Until a few months ago, I had never heard of William McNeill, a historian who died in 2016 at the age of 98. In my class in world history, I came across his book The Rise of the West, an 828-page volume published in 1963.[1] Not only did it receive the prestigious National Book Award in 1964, but it was extremely successful—even a popular Christmas gift. For historians, its significance is that it expanded thinking about world history away from a narrow view based on Europe and the United States.
That accomplishment is ironic because the book itself, a wonderful treasure trove of information about the entire world, looks somewhat old-fashioned and out of date now. But it’s still fascinating.
The title would never fly today. The Rise of the West sounds like just what McNeill was combating: Eurocentrism. His narrative starts with the origins of humans in the African savannahs and ends in the year 1917 with the Russian Revolution). It unabashedly celebrates the “era of Western dominance,” which began around 1500 and hadn’t ended by the book’s conclusion (or, for that matter, by the end of McNeill’s life).
In academia these days, you can get into trouble for what you say. Megan Neely, a Duke assistant professor in biostatistics, lost an administrative position for pleading with Chinese students to speak more English—for the sake of their careers. Calling them out (in an email) was considered insensitive. Jeffrey McCutcheon, an associate professor at the University of Connecticut, had to apologize for suggesting that students who claimed excessive test anxiety (and thus sought special accommodation) might simply be unprepared rather than suffering from a disability.[1] That too was considered insensitive.
Until now, I have been fairly comfortable writing about history. True, I’ve found some words you shouldn’t use, such as “barbarians,” but that’s okay with me. We don’t have to echo the Romans or their prejudices. But here’s one I’m beginning to wonder about: “universal.”
A couple of months ago in class, I said (all too confidently) that some human tendencies can explain similarities between the history of one region and that of another. The explanation doesn’t have to be that the regions were connected through trade or other contact. I gave a few examples: governments tend to grow; people tend to rebel; knowledge accumulates; cultural similarities tend to support territorial consolidation, etc.
I was criticized (by another student) for “universalizing.”
Historians and economists think differently. Historians tend to be self-effacing and tentative; economists are bold.
Let me illustrate this by a statement from a historian introducing a modern way of looking at the Black Death: The new microbiology . . . opens up entirely new questions, ones we did not previously know we needed to ask.”[1]
Notice: . . . opens up entirely new questions . . . not answers.
The following statement is from two path-breaking economists. “This book explains that unique historical achievement, the rise of the Western World.”[2]
During the Iran-Contra scandal in the 1980s I used to joke that if a pollster called and asked me where Nicaragua (home of the Contra rebels) was, I wouldn’t have an answer. It’s amazing that I could be so geographically ignorant (and this was just one example) and still view myself as an educated adult.[1]
For me, that has changed. Now that I am studying history, I am aware of the importance of geography. How can I understand Irish rebellions if I don’t know where the Pale and Ulster are? How much can I learn about the woolen industry in Languedoc if I don’t know where Languedoc is and whether it could raise its own sheep?
I am a convert. (That’s why I include two geography websites on the right-hand side of this blog.) Yet some of the most fundamental geographical insights come from outside the field of history. The chief outside influence, I venture to say, is evolutionary biologist Jared Diamond, whose remarkable book Guns, Germs, and Steel reestablished geography as a major force in shaping history.[2]
Image: Queen Elizabeth I, a leading sovereign of the early modern period.
Historians are troubled by “periodization.” Periodization means dividing history into chronological eras such as the Middle Ages and the Modern Era, and the dither is about the early modern period. To some of my readers, this fuss may be about as exciting as the grammarians’ debate over the Oxford comma (whether to put a comma before “and” in a series). But I can assure you it is more complicated and possibly more important. If you’re willing to come along for the ride, let’s begin.
In the nineteenth century, Renaissance scholars (who held a lot of sway) decided that the Renaissance launched the modern era. They divided European history into “ancient” (from about 776 B.C.—the first Greek Olympic games—to the sack of Rome in 476 A.D.) and “modern” (from the Renaissance —1300 to 1500 or so—to today. Between the two they squeezed in the Middle Ages, which were not considered worthy of much attention.
But that “periodization” wasn’t satisfactory as time went on. Around the 1970s, the term “early modern” crept in. According to historian Jerry Bentley, the cause was the expansion of American higher education in the 1950s and 1960s, which led to the production of many Ph.D.s and a tendency to specialize in smaller and smaller topics. ”The notion of early modern Europe was a principal beneficiary of this specialization,” he says. [1]
