A Thousand Years of Western Technology in One Volume: Is All-Inclusive Ever Conclusive?

Robert Friedel's A Culture of Improvement¹ is a big book, and just its appearance makes one wonder: What is it? and Who's the audience? Such immense histories occur seldom in the modern world. There was the Oxford History of Technology, published in five volumes between 1954 and 1958; there was the two-volume Kranzberg-Pursell Technology in Western Civilization, likewise published by Oxford, in 1967; and there are histories of technology in different nations or regions, or histories of different types of technology. But a book about the whole of Western technology during the last thousand years . . . and by a single author? That's another kettle of fish.

And even with this book, one immediately asks: Why just Western technology? Why would one person take on such an immense task? What part did the publisher play in the decision to produce such a large and ambitious one-volume work? What market did the publisher foresee, and how far will its marketing expectations be satisfied? Or, what did the author hope from his vast labors? Did he write it for a certain class of readers—undergraduates specializing in the history of technology, undergraduates generalizing in modern history, graduate students in the history of technology, general or specialist libraries, or faculty members teaching the history of technology? Or was it a private ambition of the author himself to settle on such a task? For profit, for reputation, or as a test of his own intellectual powers? And if any of these, how did he persuade the MIT Press to pursue his dreams? These are only a few of the questions that I would like to hear answered. Will this book set a trend? Is it a protest against overspecialization? How many general readers will purchase and read a book of this length?

I am unable to answer most of these questions, but what I do know is that, while I value Robert Friedel's labors highly, I would not want his book to start a trend. Yes, I am sympathetic to all opposition to overspecialization in our field of study, and I am most anxious about its effects. For example, I detest many of the papers offered at learned conferences, where only the panel seems to know what the purpose of the session is, and such general discussion as may take place there seems often to be composed of insider jokes and snide references to the work of rivals. But I believe that historical research can be on broad themes of general interest without leading to gargantuan volumes such as this. The sort of book I relish is Lynn White's Medieval Technology and Social Change (1962), a book of less than 200 pages which Friedel himself corrects but commends.

Friedel's remarkable work uses sources that are mostly secondary, as one would expect, but when he cites occasionally from primary sources, they leap from the page to inspire us—as, for example, Agricola's statement on page 136: "I have omitted all those things which I have not myself seen, or have not read or heard of from persons upon whom I can rely. That which I have neither seen, nor carefully considered after reading or hearing of, I have not written about." Or Matthew Boulton in a letter to James Watt:

I presumed that your engine would require merely very accurate workmanship and extensive correspondence to make it turn out to the best advantage. . . . My idea was to settle a manufactory near to my own . . . where I would erect all the convenience necessary for the completion of engines and from which manufactory we would serve all the world with engines of all sizes

(p. 139).

Who will be the readers for Friedel's book? Not, I suggest, the average undergraduate, who would be swamped by it. However, such an undergraduate might benefit once the instructor has provided an introduction in class and recommended selected chapters. Will graduate students use it? They might profit a great deal by reading any...