Reviewed: The Undivided Past by David Cannadine

If only the Taliban were like us.

The Undivided Past: History Beyond Our Differences
David Cannadine
Allen Lane, 352pp, £20

This is a strange book. David Cannadine, a distinguished historian of 19th-century Britain, has taken it upon himself to admonish the historical profession for setting up a series of unhelpful oppositions in its narratives of the past, emphasising division rather than collaboration, conflicting identities rather than a common humanity. He chides us for not writing about the boring bits in between, when people got on with each other; instead, he claims, we are always chasing after the newsworthy moments of the past, when people evidently did not.

To illustrate his point, Cannadine isolates six forms of identity in which historians have helped to cement unreal antagonisms: religion, nation, class, gender, race and civilisation. Instead of compartmentalising history by focusing on one form of identity at the expense of others, Cannadine insists – and who would question this? – that we have multiple and shifting identities. It is possible to be a woman, black, a worker, a Christian and British all at the same time. Yet this is so obvious that it scarcely needs to be stated. Cannadine’s fear is that historians impose on figures from the past – and, by implication, on those around us today – a single identity, seeing all workers, for example, as potentially class-conscious proletarians; or all Christians as bearers, through the ages, of anti-Semitic and anti-Islamic prejudices or hatreds; or all women as waiting to be liberated from a male-constructed universe.

The most problematic of these categories is civilisation. Here, too, Cannadine insists that historians have been responsible for taking an approach to the past (and the present) that has divided humanity into broad aggregations based on the idea of separate and identifiable civilisations, which, almost by definition, will be antagonistic and which, in the hands of generations of western writers, have been contrasted with the “barbarian”.

This last category, as Cannadine recognises, goes back as far, if not further, than the ancient Greeks, for whom the barbarian was other or alien. In the 19th century, historians contrasted the Greek and Roman heritage and its survival through the Renaissance and the Enlightenment with the “barbarous” societies of Africa and Asia and the peoples encountered in the New World.

In the 20th century, civilisation-counting became de rigueur, with Arnold Toynbee and Oswald Spengler its leading exponents. Samuel P Huntington’s 1996 book, The Clash of Civilisations, is, for Cannadine, the end point of this damaging effort to divide the history of humanity into stories of “us” against “them”. This effort lies, he suggests, at the root of the current struggle between “western” values and ways of life and the invisible threat of international terrorism.

Cannadine writes about all these things as engagingly and fluently as ever. He is no doubt right that some historians over the past century or so, when historical writing in the west has become professionalised and widely practised, have helped to create conflicts of identity that are overdrawn and at times pernicious. It is tempting to project current concerns and prejudices back on to the past, turning every woman in 19thcentury Europe into a victim of universal misogyny or every black man into a victim of white supremacism. Historians have played their part in the creation of national identities that are more imagined than real, as well as in fomenting national rivalries, inadvertently or otherwise.

The history of war is habitually written by the winners, so that “good-war” narratives gloss over the awful reality of all human conflict, especially when the enemy can be defined as barbarous. Not for nothing was the word “Hun” used to describe the Germans in two world wars (and historians certainly helped by hunting for German atrocities in order, implicitly rather than explicitly, to confirm the barbarous sobriquet).

Cannadine reserves his most powerful indictment for those 20th-century historians who, from a Marxist or sub-Marxist point of view, peddled Karl Marx’s view that all history is the history of class struggle and should be written as such. The arch-villains here are, predictably, Eric Hobsbawm and E P Thompson, though the net can be spread widely from the 1920s up to the 1970s, when postmodernism is said to have challenged “hegemonic” narratives of nation, class and elite. Historians who subscribed to the Marxist model (though not necessarily Marxists themselves) not only defined the past in class terms, from the Spartacus revolt of 73 BC to the triumph of Hitler in 1933, but helped to shape the questions that other historians were supposed to ask about the past – hence endless histories of trade union movements, co-operatives, labour relations and class identities, not to mention Cannadine’s work on the declining aristocracy.

In the 1960s, Marxism seemed a solid reference point for understanding the varieties of the past. Now, Cannadine tells us, Marxism is dead and buried, overcome by how class identity is in some ways the weakest of the collectivities imposed on history, unable to explain or to undermine the appeal of religion, nation or gender.

There are some obvious objections to make to Cannadine’s thesis. He has clearly not been paying attention to the direction in which historical writing in Britain and the United States has been moving over the past few decades. The subjects that now interest historians are to be found in everyday life – sex, fashion, food, even noise or dirt – and in the gaps between the old narratives and their battles, murders and commotion. Historical methodology is now rooted in an obsession with “transnational” pasts – just the kind of fluid intercourse between social groups, national units or civilisations that Cannadine argues has been neglected. Contacts, networks and translations are all the rage.

It is hard to think of any historian who still subscribes to the older verities, so much so that the word “class” (which was a historical concept, invented by Hegel years before Marx) is now regarded as a relic from a bygone age. A great deal of history today is written about historians and the way in which “public history”, as it is called, has been distorted by the values of an earlier generation of writers. Much of this work, including Cannadine’s book, which is based on his 2007 Trevelyan lectures at the University of Cambridge, aims to refine the crude categories that have been imposed on past societies in order to understand them better and to overcome enduring prejudices and assumptions about “the other”. Schoolchildren are now taught in history lessons to sniff out “bias”.

A more simple objection is that historians have often supplied a critical and dissenting voice and have countered crude stereotyping and popular prejudice. Although the current obsession in English schools with the Nazis is perhaps excessive, it is nevertheless a powerful vehicle for exposing all forms of racial prejudice and state oppression. It is precisely because history is an awkward and critical discipline that its capacity to influence how people think or have thought is much more limited than historians like to claim. The small cabals of historians invited to meet, say, Margaret Thatcher or George W Bush were ornamental, not essential. For much of the time, historians have contested realities that they did little to shape.

In his introduction, Cannadine does concede that his six categories are sustained by “pundits, politicians and the public” but he adds that “many engaged academics” (whatever that means) want to define the world in terms of the eternal struggle between “good” and “evil”. This may be true of churches, whose hypocrisy is daily exposed in the press, and of simple-minded American presidents – but of historians? Cannadine has chosen to set up a row of straw men rather than engage with what most of his historical colleagues are really up to.

What is most worrying about Cannadine’s argument is the idea that somehow historians have helped to construct a false version of reality. It is simply not the case that for most of human history social groups, peoples, empires and genders have got on reasonably well. Historians reflect in what they write an inherited reality, however distorted or opaque their portrayal of it can sometimes be. It would be absurd to suggest that women have not been – and continue to be – the objects of discrimination, violent coercion and rape, especially where religious institutions or political structures dictate their absolute inferiority. That women’s voices were seldom heard in the distant past or that evidence seems to show they colluded in their own subjection does not diminish the historical reality of male power.

The same objections apply to Cannadine’s smug dismissal of Marxism. Although some workers felt that they were more Catholic than proletarian, or more patriotic than international, or more white than workingclass, industrial capitalism was responsible for the emergence in the 19th century of jerry-built, grimy cities, inhabited by impoverished populations with few amenities, chronic diseases and negligible welfare. Historians have not made up the antagonism between capital and labour, which is rooted in harsh social realities.

Boring though histories of trade unionism might be, they are monuments to the efforts made by ordinary people to better their bargaining power and challenge an industrial elite that realised only very late that treating workers better improved productivity and expanded demand. Political agitators, economists and philanthropists certainly contributed to the process of ameliorating poverty and social disadvantage; historians have only described that process. Rather than create artificial divisions, most historians are at pains to explain how they came about and what their consequences have been.

It is difficult to see what Cannadine wants his profession to do now. He calls on academic historians to abandon the artificial divisions of “identity” history and to celebrate a common humanity “that still binds us together today”. This is 1960s-style cant, a western delusion that bears no resemblance to the realities of either the recent or more distant past. Most of those who live outside the privileged and secure west think not about a common humanity but about the conditions of merely surviving in a world that more closely resembles Darwin’s than it does John Locke’s.

There remain profound differences in the world that have deep historical roots; indeed, it is precisely western hubris that has assumed that if only the Taliban were like us, we would not have to defend “our way of life” in Helmand Province. There is a common humanity only in the most banal sense that we all eat, sleep, have sex and die – as do rabbits and gorillas. The historian’s role is surely to be able to understand those differences and what they signify and to encourage politicians and generals to respect and comprehend difference. No doubt many historians hope that what they write about will also pose a moral challenge to the many surviving forms of discrimination and violence in the world. But ultimately, human life is, as Schopenhauer insisted, a story of “struggle”. Appeals to a common humanity are not going to change that.

Reading Cannadine’s book, I was reminded of John Lennon’s song “Imagine”, written more than 40 years ago: “You may say I’m a dreamer/But I’m not the only one./I hope some day you’ll join us/And the world will be as one.” Keep on imagining.

Richard Overy is professor of history at the University of Exeter. His next book, “The Bombing War: Europe 1939-45”, will be published later this year by Allen Lane

Fleeing an IED explosion in Afghanistan. Photograph: Getty Images

This article first appeared in the 11 March 2013 issue of the New Statesman, The audacity of popes

JAMIE KINGHAM/MILLENNIUM
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Snakebites and body parts

The city at the edge of an apocalypse: a love letter to Los Angeles.

I was emailing with Kenneth Anger, the film-maker, when the coyotes across the street in Griffith Park started howling.

That’s partially true.

I was emailing him to ask if he’d direct a music video for me. Maybe Lucifer Rising 2.0. Or anything.

Just him in the kitchen making tea, as recorded on his iPhone.

Kenneth Anger is alive and well in Santa Monica, so why not ask him to direct a video for me? Hopefully, he’ll respond. We’ve never met, so I sent an email to him, not with him. That’s the partial truth.

But the coyotes did start howling.

It’s the single best sound in Los Angeles, or any city. Is there another city where you can email an 89-year-old devotee of Aleister Crowley while listening to a few dozen coyotes screaming and howling and ripping the night into little pieces?

No. Just here. This oddness by the sea and an inch from a billion acres of Arrakis.

I never thought I’d end up living in Los Angeles, but I’ve ended up living in Los Angeles. This dirtiest, strangest paradise.

Yesterday I went hiking in a two-million-acre state park that’s 30 minutes from my house. A state park bigger than all of New York City. And it’s 30 minutes away. With no people. Just bears and pumas and coyotes and snakes.

And other things. Abandoned bridges. An observatory where Albert Einstein used to go to watch space.

What a strange city.

A perfect city. Perfect for humans at the edge of this strangely unfolding apocalypse. A gentle apocalypse with trade winds and Santa Ana winds and the biannual vicious storm that rips eucalyptus trees up by their roots.

What a strange city. And it’s my home.

Today I hiked to the back of the Hollywood sign. This was before Kenneth Anger and the coyotes.

The tourists were dropping like flies on the long, hot mountain trail, not aware that this isn’t a city with the safe European ­infrastructure that keeps them happy
and/or alive.

Every now and then, a tourist dies in the hills, bitten by a snake or lost at night. The emergency rooms are full of tourists with snakebites and heatstroke.

Where are the European safeguards?

Fuck us if we need safeguards. Go live in a place like this gentle wasteland where you’re not at the top of the food chain. If you’re not in danger of being eaten at some point in the day, you’re probably not breathing right.

I hope Kenneth Anger writes back.

 

22 May

I drove some friends around my neighbourhood. They want to live here. Why wouldn’t they? Pee-wee Herman and Thom Yorke live up the street.

David Fincher lives a block away. It’s blocks and blocks of jasmine-scented name-
dropping.

It’s warm in the winter and it’s weird all year round.

And there’s a Frank Lloyd Wright that looks like a lunatic Mayan spaceship.

And there go the coyotes again, howling like adorable delegates of death.

They’re so smart, I wish they would make me their king.

You hate Los Angeles? Who cares? You made a mistake, you judged it like you’d judge a city. Where’s the centre?

There’s no centre. You want a centre? The centre cannot hold. Slouching towards Bethlehem. Things fall apart.

Amazing how many titles can come from one poem. What’s a gyre?

Yeats and Kenneth Anger and Aleister Crowley. All these patterns.

Then we had brunch in my art deco pine-tree-themed restaurant, which used to sell cars and now sells organic white tea and things.

The centre cannot hold. I still have no idea what a gyre is.

Maybe something Irish or Celtic.

It’s nice that they asked me to write this journal.

Things fall apart.

So you hate Los Angeles? Ha. It still loves you, like the sandy golden retriever it is. Tell me again how you hate the city loved by David Lynch and where David Bowie made his best album? Listen to LA Woman by the Doors and watch Lynch’s Lost Highway and read some Joan Didion – and maybe for fun watch Nightcrawler – and tell me again how you hate LA.

I fucking love this sprawling inchoate pile of everything.

Even at its worst, it’s hiding something baffling or remarkable.

Ironic that the city of the notoriously ­vapid is the city of deceiving appearance.

After brunch, we went hiking.

Am I a cliché? Yes. I hike. I do yoga. I’m a vegan. I even meditate. As far as clichés go, I prefer this to the hungover, cynical, ruined, sad, grey cliché I was a decade ago.

“You’re not going to live for ever.”

Of course not.

But why not have a few bouncy decades that otherwise would’ve been spent in a hospital or trailing an oxygen tank through a damp supermarket?

 

24 May

A friend said: “The last time I had sex, it was warm and sunny.”

Well, that’s helpful.

October? June? February?

No kidding, the coyotes are howling again. I still love them. Have you ever heard a pack of howling coyotes?

Imagine a gaggle of drunk college girls who also happened to be canine demons. Screaming with blood on their teeth.

It’s such a beautiful sound but it also kind of makes you want to hide in a closet.

No Kenneth Anger.

Maybe I’m spam.

Vegan spam.

Come on, Kenneth, just make a video for me, OK?

I’ll take anything.

Even three minutes of a plant on a radiator.

I just received the hardcover copy of my autobiography, Porcelain. And, like anyone, I skimmed the pictures. I’m so classy, eating an old sandwich in my underpants.

A friend’s dad had got an advance copy and was reading it. I had to issue the cautious caveat: “Well, I hope he’s not too freaked out by me dancing in my own semen while surrounded by a roomful of cross-dressing Stevie Nicks-es.”

If I ever have kids, I might have one simple rule. Or a few simple rules.

Dear future children of mine:

1) Don’t vote Republican.

2) Don’t get facial tattoos.

3) Don’t read my memoir.

I don’t need my currently unmade children to be reading about their dear dad during his brief foray into the world of professional dominatrixing, even if it was brief.

The first poem I loved was by Yeats: “When You Are Old”. I sent it to my high-school non-girlfriend. The girl I longed for, unrequitedly. I’m guessing I’m not the first person to have sent “When You Are Old” to an unrequited love.

Today the sky was so strangely clear. I mean, the sky is almost always clear. We live in a desert. But today it felt strangely clear, like something was missing. The sun felt magnified.

And then, at dusk, I noticed the gold light slanting through some oak trees and hitting the green sides of the mountains (they were green as we actually had rain over the winter). The wild flowers catch the slanting gold light and you wonder, this is a city? What the fuck is this baffling place?

I add the “fuck” for street cred. Or trail cred, as I’m probably hiking. As I’m a cliché.

You hike, or I hike, in the middle of a city of almost 20 million people and you’re alone. Just the crows and the spiralling hawks and the slanting gold light touching the oak trees and the soon-to-go-away
wild flowers.

The end of the world just feels closer here, but it’s nice, somehow. Maybe the actual end of the world won’t be so nice but the temporal proximity can be OK. In the slanting gold light. You have to see it, the canyons in shadow and the tops of the hills in one last soft glow.

What a strange non-city.

 

25 May

They asked for only four journal entries, so here’s the last one.

And why is # a “hashtag”?

Hash? Like weird meat or weird marijuana? Tag, like the game?

At least “blog” has an etymology, even if, as a word, it sounds like a fat clog in a drain.

A friend who works in an emergency room had a patient delivered to her who had a croquet ball in his lower intestine. I guess there’s a lesson there: always have friends who work in emergency rooms, as they have the best stories.

No coyotes tonight. But there’s a long, lonesome, faraway train whistle or horn. Where?

Where in LA would there be a long, lonesome, faraway train whistle or horn?

It’s such a faraway sound. Lonesome hoboes watching the desert from an empty train car. Going where?

I met a woman recently who found human body parts in some bags while she
was hiking.

Technically, her dogs found them.

Then she found the dogs.

And then the sky was full of helicopters, as even in LA it’s unusual to have human hands and things left in bags near a hiking trail a few hundred yards from Brad Pitt’s house.

What is this place?

When I used to visit LA, I marvelled at the simple things, like gas stations and guest bedrooms.

I was a New Yorker.

And the gas stations took credit cards. At. The. Pumps.

What was this magic?

And people had Donald Judd beds in their living rooms, just slightly too small for actual sleeping – but, still, there’s your Donald Judd bed. In your living room at the top of the hill somewhere, with an ocean a dozen miles away but so clear you can see Catalina.

They drained the reservoir and now don’t know what to do with it.

Good old LA, confused by things like empty reservoirs in the middle of the city.

Maybe that’s where the lonesome train lives. And it only comes out at night, to make the sound of a lonesome train whistle, echoing from the empty concrete reservoir that’s left the city nonplussed.

“We’ve never had an empty reservoir in the city before.”

So . . . Do something great with it. I know, it’s a burden being given a huge gift of ­empty real estate in the middle of the city.

Tomorrow I’m meeting some more friends who’ve moved here from New York.

“We have a guest bedroom!” they crow.

A century ago, the Griffith Park planners planted redwoods across the street. And now the moon is waning but shining, far away but soft, through the redwoods.

No coyotes, but a waning moon through some towering redwoods is still really OK. As it’s a city that isn’t a city, and it’s my home.

Goodnight.

Moby’s memoir, “Porcelain”, is published by Faber & Faber

This article first appeared in the 26 May 2016 issue of the New Statesman, The Brexit odd squad