Historical analogy is a blunt and clumsy tool, and one serving better as a rhetorical device than as a method of analysis. The so-called law of the instrument -- i.e., “if all you have is a hammer, everything looks like a nail” -- applies to historical analogy with double force. And not just because the stock of examples is usually narrow and cliché addled, as with the entirely too familiar Munich Pact formula: “X is the new Hitler; Y’s policy resembles that of Neville Chamberlain in 1938; therefore doing Z would exhibit Churchill-like foresight.” Nearly always the analogy is blatant propaganda on behalf of Z. You never find it used for heuristic purposes, such as determining who the current Wernher von Braun might be.
The deeper problem is that historical analogy is always just on the verge of a cognitive short circuit. Finding patterns in the world is one of the evolutionarily adaptive knacks of the human brain, but we’re still learning to test and fine-tune it -- an especially difficult prospect when the patterns we find (or think we find) belong to the realm of human action. What looks like historical parallel from one angle may well turn out to be self-fulfilling prophecy. This can be a problem, especially if large weapons systems come into play.
While never so dramatic as analogies drawn from the Weimar-to-Nuremberg continuum, framing contemporary geopolitics as a Cold War-like standoff between two superpowers has been a regular temptation over the years -- at least, for the one superpower left standing. The main candidates to take the erstwhile Soviet Union’s place have been China and the global jihadist movement, with Putin-era Russia as a more recent nominee.
Indeed, books and articles with “New Cold War” in the title began appearing even before the old one was quite finished -- indications, perhaps, of a wish for a certain degree of familiarity and continuity between eras, a recognizable and navigable lineup of affiliations and hostilities. The passing of a quarter century has also made the bipolar thermonuclear quagmire of an earlier era look more orderly and stable than the anarchic system of free-floating multilateral anxiety that prevails today.
For the past couple of weeks, I was on the verge of reading Return to Cold War (Polity) by Robert Legvold, a professor emeritus of political science at Columbia University, but then kept putting it off. Perhaps it was the lack of a question mark in the title: Return to Cold War sound like an imperative. The cover shows an upside-down dove, depicted as if in the middle of a kamikaze dive or following airborne contact with a very high wall. The whole thing seemed designed to squelch any flicker of optimism that had somehow survived the day's news.
But once I actually opened the book, I found such apprehensions were misplaced: Legvold is not given to simplistic analogy nor does he indulge any notion that a return to long-term, two-sided geopolitical stalemate is possible, much less desirable. If relations between the United States and Russia have deteriorated to the point that comparisons to the Cold War status quo are appropriate, it is only within the limits defined by the absence, as yet, of ideological differences that call for a fight to the death of one system or the other. The deterioration was not inevitable, and even with it underway, there have been episodes of cooperation, albeit growing fewer and narrower as the mutual distrust continues. The common denominator between the countries has been the failure to assess things at all equitably: “If one searched for a leader, policy maker or politician on either side who included somewhere in her or his analysis thoughts about missteps or failings on both sides, the quest would have been in vain.”
Not that foresight was impossible. Legvold quotes a striking comment by George F. Kennan, author of the American policy of containment at the start of the Cold War. “Expanding NATO,” wrote Kennan in 1997 in The New York Times, “would be the most fateful error of American policy in the entire post-Cold War era. Such a decision may be expected to inflame the nationalist, anti-Western and militaristic tendencies in Russian opinion; to have an adverse effect on the development of Russian democracy; to restore the atmosphere of the Cold War in East-West relations; and to impel Russian foreign policy in directions decidedly not to our liking.” By no means is that the key explaining the entire course of the past 20 years, but as predictions go, it has its merits.
The author's presentation is succinct, lucid, fairly dispassionate and almost incessantly even-handed. I got the sense that he wrote it as if addressing an assembly of the policy-making elites of both sides, pointing out the confluence of blunders and rationalizations that worsened steadily to create a situation that, if not necessarily irreversible, now looks likely to continue in the same direction for some time to come.
Over the weekend I went through the fall 2016 catalog of every publisher belonging to the Association of American University Presses. Or at least I tried -- a number of fall catalogs have not been released yet, or else the publishers have hidden the PDFs on their websites with inexplicable cunning. (It seems as if savvy publicists would insist that catalogs be featured so prominently on the homepage that it’s almost impossible to overlook them. Perhaps half my time went to playing “Where’s Waldo?” so evidently not.) A few sites hadn’t been updated in at least a year. At one of them, the most recent catalog is from 2012, although the press itself seems still to be in existence. Let’s just hope everyone there is OK.
After assembling roughly 70 catalogs, I began to cull a list of books to consider for this column in the months ahead, which now runs to 400 titles, give or take a few, with more to be added as the search for Waldo continues. When you take an overview of a whole season’s worth of university-press output in one marathon survey, you can detect certain patterns or themes. A monograph on the white-power music underground? Duly noted. A second one, publishing a month later? That is a bit more striking. (The journalistic rule of thumb is that three makes a trend; for now, we’re left with a menacing coincidence.)
Some of the convergences seemed to merit notice, even in advance of the books themselves being available. Here are a few topical clusters that readers may find of interest. The text below in quotation marks after each book comes from the publisher’s description of it, unless otherwise specified. I have been sparing about the use of links, but more information on the books and authors can be readily found online.
“Whither democracy?” seems like an apt characterization of quite a few titles appearing this autumn and early winter. Last year, Jennifer L. Hochschild and Katherine Levine Einstein asked, Do Facts Matter? Information and Misinformation in American Politics, published by the University of Oklahoma Press and out in paperback this month, concluding that “citizens’ inability or unwillingness to use the facts they know in their political decision making may be frustrating,” but the real danger comes from “their acquisition and use of incorrect ‘knowledge’” put out by unscrupulous “political elites.” By contrast, James E. Campbell’s Polarized: Making Sense of a Divided America (Princeton University Press, July) maintains that if the two major parties are “now ideologically distant from each other and about equally distant from the political center” it’s because “American politics became highly polarized from the bottom up, not the top down, and this began much earlier than often thought,” meaning the 1960s.
Frances E. Lee sets the date later, and the locus of polarization higher in the body politic, in Insecure Majorities: Congress and the Perpetual Campaign (University of Chicago Press, September). She sees developments in the 1980s unleashing “competition for control of the government [that] drives members of both parties to participate in actions that promote their own party’s image and undercut that of the opposition, including the perpetual hunt for issues that can score political points by putting the opposing party on the wrong side of public opinion.”
Democracy: A Case Study by David A. Moss (Harvard University Press, January 2017) takes fierce partisanship as a given in American political life -- not a bug but a feature -- and recounts and analyzes 19 episodes of conflict, from the Constitutional Convention onward. Wasting no time in registering his dissent, the libertarian philosopher Jason Brennan comes out Against Democracy (Princeton, August) on the grounds that competent governance requires rational and informed decision making, while “political participation and democratic deliberation actually tend to make people worse -- more irrational, biased and mean.” The alternative he proposes is “epistocracy”: rule by the knowledgeable. Good luck with that! Reaching that utopia from here will be quite an adventure, especially given that some voters regard “irrational, biased and mean” as qualifications for office.
Fall, when the current election cycle ends, is also be the season of books on the Anthropocene -- the idea that human impact on the environment has been so pronounced that we must define a whole phase of planetary history around it. There is an entry for the term in Fueling Culture: 101 Words for Energy and Environment (Fordham University Press, January), and it appears in the title of at least three books: one from Monthly Review Press (distributed by NYU Press) in September and one each from Princeton and Transcript Verlag (distributed by Columbia University Press) in November. Stacy Alaimo’s Exposed: Environmental Politics and Pleasures in Posthuman Times (University of Minnesota Press, October) opens with the statement “The Anthropocene is no time to set things straight.” (The author calls for “a material feminist posthumanism,” and it sounds like she draws on queer theory as well, so chances are “straight” is an overdetermined word choice.)
The neologism is tweaked in Staying With the Trouble: Making Kin in the Chthulucene (Duke University Press, September) by Donna J. Haraway, who “eschews referring to our current epoch as the Anthropocene, preferring to conceptualize it as what she calls the Chthulucene, as it more aptly and fully describes our epoch as one in which the human and nonhuman are inextricably linked in tentacular practices.” Someone in a position to know tells me that Haraway derives her term from “chthonic” (referring to the subterranean) rather than Cthulhu, the unspeakable ancient demigod of H. P. Lovecraft’s horror fiction. Maybe so, but the reference to tentacles suggests otherwise.
A couple of titles from Columbia University Press try to find a silver lining in the clouds of Anthropocene smog -- or at least to start dispersing them before it’s too late. Michael E. Mann and Tom Toles pool their skills as atmospheric scientist and Pulitzer-winning cartoonist (respectively) in The Madhouse Effect: How Climate Change Denial Is Threatening Our Planet, Destroying Our Politics and Driving Us Crazy (September), which satirizes “the intellectual pretzels into which denialists must twist logic to explain away the clear evidence that man-made activity has changed our climate.” Despite its seemingly monitory title, Geoffrey Heal’s Endangered Economies: How the Neglect of Nature Threatens Our Prosperity (December) is actually an argument for “conserving nature and boosting economic growth” as mutually compatible goals.
If so, it will be necessary to counter the effects of chickenization -- which, it turns out, is U.S. Department of Agriculture slang for “the transformation of all farm animal production” along factory lines, as described in Ellen K. Silbergeld’s Chickenizing Farms and Food: How Industrial Meat Production Endangers Workers, Animals and Consumers (Johns Hopkins University Press, September). Tiago Saraiva shows that the Germans began moving in the same direction, under more sinister auspices, in Fascist Pigs: Technoscientific Organisms and the History of Fascism (The MIT Press, September): “specially bred wheat and pigs became important elements in the institutionalization and expansion of fascist regimes …. Pigs that didn’t efficiently convert German-grown potatoes into pork and lard were eliminated.” A different sociopolitical matrix governs the contemporary American “pasture-raised pork market,” of which Brad Weiss offers an ethnographic account in Real Pigs: Shifting Values in the Field of Local Pork (Duke University Press, August).
And finally -- for this week, anyway -- there is the ecological and biomedical impact of the free-ranging creatures described in Peter P. Marra and Chris Santella’s Cat Wars: The Devastating Consequences of a Cuddly Killer (Princeton, September). Besides the fact that cats kill “birds and other animals by the billions” in the United States, the authors warn of “the little-known but potentially devastating public health consequences of rabies and parasitic Toxoplasma passing from cats to humans at rising rates.” The authors also maintain that “a small but vocal minority of cat advocates has campaigned successfully for no action in much the same way that special interest groups have stymied attempts to curtail smoking and climate change.” I write this while wearing a T-shirt that reads “Crazy Cat Guy” but will be the first to agree that the problem here is primarily human. There’s a reason it’s called the Anthropocene and not the Felinocene.
A number of other themes and topics from university-press fall books offering might bear mentioning in another column, later this summer. With luck, the pool of candidates will grow in the meantime; we’ll see if any new trends crystallize out in the process.
For most people the word “Machiavellian” carries no connotation of virtue, and it’s never meant as praise. A stock theatrical character of the Elizabethan era was the Machiavel, who “delights in his own villainy and gloats over his successes in lengthy soliloquies,” as one literary historian puts it, with Shakespeare’s Iago and Richard III being prime examples. A Newsweek article from last year characterizes Tony Blair as “a Machiavel with a Messiah complex,” surely one of the more inventive insults in recent memory.
Otherwise it is the adjectival form of the Italian statesman’s name that turns up most often -- usually in a political context, though also in articles about Game of Thrones, reality television and (this seems odd) professional soccer. I notice that one of the major American presidential candidates seems to be described as Machiavellian more often than the other. That doesn’t necessarily imply greater concern about moral turpitude; it could just be that her opponent lacks the impulse control required of a true Machiavel.
Be that as it may, Maurizio Viroli’s How to Choose a Leader: Machiavelli’s Advice to Citizens (Princeton University Press) challenges the longstanding tendency to make the Renaissance author’s name synonymous with the art of political skulduggery. Viroli (a professor of government at the University of Texas at Austin and professor emeritus of politics at Princeton University) offers us a kinder, gentler Machiavelli -- one notably free from cynicism, with nothing but the common good in mind.
Counterintuitive though his perspective may sound, Viroli’s presentation of Machiavelli reflects an understanding of the Florentine thinker that has become well established, if not incontrovertible, over the past 40 years or so. (On which more anon.) The element of novelty comes, rather, from how Viroli has put that interpretation to work. He builds an election-year handbook around 20 pithy quotations from Machiavelli which he then glosses and expands upon through references to American history and longer extracts from Machiavelli’s work (chiefly the Discourses on Livy). No mention of the current campaign cycle is made, as such; the manuscript was undoubtedly turned in well before the primaries started. All the more striking, then, that How to Choose a Leader occasionally offers pointed criticisms of people and developments in the news. The effect is particularly impressive when the remark in question was made 500 hundred years ago.
A couple of passages from Machiavelli epitomize his thinking on civic virtue. Neither of them squares at all with his familiar, sinister reputation.
The first we might call, however anachronistically, a statement of populist confidence:
“As for prudence and stability of purpose, I affirm that a people is more prudent, more stable and of better judgment than a prince. Nor is it without reason that the voice of the people has been likened to the voice of God; for we see that widespread beliefs fulfill themselves. … As to the justice of their opinions on public affairs, [they] seldom find that after hearing two speakers of equal ability urging them in opposite directions, they do not adopt the sounder view, or are unable to decide on the truth of what they hear.”
Viroli likes this passage so much that he quotes it twice within a few pages. Machiavelli’s other crucial idea concerns endurance, corruption and renewal. “All the things of this world,” Machiavelli writes, making clear that he has republics, in mind, “have a limit to their existence.” The institutions that survive longest and most perfectly “possess the intrinsic means of frequently renewing themselves” by returning to the principles and virtues “by means of which they obtain their first growth and reputation.” Return and renewal are necessary because an institution’s excellence or defining quality “in the process of time … becomes corrupted [and] will of necessity destroy the body unless something intervenes to bring it back to its normal condition.”
This outlook may sound deeply conservative, although Hannah Arendt, as Viroli notes, called Machiavelli “the spiritual father of revolution in the modern sense.” His influence on John Adams and Alexander Hamilton has been taken up in the scholarship. One might also note that the Italian communist Antonio Gramsci took him as a guide to thinking through political strategy. No interpretation can exhaust him; he is a large thinker, containing multitudes.
Still, we can be reasonably certain that possible applications to electoral politics in a nation of more than 300 million people never crossed Machiavelli’s mind. But Viroli understands the voting process as, in principle, an opportunity for renewal and revitalization. And perhaps especially such a opportunity in an election year -- at least, in general. (This time, maybe not so much.)
“Poverty never was allowed to stand in the way of the achievement of any rank or honor,” writes Machiavelli apropos the Roman republic, “and virtue and merit were sought for under whatever roof they dwelt ….” So what is the contemporary application?
“A president of the United States of America,” writes Viroli, “therefore must be wholeheartedly committed to the principle that the republic must offer all its citizens the same opportunities to be rewarded according to their merit and virtue.” Viroli offers the G.I. Bill of Rights as an example of egalitarian and meritocratic policy à la Machiavelli, who warns that “corruption and incapacity to maintain free institutions result from a great inequality.”
Furthermore, a worthy leader will be characterized by having a close knowledge of history: “As regards the exercise of the mind, [the leader] should read history, and therein study the actions of eminent men,” writes Machiavelli, in order to “examine the causes of their victories and defeats, so that he may imitate the former and avoid the latter.”
The past also provides models of deportment: “Great men and powerful republics preserve an equal dignity and courage in prosperity and adversity.”
Viroli glosses this as: “We must have at the helm of the republic a person who is not so inebriated by success as to become abject in the face of defeat.”
But it’s a longish passage on terrible leaders from the Discourses on Livy that should earn Machiavelli a spot as cable news pundit of the week: “Made vain and intoxicated by good fortune, they attribute their success to merits which they do not possess, and this makes them odious and insupportable to all around them. And when they have afterwards to meet a reverse of fortune, they quickly fall into the other extreme, and become abject and vile.”
Machiavelli also warns of the dangers of an old boys’ club, which are unlikely to be mitigated when a few girls join it: “Prolonged commands brought Rome to servitude.”
The reference here is to how prolonged military commands led to cronyism, but Viroli takes it as having other implications: “Politicians who remain in power for a long time tend to form networks of private allegiances. Through favors and contacts, they often manage to attain the support of many citizens who regard them, not the republic, as the principle object of their loyalty.”
Whether or not How to Choose a Leader is, as the saying goes, “the right book at the right time,” it’s certainly an odd book for an odd time. Presenting itself as a guide to democratic decision making, it reads instead like a roundabout exposé of how badly eroded any meaningful sense of the common good has become -- something the politicians can barely even gesture toward, much less pursue.
The story is told of how, during an interview at a film festival in the 1960s, someone asked the avant-garde director Jean-Luc Godard, “But you must at least admit that a film has to have a beginning, a middle and an end?” To which Godard replied, “Yes, but not necessarily in that order.”
Touché! Creative tampering with established patterns of storytelling (or with audience expectations, which is roughly the same thing) is among the basic prerogatives of artistic expression -- one to be exercised at whatever risk of ticket buyers demanding their money back. Most of the examples of such tampering that Robert L. Belknap considers in Plots (Columbia University Press) are drawn from literary works now at least a century old. That we still read them suggests their narrative innovations worked -- so well, in fact, that they may go unnoticed now, taken as given. And the measure of Belknap’s excellence as a critic is how rewarding his close attention to them proves.
The late author, a professor of Slavic languages at Columbia University, delivered the three lectures making up Plots in 2011. Belknap’s preface to the book indicates that he considered the manuscript ready for publication at the time of his death in 2014. Plots has an adamantine quality, as if decades of thought and teaching were being crystallized and enormously compressed. Yet it is difficult to read the final paragraphs as anything but the author’s promise to say a great deal more.
Whether the lectures were offered as the overture to Belknap’s magnum opus or in lieu of one, Plots shuttles between narrative theory (from Aristotle to the Russian formalists) and narrative practice (Shakespeare and Dostoevsky, primarily) at terrific speed and with a necessary minimum of jargon. Because the jargon contains an irreducible core of the argument, we might as well start (even though Belknap does not) with the Russian formalists’ contrast between fabula and siuzhet.
Each can be translated as “plot.” The more or less standard sense of fabula, at least as I learned it in ancient times, is the series of events or actions as they might be laid out on a timeline. The author tweaks this a little by defining fabula as “the relationship among the incidents in the world the characters inhabit,” especially cause-and-effect relationships. By contrast, siuzhet is how events unfold within the literary narrative or, as Belknap puts it, “the relationship among the same incidents in the world of the text.”
To frame the contrast another way, siuzhet is how the story is told, while fabula is what “really” happened. The scare quotes are necessary because the distinction applies to fiction and drama as well as, say, memoir and documentary film. “In small forms, like fairy tales,” Belknap notes, fabula and siuzhet “tend to track one another rather closely, but in larger forms, like epics or novels, they often diverge.” (Side note: A good deal of short fiction is also marked by that divergence. An example that comes to mind is “The Tell-Tale Heart” by Edgar Allan Poe, where the siuzhet of the narrator’s account of what happened and why is decidedly different from the fabula to be worked out by the police appearing at the end of the story.)
Belknap returns to Aristotle for the original effort to understand the emotional impact of a certain kind of siuzhet: the ancient tragedies. An effective drama, by the philosopher’s lights, depicted the events of a single day, in a single place, through a sequence of actions so well integrated that no element could be omitted without the whole narrative coming apart. “This discipline in handling the causal relationship between incidents,” says Belknap, “produces the sense of inevitability that characterizes the strongest tragedies.” The taut siuzhet chronicling a straightforward fabula reconciled audiences to the workings of destiny.
Turning Aristotle’s analysis into a rule book, as happened in later centuries, was like forcing playwrights to wear too-small shoes. The fashion could not last. In the second lecture, Belknap turns to Shakespeare, who found another way to work:
“He sacrificed the causal tightness that had served classic drama so well in order to build thematic tightness around parallel plots. Usually the parallel plots involve different social levels -- masters and servants, kings and courtiers, supernatural beings and humans -- and usually the plots are not too parallel to intersect occasionally and interact causally at some level, though never enough to satisfy Aristotle’s criterion that if any incident be removed, the whole plot of the play should cease to make sense …. Similarity in plots can be represented as the overlap between two areas, and those areas may be broken down into individual points of similarity, dissimilarity, contrast, etc. Without knowing it, a Shakespearean audience is making such analyses all the time it watches a play, and the points of overlap and contrast enter their awareness.”
It’s not clear whether Belknap means to include the modern Shakespearean audience -- possibly not, since contemporary productions tend to trim down the secondary plots, if not eliminate them. But the Bard had other devices in hand for complicating fabula-siuzhetarrangements -- including what Belknap identifies as “a little-discussed peculiarity of Shakespearean plotting, the use of lies.” In both classical and Shakespearean drama, there are crucial scenes in which a character’s identity or situation is revealed to others whose confusion or deception has been important for the plot. But whereas mistakes and lies “are about equally prevalent” in the ancient plays, Shakespeare has a clear preference: “virtually every recognition scene is generated primarily out of a lie, not an error.”
In a striking elaboration of that point, Belknap treats the lie as a kind of theatrical performance -- “a little drama, with at least the rudiments of a plot” -- that often “express[es] facts about the liar, the person lied to or the person lied about.” The lie is a manipulative play within a play in miniature. And in Hamlet, at least, the (literal) play within a play is the prince’s means of trying to force his uncle to tell the truth.
Now, such intricate developments at the level of form also involve changes in how the writer and the audience understand the world (and, presumably, themselves). The Shakespearean cosmos gets messier than that of classical drama, but loosening the chains of cause and effect does not create absolute chaos. The motives and consequences of the characters’ actions make manifest their otherwise hidden inner lives. To put it another way, mutations in siuzhet (how the story is told) reflect changes in fabula (what really happens in the world) and vice versa. Belknap suggests -- tongue perhaps not entirely in cheek -- that Shakespeare was on the verge of inventing the modern psychological novel and might have, had he lived a few more years.
By the final lecture, on Dostoyevsky’s Crime and Punishment, Belknap has come home to his area of deepest professional interest. (He wrote two well-regarded monographs on The Brothers Karamazov.) Moving beyond his analysis of parallel plots in Shakespeare, he goes deep into the webs of allusion and cross-referencing among Russian authors of the 19th century to make the case that Crime and Punishment contains a much more deliberate narrative architecture than it is credited with having. (Henry James’s characterization of Russian novels as “fluid puddings” undoubtedly applies.)
He even makes a bid for the novel epilogue as being aesthetically and thematically integral to the book as a whole. Other readers may find that argument plausible. I’ll just say that Plots reveals that with Belknap’s death, we lost a critic and literary historian of great power and considerable ingenuity.
Matthew Daniel Eddy’s fascinating paper “The Interactive Notebook: How Students Learned to Keep Notes During the Scottish Enlightenment” is bound to elicit a certain amount of nostalgia in some readers. (The author is a professor of philosophy at Durham University; the paper, forthcoming in the journal Book History, is available for download from his Academia page.)
Interest in the everyday, taken-for-granted aspects of scholarship (the nuts and bolts of the life of the mind) has grown among cultural historians over the past couple of decades. At the same time, and perhaps not so coincidentally, many of those routines have been in flux, with card catalogs and bound serials disappearing from university libraries and scholarship itself seeming to drift ever closer to a condition of paperlessness. The past few years have seen a good deal of work on the history of the notebook, in all its many forms. I think Eddy’s contribution to this subspecialty may prove a breakthrough work, as Anthony Grafton’s The Footnote: A Curious History (1997) and H. J. Jackson’s Marginialia: Readers Writing in Books (2001) were in the early days of metaerudition.
“Lecture notes,” Eddy writes, “as well as other forms of writing such as letters, commonplace books and diaries, were part of a larger early modern manuscript world which treated inscription as an active force that shaped the mind.” It’s the focus on note taking itself -- understood as an activity bound up with various cultural imperatives -- that distinguishes notebook studies (pardon the expression) from the research of biographers and intellectual historians who use notebooks as documents.
Edinburgh in the late 18th century was buzzing with considerable philosophical and scientific activity, but the sound in the lecture notes Eddy describes came mainly from student noses being held to the grindstone. For notebook keeping was central to the pedagogical experience -- a labor-intensive and somewhat costly activity, deeply embedded in the whole social system of academe. Presumably the less impressive specimens became kindling, but the lecture notebooks Eddy describes were the concrete embodiment of intellectual discipline and craftsmanship -- multivolume works worthy of shelf space in the university library or handed down to heirs. Or, often enough, sold, whether to less diligent students or to the very professors who had given the lectures.
The process of notebook keeping, as Eddy reconstructs it, ran something like this: before a course began, the student would purchase a syllabus and a supply of writing materials -- including “quares” of loose papers or “paper books” (which look pocket-size in a photo) and a somewhat pricier “note book” proper, bound in leather.
The syllabus included a listing of topics covered in each lecture. Eddy writes that “most professors worked very hard to provide lecture headings that were designed to help students take notes in an organized fashion” as they tried to keep up with “the rush of the learning process as it occurred in the classroom.” Pen or pencil in hand, the student filled up his quares or paper book with as much of the lecture material as he could grasp and condense, however roughly. The pace made it difficult to do more than sketch the occasional diagram, and Eddy notes that “many students struggled to even write basic epitomisations of what they had heard.”
The shared challenge fostered the student practice of literally comparing notes -- and in any case, even the most nimble student was far from through when the lecture was done. Then it was necessary to “fill out” the rough notes, drawing on memory of what the professor said, the headings in the syllabus and the course readings -- a time-consuming effort that could run late into the night. “Extending my notes taken at the Chemical and Anatomical lectures,” one student wrote in his diary, “employs my whole time and prevents my doing any thing else. Tired, uneasy & low-spirited.”
As his freshman year ended, another wrote, “My late hours revising my notes taken at the lectures wore on my constitution, and I longed for the approach of May and the end of the lectures.”
Nor was revision and elaboration the end of it. From the drafts, written on cheap paper, students copied a more legible and carefully edited text into their leather notebooks, title pages in imitation of those found in printed books. The truly devoted student would prepare an index. “While many of them complained about the time this activity required,” Eddy writes, “I have found no one who questioned the cognitive efficacy that their teachers attached to the act of copying.”
Making a lecture notebook was the opposite of multitasking. It meant doing the same task repeatedly, with deeper attention and commitment at each stage. Eddy surmises that medical students who prepared especially well-crafted lecture notebooks probably attended the same course a number of times, adding to and improving the record, over a course of years.
At the same time, this single-minded effort exercised a number of capacities. Students developed “various reading, writing and drawing skills that were woven together into note-taking routines … that were in turn infused with a sense of purpose, a sense that the acts of note taking and notebook making were just as important as the material notebook that they produced.”
You can fill an immaterial notebook with a greater variety of content (yay, Evernote!), but I’m not sure that counts as either an advantage or an improvement.
The mythological creature called the lamia is something like a hybrid of mermaid and vampire: a beautiful woman from the waist up, atop a serpent’s body, driven by an unwholesome appetite. The indispensable Brewer’s Dictionary of Phrase and Fableelaborates: “A female phantom, whose name was used by the Greeks and Romans as a bugbear to children. She was a Libyan queen beloved by Jupiter, but robbed of her offspring by the jealous Juno; and in consequence she vowed vengeance against all children, whom she delighted to entice and murder.”
Somewhere along the way, the Libyan queen’s proper name turned into the generic term for a whole subspecies of carnivorous nymph. Nor was the menu limited to children. In some tellings, the lamia could conceal her snaky side long enough to lure unwary human males to their deaths. (A femme fatale, if ever.) If the lamia outlived most of the other gods and monsters of antiquity in the Western cultural imagination, I suspect it is in part because of the coincidence that she embodies two aspects of Eden: the beguiling female and the deceiving reptile, merged, literally, into one.
That this overtly misogynistic image might ever have played a part in the political culture of the United States seems improbable -- a little less so in this election year, perhaps, though it remains difficult to picture. And it’s certainly true that the lamia underwent considerable mutation in crossing the Atlantic and finding a place in American literature and party politics. Sara L. Crosby’s Poisonous Muse: The Female Poisoner and the Framing of Popular Authorship in Jacksonian America (University of Iowa Press) follows the lamia’s transformation from the monster known to a classically educated elite to the sympathetic, vulnerable and all-too-human character accepted by the new mass public of early 19th-century America.
The author, an associate professor of English at Ohio State University at Marion, follows the lamia’s trail from antiquity (in Roman literature “she appeared as a dirty hermaphroditic witch who raped young men”) through the poetry of John Keats and on to such early American page-turners as The Female Land Pirate; or Awful, Mysterious, and Horrible Disclosures of Amanda Bannorris, Wife and Accomplice of Richard Bannorris, a Leader in That Terrible Band of Robbers and Murderers, Known Far and Wide as the Murrell Men. (Sample passage: “My whole nature was changed. All the dark passions of Hell seemed to have centered into one; that one into the core of my heart, and that one was revenge! REVENGE!! REVENGE!!!”) There are close readings of stories by Edgar Allan Poe and Nathaniel Hawthorne as well as of the case of Mrs. Hannah Kinney, alleged poisoner of husbands, acquitted after a trial that riveted the country’s newspaper readers.
From this array Crosby builds an argument in layers that may be synopsized roughly along these lines:
A standard version of the lamia story is presented by the Athenian author Philostratus in The Life of Apollonius of Tyana. A young philosopher named Menippus falls under the charms of “a foreign woman, who was good-looking and extremely dainty,” and to all appearances very wealthy as well. He prepares to marry her. Unfortunately, the older and wiser philosopher Apollonius intervenes in time to set the young man straight: “You are a fine youth and are hunted by fine women, but in this case you are cherishing a serpent, and a serpent cherishes you.” Menippus resists this advice, but Apollonius has a verbal showdown with the foreign lady and forces her to admit that she is a lamia, and places her under his control.
Menippus thus receives instruction on the difference between appearance and reality -- and in time to avoid being eaten. The situation can also be read as a kind of political fable: a wise authority figure intervenes to prevent a naïve young person from succumbing to the deceptive, seductive and destructive powers of a woman. For the figure of the lamia is congruent with a whole tradition of misogynistic attitudes, as expressed by the medieval theologian Albertus Magnus: “What [a woman] cannot get, she seeks to obtain through lying and diabolical deceptions. And so, to put it briefly, one must be on one’s guard with every woman, as if she were a poisonous snake and the horned devil.” (This is only one such passage Crosby cites by an authoritative figure maintaining that authority itself is endangered unless men with power practice epistemological as well as moral vigilance.)
But with his 1820 poem “Lamia,” John Keats offers a revisionist telling of the story. To wed her human lover, Lamia sacrifices both her venom and her immortality. In the Philostratusian telling, the confrontation with Apollonius makes her vanish, and presumably kills her, and her beloved immediately falls dead from grief. Having been savaged by reviewers and dismissed as a “Cockney poet” by the literary establishment, Keats recasts the story as a defense of beauty and a challenge to authority. The older man’s knowledge is faulty and obtuse, his power callous and deadly. Poe was an ardent admirer of Keats, and his critical writings are filled with expressions of contempt for the cultural gatekeepers of his day; Crosby interprets the title character of “Ligeia” (a very strange short story that Poe himself considered his best work) as “a revamped Romantic lamia” akin to Keats’s.
The continuity is much easier to see in the case of "Rappaccini's Daughter" by Nathaniel Hawthorne, in which Beatrice (the title figure) is a lamia-like menace to every living thing that crosses her path. This is through no fault of her own; suffice to say that a man with authority has turned her into a kind of walking biological weapon. Once again, the Philostratusian version of the story has been reconfigured. The misogynist vision of the lamia as a force for deception and destruction is abandoned. Her story becomes a fable of oppression, corruption, the illegitimacy of established authority.
These literary reimaginings took shape against a political backdrop that added another layer of significance to the transformation. In the first half century of the United States, citizens “practiced a ‘politics of assent,’ in which a relatively small population of mostly rural voters bowed to the leadership of local elites,” Crosby writes. Editorials and sermons issued Apollonius-like warnings about the need to subdue desire and cultivate virtue. One widely circulated and much-reprinted story told of a daughter who rapidly went from sassing her parents to poisoning them. Clearly the republic’s young females in particular were on the slipperiest of slopes.
“But by the time Andrew Jackson won the presidential election of 1828,” Crosby continues, “the nation was transitioning to a far more raucous and partisan ‘mass democracy,’ characterized by a ‘politics of affiliation’ in which larger populations of newly enfranchised white ‘common men’ identified with national political organizations.” Those organizations issued newspapers and magazines, to which publishers added an enormous flow of relatively cheap books, pamphlets and broadsides.
The old elites (largely associated with the Whig Party) dismissed most of this output as trash, and they may have had a point, if “revenge! REVENGE!! REVENGE!!!” is anything to go by. At the same time, Poe was arguing that, in Crosby’s words, “genius occurred in that space of free exchange between writer and reader” that could open up if Americans could shed their cultural subservience to the Old World. As for Hawthorne, he was a Democratic Party functionary who idolized Jackson, and "Rappaccini's Daughter" was first published in a Democratic Party magazine.
So the basic thematic implications of the “old” (Philostratusian) and “new” (Keatsian) lamia stories lined up fairly well with Whiggish and Jacksonian-Democratic cultural attitudes, respectively. For one side, the American people needed guidance from Apollonius the Whig to avoid the madness of excessive democracy (let the French revolution be a warning) and the lamia-like seductions of the new mass media. For the Democrat, danger came from corrupt authorities, out to manipulate the citizen into believing the worst about the innocent and moral female sex.
The political allegory took on flesh in the case of a number of women accused of murdering with poison -- an act of deception and homicide of decidedly lamia-like character. The Boston trial of Hannah Kinney -- whose third husband was found to have died from arsenic poisoning -- is both fascinating in itself and a striking corroboration of the author’s point about the lamia as a sort of template for public narrative. Early newspaper reports and gossip depicted her as a bewitching temptress of questionable morals and undoubted guilt. But as the trial continued, Democratic journalists described her as a pleasant, somewhat matronly woman whose late husband was mentally disturbed and who was trying to get over syphilis with the help of a shady “doctor.” (The arsenic in his system might well have gotten there through quackery or suicide.)
The jury acquitted her, which cannot have surprised the junior prosecuting attorney: “Recent experience has shown how difficult, if not impossible it has been to obtain a verdict of condemnation, in cases of alleged murders by secret poison, when females have been the parties accused, and men were the persons murdered.” By contrast, a number of British women accused of poisoning during the same period were dispatched to the gallows with haste. Factors besides "the lamia complex" may account for the difference, but the contrast is striking even so.
It’s unlikely that many Americans in the 1840s had read The Life of Apollonius of Tyana, or heard of Keats, for that matter. Cultural influence need not be that direct to be effective; it can be transmitted on the lower frequencies through repurposed imagery and fragments of narrative, through relays remixes. Perhaps that is what we’re seeing now -- with who knows what archetypes being mashed up on the political stage.
“We can give you three dollars,” the clerk at the campus bookstore told me.
“That’s all?” I asked. I had hoped to get more for the book I wanted to sell back, given what I had paid for it just months before.
“Sorry. It’s not assigned next term.” She shrugged.
“Well,” I decided, “for three dollars, it will look good on my bookshelf.”
That was the moment I kept my first college book.
At the end of every term, college students lug piles of books across campus to sell back to the bookstore (or post the books online to sell directly to next term’s students) for a fraction of what they paid for them. Selling back books is so ingrained in college culture that it seems natural, inevitable. Strapped for cash, most students accept the few dollars joyfully.
But there’s something to be said for keeping books, too. In the years since my own small beginning -- just the one book, just three dollars, just to look good on my bookshelf -- I have developed a lasting commitment to having books around.
These days, as each semester nears its end, I find myself on the losing side of a friendly argument with my own students. I tell them they should not sell their books back. They raise objections:
“The book’s not in my field.”
“I already read it, and I remember what it says.”
“I can always get another copy if I need it.”
“I can find the same text, or the same facts, online.”
“The information will be outdated soon.”
“The edition will be replaced with a new one soon.”
“I want to put this class behind me!”
“It’s too expensive to keep. I need the money.”
I do my best to respond. Then, of course, the students make their own decisions. I’m afraid I’m not very convincing. And I understand why. Most of the reasons to sell back books are quite reasonable. In certain cases, I have to concede the point.
Yes, I do agree, some books are just fine to sell back. I have little fondness in particular for stereotypically textbookish textbooks: repositories of facts, good for exam prep but not for actually reading, likely to be replaced by a new edition in a year or two, apparently written by a committee or a machine, duplicating material available online for free. By all means, students should sell those back.
Even with these caveats, I still insist students should keep books. As college teachers, we usually focus more on what students do (or do not do) with books during our courses, not after. But I think we can do more. Just as we would like students to remember what they learn in our courses and to continue learning after the courses have ended, so should we also care that they keep the very books that can help that remembering and learning along.
With the loudest voices (including bookstore advertisements) telling students to sell their books, it’s up to us to teach them otherwise. We can assign books worth keeping. We can help students connect with the books for themselves. We can talk to students about keeping books, telling them something like this:
Keep your books. Not every single one, necessarily, but keep many. Keep most, if possible. Do not let a book go without deliberation. Begrudge the ones truly not worth keeping. Grieve the ones you truly cannot afford. Keep books from your field and from other fields as well. Be well-rounded in your keeping.
Yes, appreciate what the internet can offer (through sites like Project Gutenberg), but also appreciate what books can offer. Yes, some books contain nothing but information with a short shelf life, but keep the books that are not of this sort. Keep books with ideas, argument, voice -- books in which writers say something to readers. Keep books you know you will use again and books you think you won’t, just in case.
Start small, if it helps: keep one book you otherwise would have gotten rid of. Next time, keep two. Keep keeping books until you’ve built a library. Why? There’s value in having books and being the sort of person who has them. This value often outweighs the cost. Sometimes books are even worth a little sacrifice.
Finally, while asserting there’s value in having books, we teachers can also explain just what that value is. We might communicate to students the following points:
Having books around can make a difference in students’ lives. Analyzing decades of data from dozens of countries around the world, sociologists found that the number of books in a home correlates strongly with academic accomplishment for children in the family. Specifically, the more books around, the farther in education the children go. That holds true across time, culture and socioeconomic status. The connection between books and academic accomplishment is so strong, the researchers comment, that there almost seems to be “an intrinsic advantage in growing up around books.”
Of course, merely having books around is “not enough,” they add. One does not imagine books that are just sitting there unread, unnoticed and ignored doing much good. But there is a high “correlation between owning books and reading.” Books offer “skills and knowledge.” Having books around demonstrates “a commitment to investing in knowledge.” Having books around indicates that people in the house “enjoy and value scholarly culture, that they ﬁnd ideas congenial, reading agreeable, complex and intellectually demanding work attractive.” In a home that has books, it is likely “conversations between parents and their children will include references to books and imaginative ideas growing out of them.”
Students who are (or hope to become) parents should certainly keep books for the sake of the children. But if children benefit from books, no doubt adults do as well. It’s not that books are magical (at least, not in the strictest sense of that word). It’s that deciding to have books and to be the sort of person who has books can change a person’s life and the lives of those closest to them.
Students might want to read certain books in the future. Sometimes students feel finished with a subject once they complete the final exam. Maybe they are, maybe they aren’t. They do not know what they will want to read or reference in 10, 20, 30 years. But if they have built up a library over that time, it will be all the easier for them to grab the right book when they want it.
Students might want to lend books to someone someday. It is easy for students to ask, “Will I use this book again?” But building a library allows students to be a resource to others. One of my fellow professors calls it a “joy” to have the right book on hand to give to someone. He compares it to the proverbial “word fitly spoken.”
Books can serve as physical reminders of what students have read. Reading doesn’t end when one puts a book down for the last time. Reading ends when one thinks about a book for the last time. When students read enough, they will likely forget not just what they read in certain books but even that they read certain books. “Out of sight, out of mind” applies here.
But so does the opposite. Books as physical objects sitting in plain sight on a bookshelf, glanced at regularly and browsed through from time to time, can remind students of what they have read, keeping that reading alive, active in their minds. (For this to work, of course, books can’t stay boxed up in storage.)
Books can serve as physical reminders of what students have not read. As Umberto Eco and Nassim Nicholas Taleb know, unread books remind people of what they do not know. Some unread books eventually get read. Others don’t. In that way, sitting on bookshelves, unread books can remind students to be both curious and humble.
Books shape the meaning of a place. According to place theory, places are not mere locations; they are laden with meaning. The physical environment of a place shapes its meaning (including walls, doors, furniture, the lack thereof, etc.). What happens in a place also shapes its meaning. So do names, memories, objects and so on. A grass field marked by the lines and plates of a baseball diamond means something different than a grass field marked with tombstones and flowers. The apartment wall lined with books means something different than the apartment wall lined with family photos, band posters, sports memorabilia, works of art, bottles of wine or nothing. Having books around says, “This is a place where thinking and learning are valued.”
Books shape students’ identities. Of course, people are more than their books, degrees, careers, relationships or experiences, more than their thoughts, feelings, even bodies. And yet, these all shape how one lives in the world, the kind of person one appears to be, one’s identity. Having books around says, “I am the sort of person who values thinking and learning.”
Keeping books allows students to return to them over the years. The most meaningful connections people can have with books play out over a lifetime. The weeks or months during a course count as an introduction. That’s enough for some books. Others offer more. Students can return to a book after 10 or 20 years, reread the notes they wrote in the margins the last time they read it, observe how their thinking has changed, see what new layers of meaning they can find in the text at different times in life.
Books are a tangible investment in lifelong learning. College students’ finances vary vastly. It’s not my place to tell students whether they can or cannot afford books. At the same time, I know many students already sacrifice a lot to attend college, as an investment in something that matters to them. All I can add to that is that books are a good investment, too, a real commitment to continue learning long after graduating.
Distinguished scholar bell hooks testifies to this final point. Growing up poor in a patriarchal, segregated town, she learned the value of books from her mother, who had never graduated high school. “Against my father’s wishes,” hooks recalls, “she was willing to spend money on books, to let me know the pride of book ownership and the joy of possessing the gift that keeps on giving -- the book that one can read over and over and over.” Reading books, she continues, “empowered me to journey to places with the mind and imagination … expanded my consciousness … made the impossible possible.”
At the end of each semester, when the line at the bookstore to sell back books is at its longest, one of my dear friends and fellow professors walks by crying out, “Traitors! Traitors!” His joke -- and, of course, he does this playfully -- contains a historical pun. The Latin root of the word traitor, traditor, was the name given to those early Christians who under persecution handed over their sacred texts to be burned by the Roman authorities. The Latin cognate literally means “to hand over.” To hand over one’s books is a betrayal of our common purpose -- although if it’s that or die (or miss the rent), one will surely be forgiven.
We hope students leave college with memories, friends, knowledge, skills and a diploma, and we do well when we remind students to obtain them. We need to add a library to the list. When students sell back their books, they sell back part of their education. I care much more about what books students keep, and what notes they wrote in them, than what courses they passed or what grades they earned. Students’ bookshelves say much more than their transcripts.
Paul T. Corrigan is associate professor of English at Southeastern University.