John Demos

March/April 2008 Historically Speaking rative might be thought of as the bass component; die analysis as die treble. Boosting the bass diminishes me effect of the treble; amplifying the treble masks the bass. No one setting suits every listener, nor does a single setting suit every part of a particular piece of music. But by fiddlingwitii die dial, die operator—the author—can hope to find die sweet spots diat bring out the best parts of the work, supplying satisfaction to the discriminating listener— reader—and, witii luck, producing a hit. H. W. Brands is the Dickson Allen Anderson CentennialProfessor of History at the University of Texas. Author of twenty books, his recentpublications include The Money Men: Capitalism, Democracy , and the Hundred Years' War over the American Dollar (Norton, 2006) andAndrew Jackson: His Life and Times (Doubleday, 2005), a Chicago Tribune Best Book of 2005. John Demos Adam Hochschild has given us a wonderfully thoughtful little manifesto on "practicing history without a license." Along the way he has spotlighted both opportunities and difficulties that surround the sometimes tendentious relationship between "writers of history for the general public" and "historians inside the academy." The tiirust of his piece goes toward tolerance, mutual respect, even joining. My own inclinations run in a similar direction. He is right, for example, to suspect that many academic historians nowadays aspire to reach a "general audience "; indeed diat trend has been building for some time. Fifteen years ago, when I first introduced a course on historical writing as part of the doctoral curriculum at my own university, I could not learn of anything similar being offered elsewhere. By now such courses are commonplace. Moreover, the results —again in the case of my own teaching—have been remarkable. Graduate students are extremely responsive; in some years the course has had to be taught in double-section. Often, enough interest is matched by fine talent. Many of these student historians have discovered writinggifts unrevealed in their previous, more conventional coursework. The best of their essays—at least of few—might well deserve a toss over the transom at the New Yorker. Hochschild declares that most historical writing for a general audience should take a narrative form and quotes Peter Burke on the need to "integrate narrative and analysis." This last, I believe, is key. Narrative for its own sake may not be enough; the challenge is to embed analysis within it. We might remember here die old saw about the difference between "showing and telling"; clearly, our goal as analytically minded narrators must be the former. The issue, of course, is how best to make this happen? Historians have, in fact, been trying out a variety of A Nürnberg print of North America and New York, 1778. Library of Congress, Prints and Photographs Division [reproduction number, LC-USZ62-46068]. strategies. Some examples: Linda Gordon's The Great Arizona OrphanAbduction alternates narrative with interpretive chapters; the two modes are fully set apart. Patricia Cline Cohen's The Murder of Helen Jewett moves back and fortii between them without explicit separation. Laurel Thatcher Ulrich's A Midwife's Tale blends diem so skillfully diat the distinction becomes almost imperceptible. Hochschild also urges that historians set their sights on "whales" rather "fleas." This seems reasonable , and important, but he does not direcdy tell us what constitutes a whale of a topic. A "mighty theme" (in Melville's words): that seems fair enough. But I'd like to add something more. Writers of history are well advised to seek a level of generic meaning in our various choices of topic. Though grounded always in carefully specified particulars— this time, diat place, diese events—ourwork can also embrace themes of (how else to put it?) deeply existential significance. Love, death, separation; integrity , trust, autonomy, identity: such matters need not be left to novelists, poets, and philosophers. Hochschild himself implies as much in calling attention to historical "moments" when empathy seems either to leap or to shrink: surely these have a generic dimension. But too often, I think, we setde for a good deal less. In doing so, we sell ourselves—and our readers—short. There are, however, pitfalls to be avoided...