September 2014

When I first read the title of one of this week’s readings, I first gasped in horror then covered little Robert’s eyes as best I could. The Great Cat Massacre: now that sounds like something Robert and I both would enjoy (hmm… not so much). Needless to say, I wasn’t too terribly excited to begin this particular reading but I quickly found myself enjoying it. Despite the less than desirable descriptions of cats being maimed and killed, I was still able to appreciate the argument put forth by Richard Darnton: “By seeing the way a joke worked in the horseplay of a printing shop two centuries ago, we may be able to recapture that missing element — laughter, sheer laughter, the thigh-slapping, rib-cracking Rabelaisian kind, rather than the Voltarian smirk with which we are familiar (15). Thus, by exploring one particular instance within 18th century France, Darnton is attempting to connect with individuals of the past and discover precisely what could have been funny about a massacre of seemingly innocent cats. Overall, I feel Darnton does an excellent  job transporting his readers back to the 18th century, when a great strain existed between the bourgeois and the working-class and when there were particular ideas about cats, most of them less than desirable. Thus, I began to see precisely why a massacre of cats would be the norm and believed Darnton’s argument wholeheartedly. Even if I cringed when Darnton explained, “The torture of animals, especially cats, was a popular amusement throughout early modern Europe” (11) and drew a sad face next to that admission.

And yet, there is something still inherently problematic about Darnton’s study. Indeed, as argued by Roger Chartier in his review of The Great Cat Massacre entitled, “Text, Symbols, and Frenchness,” one issue with the retelling of the cat massacre is the fact that it is based on a single source. Chartier writes,

“Metaphorical use of terms like ‘text’ or ‘reading’ is always risky, and it is even more so when the only access to the object under anthropological investigation is a written text. Not only does it obliterate the ways of speaking or acting that gave the tale or the rite as much significance as its literal meaning (or even more); above all, a real text with a status of its own stands between the observer and this oral or festive supposed ‘text.’ In this sense, the massacre of cats is not the cockfight: in relating it and interpreting it the historian is dependent on a report that has already been made of it and a text that is already in existence, invested with its own specific ends. The text exhibits the event, but it also constitutes the event as the result of the act of writing” (685).

Thus, Chartier finds it problematic that Darnton relies so heavily on one, single source. And I have to agree with him, one source is problematic. Reading The Great Massacre as a historian, I was screaming for more substantial proof and more evidence to back up the story at hand. In another sense, however, I also read this piece as an anthropologist and found myself appreciating the glimpse into a past time, culture, and way of life, despite the number of sources. I found myself captivated by the cultural history at hand and I realized that I had nearly forgotten how much I missed cultural history. Indeed, the continued anthropological theme from last week has continued to inspire me and I am thrilled we have been able to study the intersections of anthropology and history in this class. However, I am having a difficult time reconciling my feelings as a historian with my feelings as an anthropologist. I will be interested to hear what my colleagues thoughts are on The Great Cat Massacre and if they had a similar reaction.

Upon beginning this week’s reading, I was pleasantly surprised to discover that my anthropological background has now proven relevant in my historical studies. Indeed, it is the other social sciences that came into focus as I made my way through more of John Tosh’s The Pursuit of History, the first two chapters of Geoff Eley’s A Crooked Line, and a sampling of E.P. Thompson’s The Making of the English Working Class. And I was delighted to make this discovery. In fact, with my social studies educational background (and with my undergraduate degree in history with a minor in anthropology), I have studied political science, psychology, sociology, economics, archaeology, and anthropology. I have also encountered E.P. Thompson’s work before as well as Karl Marx and genuinely enjoyed reading excerpts from Thompson’s The Making of the English Working Class and discussions of Marx’s theories and Marxism’s implications for the subject of history according to John Tosh. More specifically, I was pleased to discover that others (like myself) believe that a mingling of the social sciences (including history) can be highly beneficial. I feel Eley really hits the nail on the head in A Crooked Line when he argues,

“The boundaries between history’s professional precincts and the wider realms of the public are far more porous than most academic historians might allow. Once we admit that porousness, we relativise our understanding of the professional historian’s influence. If we ask where society get its sense of the past, for instance, only delusions of grandeur could induce historians into claiming much of the credit. For most people, knowledge about the past comes very rarely from its professional guardians and then usually at several times removed. Even those of us squarely inside the profession spend much of our time responding most urgently to questions coming from elsewhere, from beyond the safety of the archive, the library or the seminar room” (8).

This is a profound quote and one that I believe deserves a bit of unpacking. Certainly it is clear that Eley believes in the porousness of history and that the subject must be allowed to be mended and molded by those from other professions and non-academics, alike. This is most likely a startling claim for some, particularly those historians we have talked about in previous weeks who are currently “digging in their heels” and refusing to change with the present digital age. Furthermore and on a related note, this then begs the question: will the Internet ultimately lead to more co-mingling of the social sciences? Will history be able to remain in the “…safety of the archive, the library or the seminar room”? We can only hope so for the former and we can only hope not for the latter. As Eley further argues,

“I maintain that we can hold on to all of the gains of the cultural history without having to abandon everything we learned as social historians. As it happens, I was trained personally neither as a social historian nor as a cultural historian, but that has never stopped me from learning how to be both; utilizing either approach is more of a matter of general theoretical and analytical standpoint than of which card-carrying professional identity you embrace” (11).

Thus, Eley believes that social and cultural history can maintain a united front and can work together to benefit both sides of the discipline. And as I mentioned above, I believe that we can take it a step further and allow for an intermingling of the social sciences more fully and more fluidly. I miss my anthropological studies and long for the day when I will be able to enjoy both of my favorite subjects together and with ease. Hopefully, the Internet will facilitate a more porous relationship between history and the other social sciences and I will be able to study both anthropology and history nearly as one in the very near future.

This week’s readings again focused on the digital age and the impact the Internet is having on the subject of history, albeit in an overall more positive manner. More specifically, they attempted to answer the following questions found in the introduction of Writing History in the Digital Age: “Has the digital revolution transformed how we write about the past? Have new technologies changed our essential work-craft as scholars and the way in which we think, teach, author, and publish? Does the digital age have broader implications for individual writing processes or for the historical profession at large?” The scholars here overwhelmingly agree that the Internet is good for the subject of history and that it will only be beneficial to us (whether historians or not) in the future. This was surprising to me, to say the least. I expected there to be some argument over the merits of the Internet but alas, it seems the overall outlook concerning the Internet is optimistic. And in my opinion, this is promising for historians and academics in general.

A few of this week’s readings stood out to me. One was part of the aforementioned Writing History in the Digital Age and it is entitled,  “Is (Digital) History More than an Argument about the Past?” In it, Sherman Dorn argues, “Long before Amazon.com, scholars have seen declining state support for public universities, vocational rhetoric surrounding the politics of higher education, the growing use of contingent academic labor, and increased pressures for scholarship at institutions that had focused on teaching only a few short years before. Yet despite these ominous signs, the growth of digital scholarship provides an opportunity to understand our field in a richer way, and this understanding can serve both pragmatic and philosophical needs.” Thus, Dorn (as the other scholars part of Writing History in the Digital Age) sees the Internet as that which will only enhance the field of history and the work of historians. Furthermore, Dorn also sees the Internet as a means by which historians can escape from the antiquated way of viewing history: through facts alone. He writes, “Once freed from the limitations of absolute, linear time, we are able to use the past much more differentially; we can think of different ways to structure more expansive and heterogeneous pasts that operate in the multiple temporalities of life. Data can record happenings, not just facts.” He also argues, “We too often insist on a single, correct understanding of an event or of the past. A richer history would include a heterogeneity of interpretations, the diversity of practices, the contestations, and the processes and negotiations by which people have dealt with such differences—turbulence.” While I am still wary about the Internet overall (probably due to my inability to become truly tech-savvy), after reading a good number of opinions on its benefits, I am beginning to feel much more confident in what the Internet can do for historians and I am thrilled that the future is looking much brighter than bleak.

I also surprisingly enjoyed David Weinberger’s book, Too Big to Know this week. After I had a less than favorable experience with it last week (it just didn’t seem to be my cup of tea), I was pleasantly surprised when I picked up the book again and actually enjoyed it. Indeed, I feel Weinberger makes some interesting and valid points in his book as he also supports the Internet and believes that it can do only good for academics and even non-academics alike. One of Weinberger’s discussions that stuck out to me was his discussion concerning the oft-repeated idea that the Internet is making us “stoopider” and not smarter. Weinberger (and myself, now) whole-heartedly disagrees. He argues, “But the network also offers the possibility of connecting across boundaries, forming expert networks that are smarter than their smartest participants. The network can make us smarter if we want to be smarter (91). Thus, Weinberger sees the Internet as a useful tool if it is used properly and smartly. Certainly, there will continue to be incorrect information out there and there will continue to be unhelpful sites, opinions, and ideas. And yet, isn’t that what the world is about anyway? Internet or not? We have to be smart in that we have to sift through all the information and knowledge out there, be it in books or on the web. It is our job as human beings to use the Internet to our advantage, in order to make it truly beneficial to us.

To conclude and sum up, I would have to say that this week left me with fewer questions than I began with, particularly concerning the merits of the Internet. In fact, I am now excited more than anything to see what the web will be able to do for history and historians in the very near future.

I found this week’s set of readings thought-provoking and at times, a bit dismaying. While I had heard about the “dangers” of living in the Internet age, I had little knowledge of the extent of the impact the Internet is having on us as living, breathing, thinking, human beings. That is, as David Weinberger expertly acknowledges in Too Big to Know, we now live in a world where the Internet dominates and where traditional ideas about knowledge and the scope of information available appear antiquarian, at best. Indeed, Weinberger argues that “It’s the connecting of knowledge–the networking–that is changing our oldest, most basic strategy of knowing. Rather than knowing-by-reducing to what fits in a library or a scientific journal, we are now knowing-by-including every draft of every idea in vast, loosely connected webs” (5). And this is precisely what is in some ways, “scary” about the Internet: it has the potential to hold more than we can ever know or even want to know. Furthermore, while the Internet certainly has its advantages (i.e. connecting people around the world, allowing for instant access to a variety of sources and materials, etc.), it also has its disadvantages as well. As Weinberger mentions, there are contradictions everywhere on the Internet and anyone can claim to be an expert on any topic. There is also a great deal of misinformation alongside fact-based, solid information and it is this messy web that must be traversed and rifled through by scholars, students and run-of-the-mill, everyday individuals. This is no easy task for anyone to undertake.

William Cronon also explores the dangers of the digital age in his American Historical Association Presidential Address entitled, Storytelling. More specifically, Cronon addresses the issue of today’s youth not reading for pleasure and being wholly overwhelmed by a book of any considerable length. He argues, “In a manically multitasking world where even e-mail takes too long to read, where texts and tweets and Facebook postings have become dominant forms of communication, reading itself is more at risk than many of us realize” (4). In an age when (as mentioned above), any and all information is at our fingertips, why would anyone venture into a library or pick up a book to read? This is the frightening reality of the world we now live in. Will there come a time when we no longer need libraries or archives? When reading is a thing of the remote past? As someone who enjoys reading for pleasure and also enjoys the feel (and smell) of an old library and a good book between my hands, this is a disheartening realization. We can only hope that the limits of the Internet will one day be met and that the world of books and book-based learning will not be lost to the ages.

What, then, are the implications for the subject of history? William Cronon argues that history must be reverted back to its narrative, storytelling roots. He writes, “we need to remember the roots of our discipline and be sure to keep telling stories that matter as much to our students and to the public as they do to us” (5).  And yet, is that enough to combat the changes the Internet will bring (and has in fact already brought about) to the subject? Can history truly return to its storytelling roots? Or is the subject forced to transform and change with the changing, modern, technological times?