably consistent
over the years: remove controls over domestic markets as part of a process
of minimizing the role of government in the economy, reduce barriers to
imports, and welcome foreign investment. The transition from Republican
administrations in the 1980s to Democratic ones in the 1990s produced no
change in fundamentals, and the same is likely to be true of the administration
of George W. Bush.
This
policy orientation has been responsible for important successes. The acceleration
in growth rates has occurred at least in part because policies to free
foreign direct investment have assisted some countries in increasing their
productive capacity more rapidly than if such flows were less available.
And the liberalization of trade has advanced the interests of consumers
throughout the world. Increased imports and exports have allowed for greater
choice and lower prices.
Unfortunately,
this policy orientation has had its downside as well. This is particularly
true with regard to international financial markets. The hypermobility
of portfolio funds (the purchase of bonds, stocks and other financial instruments)
has been the source of global economic instability. The Asian financial
crisis of 1997-8 was only the most dramatic of a series of setbacks that
has resulted in damaging, though temporary, economic reversals. Similarly,
because the public sector has been reduced, governments have not provided
adequate cushioning against the personal dislocations that globalization
causes. Though economic globalization has generally raised income levels,
it does not provide protection to those caught in and damaged by the whirlwind
of change unleashed by the global economic restructuring it causes.
It
is not too late to reform globalization to make it more just. Its institutions
are still under construction, and it is therefore possible to reduce their
one-sided emphasis on the mobility of products and capital. The rules and
structures that govern the emerging international economic system remain
embryonic and could be adjusted to ameliorate the costs inflicted on the
innocent victims of economic progress. Globalization, like all market systems,
requires extra-market systems of support and protection.
What
is needed is a politics to make globalization both more equitable and stable.
The problem is that while the United
States has been consistent and clear—if
one-sided—in its vision of what globalization should look like, the critics
and potential agents of global reform have been anything but. Generally,
it is fair to say that there is more agreement among anti-globalization
activists over what they do not like than on what they positively advocate.
In
part this failing results from the fact that many who oppose globalization
are hostile not simply to it, but rather to market economies altogether.
In the past, these individuals would have advocated an internationalist
socialism. But such an appeal is of course no longer politically tenable.
In the light of the experience of the Soviet bloc, it is not credible to
maintain that globalization could flourish with the means of production
publicly owned. Such critics, therefore, are deprived of the positive vision
that animated radicals in the past: an international commonwealth of cooperating
economies in which decisions are motivated not by private interests but
by the goal of advancing the public’s well-being. With the socialist project
abandoned, antiglobalization thought, at least in the United States, tends
to cluster around two sets of approaches. Activists argue that the United
States should take on the responsibility of making globalization more fair,
or, alternatively, globalization should be rejected altogether. Advocates
of the former argue that globalization can be made just only if the United
States imposes trade sanctions on nations that fail to agree and adhere
to labor, environmental, and human rights standards. The intention is to
use American power to encourage the formation of unions, to avoid environmental
degradation, and to advance human rights. Defenders of the second approach
tend to be skeptical of the benefits of modern technology and believe that
global market integration is damaging economically and culturally. They
would substitute an economics of local self-sufficiency, reversing the
trend toward global interdependence that occurs with modern economic growth.
Neither
of these two strategies is viable. Not even the United States, as rich
and powerful as it is, possesses the resources to monitor the world economy.
It is one thing to watch a country deregulate its markets and reduce the
size of its government. It is quite another to observe and enforce market
regulations, labor rights, environmental controls, and support mechanisms.
Even more to the point, to a large extent the United States has been the
author of the very policies that the critics wish to change. At the very
least, a dramatic and very unlikely change in domestic American politics
would have to occur for the United States to enforce the kind of market
interventions that these reformers advocate.
At
the same time, those who would abandon development—and with it global economic
integration—have little to offer the world’s poor. Localism rejects precisely
the benefits that advances in technology permit. In favoring small producers
confined to local markets, the advocates of localization would limit production
to lower amounts of a smaller range of goods at higher prices than would
be the case in an integrated international economy. The upshot would be
a decline in living standards. There can be little doubt that localization
would put downward pressure on the standard of living of the poor in both
wealthy nations and the underdeveloped world.
The
student anti-sweatshop movement is illustrative of the inability of the
global reform movement to offer a viable strategy of change. The apparel
industry is nothing if not global. Between 1980 and 1992 the total number
of employees in this industry was roughly stable, a stability that masks
the fact that the growth of 850,000 jobs in poor countries was matched
by a loss of employment of an equal number in the developed nations. The
search by employers for cheaper labor fueled this remarkable relocation
of jobs. And, indeed, wages in the industry were very low. According to
the trade newspaper Women’s Wear Daily, the mean wage in Asia during the
mid-1990s was about $0.44 per hour while that in Latin America was about
$1.14.
The
fundamental problem here is that workers are accepting these low wages
because they represent the best of the limited alternatives available to
them. It is particularly noticeable that wages are lowest in countries
where agriculture provides the bulk of jobs. Almost everywhere, labor productivity
in agriculture is low compared to manufacturing sectors such as apparel.
It is easy for textile employers to satisfy their labor requirements at
low costs. All they have to do is offer a wage somewhat higher than the
one that prevails in agriculture, but which is still profitable for themselves.
Because
of these circumstances, an effective strategy to raise the wages of apparel
workers will have to contain two elements. Higher paying jobs will have
to be created in order to put upward pressure on wages in clothing. At
the same time, the bargaining power of the clothing workers themselves
will have to be increased. If jobs with relatively high pay were available,
apparel employers would have to compete for their labor, a process that
would entail bidding up the wages they offer. Further, if textile workers
were able to bargain collectively, they would be able to secure higher
wages. What the low income workers in the textile industry need to advance
their position is economic development—the creation of competing job opportunities—and
collective bargaining.
Unfortunately,
the students who participate in the anti-sweatshop movement draw next to
no attention to the need for economic development. At the same time, their
focus on making cross-border alliances with non-governmental organizations
(NGOs) that are sympathetic to workers is almost certainly inadequate to
the task at hand. Students neglect the role that an enforceable international
code protecting workers’ rights to form unions and engage in collective
bargaining might play in advancing their goals. The movement could argue
that what is needed is a labor counterpart to the WTO—a global organization
promoting workers’ rights as the WTO promotes global trade. The obvious
candidate among existing international organizations to administer such
a labor and union rights regime would be a much enhanced and empowered
International Labor Organization (ILO).
The
goal of strengthening the ILO on behalf of Third World workers could provide
the student movement with a platform to do politics in this country, something
that is all but denied to it with its current emphasis on making alliances
with overseas NGOs. The reason that there is potential in this direction
is that the United States has been only a very tepid supporter of the ILO,
failing to ratify a very high proportion of ILO conventions, most notably
those that protect the right to organize and bargain collectively. It is
not difficult to imagine a student movement organizing to pressure the
United States government to support the ILO in protecting workers’ rights
in poor countries.
Over
and above the question of labor rights lie the problems of economic development
itself and the creation of jobs. The students have recognized the importance
of export sales in raising incomes. They are reluctant to endorse boycotting
the products of the firms they are trying to change. Nevertheless, it is
doubtful that the student movement is fully aware that globalization is
an ally to its cause. The fact that United Students Against Sweatshops
actively participated in the 1999 Seattle demonstrations against the WTO
suggests that the students are a long way from acknowledging that globalization
can and has been a vehicle by which poverty has been reduced.
In
fact, there probably is no more important contribution that the United
States could make to raise global living standards than to adhere to its
widely proclaimed belief in open markets. Today, not only in the United
States, but in the European Union and Japan as well, non-tariff barriers
to imports remain critical in restricting the growth of poor nations. But
persuading Americans to open their markets to Third World imports will
not be easy. Doing so will inflict injuries on workers who in effect will
be placed in competition with their lower paid counterparts elsewhere.
To make its position politically tenable, the movement will have to defend
the reduction in trade barriers in the name of making an increased diversity
of low priced goods available to United States consumers, as well as reducing
global poverty. But in addition, it will have to explain that dislocations
are inevitable in a dynamic economy. The most reasonable response to the
resulting problems is not to back away from the consequences of economic
integration, but to respond to them with programs that allow the workers
in this country to benefit from the new opportunities associated with globalization
with income support, portable health insurance, job training, and job search
assistance.
It
is possible to envision a politics to make globalization more equitable.
But for this to become a reality, those who identify with the interests
of the poor will have to overcome their antagonism to globalization on
the one hand and their propensity to believe that the United States should
police international trade in the name of justice on the other hand. A
long and difficult domestic campaign is needed to induce the United States
to abandon its neoliberal advocacy of governmental retrenchment while endorsing
a social and labor counterpart to the trade promoting policies it currently
endorses.
Jay
R. Mandle is W. Bradford Wiley Professor of Economics at Colgate University.
His book Globalization and the Poor will be published this fall
by Cambridge University Press.
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the Historical Society and subscribe to Historically Speaking
Missions:
Remembering Hungary’s
“Great Generation”
byLee
Congdon
Not
long ago, the newsreader for a major television network published a best-selling
book in celebration of America’s
“greatest generation,” the members of which suffered through the Great
Depression and fought total wars in Europe
and the Pacific. I know of nothing to suggest that readers of the book
questioned the concept of a “generation,” though as the late Noel Annan
pointed out in a portrait of his generation of English intellectuals, many
professional historians do. In a study of the “generation of 1914,”
for example, Robert Wohl concluded that generational interpretations of
the past or present obscured more than they revealed. He was therefore
critical of José Ortega y Gasset’s El tema de nuestro tiempo,
the first notable attempt to formulate a theory of generations.
Ortega’s
reflections were inspired in part by Spain
’s “generation of ‘98,” which numbered among its members such luminaries
as Azorín (José Martínez Ruiz), Pío Baroja,
and Miguel de Unamuno. Shaken by the Spanish-American War, these and other
writers dedicated themselves to Spain
’s national regeneration; they possessed, that is, a sense of mission.
“If,” Ortega wrote, “the essence of each generation is a particular type
of sensibility, an organic repertoire of innermost predispositions, it
follows that each generation possesses its own vocation, its historical
mission.”
Karl
Mannheim recognized the importance of Ortega’s work, but as a sociologist
he chose to adopt a more scientific approach to what he called “the problem
of generations.” Nevertheless, he too believed that they were summoned
to solve social, political, and intellectual problems presented by “destiny,”
a term he freighted with Heideggerian meaning. Although he wrote his essay
on generations in WeimarGermany, Mannheim
was born in Hungary
in 1893 and was always conscious of his own generational identity; he belonged
to what Hungarians call the “second reform generation” (the first prepared
the 1848 Revolution) or the “great generation.” Its members were born between
1875 and 1905 and initially they, like the Spaniards of ‘98, believed that
they had a mission to regenerate the nation.
It
was Endre Ady (b. 1877), a member of the déclassé
gentry, who, with his electrifying New Verses of 1906, awakened Mannheim
’s generation to consciousness. When the poet died in 1919, one of his
friends praised him for that service: “With his new cadences, symbols,
and accents, [Ady] forged a spiritual unity out of all those who [wanted
a new Hungary
but who] would never have been able to unite on the basis of economic interest,
class affinity, or political conviction.” Thanks to Ady, who (mistakenly)
believed fin de siècleHungary
to be a “wasteland” of backwardness and injustice, Mannheim
was more aware of belonging to a generation than to a social class. Indeed,
he came to believe that he and other intellectuals were socially “unattached,”
that they “floated freely” above classes. Such a view, he knew, pitted
him against his first mentor, Georg Lukács.
Seven
years Mannheim’s senior, Lukács joined the Communist Party in 1918
and escaped to Austria the following year, after the short-lived Hungarian
Soviet Republic collapsed. In 1923 he published History and Class Consciousness,
his brilliant study of Marxist dialectics. Mannheim found much to ponder
in Lukács’s work, but he could not accept the claim that proletarian
class consciousness was the key to history’s advance. In his judgment,
classes demonstrated little willingness to compromise, while generations
remained in a state of continuous reciprocity. The latter were therefore
more likely to achieve the synthesis of competing interests and worldviews
that Mannheim regarded as preferable to the revolutionary victory of a
single class.
For
Mannheim, then, generational analysis was an alternative to class analysis,
a less one-sided means of understanding the past and giving direction to
the present. At the same time, it was a declaration of intellectual independence
from Lukács, whose wartime “Sunday Circle” he continued to regard
as one of the formative experiences of his and his generation’s life.
In
1915, Lukács and the poetdramatist Béla Balázs (b.
1884) began to invite carefully-screened men and women, almost all of whom
were assimilated Jews, to withdraw from a world at war in order to discuss
the Permanent Things; Mannheim was among the first to accept. He was soon
joined by others, including four who subsequently enriched the field of
art history: Arnold Hauser (b. 1892), author of a magisterial social history
of art; Frederick Antal (b. 1887), connoisseur and Marxist historian; Johannes
Wilde (b. 1891), authority on Venetian painting and Michelangelo at the
Courtauld Institute; and Charles de Tolnay (b. 1899), director of Florence’s
Casa Buonarroti.
In
the hope of discovering a path to genuine human community, these and other
young Hungarians explored various approaches to ethics, aesthetics, and
religion (broadly defined). As philosophic idealists, they were cognizant
of their participation in what H. Stuart Hughes called “the revolt against
positivism.”
For
that reason, they distanced themselves from the circle that had gathered
around Oscar Jászi (b. 1875), later a professor at Oberlin College
and author of the classic Dissolution of the Habsburg Monarchy.
On January 1, 1900, Jászi had launched Huszadik Század
(Twentieth Century), a journal devoted to the “scientific” study and reform
of society. Beginning with the publication, in the first issue, of a letter
of greeting from Herbert Spencer, Jászi and his co-workers identified
themselves with positivism, a doctrine that they hoped would uncover delegitimizing
truths about official Hungary. Thus they constituted the core of what Mannheim
later called a “generation unit,” one that responded to his generation’s
shared experiences in a distinctive manner.
A third
generation unit appeared on the cultural scene at about the time the Sunday
Circle began to meet—the avant-garde circle around Lajos Kassák
(b. 1887), an autodidact who had made a life-transforming journey (on foot!)
to Paris in 1909. In the French capital he learned of Apollinaire, Rodin,
Picasso, and Henri Rousseau; as a result, he embraced cultural internationalism
and later became a vocal critic of the war. Dissatisfied with existing
forums, including Huszadik Század, he created a journal of
his own, A Tett (Action), late in 1915. When, a year later,
the government shut it down, he quickly founded another, Ma (Today),
which was to become the center of a movement that made a lasting contribution
to European culture.
“We
do not,” Kassák wrote of his movement, “want to remain in the sphere
of the printed word.” He therefore promised drama matinées, art
exhibitions, and collaborations with modernist composers such as Béla
Bartók (b. 1881). In 1917, Ma published the score of Bartók’s
setting of an Ady poem, and it devoted its entire February 1, 1918 issue
to the composer, who, together with Zoltán Kodály (b. 1882),
sought to free Hungarian music from German influence. Determined to create
a genuinely national music, Bartók began to collect folk songs that
inspired his radically modern compositions.
When
the war ended, Hungarians experimented with democratic and Soviet republics
before Admiral Miklós Horthy’s counterrevolutionary government established
its authority. For a variety of political and career reasons, many Hungarian
intellectuals, particularly those of Jewish origin, chose to emigrate.
Austria was their initial destination, but some continued on to Germany,
where they all but created “Weimar culture.” Among those who had served
the Soviet Republic, Lukács was the most important. As he saw it,
his mission in exile was to breathe new life into Marxist theory after
the virtual collapse of the Second International. Before he knew of Marx’s
economic and philosophic manuscripts of 1844, he discerned Marxism’s Hegelian
core and, in History and Class Consciousness, produced the most
seductive apology for tyranny ever written. If the rulers of Soviet Russia
were not impressed, it was because Lukács criticized Engels (and
by implication, Lenin) and challenged Moscow’s right to decide what was
and what was not orthodox Marxism.
Unlike
Lukács, who lived on the outskirts of Vienna during most of the
1920s, Balázs, who had also converted to communism, moved on to
Berlin in 1926. Having recognized the consciousness- raising potential
of film, he published the first comprehensive theory of the new art and
later translated it into practice as a scenarist for G. W. Pabst (The
Threepenny Opera) and Leni Riefenstahl (The Blue Light). Had
he not answered a call to the Soviet Union at the beginning of the 1930s,
he might have completed his mission of fomenting revolution.
As
communists, Lukács and Balázs despised the avant-garde for
its refusal to submit to Party discipline. They therefore waged ideological
war against Kassák, who had fled to Vienna in 1920. There he revived
the Ma Circle, out of which soon emerged a number of Hungarians
who joined the staff at the Bauhaus, the famous art and design school with
a socio-political mission. Chief among them was László Moholy-Nagy
(b. 1895), a war veteran possessed of multiple talents. A painter, photographer,
filmmaker, and sculptor, he was the Bauhaus’s commanding figure during
its heyday; in some ways, indeed, he eclipsed director Walter Gropius.
A utopian,
Moholy believed that art could work indirectly to produce a new social
order and a “new man.” By teaching men and women to see in different ways,
he could help them to visualize and then create a new and more rational
society. To varying degrees, this notion appealed to Moholy’s countrymen
at the Bauhaus: the stage designer Farkas Molnár, the furniture
designer Marcel Breuer, and the architect Fréd Forbát.
Mannheim
could never join an organization as exclusive as the Communist Party, and
he had little interest in the avant-garde. Nevertheless, he believed he
had a mission to synthesize conservatism, liberalism, and socialism by
training the younger generation in the sociology of knowledge, a discipline
that promised to uncover the ideological and hence the “relational” character
of all thinking. In 1925, he secured a position as Privatdozent
in Heidelberg and, after the publication of his widelydiscussed Ideology
and Utopia (1929), won appointment as professor of sociology at Frankfurt’s
Goethe University. He had no desire, however, to retreat into an ivory
tower; he was determined to help society navigate the troubled waters of
the 20th century.
When
Hitler came to power, the Hungarians packed their bags once again. Most
of the communists gathered in the Soviet Union, where, they convinced themselves,
they would participate in a colossal human “experiment.” Instead, many
of them fell victim to Stalin’s purges, while those who managed to survive
sacrificed their intellects and consciences. It did not take long, for
example, for Gyula Háy (b. 1900), who exploded on the Weimar scene
in 1932 with God, Emperor and Peasant, a sophisticated Marxist dramatization
of John Huss’s martyrdom, to recognize that whenever he put pen to paper
he was placing himself at risk. By the time the Moscow Trials opened in
1936, he had arrived at a chilling conclusion: “Any one of us could disappear
at any time, never to be seen again.”
Not
all Hungarian communists headed east in the early 1930s. Frederick Antal
and the former avant-garde artist Peter Peri chose England, where they
participated in the debate over communism that divided the Hungarian emigration.
Although not a Party member, Karl Polanyi (b. 1886), who in Vienna had
worked as a lead writer for Der Österreichische Volkswirt,
turned sharply to the left after reaching England’s shores. He co-edited
and contributed to Christianity and the Social Revolution, a volume
of essays that labored to make the case that Christianity, rightly understood,
was communism. And in his influential performance of 1944, The Great
Transformation, he savaged market economies and praised Stalin for
his progressive economic policies.
At
the same time that Karl Polanyi was carrying out his self-assigned mission
to defend Soviet communism, his brother Michael (b. 1891) was doing everything
in his power to refute the claim, advanced by J. D. Bernal and others,
that science was communism, and to lay a more solid foundation for a liberalism
under siege. As a member of Fritz Haber’s Institute for Physical Chemistry
and Electrical Chemistry in Weimar Germany, the younger Polanyi had maintained
cordial and sometimes working relations with other illustrious Hungarian
scientists: Eugene Wigner (b. 1902), winner of the Nobel Prize for physics;
Leo Szilard (b. 1898), who conceived the idea of a nuclear chain reaction
and, through Einstein, alerted President Roosevelt to the possibility of
an atomic bomb; and John von Neumann (b. 1903), the mathematical genius,
formulator of game theory, and pioneer of computer science.
In
England, Michael Polanyi devoted ever more of his time to economic and
philosophical issues, and to confrontations with communist sympathizers,
including his brother. This brought him into contact with Arthur Koestler,
a younger member (b. 1905) of the “great generation.” Koestler had been
a Party member, but he became Europe’s leading anticommunist when, in 1941,
he published Darkness at Noon, a novel about the Moscow Trials and,
at a deeper level, about freedom and responsibility. While Koestler was
an obsessive womanizer and a hard-drinking, do-gooding activist, Polanyi
was a quiet family man, a highly dignified scholar and thinker; yet the
two men forged what Polanyi called an intellectual “partnership.”
They
did so because they shared ambitions that went beyond the discrediting
of communism. Although both men believed that a return to orthodox Christianity
was neither possible nor desirable, they recognized that the loss of religious
faith had led to a brave new world of philosophical nihilism and political
totalitarianism. Thus they set out together on a spiritual quest that produced
at least two major works of the postwar period: Polanyi’s Personal Knowledge
and Koestler’s The Sleepwalkers.
Polanyi’s
religious interests brought him into renewed contact with Mannheim, who
also chose England as his final destination. A professor of sociology at
the London School of Economics, he accepted a wartime invitation to join
the “Moot,” the purpose of which was to examine existing social institutions
in the light of the Christian faith and to assist, at war’s end, in bringing
about the changes such an examination seemed to dictate. Mannheim made
no Christian profession, but he recognized the social utility of the historic
faith; thus he quickly became, along with T. S. Eliot, the most influential
member of the Moot. In that group, his first real home since Sunday Circle
days, he developed his ideas about planning, the championing of which was
to become his final mission.
How
does one account for such a generational record of achievement? (This is
not the same thing as asking how it happened that so many talented people
were born in one time and place—that must remain a mystery.) The Hungarian
historian Tibor Frank has argued persuasively that “networking, cohorting,
and personal friendship [particularly in exile] did certainly contribute
to what Laura Fermi [in Illustrious Immigrants] called ‘the mystery
of Hungarian talent.’” In Budapest 1900, the Hungarian- born John
Lukacs focused on distinguished members of the great generation who did
not emigrate and pointed to the quality of Budapest’s schools—especially
its gymnasia. One might mention in that regard the “Model” school founded
by Mór Kármán, father of the famous aeronautical engineer
Theodore von Kármán (b. 1881). The Polanyi brothers matriculated
there, as did “Father of the H-bomb” Edward Teller (b. 1908). The Lutheran
Gymnasium could boast that it prepared John von Neumann and Eugene Wigner.
One may doubt that any American university can match the education
these schools offered.
Many
of the best students came from assimilated Jewish homes that placed a high
value on education and culture. Edward Teller’s earliest memories of his
mother, for example, are “intertwined with Beethoven’s sonatas.” Von Neumann’s
father, a prominent banker, insisted that his son learn German and French.
The Polanyi brothers grew up bilingually in German and Hungarian, and their
parents saw to it that they were tutored in French and English. Georg Lukács’s
father, another successful banker, provided his son with a first-class
education which included visits to the family home by Bartók and
Thomas Mann. Without ignoring Hungarian culture, families such as the Tellers,
Lukácses, and Polanyis created a environment. Lukács was
only twenty-si European when he published, in Hungarian, a two-volume
History of the Evolution of the Modern Drama, a work in which he
displayed a command of virtually every major European literature.
Members
of the great generation also drew upon the kinetic energy of what, at the
turn of the century, was the fastest growing metropolis in Europe. Everywhere
they looked, they could see new thoroughfares, new bridges linking Buda
and Pest (“I remember the bridges, the beautiful bridges,” Teller recently
wrote), and new edifices such as the splendid Opera House—where, for a
time, Gustav Mahler conducted—and imposing Parliament. They could take
pride in the continent’s first subway and share in the excitement generated
by the modern culture taking shape in the city’s democratizing coffeehouses
and bustling editorial offices—its “workshops,” as the Hungarian cultural
historian Péter Hanák used to say. “You heard a great deal
more erudite conversation than you hear in the United States,” Wigner recalled.
“People talked more about culture, about art, about literature.”
Most
important, perhaps, was the sense of mission that almost all members of
the great generation felt; as early as 1918, Mannheim had spoken of “our
particular historic mission as a generation.” For them, life was public,
not private. Or perhaps it would be better to say that their public life
was inextricably intertwined with their private life. Hence they were never
content to withdraw into their own worlds or to view the outer world in
a detached manner; they looked for ways to fulfill what they understood
to be their civic responsibilities. This commitment to the public sphere
could, and sometimes did, lead in dangerous directions—to Lukács’s
submission to the Communist Party or Mannheim’s call for social engineering.
But
it could also lead to a genuine and active concern for the preservation
of civilization. Here one could cite numerous examples. When communist
scientists attempted to hijack science, Michael Polanyi took time out from
his laboratory work to make the case for freedom in science. As most know,
Arthur Koestler was almost obsessed with the danger communism presented
to Western civilization. Although less well known, the thoughtful moral
philosopher Aurel Kolnai (b. 1900) devoted much of his time to a careful
analysis and critique of communism and nazism— sworn enemies of civilization.
Szilard, Teller, and von Neumann helped to develop the atomic bomb (though
Szilard later campaigned against its use). They did so because they knew
that such a weapon, in Hitler’s hands, would pose the gravest of threats.
In the same spirit, Sir Alexander Korda (b. 1893), the film director/ producer,
offered his World War II services to British intelligence. It was he, incidentally,
who liked to say of his and his countrymen’s successes: “Being Hungarian
is not enough, but it certainly helps.”
Lee
Congdon is professor of history at James Madison University. His most recent
book is Seeing Red: Hungarian Intellectuals in Exile and the Challenge
of Communism (Northern Illinois University Press, 2001).
The
Pacific War as a Civilizational Conflict
by
Genzo Yamamoto
The
concept of “civilizational conflict” has recently received both scholarly
and public attention. Samuel Huntington’s provocative thesis, which argues
among other things that the world is made up of competing cultural and
religious civilizational groupings, has generated responses by Edward Said
and others decrying the use of such broad analytical categories. Such analysis,
they argue, places insufficient weight on the complexities within societies
and encourages the reification of static and mistaken stereotypes. Moreover, Huntington’s
critics note that the attempt to understand conflict along civilizational
boundaries does not adequately account for the global interactions that
have increased the exchange of ideas and values among civilizations. Despite
their marked differences, the views of both Huntington and his critics,
I contend, are useful for revisiting the historical significance of the
Pacific theater in World War II. Civilizational conflict was indeed a central
issue; at the same time, it is critical to understand the complex developments
within Japan
prior to the war, as well as the exchange of ideas taking place across
civilizational boundaries.
Many
key Japanese leaders viewed the Pacific War as a civilizational conflict.
The rationale given for Japan’s
foreign policy at the start of the China War in 1937—the war that would
lead directly into the Pacific War—shows how important the defense of Japan
’s civilization was to Japanese leaders. For example, the Showa Research
Association, the think tank affiliated with Prince Konoe Fumimaro (prime
minister when Japan
began the war with China
and in the period immediately prior to the outbreak of war with the U.S.),
carefully sought to locate Japan’s
civilizational role in world history vis-à-vis other civilizations.
Prominent philosophers such as Nishida Kitaro and Watsuji Tetsuro did the
same.
An
official document published by the Ministry of Education in 1937, the Kokutai
no hongi (“Cardinal Essence of the National Polity”), illustrates the
fact that Western civilization was perceived as antithetical to Japanese
civilization. Defining Japan
’s enemy also clarified Japan’s
identity. The Kokutai no hongi criticized “Europeanization” and
the “ideologies of the Enlightenment” and the “rationalism” and “individualism”
that arose from them. The document called for Japanese to
return
to the standpoint peculiar to our country, clarify our immortal national
entity, sweep aside everything in the way of adulation, bring into being
our original condition . . . . This means that the present conflict seen
in our people’s ideas, the unrest in their modes of life, the confused
state of their civilization, can be put right only by a thorough investigation
by us of the intrinsic nature of Occidental ideologies and by grasping
the true meaning of our national entity.
The
Kokutai no hongi reiterated the qualities essential to Japanese
civilization, particularly loyalty to the emperor, which entailed rejecting
the notion that individual self-fulfillment arose from the demand for one’s
rights in favor of submitting one’s life to the emperor. These were only
surface reflections of a much deeper and sophisticated philosophical disagreement
with Enlightenment philosophy regarding the nature of the human individual,
culture, society, state, and nature. To the extent that Enlightenment philosophy
was understood as characterizing Western civilization, it was indeed a
civilization built upon values antithetical to the values upon which modern
Japanese civilization had been built. This was a “war between civilizations.”
The
ideas expressed in the Kokutai no hongi were not new. The drafter
of the 1889 Meiji Constitution upon which the modern Japanese nation-state
was based, Prince Ito Hirobumi, had explicitly sought to shape the document
so as to oppose the ideas of the European Enlightenment. Ito drew from
German Romantic legal and political philosophers, who were explicit in
their antagonism toward Enlightenment ideas. They extolled the importance
of the “volk” in the formation of communities and states. These conservative
thinkers viewed as fundamentally flawed the Enlightenment principles that
gave ontological, legal, and political priority to the individual over
larger social and cultural entities. Rather, they believed that the proper
development of state and community required a more organic understanding
of the particularities of a people—their history, traditions, customs,
and their land. These larger entities, not the individual, should form
the basis of the state’s legal and political structures. After studying
constitutional systems in various European states, Ito wrote: “The situation
in our country is characterized by the erroneous belief that the words
of English, American, and French liberals and radicals are eternal verities
. . . . I have acquired arguments and principles to rectify the situation.”
Not
all Japanese, however, shared Ito’s views, especially after the turn of
the century and victory in the Russo-Japanese War. Recent work by Frederick
Dickinson has shown that World War I-era domestic politics involved a struggle
over what constituted the proper definition of Japan
’s polity. On one side were the “German admirers”—led by the oligarch Yamagata
Aritomo—who sought domestic hegemony by the military and bureaucratic elites
at home and continental expansion abroad. On the other side were the “advocates
of Anglo-Saxon civilization,” who were critical of oligarchic rule and
favored parliamentary politics along with a state devoted to alleviating
domestic social and economic ills.During World War I, under the skillful
maneuvering of Foreign Minister Kato Takaaki, liberals began to make inroads
into the formulation of domestic and foreign policies, widening the gap
between the two groups.
Changes
wrought by World War I also challenged traditional notions of how Japan’s
civilization and mission should be defined, defended, and furthered. Domestically,
the national economy boomed with a trade surplus, which gave rise to a
new, urban middle class and an urban culture of leisure and entertainment,
as well as a labor movement and calls for an expansion of suffrage. Internationally,
the rise of the United States as a political power and Woodrow Wilson’s
proclamations challenged the legitimacy of monarchies and the imperialism
of the old order.
In
the 1920s, well-known liberals, such as Wakatsuki Reijiro, Shidehara Kijuro,
and Kato Takaaki, retained the notion of Japan’s unique civilization and
mission; yet they infused it with more liberal values. In foreign affairs,
they embraced the pursuit of international agreements for peace. They distanced
themselves from German militarism and embraced postwar internationalism
under the League of Nations and the International Labor Organization. They
reinterpreted the civilizing mission to mean “spiritual colonization,”
or the spreading of the virtues of Japanese culture to Asia, rather than
outright territorial expansion. The retention of Japan’s empire and the
right to hold the newlyacquired Pacific islands as mandates under the League
of Nations satisfied this new definition. Convinced that this new order
achieved a modicum of national security, they focused on the domestic socio-economic
problems besetting the country and called for factory legislation, legal
recognition of labor unions, the expansion of suffrage, educational reforms,
and the establishment of a politics in which parliament would play a central
role. In so doing, they sought to move Japan toward a constitutional monarchy.
Conservatives
viewed the accommodation of liberal trends in the formulation of domestic
and international policy as unpatriotic and harmful to Japan’s national
essence. Advocates of the illiberal definition of Japanese civilization
pictured Japan’s more liberal foreign policy of the 1920s as flaccid and
retreating, and in the 1930s they successfully moved Japan away from international
cooperation and toward a unilateral policy intended to achieve the empire’s
“destiny.” This shift expressed itself in domestic politics as well, as
the conservatives ousted Minobe Tatsukichi (an important scholar who advocated
a constitutional monarchy), squelched social legislation that had been
pursued by the Minseito party, and criticized parliamentary politics as
intrinsically divisive, corrupt, and selfish. The militaristic conservatism
of the 1930s, then, was not simply a matter of the rising power of the
military, though no doubt that played a part. It was also the return to
power of a certain understanding of what Japan stood for—a certain way
of defining Japanese civilization and its civilizing mission.
The
U.S. had long been a threat to the conservative vision of Japanese civilization.
Conservatives were not pleased by Woodrow Wilson’s unilateral proclamation
during the war that the world was to be made “safe for democracy.” Neither
did they find comfort in the idea of an international organization led
by the U.S. to guarantee peace. In 1919, an imperial nominee in the Japanese
House of Peers responded to comments made by an American senator who referred
to the Japanese as “international sea pirates” by noting that, given America’s
expansion into the continent and beyond to Panama, Hawaii, Philippines,
and Guam, the senator was indulging in “truly insolent speech and behavior.”
But the problem was bigger than international relations. The U.S. also
embodied a system of values that embraced the rights-based language of
the Anglo-American Enlightenment. In the wake of the rapid influx of American
culture into Japanese urban life, conservatives spoke of how American influence
had made the people’s thinking “unstable,” creating “an individualism of
the bad sort, egotism.” In 1920, agreeing with conservatives, Home Minister
Tokonami Takejiro pinpointed the crux of the problem: “All humans are not
born equal . . . .” America constituted a threat to the philosophical foundations
of the Japanese empire.
This
insidious American threat to Japanese civilization became even clearer
for conservatives when liberal leaders successfully pushed a universal
manhood suffrage bill through in 1925. In the end, even moderate conservatives
were willing to pass the bill, seeing it as preemptive social legislation.
(They would be proven correct.) But they, and especially their more staunch
conservative colleagues, made clear the potential dangers of such offensive
legislation. Hijikata Yasushi, president of Tokyo Imperial University,
noted, “[r]ecently people have begun to speak about ‘rights.’ But concerned
only about their own rights, they ignore public rights, which is the same
thing as ‘duty’ and ‘responsibility.’ There is no sense of responsibility,
and thus moral education is lacking.” “Universal suffrage,” he intoned,
was
something
that came out of Europe and America’s specific cultural experience. If
their experience is the ideal endpoint and if their progress is linear,
then we must follow. But from before the war, I have felt that theirs is
neither an ideal endpoint nor the path that we must follow . . . . Because
our civilization has a different spirit from theirs, we ought not to import
this. It is nothing more than the consequences of a mistaken civilization.
In
the late 1920s conservatives went on the offensive in earnest. Pinpointing
what they perceived as the failure of Japan’s China policy, conservatives
argued that this stemmed from the corruption that existed at the heart
of Japan’s empire—its parliamentary politics and politicians. The focus
on the parliament had led to “political conflict” and “broken the Japanese
empire’s traditional spirit,” bringing “conflict even into the homes” (a
reference to universal manhood suffrage that allowed sons to counter the
political vote of the father). In 1930, a conservative noted that the current
government advocated a parliament-centered politics and retorted “I am
one who considers the Throne to be the center of politics . . . . [O]ur
argument is an anti-parliament argument.” By then, conservatives had successfully
painted parliamentary politics as both corrupt at home and unable to defend
the empire abroad. For them, parliamentary politics was a tangible embodiment
of liberal political philosophy which had seeped into the country in the
years following World War I and corrupted —in their view—the “proper” vision
of Japanese civilization.
The
events of the 1930s which signify the rise of militaristic conservatism
are familiar to us: the London Naval Conference of 1930, which established
a tonnage ratio on supplementary warships and led to a domestic attack
on the Hamaguchi Minseito government and on parliamentary politics in general;
the assassination of prime ministers Hamaguchi Osachi and Inukai Tsuyoshi,
both of whom sought to retain a semblance of parliamentary politics but
failed; the Manchurian Incident of 1931; the return to cabinets chosen
by oligarchs and to militarily-oriented prime ministers; Japan’s withdrawal
from the League of Nations in 1933, effective in 1934; the Marco Polo Bridge
Incident; the beginning of the war with China in 1937; and the attack on
Pearl Harbor. But these events must be seen as a result of a long struggle
undertaken throughout the 1920s against liberals and their vision for Japan’s
future, and as such involved a discussion of Japan’s civilization. The
Kokutai no hongi signified not only the government’s aim to direct the
thinking of the people, but also the proclamation of the end of the decades-long
liberal/illiberal struggle to define Japanese civilization. The conservative
vision had won.
Yet
the Pacific War was not a true civilizational conflict. To be sure, for
many Japanese leaders it was indeed a defense of Japanese civilization
against the encroachments of Enlightenment values—values which, among other
things, placed higher ontological status on the individual than on larger
social, cultural, and political entities; which asserted “Western,” “universal”
norms; and which ultimately repudiated the values upon which the Japanese
state and society had been based since its inception. But from the beginning,
the official philosophical foundation had borrowed much from German romanticist
cultural and political philosophy. Shapers of Japan’s modern state such
as Ito Hirobumi had brilliantly utilized one side of a 19th-century European
debate to establish the legal, political, and philosophical foundations
for an aristocratic and monarchical state. The modern nation’s early leaders
had, of course, incorporated things particular to Japan’s historical and
cultural experience— but this was completely in line with German and other
romanticist advocates of cultural particularism. Moreover, after the Russo-
Japanese War, there was increasing domestic debate over how Japanese civilization
ought to be defined. Here again, liberals looked at notions current in
the world regarding domestic and international relations, and sought to
incorporate them into their understanding of the Japanese polity. Then,
in the late 1930s with the Kokutai no hongi, the Konoe Cabinet called
the people back to the principles upon which their constitution was founded,
understandably construing an attack on these principles as an attack on
all that Japan stood for as a nation-state in modern history. But the call
to return to the particularities of their nation was a call to return to
the traditions and values invented and made official at the time of the
Meiji Restoration, not necessarily to something intrinsically traditional.
Calls to reject “Europeanization” and the “Occident” might suggest racial
and rather inflexible, geographical boundaries, but critical references
to the Enlightenment show that only some aspects of European civilization
were to be rejected. The Pacific War, then, is best understood as a war
brought about by those who had won the domestic struggle over the definition
of Japan’s civilization and mission, not by civilizational conflict itself.
What
difference might this understanding of World War II make? A number of possibilities
come to mind. First, this presents the Japanese as participating in the
same process undergone by most non-Western independence movements of the
19th and 20th centuries —what Partha Chatterjee has called a people’s assertion
of their “spiritual” independence against the encroachments of Enlightenment
universalism. Such a perspective invites further comparisons between Japan
and postcolonial states. Second, the case study of interwar Japan invites
more serious consideration of how domestic debates over social, cultural,
and political values play enormous roles in, and are intrinsically connected
to, international relations. Understanding the domestic conflict over differing
visions of civilization helps to explain the prevalence of the rhetoric
of civilizational conflict in the international arena. Finally, to the
extent that Japanese national leaders incorporated European criticisms
of the Enlightenment and its concomitant “flaws,” the Pacific War and the
civilizational debate leading up to it show how useful ideas had crossed
civilizational boundaries. Consequently, we should view the war not as
one that pitted “Western” vs. “Japanese” civilization (Japanese conservative
beliefs at the time notwithstanding), but as emblematic of a debate over
the definition of civilization that occurred in Japan, in the West, and
in other parts of the world.
Genzo
Yamamoto is an assistant professor of history at Boston University. He
is currently writing a book on the worldview of the members of the Japanese
House of Peers during the 1920s.
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A
Century of the Cambridge
Histories
by Jeremy Black
A century
ago, in November 1902, the first volume of The Cambridge Modern History
was published. My purpose is to draw attention to the continued value of
this powerful ongoing format. I do not do so to celebrate a British achievement
for, like so much associated with (I
immediately think of the Economist) the Cambridge Histories
are an international effort with heavy American participation, both as
volume editors and as contributors. This is especially apparent with the
series on East Asia, for example the six-volume
Cambridge History of Japan in which Delmer Brown, Peter Duus, John
Whitney Hall, William H. McCullough, and Donald Shively took prominent
roles, and the Cambridge History of China in which twelve volumes
have so far appeared. John Fairbank of Harvard and Denis Twitchett of Princeton
are the co-editors of this series.
The
Cambridge Histories are often characterized as “tombstone” history:
dead and impenetrable. In fact, this is far from the case. The Cambridge
Histories are not simply arcane works of scholarship of value only
to the initiate; they fulfill one of the goals of teaching, expanding the
imaginative and interpretive grasp of students.
I
have recommended them for many years while teaching, first at Durham
and now at Exeter, and
I also used them extensively as a student. The serried and continually
growing ranks of the Cambridge Histories have a number of advantages:
availability, range, analysis, and ease-of-use are all important.
There
are many copies of the Cambridge Histories in the libraries of educational
institutions. Accessibility has been increased by the paperbacking of some
of the volumes. For Southeast Asia since 1500, I recommend not the two-volume
1992 hardback edition but the easier to use four-volume 1999 edition. This
makes what is an outstanding attempt to move beyond European attitudes
and sources more readily available. Similarly, the Cambridge History
of Islam, first published in 1970, appeared in paperback in 1977. Some
other Cambridge Histories have been paperbacked, including some
of the volumes of the New Cambridge Modern History, but there are
still many volumes that await this treatment and the accompanying opportunity,
seen in the Southeast Asia series, to make necessary revisions.
Range
is very important. In the case of the Cambridge Histories, this
is regional, chronological, and thematic. In the first, there is not only
the treatment of Europe, but also the eight-volume History of Africa,
the four-volume History of American Foreign Relations, the histories
of China and Japan, the History of Early Inner Asia, the two-volume
History of Egypt, the eight-volume History of Iran, the eleven-volume
History of Latin America, the two-volume History of Southeast
Asia, and the twenty-one-volume History of India. This gives
students valuable access to continents outside Europe, most of which are
poorly covered in more conventional textbooks, and also makes it possible
to refer them to comparable works dealing with different areas in the same
period.
The
range is also chronological. Although the best-known series is the New
Cambridge Modern History, which tackles European history from the late
15th century, there is also an excellent range of material for earlier
periods. One of the most exciting developments in recent years has been
the appearance of the New Cambridge Medieval History. Intended to
replace the Cambridge Medieval History, which was published between
1911 and 1936, books in the new seven-volume series have been appearing
since 1995. For the period before that there is the eighteen-volume Cambridge
Ancient History (with five supplementary volumes of plates), a series
supported by the eleven-volume History of Classical Literature,
as well as by volumes on Greek and Roman Political Thought and Hellenistic
Philosophy. Pre-history is insufficiently represented, but everything
later is abundantly covered.
In
thematic terms, there is for example the eight-volume Cambridge Economic
History of Europe, as well as the three-volume Cambridge Economic
History of the United States. Some of the thematic volumes are easier
to use than others. Students trying to find their way around the more than
1250 pages of The Industrial Economies: The Development of Economic
and Social Policies (1989), volume eight of the Cambridge Economic
History of Europe, are definitely not helped by the absence of both
introduction and conclusion, while the treatment of politics in the Timurid
and Safavid periods in volume six of the Cambridge History of Iran
(1986) can only be described as impenetrable.
In
contrast, P.M. Holt’s introduction to the first volume of the Cambridge
History of Islam is both clear and useful, and that series amply fulfills
its objective of presenting the history of Islam as a cultural whole. Furthermore,
it is explicitly written with the student in mind, including “students
in other fields of history.” The latter point has not been taken on board
by most of the economic historians, but the “area specialists” are on the
whole first-rate in this respect. Thus, Denis Twitchett and Frederick Mote
in their editorial introduction to The Ming Dynasty, 1368–1644,
part two, volume eight of the Cambridge History of China (1998),
ably highlight the need to describe specific phenomena in their regional
setting. They also mention lacunae and draw attention to the way in which
scholarship changes.
While
many scholars are unwilling to write conventional textbooks, they are clearly
prepared to produce and edit essays for the Cambridge Histories,
which have the reputation of books of record. Furthermore, the essay format
provides an opportunity to offer work by leading foreign scholars, including
those whose first language is not English. So, for example, volume seven
of the New Cambridge Medieval History, covering ca. 1414 to ca.
1500, includes essays not only by the leading British scholars but also
by others from American, French, Hungarian, Dutch, Irish, Italian, Polish,
Canadian, German, Swiss, Portuguese, and Greek universities. The foreign
contributions help provide a wider coverage of regions and topics. Thus,
in volume seven, Janos Bak covers Hungary while in volume six there is
a chapter on the Holy Roman Empire, the first half of which is by Peter
Herde at Würzburg and the second half by Ivan Hlavacek at Prague.
In fifty-four pages, they provide an effective account not only of the
domestic and international politics of the Empire, but also of ecclesiastical
developments, the foundation of universities, urban dynamism, the establishment
of a flourishing literature in the vernacular, and the role of religious
themes in the arts. Aside from description, there is also analysis. The
period is seen as important for the way in which firm foundations were
laid for the development of territorial states within the structure of
the Empire.
The
recently published volume fourteen of the Cambridge Ancient History,
Late Antiquity: Empire and Successors, A.D. 425–600 (2000), is a valuable
bridging book that reflects the vitality of the Cambridge Histories.
Whereas the first edition of 1938 closed in 324 A.D., the new series makes
a determined effort to address late Antiquity, providing students and their
teachers with an effective bridge from ancient to medieval history. Like
other books in the Cambridge Histories, this shows the value of
multiple authorship, which makes it possible to cover both geographical
and thematic range. Indeed, the latter is particularly impressive, encompassing,
for example, monasticism, building and architecture, government, law, and
education. The twenty-three maps, sixty-three figures, chronological table,
and a five-part bibliography all make the volume more user-friendly. This
volume also has a theme: the specifically eastern polity that was shaped
from the Roman empire. In place of subjective categories and moral terms,
such as decline and fall, readers are introduced to a more varied model,
with a stress on new developments and multiculturalism. Again, in place
of an account largely devoted to war, politics, and religion, there is
a valuable use of other material, and readers are encouraged to question
traditional aesthetic judgments, for example about the differences between
Classical and Byzantine art and the reasons for the supposed transition
from the former to the latter.
Despite
the concern that these “tombstone” books will scare off students, in fact
they are easy to use. The chapters are ably sectionalized and, more particularly,
each has a very thorough index. When I tell my students to look at the
books, I stress the value of both the tables of contents and the indexes.
The very size of the Cambridge Histories makes it easier to underline
the extent to which students need to learn to understand how to use books,
and that that does not necessarily mean reading them cover to cover. Indeed,
part of the attraction of the Cambridge Histories is that there
is no need to do so. To that extent they are an information system more
in keeping with the age of the Internet than the conventional textbook.
There
are naturally problems with any collective volume, and I am told that the
delays attendant upon any collaborative project have taken away the cutting-edge
novelty from several volumes. However, powerful introductions provide coherence
within individual volumes. Many, for example those of J. P. Cooper in volume
four of the New Cambridge Modern History and J. S. Bromley in volume
six, are important works of insight and analysis in their own right. There
is nothing, however, to provide comparable coherence for individual series.
The Modern History series unfortunately tails off in the later volumes,
although the Companion Volume, edited by Peter Burke, provides superb longue
durée essays, such as those of Emmanuel Le Roy Ladurie
on peasants, G. E. Aylmer on bureaucracy, and Geoffrey Parker on warfare,
while the atlas volume is, for its precision, the best historical atlas
to tackle European history. The coverage of the rest of the world is less
good. It would be very useful to have similar companion and atlas volumes
for other series.
For
students, the volumes are goldmines of information and analysis, while
for teachers who want to provide comparison and context for, say, the debate
on absolutism, they offer effective scholarly summaries of the histories
of much of the world. Naturally, there are gaps and weaknesses. Much of
the Modern History needs replacing, while the reprinting of other
books serves as a sorry substitute for new editions: volume five of the
Cambridge History of Africa, covering ca. 1790 to ca. 1870, first
published in 1976, has been reprinted five times in the last decade. It
would also be very helpful to have the editors of individual volumes look
out for comparisons with other regions of the world. Nevertheless, as a
dynamic format in which important new series and volumes continue to appear,
the Cambridge Histories cannot be bettered. As an alternative to
conventional textbooks, they have much to offer. All we need to do is overcome
our resistance to what appears large and forbidding.
Jeremy
Black has recently published The World in the Twentieth Century
(Longman, 2002).
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REFLECTIONS
ON THE HISTORICAL SOCIETY'S 2002 ATLANTA CONFERENCE
Donald
A. Yerxa
The
Historical Society’s plan for third national conference in Atlanta
was ambitious. Scholars working in a wide variety of geographical and chronological
settings would examine historical reconstructions in comparative fashion,
possibly as a first step toward a new research agenda. In an academic climate
decidedly receptive to comparative and transnational approaches to historical
topics—one need look no further than the recently published Rethinking
American History in a Global Age—the topic of historical reconstructions
certainly seems to be an appropriate, even ripe, subject for comparative
rethinking. After all, reconstructions have received virtually no comparative
attention since Eric L. McKitrick’s preliminary stab in Andrew Johnson
and Reconstruction (1960). So it was a very helpful exercise to bring—for
the first time—scholars from such diverse fields as the ancient Near East,
postwar Europe, and classical Greece
together with those of the American Reconstruction to talk about historical
reconstructions in comparative perspective.
Conference
attendees were treated to many interesting panels, made more stimulating
by the structural dynamics of the conference whereby those presenting papers
could assume that many, if not most, in the audience would be from outside
their field. This often led to lively discussions, as was definitely the
case in the session I happened to moderate on reconstructions in classical Greece.
Here four prominent classicists—John Hale, Victor David Hanson, Barry Strauss,
and Loren Samons—gave superb papers both in content and delivery that generated
discussion well past the scheduled time for the session to end.
As
informative as many of the papers were, it is one thing to present a number
of papers on reconstructions from different times and places and quite
another to wrench from them anything like conceptual clarity. As the conference
progressed, it was clear that there was much work to be done. For one thing,
the inescapable question of definition needed to be addressed. This was
obvious when in the concluding plenary session Elizabeth Fox-Genovese voiced
concern that the very term reconstruction may have little more than
metaphorical meaning for the pre-modern world. To apply it liberally to Athens
after the Peloponnesian War or to France
in the aftermath of the Hundred Years’ War, she suggested, risks conceptual
dilution. David Moltke-Hansen, on the other hand, did not think it necessary
to link reconstructions to modernity. He adopted a definition of reconstruction
(essentially, rebuilding after large-scale destruction) flexible enough
to be exported to any number of historical settings. His more expansive
definition is clearly congenial to the agenda—only begun in Atlanta—of
exploring the commonalities of past reconstructions.
Predictably,
the reconstruction of the American South loomed as large in the conference
halls as it did outside the doors of the beautiful Atlanta
hotel where it was held. Perhaps it loomed too large. And this gets to
the heart of the matter. It is fair to say that for most American historians,
including many present at the Atlanta
conference, the American Reconstruction really is paradigmatic. If so,
doesn’t that, as Fox-Genovese rightly noted, presume some sort of comparative
analysis? One would think so, but paradoxically American historians
have not done this. So there was an unresolved tension in Atlanta:
the comparative impulse responsible for the conference was continually
in danger of being overwhelmed by what Molke-Hansen called “our preoccupation
with American Reconstruction.”
It
would be naive to expect that one conference by itself would yield conceptual
precision. And while the jury is still out as to whether historical reconstructions
can sustain a robust research program, the conference did reveal the broad
contours of a possible research agenda. We already have, of course, many
studies on Athens after
the Peloponnesian War or France
after the Hundred Years’ War; what we now need are new investigations that
look at these familiar episodes with a new set of questions and concerns.
The Atlanta conference
began this task because many presenters implicitly agreed with Moltke-Hansen
and prepared their papers with the assumption that the new set of questions
should focus on the dynamics of rebuilding not just structures, but institutions
and even whole societies after the crisis of large-scale destruction. That
was certainly the case in the session on classical Greece.
Obviously,
the comparative study of historical reconstructions needs more case study
analysis than one conference can provide. Still, caution is in order here.
Since ours is an evidentiary craft, the local and particular are safe places
for most historians. But nothing terribly creative is likely to happen
if, say, historians of the American South talk only to and write only for
other historians of the American South. If we are ever going to explore
historical reconstructions in comparative contexts, historians have to
take risks. In Atlanta, a few of the plenary speakers—particularly those
already mentioned—were forced to do this, and even in those difficult circumstances,
they began to clarify some of the issues. Together with the presenters
of papers on fairly specific topics, these colleagues modeled what must
happen to go beyond the preliminary work of the Atlanta
conference. Whether Atlanta
provided the inspiration to do this remains to be seen, but the success
of the conference hinges on whether historians can combine careful research
in particular contexts with an eye toward discerning commonalities and
patterns that may emerge.
Historical
inquiry proceeds simultaneously at multiple levels. As always, there is
need for both the specialist and the integrator. We can take heart that
the membership of The Historical Society includes both and that THS provides
multiple venues—such as the Atlanta
conference and our publications—for the specialist to be in dialogue with
the integrator. Without these important conversations, history can easily
descend to the antiquarian or become so breezy
as to evaporate upon close inspection.
Donald
A. Yerxa is assistant director of The Historical Society, co-editor of
Historically Speaking, and professor of history at EasternNazareneCollege.
He is co-author of Species
of Origins: America’s
Search for a Creation Story (Rowman & Littlefield, 2002).
Joseph
S. Lucas
The
Historical Society conference’s opening plenary session, “Global Perspectives
on Economic Development,” featured Seymour Drescher and David Landes, both
of whom lived up to the session’s bold title. Landes, following his argument
in Wealth and Poverty of Nations, located the origins of the West’s
economic superiority in the 16th century. Habits of mind and action which
originated then, he claimed, are still in force today and account for the
gap between “the West and the Rest.” For his part, Drescher asked why it
was that Europeans chose to buy and enslave Africans—not other Europeans—to
do the hard work on the New World’s sugar plantations.
He suggested that a boundary existed between humane and inhumane treatment
which early modern Europeans, when it came to other Europeans, were reluctant
to cross.
Taken
together, the talks evoked one of the most profound differences between
the contemporary West and the West prior to World War I: the changed attitudes
of Westerners toward the rest of the world’s peoples and cultures. Drescher’s
questions—why Africans? why slavery?—would have struck 19th-century Western
scholars as decidedly strange. But in the second half of the 20th century,
with the fall of Europe’s African empires and
the rise of race as a central issue in the United
States, tracing the origins of both New
World slavery and Western racism became scholarly projects
of paramount importance. Landes’s argument, on the other hand, was widespread
in the 19th-century West, albeit in cruder form. Today, though, it is rarely
expressed; to say that the West is culturally superior to the Rest is to
offend contemporary sensibilities.
One
of the most popular ideas to have appeared in the West in the second half
of the 20th century is that Westerners’ attitudes toward non-Western peoples
have historically been very bad, particularly since 1500. At that time,
Europeans began expanding, both territorially and commercially, and this
brought them into contact with more and more of the world’s peoples. The
problem, it is argued, was that Europeans refused to see these peoples
as equals. The idea of European superiority, according to this view, fed
European imperialism, which did great, perhaps irreparable damage to Africans,
American Indians, Asians, Arabs, and others. The implicit hope behind much
of the policy, commentary, and scholarship that have emerged from this
perspective is that Westerners will (if they haven’t already done so) radically
adjust their attitudes toward the rest of the world’s peoples.
Radical
adjustments have indeed occurred. Elites and intellectuals in the West
and elsewhere now appear to share a Wilsonian vision of the world, one
in which democratically self-determined nations cooperate peacefully and
as equals. No one would claim that such a vision reflects reality, but
many endorse it as an ideal and, further, link it to the notion that no
one culture is better than another. Western imperial armies and administrations
no longer preside over the Rest. Just as important, neither do they explicitly
tell the Rest they must change their ways in order to resemble the West.
Instead the West tells the Rest: “You’ve been wonderful all along. We were
wrong in the past. Do as you’ve always done; stick to your customs, your
rituals, your beliefs. We live in a multicultural world now.”
How
to account for this dramatic shift in perspective? Drescher’s notion of
a boundary suggests one answer. 19th-century Westerners celebrated the
humanity of their culture. For them, the West was defined not only by its
wealth and power, but also by the humane civility with which its inhabitants
treated one another—even across national and ethnic boundaries and even
during wartime. They believed that savages, on the other hand, treated
their enemies with vicious cruelty. But by 1950 this moral boundary had
collapsed. Europeans had treated other Europeans in brutal ways. The worst
kind of savagery had been unleashed in the heart of civilization. Not only
were European empires rapidly becoming things of the past; so, too, was
the belief that the West was morally superior to the Rest.
Since
World War II, intellectuals have looked at the West and its history with
new eyes. Many feel that Western arrogance has done great damage to the
rest of the world’s peoples. So now the situation is very delicate. Ostensibly
neutral terms like developed and underdeveloped have replaced the concepts
of savagery and civilization which 19th-century Westerners used to distinguish
themselves from the Rest. But just as 19th-century Westerners believed
that savage peoples should do their best to become civilized, many today
think underdeveloped nations should hurry up and develop. Development,
however, is most often conceived as a product of the right kind of political
institutions and economic policies, not as a phenomenon unique to Western
culture.
In
this climate David Landes’s views, which would have seemed very familiar
to a 19th-century audience, are extraordinarily controversial. Landes believes
that 16th-century Europeans created a dynamic culture driven by unfettered
reason in the service of profit and progress. The cultural peculiarities
of the early modern West, Landes argues, account even today for the West’s
economic superiority. This notion was widespread before World War I. Max
Weber famously linked the emergence of modern capitalism to the Calvinist
Reformation. And earlier 19th-century—and even 18th-century—thinkers connected
in a more general way Western wealth and power to Western culture, what
they called simply “civilization.”
Echoing
the conventional wisdom of the 19th century, Landes is out of step with
his own time. During the session, he scoffed at the notion that China was
on the verge of becoming the world’s economic superpower. He audaciously
claimed that nothing of value was made in the Muslim world. Landes understands
the tensions—the bad feelings—aroused by such views. But he doesn’t seem
to care. Near the session’s end, a man in the audience accused Landes—after
praising the bulk of both his and Drescher’s talks—of falling prey to Eurocentric
stereotypes of the Islamic world. Landes replied with something to the
effect of: “I’m not here to make you feel good, but to tell you the truth.”
It
is striking that attitudes, opinions, even feelings are now accorded so
much importance with regard to the relationship between the West and the
Rest. Perhaps this reflects the relationship’s recent transformation. If
the 19th-century West sternly lectured its colonial subjects on the glories
of civilization and the discipline required to achieve them, the 21st-century
West welcomes the descendants of these colonized peoples into its capitals.
Millions of non-white, non-Protestant immigrants and their sons and daughters
live in the U.S. And while some clearly have to face bigotry and prejudice,
these immigrants and their progeny have enjoyed a much friendlier welcome
than their 19th- and early 20th-century forebears. The ideas of multiculturalism—all
cultures are valuable and worth understanding, and many can cohabit in
a single nation—serve important functions in the U.S. and in other Western
nations. These ideas reflect an unprecedented mixing of peoples, cultures,
and faiths which would have been difficult for 19th-century
Westerners to imagine.
Yet,
in the context of contemporary academic culture, Landes’s disregard for
the feelings of others is refreshing. He believes that an obsession with
making people feel good has blurred reality. To locate Western economic
superiority in the late 19th century and link it to Western imperialism
may be comforting to some. In Landes’s view, though, this argument not
only contradicts historical evidence, but also ignores those facets of
Western culture—tolerance, freedom, openness to new ideas—that continue
to draw non-Western immigrants to places like Amsterdam, London, Toronto,
and Atlanta.
Joseph
Lucas is assistant director of The Historical Society
and co-editor of Historically
Speaking. He is the author of “The Course
of Empire and the Long Road to Civilization: North American Indians and
Scottish Enlightenment Historians,” Explorations
in Early American Culture 4 (2000): 166-190.
David
J. Ulbrich
At The
Historical Society’s conference in Atlanta, graduate students
honed their interviewing skills in a supportive environment as the Student
Affairs Committee sponsored its second mock interview program. On behalf
of the Student Affairs Committee, I wish to thank interviewees, interviewers,
and observers for their participation in the interview process and for
the feedback they provided in their evaluations. Professors Alexander M.
Bielakowski and Chris Beneke deserve special thanks for their help in arranging
this year’s program.
Several
“search committees” conducted the simulated interviews with “job candidates.”
Faculty interviewers asked candidates a variety of questions. What is your
philosophy of teaching? What is your research agenda? How many survey courses
can you teach? What books might you assign for a particular course? What
seminars could you offer? My own set of faculty interviewers played their
roles well; the formality and realism added much to the value of the experience
for me.
After
the mock interviews, the faculty interviewers offered constructive criticism
and helpful advice to the interviewees. Topics included the proper way
to construct a c.v. and possible answers to hard questions about teaching
philosophy. As one interviewee wrote on his evaluation form, “getting feedback”
from “very encouraging” faculty interviewers was the most helpful part
of the process. My faculty interviewers made some good suggestions about
the phrasing of some of my answers; they emphasized how misspeaking one
or two sentences can make a big difference at an interview. One faculty
interviewer focused on less tangible aspects of the interview process by
“observing the interviewee’s facial expressions, tone, concerns and questions
from the interviewee . . . I wish that I had had a mock interview
before I went job-hunting.”
Several
participants made recommendations for future mock interview programs. One
faculty interviewer wished to see sample letters of application and recommendation,
as well as the c.v. Another interviewer suggested that field specialties
be more clearly related between interviewers and interviewees; for example,
“An Americanist interviewee should be matched with a search ‘chair’ in
his/her field, plus another member with comparable interests.”
Interviewees
and interviewers alike believed that the mock interview program provided
substantive benefits to all participants. Some interviewers plan to stay
in touch with the graduate students they interviewed to see how they fare
on the real job market.
David
J. Ulbrich is currently a doctoral student in military history at TempleUniversity
and chair of The Historical Society’s Student Affairs Committee. He is
the author of “Clarifying
the Origins and Strategic Mission
of the U.S.
Marine Corps Defense Battalion, 1898-1941,” War and Society 17 (1999):
81-109.
REGIONAL
REPORTS
New
York City
Martin
Burke, LehmanCollege,
CUNY
Joseph
Skelly, College of MountSaint
Vincent
On May
10, 2002, David Gordon,
professor of history at Bronx Community College (CUNY) delivered an address
entitled “France,
1940: The Uses of Defeat” to a combined meeting of the New
York City
chapter of The Historical Society and the New York Military Affairs Symposium.
In
1940 France
was defeated and overrun by the German army in less than six weeks. Of
all the surprises of the Second World War, this was arguably the most startling.
The defeat was the result of flawed French strategic and tactical planning
and the inadequate training of several key divisions. However, one of the
most remarkable results of the defeat was the decision of political leaders
and commentators, both in France and the rest of the world, to ignore the
technical aspects of the defeat in favor of much broader (and politically
mores useful) social, economic, and political explanations. For some, the
rapid French collapse was proof of the unwillingness of the military leadership
and parts of the French political establishment to fight Hitler. For others,
defeat was an indictment of the socialist experiments that had been enacted
by the Popular Front government of 1936. What is most striking about the
post-armistice period was the universal desire to mythologize the reasons
for the defeat rather than analyze its purely military causes.
The
end of the Vichy regime
and the defeat of Nazi Germany produced new French myths, including that
of widespread French opposition to German and Vichy
rule. The belief that fascism was a natural product of capitalism, already
strong before the war, was given new life by the period of Vichy
collaboration and would continue to inform French political discourse for
decades.
* *
*
On
May 29, 2002, Joseph Morrison Skelly, assistant professor of history at
the College of Mount Saint Vincent in New York City, delivered a paper
entitled “The End of the Affair: Ireland, the European Union, and the Rejection
of the Nice Treaty” to a joint meeting of the New York City chapter of
The Historical Society and the American Irish Historical Society.
Last
year, the Irish electorate shocked the Irish and European establishments
by rejecting the Nice Treaty (which expands the power of the EU over against
that of member states) by a solid margin of 54% to 46%. This marks the
end of Ireland
’s love affair with the European Union. It also signals the end of the
European political elite’s fascination with Ireland,
which had previously been considered a loyal member of the EU. The end
of this affair came swiftly, abruptly and, to many uninformed observers,
without warning. Divorce papers have not been served, however, and this
relationship is unlikely to make its way to court for a final settlement: Ireland
is not about to exit the EU. Still, a chill has settled upon the relationship,
one which is quite unexpected in the context of Ireland
’s commitment to Europe over the past forty
years.
In
the early 1960s Ireland
eagerly sought entry into the EU’s predecessor, the European Economic Commission
(EEC). Sean Lemass, then the Irish prime minister, asserted that Ireland
“looked forward with a sense of deep responsibility to making a great contribution
to the health and success of the European Economic Community.”
On an economic level, membership in the EEC was viewed with great promise:
it was envisioned as a means of fostering Irish enterprise, of expanding
Irish markets, and of diluting the Irish economy’s dependency on the United
Kingdom.
These
economic aims have largely been achieved. In 1960, nearly 70% of Irish
exports were sent to Great Britain;
today this figure has dwindled to 22%. Even more impressive, in 2001 Irish
exports totaled 92.5 billion euros, the highest ever recorded and an increase
of 10% over the previous year. Ireland
is the world’s largest exporter of computer software, a fact made possible,
in part, by its access to the European market. The country has been the
beneficiary of billions of dollars in financial support from the EU, including
farm subsidies, trade preferences, and infrastructure grants. In 1992,
after an all-night negotiating session with EU officials, Albert Reynolds, Ireland’s
prime minister at the time, boasted that more than 1.2 billion Irish pounds
in EU funding “was in the bag.” Indeed, throughout the 1990s EU monetary
assistance to Ireland
accounted for more than 2% of its annual GDP. Since it joined the EEC in
1973, Ireland
’s standard of living has improved dramatically, increasing from under
80% of the European average to being equal today, and it is soon set to
surpass the European standard.
In
this context, Ireland’s
rejection of the Nice Treaty was truly surprising. Did Ireland
literally bite the hand that feeds it? The Irish media elite thinks
so: they scolded the Irish electorate, claiming that the result was “inexusable
and unacceptable,” and “it sent entirely the wrong message to Brussels.”
These journalistic strictures evoke the authoritarian image of William
Butler Yeats, who aristocratically responded to the famous riots that greeted
the premier of John Millington Synge’s famous drama The Playboy of the
Western World at the Abbey Theater in 1907 by admonishing the
audience: “You have shamed yourselves!” But the Irish have not shamed themselves.
Pace the Irish Times and other newspapers, Irish citizens
have distinguished themselves. They have reasserted the basic principles
of Irish democracy in the face of a strong centralizing undertow that is
dragging the EU out to sea, far from its democratic moorings.
This
sea-change in Irish politics and reassertion of Irish democracy,
has been best encapsulated by Mary Harney, Ireland’s
deputy prime minister. In a speech to the American Bar Association in July,
2000, Ms. Harney opposed further European integration, asserting that it
would be against the interests of Ireland, which, in her now memorable
phrase, “is spiritually a lot closer to Boston than Berlin.” Ms. Harney
envisioned “a Europe
of independent states, not a United States of Europe.” The majority of
Irish citizens seem to share her point of view, but the measure of their
affinity for Boston
or Berlin
will be tested again in the autumn of 2002 when they vote in a second referendum
on the Nice Treaty. If the Irish electorate reject
it once more, the political elite in Brussels—and
in Berlin—will
certainly have to consider the implications of the message being broadcast
to them from Ireland. Sile
de Valera, the Irish minister for culture
and granddaughter of Eamon de Valera,
forthrightly expressed this sentiment in a September 2000 speech, ironically,
in Boston:
“Participation in the European Union has been good for Ireland.
The Union
has worked well. But it is not the cornerstone of what our nation is and
should be.”
LETTERS
To
the Editors,
Warren Treadgold’s
“Late Ancient and Byzantine History Today” (April 2002) presents a distorted
picture of Peter Brown, PrincetonUniversity’s
Rollins Professor of History. Treadgold’s
representation of Brown’s scholarship is disturbingly marred by factual
inaccuracies. This article therefore does a disservice to The Historical
Society and readers of Historically Speaking.
Treadgold
would like us to believe that Peter Brown is a purveyor of Foucauldianpoststructuralism.
He would like us to attribute Brown’s success and popularity to his alleged
adoption of trendy postmodern fashions rather than to erudition and solid
scholarship. Like some pied piper of poststructuralism,
according to Treadgold, Brown casts his
spell, luring scholars and graduate students away from traditional Byzantine
studies to the enchanted “New Age” of Late Antiquity. This picture is highly
misleading.
In
the first place, Brown’s scholarship is much more traditional than Treadgold
indicates. It is firmly grounded in primary sources, and consists of detailed,
thoughtful analysis of texts, authors and their societies, and specific
historical conditions. Brown is much more interested in texts and social
realities than in abstractions. He refers to Foucault in the bibliography
of The Body and Society (1988), but otherwise doesn’t seem to engage
directly with Foucault or discuss Foucault’s work in his other ten books.
Brown has even less to say about other poststructural
theorists such as Lacan, Derrida, Kristeva,
etc. He does discuss late antique sources, and does engage with the main
traditional scholars of the period. Brown is far from being a name-dropping,
jargon-spouting, theorizing postmodernist.
His
thorough mastery of the sources and the high quality of his scholarship
have earned Brown the recognition and admiration of leading traditional
scholars in his field, despite what Treadgold
says. Brown’s insight and brilliant creativity, displayed in his eleven
books and numerous articles, opened a rich field for further exploration.
His scholarship covers a wide range of important aspects of late antique
society and culture, from Augustine of Hippo (1967), Religion
and Society in the Age of St. Augustine (1972), The Cult of the
Saints (1981), Power and Persuasion (1992), Authority
and the Sacred (1995) to Poverty and Leadership in the Later
Roman Empire (2002). There is no foundation for Treadgold’s
charge that Brown’s work is narrowly focused on “private behavior and beliefs.”
When Brown examines private behavior and beliefs it is in relation to public
culture, social function, and the ordering of society as a whole, or in
connection with the sources of authority or the acquisition and use of
power in late antique society. Brown’s work is not narrowly focused; his
works are acknowledged as major contributions in precisely the areas Treadgold
considers important: “late Roman cities, government, culture, religon,
and society in general.”
Treadgold
asserts that Brown’s “work won acclaim chiefly from historians outside
the field, who found its depiction of Late Antiquity intriguing even if
they rejected poststructuralism in their
own scholarship.” To say that Brown’s popularity comes “chiefly from historians
outside the field” is simply not true, as the following evidence proves.
·
Robin Lane Fox, in Pagans and Christians: Religion and the Religious
Life from the Second to the Fourth Century A.D. (1986), cites and praises
Brown many times. And in a review of Brown’s The Rise of Western Christendom
(1996), which Fox calls “an essential guide for those interested in late
Antiquity”(The New York Review of Books,
April 24, 1997), he notes that “since 1967, Brown’s books, articles and
lectures have spoken inspiringly to those who wished to find more in late
antiquity than the exploitation of the ‘humble’ and the in-jokes of unidentified
senators.”
·Averil
Cameron, in The Mediterranean World in Late Antiquity (1993), cites
The Cult of the Saints (1981), Society and the Holy in Late Antiquity
(1982), and several other of Brown’s works.
·Henry
Chadwick, in his review of Brown’s Power and Persuasion in Late Antiquity
(1992), says: “Peter Brown combines a witty and ironic prose style with
the gifts of a first-class historian of late antiquity possessing an exhaustive
knowledge of the sources. His latest book will certainly win him new admirers
and delight old friends.” (New York Times Book
Review, November 15, 1992).
·
In The Rise of Christianity (1984) W.H.C. Frend
refers to Brown’s works throughout. In the bibliography for his chapter
on “The North African Church and Augustine,” Frend
notes that there are some excellent books on the subject: “Of these I regard
Peter Brown’s Augustine of Hippo (1967), with its erudition and
sensitive handling of Augustine, as the best.” He also praises “the wealth
of knowledge” in The World of Late Antiquity (1972).
·
Robert Markus in The End of Ancient Christianity (1990), calls Peter
Brown’s “Aspects of the Christianization of the Roman Aristocracy,” Journal
of Roman Studies 51 (1961) “a pioneering study to which I owe much.”
He refers to Brown’s books and articles often.
·
In The Limits of Ancient Christianity: Essays on Late Antique Thought
and Culture in Honor of R.A. Markus, eds. William E. Klingshirn
and Mark Vessey (1999), Brown is cited more
frequently than any other scholar except for Markus himself.
These
are all leading traditional scholars in the field of Late Antiquity, not
“chiefly . . . historians outside the field.” They cite Brown as an authority
and an expert because of the depth of his scholarship and his mastery of
the sources, not for any faddish application of poststructuralism
or postmodernism. The popularity Brown has won reflects appreciation of
his knowledge and his gift for inspiring others.
Here
is evidence of the respect which Brown’s scholarship has rightfully earned.
Readers of Historically Speaking should expect more balanced and
accurate reporting than Treadgold’s.
Jeannie Rutenburg
University
of Maryland
Warren Treadgold
replies:
Far
from refuting anything I wrote in my article, Jeannie Rutenburg's
letter reflects the intellectual climate I described, which “permits Brown's
views to stand as an unquestioned orthodoxy in their own sphere.” Although
limits of space and subject restricted my remarks on Brown's work, I have
treated it elsewhere in two review articles, “Imaginary Early Christianity,”
International
History Review 15 (1993): 535-45, and “Taking Sources on their own Terms
and on Ours: Peter Brown’s Late Antiquity” AntiquitéTardive
2 (1994): 153-59, as well as a review of his Rise of Western Christendom
(American Historical Review 102 [1997]: 1462-63; cf. the exchange
of letters in American Historical Review 103 [1998]: 664-65). But
let me clarify a few points here.
First,
as I hoped the context would make clear, my comments applied to Brown's
work from the 1970s on. As I wrote in my review of 1997, “Years of scarcely
any criticism have taken a toll on the author of the rigorous and well-documented
Augustine of Hippo (1967).”
Second,
when I wrote, “Insofar as Brown referred to religion, it was something
vaguely New Age that he called ‘the holy,’” I meant that he reinterpreted
both Christianity and paganism to make them somewhat resemble the sort
of psycho-socio-sexual-inspirational mush often known today as “New Age.”
Whenever possible, Brown sees religious motives as political, cultural,
psychological, or sexual. One of the most striking differences between
late ancient writers and Brown's picture of them is that they constantly
refer to God and he almost never does. This is probably the main reason
Brown’s work appeals to readers who are bored by talk about God but interested
in sociology, anthropology, psychology, and sexuality.
Third,
while Brown has made no secret of his debt to Michel Foucault, I didn’t
mean to imply that Brown’s work is merely derivative of Foucault’s, because
Brown also influenced Foucault, and both are part of a larger postmodernist
movement. As Averil Cameron wrote in a review
article in the 1986 Journal
of Roman Studies, “the personal connections between F[oucault]
and Peter Brown, as well as being based on place (Berkeley, Paris),
have been documented by F[oucault] himself .
. . . [T]his seems to have been one of those cases where a number of scholars
found, rather suddenly, that their thoughts were converging.” For example,
she notes, “In 1981 F[oucault] wrote, in the
course of an instructive dialogue . . . in which he devotes much space
to the discussion by Augustine on erection and orgasm more recently expounded
by Peter Brown . . . . ‘Recently, Professor Peter Brown stated to me that
what we have to understand is why it is that sexuality became, in Christian
cultures, the seismograph of our subjectivity.’” Though I’m encouraged
to see that Foucault has become so passé that Brown’s admirers want
to disown him, Brown’s work remains characterized by his own sort of jargon,
by a selective and inaccurate (though prominent) use of primary sources,
and by an anachronistic emphasis on the “relevance” of Late Antiquity to
the modern world. His real interest is in private behavior and beliefs,
which are his points of reference in his discussions of other aspects of
Late Antiquity.
Finally,
that Brown’s admirers are “chiefly” non-specialists should be obvious from
the fact that he is the only historian of Late Antiquity most non-specialists
have heard of and may even have read. To
take a recent example, in the February 15, 2002 Times
Literary Supplement a historian of medicine dismisses most of “the current
fashionable historical genre of ‘the body’” but exempts Brown (without
considering his accuracy) because he “makes the early Christian era come
alive.” Of course, Brown’s work couldn’t have attained the status of a
stultifying orthodoxy if it hadn’t been endorsed by some specialists who
should know better. While the scholars cited by Rutenberg
include none of the historians of Late Antiquity I mentioned in my article
as particularly outstanding (admittedly not an exhaustive list), note that
her quotations from W. H. C. Frend and Robert
Markus refer only to Brown’s work up to 1972. Averil
Cameron does cite Brown’s later work in her Mediterranean World in
Late Antiquity, but with important reservations. On page six, she observes
that his approach is “very different” from that of earlier scholars, and
that under his influence “‘late antiquity’ is in danger of having become
an exotic territory, populated by wild monks and excitable virgins and
dominated by the clash of religions, mentalities, and lifestyles.” Robin
Lane Fox, no specialist on the later part of Late Antiquity, did what non-specialists
usually do in reviewing books by famous scholars, and swallowed whole the
errors and distortions in Brown’s Rise of Western Christendom. Brown’s
celebrity is such that a number of specialists will not express in print
the unfavorable opinions of his work that they voice in private. But most
of them hardly ever cite him, and he hardly ever cites them.
I
find no inaccuracies in my article, though its treatment was inevitably
simplified.
Warren Treadgold
St.
LouisUniversity
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