So many study so much about so little
Why do academics neglect the puzzle and concentrate on its pieces?
When Lionel Zipser, the graduate student in Tom Sharpe’s novel Porterhouse Blue, dies in an explosion – and the arms of his college bedder – he is identified by the notes for his thesis: ‘Pumpernickel as a Factor in the Politics of 16th-century Westphalia’.
Such are the absurdities of academic obsessions. Characteristically, Sharpe’s satire is only a whisker away from reality. If you want to know what most academic historians do, it’s fair to say there are more Lionel Zipsers than media-friendly TV explainers such as David Starkey or Mary Beard.
While the historians who appear on telly or publish books that sell tend to address broad subjects in approachable ways, the rest of the profession has continued to narrow its focus. In fact, Zipser’s thesis sounds a bit broad for some tastes. A factor in all politics, you say; not just gender or class politics? And the whole of the 16th century?
If you want a genuine example of a historical take on pumpernickel, try ‘The Gastrodynamics of Displacement: Place-making and Gustatory Identity in the Immigrants’ Midwest’ from the Journal of Interdisciplinary History. At least I understood what the words meant in Zipser’s title.
We shouldn’t sniff at specialisation, of course. It is only through the patient work of students of population changes in small settlements in the 14th century that historians who work on a larger scale can speculate about what the Black Death meant for Europe.
No one who wanted to write on how the Holocaust could possibly have come about could do without studies of the reading habits of the German pre-war population.
But there is a difference between specialisation and wilful obscurity. Reading some academic journals, you begin to wonder if some historians focus on their piece of the puzzle more for the sake of the piece than the puzzle. On the face of it, the wider applicability of articles such as ‘Vt hkskdkxt: Early Medieval Cryptography, Textual Errors and Scribal Agency’ seem limited.
Still, we must be careful before we echo the former Education Secretary Charles Clarke, who didn’t mind medievalists, as long as it was for ‘ornamental purposes’.
You shouldn’t judge an article by its title. That incomprehensible one on medieval cryptography turns out to be a fascinating discussion of riddles and codes in medieval manuscripts – just the sort of thing Umberto Eco would have had fun with, and Dan Brown could ruin.
And we can’t possibly know what will turn out to be of more use than ornament. Take the work of Lewis Namier, the historian of 18th-century politics. His work sounds fearfully dry, with its concentration on the minutiae of Georgian partyinfighting. Much of it was rejected after his death, as the rise of ideological explanations for everything took hold. Now, however, with the departure of ideology from Western politics and its replacement with endless party manoeuvring, Namier starts to look a cannier observer again.
Over the past 50 years, historians have tended to be nicer to each other. The academic feuds that gave rise to Henry Kissinger’s remark – that their disputes are so vicious because the stakes are so small – seem less frequent or less drawn out. Perhaps that’s because everyone’s at it these days, with access to instant publication via their phone.
What’s the point of publishing a withering article or, as Hugh TrevorRoper was wont to do, sending mocking letters to the Spectator about one’s peers, when you can diss them on Twitter?
The current historians’ debate about the court that convened to try Charles I (did it really intend to execute him from the off?) has been conducted with disappointing courtesy.
My favourite example of the way historians used to treat each other is from Namier again. He based much of his historical reputation on destroying the approach of the Whig historians such as G M Trevelyan. So it must have come as a surprise when Trevelyan published a highly favourable review of Namier’s first great book. Namier told friends that he would return the compliment – by making sure never to review one of Trevelyan’s books.
As for Zipser, the real worry for academic historians these days is not that they cannot specialise, but that, like all other academics, they have to demonstrate ‘impact’.
Any journal you look up will tell you its ‘impact factor’, though it isn’t explained what that means. Rural History has an impact factor of 0.5; Anatolian Studies 0.93.
Imagine having to think about making any sort of impact at all, before entering the archives of Westphalia.