Historian's Craft

Heh yesterday's lunch was really fun, thanks Oh-san and everyone else =) Went to Billy Bombers at Bugis Junction, which was a good atmosphere to unwind after a bout of prelims. Our table practically ordered every drink there was on the menu, which gave rise to all sorts of lewd allusions =P Heh, it's at moments like these when you're glad that you're young, because after a certain age how can you be so forward?

* * * * *

Today, spent the whole day studying Hist S. I must say I've never felt so strongly about history before, but after reading all the stuff about the Annales historians, it hits you that for some people, History is not only a profession or a pastime, but a matter of life and death. Was reading today, in the National Library, a book about the end of the Cold War, and the introductions to Braudel's Mediterranean in the Ancient World, which is different from his other, vastly famous, Mediterranean, and to Marc Bloch's The Historian's Craft. The Cold War essays were informative, one of them was particularly acerbic and amusing, but the ones that really struck me were the Annales historians.

When you read their words, you feel a sense of power surging through the pages, you get a sense that this work means a lot to them, and every page vibrates with that kind of passionate intensity. And there must be that kind of intensity, when you're writing historical tomes thicker than the average Bible. But beyond the care and detail with which they carry out their research and writing, there is also a sense of sincerity of belief in the meaning behind what they are doing. That was the time before postmodernism made its entry into the historiographical arena, when there was still a strong sense that every work of history was one step closer to the truth (even now, I think the postmodernist stance is too extreme, at least for practical purposes; history as an intellectual endeavour may never reach the nirvana of truth, but the meaning lies in the effort to work towards it nevertheless). And when they speak of history, it is with an obvious tinge of love.

Not that, of course, only Annales historians are that enthusiastic about their work. Eric Hobsbawm has that type of passion too, I think, even if it's not so intense. It's just that Bloch and Braudel's conviction is so thick throughout the bits of their work I read. And it's also remarkable how they combine the conventional rigour of Rankean history with their structural interpretations, all held together with doubtless flair in style. They use narrative, but not as an end-all for historical writing, but as a tool to make their structural point. And what narrative! Gripping stuff, that, as far as historical writing goes. I guess part of that style comes from being French (some of their extreme politeness may be the side-effect of literal translation), part of that passion comes from being in the War, and they do owe something to Ranke for inspiring their anti-establishment interpretations. It's just rather compelling to see all these elements coming together in a historical rather than literary work.

In fact, it's rather intriguing how they continually refer to themselves as craftsmen. Bloch especially calls himself an artist, a craftsman, an artisan, a journeyman. Probably there's a tinge of the early Annales preference for the peasantry in there, but I think he has hit it. A historian is necessarily an artist because of the medium he uses to conduct his science in - language. I found something that Bloch said rather compelling: that a historian, while having to conform with scientific-esque rigour in handling his sources, should not be ashamed of his artistic leanings, and indeed should acknowledge them openly, in order to disabuse the readers and each other of dangerous assumptions of impartiality and omniscience, and to acknowledge that history cannot be blandly objective (and that indeed it should not be, otherwise the fun would be lost). It is the combination of intelligent analysis and comprehension, and artistic flair and expression, that is really striking.

So there I was, near the top of the Library, overlooking the city as the sun set, reading Bloch's slim volume. Then it occured to me that the volume was too thin to be a complete Annales work. And flipping to the contents page, it's obvious that the work has been truncated. And it turns out that Bloch was executed by the Nazis before he could finish the book. Febvre, in editing the unfinished manuscript for publication, wrote a moving memorial for his friend, just as Bloch wrote a touching tribute to Febvre in way of a dedication for the book. One always hears of how the World War tore apart families, societies, whole civilisations, but to have evidence of such a sundering in your hands...it was jolting.

"For, as soon as we admit that a mental or emotional reaction is not self-explanatory, we are forced to turn, whenever such a reaction occurs, to make a real effort to discover the reasons for it. In a word, in history, as elsewhere, the causes cannot be assumed. They are to be looked for..."

I have to say that the truncated ending to that book, in the chapter about causation, is most uncanny. And it's hard to explain why that ellipsis at the end of the book, followed by the few blank pages, were the most saddening thing I've read in a long time, certainly since the first time I finished Atonement. It is like Bloch put his life into the book - he said that it was an escape from the daily life under occupation. And to have the book cut off like that...it's like holding evidence of a murder. The thought path abruptly truncated. The ink that did not flow, I wonder what it would have said.

pondered by phoenican @ 22.9.05