Do Intellectual Historians and Philosophers Play Well Together?

Last month, the Chronicle of Higher Education published an interesting interview (for the moment at least available online to non-subscribers) with the Harvard sociologist Michèle Lamont, whose new book How Do Professors Think examines multidisciplinary peer-review panels and compares the different ways in which the various American academic disciplines understand themselves and what constitutes quality work.

At the end of the interview, Lamont briefly summarizes some of her conclusions, beginning with two disciplines of interest to this blog's small exclusive readership:

In history there is a high degree of consensus among scholars about what is good. But it is not based so much on a common theory, or method, or whether people think the discipline is part of the humanities or social sciences. It's a shared sense of craftsmanship. People care about whether the work is careful. They believe they can identify careful work. And that they can convince others about it. The degree of consensus has varied over the years. In the 1960s, for example, the discipline was polarized politically. But it has found consensus in the practice of scholarship.

Historians believe that contrasts sharply with English literature. As one told me, "The disciplinary center holds." That sense of consensus makes history proposals and applicants very successful in multidisciplinary competitions like the national fellowship and grant programs.

Philosophy is a problem discipline, and it's defined as such by program officers. Philosophers do not believe that nonphilosophers are qualified to evaluate their work. Perhaps that comes out of the dominance of analytic philosophy, with its stress on logic and rigor. Philosophers think their discipline is more demanding than other fields. Even its practitioners define the discipline as contentious. They don't see that as a problem; argument and dispute are the discipline's defining characteristics.

All that conflict makes it difficult to get consensus on the value of a philosophy proposal — or to convince people from other disciplines of its merits. The panels I studied are multidisciplinary. Nonphilosophers are often frustrated with the philosophers. They often discounted what philosophers had to say as misplaced intellectual superiority.

The Lamont interview has sparked an interesting discussion of philosophers (inside and outside of philosophy departments) and their relationship to their discipline and other disciplines over on Crooked Timber, a site which has always featured a robust philosophy presence among its posters and commentariat.* Much of the discussion focuses on Lamont's contention that philosophers don't get along with other scholars and that there is an unusual lack of mutual understanding between philosophy and other disciplines.

I'm always interested in the relationship between intellectual historians and philosophers (and philosophy). Many, if not most of us, spend much of our time reading philosophers from the past. Certainly any intellectual historian has spent a lot of time thinking about philosophy. However the level of actual engagement between contemporary philosophers and U.S. intellectual historians seems rather limited to me. Among the more analytically inclined philosophers, there's still a strong "history of philosophy, just say 'no'" strain that makes them disinclined to be interested not only in historical accounts of philosophical thought, but also in older philosophy even taken out of its historical context.**

At last year's USIH Conference, David Marshall of Kettering University gave an interesting talk on the methodological lessons that intellectual historians might take from the work of the philosopher Robert Brandom. I was struck by how unusual it is to hear an intellectual historian--especially, it must be said, a U.S. intellectual historian--explicitly draw on the work of a contemporary philosopher in this way (my purely anecdotal sense is that European intellectual historians have a more lively interface with contemporary Continental philosophers).

How would you describe the current relationship between U.S. intellectual history as a (sub) discipline and philosophy? Do you find yourself turning to contemporary philosophy in your own work (and do you do so as an object of study or for some other reason)? If you work on philosophy/philosophers, do you share your work with actually existing philosophers? Are they helpful readers?***

_________________________________________________________

* I assume most readers of this blog already read CT. If you don't, you should. It is an excellent multidisciplinary group academic blog which more often than not features not only interesting posts but also interesting comment threads. You really learn stuff over there.

** Princeton philosopher Gil Harman used to have a sign on his office door that read "History of Philosophy: Just Say 'No'" It was intended as a protest against philosophers being required to study the history of philosophy. Harman believed that philosophers needn't study the history of philosophy for the same reason that physicists needn't study the history of physics: today's philosophers were often asking different questions and almost by definition had better answers than philosophers from the past. In a 2005 volume entitled Analytic Philosophy and History of Philosophy, which he coedited with G.A.J. Rogers, Tom Sorrell uses Gil Harman's sign as a starting point for his reflections on the place of history of philosophy in analytic philosophical practice.

*** Upon reflection, I fear that the conclusion of this post reflects the fact that I've spent most of the past two weeks giving and grading exams! Please consider outlining your answers before posting them ;-)

Do Intellectual Historians and Philosophers Play Well Together?

Last month, the Chronicle of Higher Education published an interesting interview (for the moment at least available online to non-subscribers) with the Harvard sociologist Michèle Lamont, whose new book How Do Professors Think examines multidisciplinary peer-review panels and compares the different ways in which the various American academic disciplines understand themselves and what constitutes quality work.

At the end of the interview, Lamont briefly summarizes some of her conclusions, beginning with two disciplines of interest to this blog's small exclusive readership:

In history there is a high degree of consensus among scholars about what is good. But it is not based so much on a common theory, or method, or whether people think the discipline is part of the humanities or social sciences. It's a shared sense of craftsmanship. People care about whether the work is careful. They believe they can identify careful work. And that they can convince others about it. The degree of consensus has varied over the years. In the 1960s, for example, the discipline was polarized politically. But it has found consensus in the practice of scholarship.

Historians believe that contrasts sharply with English literature. As one told me, "The disciplinary center holds." That sense of consensus makes history proposals and applicants very successful in multidisciplinary competitions like the national fellowship and grant programs.

Philosophy is a problem discipline, and it's defined as such by program officers. Philosophers do not believe that nonphilosophers are qualified to evaluate their work. Perhaps that comes out of the dominance of analytic philosophy, with its stress on logic and rigor. Philosophers think their discipline is more demanding than other fields. Even its practitioners define the discipline as contentious. They don't see that as a problem; argument and dispute are the discipline's defining characteristics.

All that conflict makes it difficult to get consensus on the value of a philosophy proposal — or to convince people from other disciplines of its merits. The panels I studied are multidisciplinary. Nonphilosophers are often frustrated with the philosophers. They often discounted what philosophers had to say as misplaced intellectual superiority.

The Lamont interview has sparked an interesting discussion of philosophers (inside and outside of philosophy departments) and their relationship to their discipline and other disciplines over on Crooked Timber, a site which has always featured a robust philosophy presence among its posters and commentariat.* Much of the discussion focuses on Lamont's contention that philosophers don't get along with other scholars and that there is an unusual lack of mutual understanding between philosophy and other disciplines.

I'm always interested in the relationship between intellectual historians and philosophers (and philosophy). Many, if not most of us, spend much of our time reading philosophers from the past. Certainly any intellectual historian has spent a lot of time thinking about philosophy. However the level of actual engagement between contemporary philosophers and U.S. intellectual historians seems rather limited to me. Among the more analytically inclined philosophers, there's still a strong "history of philosophy, just say 'no'" strain that makes them disinclined to be interested not only in historical accounts of philosophical thought, but also in older philosophy even taken out of its historical context.**

At last year's USIH Conference, David Marshall of Kettering University gave an interesting talk on the methodological lessons that intellectual historians might take from the work of the philosopher Robert Brandom. I was struck by how unusual it is to hear an intellectual historian--especially, it must be said, a U.S. intellectual historian--explicitly draw on the work of a contemporary philosopher in this way (my purely anecdotal sense is that European intellectual historians have a more lively interface with contemporary Continental philosophers).

How would you describe the current relationship between U.S. intellectual history as a (sub) discipline and philosophy? Do you find yourself turning to contemporary philosophy in your own work (and do you do so as an object of study or for some other reason)? If you work on philosophy/philosophers, do you share your work with actually existing philosophers? Are they helpful readers?***

_________________________________________________________

* I assume most readers of this blog already read CT. If you don't, you should. It is an excellent multidisciplinary group academic blog which more often than not features not only interesting posts but also interesting comment threads. You really learn stuff over there.

** Princeton philosopher Gil Harman used to have a sign on his office door that read "History of Philosophy: Just Say 'No'" It was intended as a protest against philosophers being required to study the history of philosophy. Harman believed that philosophers needn't study the history of philosophy for the same reason that physicists needn't study the history of physics: today's philosophers were often asking different questions and almost by definition had better answers than philosophers from the past. In a 2005 volume entitled Analytic Philosophy and History of Philosophy, which he coedited with G.A.J. Rogers, Tom Sorrell uses Gil Harman's sign as a starting point for his reflections on the place of history of philosophy in analytic philosophical practice.

*** Upon reflection, I fear that the conclusion of this post reflects the fact that I've spent most of the past two weeks giving and grading exams! Please consider outlining your answers before posting them ;-)

the 23rd century is not what it used to be: the philosophy and politics of Star Trek

[Spoiler Alert: I waited to post this until after the new Star Trek movie had played for two weekends. In Hollywood terms, that’s a geological age: the DaVinci Code sequel has already replaced the young Captain Kirk as the prime object of moviegoers’ curiosities, and this weekend the Terminator franchise will reboot. But if you, dear reader, still have not seen the film, please be aware that the following post assumes that you have, and is consequently packed with very significant spoilers.]

In his seminal 1988 article, “Captain Kirk: Cold Warrior,” (Journal of Popular Film and Television, 16.3:109-117), Rick Worland argued of the original 1966-69 television series that “its progressive humanism aside, Star Trek neatly duplicated the configuration of international Cold War politics of the 1960s.” Worland’s argument essentially accused the show of not living up to the intellectual and political ideals it set for itself. The article was something of a watershed in academic treatments of Star Trek, in that many such musings before it veered toward a somewhat fawning tone, while those that came after tended to be more critical of the show. Moreover, later scholars shared Worland’s interest in the politics of Star Trek (rather than, say, its mythological, psychological or literary resonance) though they tended to adopt a focus on race, gender, sexuality and audience reception that is largely absent from Worland’s analysis in more conventionally political terms. With a brand-new incarnation of Star Trek now at our multiplexes, then, it’s worth considering how Star Trek’s themes manifest themselve today.

The original Star Trek centered on the adventures of a group of interstellar space travelers who serve aboard the starship Enterprise, led by Captain James T. Kirk (William Shatner). The Enterprise crew represent the geopolitical interests of the United Federation of Planets, while simultaneously engaging in scientific research and humanitarian interventions. 

Kirk is advised by his friends and subordinates Spock (Leonard Nimoy) and Dr. Leonard McCoy (DeForrest Kelley), who embody the conflict in his head between his frequently competing mandates and missions. The show was not terribly popular in its initial run, but once cancelled generated a phenomenal following in syndicated reruns. As a result, Paramount Pictures released Star Trek: The Motion Picture in 1979; many subsequent films followed. In 1987, Star Trek: The Next Generation premiered on television, featuring new characters and actors; it would run for seven years and serve as the basis for four of the later movies.

After three more television series and a total of ten films, however, many perceived that these efforts were running out of gas creatively. The previous Star Trek feature, panned by critics and avoided by audiences, is now seven years old, and the last television series, Enterprise (2001-2005), was unceremoniously cancelled due to low ratings. Hoping to breathe new life into its former cash cow, Paramount Pictures hired Lost creator J.J. Abrams to direct a new movie, and decided, significantly, to “reboot” the franchise by returning to the characters of the original series and recasting younger actors in the famous roles of Kirk, Spock, McCoy and their shipmates.

Thus as the new film opens it has been over forty years since the first show articulated its peculiar political vision of humanist Cold War liberalism. To some extent, this outlook has come unmoored from its origins in the actual Cold War, becoming part of the DNA of the series itself. But in other ways, changes in real-time contemporary politics have significantly influenced Star Trek. To take one example, as the Soviet Union crumbled, the sixth film, The Undiscovered Country (1991), found the intrepid crew working for peace between the Federation and its enemy, the now-weakened Klingon Empire; in the diegetic universe of The Next Generation, the Klingons became uneasy allies. Additionally, the original series’s allegorical references to racial integration and the Vietnam War were replaced in later shows with developments that paralleled controversies over issues like homosexuality, religion or cultural imperialism. Thus the real-world political landscape, the cinematic production team and the diegetic Star Trek universe have all undergone significant changes in recent years; one might wonder how these changes would affect the evolving outlook of the central text.

Well, we need wonder no more. Star Trek now, perhaps unsurprisingly, maneuvers almost entirely in the intellectual and emotional space carved out by the so-called “War on Terror.” The film’s villain, Nero (Eric Bana), is an evildoer with no agenda other than to cause pain to his enemies; though a Romulan, he is a non-state-actor who specifically rejects any connection with the government of his empire. He is, in short, a terrorist. He is responsible for the most harrowing act of the film, one simply unprecedented in all of Star Trek: the destruction of the planet Vulcan and the consequent murder of nearly all of its six billion inhabitants. Of course, such large-scale acts of destruction are not uncommon in cinematic science fiction, or even in Star Trek. But Vulcan is not some stock planet that the filmmakers made up solely for the purpose of having Nero destroy it in order to establish his evil credentials. It is Spock’s home, a planet whose inhabitants have developed a stoic philosophy that has traditionally served as a central element in the very meaning of Star Trek. In this context, even this fictional act of destruction is quite harrowing, and certainly suggests an invocation of September 11.

As a result, the new Enterprise crew is motivated less by its customary balancing act between power politics and compassion, and more by revenge. Generally, Star Trek has accorded this emotion little respect: it is reserved for villains (such as Khan in Star Trek II, or Nero himself), or “good guys” whose judgment or sanity is has been compromised. In the new film, however, revenge is a significant motivational factor for the heroes. This difference plays out most clearly in the revisions to the character of Spock, played in the new film by Zachary Quinto. Always tortured by his conflicting desires to adhere to the Vulcan ideology of logic and to claim part of his human emotional heritage, he is in this film pushed to the breaking point. During Vulcan's final minutes, Spock attempts to rescue his mother, but instead must watch her die. This is a lot for anyone to take in, and Quinto’s Spock yields to strong emotion far more than did Nimoy’s. (Nimoy is also in this film, playing an older version of the same character, and even his Spock is far more touchy-feely than usual.)

In the same vein, the new Kirk (Chris Pine) owes his very existence, or, at least, the form that such an existence will take, to terrorism. He is born in the midst of Nero's attack on his father’s ship some twenty-five years before the main events of the film. Kirk's father is killed and young Jim grows up rebellious, impetuous, glib, and aloof, with a penchant for going with his gut. Far from the Kennedyesque figure of the 1960s show, he almost seems an homage to George W. Bush, complete with a tendency to bestow uncreative nicknames on his shipmates.

The fact that the captain and first officer have both had one of their parents killed by the villain brings a decided de-emphasis on two virtues that have long been a hallmark of Star Trek: empathy and compassion. Most striking in this regard is a short exchange between Kirk and Spock near the end of the film. After Nero has been defeated, his ship is about to be sucked in to some vortex or another, and Kirk offers to rescue his crew. When Spock questions this decision, Kirk argues that saving Nero would make for better relations with the Romulans, and suggests that Spock should approve of his logic. In a response played for comedy, Spock replies, “No…not this time,” and Kirk orders the destruction of Nero’s ship. Never have these two characters, or any protagonists in a Star Trek production, been so cavalier about taking life. Indeed, many of the original episodes end with Kirk quite pointedly refusing to kill, even though it may seem justified or even necessary to save his own skin.

One of the tag lines in the film’s advertising campaign is “This is not your father’s Star Trek.” Indeed, it is not. Politically and historically speaking, it has exchanged a complicated and ambivalent relationship with the Cold War thinking of the 1960s for a rather uncritical acceptance of the dominant paradigm of our own era.

the 23rd century is not what it used to be: the philosophy and politics of Star Trek

[Spoiler Alert: I waited to post this until after the new Star Trek movie had played for two weekends. In Hollywood terms, that’s a geological age: the DaVinci Code sequel has already replaced the young Captain Kirk as the prime object of moviegoers’ curiosities, and this weekend the Terminator franchise will reboot. But if you, dear reader, still have not seen the film, please be aware that the following post assumes that you have, and is consequently packed with very significant spoilers.]

In his seminal 1988 article, “Captain Kirk: Cold Warrior,” (Journal of Popular Film and Television, 16.3:109-117), Rick Worland argued of the original 1966-69 television series that “its progressive humanism aside, Star Trek neatly duplicated the configuration of international Cold War politics of the 1960s.” Worland’s argument essentially accused the show of not living up to the intellectual and political ideals it set for itself. The article was something of a watershed in academic treatments of Star Trek, in that many such musings before it veered toward a somewhat fawning tone, while those that came after tended to be more critical of the show. Moreover, later scholars shared Worland’s interest in the politics of Star Trek (rather than, say, its mythological, psychological or literary resonance) though they tended to adopt a focus on race, gender, sexuality and audience reception that is largely absent from Worland’s analysis in more conventionally political terms. With a brand-new incarnation of Star Trek now at our multiplexes, then, it’s worth considering how Star Trek’s themes manifest themselve today.

The original Star Trek centered on the adventures of a group of interstellar space travelers who serve aboard the starship Enterprise, led by Captain James T. Kirk (William Shatner). The Enterprise crew represent the geopolitical interests of the United Federation of Planets, while simultaneously engaging in scientific research and humanitarian interventions. 

Kirk is advised by his friends and subordinates Spock (Leonard Nimoy) and Dr. Leonard McCoy (DeForrest Kelley), who embody the conflict in his head between his frequently competing mandates and missions. The show was not terribly popular in its initial run, but once cancelled generated a phenomenal following in syndicated reruns. As a result, Paramount Pictures released Star Trek: The Motion Picture in 1979; many subsequent films followed. In 1987, Star Trek: The Next Generation premiered on television, featuring new characters and actors; it would run for seven years and serve as the basis for four of the later movies.

After three more television series and a total of ten films, however, many perceived that these efforts were running out of gas creatively. The previous Star Trek feature, panned by critics and avoided by audiences, is now seven years old, and the last television series, Enterprise (2001-2005), was unceremoniously cancelled due to low ratings. Hoping to breathe new life into its former cash cow, Paramount Pictures hired Lost creator J.J. Abrams to direct a new movie, and decided, significantly, to “reboot” the franchise by returning to the characters of the original series and recasting younger actors in the famous roles of Kirk, Spock, McCoy and their shipmates.

Thus as the new film opens it has been over forty years since the first show articulated its peculiar political vision of humanist Cold War liberalism. To some extent, this outlook has come unmoored from its origins in the actual Cold War, becoming part of the DNA of the series itself. But in other ways, changes in real-time contemporary politics have significantly influenced Star Trek. To take one example, as the Soviet Union crumbled, the sixth film, The Undiscovered Country (1991), found the intrepid crew working for peace between the Federation and its enemy, the now-weakened Klingon Empire; in the diegetic universe of The Next Generation, the Klingons became uneasy allies. Additionally, the original series’s allegorical references to racial integration and the Vietnam War were replaced in later shows with developments that paralleled controversies over issues like homosexuality, religion or cultural imperialism. Thus the real-world political landscape, the cinematic production team and the diegetic Star Trek universe have all undergone significant changes in recent years; one might wonder how these changes would affect the evolving outlook of the central text.

Well, we need wonder no more. Star Trek now, perhaps unsurprisingly, maneuvers almost entirely in the intellectual and emotional space carved out by the so-called “War on Terror.” The film’s villain, Nero (Eric Bana), is an evildoer with no agenda other than to cause pain to his enemies; though a Romulan, he is a non-state-actor who specifically rejects any connection with the government of his empire. He is, in short, a terrorist. He is responsible for the most harrowing act of the film, one simply unprecedented in all of Star Trek: the destruction of the planet Vulcan and the consequent murder of nearly all of its six billion inhabitants. Of course, such large-scale acts of destruction are not uncommon in cinematic science fiction, or even in Star Trek. But Vulcan is not some stock planet that the filmmakers made up solely for the purpose of having Nero destroy it in order to establish his evil credentials. It is Spock’s home, a planet whose inhabitants have developed a stoic philosophy that has traditionally served as a central element in the very meaning of Star Trek. In this context, even this fictional act of destruction is quite harrowing, and certainly suggests an invocation of September 11.

As a result, the new Enterprise crew is motivated less by its customary balancing act between power politics and compassion, and more by revenge. Generally, Star Trek has accorded this emotion little respect: it is reserved for villains (such as Khan in Star Trek II, or Nero himself), or “good guys” whose judgment or sanity is has been compromised. In the new film, however, revenge is a significant motivational factor for the heroes. This difference plays out most clearly in the revisions to the character of Spock, played in the new film by Zachary Quinto. Always tortured by his conflicting desires to adhere to the Vulcan ideology of logic and to claim part of his human emotional heritage, he is in this film pushed to the breaking point. During Vulcan's final minutes, Spock attempts to rescue his mother, but instead must watch her die. This is a lot for anyone to take in, and Quinto’s Spock yields to strong emotion far more than did Nimoy’s. (Nimoy is also in this film, playing an older version of the same character, and even his Spock is far more touchy-feely than usual.)

In the same vein, the new Kirk (Chris Pine) owes his very existence, or, at least, the form that such an existence will take, to terrorism. He is born in the midst of Nero's attack on his father’s ship some twenty-five years before the main events of the film. Kirk's father is killed and young Jim grows up rebellious, impetuous, glib, and aloof, with a penchant for going with his gut. Far from the Kennedyesque figure of the 1960s show, he almost seems an homage to George W. Bush, complete with a tendency to bestow uncreative nicknames on his shipmates.

The fact that the captain and first officer have both had one of their parents killed by the villain brings a decided de-emphasis on two virtues that have long been a hallmark of Star Trek: empathy and compassion. Most striking in this regard is a short exchange between Kirk and Spock near the end of the film. After Nero has been defeated, his ship is about to be sucked in to some vortex or another, and Kirk offers to rescue his crew. When Spock questions this decision, Kirk argues that saving Nero would make for better relations with the Romulans, and suggests that Spock should approve of his logic. In a response played for comedy, Spock replies, “No…not this time,” and Kirk orders the destruction of Nero’s ship. Never have these two characters, or any protagonists in a Star Trek production, been so cavalier about taking life. Indeed, many of the original episodes end with Kirk quite pointedly refusing to kill, even though it may seem justified or even necessary to save his own skin.

One of the tag lines in the film’s advertising campaign is “This is not your father’s Star Trek.” Indeed, it is not. Politically and historically speaking, it has exchanged a complicated and ambivalent relationship with the Cold War thinking of the 1960s for a rather uncritical acceptance of the dominant paradigm of our own era.

More on Feminism and Capitalism

After reading Andrew Hartman's piece on the work of Nancy Fraser about second-wave feminism and capitalism, I happened to read Walter Lippmann's, Drift and Mastery. Apropos Fraser's argument but nearly one hundred years earlier, Lippmann said this:

"Women to-day are embarked upon a career for which their tradition is no guide. The first result, of course, is a vast amount of trouble. The emancipated woman has to fight something worse than the crusted prejudices of her uncles; she has to fight the bewilderment of her own soul." [218]

"The first impulse of emancipation seems to be in the main that woman should model her career on man's. . . . Yet at the very time when enlightened people are crying out against the horrors of capitalism, you will find many feminists urging women to enter capitalism as a solution of their problems. Of course millions have been drawn in against their will, but there is still a number who go in voluntarily, because they feel that their self-respect demands it. They go in response to the desire for economic independence. And they find almost no real independence in the industrial world. What has happened, it seems to me, is this: the women who argue for the necessity of making one’s living are almost without exception upper class women, either because they have special talents or because they have special opportunities.” [221-222].

"And the theorists of feminism have yet to make up their minds whether they can seriously urge women to go into industry as it is to-day or is likely to be in the future. I, for one, should say that the presence of women in the labor market is an evil to be combatted by every means at our command. The army of women in industry to-day is not a blessing but the curse of a badly organized society." [223].

Thoughts? -DS

More on Feminism and Capitalism

After reading Andrew Hartman's piece on the work of Nancy Fraser about second-wave feminism and capitalism, I happened to read Walter Lippmann's, Drift and Mastery. Apropos Fraser's argument but nearly one hundred years earlier, Lippmann said this:

"Women to-day are embarked upon a career for which their tradition is no guide. The first result, of course, is a vast amount of trouble. The emancipated woman has to fight something worse than the crusted prejudices of her uncles; she has to fight the bewilderment of her own soul." [218]

"The first impulse of emancipation seems to be in the main that woman should model her career on man's. . . . Yet at the very time when enlightened people are crying out against the horrors of capitalism, you will find many feminists urging women to enter capitalism as a solution of their problems. Of course millions have been drawn in against their will, but there is still a number who go in voluntarily, because they feel that their self-respect demands it. They go in response to the desire for economic independence. And they find almost no real independence in the industrial world. What has happened, it seems to me, is this: the women who argue for the necessity of making one’s living are almost without exception upper class women, either because they have special talents or because they have special opportunities.” [221-222].

"And the theorists of feminism have yet to make up their minds whether they can seriously urge women to go into industry as it is to-day or is likely to be in the future. I, for one, should say that the presence of women in the labor market is an evil to be combatted by every means at our command. The army of women in industry to-day is not a blessing but the curse of a badly organized society." [223].

Thoughts? -DS

Cementing My Ignorance In Print: An Addendum To My Recent Thinking On Transnational Historiography

Last month I unhesitatingly promoted a review essay of mine at USIH. In that essay, as well as my prior work here on transnationalism (particularly in November 2008 and the January just past), I cited OAH and AHA work on the topic. Sadly, however, I overlooked this Perspectives on History piece from December 2008. But it's not just the article; it's the content. So my situation gets worse.

Perspectives detailed the work of a summer institute on transnational topics for college teachers held in 2008. The article also noted that a 2005 institute gathering predated the one last summer. The Perspectives essay publicized, furthermore, a 2008 publication edited by Peter Stearns and Noralee Frankel, titled "Globalizing American History: The AHA Guide to Re-Imagining the U.S. Survey Course." Through the link you can purchase the 128-page pamphlet for $15. [FYI: Rob Townsend of the AHA informed me that a key part of the pamphlet is at this link.]

Prior to a few weeks ago I was ignorant of the AHA pamphlet, and therefore neglected it in my Councilor review. This is irritating---and humbling. I aimed for comprehensiveness in my write-up, at least from the late 1990s going forward. But somehow I missed a publication from one of the largest historical societies in the United States. Yep. Since the AHA pamphlet addresses teaching, it likely changes my perspective on the place of America on the World Stage (AWS) in the literature on transnationalism.

I haven't yet seen the AHA publication. But if it incorporates more practical advice on teaching, then it provides a concrete alternative to AWS---an alternative I explicitly called for in The Councilor review. The pamphlet might also indicate a deeper penetration of transnationalism into secondary education than I might have imagined.

The Perspectives article also enlarges the cast of characters cited in my review. I claimed that Thomas Bender was a kind of de facto leader of the transnational turn. He is still clearly important, but now I must recommend that interested parties explore the AHA conferees to sift who played key roles in the two institutes. It appears, on the surface, that Carl Guarneri and John Gillis are more prominent than I realized. This makes sense as Guarneri was mentioned in the endnotes of a few of the AWS essays.

In sum, I'm ashamed. I'll have to read the AHA pamphlet to discern whether its contents change my interpretation of the transnational turn, my prescriptions for future endeavors, or both. In the meantime, don't take my word for it. It appears I've done what every historian fears: cemented my ignorance in print. - TL

Cementing My Ignorance In Print: An Addendum To My Recent Thinking On Transnational Historiography

Last month I unhesitatingly promoted a review essay of mine at USIH. In that essay, as well as my prior work here on transnationalism (particularly in November 2008 and the January just past), I cited OAH and AHA work on the topic. Sadly, however, I overlooked this Perspectives on History piece from December 2008. But it's not just the article; it's the content. So my situation gets worse.

Perspectives detailed the work of a summer institute on transnational topics for college teachers held in 2008. The article also noted that a 2005 institute gathering predated the one last summer. The Perspectives essay publicized, furthermore, a 2008 publication edited by Peter Stearns and Noralee Frankel, titled "Globalizing American History: The AHA Guide to Re-Imagining the U.S. Survey Course." Through the link you can purchase the 128-page pamphlet for $15. [FYI: Rob Townsend of the AHA informed me that a key part of the pamphlet is at this link.]

Prior to a few weeks ago I was ignorant of the AHA pamphlet, and therefore neglected it in my Councilor review. This is irritating---and humbling. I aimed for comprehensiveness in my write-up, at least from the late 1990s going forward. But somehow I missed a publication from one of the largest historical societies in the United States. Yep. Since the AHA pamphlet addresses teaching, it likely changes my perspective on the place of America on the World Stage (AWS) in the literature on transnationalism.

I haven't yet seen the AHA publication. But if it incorporates more practical advice on teaching, then it provides a concrete alternative to AWS---an alternative I explicitly called for in The Councilor review. The pamphlet might also indicate a deeper penetration of transnationalism into secondary education than I might have imagined.

The Perspectives article also enlarges the cast of characters cited in my review. I claimed that Thomas Bender was a kind of de facto leader of the transnational turn. He is still clearly important, but now I must recommend that interested parties explore the AHA conferees to sift who played key roles in the two institutes. It appears, on the surface, that Carl Guarneri and John Gillis are more prominent than I realized. This makes sense as Guarneri was mentioned in the endnotes of a few of the AWS essays.

In sum, I'm ashamed. I'll have to read the AHA pamphlet to discern whether its contents change my interpretation of the transnational turn, my prescriptions for future endeavors, or both. In the meantime, don't take my word for it. It appears I've done what every historian fears: cemented my ignorance in print. - TL

Tim's Light Reading (5/15/09)

1. Writing Tips from Scott Eric Kaufman---How many times do professed intellectual historians direct your attention to graphics that involve a hamburger? For the record, I generally agree with Ahistoricality when he/she comments that, with regard to history, the evidence needs to outweigh the analysis. Furthermore, as a adopted Chicagoan, my evidential burger condiments generally exclude ketchup (and I do like dijon).

2. Issues in Borderline Slavery Denial at Civil War Memory---I concede that my comments on this post are akin to killing a fly with a hammer: I propose a theoretical solution that overreaches the current problem. But I do genuinely wonder if memories of the American Civil War are, at times, being pushed by extreme revisionists into a denial of slavery. Is there a need for some kind of mild law against denying our own holocaust?

3. Is David Brooks Avoiding Politics by Rethinking the Intellectual Life? (here and here)---Mr. Brooks is known, among some, for his intelligent and reasonably moderate conservatism. His commentary on PBS last fall, during the presidential campaign party conventions, compelled a grudging admiration for his sense of perspective. But I wonder, in light of the current political scene, if he is sort of retreating into the intellectual life? Don't get me wrong, I don't mind. I'm finding the intellectual Brooks more interesting than the political one. And perhaps I don't know his biography well enough; he may have been this way all along?

But on the links provided, the first, on the notion of genius, contains important elements of consideration for all aspiring and working intellectual historians. In particular I appreciated Brooks' citation of Daniel Coyle's The Talent Code and Geoff Colvin's Talent Is Overrated. Both works correspond with an ongoing theory I've held about how one becomes an intellectual with regard to whatever topic is at hand (assuming that multiple intelligences theories hold): superior ability doesn't always manifest itself clearly for evaluators of youth talent, but drive and discipline that correspond with an strong internal vision can sometimes be detected, and would be equally valuable to evaluators. With that, taking a more working, or developmental, view of "genius" would have no small consequences for how history departments, for instance, ought to select applicants. And since the brightest of our faculties in history are encouraged, for the most part, to develop their own genius to its fullest (i.e. research and publish) rather than train those under them, it seems likely that next generation of history "geniuses" is likely to come from hands-on, teaching-type doctoral departments. In other words, those that don't overly emphasize research.

The second Brooks piece looks at the Harvard College "Grant Study." Here he is underscoring Joshua Wolf Shank's June 2009 Atlantic article. That piece is about the pursuit and causes of happiness, but it's also an object lesson in the caprices of intelligence. It highlights something emphasized by Barzun in House of Intellect: namely, that pursuing the intellectual life has only a moderate correlation with intelligence (circling back to the Coyle/Colvin thesis above, reflecting a consistent thread in Brooks' reading list). And of course all historians should keep these two conclusions from Brooks in mind:

a. "It is as if we all contain a multitude of characters and patterns of behavior, and these characters and patterns are bidden by cues we don’t even hear."
b. "There is a complexity to human affairs before which science and analysis simply stands mute."

- TL

Tim's Light Reading (5/15/09)

1. Writing Tips from Scott Eric Kaufman---How many times do professed intellectual historians direct your attention to graphics that involve a hamburger? For the record, I generally agree with Ahistoricality when he/she comments that, with regard to history, the evidence needs to outweigh the analysis. Furthermore, as a adopted Chicagoan, my evidential burger condiments generally exclude ketchup (and I do like dijon).

2. Issues in Borderline Slavery Denial at Civil War Memory---I concede that my comments on this post are akin to killing a fly with a hammer: I propose a theoretical solution that overreaches the current problem. But I do genuinely wonder if memories of the American Civil War are, at times, being pushed by extreme revisionists into a denial of slavery. Is there a need for some kind of mild law against denying our own holocaust?

3. Is David Brooks Avoiding Politics by Rethinking the Intellectual Life? (here and here)---Mr. Brooks is known, among some, for his intelligent and reasonably moderate conservatism. His commentary on PBS last fall, during the presidential campaign party conventions, compelled a grudging admiration for his sense of perspective. But I wonder, in light of the current political scene, if he is sort of retreating into the intellectual life? Don't get me wrong, I don't mind. I'm finding the intellectual Brooks more interesting than the political one. And perhaps I don't know his biography well enough; he may have been this way all along?

But on the links provided, the first, on the notion of genius, contains important elements of consideration for all aspiring and working intellectual historians. In particular I appreciated Brooks' citation of Daniel Coyle's The Talent Code and Geoff Colvin's Talent Is Overrated. Both works correspond with an ongoing theory I've held about how one becomes an intellectual with regard to whatever topic is at hand (assuming that multiple intelligences theories hold): superior ability doesn't always manifest itself clearly for evaluators of youth talent, but drive and discipline that correspond with an strong internal vision can sometimes be detected, and would be equally valuable to evaluators. With that, taking a more working, or developmental, view of "genius" would have no small consequences for how history departments, for instance, ought to select applicants. And since the brightest of our faculties in history are encouraged, for the most part, to develop their own genius to its fullest (i.e. research and publish) rather than train those under them, it seems likely that next generation of history "geniuses" is likely to come from hands-on, teaching-type doctoral departments. In other words, those that don't overly emphasize research.

The second Brooks piece looks at the Harvard College "Grant Study." Here he is underscoring Joshua Wolf Shank's June 2009 Atlantic article. That piece is about the pursuit and causes of happiness, but it's also an object lesson in the caprices of intelligence. It highlights something emphasized by Barzun in House of Intellect: namely, that pursuing the intellectual life has only a moderate correlation with intelligence (circling back to the Coyle/Colvin thesis above, reflecting a consistent thread in Brooks' reading list). And of course all historians should keep these two conclusions from Brooks in mind:

a. "It is as if we all contain a multitude of characters and patterns of behavior, and these characters and patterns are bidden by cues we don’t even hear."
b. "There is a complexity to human affairs before which science and analysis simply stands mute."

- TL

"Richard Halloran: Owns Home Computer"

Frank Rich's column in today's New York Times mentions, in passing, a YouTube video entitled "1981 Primitive Internet Report on KRON," in which San Francisco's Channel 4 news announced that the San Francisco Chronicle and its then-jointly operated (and now defunct) semi-rival the San Francisco Examiner had started a service that allowed computer owners with modems to download text copies of the morning paper (download time: 2 hrs).

Here's the report:



It really is a fascinating historical document that nicely shows the technological and cultural distance we've traveled in a little over a quarter century. My favorite moment: the chyron that identifies one speaker as:

Richard Halloran
Owns Home Computer

"Richard Halloran: Owns Home Computer"

Frank Rich's column in today's New York Times mentions, in passing, a YouTube video entitled "1981 Primitive Internet Report on KRON," in which San Francisco's Channel 4 news announced that the San Francisco Chronicle and its then-jointly operated (and now defunct) semi-rival the San Francisco Examiner had started a service that allowed computer owners with modems to download text copies of the morning paper (download time: 2 hrs).

Here's the report:



It really is a fascinating historical document that nicely shows the technological and cultural distance we've traveled in a little over a quarter century. My favorite moment: the chyron that identifies one speaker as:

Richard Halloran
Owns Home Computer

Speculating on Humanity

I just finished listening to Annette Gordon-Reed's The Hemingses of Monticello as an audiobook. I use audiobooks for my commute, exercise, cleaning, crafting, etc. The few history books I've tried in this format have emphatically not worked as audiobooks (especially compared to fiction). Their narrative structure is simply too diffuse to follow while listening.

I would like to comment briefly on Gordon-Reed's amazing book as a non-specialist (for others who thought it was amazing, see the Pulitizer and National Book Award committees, among others).

First of all it is highly enjoyable as a read (all 30 hours of it). I think this is one of the first requirements for attention from major award committees, and something that historians fail to achieve all too often (though I think we achieve it much more often than other humanities and social sciences).

Beyond simple enjoyment, the book raises several fascinating issues. Two that I was struck by was the way that Gordon-Reed focuses on the humanity of the Hemingses and the way that she uses speculation to do this. It is my perception that speculative history has automatically been a sign of poor history, but Gordon-Reed's work should disprove this assumption. She uses intensely careful research to craft a skeleton of facts from which she hangs human flesh. Perhaps we all do this in our writing, without admitting it, but I couldn't count the number of times that Gordon-Reed starts sentences with "perhaps" and its synonyms. She laid out the evidence she had, the historical context around it, and then suggested possible reasons individuals might have acted in such a way. This is particularly forceful in her situation. We have perhaps more information on the Hemingses than any other slave family in American history, and yet even with that there are large gaps in our knowledge. Gordon-Reed fills in those gaps by carefully correlating dates, extrapolating from other evidence, analyzing naming patterns, and sometimes suggesting what a teenage girl or adult man might have done in such a circumstance (given what we know of their personalities in that time). She is also not afraid to suggest several different interpretations.

Gordon-Reed uses so much speculation because her primary interest is in recreating the lives of the different Hemingses as individuals with emotions, hopes for the future, plans, family connection, and impulses. She argues at one point that “throughout American history there has been a tendency to see African Americans as symbols or representations rather than as human beings. Even when specific details about an individual life are available for interpretation, those details are often ignored or dismissed in favor of falling back on all the supposed verities about black life and black people in general. For African Americans, social history almost invariably overwhelms biography, obscuring the contingencies within personal lives which are the very things historians and biographers usually rely upon to reconstruct events and lives.” Annette Gordon-Reed, The Hemingses of Monticello (New York: W. W. Norton & Company, 2008), 290.

As someone elbow deep in writing a collective biography of black intellectuals, I find her argument incredibly coercive. Someone might point out the numerous biographies of African American leaders in reaction to her point. Some of these do achieve a human portrait (Levering-Lewis on Du Bois springs to mind), but all too many fit more neatly within the impossibly perfect--or tragically flawed--leader troupe. I hope that I will be able to achieve as compelling a portrait as Gordon-Reed has, though stylistically with fewer "perhaps."

Of course, her greatest accomplishment is in reassessing the Thomas Jefferson-Sallie Hemings relationship, particularly within the context of Hemings' extended family. She emphatically discounts the extremes who would argue that either Jefferson was a demi-god (and who cannot stand the thought that he might have had sex with, let alone love, a black woman) or that Jefferson was a monstrous racist, who is an easy stand in for all white racists. He was a product of his time and his internal life discounted and contrasted with many of his public statements. And he chose in most circumstances to avoid conflict and make those around him love him rather than engaging in direct confrontation or violence. The evidence that Gordon-Reed amasses does indeed suggest that Jefferson's relationship with several of the Hemingses was amicable, while constraned by the dictates of a slave society. She is a brave woman to take on this thesis.

Speculating on Humanity

I just finished listening to Annette Gordon-Reed's The Hemingses of Monticello as an audiobook. I use audiobooks for my commute, exercise, cleaning, crafting, etc. The few history books I've tried in this format have emphatically not worked as audiobooks (especially compared to fiction). Their narrative structure is simply too diffuse to follow while listening.

I would like to comment briefly on Gordon-Reed's amazing book as a non-specialist (for others who thought it was amazing, see the Pulitizer and National Book Award committees, among others).

First of all it is highly enjoyable as a read (all 30 hours of it). I think this is one of the first requirements for attention from major award committees, and something that historians fail to achieve all too often (though I think we achieve it much more often than other humanities and social sciences).

Beyond simple enjoyment, the book raises several fascinating issues. Two that I was struck by was the way that Gordon-Reed focuses on the humanity of the Hemingses and the way that she uses speculation to do this. It is my perception that speculative history has automatically been a sign of poor history, but Gordon-Reed's work should disprove this assumption. She uses intensely careful research to craft a skeleton of facts from which she hangs human flesh. Perhaps we all do this in our writing, without admitting it, but I couldn't count the number of times that Gordon-Reed starts sentences with "perhaps" and its synonyms. She laid out the evidence she had, the historical context around it, and then suggested possible reasons individuals might have acted in such a way. This is particularly forceful in her situation. We have perhaps more information on the Hemingses than any other slave family in American history, and yet even with that there are large gaps in our knowledge. Gordon-Reed fills in those gaps by carefully correlating dates, extrapolating from other evidence, analyzing naming patterns, and sometimes suggesting what a teenage girl or adult man might have done in such a circumstance (given what we know of their personalities in that time). She is also not afraid to suggest several different interpretations.

Gordon-Reed uses so much speculation because her primary interest is in recreating the lives of the different Hemingses as individuals with emotions, hopes for the future, plans, family connection, and impulses. She argues at one point that “throughout American history there has been a tendency to see African Americans as symbols or representations rather than as human beings. Even when specific details about an individual life are available for interpretation, those details are often ignored or dismissed in favor of falling back on all the supposed verities about black life and black people in general. For African Americans, social history almost invariably overwhelms biography, obscuring the contingencies within personal lives which are the very things historians and biographers usually rely upon to reconstruct events and lives.” Annette Gordon-Reed, The Hemingses of Monticello (New York: W. W. Norton & Company, 2008), 290.

As someone elbow deep in writing a collective biography of black intellectuals, I find her argument incredibly coercive. Someone might point out the numerous biographies of African American leaders in reaction to her point. Some of these do achieve a human portrait (Levering-Lewis on Du Bois springs to mind), but all too many fit more neatly within the impossibly perfect--or tragically flawed--leader troupe. I hope that I will be able to achieve as compelling a portrait as Gordon-Reed has, though stylistically with fewer "perhaps."

Of course, her greatest accomplishment is in reassessing the Thomas Jefferson-Sallie Hemings relationship, particularly within the context of Hemings' extended family. She emphatically discounts the extremes who would argue that either Jefferson was a demi-god (and who cannot stand the thought that he might have had sex with, let alone love, a black woman) or that Jefferson was a monstrous racist, who is an easy stand in for all white racists. He was a product of his time and his internal life discounted and contrasted with many of his public statements. And he chose in most circumstances to avoid conflict and make those around him love him rather than engaging in direct confrontation or violence. The evidence that Gordon-Reed amasses does indeed suggest that Jefferson's relationship with several of the Hemingses was amicable, while constraned by the dictates of a slave society. She is a brave woman to take on this thesis.

Tim's Light Reading (5/5/09)

1. McNamara on Maritain: Few people realize that Jacques Maritain spent over 15 years living in the United States during the 1940s and 1950s. Pat's brief post emphasizes Maritain's Catholicism, but the latter's influences on neo-Thomism, as an international movement, and neo-Aristotelianism were profound.

2. McLemee on Comments and Online Writing: Scott McLemee reflects on the hazards of online intellectual life in an age where everyone thinks of her/himself as important, as part of the conversation. [Amendment: Scott objected to the wording of my pointer sentence. I should've emphasized "thinks of" to convey the notion that simple human vices and virtues, namely false pride and appropriate humility, need to be a part of one's consideration when commenting. Otherwise you risk being a jerk who deserves scorn when you seek to be a part of the conversation.]

3. Dana McCourt and Eric Rauchway on Philosophy and the Humanities, here (1) and here (2): Both reflect on expectations about philosophy, and theoretical aspects of the humanities and social sciences, in the public sphere. Ultimately, both McCourt and Rauchway are concerned with variants of anti-intellectualism.

4. Reflections on C.P. Snow's 1959 "Two Cultures" Lecture, here (The Telegraph) and here (NYT): Although Snow was a Briton, his lecture was a popular sensation around the English-speaking world---for different reasons. Snow was concerned with a peculiarly British problem of the 1950s: bright kids being pushed into the literary/traditional intellectual directions, and the less bright into the sciences. In the U.S., however, post-Sputnik (i.e. 1957), the high-test-result kids were pushed into the sciences and the rest were left to their own devices, no matter their intellectual worth (whether literature, industrial labor, or the service sector). While the NYT piece supplies something of the American reception of Snow's lecture and eventually gets to the British context out of which Snow arose, it is quite presentist in its analysis. As such, The Telegraph article is better for historical context (British and otherwise). In some ways the NYT piece is a brief, transnational intellectual history of the lecture, while Robert Whelan's Telegraph article is a more complete "nationalist" analysis. The latter is better intellectual history.

Tim's Light Reading (5/5/09)

1. McNamara on Maritain: Few people realize that Jacques Maritain spent over 15 years living in the United States during the 1940s and 1950s. Pat's brief post emphasizes Maritain's Catholicism, but the latter's influences on neo-Thomism, as an international movement, and neo-Aristotelianism were profound.

2. McLemee on Comments and Online Writing: Scott McLemee reflects on the hazards of online intellectual life in an age where everyone thinks of her/himself as important, as part of the conversation. [Amendment: Scott objected to the wording of my pointer sentence. I should've emphasized "thinks of" to convey the notion that simple human vices and virtues, namely false pride and appropriate humility, need to be a part of one's consideration when commenting. Otherwise you risk being a jerk who deserves scorn when you seek to be a part of the conversation.]

3. Dana McCourt and Eric Rauchway on Philosophy and the Humanities, here (1) and here (2): Both reflect on expectations about philosophy, and theoretical aspects of the humanities and social sciences, in the public sphere. Ultimately, both McCourt and Rauchway are concerned with variants of anti-intellectualism.

4. Reflections on C.P. Snow's 1959 "Two Cultures" Lecture, here (The Telegraph) and here (NYT): Although Snow was a Briton, his lecture was a popular sensation around the English-speaking world---for different reasons. Snow was concerned with a peculiarly British problem of the 1950s: bright kids being pushed into the literary/traditional intellectual directions, and the less bright into the sciences. In the U.S., however, post-Sputnik (i.e. 1957), the high-test-result kids were pushed into the sciences and the rest were left to their own devices, no matter their intellectual worth (whether literature, industrial labor, or the service sector). While the NYT piece supplies something of the American reception of Snow's lecture and eventually gets to the British context out of which Snow arose, it is quite presentist in its analysis. As such, The Telegraph article is better for historical context (British and otherwise). In some ways the NYT piece is a brief, transnational intellectual history of the lecture, while Robert Whelan's Telegraph article is a more complete "nationalist" analysis. The latter is better intellectual history.

is it just me...?

...or is there a pronounced trend lately against people speaking and writing about the past, in the past tense?

I notice this tic most often when grading student papers, in which those under my tutelage nearly always write things like, "Ames begins his career," rather than "Ames began." But I've also seen it frequently in History Channel-type documentaries, on which the academic talking head will say, presumably to add a sense of gripping immediacy to an event that happened long ago, something along the lines of "Booth jumps onto the stage and shouts, 'Sic semper tyrranis!'"

I have seen this mode of speaking creep into conference presentations and, yes, my own course lectures. And it's no longer used only for sudden or discrete events, but also in statements like "after Vietnam and Watergate, Americans begin to lose confidence in their country." This style appears to be very quickly becoming the standard way of speaking about history, and even writing about it, at least informally.

Assuming that this trend actually exists, the question is whether it is in any way significant: I mean, everyone knows you're speaking about the past, right? So where's the harm? I'm not sure there is any, but I'll admit that it does bother me. I think that my problem is that, if a style that originally served to make the past more immediate has now become standard, then a) it will no longer serve the function for which it was adopted, and b) the distinction formerly made by the older formulation will become lost. Such developments would inevitably impoverish the way that we think.

At the heart of my nagging concern is the fact that students seem to write this way, not for dramatic effect, but as a matter of course. It reminds me of people learning a new foreign language, in which tense distinctions are too difficult and subtle, so everything comes out in the present tense. And I shudder to think of the day that my French or Spanish is anyone's model for speaking about history.

is it just me...?

...or is there a pronounced trend lately against people speaking and writing about the past, in the past tense?

I notice this tic most often when grading student papers, in which those under my tutelage nearly always write things like, "Ames begins his career," rather than "Ames began." But I've also seen it frequently in History Channel-type documentaries, on which the academic talking head will say, presumably to add a sense of gripping immediacy to an event that happened long ago, something along the lines of "Booth jumps onto the stage and shouts, 'Sic semper tyrranis!'"

I have seen this mode of speaking creep into conference presentations and, yes, my own course lectures. And it's no longer used only for sudden or discrete events, but also in statements like "after Vietnam and Watergate, Americans begin to lose confidence in their country." This style appears to be very quickly becoming the standard way of speaking about history, and even writing about it, at least informally.

Assuming that this trend actually exists, the question is whether it is in any way significant: I mean, everyone knows you're speaking about the past, right? So where's the harm? I'm not sure there is any, but I'll admit that it does bother me. I think that my problem is that, if a style that originally served to make the past more immediate has now become standard, then a) it will no longer serve the function for which it was adopted, and b) the distinction formerly made by the older formulation will become lost. Such developments would inevitably impoverish the way that we think.

At the heart of my nagging concern is the fact that students seem to write this way, not for dramatic effect, but as a matter of course. It reminds me of people learning a new foreign language, in which tense distinctions are too difficult and subtle, so everything comes out in the present tense. And I shudder to think of the day that my French or Spanish is anyone's model for speaking about history.