This book was first published in 1994, and I must admit I had never heard of it until alerted to it by my good friend Wayne, who gave me a copy, and for which I am extremely grateful. This is a truly wonderful work, and one which should grace the personal library of anyone interested in a history which differs from the usual run of history books. It uses a very readable technique which is immediately charming (the list of chapter titles in the Table of Contents will be enough to intrigue even the most cursory of glances! — the first, for example, reads: How humans have repeatedly lost hope, and how new encounters, and a new pair of spectacles, revive them.) and one’s interest is grabbed instantly, and maintained throughout.
Zeldin achieves this in a way I believe is rather unique. The work consists of 25 chapters. Apart from the last, each of the chapters begins with carefully selected and edited stories (at least one, but often enough more than one) of women he interviewed who lived in France during the period of the mid 1990s. Most, but not all, are French, and not necessarily of French cultural backgrounds. These stories are intensely personal. The cleverness of using women for his starting points may indicate an appreciation that they, especially in the ’90s, were more forthcoming about their personal and private lives than men would have been. Even so, the stories do not eschew men’s positions within these stories; they are often part and parcel of the implications and consequences for the women involved, and thus are equally central to the main issues. Consequently, this initial foray in each chapter raises certain issues and these are summarised by the individualistic and quirky chapter heading.
Zeldin then proceeds through the second part of the chapter to look at the various ways and means people have in the past dealt with these same issues. This is the main substance and essence of the work, and the range of reactions explored most definitely does not remain in France, nor even just in Europe, nor limited to gender limitations, but embraces all cultures and all regions of the world in various degrees. It also allows Zeldin to inert his own comments and considerations as he sees fit. This part of the chapter, then, can be quite dense with mind-expanding world-wide personal responses, successful or otherwise, which give the reader many concepts and ideas to deal with. One can understand how some people would find that these responses, albeit in general briefly summarised, create a kind of surfeit of information which tends to make one stop and meditate on them (in the sense of ‘think about’). For me, this response made me want to stop reading; made me want to relish the ideas and thoughts expressed; made me want to savour the different flavours of varying responses… I did not want to read on regardless — and this feeling applied to each and every one of the chapters. Delicious!
The third part of each chapter (not including the last chapter) consists of rather extensive bibliographies of the issues raised in the chapter. So, if one were particularly impressed by one or more suggested responses, there are many references one can turn to for further exploration.
What all this teaches us is that there are many other ways that ‘history’ can be written. Too often, history books deal mostly with what we call the ‘major issues’ — wars, revolutions, politics, etc. — often with a grand overarching theme associated with them. What they tend to leave out is the individual person and their needs and aspirations, particularly if they are not specifically linked to any major trend. Even then, the tendency is to leave such matters to novelists and poets, almost as if these are really only of secondary interest to the ‘true’ historian. Zeldin’s work makes one much more aware that, in the personal lives of people everywhere, there are equally fascinating histories not normally dealt with, and which perhaps are more centrally related to core historical values than one might think. It is, in a sense, surprising how immediate one’s own personal response is to the attempts of people from all countries and cultures in dealing with issues which obviously concern all of them. We understand them!
If there is one small niggling aspect which might cause some to be cynical: the fact that the book was written in the mid ’90s, and that Zeldin’s opinions and comments are therefore limited to the ideals and aspirations of the Western world during those comparatively innocent and perhaps hopeful times. To do so, however, would do a disservice to the main thrust of the work. Zeldin is adamant that, regardless of what the ‘big-picture’ history throws up, people and their dreams and aspirations and needs remain steadfast throughout the centuries. He calls for Compassion, Understanding, and Acceptance as being both the ancient, recent and future hope of humanity, and which underlies everything else, no matter how wonderful or how brutal we have behaved to ourselves and to others. There is no sense of sentimentality or softness about this approach in Zeldin’s work. He simply presents his facts, and suggests that those facts, bittersweet as they might be, are universal.
For me, this Humanistic understanding makes Zeldin’s work a masterpiece of writing. It slowly and thoroughly weaves its spell on the reader — and we instinctively know that this is a true and honest appraisal of humans everywhere. By opening our minds and our hearts to this message, one cannot help but fall in love with this book. It is very, very beautiful.
And if that is not enough for the more cynical among you, consider this: it is the adoption of this humanistic understanding of the world that allows us to read, relish, appreciate, understand and be moved by any literature from anywhere in the world, regardless of the language, culture, religion, politics, or social conditions which generated it. It touches all of us, because it represents the true history of ourselves to ourselves.