Even reading this book in translation, it is clear that Farge’s writing is breathtakingly evocative and beautiful. Farge’s meticulous staging, attention to surprising details, and searing historiographical and philosophical insights into the entirety of the process of historical research—publication excepting—render nobility and sentimentality to what can often feel, in the moment, like drudge work. Much of archival work consists of flipping through page after page of byzantine bureaucratic jargon in loopy, barely-decipherable script, and Farge acknowledges this in her wry description comparing scholars in reading rooms to “galley-slaves, backs bent, hunched over and silent” (117). But if Farge is careful to leave room for the long, mundane hours sifting through documents nearly identical and is clear on their importance, nevertheless, in establishing a putative baseline of normality, it is really the exceptional and the unexpected in which she revels and through which we are transported into the archives at their most exciting and magical. (And after all, what was translated as The Allure of the Archives was originally Le Gôut de l’archive, or the taste of the archive.)
Some others have remarked, and I would tend to agree, that this book really works better after one has had their own taste of the archive, rather than as a primer of sorts for the neophyte seeking guidance for their first dive into the fonds. But I think just as good is to read it in conjunction with a research trip, lying in bed after a hard day’s work and mulling together with Farge over the notes and photos one had jotted down and inventoried for the day. Farge’s reflections are too germane and too elevating to be left to the end of one’s trip, by which time it’s too late and the regrets are beginning to settle in. If one is not an historian and has no intention of becoming one, this book is likely to be an alienating read, but I do believe the sense of dislocation helps to recreate some of the sensibility of being thrown into the archives for the first time while introducing a few of the intellectual conundrums historians face in their craft. It’s not, ultimately, meant to be a practical read.
To be sure, Farge’s advice is most appropriate for the kind of cultural, against-the-grain histories for which she is most famous and upon which she built her career. Her focus on ‘history from below,’ on the mentalités of everyday, ‘normal’ people, is both an artifact of the profession as it developed in the 70s and 80s as it is a gentle rebuke to historians who, in the rush to burnish that peculiar, twenty-first century funhouse image of scholarliness, might forget to ask the basic Brechtian ‘Questions From a Worker Who Reads.’ Unfair, perhaps, and a bit of a strawman, but still an issue worth raising, especially with the development of new types of history—environmental, climate, evolutionary—for which Farge’s methods are not immediately applicable.
Which is not to say that they aren’t applicable at all. Bathsheba Demuth’s work, for instance, brilliantly avails itself of many elements of the historian’s toolkit, old and new. But in an era of climate denialism, telling stories about nature and our environment, and telling them well, remain challenges. Where do Farge’s phenomenological discussions over the meaning of events, the temptation of clumsy quotations, and the inherent contradictions of the archival trace belong when the whole earth and its residents—human and more-than human—are potentially an embodied record, stretching over impossible temporalities? Or to reframe the question provocatively: must historians tell stories differently when they are ‘written’ on paper and skin, parchment and cellulose? And that itself is almost une question mal posée, because now even the history and production of that piece of paper itself, of the parchment fragments, interests us. What kind of exchanges among the living occur when subjecthood is constituted beyond human recognition?
“We write,” Farge concludes, “to enter into an unending conversation about humanity and forgetting, origins and death. About the words each of us uses to enter into the debates that surround us” (124). For those of us who take Farge seriously, it may be time to expand our lexicon.