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Some degree of temporal distance is always present in historical writing,
and in practice an enormous amount of patient effort goes into coping with
the problems of research that ensue. In the abstract, however, this interval
has not seemed especially problematic since it is evidently a necessary
condition of historical research and in many respects a very productive one.
Historians accept that increased temporal distance can mean the loss of
valuable information, but we also point to the fact that posterity is often
able to have access to documents not generally available to contemporaries.
More fundamentally, we share a wide commitment to the idea that the
losses that come with the passage of time must be balanced against compen-
satory gains in clarity and perspective. In any case, isn’t this interval
between the historical moment and its eventual representation one of the
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crucial things that sets history as a discipline apart from more presentist
studies like journalism or sociology?
If temporal distance is a defining condition of all forms of historical
representation, an analysis of the ways in which histories of different types
have confronted the problem of distance in all its modifications would seem
to be an important focus for historiographical study. The very ubiquity of
distance, however, has tended to render it invisible, and over time certain
canonized ideas about the proper forms of distance have become so much
a feature of our historiographical tradition that we are hardly aware of their
influence. In this respect, what is sometimes called historical perspective
bears a strong resemblance to its visual counterpart, where a particular
form of spatial construction has come to seem a natural way of seeing the
world, rather than the outcome of specific traditions of representation. For
historians, in fact, it has become difficult to distinguish between the concept
of historical distance and the idea of history itself.
If we want to defamiliarize our common-sense idea of historical distance,
it will be useful to begin with the recognition that historical accounts not
only function at a received distance from events; they also reconstruct and
reshape that distance in a variety of ways that bear upon every aspect of
our view of the past. Every history, after all, has to establish relationships
of engagement and detachment, insight and overview, which connect it with
the past it describes, and every subsequent reading of a history (or, to
change the scene, every visit to a historical monument or a museum) effec-
tively requires a return to these same issues. Nor is distance in this enlarged
sense confined to the poetics or rhetoric of historical representation. Style,
structure, and affect are, of course, involved, but so are the moral, political,
and methodological commitments of the work. In the last analysis, what we
think we can know about past societies and what we think it important to
explain are just as much at stake as the means by which the story is told or
its power over the reader’s emotions and allegiances.
Historians have no need for abstract theorizing to be reminded that style,
rhetoric, politics, and method all have a part to play in shaping the impact
of historical narratives. Typically, however, we have addressed each of the
different dimensions of historical writing in its own terms, without thinking
too strenuously about what they have in common, or, indeed, what benefit
there might be in being able to keep them all clearly in view. Each element
of historical representation has tended to acquire its own vocabulary,
leaving us without an obvious way of aligning the different dimensions of
historiography. Like traditional systems of measurement, which counted
every commodity by its own standard (grain by bushels, oil by barrels, wine
by hogsheads, herring by cran) our working vocabulary for historical criti-
cism has supplied us with a useful lexicon for every part of the mixed cargo
of historical navigation, but no common measure by which to weigh the full
contents of the hold.
In reference to expository style, for example, a history might be
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All the events are great, and splendid, and marvellous; great armies,
great victories, great frosts, great reverses, ‘hair-breadth ‘scapes’ . . . –
everything happening in defiance of political calculation and in opposi-
tion to the experience of past times. . . . Every event, too, has that round-
ness and completeness which is so characteristic of fiction; nothing is
done by halves; we have complete victories, total overthrows, entire
subversion of empires, perfect re-establishments of them, crowded upon
us in rapid succession.7
So improbable was all this, Whately concluded, that anybody ‘not ignorant
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of history and human nature’ would surely have to wonder ‘how far they
are conformable to Experience, our best and only sure guide’.
Whately’s satire cleverly estranges the recent past in order to retrieve the
historical reality of an ancient one – the past of the Christian Gospels and
of the early Church. In this sense, Historic Doubts works in the opposite
direction from so much romantic historiography, whose first impulse – ‘to
make the distant near’ – might have been to overcome Humean scepticism
by evoking the age of Christian miracles in an emotionally direct and
palpable way. Whately does nothing to bring the age of faith in front of his
readers. Rather, he makes historical testimony itself the subject of historical
enquiry, and in the undeniable reality of the life of Napoleon, he finds a way
of questioning the ‘evidential paradigm’ (to adapt Ginzburg’s phrase) by
which modern sceptics put the Gospel narratives beyond history.
Whately succeeded brilliantly in his manipulation of cognitive distance,
but the success with which the Historic Doubts appropriated aspects of
Hume’s urbane and ironic style for its own ideological purpose also under-
lines a second important point, namely the need to distinguish between the
formal procedures that create effects of proximity/distantiation and the
affective, ideological, or cognitive ends they serve. Since very similar
devices can be put to very different social or political uses, the analysis of
distance should not be seen as an invitation to create elaborate taxonomies
of the sort that made White’s Metahistory seem initially inspiring but ulti-
mately unworkable.8
Close description, for example, has often been employed as a way of
engaging the reader’s sympathies, as Edward Thompson explicitly does in
‘seeking to rescue the poor stockinger, the luddite cropper, the “obsolete”
hand-loom weaver . . . from the enormous condescension of posterity’.9 Yet
detailed narration is not always a strategy for creating sympathy, nor is
immediacy always paired with ideological identification. Thus Michel
Foucault’s grisly description of the dismemberment of Damien the regicide
in the opening scene of Discipline and Punish (1977) is not calculated to
spur us to sympathy with efforts of penal reform; on the contrary, this
horrific close-up of judicial retribution is intended to shock us into aban-
doning our comfort with other, much more familiar regimes of punishment.
Though historians do not use this sort of language, the death-spectacle
could be called an ‘alienation effect’, a device that forces on us the neces-
sary detachment to recognize what is at stake in other forms of punishment,
specifically (as Foucault saw it) in the new, apparently more humane regime
of surveillance instituted by the reforms of the Enlightenment.
DISTANCE-SHIFTS AS ELEMENTS OF
HISTORIOGRAPHICAL CHANGE
Both Thompson’s gesture of humane inclusion and Foucault’s repudiation
of any such resort to historical pathos presuppose the norms of historical
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description from which they dissent. Each of these works, in fact, has the
effect it does in part because of its willingness to revise these norms, and
the most successful repositionings of this kind have helped to set the terms
of new historical schools or genres. Thompson’s own historiographical
politics, for example, is divided in this way from the work of earlier, more
economistic work in the marxist tradition, just as LeRoy Ladurie’s Montail-
lou (1976) or Ginzburg’s Cheese and the Worms (1980) clearly belong to a
new generation of historical studies that radically transformed the long-
durational procedures that had dominated the work of the Annales since
Bloch and Braudel.
Shifting norms of distance played an important role in the historio-
graphical changes that took place around the beginning of the nineteenth
century – a moment that is often regarded as constitutive for the emergence
of a modern historical outlook. When we look more closely at the multi-
plicity of distances at stake, however, the conventional contrast between
Enlightenment and Romantic sensibilities becomes more complex and
rewarding. The philosophical historians of the Scottish Enlightenment
modelled their aspiration to create a science of human society on the induc-
tive generalizations of the natural sciences. This cognitive stance, however,
only gives us one part of the picture, since these historians also subscribed
to a moral psychology that stressed the importance of the passions and
employed ideas of distance to speculate on the dynamics of sympathy and
reason. The result was an effort to join together two compatible but differ-
ently centred commitments. On the one side, historians held a theory of
knowledge that demanded a fairly high degree of abstraction: only then
would history be properly ‘philosophical’. On the other hand, they also
maintained a view of narrative which assumed that the moral effectiveness
of historical writing would depend upon its power to evoke the reader’s
sympathy.10 The combination of representational immediacy and explana-
tory abstraction helped to set the rhythms of the most ambitious narratives
of the day: David Hume’s History of England (1754–62), for example, or
William Robertson’s Charles V (1769). On a still larger scale, it also
expressed itself in the way various historical genres staked out their claims:
a process that pitted ambitiously-titled conjectural histories like Hume’s
The Natural History of Religion or Kames’s Sketches of the History of Man
against the counter-claims of literary biographers that, in fact, the truest
sense of an earlier age was to be found by cultivating an acquaintance with
the thoughts and feelings of its poets.11
Enlightenment historiography drew a good deal of confidence from the
elevated station from which it viewed the history of humanity, a vantage
that made the political narratives of earlier generations seem parochial and
bitty. To a new generation of historians, however, this pretension to a higher
perspective seemed pompous and empty, and the Enlightenment’s deep
interest in the passions was lost in a general critique of its ‘philosophical’
method. Nineteenth-century writers created a new historical outlook by
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To make the past present, to bring the distant near, to place us in the
society of a great man on an eminence which overlooks the field of a
mighty battle, to invest with the reality of human flesh and blood beings
whom we are too much inclined to consider as personified qualities in an
allegory, to call up our ancestors before us with all their peculiarities of
language, manners, and garb, to show us over their houses, to seat us at
their tables, to rummage their old-fashioned wardrobes, to explain the
uses of their ponderous furniture, these parts of the duty which properly
belongs to the historian have been appropriated by the historical
novelist.13
on another level, the subject of distance-shifts also raises issues that have
less to do with any specific work or period than with the need to reflect on
this pattern of variability itself. It is evident that Western historiography (to
say nothing of other traditions or other modes of representation) has incor-
porated strikingly diverse approaches to the central problems of historical
thought and writing – the ‘natural history’ of Hume, as well as the ‘resur-
rection’ of Michelet, the ‘longue durée’ of Braudel, as well as the clue-
hunting of Ginzburg. This diversity might seem to argue for approaching
the history of historiography in a spirit capable of appreciating so wide a
variety of practice. In fact, the opposite has been the case. The history of
historical thought has largely been written as a handmaiden to one particu-
lar philosophical position, with the result that its views on historical distance
have become the standard by which other traditions are judged.
and those of history. ‘Nature’, as one expositor sums it up, ‘. . . is the scene
of the eternally recurring, of phenomena themselves devoid of conscious
purpose; history comprises unique and unduplicable human acts, filled with
volition and intent. . . . History thus becomes the only guide to an under-
standing of things human’.16 As a shorthand we can say that historicism
assumes a view of society as expressive and developmental, while it
proposes an idea of historical method whose distinctive quality is its
empathy and reflexivity. These two propositions are complementary. Every
society, it is argued, expresses its own individuality in the specifics of its
cultural forms and institutional structures; reciprocally the part/whole
relationship that links outward signs to inwardly-experienced meanings
allows us to interpret the world of human actions. In this effort, the classi-
ficatory methods of the natural sciences are of no use because they remain
on the outside of events. Rather, the historian’s first reference is to the
general fund of human experience, the same resource, in fact, that allows
all of us in our daily interactions with other people to make sense of their
actions. In scholarship, this everyday insight is reinforced by various
scientific tools, prominent among them the techniques of textual criticism
developed by philology. At bottom, however, historical understanding
retains the character of a specialized form of human insight.
These views lead to a concept of distance which resists both the abstrac-
tion of natural science and the simple immediacy of lived experience.
Regarding the former as excessively abstract and the latter as naively unre-
flective, historicism attempts to combine elements of both in a hermeneu-
tic process that leads from an initial recognition of difference to an ultimate
position of identification. Both difference and identity are essential to the
movement of understanding, but identification occupies the privileged
position; its victories set the norm by which the quality of historical under-
standing is measured.
Collingwood summarizes the essential point when he says that the
historian’s work ‘may begin by discovering the outside of an event, but it
can never end there; he must always remember that the event was an action,
and that his main task is to think himself into this action, to discern the
thought of its agent’.17 For Dilthey, similarly, the progressive development
of this hermeneutic marks the path of historical knowledge towards scien-
tific standing. As the human sciences mature, he writes, there is a tendency
to demote the physical side of events to the status of conditions and ‘means
of comprehension’. Dilthey calls this ‘the turn towards reflection, the
movement of understanding from the external to the internal’.18 Its essence
is the tendency to make use of every outward expression to understand the
mental state from which it arises. When we read about war or economic
activity, our minds are filled with images, ‘but what moves us, above all, in
these accounts is what is inaccessible to the senses and can only be experi-
enced inwardly . . . For all that is valuable in life is contained in what can
be experienced and the whole outer clamor of history revolves around it’.19
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I am most grateful to Barbara Taylor for her generous invitation, as well as to Adam Phillips
for his comments and subsequent conversations. Earlier versions of this essay were presented
to seminars at Indiana University, the University of Chicago, the Department of History and
Philosophy of Science, Cambridge University, and at King’s College, Cambridge. I want to
thank Dror Wahrman, Steve Pincus, Simon Schaffer, Simon Goldhill and Stefan Hoesel-Uhlig
for these opportunities. Among the many who responded so helpfully to the various seminars,
I particularly want to acknowledge the comments of Stefan Collini, John Dunn, Stefan Hoesel-
Uhlig, Mary Catherine Moran, Steve Pincus, and Simon Schaffer. It is a special pleasure to
thank Edward Hundert and John Burrow, two probing and generous readers.
1 Mark Phillips, The Memoir of Marco Parenti; a Life in Medici Florence, Princeton, 1987.
2 Emmanuel Le Roy Ladurie, Montaillou: the Promised Land of Error (1976), transl.
Barbara Bray, London, 1978; Laurel Thatcher Ulrich, The Midwife’s Tale: the Life of Martha
Ballard, based on her Diary 1785–1812, New York, 1990.
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3 I have discussed the disparate forms of microhistory and the ways in which the multiple
distances I am outlining here can help to clarify their different commitments in ‘Histories,
Micro- and Literary: Problems of Genre and Distance’, New Literary History 34, 2003.
4 Ginzburg’s fullest exposition of this idea is in Clues, Myths, and the Historical Method,
transl. John and Anne Tedeschi, Baltimore, 1989. His recent study, Wooden Eyes: Nine Reflec-
tions on Distance, transl. Martin Ryle and Kate Soper, New York, 2001, offers a series of stimu-
lating essays concerned with distance, but in a rather different sense from that pursued here.
5 For a helpful overview of this shift in recent history of science, see Jan Golinski, Making
Natural Knowledge: Constructivism and the History of Science, Cambridge, 1998.
6 Steve Shapin and Simon Schaffer, Leviathan and the Air Pump, Princeton, 1985.
7 Richard Whately, Historic Doubts Relative to Napoleon Buonaparte, ed. Ralph S.
Pomero, California, 1985, pp. 24–5.
8 Hayden V. White, Metahistory: the Historical Imagination in Nineteenth-century Europe,
Baltimore and London, 1974. See Bernard Williams’s remark: ‘it must be said that the fantas-
tical elaboration of the scheme and its ability to process almost any possibility without much
resistance do sometimes make it seem less like a machine than a picture of a machine’. Truth
and Truthfulness: an Essay in Genealogy, Princeton, 2002, p. 243.
9 E. P. Thompson. The Making of the English Working Class, London (1963), Harmonds-
worth, 1968, p. 13.
10 For a larger treatment of this tension, see my essay ‘Relocating Inwardness: Historical
Distance and the Transition from Enlightenment to Romantic Historiography’, Proceedings of
the Modern Languages Association 118, 2003: pp. 436–9.
11 David Hume, The Natural History of Religion, 1757; Henry Lord Kames, Sketches of
the History of Man, London, 1779.
12 Jules Michelet, Le Peuple, 1846, introduction: ‘Let it be my part in the future not to have
attained, but marked, the aim of history, to have called it by a name that nobody had given it.
Thierry called it narration, and M. Guizot analysis. I have named it resurrection and this name
will remain.’ See Fritz Stern, Varieties of History, New York, 1973, p. 117.
13 Miscellaneous Essays vol. 1, p. 310. The essay, a review of Hallam, was first published
in Edinburgh Review in September 1828.
14 At a time when readers were increasingly drawn to the evocative side of historical
writing, literary history in its various forms offered perhaps the most promising vehicle for
exploring the sentiments and experiences of ordinary people in the past. See my: ‘Literary
History and Literary Historicism in the Historical Thought of the Long Eighteenth Century’,
in New Directions in Eighteenth-Century Literature, ed. C. Wall, Oxford, forthcoming.
15 This influence was especially pronounced in North America, where the idealist
approach was strongly reinforced by Fritz Stern’s Varieties of History.
16 Georg Iggers, The German Conception of History: the National Tradition of Historical
Thought from Herder to the Present, Middletown, CT, revised edn, 1983, pp. 4–5.
17 Robin George Collingwood, The Idea of History (1946), revised edn, ed. Jan van der
Dussen, Oxford, 1994, p. 213.
18 Dilthey, Selected Writings, ed. H. P. Rickman, Cambridge, 1976, p. 172.
19 Dilthey, Selected Writings, p. 172.
20 Dilthey, Selected Writings, p. 172.
21 Dilthey, Selected Writings, pp. 181–2.
22 Dilthey, Selected Writings, p. 182.
23 Collingwood, Idea, p. 282.
24 Collingwood, Idea, p. 252.
25 Collingwood, Idea, pp. 257–8.
26 Collingwood, Idea, pp. 229–30.
27 Collingwood, Idea, pp. 29–30.
28 Collingwood, Idea, pp. 38–9.
29 Collingwood, Idea, pp. 42–3.
30 ‘The real cause of this restriction of interest to the modern period was that with their
narrow conception of reason they had no sympathy for, and therefore no insight into, what
from their point of view were non-rational periods of human history; they only began to be
interested in history at the point where it began to be the history of a modern spirit akin to
their own’. Idea, p. 78.
31 Collingwood, Idea, pp. 76–7.
32 Compare Dilthey’s judgement on the Enlightenment: ‘No real blood flows in the veins
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of the knowing subject constructed by Locke, Hume, and Kant; it is only the diluted juice of
reason, a mere process of thought’: Selected Works, p. 162.
33 Collingwood himself eloquently describes the kind of failure of sympathy that, in my
own view, he himself commits. Whenever a historian finds certain historical matters unintelli-
gible, he writes, he has come up against a limitation in his own mind. ‘Certain historians,
sometimes whole generations of historians, find in certain periods of history nothing intelligi-
ble, and call them dark ages; but such phrases tell us nothing about those ages themselves,
though they tell us a great deal about the persons who use them namely that they are unable
to re-think the thoughts which were fundamental to their life’. pp. 218–19.
34 Friedrich Nietzsche, On the Advantages and Disadvantages of History for Life (1874),
transl. Peter Preuss, Indianapolis, 1980, p. 8.
35 Nietzsche, Advantage, p. 47.
36 Nietzsche, Advantage, p. 14.
37 Nietzsche, Advantage, p. 10.
38 Nietzsche, Advantage, p. 45.