History v Historiography — How to Read, with Michael Bevel

Hilary Mantel, one of my favorite writers, defines history as “the method we have evolved of organizing our ignorance of the past.” (From The Day Is for the Living, the first of her Reith Lectures, delivered in 2017.)

In the broadest of terms, anything that happened one second prior to this one (or this one, or this one, or this one) is part of history. Sometimes, we take those prior moments and organize them into a narrative, and that narrative we call history. So, one might look at the days before the eruption of Vesuvius and the days after, and organize those into a story that tells us what happened when that mountain blew up and blanketed the people in ash.

But not everything that happens in the past is categorized as history. If, two months before the eruption of Vesuvius, someone watered their tiny plot of whatever they grow near Italy, that does not necessarily make it into a history book, even though it happened in the deep past, and near a pretty significant event.

So, what makes something history?

That distinction — the act vs the interpretation — is historiography. Historiography takes for granted that history happened. It is not interested in what is labeled as history; it is instead more interested in why something is history.

For our time together, discussing the Histories, we will be participating in the grand tradition of historiography. Or, at least, I will. Because, at least once approximately every other page I find myself either muttering, or scribbling in the margin, “Why did Herodotus write this down?”

History can give us a false sense of security because it allows us to take the certainty of an object — a letter, say, written by the ambassador Chapuys to the Holy Roman Emperor, explaining the treatment of Anne Boleyn — and transfer that certainty to the interpretation. “But in this letter from Chapuys, we can clearly see that Boleyn was being railroaded to the executioner’s block.” But is that actually true? Does the existence of an historical item also mean that our interpretation of it is equally, correctly, historical?

Mantel goes on, “[History is] no more ‘the past’ than a birth certificate is a birth, or a script is a performance, or a map is a journey. It’s the multiplication of the evidence of fallible and biased witnesses, combined with incomplete accounts of actions not fully understood by the people who performed them. It’s no more than the best we can do, and often it falls short of that.”

I am far more interested in the why than I am in the fact of an event’s existence. Most of my questions to the group will be along the lines of, “Why do you think Herodotus thinks this?” Were there ants the size of small rodents, diligently mining chunks of gold ore to the surface? Clearly the answer is likely “no” because we do not see ants the size of small rodents diligently mining chunks of gold ore, nor have we any records of other people writing, “You won’t believe what I just saw diligently mining chunks of gold ore.” What is Herodotus trying to explain to his reader when he tells that anecdote? Is it simply to mislead? Have we maybe misread Herodotus? Or is he trying to explain something bigger?

Those are truly rhetorical questions. I do not have the answer. I almost don’t want to know the answer. But I am very interested in what you make of all of this. And we will do that together, starting on October 3.

One of the most important things I learned in seminary (besides how to use an interlinear text for translation questions) is to be clear about my own biases. Biases aren’t good or bad; “bias” is simply an inelegant term to describe a point of view. It is almost always pejorative. But it’s how the biases are deployed that can be disruptive.

I am almost entirely a Situational Subjectivist — a term I maybe just made up. I think the situation determines the effect and the aftermath of an event.

However, while I am almost entirely a Situational Subjectivist, I also can recognize when something is a fact:

The text of the Histories exists: FACT
The American Constitution has an amendment protecting certain speech from governmental governing: FACT
The Civil War in the U.S. started in the 1860s: FACT

But also:

Herodotus wrote the Histories: MAYBE! The circumstantial evidence is pretty solid. But I also feel that the existence of Herodotus can remain up in the air without affecting our conversation about the text attributed to him.
The First Amendment protects certain speech: MAYBE! The first amendment exists. It’s on paper. But is it followed? Is it followed consistently? Is it understood the same by everyone who reads it?
The Civil War started in the 1860s: MAYBE? When something “starts” is a tricky question. There is nothing wrong with saying that the Civil War started on April 12, 1861, when Confederate forces opened fire on Fort Sumter in South Carolina. But is that really when it started? Or is that when it started in earnest? Could we see the beginnings of the war in the 1850s? The 1840s? How far back can we comfortably go?

History is subjective. Historiography often examines that subjectivity.

Or not! All of what I wrote, you may firmly and stridently disagree with! It happens. I am wrong about as often as I am right. Overall, let’s try to be kind and generous in our disagreements. Give the other person as much of the benefit of the doubt as you can muster — even if it is only the size of a mustard seed — and see if there isn’t a kingdom you can both can dwell in, companionably.

Sources (in order of appearance)

Mantel, Hilary. “The Day Is for the Living.” Reith Lectures, BBC Radio 4, 2017.