Joseph S. Lucas and Donald A. Yerxa, Editors
Historically
Speaking: The Bulletin of the Historical Society
January
2004
Volume V, Number 3
Charles
C. Gillispie, "A Professional Life in the History of Science"
"An
Interview with Peter Galison, Part II:Einstein's Clocks,
Poincare's Maps"
David
N. Livingstone, "Keeping Science in Site"
Amir
Alexander, "Stories and Numbers: How a Romantic Tale of Geographical Exploration
Transformed Mathenatics"
FREE
TRADE AND MODERN HISTORY: A FORUM
Brink
Lindsey, "The Origins and Progress of the Industrial Counterrevolution"
Alfred
C. Mierzejewski, "Once Size Does Not Fit All"
Liah
Greenfeld, "Speaking Historically about Globalization and Related Fantasies"
Brink
Lindsey, "Reply to Mierzejewski and Greenfeld"
Derek
Wilson, "The 2003 Cambridge History Festival"
WHAT
HAVE HISTORIANS BEEN READING?
Jonathan
Rose, "Arriving at a History of Reading"
Historically
Speaking: The Bulletin of the Historical Society
January
2004
Volume V, Number 3
A
PROFESSIONAL LIFE IN THE HISTORY OF SCIENCE
by
Charles C. Gillispie
It
is with some compunction that, following in the footsteps of Peter Paret
and others, I accede to Donald Yerxa’s flattering request to write of a
professional life in the field of my specialty. Reluctance is the greater
in that I have already given an account of that career on the occasion
of the 75th anniversary of the History of Science Society in 1999.[1]
In all probability, however, there is little if any overlap between subscribers
to Isis and to Historically Speaking. That such should be
the case is one of the situations to be discussed. Anyone who wishes to
consult the earlier essay will receive a copy at the drop of a postcard
or the click of a mouse. He or she will there find that it turns on personal
and institutional factors. I shall try not to repeat myself more than is
necessary in order to make what follows intelligible, and shall instead
offer some reflections on the content of my work in relation to the development
of the historiography of science.
First
of all, a word about the subject. The generation to which I have the good
fortune to belong is commonly said to have founded the history of science
as a professional field of scholarship in the years after World War II.
Marshall Clagett, I. Bernard Cohen, Henry Guerlac, Erwin Hiebert, Alistair
Crombie, Giorgio di Santillana, Rupert and Marie Hall, Georges Canguilhem,
René Taton, Thomas S.Kuhn—those are among the notable names. Having
majored in some branch of science as undergraduates or the equivalent,
and gone on to graduate school before or just after the war, all of us
had somehow developed a strong ancillary taste for history. We came out
of service of one sort or another in 1945, dazzled like everyone else by
Hiroshima, the Manhattan Project, sonar, radar, penicillin, and so on.
Independently of each other, or largely so, we each harbored a sense that
science, even like art, literature, or philosophy, must have had a history,
the study of which might lead to a better appreciation of its own inwardness
as well as its place in the development of civilization.
With
a few stellar exceptions, the history of science until that time was the
province either of philosophers—Condorcet, Comte, Whewell, Duhem, Mach—each
adducing exemplary material in service to their respective epistemologies,
or of elderly scientists writing the histories of their science, or sometimes
all science, in order to occupy their retirement. Though not written in
accordance with historical standards, neither of these bodies of literature
is to be ignored. The one is always suggestive and sometimes informative,
the other often informative, almost always technically reliable, and rarely
of much interpretative significance. Of the two notable scholars who flourished
in the 1920s and 1930s, George Sarton was a prophet and scholarly bibliographer
rather than a historian, while E. L. Thorndike was a devoted, learned antiquarian
riding his hobby horse of magic and experimental science through the library
of the Vatican. Though much and rightly respected, neither found a following.
Nor did E.J. Dijksterhuis, whose The Mechanization of the World Picture
(1950) is a classic that will always repay study.
Anticipations
of a fully historical history of science appeared in the work of Hélène
Metzger on 18th-century chemistry and Anneliese Maier on medieval science.
Herbert Butterfield’s The Origins of Modern Science, 1300–1800 (1950)
was a godsend both in itself and in that it was one of the few things one
could expect undergraduates to read. The same was true of Carl Becker’s
Heavenly City of the Eighteenth-Century Philosophers (1932),
a supremely literate essay which (unfortunately in my view) has fallen
into disfavor among students of the Enlightenment, and also of Arthur O.
Lovejoy’s The Great Chain of Being (1936), a founding work in the
modern historiography of ideas. Two ancillary masterpieces, one from the
side of sociology, the other from philosophy, were still more inspirational
in exhibiting respectively the social and the intellectual interest that
the history of science may hold, namely Robert K. Merton’s path breaking
Science, Technology, and Society in Seventeenth-Century England (1938)
and Alexandre Koyré’s superb Études Galiléennes
(1939).
I had
read none of these works when, safely out of the army in graduate school
at Harvard in 1946–47, I thought to find a thesis subject in what to me
was the terra incognita of the history of science. My scientific and military
backgrounds were respectively in chemistry and a 4.2-inch chemical mortar
battalion, but I had taken almost all my electives in history as an undergraduate
at Wesleyan, graduating in 1940. The emphasis in the excellent department
there was on English history, and my instinct was to look to Britain for
a subject, rather than to chemistry. I’m not sure I even knew that there
had been a chemical revolution centering on the work of Lavoisier. Darwin
was the obvious link between science and intellectual history, but, such
was my naiveté, it hardly seemed possible that anything new could
be said about the theory of evolution, about science and religion, or about
social Darwinism, and I elected to look into the background. That turned
out to be in geology, whence my first book, Genesis and Geology: A Study
in the Relations of Scientific Thought, Natural Theology, and Social
Opinion in Great Britain, 1790–1850 (1951). It has been in print ever
since. Harvard University Press saw fit to put it in a new suit of clothes
and reissue it in 1996. A foreword by a scholar of the next generation,
Nicolaas Rupke, analyzes the way in which it came to mark a new departure
in the historiography of science. He credits me with a novel methodology,
first, in consulting, not only the original scientific texts, but the general
periodical literature of the time; and second in telling not merely of
technical discovery, but of the way in which varying religious views of
geologists entered into the formation of their theories, and also the way
in which the climate of social opinion entered into the discourse of theology
as well as science.
I had
no notion of anything of the sort. So far as I was aware, my thesis was
a new departure for me, but not for a subject of which I was quite ignorant.
Nothing was farther from my thoughts than methodology, something fit for
Marxists and sociologists. All that we students of history were taught
to do was to go look at the sources, all of them. Perhaps it was lucky
that I had never taken a course in geology. Though formally trained in
science, I wrote my thesis as someone being trained in history. Had I written
it as a scientist, it would have been a chronicle of discovery, a sequence
of correct theories displacing incorrect theories, the context being the
state of knowledge about the earth in the author’s time.
This
is not to say that persons trained in a science cannot convert their approach
so as to treat its development by historical standards. There are distinguished
instances in later years. But I am not among them. Nor is it to deny that
it is an advantage, if not quite a necessity, for historians of science
to have had scientific training.The reasons are not so much technical as
psychological. Except for contemporary or highly mathematical topics, one
can always inform oneself about the technicalities, as I was able to do
with respect to early 19th-century geology. But it is difficult though
not impossible—again there are distinguished instances—to appreciate what
it is to know something scientifically without having experienced it.
The
department of history at Princeton offered me a job in 1947. Harvard granted
me the Ph.D. in 1949, and Genesis and Geology appeared to almost
inaudible acclaim in 1951. There was no question of my teaching history
of science at the outset, and I was quite unprepared to propose any such
thing. The curriculum there had the advantage for neophyte faculty that
they did not have the labor of preparing courses, and instead led freshman
classes and preceptorial discussion groups in the courses taught by senior
faculty, whatever the subject. Thus one learned a lot of history while
having time to develop one’s knowledge and scholarship. When as an assistant
professor I had a course of my own, it was modern English history. Only
in 1956 did I feel ready to offer history of science. In the interval,
I had been able to read all the titles mentioned above and many others.
I was informed about courses being offered by Henry Guerlac at Cornell,
by Marshall Clagett and Robert Stauffer at Wisconsin, and by Bernard Cohen
and others under James B. Conant’s leadership in the General Education
Program at Harvard. Equally important, and in a personal way more so, I
had come to know Alexandre Koyré, who spent half the year annually
at the Institute for Advanced Study from 1956 until 1962.
The
opportunity to offer an undergraduate course in the history of science
opened with the inauguration in the curriculum of an interdisciplinary
humanities program. The senior faculty responsible accepted my proposal
for a course on the history of scientific ideas from Galileo to Einstein.
The notion was to present something that might contribute to the liberal
education of students of science and engineering while opening to students
in the liberal arts an awareness of the place of science in modern history.
Enrollment was nothing of a mass movement, but the undergraduates who did
participate in discussion of the material throughout the next three years
helped me form a sense of the themes that made for viability. I was thus
able to develop the lectures into a book, The Edge of Objectivity, an
Essay in the History of Scientific Ideas (1960).
The
time must have been ripe. That book has been translated into half a dozen
languages, beginning with Japanese and ending with Greek. In 1990 Princeton
University Press issued a second edition, which is still in print. The
preface consists of a review of the thematics of the literature in the
intervening thirty years. On its first appearance I had ventured to express
the hope that my book might contribute to the development of a professional
approach to the history of science.
It
would have been more seemly to recognize that The Edge of Objectivity
was an early instance of such a movement already under way at the hands,
largely, of the colleagues mentioned above in the second paragraph. Professional
graduate study in history of science was then available only at Wisconsin,
Cornell, and Harvard. My book was well enough received that Princeton thereupon
agreed to my complementing undergraduate instruction with a graduate program
that required additional staff.
In
point of content, our attention, like that of colleagues elsewhere, was
on the ways in which study of nature reciprocally formed and was formed
by the world pictures of classical antiquity, the Middle Ages, the Renaissance,
the Enlightenment, and modern times. In point of context, the tendency
was to look to philosophy in antiquity, to theology in the Middle Ages,
to art and humanism in the Renaissance, to secularism and literature in
the Enlightenment, and to industrialization and military technology in
modern times. With respect to science itself, the seminal transitions were
what attracted scholarship: the Scientific Revolution, mechanization, the
Chemical Revolution, the Industrial Revolution, Darwinian evolution. Chronologically,
the center of gravity tended to be the 17th century. Other than Darwinism,
much else in the 19th century and almost everything in the 20th—relativity,
quantum mechanics, and genetics—awaited scrutiny. The narrative line throughout
followed the route taken by the creation and transformation of scientific
ideas and theories. We wrote, in a word, intellectual history of technicalities
with important philosophical overtones. If social, economic, or political
awareness crept in, it was around the edges.
The
publication of the Dictionary of Scientific Biography (1970–1980)
affords more objective evidence that a fledgling profession had come into
existence by the 1960s, when its preparation began under my direction.
The initiative came, not from a historian of science, but from the publisher,
Charles Scribner, Jr., who had made a hobby of the history of science since
his wartime service in cryptography. Soon after The Edge of Objectivity
appeared, he asked whether I thought a series of books on the history of
science would be viable. I had to say that most of the series known to
me started off with one good book by the initiator, and then tailed off
into mediocrity since few leading scholars were ever willing to write books
on commission. Scribner agreed. His firm was publisher of the Dictionary
of American Biography, however, and he then had the idea that something
of the sort might be feasible in history of science. That, I thought, might
work. One could probably persuade first-rate scholars to write, not whole
books, but authoritative articles about figures known to them from their
own studies.
What
had not occurred either to Charles Scribner or myself was that preparation
of the Dictionary of National Biography and later the Dictionary
of American Biography had come about at a comparable stage in the formation
of a professional discipline of historiography in Britain and the United
States respectively. Such, quite serendipitously, proved to be the case
with the Dictionary of Scientific Biography (DSB). The quality of
the board of editors, of the advisory committee, and of the thousand and
more contributors whom it proved possible to enlist from every country
with a scientific tradition other than mainland China, then incommunicado,
not to mention a large grant from the National Science Foundation and sponsorship
by the American Council of Learned Societies—all that succeeded, not only
in the main purpose of eliciting over 5,000 articles in sixteen quarto
volumes, but also in the unforeseen effect of drawing into a sense of common
purpose practitioners dispersed among a miscellany of universities, institutes,
national societies, and diverse academies throughout the world.
The
DSB reflects the time in which it was conceived and composed in
another way. The emphasis by design is on the content of the science created—one
did not then say constructed —by the men and the few women who are subjects
of the articles. The instructions requested authors to keep personal biography
and extra-scientific context to the minimum required in order to explicate
how the work was possible and wherein it contributed to the development
of positive scientific knowledge. It is fair to say that the DSB
was brought into being by a generation of scholars and scientists who,
whatever their other differences, believed in the overall beneficence of
science, as by and large did public opinion generally. The climate of opinion
changed amid the seismic shifts in cultural attitudes in the late 1960s
and early 1970s. Amid the manifold, largely academic, rebellions of those
years, authority became suspect everywhere, including the authority of
science. In consequence what had been marginal became central, and social
history became the approach of choice in historiography generally, and
notably so in history of science. That development bore out a prediction
by Robert Merton, to the effect that sociology of science would flourish
only if and when the role of science in society should be perceived as
problematic.
So
it has proved. In consequence, historians of science who came to the forefront
in the generation currently in its prime have tended to see sociology,
and to a degree anthropology, rather than philosophy as the disciplines
with which to link arms. The merit of the approach is not to establish
the truism that science is a social and cultural product. No one ever doubted
it. But with a few exceptions, the earlier generation never undertook much
in the way of analysis of context. We produced little comparable to the
fine-grained accounts that distinguish current work by recapturing the
actuality of experiment; the life of a laboratory; the labor of field work
in natural history and geology; the recalcitrance of instruments; the differences
between what scientists say and what they do; the role of research schools;
the place of patronage; the occasional cheating; the interplay of professional
rivalries, of personal loyalties and hostilities, of institutional standing,
of public reputations, of social position, of gender, race, material interest,
ambition, shame, guilt, deceit, honor, pride. The practice of scientific
research is currently shown to exhibit, in short, the springs of action
that make people tick in all walks of life.
All
that is to the good. At the same time, the emphasis on the practice, rather
than the content, of science may entail certain drawbacks. Current authors
often seem to lose interest in science once it is made. Phenomena for which
it is difficult to seek any sociological dimension, say the return of Halley’s
comet, the law of falling bodies, or the fissionability of Uranium 235,
are little scrutinized for themselves. What matters is the way they became
known. In consequence, or perhaps because of that approach, the fit, if
any, with nature is often taken to be ancillary at best, while analysis
of the quality of the science under consideration is left aside.
Looking
back at my career in the course of writing this essay, I realize that its
development might be seen as a set of responses to what was happening in
the historiography of science at large. If so, I was a fish in the stream
under the impression that the choices were my own. Apart from the DSB,
an organizational and editorial job, my most considerable effort has been
directed toward the material covered in two books, Science and Polity
in France at the End of the Old Regime (1980) and its sequel, Science
and Polity in France, the Revolutionary and Napoleonic Years (2004).
They are really volumes I and II of a single work. The former is being
reissued with the latter, but I did not want to call it Volume I since
it could have stood on its own feet if its author had fallen off his in
the interval.
That
research started, not in response to changing fashion in the historiography
of science, but much earlier in consequence of teaching preceptorial discussion
groups in Robert Palmer’s course on the French Revolution during the academic
year of 1951–52. That was the best undergraduate course, including any
of my own, in which I have ever participated. Genesis and Geology
had just appeared. I had begun to feel (no doubt wrongly) that English
history, important though it is, held few surprises. It occurred to me
that something must have happened to science during the French Revolution,
as many things clearly did in this country amid the major events of the
last century. The Guggenheim Foundation agreed, and its generosity allowed
my wife and me to spend the academic year 1954–55 in Paris, where we have
been for part of almost every year until the above work was completed.
That
halcyon year was my introduction to archival research. It was clear ahead
of time—and this was the attraction of the problem —that the period of
French scientific preeminence in the world coincided with that in which
political and military events centering in France were a turning point
in modern history. The question was: what did these sets of developments
have to do with each other? In the process of working that out amid the
minutiae of the documents and the magnitude of all that happened in both
domains, I came to feel that what I shall call the public history of science
may better be elucidated through the medium of events, institutions, and
practices than through abstract configurations of ideas and culture. What
the relations of science and politics were I shall leave to readers of
the books and not attempt to summarize here. Suffice it to say that they
turned on the process of modernization in both areas and on the orientation
toward the future that is always characteristic of science and was then
radically characteristic of politics.
My
career, such as it is, has unfolded not in accordance with some agenda,
but as a set of responses to a series of lucky accidents— being a historian
by nature who happened to study chemistry and mathematics, taking up Charles
Scribner’s idea for the DSB, precepting in Palmer’s course on the French
Revolution. Personal rather than professional encounters made possible
two of the four books that are spin-offs from the research on French science.
During our many sojourns in France, my wife and I chanced to meet descendants
of two distinguished families, the Carnots and the Montgolfiers. Lazare
Carnot has been known to historians only as the “Organizer of Victory”
during the revolutionary wars. So he was, but he spent only six years in
government during a long life, most of which was occupied with highly original
work, not fully appreciated at the time, in mathematics and physics.
Learning
of my interest in that aspect of his life, current members of the family
arranged for me to spend a summer going through Carnot’s papers, which
no one had ever seen, in the house in Burgundy where he was born. The result
was Lazare Carnot, Savant (1971), to which book my esteemed colleague
A. P. Youschkevitch of the Soviet Academy of Sciences contributed a chapter.
That was another lucky break. He was the only other historian of science
who had ever taken an interest in Carnot. In the midst of a discussion
about Russian collaboration in the DSB, I mentioned a hint in papers I
had seen that Carnot had submitted an early draft of his book on the foundations
of the calculus to a prize competition set by the Prussian Academy of Sciences.
On his way back to Moscow he searched its archives in East Berlin, found
it, and contributed a chapter analyzing Carnot’s approach.
I knew,
of course, that hot-air balloons are called montgolfières
after the brothers Joseph and Etienne, who invented them in 1783. On meeting
Charles de Montgolfier at a wedding reception, I asked whether he was descended
from the big balloon. Sure enough, collaterally at least, and since I expressed
interest, he invited us to visit in the country house in Annonay, where
his ancestors were in the paper business. There he showed me designs, sketches,
correspondence, all scattered among drawers and attics in his and his cousins’
houses. Thence The Montgolfier Brothers and the Invention of Aviation,
with a Word on the Importance of Ballooning for the Science of Heat and
the Art of Building Railroads (1983). I give the full title (though
aeronautics would have been more accurate than aviation) since it suggests,
that even like Carnot’s work in mechanics, Joseph de Montgolfier’s further
inventions (which to him were more important than the balloon), along with
those of his nephew Marc Seguin, belong to the pre-history of the physics
of work and energy.
Two
other publications were happenstance in different ways. Firestone Library
in Princeton University is fortunate to possess a rare deluxe printing
of the Description de l’Égypte, this one having been presented
by Napoleon to the king of Prussia and bought at auction in 1865 from an
impoverished descendant of a Prussian courtier by Ralph Prime of the class
of 1843, later one of the founding trustees of the Metropolitan Museum
in New York. It had been clear from the outset that a chapter on the scientific
component of Bonaparte’s Egyptian expedition would be important in my book.
While studying the gorgeous plates, I bethought me that a former student
who had just started an architectural publishing business might be interested
to see them. He turned over a few pages, and said, “Wow, can we do that?”
It had never occurred to me to reproduce them, and that was the origin
of Monuments of Egypt, the Napoleonic Edition, 2 vols. (Princeton
Architectural Press, 1987), which I edited in collaboration with Michel
Dewachter, an Egyptologist then with the Collège de France.
In
like manner, Pierre-Simon Laplace, a Life in Exact Science (1997)
emerged from an earlier publication, in this case the DSB. I had
never intended to write a book about Laplace, who lies on the frontier
of my ability to follow mathematical reasoning other than qualitatively.
Unfortunately, or perhaps fortunately, two colleagues who had successively
undertaken to contribute the article on Laplace failed one after the other
to keep their commitments. Faute de mieux Laplace devolved upon
the editor as default author. I worked on him for a year, harder than I
have on anything else, and with the collaboration of Robert Fox and Ivor
Grattan-Guinness for particular topics, produced a lengthy article, of
which the subsequent book is a revision and enlargement.
Thus,
exposure to archives and the closein research required for these books,
as well as editing the articles, many of them very technical, in the DSB—these
were the experiences that led me to think that limiting one’s attention
largely to the history of scientific ideas and theories was like following
the tips of icebergs, except that the history of science is anything but
a frigid subject matter. One might perhaps consider that my individual
development exemplifies Auguste Comte’s dictum to the effect that, just
as every discipline passes through theological and metaphysical stages
before becoming positive, so every person is a theologian in infancy, a
metaphysician in youth, and a physicist on reaching maturity.
However
that may be, the discipline of the history of science has reached maturity.
The first meeting of the History of Science Society I attended in 1952
comprised thirty or forty persons, for few of whom was the subject a livelihood.
The most recent numbered upwards of 600, the great majority of whom are
professional scholars in the discipline. The Society has an endowment and
an office with an executive officer. A hundred or more books and collections
are reviewed in every issue of the quarterly Isis. All that spells success.
In only two ways do I feel some slight twinge of regret or disappointment,
the first with respect to science and the second with history.
The
perception of science as socially problematic in the 1970s and 1980s stemmed
in some degree, though by no means entirely, from widespread feelings of
anti-scientism in academic and literary circles. In consequence, science
studies, whether sociological, political, historical, or a mixture, are
often perceived by scientists as hostile enterprises. The most obvious
complaint is that critics with no technical qualifications to understand
the subjects they discuss are violating the precincts of science. The accusation
is nonetheless damaging for being usually, though not always, incorrect
or irrelevant or both. The secondorder concern among scientists is that
the image of science is thus tarnished at a time of weakened political
support and stringent restrictions on funding. But the sense of offense
goes deeper. While willing to agree that questions of power and advantage
are factors both in the macro- and micro-politics of science, scientists
resent any implication that their work serves no purpose larger than their
own, that they are not in the last analysis investigators of the nature
of things, that objectivity is an illusion and rationality a sham. There
is the counter-cultural casus belli of what journalists have called
the science wars.
There
was, as well as I can recall, no sense of resentment or hostility to the
history of science during the time when our discipline was getting into
its stride. On the contrary. We met with every encouragement, institutional
and moral, on the part of scientific colleagues. We needed it. I doubt
that the discipline could have matured in the face of their enmity and
contempt. I do not think that any discipline can flourish in a healthy
manner in a mood of hostility to its subject matter. Not that one would
argue that prudential reasons should lead historians, or social scientists
generally, to refrain from critical and even skeptical scrutiny of the
objects of their studies. Still, if we are to recreate the past, the essential
matter is to see the subject whole. To set out to see through it is to
turn the creatures one studies into specimens. By and large, however, I
feel optimistic and think the tide of anti-scientism, if that is what it
was, has turned. Much of the work of recent years engages science and scientists
on their own terms as well as on the author’s.
The
slight disappointment has to do with history. It was our hope at the outset,
even our expectation, that the historical profession would come to accord
the role of science in history a place comparable to that of politics,
economics, religion, diplomacy, or warfare. Science after all has been
a factor shaping history no less powerfully than have those other sectors.
That has not happened. A few departments of history—Princeton’s among them—do
offer undergraduate and graduate work in the field. But at many, and perhaps
most institutions, the subject is taught, if at all, in a separate department
or under the aegis of a science and technology studies program. Nor are
writings in the history of science as widely read as are those in the conventional
fields. The best known, unfortunately in my view, are those written in
a more or less iconoclastic vein. Perhaps the barrier is psychological.
There may be a fundamental divide between temperaments drawn to history
and those drawn to science. At Princeton more of our undergraduate students
are majoring in science, engineering, and pre-medical programs than in
history or literature. The famous, or infamous, two cultures problem may
well be real. Still, we work in hopes that it may be abated.
Charles
C. Gillispie is Dayton-Stockton Professor of History of Science Emeritus
at Princeton University.
[1]
“Apologia pro Vita Sua,” Isis, 90 Supplement (1999): S84–S94.
EINSTEIN’S
CLOCKS, POINCARÉ’S MAPS:AN INTERVIEW WITH PETER GALISON, PART II
Conducted by Donald A. Yerxa
IN
A RECENT New York Review of Books essay Freeman Dyson, one of the most
prominent physicists of our time, notes that “[a]mong historians of science
during the last half-century, there have been two predominant schools of
thought. The leaders of the two schools have been Thomas Kuhn and Peter
Galison.” For Kuhn science is typified by periods of relative stability
wherein a dominant orthodox theory reigns because of its ability to explain
observed phenomena. But at rare moments “normal science” undergoes transformation
as new discoveries and especially new ideas overthrow prevailing notions
in a scientific revolution. In contrast to Kuhn’s idea-driven view of scientific
progress, Galison has emphasized the importance of tools. Dyson claims
that “[h]istorians trained in theoretical science tend to be Kuhnians,
while those trained in experimental science tend to be Galisonians.” Moreover,
he suggests that in Einstein’s Clocks, Poincaré’s Maps Galison “is
telling us that he still believes in the primacy of tools, but not to the
exclusion of everything else.” In this second installment of a two-part
interview, Peter Galison, the Mallinckrodt Professor of the History of
Science and of Physics at Harvard University, explores the utility of the
notion of scientific revolution and the question of heroic standing in
the history of science with Donald Yerxa. Their conversation took place
in Galison’s Harvard office on September 29, 2003.
Yerxa:
Why is it that the names of Newton, Darwin, and Einstein have achieved
such heroic standing, whereas Hooke, Owen, and Poincaré have not?
Or perhaps to get at this another way, what sets Einstein apart from all
other physicists and mathematicians of his time and context, including
Poincaré?
Galison:
Let me start with the limited question and then move to the more general
one. And the limited question is why has Einstein become the most famous
human being of the century, the man of the century for Time magazine?
His picture is on advertisements, and the last time I checked there were
about 3 million Einstein sites on the Web. There is no limit to his fame.
Yet outside of France (where he still carries a cultural legacy) and mathematics
departments (where his works are still venerated) Poincaré is not
a household name. There are many reasons for this. Einstein is a generation
younger than Poincaré (in 1905 he was twenty-six whereas Poincaré
was fifty-one). From the time Einstein came of age, he saw himself as an
outsider. He fought with his teachers, argued fiercely with his family,
friends, and parents, and rebelled against Prussian militarism. During
World War I he was one of the few people in Germany who signed pacifist-oriented
petitions. He was a dissenting voice in the run up to Nazism; and in the
U.S. after World War II he made no bones about his unhappiness with McCarthyism,
nuclear stockpiling, and many other pillars of established politics. Einstein
clearly loved to identify himself with dissenting stances inside physics
and outside. I think that there is something in this triumphant dissent
that appeals widely to people in many walks of life. Add to this appeal
the enormous attraction many people have to the particular kinds of problems
with which Einstein grappled— the nature of space, the meaning of time,
the origin of the universe, its fate, its structure. These were questions
that make easy contact with broadly cultural, religious, and philosophical
issues that have troubled people for centuries. The confluence of these
various public personas is irresistible, creating a figure of Einstein
that carries a limitless iconic draw.
Poincaré
was a very different figure. In many ways he was a symbol of a progressive,
late 19th-century French establishment. He was somebody, I argue in the
book, who should not be seen, as he so often is, as a reactionary, as someone
who merely joined the backward-leaning, anti-relativity crowd. True, Poincaré
objected to certain commitments of Einstein, but it wasn’t because Poincaré
was trying to restore a Newtonian classical order. He was a progressivist
in many respects, politically, technologically, scientifically, as well
as philosophically. He was for altering things, but it was by repair, by
a kind of intervention to fix things that were wrong—an engineer’s progressivism
rather than a rebel’s sense of needing to upend. But Poincaré’s
meliorism did not mean that he was unwilling to depart, quite radically,
from the older science. On the contrary: Poincaré was willing to
take up new ideas of space and time. He invented what we now know as chaos
theory. There are many respects in which he departed from classical knowledge.
He was an advocate of what he dubbed conventionalism and insisted throughout
his life that we have enormous freedom in how we choose to structure our
scientific laws so long as they are consonant with the experiments. Far
from being a reactionary, this was a very progressive figure, somebody
who helped free Dreyfus by dismantling the scientific evidence that had
been mustered against him. But I think it is harder for people to identify
with Poincaré the master craftsman, the engineering reformer, the
symbol of an intact French Empire extending its beneficence to lands outside
of France. That may have been an ideal cherished by a Third Republic pragmatic
reformer, but it is not a vision that seizes hold of each generation of
young people from the 1910s to the present. There is surely something very
revealing in the way that Einstein functions for people; he plays a useful
role for us now and in previous generations that Poincaré has not.
Yerxa:
You’re not interested in keeping any scorecard between Einstein and Poincaré?
Galison:
Not at all. Rivers of ink have splashed onto pages denouncing one or the
other, offering credit and posthumous accolades. This interests me not
at all. On the contrary, there is something bracing about understanding
two very different ways of looking at extremely similar situations in physics,
philosophy, and technology. I am interested in understanding clearly how
each of them saw the world, in making the vision of each as compelling
as possible, and yet pitting them against one another. But no, I am repelled
by the idea of the historian or philosopher as a prize committee giving
first and second honors to the discoverers of relativity. That’s just never
interested me, except perhaps as itself a historical subject. That is,
we may want to understand how, historically, priority became an issue because
some people used Poincaré as a way of discounting what Einstein
had done, or conversely of discounting Poincaré as a way to value
what Einstein had done. I have no dog in that fight. (But I could find
interesting the history of dogfights.)
Yerxa:
Beyond Einstein and Poincaré, why is it that certain scientists
achieve such heroic standing?
Galison:
Fame is a complicated issue, and standing is not constant over time. The
stature of an enormously salient scientist can change in a generation or
two, just as it does with politicians, painters, or musicians. William
Whewell, for instance, was a figure of major standing in 19th-century Britain
and now is largely forgotten. Gregor Mendel was not famous at all and now
is a hero. Darwin’s fame has been more unbroken but needs to be understood
in terms of larger pedagogical and theological issues—he became a culture
hero in the United States by being assimilated to a form of teleological,
almost Panglossian progressivism, not because of his advocacy of natural
selection. Fame or heroic standing is a historical problem to be cracked,
but it has to be approached not as a natural category but as a historical
category that must be produced and constantly reproduced. We have an Einstein
now, but it’s not the same as the Einstein of 1960, 1933, or 1919. People
pick out of these figures different things, and each age establishes fame
in its own image.
Yerxa:
To what extent is the popular understanding of Einstein in need of revision?
Galison:
Our contemporary picture of Einstein is dominated by his later years. It
is Einstein with his wild, long white hair, his oracular pronouncements,
his years in Princeton at the Institute for Advanced Study. This is a person
who largely has figured out, if not how to tame, at least how to live with
his inner demons, and who represents the very incarnation of a kind of
equilibrated calm in his relationship to the world even when he stood as
an oppositional figure. The young Einstein is really a very different figure.
He is very much in battle with the world: he is unemployed for several
years; he wants to establish himself in physics; he is fighting with his
elders; he is passionately engaged with material objects, inventions, devices;
he takes out patents; he takes on the world in every possible way. In a
sense, it’s that younger Einstein that may have been eclipsed by a picture
of the “head-in-theclouds” Einstein of his later years. And even in the
later years, we forget his hard-edged political stance at the peril of
distorting the record.
Yerxa:
Your work raises many fascinating questions about how science works. You
advance a reading of the history of science that dispels the erroneous
notions that science either proceeds simply from the material to the abstract
or the opposite, from the realm of pure ideas to the concrete. And your
book describes the “oscillation back and forth between abstraction and
concreteness” in the worlds that Poincaré and Einstein inhabited.
Is such oscillation generally the case in the history of science?
Galison:
Let me respond in two steps. First, I think that very often what we consider
to be the most abstract ideas can be located within a set of much more
particular concerns that are associated with them. I actually don’t think
that it is rare for abstract and concrete developments within science to
be associated. What I think is rare is the simultaneous crossing of broadly
philosophical, importantly technological, and centrally physical ideas.
That does not happen very often. More recently, we see another example
of the crossing of philosophy, technology, and fundamental science in the
nexus of issues around cognitive science, cybernetics, computers, the building
of computers, abstract ideas about computer functioning and proof. Think,
for example, of John von Neumann. He was a mathematician who became interested
in practical problems of computation during World War II and afterward
was one of the co-inventors of the stored-program computer. When he thought
of the computer, he patterned it on the faculties of the mind. He reasoned,
“How does our mind work? Well, we have memory, we have input, we have output,
processing.” And then he began to identify the functional elements of what
we call the stored-program computer in terms of this quasi-faculty picture
of the mind. But then the computer itself became a model of the mind, and
people began to draw on the computer to better understand how cognition
works. Around a fluctuating picture of model and modeled has arisen a complex
of philosophical ideas, very practical issues around computer design, and
abstract notions of computational science. That sort of oscillation seems
to be somewhat analogous to the story I am pursuing in Einstein’s Clocks,
Poincaré’s Maps. The computer becomes a kind of governing metaphor
for our times—and of course through its consequences far more than a metaphor.
It is that kind of centrality and multiplicity that I think is unusual,
and it’s that triple intersection of practical, abstract, and philosophical
issues that becomes a governing sign of an era. I’ve called this a kind
of critical opalescence.
Yerxa:
Could you explain the metaphor of critical opalescence and discuss
how it helps us better understand the simultaneous convergence of questions
at multiple scales?
Galison:
By critical opalescence I have in mind this: it is easy enough, as we think
back historically, to reason in terms of a kind of ascension from the concrete
to the abstract. One way of thinking of that progression is as a kind of
Platonic ascension—we make a stick model of a triangle, then we draw it
on paper, then we imagine it as a pure idea, abstracted from all instantiations.
Or we might think of the progression from material to abstract in terms
of a vulgarized Marxist picture (I don’t actually think this is what Marx
had in mind at all). But such a view would argue that in the beginning
are the relations of people to specific means of production and from those
relations come, univocally, the epiphenomenal superstructures of the world,
including jurisprudence, religion, and perhaps science. According to this
way of thinking, science or the abstract ideas of science become nothing
but surface phenomena that are projected by the functional relations of
labor. So in either the Platonic model or (over-simplified) Marxism the
movement from materiality to abstraction is a process of sublimation: all
that is solid melts into air.
On
the other side is a more idealist picture, one that says: in the beginning
are ideas, and our ideas become more concrete or applied—mathematics or
mathematical physics is converted into applied science or engineering and
eventually written into concrete, wires, and stone in the factory. In a
sense the idealist picture is an exact reverse of the materialist picture,
and we think of it as a kind of condensation. On the one side, a kind of
sublimation; on the other, a condensation. I’m not happy with either of
those images on both philosophical and historical grounds. And I don’t
think that either begins to capture what is going on in situations like
those in which Poincaré and Einstein found themselves. In fact these
people were moving very quickly back and forth between practical questions
and abstract questions. Poincaré would give a talk on relativity
and then work on turning the Eiffel Tower into a timesending station; then
he’d go back and attend a philosophy conference. Back and forth this went.
A better
metaphor, it seems to me, is the phenomenon—a little less well known perhaps
than sublimation or condensation— that physicists call critical opalescence.
If you put water and vapor in a vessel under such pressure and temperature
that the water thrashes back and forth between tiny droplets, bigger droplets,
and vapor and then you shine in blue light, you get blue light back because
it reflects off the droplets that are the wavelengths of blue; if you shine
in green, then you get back green. Whatever size droplet you want, you
will find. In critical opalescence there is no privileged scale, no single
length that is more fundamental than all others. There simply is no natural
scale to water and vapor in critical opalescence. And it is something like
that that I’m after in the story I am looking at here with Poincaré
and Einstein. There isn’t one scale at which this story is grounded or
founded. There isn’t an originary or fundamental scale. It is all at once
about philosophy, technology, and physics. And the fluctuations of scale
between the abstract ideas of conventionalism and a new kind of knowledge
and the practical exigencies of wiring up continents so that they’ll tell
the same time are very rapid and an essential aspect of this story. Is
this a story of social history? Yes. Look at the coordination of cities,
trains, markets, and maps. Is this a story about the intellectual history
of physics? Yes. Relativity is one of the epochal changes in the discipline.
Is this a question about the history of philosophy? Again, yes. Conventionalism
reshaped modern philosophy. Moreover, it is not just a story about those
things, but central stories to each of those. It is a crucial piece
of late 19th-century technology. It is one of the founding pieces of 20th-century
physics. And it is a transformative moment in the philosophy of science,
indeed a model for the philosophy of science for the next hundred years.
Yerxa:
How does critical opalescence—which presumably is highly transformative—
relate to the notion of scientific revolution?
Galison:
Scientific revolution has a long and complicated history within my discipline.
Sometimes it means the Scientific Revolution of Descartes, Galileo,
and Newton. The problem is that people have found it increasingly difficult
to bound this notion of “The Scientific Revolution” in any coherent way.
Driven by the difficulty of bounding this “event,” historians of science
started writing books decades ago on the Scientific Revolution from 1550
to 1750. But then it is really not clear what conceptual meaning can be
derived from a revolution lasting two centuries. And because of difficulties
like this, many historians today refer now to early modern science, with
all the complexities that you would expect from what we know about early
modern history more broadly conceived. I think, for instance, of Lynn Hunt’s
excellent work on the French Revolution where she looks at how different
strata of life are broken or continuous across the events of the French
Revolution. She shows that if we look in one plane, so to speak, we see
continuity; whereas in another we might see breaks. So what represents
a break in terms of representative government may not in terms of family
structure and much else besides. I think something like that has become
more typically the way we see things in the history of science. For as
historians of science have attempted to engage the content of science and
its embedding in the world together, it becomes more and more problematic
to see a particular doctrinal change as a universal break that cuts all
the way through everything. In that sense, Thomas Kuhn’s image of the shattering
of a world by responses to a stubborn scientific anomaly becomes harder
to accept. Take a simple example from my How Experiments End. Part
of what I was interested in was that experimenters typically don’t change
their practices in lock step with theoretical changes. So if you look at
what happened to experiments during the time of quantum mechanics and relativity,
it’s not a major change for the experimentalist. Conversely, the big changes
to the experimentalist are not the most major changes for the theorists.
Because I find periodization to be intercalated in this way (rather than
global continuity followed by global discontinuity), I find the idea of
a scientific revolution too clumsy to capture what interests me.
Now,
you have asked how the idea of critical opalescence relates to this. In
Einstein’s Clocks, Poincaré’s Maps, I am not saying that
there is a break in all of the different strata simultaneously. It is obviously
not that all of electrodynamics, cartography, or train scheduling is broken
at once. But there is a coincident transforming event (around time and
simultaneity) that takes in theoretical physics, practical aspects of technology,
and philosophy. So I am interested in a break that takes place across many
different scales, but it is not my claim that this shatters practices all
at once everywhere.
Consequently,
the argument against scientific revolutions is not based on the notion
that everything is continuous; it is rather that the breaks and continuities
are not all lined up. This suggests that the hopeless question of whether
science is continuous or discontinuous needs to be replaced by precisely
where scientific practices are continuous and precisely where they are
discontinuous. Because of these more complex questions we need to ask,
I find allusions to the Scientific Revolution (singular) or scientific
revolutions (plural) to be unhelpful.
Yerxa:
You have terminal degrees in the history of science and particle physics.
How important is it for historians of science to have that sort of dual
professional expertise?
Galison:
In the history of science, the particular mix of training is really specific
to the kind of problem that interests you. I have a colleague here at Harvard,
Katharine Park, who is a great historian of Renaissance science. For her
and for her students, it is much more important to know the pertinent languages,
to be familiar with the broader issues of Renaissance history, of Renaissance
painting, and of the development of perspective. She’s interested in anatomical
drawing and representations of dissection, so medical knowledge becomes
crucial. For someone training with her, particle physics, quantum field
theory, or condensed matter experimentation are all really pretty irrelevant.
So what was appropriate for me is not necessarily appropriate for everyone.
Those who study with me pursue a variety of mixes of historical, philosophical,
and technical work. Two of my students have done Ph.D.s in physics in addition
to their Ph.D.s in the history of science. Some have done masters’ degrees
in physics, chemistry, or astronomy—others have studied sociology or philosophy.
There is no universal solution to such questions; it depends essentially
on the historian, the problem, and questions asked.
Yerxa:
Did you pursue particle physics in order to address specific questions
in the history of science?
Galison:
It would never be worthwhile to do a Ph.D. in physics in order to just
ask one set of questions. It’s too big a commitment for that. But it is
true that the problems I worked on in my physics dissertation (electroweak
theories) grew out of historical questions that arose in writing my history
dissertation (“How Experiments End”). For me, one of the advantages of
physics training was that it opened up the literature in a way that would
not have been possible otherwise. Second, and this might seem paradoxical,
my physics training allows me to write less technically because I am in
a better position to know which technical ideas are central and which are
secondary. Einstein once said that we must do everything as simply as possible
—but not simpler. I have always liked that view.
KEEPING
SCIENCE IN SITE
by
David N. Livingstone
It
is September 1864 and the British Association for the Advancement of Science
has convened in Bath. As part of its program, a public debate has been
arranged between Richard Burton and John Hanning Speke, both African explorers.
The matter at stake is whether or not Speke has succeeded in reaching Lake
Victoria and the source of the Nile. England’s favorite missionaryexplorer,
David Livingstone, is also in town to address the assembly and he is invited
to arbitrate. Unfortunately, the debate never materialized due to the untimely
death the previous day of Speke in a hunting accident.
The
whole affair, no doubt cinematically over-dramatized, makes for a colorful
finale to the motion picture Mountains of the Moon. But it’s an
intriguing moment during the build-up to the abortive exchange that I want
to fasten onto here as symptomatic of a wider suite of issues about the
making of scientific knowledge. The scene I have in mind is the initial
meeting between Burton and Livingstone prior to the scheduled public discussion.
“Risky profession we’re in,” observes Livingstone beginning to open his
shirt when he and Burton are left alone. “You know of course that I was
mauled by a lion. He only chewed my shoulder,” he goes on, pointing to
the spot. Burton, not to be outdone, pulls back his shirt and points: “Bullet
hole. Single bore.” Livingstone now takes to unbuttoning his breeches to
display a scorpion bite. “Cellulitis,” Burton replies, pulling up one trouser
leg. And so it continues. A ritual exchange of wounds. What is going on
here is an exercise in the establishment of credibility. Each explorer
comes to trust the witness of the other because they bear in their bodies
the authenticating marks of their expeditions. It’s an instance of what
might be called “embodied warrant.”
Such
matters are not restricted to the melodrama of the silver screen. Precisely
this species of self-warranting also lay at the heart of the controversy
about who should be credited with the distinction of being the first European
to enter the African city of Timbuctoo in the 1820s.1 In adjudicating the
competing claims of the young Frenchman René Caillié and
the Scottish soldier Alexander Gordon Laing, John Barrow, permanent secretary
to the Admiralty, put confidence in the lengthy list of wounds that the
Scotsman had sustained—multiple sabre slashes to the head, left temple,
and right arm, a variety of fractures, and a musket ball in the hip. The
reason was simple. They bore witness to the genuineness of the geographical
knowledge he had so painfully acquired. The injuries he had sustained were
nothing less than the signs of truth imprinted in the flesh.
What
might be called “the moral economy of wounds” surfaces in these two accounts
as crucial embodied insignia of reliable testimony. Why? Because scientific
travel and geographical exploration raised acute questions about who could
be trusted. How could metropolitan authorities be assured that the information
field workers brought home from afar was reliable? And how could scientific
travelers justify their reports to their hearers and sponsors? Such questions
disclose the profoundly place-based nature of measures that are put in
place to underwrite testimony and secure warrant. In other cognitive enterprises
the nature of the mechanisms are different. Knowledge acquired in the field
raises different issues about credibility than knowledge gleaned in laboratories
or museums or libraries. But in each case acceptable repertoires of knowledge-gleaning
practices are rooted in the specifics of location. . . .
1 See
Michael J. Heffernan, “‘A Dream as Frail as Those of Ancient Time’: the
In-Credible Geographies of Timbuctoo,” Society and Space 19 (2001):
203–225.
STORIES
AND NUMBERS: HOW A ROMANTIC TALE OF GEOGRAPHICAL EXPLORATION TRANSFORMED
MATHEMATICS
by
Amir Alexander
Evariste
Galois was a young mathematical genius, who was beginning to make a name
for himself in European mathematical circles in the early 19th century.
He was also a political radical, and an enthusiastic participant in French
revolutionary politics. At the young age of twenty-two he was challenged
to a duel over his radical political beliefs. Knowing that he may not survive
the morning, he spent the night before the encounter writing down his latest
mathematical insights. Tragically, he was indeed killed in the duel. His
hastily jotted notes, however, bequeathed to mathematics an entire new
field of inquiry: the Theory of Groups.
I cannot
vouch for the accuracy of this story, which I heard repeatedly from my
mathematics professors, but then, it was not told for its historical veracity.
It was told as a morality tale: the young Galois, we are left to surmise,
would have presented the world with many more mathematical wonders if he
had not been lured away from his true vocation by politics and violence.
The passions and turmoil of human history appear as nothing more than senseless
strife when viewed against the beauty and coherence of eternal mathematics.
One
may argue—and most historians would—with the value judgments of history
and mathematics implicit in this tale. But the story does bring out the
fundamental problem of a history of mathematics: mathematics deals with
unchanging Platonic universals; history deals with unexpected earthly contingencies.
How, then, can one write a meaningful contingent history of universal mathematics?
The
problem is shared, to a degree, with other areas of the history of science,
where historians have had to deal with such stubbornly ahistorical factors
as universal gravitation and the laws of thermodynamics. Nevertheless,
over the past thrity years historians of science have been remarkably successful
in providing insightful and culturally rich historical accounts of crucial
episodes in the development of science.
Not
so historians of mathematics, who have remained surprisingly unperturbed
by the intellectual tempests raging in adjacent fields. Many historians
of mathematics, though by no means all, remain thoroughly satisfied with
the “Galois” model of history and are content to contrast history and mathematics
rather than connecting them. In their view history might be the “theater”
of mathematics —since different mathematicians live in different historical
times and places and each gets a glimpse of a part of the realm of mathematics.
History is not, however, the dimension of mathematics, since in these accounts
mathematics truly resides in its own insular Platonic sphere.
What,
then, can be done? How can a historical account be given of a field as
insular and self-contained as mathematics? . . . .
FREE
TRADE AND MODERN HISTORY: A FORUM
In
his Against the Dead Hand: The Uncertain Struggle for Global Capitalism
(John Wiley & Sons, 2002) Brink Lindsey argues that much of the history
of the 20th century was shaped by negative attitudes toward free trade,
some of the consequences of which were the two world wars and the Great
Depression. Here Lindsey presents his views in an essay drawn from that
book. Alfred Mierzejewski and Liah Greenfeld respond to his essay, followed
by Lindsey’s concluding reply.
THE
ORIGINS AND PROGRESS OF THE INDUSTRIAL COUNTERREVOLUTION†
by
Brink Lindsey
The
buzzword is of relatively recent vintage, but the reality it describes
is nothing new. Globalization was in full swing a century ago. Indeed,
it was remarkably advanced, even by contemporary standards. It is fair
to say that much of the growth of the international economy since World
War II has simply recapitulated the achievements of the era prior to World
War I. The first world economy was made possible by the staggering technological
breakthroughs of the Industrial Revolution, a burst of technological creativity
that demolished the natural barriers to trade posed by geography. At the
same time, it created entirely new possibilities for beneficial international
exchange. In the core of the new global economy, the factories of the North
Atlantic industrializing countries pumped out an everwidening stream of
manufactured goods desired around the world. Those factories, in turn,
relied on access to cheap natural resources and raw materials. And in the
less advanced periphery of Asia, Africa, and Latin America, new technologies
allowed those natural resources and raw materials to be grown or extracted
more cheaply than ever before.
So
arose the initial grand bargain on which the first global division of labor
was based: the core specialized in manufacturing, while the periphery specialized
in primary products. For Great Britain, the first industrial power, manufactured
goods constituted roughly three-quarters of its exports. The sprawling
United States, on the other hand, straddled both core and periphery. The
urbanized East took industrialization to a new level and carried America
past Great Britain in economic development. The West, meanwhile, followed
the path of other temperate “regions of European settlement” (Canada, Australia,
New Zealand, and Argentina) and specialized in the production of grains,
meats, leather, wool, and other high-value agricultural products. Finally,
the South roughly followed the tropical pattern of development, focusing
on such products as rubber, coffee, cotton, sugar, vegetable oil, and other
lowvalue goods.
While
far-flung foreign trade is as old as human history, this was something
new. No longer was such commerce a marginal matter, limited to a few high-value
luxuries. Now, for the first time, specialization of production on a worldwide
scale was a central element of economic life in all the countries that
participated. But it was not to last. The global economic order that arose
and flourished in the waning years of the 19th century was swept away by
the great catastrophes of the 20th: world wars, the Great Depression, and
totalitarian dictatorships. Only in the past couple of decades has a truly
global division of labor been able to reemerge . . . .
ONE
SIZE DOES NOT FIT ALL
by
Alfred C. Mierzejewski
Brink
Lindsey attempts to provide a general explanation for opposition to free
markets and globalization. He contends that a movement straddling ideological
divisions between Left and Right has promoted the adoption of top-down,
centralized control since the late 19th century. In doing so, he makes
a laudable effort to use history to explain current developments.
In
reading his essay, I wondered whether there was a theoretical framework
underlying Lindsey’s analysis. Therefore, I decided to read his book Against
the Dead Hand: The Uncertain Struggle for Global Capitalism. His article
is a summary of the historical component of that work, omitting the theoretical
and contemporary political aspects. Interestingly, he bases his argument
in the book on the theoretical concepts of the Nobel prize winning economist
Friedrich von Hayek. Having been a student of the ideas of Hayek and those
of his mentor Ludwig von Mises for many years, I find Lindsey’s use of
Hayek’s theories enlightening. In his book, Lindsey provides a good summary
of some of Hayek’s key insights that is intelligible to the reader unfamiliar
with economic theory and unwilling to wade through the Austrian’s dense
prose. Probably the most important of Hayek’s ideas presented by Lindsey
is the notion of markets as discovery mechanisms. Hayek is justly famous
for this concept. Markets, in addition to helping us allocate resources,
are also a means for finding useful knowledge and making it available to
consumers everywhere. Markets are capable of doing these wondrous things
because they are decentralized. Lindsey points out how those who criticize
markets as chaotic are wrong. Markets in fact involve a good deal of planning,
but on a decentralized basis. For this reason, they are much more effective
than any central planning apparatus could ever be.1
Using
Hayek as a foundation, Lindsey builds an explanation, summarized in his
article, of how centralized, top-down governance became the dominant political
and economic model in the late 19th century. He correctly points to the
widespread fear of change as a critical factor leading people to seek refuge
in collective solutions. Lindsey is right to typify this as an atavistic
impulse. Socialism is in fact a backward looking philosophy. Lindsey calls
the entire drive toward centralization a “back to the future” outlook.
I would suggest that “advancing to the past” would be more apt. He also
rightly highlights the engineering mentality which, as Hayek pointed out,
incorrectly posits that human beings will act according to natural laws
in the same way as matter responds to physical laws. In addition, Lindsey
is correct in pointing out that international free trade, the international
division of labor, is nothing new. We are, indeed, today only retracing
a path followed by the world in the 19th century.
Lindsey
also performs the useful service of making clear that just as there is
an anticapitalism of the Left, so too there is an “antimarketism” of the
Right. The former condemns inequality and seeks to abolish private property
and competition. The latter also hopes to hamper competition, but for the
purpose of protecting private property. Thus the enemies of competitive
markets, and therefore of consumers, reside on both sides of the political
spectrum.
Lindsey
relies entirely on a thin selection of secondary works to build his historical
narrative in support of his theoretical position. The result is a misrepresentation
of the origins of centralized government. In his essay (and in the first
part of his book) Lindsey focuses on Germany as one of the main sources
of antimarket logic. Therefore, let’s take a look at the German example,
which, in my view, shows that centralizing tendencies grew out of non-economic
sources that existed long before the Industrial Revolution began . .
. .
SPEAKING
HISTORICALLY ABOUT GLOBALIZATION AND RELATED FANTASIES
by
Liah Greenfeld
History,
says Marc Bloch, is the “science of men in time.” When one talks of history,
even in the non-specialist press, it is useful to mention (or not to mention,
depending on the aimed-at result) dates. It is also useful—according to
Bloch, absolutely essential—to provide precise definitions of the historical
phenomena one talks about. If one makes historical claims and yet does
not mention dates and skimps on definitions, one abuses history and misrepresents
it (i.e., presents it for what it is most assuredly not: a mixed bag of
arguably real but perhaps imaginary events or non-events which either happened
or did not happen at one time or another). One thing certain about arguments
presented in such a dateless and undefined manner is that history cannot
provide any support for them.
In
the past two decades, since the collapse of the Soviet Union, the favorite
subject of such arguments has been “globalization.” To American eyes, the
existence of the Soviet Union had divided the world into two; its collapse,
in consequence, has resulted in one, united world. The globe has turned
into a cozy village, and on the wave of euphoric celebration of the “end
of history” the obscure and quite recent term “globalization” was brought
out of its academic closet. It is suggestive that it was precisely with
the end of history that “globalization” came into fashion.
Most
people who argue about globalization belong either to its enemies and critics
or to its friends and advocates. So they argue about it indeed in the sense
in which enemies and friends of anything may argue: it is horrid, say the
former; it is splendid, retort the latter. It is an argument about the
nature of the common good, about the nature of the good in general. Both
parties are, therefore, biased by definition; they are ideological and
led by their prior notions and their prejudices. Both sides, however, claim
to rely on history, and it is possible that they even sincerely believe
that their opinions (as to whether globalization is good or bad) derive
from it. But the history they rely on, which is the same for the critics
and advocates, is that pliable non-discipline, which cares nothing for
dates and definitions, and can serve as a soft cushion for any position,
while supporting none. This pliability is seen by both camps as a result
of being stood on the head by their respective opponents. The metaphor
is clearly inappropriate, because whichever way you stand this cushion,
it will flop. But it is supported by the adamantine authority of Karl Marx,
who, as we all learned in our various 101 courses, used it in regard to
Hegel’s philosophy of history prior to standing it on its feet. As we should
have learned subsequently, this change of position did not help to bring
the philosophy in question any closer to reality; so the whole Marxist
exercise turned out to be futile. But, I guess, our 101 courses omitted
to mention this.
In
this reply to an ardent advocate of globalization, it is important to identify
myself vis-à-vis the parties described above before I begin. I do
not belong to either of them. For reasons that will be made clear in the
rest of this essay, I am neither for, nor against, globalization. I do
not consider it to be either good or bad. But I greatly admire “the historian’s
craft” and strongly object to the cavalier treatment of dates and definitions.
Therefore, I shall limit my present participation in “the controversies
that swirl around globalization today” to the construction of a small timetable
and an attempt to speak about the subject historically.
What
is “globalization”? It is a noun derived from a verb “to globalize,” which,
in accordance with the elementary logic of grammar, gives it the meaning
of an action or process of being made or becoming “global.” This action
or process is necessarily limited and progressive, because when the “globality”
in question is achieved, it ends, and the structure of the word presupposes
the increasing approximation of this state. This type of morphological
construction is of rather recent origin and, before the advent of modernity,
was unknown. In the past analogous verb-derivatives referred to specific
intentional acts carried out by specific actors, such as “circumcision”
from “to circumcise.” The earliest case of this modern construction seems
to be the word “civilization,” first used in French in the 16th century
(from civilizer, later civiliser), and this grammatical innovation
signaled a change in the way reality was imagined. For “civilization” implied
a continuous, progressive process, spanning generations and initiated and
carried out by grand abstract forces. In the 16th century such forces are
likely to have been identified with Divine Providence; closer to our time
they would be called “social forces.” Divine Providence worked in mysterious
ways, but though the design was unfathomable, it presupposed a Designer,
and therefore there was no logical problem in its explicit teleology. But
the substitution of “social forces” for God, which made the teleology implicit,
also made it illogical, for it placed the effect before the cause and the
carriage before the horse. As a result, the picture of reality symbolized
by morphological structures such as “civilization” became, logically, nonsense.
According
to the Oxford English Dictionary, as reliable a source of historical
data as they get, the source of the concept of “globalization” was the
term “global village,” introduced in the 1960s by Marshall McLuhan “for
the world in the age of high technology and international communications,
through which events throughout the world may be experienced simultaneously
by everyone, so apparently ‘shrinking’ world societies to the level of
a single village or tribe.” Webster’s Dictionary had an entry for
“globalization,” referring to the action or process of becoming or being
made such a “global village,” already in 1961, and thirty years later,
after the collapse of the Soviet Union, it entered and achieved its pride
of place in economic discussions. Logically, as was explained above, the
concept makes no sense, and therefore, lacking both explanatory and diagnostic
capacities, cannot help us understand reality. In other words, there
is no such thing as globalization . . . .
REPLY
TO MIERZEJEWSKI AND GREENFELD
by
Brink Lindsey
In
“The Origins and Progress of the Industrial Counterrevolution” I aimed
to shed light on the decline and collapse of the global economy that arose
in the late 19th century. Specifically, I argued that widespread belief
in the virtues of centralized economic decision-making—inspired, in part,
by the example of the giant new industrial enterprises of North America
and Europe—played a crucial role in propelling this train of events. I
called this intellectual and political backlash against market competition
the “Industrial Counterrevolution.”
The
concept of the Industrial Counterrevolution is a big, sweeping generalization.
It is therefore susceptible to the charge that it oversimplifies and omits.
To which charge I can only respond: of course it does. All history consists
of leaving things out—of telling some stories but not others, and spying
some patterns but not others. I would never presume that the thesis I have
advanced is the story of the period in question. At best it is a valid
story: one that is correct, as far as it goes, and that enriches our understanding
of a particular slice of the past.
Neither
of the two commenters is particularly fond of my thesis. With all due respect,
I do not believe that either has struck a telling blow against it .
. . .
THE
2003 CAMBRIDGE HISTORY FESTIVAL
by
Derek Wilson
“While
our historians are practising all the arts of controversy, they miserably
neglect the art of narration, the art of interesting the affections and
presenting pictures to the imagination.” 1 So wrote Lord Macaulay in 1828.
David Starkey beat the same drum in a recent article for the London Times:
“professionalisation means a cult of the obscure, the esoteric and the
illiterate . . . what should be the most public of subjects has become
one of the most hermetically sealed.” These two statements are not cairns
built in a flat landscape between which lie a level century and a half
of unchanging perceptions. They are more like familiar markers on a cross-country
circuit that tell us we have been here before.
There
have always been academic specialists, scholars who, according to one colourful
definition, “crawl along the frontiers of knowledge with a magnifying glass.”
They may, and frequently do, turn the historian’s craft into an arcane
mystery, and career structures encourage this trend, for advancement is
often a matter of academic politics— supporting the hypothesis of Professor
X; undermining the assertions of Doctor Y. Popular history, on the other
hand, ebbs and flows. At some times it becomes fashionable to be fascinated
by the past, or what is generally thought to be “the past.” At others the
common perception is that history is dry and irrelevant. It is when popular
taste is in that first phase, when Joe Public cannot get enough of “old
stories,” that the contrast between the academic and the popular comes
into sharpest focus.
This
is the phase of the cycle currently being experienced in Britain. It is
often said, with a fair degree of truth, that the 1960s was the decade
in which we turned our back on our past; and it is not surprising that
it should have been so. For many people “history” was a process that had
led to two devastating wars, economic depression, austerity, the loss of
empire, and Britain’s descent into the ranks of second-class powers. They
wanted to look forward, not back, and the future was bright with the promise
of scientific and technological advance, full employment, and a rising
standard of living. For many “history” meant either a classroom diet of
regnal dates, battles, and Acts of Parliament or a patriotic catalogue
of heroes and great deeds from Agincourt to Trafalgar. Neither seemed to
have any relevance to the late 20th-century world.
A generation
on, the history market looks very different. In 2002 the number of students
opting for first degree courses in history increased by 14%. Publishers’
lists are bulging with new titles in popular history and biography. Academics
are falling over themselves to sell program ideas to TV producers and we
have a channel completely devoted to history. The heritage industry is
booming as never before, whole families heading off for reenactment weekends
or imaginatively presented museum exhibitions. Adult education courses
in history and related subject areas are in demand, and record numbers
of amateur historians are making use of archives to research their own
families or local communities. Historical fiction, a genre considered to
be on its deathbed twenty years ago, has made a remarkable recovery and
its devotees now have their own society, operative on both sides of the
Atlantic. We are back, in many ways to where we were in Macaulay’s day
when Sir Walter Scott, Harrison Ainsworth, and Edward Bulwer-Lytton topped
the bestseller lists, while Augustus Egg and Edward Matthew Ward gave their
public pictorial glimpses of other epochs in such paintings as “The Night
Before Naseby” and “Napoleon in the Prison at Nice.” . . . .
WHAT
HAVE HISTORIANS BEEN READING?
WE
ASKED A FEW HISTORIANS to comment on what they have been reading over the
past year. We encourage readers of Historically Speaking to submit
brief, 500-word notices of books that fall into one of three categories:
(1) recently published books that are particularly noteworthy, (2) seminal
books that have influenced one’s historical thinking, or (3) great books
that never received their due. –the Editors
John
Ferling, University of West Georgia
In
recent weeks I’ve read two exceptionally good new books in my field, the
American Revolution. I’ve liked David Hackett Fischer’s work for years,
and his latest effort, Washington’s Crossing (Oxford University
Press, 2004), which deals with the Trenton- Princeton campaign in 1776–77,
is just as good as his wonderful Paul Revere’s Ride, published in 1995
by Oxford University Press. As usual, his writing is exceptional and he
exposes some myths that have lingered about the campaign; in addition,
he adequately treats the British and Hessians, who have often gotten lost
in the shuffle. I also recently read An Imperfect God: George Washington,
His Slaves, and the Creation of America (Farrar, Straus & Giroux,
2003), authored by Henry Wiencek, and found it to be a provocative and
moving account of slavery in early America, though not quite as groundbreaking
on Washington as the author imagines.
Not
long ago I read John K. Alexander’s Samuel Adams: America’s Revolutionary
Politician (Rowman & Littlefield, 2002), an excellent biography
of that popular leader. Stimulated by it, I dug out John C. Miller’s earlier
biography, Sam Adams: A Pioneer in Propaganda (Stanford University
Press, 1936), which I had not looked at in years. While Alexander’s is
now the definitive life history, I found Miller's biography to be surprisingly
modern. Fascinated by my discovery, I went on this summer to reread his
Alexander Hamilton: Portrait in Paradox (Harper, 1959) and The
Federalist Era (Harper, 1960), and found that each has held up well
and remains worthwhile.
My
rediscovery of Miller, and my discomfort with the recent romanticizing
and glorifying of war in the movies and on television, led me to pull from
the shelf one of my favorite anti-war novels, a relatively little known
book by William Hoffman entitled The Trumpet Unblown (Fawcett, 1957).
I read it when in high school and again during the Vietnam War era, and
loved it both times. Now I am approaching retirement and still find it
to be a powerful account of an American soldier in World War II whose disillusionment
and despair ultimately overwhelm his initial zeal for war.
Carol
Thomas, University of Washington
This
historian of the ancient world has now read twice and assigned as class
reading another “new” magisterial work of Fernand Braudel, Memory and
the Mediterranean (Knopf, 2001) which tracks the longue durée
of the Mediterranean from the Paleozoic era to the Roman encirclement of
its shores, deftly interweaving place with people and people with one another.
Originally written in the late 1960s, the manuscript was rescued and edited
to include more recent data. In the same broad sweep is Barry Cunliffe’s
The Extraordinary Voyage of Pytheas the Greek (Penguin, 2002) which
also explores the Mediterranean sphere, in this case the 4th and 3rd centuries
BCE. Since his subject, Pytheas, traveled beyond the Strait of Gibraltar,
the account reaches to Ultima Thule as the author retraces Pytheas’s journey
by his own travel. Merlin Donald offers another sort of journey in A
Mind So Rare (Norton, 2001), namely the development of human consciousness
as a result of the interplay between the biological structure of the brain
and the increasingly complex cultures constructed by humankind. The story
is told carefully and engagingly.
Jeremy
Black, University of Exeter
I’m
unhappy with the “great books” approach. All too many of the major works
applauded in that light seem to me to be the self-validated products of
the “thing” or academic establishment, with the added finesse that the
economics of the publishing trade ensure that major efforts are made to
puff them up (e.g., special deals are offered for sale via reviewing journals
that then always seem to carry favorable reviews, display space in bookshops
is paid for, etc.). So let me put aside such work, much of which anyway
displays an obsession with discourse, a mistaken conviction of the existence
of a zeitgeist, and the practice of argument by assertion. Instead, in
choosing what to read, I ignore the advice of modish journals as the TLS
and the London Review of Books, neither of which I read anymore,
and prefer to work on the basis that there are large numbers of good authors,
and not a small number of stars. Many of the most interesting books I have
read lately have been chosen for me by the review editors of specialist
journals. Some are not only first-rate in themselves, but are also of wider
resonance. Thus, for example, David Laven’s Venice and Venetia under
the Habsburgs, 1815–1835 (Oxford University Press, 2002) is a scholarly
revisionist work which, in offering a fundamental reevaluation, underlines
the strength of conservative tendencies in early 19th-century Europe and
also challenges teleological assumptions about European development.
I find
many books valuable not because I agree with all, or part, of their arguments,
but because, in responding, I have to define and consider my own views.
Thus, reading the essays in Writing World History, 1800–2000 (Oxford
University Press, 2003), edited by Benedikt Stuchtey and Eckhardt Fuchs,
has led me to assess the limitations of my own approach in The World
in the Twentieth Century. War, international relations, and historical
geography are particular interests of mine. For the first, I enjoyed the
helpful surveys of the post-mortems and controversies among participants
and scholars in France, Germany, and Britain included in The Battle
of France and Flanders 1940 (Leo Cooper, 2001), edited by Brian Bond
and Michael Taylor, and the welcome redressing of Eurocentricity in Kenneth
Chase’s Firearms: A Global History to 1700 (Cambridge University
Press, 2003). For international relations, there was a welcome focus on
small states in Politics and Diplomacy in Early Modern Italy: The Structure
of Diplomatic Practice, 1450–1800 (Cambridge University Press, 2000),
edited by Daniela Frigo. Much geographical writing becomes platitudinous,
if not opaque, in its striving after theoretical significance, so it is
pleasant to welcome a number of varied recent works including Robert Mayhew’s
Enlightenment Geography: The Political Languages of British Geography,
1650–1850 (St. Martin’s, 2000), Ian Whyte’s Landscape and History
since 1500 (Reaktion, 2002), and John Marino’s “On the Shores of Bohemia:
Recovering Geography,” in Early Modern History and the Social Sciences:
Testing the Limits of Braudel’s Mediterranean (Truman State University
Press, 2002), edited by Marino.
As
a nuts and bolts historian, I have to confess that I am happiest when reading
works that display archival mastery, a characteristic absent from most
of the discourse merchants, and indeed the great names who appear to feel
that their eminence protects them from such drudgery. (I can recall a fit
Fellow of the British Academy telling me a decade or so ago that he never
intended to set foot in an archive again, and judging from his misleadingly
much-applauded works, he has realized his goal.) So, aside from reading
in the archives themselves, I have enjoyed looking at types of literature
that have been largely passed by in the rush from the archives: local history
society publications, many of which are excellent, and doctoral theses.
Recent visits to Oxford have given me opportunities to read such theses
as M.A. McDonnell’s “The Politics of Mobilization in Revolutionary Virginia:
Military Culture and Political and Social Relations, 1774–1783” (1995)
and N. Bhattacharyya- Panda’s “The English East India Company and the Hindu
Laws of Property in Bengal, 1765–1801: Appropriation and Invention of Tradition”
(1996). On a personal note, I feel I have come full-circle. As a Cambridge
undergraduate, my favorite time working was sitting reading the theses
in the University Library that related to such varied courses I took as
Early Modern Europe, the Norman Conquest, and Britain and Europe, 1783–1793.
I admired then, and still do, the archival knowledge, scholarly mastery,
and careful judgment that I have sought to emulate. It is a great solace,
when so much about both profession and discipline depresses me, that first-rate
work is still being produced by a large number of both academics and non-academics.
John
C. Greene, University of Connecticut (retired)
I recommend
Denis Alexander’s Rebuilding the Matrix (Zondervan, 2003) to historians
interested in the historical relations of science and religion. I also
recommend highly Christopher Benfey’s The Great Wave: Gilded Age Misfits,
Japanese Eccentrics, and the Opening of Old Japan (Random House, 2003).
It is a marvelous account of the intertwining careers and personal relations
of a group of New England intellectuals, including Herman Melville, Henry
Adams, the zoologist Sylvester Morse, the Amherst Dickinsons, John La Farge,
Percival Lowell, and their Japanese friends and acquaintances—beautifully
written cultural history with a good deal of political and diplomatic history
as background. Teddy Roosevelt and Henry Cabot Lodge come in toward the
end. Lafcadio Hearn too, of course. Read it!
Wilfred
M. McClay, University of Tennessee at Chattanooga
In
preparing the introduction for a book of essays by various hands that I’m
editing on the subject of “the human person” in the American past, I’ve
been dipping into the rich literature on personhood and selfhood in the
European past. I can’t think of a subject that taxes the historical imagination
more strenuously, and more usefully, especially for one whose graduate
training was primarily within the confines of U.S. history. It forces one
to think outside the constraints of modern liberal individualism without
making an easy resort to the stance of “otherness,” which allows one to
miss out on the vital elements of continuity and tacit presupposition that
link us with earlier times. I’ve gotten great benefit from a handful of
older books, such as Michael Carrithers, et al., eds., The Category
of the Person: Anthropology, Philosophy, History (Cambridge University
Press, 1985) and Colin Morris’s The Discovery of the Individual, 1050–1200
(University of Toronto Press, 1987), as well as the more recent Mirages
of the Selfe: Patterns of Personhood in Ancient and Early Modern Europe
(Stanford University Press, 2003), by Timothy J. Reiss. More generally,
I continue to find the multitudinous works of philosophers Charles Taylor
and Alasdair MacIntyre indispensable for thinking through how we might
move beyond the exhausted modernist concept of “self” back toward a more
complex, and more historically and socially grounded understanding of the
“person.”
Joseph
Amato, Southwest State University (retired)
Finishing
a manuscript of the history of walking, I have returned to Eugen Weber’s
classic Peasants into Frenchmen: The Modernization of Rural France,
1870–1914 (Stanford University Press, 1976) to remind myself just
how recently the making of the modern nation state occurred. Focused on
the last third of the 19th century, Peasants into Frenchmen details
how a traditional society composed of multiple peoples, many languages,
diverse rural ways, isolated communities, and even peasant walks was made
into the French nation. This was facilitated by a variety of things, including
railroads, uniform clocks, roads, literacy, public schools, central banks,
the military draft, national parties, improved manure, and visits from
city cousins.
In
the same spirit of pointillism based on rich detail and good language,
Peter Ackroyd’s recent London: The Biography (Anchor, 2003) convinces
me how rich and kaleidoscopic everyday urban life was in the past. In the
spirit of Dickens, Ackroyd details how myriad forms of life were played
out in full— or near full—sight on the streets of 19thcentury London. Smog,
murders, police, new populations, outcasts, public transport, horses, and
street entertainment made streets universities of human experience for
their walkers. There, as much as anywhere, the chrysalis of the urban walker
into contemporary pedestrian, shopper, and commuter occurred.
Psychologist
Robert Levine’s A Geography of Time: The Temporal Misadventures of a
Social Psychologist, or How Every Culture Keeps Time Just a Little Bit
Differently (Basic Books, 1997) supplements Ackroyd’s portrait of London
by demonstrating empirically how in the contemporary cities of North America,
South America, and Asia pedestrians and commuters move at different rates
in diverse ways, under different pressures and impulses to stop or move
on.
More
than walking, promenading, strolling, staggering, and trolling were in
play in the steps of the passerby. In his fine intellectual work of two
decades ago, The Culture of Time and Space, 1880–1918 (Harvard University
Press, 1986), Stephen Kern instructs us that in the closing decades of
the 19th century and the opening decades of the 20th a fundamental and
irreversible transformation of Western senses of time and space took place.
Arts, sciences, and technology collectively mounted an attack against the
traditional divisions and bulwarks of space and time. If any one thing
collapsed the vault of heaven, making heaven and earth closer than ever
before, it was the endless miles of spreading telephone wire. Instantaneously
crisscrossing the world, the telephone carried signals for World Standard
Time and contemporary voices into the depths of politics, leveling social
structures. Everywhere the present transgressed local and regional borders,
fed the pulsating rhythm of the burgeoning metropolis, and drew the people
of the world ever closer to one another in one engulfing simultaneity.
ARRIVING
AT A HISTORY OF READING
by
Jonathan Rose
In
our line of work, nothing is more gratifying than to lay out an agenda
for future scholarship, and then see it fulfilled well before one reaches
retirement age. On that count, Robert Darnton has a right to feel vindicated.
In his 1986 essay “First Steps Toward a History of Reading,” he suggested
(with due caution) that “it should be possible to develop a history as
well as a theory of reader response. Possible, but not easy,” for how could
the historian recapture something so private, so evanescent as the mental
experience of the “common reader”? As Darnton warned, “the documents rarely
show readers at work, fashioning meaning from texts, and the documents
are texts themselves, which also require interpretation. Few of them are
rich enough to provide even indirect access to the cognitive and affective
elements of reading, and a few exceptional cases may not be enough for
one to reconstruct the inner dimensions of that experience.”1
In
fact, in less than two decades, the historiography of reading has advanced
more quickly than either Darnton or I expected. It constitutes one-third
of the mission of a new scholarly organization, the Society for the History
of Authorship, Reading, and Publishing (SHARP), founded in 1991. Using
some of the methods that Darnton suggested —and sometimes inventing new
techniques for recovering reading experiences— scholars have sketched in
some of the blank spaces on this vast empty map. They have constructed
and debated historical models. And they have produced a remarkable string
of surprising discoveries, often quite different from what literary theorists
predicted.
The
great obstacle to a history of reading, as Darnton acknowledged, was a
lack of sources. But laborers in this field have, with considerable ingenuity,
located and used a wide range of raw materials that offer some insight
into the mental world of ordinary readers . . . .
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