In the first place, among professional historians there is a rough consensus about the responses appropriate for writers of history when they set out to communicate what they know. The consensus is approximately registered by the price a particular historian fetches in the current job market. Second, in writing history, as we have seen, some historians consistently use a vocabulary and a syntax similar to those which are standard in the natural sciences and some do not.
An inquiry of no very pressing sort would reveal that in practice they have refused fully to commit themselves to a scientific rhetoric because they concern themselves with questions and answers which are not wholly tractable to the kind of formulation that scientists aim at, and because they assume in prac tice a relationship between cognition and communication in history different from that which is currently acceptable in the sciences.
In general, the training of a historian aims at the complementary but sometimes conflicting goals of simultaneously extending the range of his knowledge and of bringing it intensively to bear on some limited constellation of past happenings, in writing about which he is expected to make some contribution to the advancement of historical knowledge. It is not identical because in some measure the historian chooses what he will confront, while much of what men know through day-to-day experience comes at them haphazardly by no choice of their own.
Nevertheless, the difference ought not to be exaggerated, for there is considerable overlap. The printing press and more recent media of communication have vastly extended the role of indirect confrontation in day to-day experiential knowledge. Moreover, in his quest for understanding of the past, the historian relies to a considerable extent on the cautious and qualified analogical application of experiential knowledge which he has accumulated in personal, face-to-face transactions during his own lifetime.
Finally, the difference between face-to-face confrontation and confrontation mediated by the historical record is one of mode but not necessarily of quality, or intensity, or depth, or coherence, or completeness. Any man who reads and meditates on the 12 volumes of the correspondence of Desiderius Erasmus, extending over a span of four decades, plus his massive literary output, may justly argue that in quality, intensity, depth, coherence, and completeness his experiential knowledge of that sixteenth-century intellectual, acquired through mediated confrontation, is more firmly based than the experiential knowledge that any contemporary of Erasmus had of him.
Indeed, it is as firmly based as the knowledge available today about any intellectual now living. The similarity between the two kinds of knowledge we have been considering is that for many purposes the consistently appropriate response which indicates their presence is not and need not be verbal, and when verbal, it need not and quite possibly cannot take the form of wholly denotative statement, much less of mathematical formulation.
For such purposes it lies closer to the Willie Mays pole of response by effective action than to the scientific pole of response by communicating results in unambiguous statement. In a large part of his work, the historian has no need at all for such statement or for any coherent verbal statement at all.
He is massively engaged in finding out what happened and how it happened. To do these things he must formulate rough hypotheses, often very rough, about what happened and how it happened, and then examine the available record to verify or correct his hypotheses. But at the outset, from an almost limitless range of conceivable hypotheses he must select for investigation the very few that lie somewhere in the target area; he must select only those for which the surviving records hold forth some hope of verification; and he must have a sense of what records among a multitude are likely to provide the evidence he needs.
A historian unable to do any of these things would remain an inept novice all his life. Relying on their knowledge of the past, historians successfully do these things day after day, yet most of them would be at a loss to explain their particular choices. There is a legitimate doubt whether much of the foregoing does not apply as readily to the actual work of scientists as to that of historians. For the historian the link between knowing and communicating is loose and weak; on the basis of his own experience of this looseness, he inclines to give some, if not full, faith and credit to colleagues who claim to know about the past much that they cannot adequately express in writing.
Communication through historiography requires historians to put into written words what they know experientially and diffusely about the past, to organize it into coherent and sequential statements in order to make it fully accessible first to themselves and then to others. Their communication with others, the history they end up writing, thus starts four removes from the episodes in the past that concern them. Through these interposed layers historians, in and by their writing, seek, along with many other things, to enable their readers to follow the movement and to sense the tempo of events; to grasp and do justice to the motives and actions of men; to discern the imperatives that move men to action; and to distinguish those imperatives from the pseudo imperatives that have become mere exercises in pious ejaculation; to recognize the impact on the course of events of an accident, a catastrophe, or a bit of luck; and to be aware of what the participants in a struggle conceived the stakes to be.
This particular set of items which historians sometimes feel called on to communicate through the three layers has purposely been selected because 1 none of them are explanatory in the scientific sense and 2 none can be effectively communicated in a purely scientific rhetoric. Historians give faith and credit to their fellows who protest that they know and yet confess that they cannot communicate what they know, because in some measure every historian is aware how far he has failed in his writing of history to penetrate those layers in his effort to communicate what he knows of the past.
Given this sense of the inadequacy of their use of language to their task, historians would surely welcome as an alternative a wholly denotative universal vocabulary which would narrow to a scarcely discernible crevice the perilous chasm that for them separates cognition from communication and sets them ransacking the whole storehouse of their mother tongue instead of relying on a manageable number of well-designed symbolic structures to overcome it. The fact that no such alternative adequate to communicate what historians know about the past has up to now emerged suggests that the relation between knowing the past and the writing of history is such as to pre clude that alternative, that in practice historians believe that the sacrifice of the knowledge of the past which it would entail renders inappropriate the universal imposition in historiography of the denotative rhetoric of scientific discourse.
Of course historians can avoid their rhetorical difficulties 1 by attempting to communicate about the past only that knowledge which can be expressed in a rhetoric nearly like that of the natural sciences or 2 by attempting to know about the past only what can be so communicated. In fact, historians have pursued both these courses. Some historians have taken the first course either because of a special interest in the sorts of historical problems manageable within the confines of a quasi-scientific rhetoric or because their special aptitude for that rhetoric has turned their attention to the sorts of problem with which it can deal.
Others have taken the second course either out of allegiance to a conception or misconception called scientific history or because by calling their thinking and writing about the past scientific history, they thought they could sanctify their incompetence and dullness. On the whole, however, historians have not been willing to truncate their knowledge of the past to fit the special aptitudes of a few historians or the misconceptions or painful ineptitude of a number of others.
Instead, to make their experiential knowledge of the past accessible to readers who cannot recapitulate the processes by which that knowledge was acquired, they have used almost every device of rhetoric compatible with their commitment to a clear and intelligible presentation of the evidence on which their knowledge is based. That the language they use is frequently evocative and even metaphorical and that much of its vocabulary is not that of scientific demonstration but of the ordinary discourse of educated men, testifies to their conviction—rarely explicit, sometimes not wholly conscious—that these are the appropriate means for bringing their readers into that confrontation with events long past and men long dead which is an indispensable condition of knowing them.
To that extent, therefore, there is a loss of potential knowledge of the past. Conversely, to the extent that he succeeds in communicating anything that hitherto he alone has known, there is gain. Historiography is the means for communicating in writing what the historian thinks he knows about the past. Efficient and effective communication requires him, in writing history, to array what he knows according to some principle of coherence.
The principle of coherence traditionally and still most generally employed by historians is narrative. Usually, but not always, they communicate what they know by telling a story or stories. Despite its venerable antiquity, narrative has recently come under attack as a means for providing coherence in history. The most general ground for attack seems to be the contention that the coherence it provides is nonexplanatory or inadequately explanatory.
In this respect it is compared invidiously with the principle of coherence by subsumption under general laws supposedly standard in the rhetoric of the sciences, which is said to provide adequate explanation. If subsumption under general laws is the principle of coherence standard in the sciences, if by the criteria of the sciences it alone provides adequate explanation, and if the provision of adequate explanation is the sole or prime function of the sciences, then clearly narrative does not meet the scientific standard of coherence, nor does it provide adequate scientific explanation.
It remains to ask, however, why historians should prefer a principle of coherence and criteria of explanatory adequacy borrowed from the rhetoric of the sciences both to narrative, their own traditional principle of coherence, and to the view of the nature and conditions of historical explanation which their use of narrative implies. The ascription of adequacy to explanations of the general-law type seems to be based on both aesthetic and practical considerations.
Although by the general-law canon, or indeed by any canon of explanation that has not been in disrepute since Aristotle, such a coincidence taken alone does not adequately explain the expansion of control, still nothing succeeds like success, and the aura of prestige acquired by the natural sciences in the past three centuries has rubbed off on the criteria of adequate explanation ascribed to them, especially in the eyes of intellectually insecure social scientists and historians.
No one has ever made clear why the criteria of adequate explanation acceptable to scientists in their work should also be acceptable to historians in theirs, or why adequacy of explanation should be the sole criterion of consistently appropriate response for the historian engaged in the work of communicating his knowledge in writing. Adequacy of explanation is clearly relative to that which is to be explained. A real estate survey explains its location by designating the frontage and length of the lot, the street it faces on, and the distance of the lot from the nearest intersecting street.
Both explanations are accurate, exact enough for their respective purposes, and therefore adequate; each communicates the knowledge likely to be sought by one particular sort of seeker and thus provides the appropriate response to his questions; neither invokes any general law, nor need it do so; neither is a scientific explanation, nor need it be so. Narrative, which is the rhetorical mode most commonly resorted to by historians, is also their most common mode of explanation.
Narrative is the most common mode of historical explanation because it is often the kind of explanatory answer solicited by a kind of question that historians very often ask and that is very often asked of them. The writer has selected it because it leads quickly into so many of the topics of this section and because its evidential base is one on which he is more than ordinarily well informed. The call for an explanation of how the Giants happened to play in the World Series of can be so construed as to make it amenable to explanation of the general-law type.
In , during the official National League baseball season, the New York Giants won more games from the other teams in that league and lost fewer to them than any of the other teams in the league won or lost. Whenever during the official National League season a National League team wins more games and loses fewer than any other team in that league, it plays in the World Series. The answer perfectly fulfills all the requirements of the general-law type of explanation, including denotative univocal vocabulary and strict deductive entailment. Yet from the point of view of the writer and reader of history, such an answer is patently unsatisfactory.
A general-law explanation cannot tell that story; indeed, it cannot tell any story. It is not built to tell stories. From this very simple instance an important conclusion follows: general law and narrative are not merely alternative but equally valid modes of explanation. In the above instance the general-law explanation does not tell the questioner what he wants to know; for him it is neither a good nor a bad, neither an adequate nor an inadequate, explanation—it is no explanation at all.
The validity of either mode of explanation is determined by the appropriateness and adequacy of its response to a particular question. In effect, the validity of modes of explanation is not something that exists in vacuo, but only in relation to what particular inquirers at particular moments seek to know. In view of the frequent irrelevance of pure general-law explanation to past situations that require the telling of a story, attempts have been made to adapt the general-law type of explanation to narrative.
Narrative explanation is usually presented as a series of statements of continuous causal linkages between events such that in the chains of causation 1 each effect is imputed to precedent causes and 2 the imputation implies either the actuality or the possibility of a general law or laws such that, taken with the precedent causes, they entail the effect. For present purposes it is to our advantage that the official rules of baseball provide us with a vocabulary almost as purely denotative as that of the sciences. In that vocabulary we can produce a narrative explanation of how the New York Giants won the National League pennant and thus played in the World Series; this explanation conforms to the foregoing model.
Because of the tie at the end of the regular season Brooklyn and New York were required to play additional games, the first team to win two games to be designated as the National League entry in the World Series. First additional game, Oct. Second additional game, Oct. The first batter singled. The second batter singled. Because the first batter was a reasonably fast runner, he advanced to third base.
Because the third batter hit a short fly ball which was caught, he was out. Because the fourth batter doubled, the first batter scored a run, and the second batter advanced to third base, where he was replaced by a substitute runner because he had hurt his leg. The Brooklyn pitcher was replaced because three New York players out of four had made safe hits off his pitching. Because the fifth batter hit a home run the substitute runner, the fourth batter, and the fifth batter scored runs. Because New York scored four runs in the second half of the ninth inning, making the score 5 to 4, they won the game.
Because they won two games of the play-off before Brooklyn did, they won more games and lost fewer than any other team in the National League. Because of this they played in the World Series of About the preceding narrative explanation a number of highly instructive points are worth noting. Any number of such laws are not merely possible but actually available, e. What, for example, is the general law which with the precondition three hits and one out, among four men at bat entails the replacement of one pitcher by another? Even if one elaborated further on the boundary conditions— and that can be done—it is difficult to see how general laws can be invoked and a strict entailment made to work here.
On the face of it, in a regular season that ends in a tie, every game played throughout the season by the tied teams is of equal causal importance and therefore should receive equal treatment, b By the same token, why is a fuller account inning-by-inning score given of the last game of the official season than of the two previous games, and a still fuller account of the last half of the last inning of the last game? Given the problem with which we started, these difficulties go to the heart of the trouble.
They make it clear that offering an answer in the form of a narrative explanation which is structurally determined solely by the logic of causal ascription is not an appropriate response to the difficulties or an ade quate solution to the problem. Within the bounds of the logic of causal ascription there is no solution for them. That logic cannot justify the shifts in the scale of the story.
Yet it is reasonable to suspect that one of the few things which most readers would intuitively regard as appropriate about the above dreary but true narrative response to the question about New York being in the World Series in would be precisely the successive expansions of the scale of the story. The reason for this is that the appropriate response to the question is not a true narrative explanation determined by the logic of causal ascription but the historical story truest to the past, determined by the rules of historical evidence and the rhetorical rules of historical storytelling.
Of this larger context a true narrative explanation is a part, but only a part. If this is so, then the true historical story rightly determined by the rules of historical rhetoric will be preferable to a true narrative explanation because it communicates more knowledge and truth about the past than such an explanation does. But if that is so, then the rhetoric of history writing, not its logicalone, is implicated in providing increments of knowledge and truth about the past.
Let us continue with the example under examination, keeping in mind the problems of where to start the historical story and on what scale to tell it. Figure 1 describes the relative positions of the two contenders in the National League pennant race of The first things to note in Figure 1 are the shifts in scale and the considerations which determined them. The over-all consideration is that of telling a historical story in such a way as to maximize the increment of knowledge and truth communicated.
That within a framework identical with the one in which the figure is constructed the game baseball season it may be desirable to have no change of scale and not to tell a story at all becomes clear on considering the description of the American League season of in Figure 2. Figure 2 is constructed on uniform scales for each axis, plotting the games won by the New York Yankees against the games won by the team in the league that was in second place. That this season calls for no narrative explanation is manifested by the nonconvergence of the lines in Figure 2, which shows 1 that by June 1, the Yankees were seven games ahead, 2 that thereafter the minimum gap between them and their nearest rival was six.
By the same token, the climbing line in Figure 1 indicates that the record of the National League season calls for a historical story, and that to write about its history without telling such a story is to fail to make the appropriate historiographic response. The data in Figure 1 start at the point where the extended historical story should begin: August 11, , at the end of play. At that point New York was at its maximum distance be hind Brooklyn, 13 games; and the next day New York began a series of 16 consecutive wins.
For the next extension of the narrative and for tlie expansion of the scale of the graph, the directive of the record is more ambivalent. The options lie between 1 September 14, when, still six games behind, New York began a series of five consecutive wins which by September 18 moved it to within three games of Brooklyn and 2 September 21, when, four games behind, New York won the last seven games of the regular season.
It had moved into a tie at the end of play September 28, kept the tie by winning the last two games of the regular sea son, and was again tied at the end of the second game of the play-off. It is to be noted that 1 although there are two options for starting this expansion, there are only two serious options, and 2 they have an identical terminus ad quern, the point at which the next expansion of scale begins in the final game of the play-off. Either of the above alternative solutions is historiographically correct; any other is incorrect. There may be two or more right answers to some historiographic, as to some mathematical, problems.
This does not imply or entail that there are no wrong answers. This simple observation and distinction, evident to any mathe matics student who has gotten as far as quadratic equations, seems to have escaped most historians. The expansions of scale, then, are not arbitrary; each can clearly be justified from the historical rec ord on historiographic grounds, and each expansion coincides with a period in telling about which the historical storyteller would extend the dimensions of his story.
Three further points must be made. Indeed, since causal connection is subject both to infinite regress and to infinite ramification, and since that historical story and any other must have a beginning and finite dimensions of its parts, it is in principle impossible on the basis of the logic of narrative explanation alone to tell a historical story at all. On the other hand, the rhetoric of historical storytelling provided us with the means of recognizing whether there was a historical story to tell, where the story should start, and roughly what the relative dimensions of its parts should be.
If this is so, a in the telling of a historical story, increments of historical knowledge and truth are unattainable on the basis of the logic of narrative explanation alone, for on that basis alone it is impossible so much as to begin such a story; and b for achieving such increments, insights into the rhetoric of historical storytelling, whether experiential and implicit or discursive and explicit, are indispensable.
Between those dimensions and mere duration, measured in homogeneous scaled increments, there is no congruence. The problems involved in reasonably accurate determination of historical tempo have never been systematically studied, although results of the disaster of not studying them strew the historiographic landscape. But two points are clear, a Disproportions in historical stories in duced by failure correctly to appraise historical tempo result in the telling of distorted stories about the past.
To that extent they diminish, and correct perception of tempo increases, available knowledge of the past, b The logic of narrative explanation has nothing to say on the subject of historical tempo; it is a question that can be dealt with only in the area of the rhetoric of historical storytelling. And so once again the communication of increments of knowledge and truth about the past hinges on the correct solution of problems of historiography.
That is to say, when the historian tells a historical story, he must not only know something of the outcomes of the events that concern him; he must use what he knows in telling his story. It applies to consumers of history, the readers, not to its producers, the writers. But unless the writer has the outcome in mind as he writes the story, he will not know how to adapt the proportions of his story to the actual historical tempo, since that is knowable only to one who knows the outcome. For example, the decisive point for transforming the proportions of the historical story of the pennant race was entirely unobserved, unpredictable, and unpredicted by any contemporary observer.
On August 11, at the point of maximum distance between Brooklyn and New York, no one foresaw or could have foreseen that New York was on the point of beginning a game winning streak that transformed the baseball season into a pennant race in which New York was the ultimate victor. Telling a historical story is not the only way in which a writer of history can increase knowledge of the past, as we have seen in the case of the American League season of Yet in the case in point, the response must have a historical character.
The structure of Figure 2 suggests that it should take the form of historical analysis; for with its nonconverging lines it indicates that New York was a team so much better than any other in the league that it was beyond effective challenge. Consequently, to increase historical understanding there is nothing to do but analyze that betterness of New York, to seek out its ingredients and render them intelligible to the reader.
Here, of course, the abundant surviving statistics of baseball provide a useful historical record to start with—the base-on-balls, strike-out, and earned-run averages of the pitchers; the batting and total base averages, the stolen bases, runs scored, and home runs of the hitters. Fielding statistics, however, do not provide a satisfactory statistical basis for evaluating defensive performance in baseball. If the rhetoric of historical storytelling has received little attention from historians or others, the rhetoric of historical analysis has received none. When considering historical storytelling, the rhetoric of the Active story offers a useful model; when considering historical analysis, the rhetoric of sciences in which the subject matter is less compatible with universal generalization than in physics might be appropriate.
The almost complete lack of any serious concern with the problem may be due to the notion that the sciences have no rhetoric; but if one conceives of rhetoric as the organization of language appropriate to that particular kind of communication which is relevant to a particular activity, then any activity which is committed to verbal communication of its results has a rhetoric.
In recent years, instead of giving serious consideration to the serious problems of historical rhetoric, historians have engaged in considerable, and sometimes somewhat rancorous, discussion of the nonproblem of the relative merits of analysis and narrative in history writing. The discussion is footless because of two false assumptions: 1 that regardless of the character of the historical record, the historian has a wholly free option between analysis and narrative; 2 that these two historiographic modes mutually exclude each other, so that historians in all their work must opt wholly for the one or wholly for the other.
With respect to the first assumption, we have seen in the instance of the two baseball seasons that the historical record presents us with constellations of events in which there is no serious option, where in one case to choose analysis, in the other to choose narrative, as the predominant mode would be a historiographic error and would prevent the historian from communicating what he knows about the past, and even from knowing it adequately.
The case for the use of any analysis at all in the instance of the season might seem more dubious. The very fact of the tie at the end of the regular season could be taken as fair proof from. Actually, an examination of the record yields a quite different result. Table 1 shows the percentage of games won out of games played by each team up to August 11, and from August 12 to the end of the regular season.
It clearly poses two analytical questions: a how to account for the marked superiority of Brooklyn in the first hundred-odd games of the season; b how to explain the overwhelming superiority of New York in the last forty-odd games. For such an undertaking, as we have seen, analysis is the proper historiographic mode. Note that the selection of analysis as the dominant mode for the first seventenths of the season does away with the need for telling an inevitably thin story and thus enables the historian to maintain the proportion called for by the demand of historical tempo.
One further complication: The analysis would fail to reveal a part of what made the difference, the part, told by Eddie Stanky more than a decade later, about a battered battalion with pulled muscles, bad throwing arms, and cracked bones that still could not lose for winning.
Our two examples were themselves carefully selected extreme cases of records that call respectively for analysis and storytelling. In most history writing, the need for a mix of the historiographic modes of storytelling and analysis is even more obvious. The serious historiographic problem is not how to avoid the mix in order to maintain the superiority of one mode over the other, but how to proportion it and how to manage it. In this it has followed the curve, as it were, of historical curiosity itself, both in the reader and in the writer of history.
A reasonably full explanation is presumably already in hand. That explanation itself has led reader and writer of history alike to shift the ground of their interest. The Giants win the pennant! Confrontation and vicarious participation are not historical explanation or explanation of any sort in any ordinary sense of the word.
Yet clearly they are sometimes a part, and an indispensable part, of understanding the past as it actually was. Therefore, to argue that they have no place in historiography is at once arbitrary and absurd. Finally, when the historian needs to bring those who seek to understand the past into confrontation with and vicarious participation in some part of it, he often finds the rhetoric of the sciences wholly inadequate for his purposes. In this sector of historiography it is hard to imagine a response to the proper demand on historians to render an accurate and effective account of the past that would be less appropriate than one couched in scientific rhetoric.
In this sector, indeed, to do his work properly, to tell the truth about the past, the historian must marshal resources of rhetoric utterly alien to the rhetoric of the sciences in order to render his account forceful, vivid, and lively; to impart to it the emotional and intellectual impact that will render it maximally accessible and maximally intelligible to those who read it.
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The attitude of the historical profession to the writing of history has been ambivalent. Compared with the systematic attention historians have given to the techniques of historical investigation, their attention to the problems of historiography has been casual, and in their public judgments of the work of other historians they have tended to regard the rhetoric of history as at best a peripheral concern.
On the other hand, some very able historians take far greater pains with their writing than would be warranted if the rhetoric of history were a mere pleasing embellishment not substantially involved in the advancement of the understanding of the past; and the consensus of the profession has ratified their practice by conferring on the most skillful writers of history rewards in prestige and pay that would be exorbitant if the yield of that skill were judged to be merely an amusing but supererogatory display of verbal pyrotechnics.
If the preceding arguments about the inseparability of the communication, and therefore the advancement, of historical knowledge from the rhetoric of history have any merit, then it would seem that a concerted effort to develop useful methods of analyzing historical rhetoric should stand high on the agenda of historians. In fact, however, their general concerns seem to be directed mainly toward two other areas, indeed, toward two nonproblems: 1 generalization and 2 the application of new knowledge in the social sciences to the study of history.
The first is a nonproblem because in fact historians generalize and have generalized fruitfully at many levels for at least a couple of centuries, so that to raise at this late date the question of whether they do so or whether they ought to do so seems a little useless. Second, the application to the historical enterprise of any viable new technique for knowing is always desirable and is conditional only on the mastery of the technique and the identification of historical problems to which it can be usefully applied.
In this respect the social sciences do not constitute a special case distinct from other techniques. Some historians have found some of the work of the social sciences useful for their particular purposes; others have not; still others have been preoccupied with other legitimate professional concerns. Their resistance to the demand for immediate and universal application to history of quantitative methods and of psychoanalytic insight does not seem to warrant the concern that it elicits from those who regard it as a chronic and possibly fatal disease of the historical profession as a whole.
It does not appear to stand much above the level that reasonable professional prudence, sensible and limited skepticism, and resentment of new encroachments on limited resources of time, energy, and ability ordinarily generate. Indifference to the problems of analyzing historiography, however, is easy to understand. In the first place, such analysis may well turn out to be a sterile exercise. In the second place, the need for analysis is evident only if one accepts the view that such attributes of historiography as accessibility, force, vividness, and depth are not merely decorative but have true noetic value.
Although in unself-conscious practice many historians in fact accept this view, it remains submerged because of the counterthrust of an equally unself-conscious and incoherent assent to the ascription of noetic value only to the rhetoric of the sciences, especially to its denotative vocabulary and to its attributes of precision, simplicity, univocality, and so on.
In order to justify presenting the sketchy program for the analysis of historiography which this section will offer, it may be well to indicate the noetic bearing of at least one of the potential and requisite traits of historiography mentioned above —accessibility. It is a persistent problem for explanation in the narrative mode. The writer of history needs to be always watchful to see that pertinent previous generalizations, pertinent patterns of action previously identified, and pertinent parts of the story, already told, come to bear for the reader at the places where they are enlightening and revelatory.
Even where it is technically accurate, dull history is bad history to the extent to which it is dull. By subjecting all the historian knows to the homogenizing and flattening operations of his own mechanical rhetoric, dull history blurs his findings for himself and for those who read his writing. Consequently, in the course of events neither will see a partly ordered and patterned, and therefore partly intelligible, procession of change but a disjointed and arbitrary and there fore unintelligible one—just one damn thing after the other. A reader to whom almost nothing is communicated may reasonably suspect that the writer had almost nothing to communicate; but, as we have seen, because of the gap between knowing and communicating in history, this is not necessar ily so.
Rather, unintelligible communication is not communication at all; uncommunicated knowing can add no increment to the available body of knowledge, and frequently the failure to produce such an increment is a failure in historiography, the absence of accessibility. Accessibility has been treated here as an absolute trait of history writing, and of course it is not so.
An amount of detail necessary to render what he wishes to communicate accessible to one audience would simply clutter the text for another audience and stultify their imaginations, thus diminishing for that second audience the range of conceptions that the historian wants them to have in mind. The problem that this situation poses for the writer of history is a complex one; it is another of the many places where the rhetoric of the historian intersects and is entwined with the knowledge he communicates and the truth-value of what he has to say. There is not space to treat the matter of accessibility further here, but what is said below on the matter of word lists indicates some of the ramifications of the problem.
The analysis of historiography can conveniently be divided into macroanalysis, microanalysis, and analysis of structure. Macroanalysis is the analysis of an individual piece of history writing as a whole; microanalysis is the analysis of any fragment of historical rhetoric without primary regard to and out of relation to the historiographic whole of which it is a part. Analysis of structure deals with historiographic traits, devices, and practices which are common to all or to a very considerable number of historical works. Hitherto we have keyed our discussion of historiography to the rhetoric of scientific statement and explanation in order to make and keep clear the likenesses and differences between the two.
We have suggested, however, that in at least one trait which it requires in order to communicate some of the things the historian knows—its reliance on a connotative and evocative vocabulary—the rhetoric of history is nearer to that of the Active arts than to that of the natural sciences. So before examining the types of historiographic analysis, it will be appropriate to point out a major difference between historical and Active rhetoric—the overriding commitment of historians to fidelity to the surviving records of the past.
For the worth of Nostromo as a novel would not diminish if the patterns of life Conrad ascribes to Costaguana, the imaginary Latin American republic which provides its setting and the substrate of its characters, were shown to be quite remote from extrinsic actuality. The standard of judgment of a fictive work does not depend on its compatibility with external actuality. The work as such depends for its authenticity or validity only on its relevance to the sector of general human experience which its author intends it to explore, describe, and render accessible.
Or as A. Even to sex, vide Proust and Albertine. Let him try it with General de Gaulle. It is precisely with Charles de Gaulle and his sort that reporters like Liebling and historians often have to deal. The standard of judgment of a historical work is ultimately extrinsic. Its authenticity, validity, and truth depend on the effectiveness with which it communicates knowledge not misunderstanding of the actual past congruent with the surviving record.
The quality of its rhetoric is to be measured solely by its success in communicating such knowledge. It follows from what has just been said that the unit of macroanalysis in historiography differs from the unit of macroanalysis in fictive studies. In the latter it is the entire particular work—novel or drama, ode or sonnet—considered as a self-contained unit.
The macroanalyst can therefore demand of himself an examination of the whole relevant documentation and can reasonably expect those for whom he is writing to have the core element of that documentation the work under analysis before them. Ordinarily the macroanalyst of historiography cannot demand so much of himself, still less expect so much of his readers. For him the relevant documentation is the work itself plus the historical record of the episodes with which the author concerned himself, not merely the part he used but any important part that through errors of omission he failed to use.
It is improbable that in most instances the analyst will command the full range of documentation; it is practically impossible under ordinary circumstances to expect the reader of the analysis to have the documentation in front of him. Despite these limitations, some experiments in detailed macroanalysis seem desirable because only in such analysis does one deal with the actual unit of historiography—the historical work.
Whether that work be a long treatise or a short article, its presentation is the means by which by far the largest part of the increments of historical knowledge is communicated. It is also the place where historians meet their worst failures—from the novices who, having researched their subject, have not a notion how to organize it for effective communication to those senior historians, who have so completely surrendered to their own ineptitude as to transform verbosity into a criterion of excellence.
By selecting a relatively short piece of historical writing based on a record of manageable dimension and reproducing both the piece and the record, it would be possible to perform the sort of detailed macroanalysis in historiography that is a commonplace in the field of literary criticism. Until a few such analyses are attempted, it is impossible to estimate what gains, if any, in the understanding of historiography may accrue from them; but it is hard to see why the macroanalysis of a historical study would be less fruitful of knowledge than the analysis of, say, Waiting for Godot.
It is evident that unless such analysis is attempted, some aspects of the writing of history are bound to remain wrapped in mystery. For example, the present writer is a reasonably competent practitioner of history writing, and he has done a reasonable amount. Only after it has been attempted several times will any estimate of its value be more than an idle guess.
In the meantime, the discussion of historical story writing and historical analysis in previous sections of this article points to a very few of the problems—proportion of the story, historical tempo, balance of analysis and narrative—with which macroanalysis would have to concern itself. Although microanalysis is primarily concerned with single small items of historical rhetoric, the radical severance of it from macro analysis is not practically possible.
Some sense of the whole framework remains essential, because only through that sense can one arrive at a judgment on the ultimate efficacy and appropriateness of a given small item of historical writing which is a part of a historiographic whole. If the total context is the logistical problems created by the presence of a considerable military force in the agriculturally unproductive north of England in the mid-seventeenth century, however, a less allusive statement, detailing the number of Scots who entered the northern counties and their daily requirement of food and forage, would be rather more appropriate.
For the examination of any single element of historical rhetoric, macroanalysis although not necessarily on the scale above suggested is desirable. Only by means of it can one finally judge whether that element is appropriate, for its appropriateness is a function of the whole context of which it is a part. Ostensible grotesquerie—Alexander in full plate armor—may be appropriate enough if we see the whole picture, as Panofsky showed in discussing medieval representations of that hero. Because, however, the single historical statement has a dual context—both the work of history in which it is embedded and the actuality of the past to which it refers—it is possible to clarify some of the specific characteristics of the rhetoric of history by microanalysis considered with minimal reference to the total structure of the historical work of which the fragment under microanalysis is a part.
In effect, given a five-page account of the battle of Waterloo embedded in a historical work, by referring the account to the historical record, it is usually possible to say within the limits the historian set for the account whether it is historiographically sound at the level of microanalysis.
On examining it in connection with the whole work, however, we might alter our judgment on the grounds that in its macroanalytic context it is disproportionately long or short, that it is dissonant with the rest of the book, or even that it is wholly irrelevant. Microanalysis of historiography is therefore provisional in the judgments it yields on the material it deals with, but it does at least yield provisional judgments. Here we have space to treat only one hypothetical example of microanalysis. Let us suppose a historian faced with the problem of dealing in two pages with the character and administration of U.
President Warren G. Or one can conceive of a characterization the whole tone of which was heavily heroic in vocabulary and syntax—so long as the undertone made it evident that the verbal heroics were mock heroics. What would be wholly inappropriate to a brief characterization of Harding and his entourage would be a rhetoric of intentional, unrelenting, and unremitting solemnity. On the other hand, briefly to characterize Abraham Lincoln in either of the former rhetorical modes would not only be bad taste, it would be bad historiography; and the historian who employed either would promptly be marked by his peers as inept and incompetent.
For Lincoln was a serious man which did not prevent him from being a very humorous one and a serious historical figure, and any attempt to present him in a short sketch which failed to reflect this fact would to that extent fail to communicate to the reader something he needed to understand about the realities of a part of the past. It would thereby not only fail to advance but perhaps would even diminish his knowledge and understanding of the past, his grasp of part of its meaning, his store of historical truth.
The implications of this excursus on the use of microanalysis of historiography in connection with characterizing actual persons of the past are worth a little further attention, since one of the persistent problems of history writing, calling for microanalysis, is that of characterization. In effect, in many kinds of historical investigation the historian encounters persons in the record of the past. He can disregard them as persons and transform them into, say, numbers; and a demographic historian quite rightly does just this, simply because that is in fact the aspect under which he encounters them.
If he encounters them as persons, an attempt to avoid characterizing those implicated in an important way in the account he is rendering is a refusal to deal faithfully with the record of the past. No one whose judgment is worth serious consideration has ever suggested that historians must never characterize people they encounter in the past; and it is at least arguable that the normal rhetoric of history is such that a historian dealing with extensive data on the deeds and words of a person of the past cannot avoid characterizing him, that the only question is whether he characterizes him well or ill, whether he does him justice or injustice.
Nor has anyone ever argued that it is desirable or indeed even possible adequately to characterize a man in the wholly denotative rhetoric that is appropriate to scientific discourse. Nor is there any great mystery about this in the case of men concerning whom the historical record is reasonably ample. Considering the rhetorical possibilities as a very broad spectrum and also as a complete spectrum within the bounds of the rhetorical potentialities of the common language structure, there will be areas of that spectrum into which what is known about a particular man cannot be fit without manifest distortion of the record and areas into which it fairly fits, although in both cases there may be several such areas.
This was manifestly the case in the instances of Harding and Lincoln dealt with above. But to distort the record is precisely to communicate ignorance rather than knowledge, misunderstanding rather than understanding, falsehood rather than truth. The only necessary qualification here is that no historian does, and no sensible historian claims to, communicate the whole truth about a man, since there are many things about any man living or dead which no human being, not even the man himself, knows.
The full knowledge on which alone a final judgment is possible exists only in the mind of God. The facts remain that in certain reaches of historiography the characterization of men is inescapable, that the rhetoric of such characterization is inescapably nonscientific, and that the knowledge, understanding, and truth communicated by the history of which the characterization is a part will in some measure depend on how well or ill the historian deploys the resources of this inevitably nonscientific rhetoric, on the appropriateness of his response to the demands that the historical record makes on his ability to use nonscientific language in delineating a character.
The curious problems that this situation implies deserve further examination. The general analysis of historiography deals with those traits and devices of historical rhetoric which are unique to the writing of history, or, more frequently, with those traits and devices which historians use in a unique way, a way which differentiates them from their use in the sciences or in the Active arts.
Historians, however, also use footnotes in a variety of other ways. One way historians use them and physicists do not is to cite to the historical record, the substrate of evidence on which historians erect their accounts of the past. Citation to that record is the way a historian makes his professional commitment clear in action, as the report on the experiment is the way a physicist makes his commitment clear. In both instances it is a commitment to maximum verisimilitude which does not mean exact replication in every detail. For the physicist it is maximum verisimilitude to the operations of nature as glimpsed through consideration of the experimental cluster; for the historian, verisimilitude to the happenings of the past as glimpsed through consideration of the surviving record.
The well-nigh universal use of footnotes to the record by historians indicates that they are all still committed to writing about the past, as Ranke put it, wie es eigentlich gewesen, as it actually happened. Historians employ the footnote for a host of residual matters other than citations to the record— lists of names, minor qualifications of assertions made in the text, polemic criticisms of other historians, short statistical tables, suggestions for future historical investigation, and many more.
This raises two questions.
- NewspaperSG - The Straits Times, 1 April .
- Fishing for Leads: Change Your Bait, Sharpen Your Hooks, and Reel in New Business!.
- NewspaperSG - The Straits Times, 1 April .
As to the first question, the application of any rule about footnotes requires an act of judgment in each case, and among historians judgment about the uses of residual footnotes differs. It might seem that in matters of judgment, as in those of taste, there is no disputing.
But is this so? Let us consider an example. At Shilbottle, in the case of three separate parcels of meadow, 31, 20 and 14 acres respectively, the first rendered 42s. At Guyzance 6V2 husbandlands each rendered 13s. At Chatton and Rennington, on the other hand, the situation was more stable. The above passage is embedded in the text of a study of the wealth of a magnate family in the fifteenth and early sixteenth centuries and the effect on that wealth of concurrent changes in the economy, the military apparatus, and the political situation in England.
Can anyone suggest that embedding it in the text instead of quarantining it in a footnote was not an error of judgment? But to say it was one is to imply a rule from which the erroneous judgment was a deviation. So although in the matter of the use of residual footnotes judgment is inescapable, we are not at all confronted with mere arbitrariness but with a reasonably precise rule or law. Inevitably, marginal situations exist in which historians disagree about how to achieve maximum impact or the success of a particular rhetorical presentation.
The existence of such marginal situations, however, does not mean that all situations are marginal and that therefore there is no rule, or that any rule is as good as any other. Lawyers have a saying that hard cases make bad law, but they do not feel impelled there upon to argue that there are no easy cases and no good law.
Because there are some matters both substantive and procedural concerning which they are very uncertain, some historians have fallen victim to the notion that everything about the past and about writing about it is infected with a total uncertainty. Yet this is clearly not so in the case of the residual footnote, where there was no difficulty in finding a rule not heavily infected with uncertainty. In the example of data that, by the second rule, ought to be withdrawn from the text and consigned to a residual footnote, those data are in formative and relevant with respect to the substantive historical argument the historian is presenting, and they are as complete, as explicit, and as exact as possible.
And paradoxically, this implies that in the interest of conveying historical reality to the reader with maximum impact, the rules of historiography may require a historian to subordinate completeness, explicitness, and exactness to other considerations. Cambridge has decided not to boycott the race. Society members attending their annual dinner at the Tanglin Club. Club service director Philip Tan yesterday said members, their families and friends would visit the patients and talk to them.
The Straits Times Says FAS has hard task unless But, alas, they have not. Clarke, except that Clarke would have. It should work except in rain or snow FEW scientists disagree that the theory behind the use of laser beams in space to knock out missiles is anything but sound. The disagreements start over just how practical such a scheme could be. It would take a missile launched from the. The post-Spock generation of parents believe the sooner their babies get an education the better chance they will have of being successful when they grow up.
I thought Newsweek was. I would like to explain the need for the training of factory doctors,. His last paragraph needs to be corrected, in the sense that I have worked in a shipyard for the last 10 years and during that time have put in. We wish to clarify, please. Although there was pre-planning and the children to be auditioned were invited to come at staggered intervals, the audition panel took. The photograph appears to have been taken some years ago as the. The block has roofs over the access balconies at the lift openings on the sixth and 11th storeys. The writer suggests a modification of future roof designs so as to prevent the accumulation.
The muppets go on an adventure which takes them, and the viewer, around the well-known public landmarks in China. I enjoyed the show. I would like to clarify to Mr J. When we heard that Mr. Sale did not turn out to be one THE authorities should look into the practices of some property agents. Let me recap my recent experience: One brings you to see a property and you decide it buy it at the price asked.
Can they do this? I was surprised that most of the advertisements were placed by housing agents. I am not concerned whether they are licensed or not.
Text Analysis and Annotation
Thanks, but One thing perturbs me though. Why the preappendectomy shaving by female rather than male staff for male patients? The other person may know Mandarin but may also be shy. Be the initiator! Lunch here on April 3 and you can have them for free. We have a buffet spread that will delight: a dozen delicious items and exciting. There are more civilians m the central leadership, and the chairman is now President Suharto, a retired general. Our base has. Including the surplus on revaluaion of the properties, the net asset. The transfer books and register of members of the company will be closed from April 20 to May 3.
The amount payable on coupon No 4 will be U The Malaysian-based manufacturer of industrial gases also reported a Yashica has been in financial difficulties since the early s and has not paid a dividend since to its shareholders. Meanwhile, Kyocera. The Press Trust of India news agency quoted him as saying in a letter to a member of the. In its quarterly bulletin, the bank said third quarter net borrowing and changes in credit given for oil.
The Finance Ministry will raise the overnight foreign currency position limits for Japanese banks by around 20 per cent, effective tomorrow. This is the first rise in the position limits, which cover both net actual position and forward position, since Since then, the size of. MBF said it is negotiating to. For the. Managing director Matti Koskimies said the company intends. As a first step, it is believed that one of the proposals put forward relates to an increase in the minimum paid-up capital required of all new companies seeking.
The new shares will not rank for the final dividend for Standard Chartered. Audited figures show a sharp recovery in pretax earnings to M Sales revenue rose 11 per cent to M Alcom, which turned in pretax profits;. Steel mill chalks up pc rise in profits IN SPITE of good results for the first half -year, newly-listed Amalgamated Steel Mills would have to do event better in the second hall to meet its profit forecast for the fall year. The national. In explaining its decision to apply to the Council of the LSE for.
American General Corp said it agreed to acquire Gulf United Corp, excluding its non-insurance properties. On consummation of the purchase, each share of Gulf United common stock will be exchanged for one share of a new issue of American General convertible voting. Under the agreement, Celeron will become a wholly owned subsidiary of Goodyear, a Goodyear spokesman said. Celeron has turnover. The official said the government is closely monitoring any.
N Tax-exempted dividend. ABN traded in lots of 19 shares each, with the price quoted in dollars. Major indices again recorded double-digit increases. The Business Times Composite Index was up Strong buying interest was noticeable right from the start. The bullish mood prevailed for the better part of day and even profit-tak-ing at the close failed to have much influence on prices.
Big Board deals. Singapore Sealion 4. Hongkong STOCKS yesterday closed firmer as early losses were wiped out by fairly active institutional and small investor buying, brokers said. The Book Club index rose 0. Fund 2. Tokyo THE Tokyo stock market yesterday closed at a record high for the fourth consecutive day, rising a provisional Share prices closed higher across-the-board in moderately active trading, with the sharpest gains concentrated in the resource sector. Near the close the All Ordinaries index was up 2. The Financial Times index at noon was up 5.
Government bonds were around point firmer in longer-dated issues on the strength of sterling which moved. Selected Indices H. New York Wall Street that the recovery could move at a brisk pace. Analysts said the more negative news of a 2. Morning prices were marked up sharply on strong demand for April One RSS and nervous covering after a slightly higher opening, dealers said.
Afternoon prices. April May April south region rose M In the refined market, April. Market tone: Easier. Sales: 22, tonnes. Silver quotes Tues Men New York The rest of the morning. Dealers noted that the buffer stock manager continued strong support at this level and, with both local and foreign interests, absorbed. The rate opened at 2. However, it reased in afternoon trading to close at 2. Against major currencies,. Manila THE Manila stock market was closed yesterday for a local holiday.
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- 100 EJERCICIOS Y JUEGOS DE IMAGEN Y PERCEPCIÓN CORPORAL PARA NIÑOS DE 10 A 12 AÑOS (Spanish Edition).
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- The Straits Times, 1 April 1983;
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No agents please. I , Changi Road, 8. Maintenance fees included. Daily departure worldwide connection available. Credit Cards welcome. Call Giarnso Tours. Universal Studios, Sea World, Tijuana. Fresno, San Francisco. Like shown to the average tourist. Loh Thian Fatt who passed away on 30th Mar.
Missed by mum, dad and brother. Sweet memories. Inserted by wife, daughters, sons-in-law and grandchildren. From now on, if you have found anything, you can call C. Our deepest condolences to the family of the I late Mr. JOHN H. Hughes Aircraft Company is the largest military and space electronic company in. If you have a classified ad appearing tomorrow, cut out this Appointment Log. Six-year-old Fireglo, who failed in his last 11 outings, showed good action on the track this morning. With apprentice Bakri Ha yon astride, the gelding reeled off m in The gelding, who had suspect legs, dipped.
Of course, we. Display ads. Relaxed and looking forward to retirement, the year-old ice-cool Swede swept. But that does not mean an end to competitive tennis.
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The Straits Times, 1 April 1983
Vellasamy S , E. It was felt that the 30 National Football League. In a six-minute flourish, Toa Payoh hammered goals past a helpless. Jeers and catcalls echoed round a half-empty Wembley Stadium yesterday as England drew with Greece in their Group Three match. England, winners over Greece in Athens in November and conquerors of Luxembourg in their last match,.
Charlie Nicholas scored on his debut against Swtizerland to save Scotland from their third defeat in four matches. The precocious year-old Celtic striker provided a lifeline for the Scots in Group One with a superbly-taken goal in the 76th minute to. A lastminute goal by Frank Stapleton against Malta here yesterday kept the Republic of Ireland Eire in the hunt for a place in the finals. The Group Seven qualifying tie played In a high wind on a bumpy pitch was drifting towards a goalless draw.