Currently reading the sparkling Herodotus the Histories
translated by Tom Holland one is inspired to think about historiography.
Let’s face it Herodotus may be
the ‘father of history’ but he is no stranger to a little romanticism shall we
say in his work!
Yet it is not truly historiography or historical research or
even the presentation of historical perspectives that this has led me to
thinking of. Rather it is a musing on the worth of the historical novel.
It is understandable to me why some historians decry the
whole genre. It has no necessity for objectivity, explanation, or even
adherence to its original source materials. There are some truly execrable examples
in the field too.
Yet when it is done right, and if one accepts that what one
is reading is not history but fiction it can invoke beautifully a whole era or
set of personalities. Hilary Mantel’s Wolf
Hall or Madeline Miller’s The song of
Achilles are both such works.
The greatest joy a well written historical fiction brings
however is a feel for the colour and flavour of the age bound up in a depth of
imagination that some drier historians cannot emulate. If this rich, colourful,
and ultimately imagined vista pulls people towards an interest in an era then
perhaps that is no bad thing for the field of history in the long run.
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