Doran

Philosophy of History
After Hayden White

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After Hayden White
Edited and with an Introduction

by Robert Doran
Bloomsbury Academic
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First published 2013
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A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.
ISBN: 978–1–4411–4553–6
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

Philosophy of history after Hayden White / edited by Robert Doran.
p. cm. -- (Bloomsbury studies in american philosophy)
Includes bibliographical references and index.
ISBN 978-1-4411-0821-0 (hardback) -- ISBN 978-1-4411-4822-3 (pbk.) -- ISBN 978-1-4411-
4747-9 (epub) -- ISBN 978-1-4411-4553-6 (pdf) 1. White, Hayden V., 1928- 2. Historiography.
3. History--Philosophy. 4. Literature and history. I. Doran, Robert, 1968-
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2012046568
Typeset by Fakenham Prepress Solutions, Fakenham, Norfolk NR21 8NN

Contents
Editor’s Note vii

Contributors ix
Illustrations xiii
Editor’s Introduction: Choosing the Past: Hayden White and the

Philosophy of History 1
Robert Doran
1 History as Fulfillment 35
Hayden White
2 A Plea for a Cognitivist Approach to White’s Tropology 47

F. R. Ankersmit
3 Deliver Us from A-Historicism: Metahistory for Non-Historians 67

Mieke Bal
4 Hayden White’s Hope, or the Politics of Prefiguration 89

Karyn Ball
5 Hayden White and Me: Two Systems of Philosophy of History 109

Arthur C. Danto
6 Uneven Temporalities/Untimely Pasts: Hayden White and the

Question of Temporal Form 119
Harry Harootunian
7 Hopeful Monsters or, The Unfulfilled Figure in Hayden White’s

Conceptual System 151
Hans Kellner
8 Rhetorical Theory/Theoretical Rhetoric: Some Ambiguities in the

Reception of Hayden White’s Work 171
Gabrielle M. Spiegel
9 Hayden White and Non-Non-Histories 183

Richard T. Vann
vi Contents
10 From the Problem of Evil to Hermeneutic Philosophy of History:

For Hayden White 201
Gianni Vattimo
11 Comment 209
Hayden White
Notes 215
Index 251
Editor’s Note
I would like to thank Hayden White for his support during the preparation
of this volume and for his “Comment,” which appears at the end. I would
also like to thank the University of Rochester, where I currently teach, for its
generous sponsorship of the 2009 conference, “Between History and Narrative:
Colloquium in Honor of Hayden White,” where the early versions of five
contributions to this volume were first presented. Many thanks to Margaret
Brose, for her elegant translation of Gianni Vattimo’s essay, and to Ana Torfs,
for permission to reproduce photographs of her work. Finally, I am grateful to
Camilla Erskine, my editor at Bloomsbury, for her kind and careful attention to
this project.
Contributors
F. R. Ankersmit is Professor Emeritus of Intellectual History and Historical

Theory at Groningen University, The Netherlands, and a member of the
Royal Netherlands Academy of Arts and Sciences. He holds an honorary
doctorate from the University of Ghent and is the founder and editor-in-chief
of the Journal of the Philosophy of History. His most recent book is Meaning,
Truth, and Reference in Historical Representation (2012), published by Cornell
University Press. His other books include: Narrative Logic: A Semantic Analysis
of the Historian’s Language (1983); History and Tropology: The Rise and Fall of
Metaphor (1994); Aesthetic Politics: Political Philosophy Beyond Fact and Value
(1996); Historical Representation (2001); Political Representation (2002); and
Sublime Historical Experience (2005). He is the editor, with Hans Kellner and
Ewa Domanska, of Re-Figuring Hayden White (2009).
Mieke Bal, a cultural theorist and critic, has been a Royal Netherlands Academy
of Arts and Sciences Professor. Her interests range from biblical and classical
antiquity to seventeenth-century and contemporary art, modern literature,
feminism, and migratory culture. Her recent books include: Of What One
Cannot Speak: Doris Salcedo’s Political Art (2011), Loving Yusuf (2008), A
Mieke Bal Reader (2006), Travelling Concepts in the Humanities (2002), and
Narratology (3rd edition 2009). She is also a video-artist, making experi-
mental documentaries on migration. Her first fiction feature, A Long History
of Madness, was made with Michelle Williams Gamaker. She is currently
working on a series of video installations, later to be turned into a feature film,
titled Madame B, based on Flaubert’s Madame Bovary. She occasionally serves
as an independent curator.
Karyn Ball is Professor of English and Film Studies at the University of Alberta.
Her areas of research and teaching interests include Holocaust studies, theories
of memory, trauma, narrative, and film. She is the author of Disciplining the
Holocaust (2008, paperback 2009) and the editor of Traumatizing Theory: The
Cultural Politics of Affect in and Beyond Psychoanalysis (2007). She has also
edited a special issue of Parallax (2005) on “Visceral Reason” and a special
x Contributors
issue of Cultural Critique (2000) on “Trauma and Its Cultural Aftereffects.” Her

current book project is entitled The Entropics of Discourse: Climates of Loss
in Contemporary Criticism, which focuses on melancholic tropes in cultural
theory.
Arthur C. Danto is Johnsonian Professor of Philosophy Emeritus at Columbia

University, and a member of the American Academy of Arts and Sciences. He
was awarded the National Book Critics Circle Prize for Criticism in 1990. His
latest books are What Art Is (2013) and Andy Warhol (2009), both published
by Yale University Press. His other publications include: Analytical Philosophy
of History (1965); Nietzsche as Philosopher (1965); Analytical Philosophy of
Action (1973); Jean-Paul Sartre (1975); The Transfiguration of the Commonplace
(1981); Narration and Knowledge (1985); Encounters and Reflections: Art in the
Historical Present (1990); Beyond the Brillo Box: The Visual Arts in Post-Historical
Perspective (1992); Connections to the World: The Basic Concepts of Philosophy
(1997); After the End of Art (1997); The Madonna of the Future: Essays in a
Pluralistic Art World (2000); The Abuse of Beauty (2003). An anthology of
essays on his work, edited by Daniel Herwitz and Michael Kelly, was published
by Columbia University Press in 2007: Action, Art, History: Engagements with
Arthur C. Danto.
Robert Doran is James P. Wilmot Assistant Professor of French and Comparative

Literature at the University of Rochester. He has edited two books: Mimesis
and Theory: Essays on Literature and Criticism, 1953–2005, by René Girard
(2008), and The Fiction of Narrative: Essays on History, Literature, and Theory,
1957–2007, by Hayden White (2010). He is also the editor of special issues of
SubStance, “Cultural Theory after 9/11: Terror, Religion, Media” (2008) and Yale
French Studies, “Rethinking Claude Lévi-Strauss: 1908–2009” (2013). His book
manuscript, The Theory of the Sublime from Longinus to Kant, is under review.
Harry Harootunian is the Max Palevsky Professor Emeritus of History and

Civilizations, University of Chicago, Adjunct Senior Research Professor,
Weatherhead East Asian Institute, Columbia University, a Visiting Professor at
Duke University in the Program in Literature, and a member of the American
Academy of Arts and Sciences. His most recent book is The Struggle of
History and Memory in Postwar Japan (in Japanese, 2010). His other books
include: Toward Restoration: The Growth of Political Consciousness in Tokugawa
Japan (1970); Things Seen and Unseen: Discourse and Ideology in Tokugawa
Contributors xi
Nativism (1988); Postmodernism in Japan (with Masao Miyoshi, 1989); Japan

in the World (ed. 1993); History’s Disquiet: Modernity, Cultural Practice and
the Question of Everyday Life (2000); Overcome by Modernity: History, Culture
and Community in Interwar Japan (2000); The Empire’s New Clothes: Paradigm
Lost and Regained (2004); Japan after Japan: Social and Cultural Life from the
Recessionary 1990s to the Present (ed. 2006); and, with Isomae Junichi, The
Marxian Experience, Historical Studies in Japan, 1930–1940 (2008, in Japanese).
Hans Kellner is Professor of English at North Carolina State University. A

graduate of Harvard University and the University of Rochester, where he
studied with Hayden White, he is the author of Language and Historical
Representation: Getting the Story Crooked (1989) as well as numerous articles
on historical theory. He is the editor, with F. R. Ankersmit, of A New Philosophy
of History (1995) and, with F. R. Ankersmit and Ewa Domanska, of Re-Figuring
Hayden White (2009). His major essays on Hayden White include: “Hayden
White and the Kantian Discourse: Freedom, Narrative, History” (The Philosophy
of Discourse, 1992) and “A Bedrock of Order: Hayden White’s Linguistic
Humanism” (History and Theory, 1980).
Gabrielle M. Spiegel is Krieger-Eisenhower Professor of History at Johns

Hopkins University, a fellow of the Medieval Academy of America, and a member
of the American Academy of Arts and Sciences. A specialist in medieval history
and historiography and a past President of the American Historical Association
(2008) and the Berkshire Conference of Women Historians (1981–83), she is the
author of: The Chronicle Tradition of Saint-Denis: A Survey (1978); Romancing
the Past: The Rise of Vernacular Historiography in Thirteenth-Century France
(1993); Behind the Scenes: Writing History in the Mirror of Theory (1995); The
Past as Text: The Theory and Practice of Historiography (1997); and the editor of
Practicing History: New Directions in Historical Writing after the Linguistic Turn
(2005). Major articles include “History, Historicism, and the Social Logic of the
Text in the Middle Ages” (Speculum, 1990), and “History and Postmodernism”
(Past and Present, 1992), in addition to some seventy articles on medieval histo-
riography and contemporary theories of historical writing.
Richard T. Vann is Professor of History and Letters Emeritus at Wesleyan

University and Senior Editor of the journal History and Theory. His books
include: Century of Genius: European Thought, 1600–1700 (1967); The Social
Development of English Quakerism, 1655–1755 (1969), and Friends in Life and
xii Contributors
Death: The British and Irish Quakers in the Democratic Transition, 1650–1900
(1991). He is the co-editor of Historical Understanding, by Louis Mink (1987),
History and Theory: Contemporary Readings (1998), and World History:
Ideologies, Structures, and Identities (1998). Among his important essays is “The
Reception of Hayden White” (History and Theory, 1998).
Gianni Vattimo is Professor Emeritus of Theoretical Philosophy, University

of Turin (Italy), and a member of the European Parliament. He has held
visiting professorships and fellowships at Yale University, UCLA, NYU, and
Stanford University. His most recent book, co-written with Santiago Zabala,
is Hermeneutic Communism: From Heidegger to Marx (2011), from Columbia
University Press. His other books include: The Future of Religion (2005, with
Richard Rorty); After Christianity (2002); Belief (1999); Religion (1998, with
Jacques Derrida); Beyond Interpretation: The Meaning of Hermeneutics for
Philosophy (1997); The Transparent Society (1994); The Adventure of Difference:
Philosophy after Nietzsche and Heidegger (1993); and The End of Modernity:
Nihilism and Hermeneutics in Post-Modern Culture (1991).
Hayden White is Professor Emeritus of the History of Consciousness at the

University of California, Santa Cruz, and a member of the American Academy
of Arts and Sciences. He has held appointments at the University of Rochester
(1958–68), UCLA (1968–73), Wesleyan University (1973–78), UC Santa Cruz
(1978–95), and, most recently, Stanford University (1995–2009), where he
taught in the Comparative Literature Department. His most recent book, The
Fiction of Narrative: Essays on History, Literature, and Theory, 1957–2007, edited
by Robert Doran, was published in 2010 by Johns Hopkins University Press.
His major books, which have been widely translated, include: Metahistory:
The Historical Imagination in Nineteenth-Century Europe (1973), Tropics of
Discourse: Essays in Cultural Criticism (1978), The Content of the Form: Narrative
Discourse and Historical Representation (1987), and Figural Realism: Studies in
the Mimesis Effect (1999). He also co-authored the two-volume An Intellectual
History of Europe: Vol. 1: The Emergence of Liberal Humanism (1966), and Vol.
2: The Ordeal of Liberal Humanism (1969). A new book, under the title The
Practical Past, is forthcoming from Northwestern University Press.
Illustrations
1 Ana Torfs, Du mentir-faux (2000) 74

Installation view, Fotomuseum, Winterthur (Switzerland), 2007
© photo: Ana Torfs

© photo: Ana Torfs

© photo: Ana Torfs
Editor’s Introduction
Choosing the Past: Hayden White and the

Robert Doran
In choosing our past, we choose a present;

and vice versa.
—Hayden White
1973 was a fateful year for historical studies and in particular for the much-
maligned genre of philosophy of history. It was the year Hayden White’s
Metahistory: The Historical Imagination in Nineteenth-Century Europe appeared:
“the book around which all reflective historians must reorganize their thoughts
on history,” wrote Louis Mink just a few weeks after its publication. The feeling
was prescient: forty years later, Metahistory has lost none of its power to
provoke controversy or inspire new thinking. It has so transformed the philo-
sophical view of history that one of the contributors to the present volume,
F. R. Ankersmit, has written that “[Metahistory] has been the unparalleled
success story of all twentieth century philosophy of history”1 and that “contem-
porary philosophy of history is mainly what [Hayden] White has made it.”2
Though White’s thought is certainly not reducible to Metahistory—three subse-
quent collections of essays amplified, developed, and recalibrated the ideas put
forth in his magnum opus (a fourth volume, published in 2010, brought together
White’s major uncollected essays spanning his entire career)—his contribution
to the philosophy of history genre is generally considered to be his 1973 tome.3
The present volume examines “philosophy of history after Hayden White”
in two senses of the preposition “after”: 1) philosophy of history according to
White—namely, how White completely redefined the concept of philosophy of
history in his many books and essays; and 2) what philosophy of history has
become as a result of White’s interventions: how his reconception has had, and
2 Philosophy of History After Hayden White
continues to have, profound, far-reaching effects in diverse areas of inquiry,

opening up new and often unexpected avenues of thought.
The contributors to this collection represent a range of disciplines and
subfields: in philosophy, Arthur Danto (Analytic tradition) and Gianni Vattimo
(Continental tradition); in historical theory and rhetoric, Frank Ankersmit and
Hans Kellner; in literary theory and visual culture, Mieke Bal; in cultural theory
and trauma studies, Karyn Ball; in East Asian studies, Harry Harootunian; in
medieval history and historiography, Gabrielle Spiegel; and in British history
and historiography, Richard Vann (longtime editor of the groundbreaking
journal History and Theory). Indeed, this diversity of perspectives, which
includes both practicing historians and theorists,4 testifies to White’s unmatched
ability to bring historical theory to a wide audience though his engagement
with a multitude of seemingly heterogeneous discourse genres: nineteenth-
century German philosophy, existentialism, historicism, French structuralist
and poststructuralist thought, Anglo-American philosophy, Italian philosophy,
literary history, literary theory, rhetoric, hermeneutics, and aesthetics—a
supreme example of intellectual eclecticism that has become increasingly rare
in an age of specialization.
Though White’s work has been controversial in historical studies, eliciting a
mixture of scorn and admiration, his books, particularly those from the 1970s,
Metahistory and Tropics of Discourse, are standard reading in courses on histori-
ography and historical methodologies. In literary studies and other fields where
“theory” became a prime concern, it is White’s later work, namely The Content
of the Form and Figural Realism, that has been influential. While it is possible
to discern a shift in perspective in White’s oeuvre—from a theory of historical
writing based on tropes to a theory of historical narrative and representation, a
shift mirrored in the arc of his professional career, from his early affiliation with
departments of history to his later membership in departments of literature and
rhetoric—his enduring engagement with philosophy of history is a constant, if
sometimes repressed, feature of his thought. It is as apparent in his critique of
the “theory” wielded by non-historians, who often see “history” as “free of the
kind of epistemological and methodological disputes that agitate their own area
of inquiry,”5 as in his critique of the scientistic pretensions of historical practice,
which challenges historians to see history and literature not as antithetical, but
as cellmates in the prison-house of narrative.
In this introduction, I describe how White revolutionized the philosophy of
history, transforming a highly specialized and rather arcane subject into a topic
of central concern in the humanities. This volume thus endeavors to break new
Choosing the Past: Hayden White and the Philosophy of History 3
ground in its insistence on the ways in which the philosophy of history is still a
vibrant mode of intellectual inquiry, even if its influence is often imperceptible
and despite the fact that many of the traditional (i.e. metaphysical) aims of
philosophical history have been abandoned.6
The vicissitudes of philosophy of history
Both the philosophy of history and the establishment of history as an academic

discipline have their origins in the emergence of a “historical consciousness” in
the nineteenth century. This consciousness was rooted, on the one hand, in the
philosophical reflections of Giambattista Vico (1668–1744), Johann Gottfried
Herder (1744–1803), and G. W. F. Hegel (1770–1831), and, on the other, in
the development of the historical and realist novel in England and France,
in particular the works of Sir Walter Scott (1771–1832), Honoré de Balzac
(1799–1850), and Stendhal (1783–1842). However, a case could be made that
the origins of philosophy of history go back to Saint Augustine’s De Civitate Dei
(City of God)—a book that sought to reinterpret history in light of the Visigoths’
devastating attack on Rome in 410, which many saw as punishment for the
abandonment of paganism in favor of Christianity—and to the establishment of
the Anno Domini (a.d.) dating system in 525, which placed Christ’s birth at the
symbolic center of history. The relation between the institution of Christianity
and a philosophical view of history is a strong one, and I will have occasion to
return to it later in this introduction.7
It should be noted that, throughout most of its history, philosophy has not
considered history a proper object of philosophical reflection. As the Greeks
had defined it, philosophy (metaphysics) is the quest for timeless truth, for the
immutable reality behind shifting appearances, whereas history is a matter of
the contingent, the ever-changing, the singular, and the particular. On this view,
history is deeply antithetical to philosophy. Thus the idea that history could
yield philosophical insights or even become a part of philosophical inquiry
signaled a fundamental break with the Greek and Cartesian traditions, a break
that the Christian tradition of Saint Augustine would effectively symbolize.
We should also remember that prior to the nineteenth century history was
considered a branch of rhetoric, a “literary”8 genre practiced mostly by dabblers
and dilettantes. A Gibbon or a Voltaire was certainly the exception, though
their work is generally viewed as a kind of poetic historiography. History was
also an integral part of the social education of young aristocrats, who saw it as a
fund of inspirational models and the common wisdom. This all changed when
Leopold von Ranke (1795–1886) sought to professionalize the study of history
by grounding it in a rigorous, empirical approach to the past, that is, one based
on primary sources and archival research. On the one hand, Ranke aimed to
separate history from the literary genres, in particular from the popular form of
novel, and, on the other, from all generalizing propositions, especially those of
the so-called “speculative” philosophy of history (e.g. Hegel and Marx), but also
of the positive sciences of the era, which subscribed to mechanistic theories of
explanation. As Ranke famously stated, the historian should aspire to present
the past “as it really was,” which meant restricting oneself as much as possible
to the particulars, to the “facts,” while purging historical writing of all fictional,
dilettantish, and extrinsic elements. This objectivist vision (value-neutral
historical knowledge), which lent to the study of history a quasi-scientific aura,
led directly to the establishment of history as an academic discipline such as we
know it today. However, as White would point out in his Metahistory, Ranke’s
objectivism was in fact an implicit “philosophy of history.” That is to say, the
“objective” view of historical practice was not neutral or commonsensical
but presupposed a particular—and rather dubious—ontological view, namely
the idea of an absolute, mind-independent “historical reality” that could be
conjured, judged, and communicated as such in its immediacy. Furthermore,
as White noted, Ranke’s advocacy of the narrative form as the most “natural”
or “transparent” medium of representation borrowed heavily from the mimetic
techniques of novelists, particularly writers of historical fiction, whom Ranke
disparaged as fabulists.
Largely due to Ranke’s intervention, philosophy of history and professional
historiography developed along divergent paths, with little or no cross-fertili-
zation. Philosophers such as Marx and Nietzsche viewed professional historians
as naïve or servile, whereas historians, following Ranke’s model, saw philosophy
of history as a threat to their putative objectivity and to their monopoly over the
proper way of ascribing meaning to history; for theirs was a minimalist meaning
that cleaved as closely as possible to the “facts.” The explicit aim of philosophy of
history, on the other hand, was to give an overarching meaning to history, under
which it subsumed the particulars unearthed by the historian; it thus considered
history as a whole. In its classical, “speculative” form, that is, as practiced by
Hegel and Marx, and more recently by Croce, Spengler, and Toynbee, this
meant describing the grand shape of history, often taking into account huge
swaths of historical time. Speculative history believed that history’s direction-
ality could be discerned and humanity’s fate predicted; in short, it offered a
universalizing, totalizing, and normative view of the course of human civili-

zation (though, unsurprisingly, it privileged Western civilization, seeking to
justify the West’s perceived exceptionality, superiority, and inevitability). It is
in this sense that Saint Augustine can be considered to be the “founder of the
philosophy of history,” as Christopher Dawson, a mid-twentieth century British
Catholic historian and thinker who deeply influenced White, observed: “[Saint
Augustine] does not discover anything from history, but merely sees in history
the working out of universal principles. But we may well question whether
Hegel or any of the nineteenth-century philosophers did otherwise. They did
not derive their theories from history, but read their philosophy into history.”9
The philosopher of history endows history with an extrinsic meaning-structure,
whereas the historian proper, post-Ranke, sees historical meaning as inhering in
the historical particulars themselves.10
However, Dawson refused the opposition between what he called “metahistory”
and “pure history,” arguing that “if history had been left to these pure historians,
it would never have attained the position it holds in the modern world,”11 that is
to say, it would have resulted in mere antiquarianism; “it was only when history
entered into relations with philosophy and produced the new type of philosophical
historians… that it became one of the great formative elements in modern
thought.”12 In other words, every great historian is in some sense a philosopher
of history. Though Dawson may not have coined the term “metahistory,” he was
perhaps the first to give it a positive meaning, in his conclusion that “all histori-
ography is… pervaded by metahistorical influences,”13 a point that White would
develop in elaborate and spectacular fashion in his Metahistory: The Historical
Imagination in Nineteenth-Century Europe, which examines the work of four
philosophers of history (philosophers who take a strong interest in history) and
four “philosophical historians” (in Dawson’s sense). In fact, one can read Dawson’s
brief (seven-page) essay “The Problem of Metahistory” (1951), from which the
above quotations are taken, as a kind of manifesto for the systematic transfor-
mation of the philosophy of history that White would undertake in the 1970s.
Dawson was reacting to the low esteem in which philosophy of history
was held during the first half of the twentieth century, particularly in Anglo-
American thought. He felt that academic historians had become increasingly
disconnected from the philosophical roots of their discipline, from the grand
visions that had made history “formative” for modern thought. Suspecting that
the animosity toward metahistory was due more to the particular philosophical
views advocated by metahistorians than to the metahistorical approach per se,
Dawson observes that
historians today are in revolt against the metahistory of Hegel and Croce and
Collingwood, not because it is metahistorical, but because they feel it to be the
expression of a philosophical attitude that is no longer valid; just as the liberal
historians of the eighteenth century revolted against the theological metahistory
of the previous period.14
In an essay published the same year as his Metahistory entitled “The Politics
of Contemporary Philosophy of History” (1973), White echoes this sentiment,
contending that “the term metahistorical is really a surrogate for ‘socially
innovative historical vision.’ What the philosophers and the historians themselves
call ‘straight’ history is the historical vision of political and social accommoda-
tionists.”15 In other words, according to both Dawson and White, the distinction
between so-called “straight” history and metahistory is really a distinction
between a conformist and a radical-revolutionary approach to history, with
“metahistory” (used pejoratively) referring to a radical-revolutionary approach
that had either failed or simply been abandoned. Straight history, then, was
successful metahistory.
This explains, in part, the very negative view evinced by many twentieth-
century Anglo-American philosophers toward metahistory or “speculative
philosophy of history.” Thus Karl Popper dedicated his The Poverty of Historicism
(1936/57) to the “memory of the countless men and women of all creeds or
nations or races who fell victim to the fascist and communist belief in Inexorable
Laws of Historical Destiny.”16 Popper was referring to Oswald Spengler’s
influence on National Socialism (Nazism) in Germany, Marx’s influence on
the Bolshevik Revolution in Russia, and Hegel’s influence, via Benedetto Croce
and Giovanni Gentile, on Italian Fascism (it should be noted, however, that
while Gentile was a self-avowed “philosopher of fascism,” Spengler and Croce
overcame initial enthusiasm to become severe critics of the fascist regimes in
their respective countries). Though Popper ranked history rather low in the
hierarchy of intellectual endeavors, he nevertheless pined after “old-fashioned
history,” which, precisely by being conformist, carried none of the politico-
ethical risks engendered by metahistory.
However, in 1942, a seminal article by Carl Gustav Hempel, “The Function
of General Laws in History,” reinvigorated the debate around the viability of
philosophy of history in Anglo-American, and more specifically Analytic,
thought. Hempel’s intervention in historical studies must be seen against
the backdrop of his endeavor to unify the natural and the “human” sciences:
Naturwissenschaft and Geisteswissenschaft (literally “sciences of spirit”) as they
were known in Germany since Hegel. Their strict separation had been an
article of faith for the anti-positivists, in particular Wilhelm Dilthey and Max
Weber; but under the aegis of a logical-empirical model of explanation, the
“covering law model” (i.e. a law that explains or “covers” the relation between
two or more discrete events),17 Hempel effectively circumscribed philosophy
of history according to a more austere, formal concept of explanation (“expla-
nation sketches”) that did not permit prediction (what Arthur Danto dubbed
“historical foreknowledge”),18 as had the speculative form of philosophy of
history.19
Arthur Danto later differentiated between “substantive” and “analytical”
approaches to philosophy of history, the latter being “philosophy applied to the
special conceptual problems which arise out of the practice of history as well
as out of substantive philosophy of history.”20 Danto claimed that “substantive”
philosophy of history was much closer to history than to philosophy, thereby
replacing the distinction between history and metahistory with a distinction
between analytic philosophy of history, on the one side, and history/specu-
lative philosophy of history (metahistory), on the other. Thus, according
to this view, analytical philosophy of history is the only true philosophy of
history. Nevertheless, one could certainly characterize the approach Danto
was advocating as “metahistorical” in the strict sense of this term. In fact,
White, though an admirer of Danto, would later reject Danto’s opposition: his
Metahistory would be both an epistemological critique of historical practice and
a philosophy of history in its own right.
A few years after Hempel’s seminal essay, a competing vision within
Anglo-American philosophy of history emerged in R. G. Collingwood’s The
Idea of History, posthumously published in 1946 and popularized by W. H.
Dray.21 Whereas Hempel had advocated methodological unity in the sciences,
Collingwood promoted Dilthey’s and Weber’s Verstehen (understanding) model
of the human sciences, as contrasted with the Erklären model (objective scien-
tific explanation) then in vogue, thereby preserving the separation between
Geisteswissenschaft and Naturwissenschaft. Collingwood held that history
involved understanding the thought processes of historical actors rather than
explaining events according to causal laws. History was thus a product of
interpretation, and it required the exercise of one’s imagination. (The section of
Collingwood’s book entitled “The Historical Imagination” may have inspired
the subtitle for White’s Metahistory: The Historical Imagination in Nineteenth-
Century Europe.) While Collingwood rejected the scientization of history,
he was not anti-scientific, and he cast a long shadow over Anglo-American
philosophy of history, in such figures as W. H. Walsh, Patrick Gardiner, W. B.
Gallie, and Alan Donagan.22 Collingwood was also an early influence on White.
One of White’s first essays (1957) was entitled “Collingwood and Toynbee:
Transitions in English Historical Thought.”23 White saw Collingwood as a “crack
in the armor of a historiographical tradition that ha[d], heretofore, avoided
all connections with Continental historicism and philosophy of history”24—a
“crack” that White himself would continue to widen in the ensuing years.
A third watershed development in the Anglo-American attitude toward
philosophy of history, Thomas Kuhn’s The Structure of Scientific Revolutions
(1962), with its theory of “paradigm shifts,” belatedly delivered the death-blow
to Hempel’s logical-empirical approach to historical explanation. Kuhn showed
that science was in fact subject to the same kind of interpretative framing it
had criticized in the “sciences of spirit” (Geisteswissenschaft). This book thus
effectively obliged analytic philosophers to choose between a “softer” historical
approach or a “harder” philosophy of science approach. Not surprisingly, they
chose the latter, though a few renegades, such as Richard Rorty, extolled Kuhn
as a welcome corrective to a philosophy of science gone awry.25 Thus, after a
lively, twenty-year debate, analytic philosophers abruptly lost interest in the
philosophy of history. Danto’s Analytical Philosophy of History (1965) turned
out to be the last major intervention in the field. In a 1995 essay entitled
“The Decline and Fall of the Analytic Philosophy of History,” Danto wistfully
observes:
I can think of very little in philosophy of history from the middle-1960s to

the present. […] There is hardly room in the present scene of philosophy for
discussion of its issues. To find someone actively working [in the philosophy
of history] would be almost… like encountering Japanese soldiers on some
obscure atoll who never found out that the war had ended.26
On the Continent, however, due to the popularity of Marxism, the grand

tradition of philosophy of history had remained a potent force, even if it was
often subordinated to broader philosophical concerns. The new philosophical
schools of phenomenology and existentialism, particularly in such exponents as
Martin Heidegger (in Being and Time, 1927) and Jean-Paul Sartre (in Nausea,
1938, and Being and Nothingness, 1943), saw the concept of history (or “histo-
ricity”) as integral to their ontological investigations, to their redefinitions of
what it means to “exist” in the world, even as they contested the conceits of
academic historicism. In 1960, Sartre published a full-scale theory of history in
his massive Critique of Dialectical Reason, which fused Marxist categories with
existentialism.
In the 1960s, with influence of Nietzsche largely displacing that of Marx,

particularly in France, a more avant-gardist conception of philosophy of history
took hold. Michel Foucault’s Les mots et les choses: Une archéologie des sciences
humaines (translated as The Order of Things: An Archeology of the Human
Sciences), published in 1966, exemplified this new spirit, helping to launch the
“poststructuralist” revolution in French thought. However, like Kuhn’s magnum
opus (with which it shared some common elements—Foucault’s épistèmes are
the loose equivalent of Kuhn’s “paradigm shifts”), Les mots et les choses was
not generally regarded as a contribution to the philosophy of history genre,
which already seemed outdated despite the appearance of Sartre’s Critique (or
perhaps even because of it…). No doubt this was due to the fact that Foucault’s
and Kuhn’s were successful philosophies of history; they were, in White’s phrase
quoted above, “socially innovative historical vision.”27
And in 1979, with the poststructuralist movement in full swing, Jean-François
Lyotard published a brief but famous tract, The Postmodern Condition, in which
he both defines and denigrates philosophy of history as “grand narratives” that
no longer function in a “postmodern” condition. However, Lyotard’s work
was in effect a philosophy of history that proclaimed the end of philosophy of
history, the metanarrative of the end of metanarrative.28
Choosing the past: Existentialist philosophy of history
The same year as Foucault’s Les mots et les choses an obscure professor of
medieval history at the University of Rochester publishes an article that would
soon become a kind of clarion call for a revolution in historical studies. This
article, “The Burden of History” (1966), which appeared in the recently founded
journal History and Theory, established Hayden White as a fiery polemicist
who quixotically challenged the basic conventions of his field. Though White’s
piece generally avoided discussing philosophy of history per se, focusing
instead on the present state of academic historiography, the goal of the essay
was nevertheless to show how the “antihistorical attitude” or “the revolt against
historical consciousness” that characterized much early twentieth-century
writing amounted, in effect, to a positive philosophy of history.
Sartre’s influence was particularly in evidence.29 The section of Being and
Nothingness entitled “My Past” was no doubt the prime inspiration for what
would become one of the defining ideas of White’s work, that of “choosing
one’s past.” Sartre’s philosophy revolves around a fundamental dialectic between
“being-for-itself ” (human consciousness or transcendence) and “being-in-

itself ” (objectness or facticity, all that is not consciousness). Sartre holds that
because we are never reducible to our facticity (which includes our past), we
are always essentially and inescapably “free,” free to choose ourselves, but also
obliged to choose ourselves in every moment; for even to refuse to choose is still
a “choice,” and thus passivity is an illusion. (In Sartre’s sense, “to choose” does
not necessarily entail the ability to obtain, but only the autonomy of choice.
As Sartre says, “success is not important to freedom.”)30 Hence existence is a
kind of burden (we are responsible for it); just as White will argue in his essay
that history is a “burden” in this onto-existential sense. The desire to flee our
ontological responsibility is what Sartre calls “bad faith” (self-deception): it
involves either refusing our facticity (ignoring our limitations) or refusing our
transcendence (relinquishing freedom). In historical terms, one could call the
first type revisionism, the denial of facts, and the second type conservatism, the
denial of choice or responsibility. White treats mostly the second type in his
essay; the first type will be addressed in his later work, as he comes under attack
for his putative “relativism.”31
In the section on the personal past, Sartre outlines several positions that will
find their way into White’s thought. Using the French Revolution as a historical
example, Sartre distinguishes between historical fact (“the Bastille was taken
in 1789”),32 which is immutable, and historical meaning (“a revolt without
consequence… or… the first manifestation of popular strength”),33 which is a
function of the choices made by later interpreters. Historical actors and histo-
rians thus choose or decide to see two events as related or unrelated according to
their volitional aims and factical predispositions. To return to Sartre’s example,
the revolutionary Convention, “anxious to create a famous past of itself,”
sought to transform the taking of the Bastille into “a glorious deed” (though
from another perspective the same event could easily be seen as desultory)—a
designation it has retained in the form of the fête nationale, Bastille Day. (Since
the royalist perspective was extinguished and no longer holds sway, there is no
genuine alternate history in French national consciousness; but in principle, of
course, there could have been.) Through such rituals, one could say that modern
France effectively chooses itself, constantly, as the embodiment of the ideals of
the French Revolution and, in so doing, projects a certain future. The reverse is
also true: by projecting these ideals as its most desirable future, modern France
effectively chooses the French Revolution as its past (the past is has chosen to
fulfill or actualize), rather than, say, the Restoration or the Napoleonic Empire.
In the same way, one could say that modern Germany refuses its Nazi past as its
past, as the past whose spirit it wishes to embody and perpetuate, but it does not
thereby deny the facticity of Nazism or the Holocaust, which would be a form of
bad faith, i.e. revisionism or negationism.34 In Sartre’s formulation, transcending
one’s past does not at all involve its denial.
This operation is best illustrated by what Sartre says about the personal past
and the existential “project”:
Now the meaning of the past is strictly dependant on my present project. […] I
alone in fact can decide at each moment the bearing of the past. I do not decide
it by debating over it, and in each instance evaluating the importance of this or
that prior event; but by projecting myself toward my ends, I preserve the past
with me, and by action I decide its meaning. Who shall decide whether the
mystic crisis in my fifteenth year “was” a pure accident of puberty or, on the
contrary, the first sign of a future conversion? I myself, according to whether I
shall decide—at twenty years of age, at thirty years—to be converted.35
Sartre’s point here—a point first illustrated in his novel Nausea—is that the past
is meaningless in itself; it only takes on meaning when it is volitionally related
to the present, that is, to present choices, which, for Sartre, entail a choice of
being (according to Sartre, we are defined by our actions, not by a preexisting
“essence”; existence precedes essence). Sartre in effect collapses the distinction
between an internal (subjective) and an external (objective) perspective in
historical studies (i.e. Verstehen versus Erklären), for the historian is in the
same predicament as the historical actor; both are effectively making history in
both the literal and figurative sense.36 Sartre notes that “the historian is himself
historical; that is… he historicizes himself by illuminating ‘history’ in the light
of his projects and of those of his society.”37 In other words, whether under the
guise of “professionalism” or of “objectivity,” the historian cannot escape the
fundamental freedom that inheres in every individual’s and society’s relation
to the past and the ends towards which the individual or collective projects
itself as a function of its project. The irreducible element of futurity in choice is
another factor in the blurring of the distinction between history and philosophy
of history: all history is essentially a projection into the future through the past,
even if only philosophy of history does so explicitly (i.e. in good faith).38
Summarizing Sartre’s view in “The Burden of History,” White writes: “we
choose our past in the same way we choose our future. The historical past
therefore, is, like our various personal pasts, at best a myth, justifying our
gamble on a specific future, and at worst a lie, a retrospective rationalization
of what we have become through our choices.”39 White will effectively adopt
this existentialist view, transforming it into a full-blown philosophy of history.

Indeed, the idea that “we choose our past in the same way we choose our future,”
that we realize our present aspirations by projecting them backward as well as
forward, would become a guiding thread in White’s work. By suggesting that
his fellow historians considered the past as pure facticity, White was essentially
accusing them of “bad faith” in the Sartrean sense. The bad faith historian
refuses to see his activity as part of a living project; he sees the past as past, as
irremediably over and done with; nevertheless, the past is still conceived as a
“burden” in the sense that it weighs on the present as having determined it facti-
cally.40 White thus advocated the “transformation” of historical studies, so “as to
allow the historian to participate positively in the liberation of the present from
the burden of history.”41 By this, White meant that instead of regarding our past
as simply a chain of linear causes that lead inexorably to the present, we should
instead conceive of our past as a vast storehouse of possibilities from which we are
obliged to choose, even if not every possibility is realizable in the present (due to
our factical limitations).
In an essay delivered at a conference in 1967, “What is a Historical System?,”
which should be considered a sort of companion piece to “The Burden of
History,” White fleshed out this idea of choosing the past, offering concrete
examples à la Sartre to illustrate his point. Proposing that history be considered
on the analogy of a biological organism (i.e. as coming into being, maturing,
and dying), White was able to collapse the distinction between historians
and historical actors, thereby mirroring Sartre’s dissolution of the difference
between the historical and the personal past. The ostensible aim of the essay
was to show that “historical systems differ from biological systems by their
capacity to act as if they could choose their own ancestors.”42 That is, biological
systems are genetic, whereas historical systems are genetic in only a fictional
sense, since these involve not actual (or merely) physical generation, but ideal
relationships: “the historical past is plastic in a way that the genetic past is not.
Men range over it and select from it models of comportment for structuring
their movement into the future. They choose a set of ideal ancestors that they
treat as genetic progenitors.”43 As an example, White cites the development of
medieval Christian civilization, culminating in the Holy Roman Empire: the
break with pagan-Roman culture occurred when men decided to consider
themselves as being the descendents of the Judeo-Christian part of their
past, effectively abandoning the Roman worldview and cultural practices, and
thereby becoming wholly “Christian”: “when in short they began to honor the
Christian past as the most desirable of a future uniquely their own, and ceased
to honor the Roman past as their past, the Roman sociocultural system ceased to
exist.”44 Though White does not mention it in this essay, his idea of the historical
system stems from his early fascination with Martin Luther’s revolt against the
Catholic Church, which replaced an almost millennium-and-a-half tradition
with a return to textual Christianity and the simplicity of origins. Protestants
thus do not regard Catholics as their progenitors, but instead see themselves as
coinheritors of the original Christianity of the Gospels and of the ministry of
Peter and Paul in the first century a.d.
At the end of the essay, White sums up his argument in terms that recall the
Sartrean language of “The Burden of History”: “In choosing our past, we choose
a present; and vice versa. We use the one to justify the other. By constructing our
present, we assert our freedom; by seeking retroactive justification for it in our
past, we silently strip ourselves of the freedom that has allowed us to become
what we are.”45 It was traditional historical inquiry that White saw as “stripping
[us] of our freedom,” since, in its bad faith, it refused to see its justification of
the present as the result of a choice of (historical) being.
At this point I think it would be helpful to recall the discussions of this
problematic in Martin Heidegger’s Being and Time—a strong influence on
Sartre—which will allow us to better elucidate the stakes involved in the idea
of “choosing the past” from the perspective of existentialist philosophy.46 In
Division II of Being and Time, Heidegger uses the Kierkegaard-inspired concept
of “repetition” or “retrieve” (Wiederholung) to describe the constitutive histo-
ricity of Da-sein (human existence):
Retrieve is explicit handing down, that is, going back to the possibilities of
Da-sein that has been there. The authentic retrieve of a possibility of existence
that has been—the possibility that Da-sein may choose its own heroes—is
existentially grounded in anticipatory resoluteness… The retrieve of what is
possible neither brings back “what is past,” nor does it bind the “present” back
to what is “outdated.” […] Rather retrieve responds to the possibility of existence
that has-been-there. […] Retrieve neither abandons itself to the past, nor does
it aim at progress.47
The essentials of Heidegger’s existential conception of history are contained

in this passage: 1) the idea that Da-sein can “choose its own heroes,” that is,
it can choose its own models from the past as possibilities for the present
(White echoes this idea in a previously quoted passage: “Men range over [the
historical past] and select from it models of comportment”); 2) the idea of
the repetition/retrieve (Wiederholung) of a past conceived as that which “has
been” (Gewesenheit)—that is, a past that retains its relation to the present—as
opposed to the “outdated” (i.e. objectified) past (Vergangenheit) severed from
the present; 3) repetition/retrieve is also a response to the past; in other words,
it is the manifestation of an interpretative attitude, which is not a desire to
relive the past, to merely identify with past actors (retrieve/repetition does not
“abandon itself to the past”), but to make it new, open-endedly, that is, without
thereby assuming a particular teleology (such as progress or decline). This, for
Heidegger, constitutes an authentic relation to one’s past.48
In his essay for this volume, Gianni Vattimo offers a lucid reinterpretation of
Heidegger’s concept of authentic historicity:
There is no history of Being other than that of human praxis; and there is no
objective structure other than that of history considered as previous, that is, as
interpreted for and by the present, a history that, as Being and Time teaches, is
never vergangen (gone) but always only gewesen (what has been). That is, the
past is not an immutable datum… but a call, a message that always addresses
itself to the projectural capacity of the one who receives it and who actively
interprets it. What is “real” is not in any way objective Being, but only that
which has been produced by other beings existing before us, themselves active
interpreters, involved in a process that might have developed differently.
Vattimo contrasts the notion of the past as objective Being with the past
conceived as praxis (a move that leads Vattimo in a recent book to link Heidegger
to Marx),49 thereby recalling Heidegger’s cardinal distinction (elaborated in
Division I of Being and Time) between Vorhandenheit (“presence-at-hand” or
“objective presence”) and Zuhandenheit (“readiness-to-hand” or “handiness”).
On this conception, the past is primarily Zuhandenheit, a practical past, a past
always already interpreted in the context of its relationality to the present and
the future, and only secondarily or derivatively Vorhandenheit, the objective
apprehension of the past, i.e. the past of the traditional, Rankean historian
(whose ideology, for Heidegger, would entail an impoverished vision of the past,
because of its detachment from being-in-the-world).
In his most recent work (2010), White has sought to develop a similar
distinction, that between the “practical past” and the “historical past,” a
distinction he derives from the British philosopher and political theorist
Michael Oakeshott.50 The concept of the “historical past” matches up with
Heidegger’s critique of scientific objectivity, of the primacy accorded to “theory”
as a mental activity that detaches objects from their practical contexts, consid-
ering them in isolation and for their own sake, existing by and for themselves.
White writes:
The historical past is a theoretically motivated construction, existing only in

the books and articles published by professional historians; it is constructed as
an end in itself, possesses little or no value for understanding or explaining the
present, and provides no guidelines for acting in the present or foreseeing the
future.51
In short, the “historical past” has no edifying purpose, even if it has a scholarly
one. However, White’s notion of the “practical past,” unlike Heidegger’s
concept of practical utility, stems from a more Kantian conception of the
“practical,” with its ethico-political implications (without losing sight, of
course, of the Nietzschean-Sartrean conception of the past as not something to
be merely studied, categorized, examined, etc., but rather as something to be
used for distinctively human ends): “The practical past is made up of all those
memories, illusions, bits of vagrant information, attitudes and values which
the individual or the group summons up as best they can to justify, dignify,
excuse, alibi, or make a case for actions to be taken in the prosecution of a
life project.”52 Here again we find the existentialist language of the “project,”
thereby connecting White’s current thinking with the impulses that came out
of the writing of “The Burden of History” and “What is a Historical System?”
in the mid-1960s.
Not surprisingly, White associates the “practical past” with the philosophy
of history, thus underscoring the fact that for White all authentic history is
philosophy of history, that is, “socially innovative historical vision.” Aligning
philosophy of history with literary genres such as the historical and realist novel,
which also bear a “practical” relation to the past, White observes:
It has to be said that, whatever else it may be, philosophy of history belongs to
the class of disciplines meant to bring order and reason to a “practical past”
rather than to that “historical past” constructed by professional historians for
the edification of their peers in their various fields of study.53
Now the idea of the “practical past” is certainly not a new thought in White’s
work, even if it does effectively bring philosophy of history back into the
forefront of White’s reflections, after having languished for some time in the
background.54 In fact, the idea of the practical-historical is rooted in White’s
earliest university studies, in the example of his undergraduate mentor William
J. Bossenbrook at Wayne State University, an inspiring figure who also taught
two other contributors to the present volume, Arthur Danto and Harry
Harootunian. Describing the intellectually formative (and not merely inspira-
tional) influence of his teacher, White recounts:
[Bossenbrook] consistently sustained the illusion that the study of history was
the most important intellectual task that a morally responsible man could
undertake. Perhaps this was because he always portrayed the great historians of
the past as actors in the dramas of culture, not as mere passive commentators on
events that had already run their courses. […] We concluded that thought and
action were not mutually exclusive alternatives, but only different aspects of the
single seamless web of human involvement.55
This passage, written in 1968, before any of the books for which he is now
famous had been published, offers what I consider to be the best succinct
statement of White’s philosophy of history: historical writing as praxis—as the
shaping both of historical reality and of the community that historical writing
serves. White’s insistence on the activity of the heroic historian/philosopher of
history, versus the passivity of the traditional, objectivist historian is simply a
somewhat romanticized version of a leitmotif that runs throughout his oeuvre.
(In his essay for this volume, “History as Fulfillment,” White criticizes the idea
of historians as “the passive receivers and forwarders of [historical] messages.”)
For White’s philosophy of history is inextricable from a philosophy of life: that
is, from an understanding of the role of history in individual and collective self-
making and self-transcendence.56
White’s philosophy of history and the “linguistic turn”
One has to keep in mind that White wrote “The Burden of History” during a
transitional moment in twentieth-century intellectual history: a few years after
Thomas Kuhn’s seminal text appeared but a few years before the poststructuralist
explosion with which White, rightly or wrongly, would come to be identified.
Thus White’s examples of avant-garde, anti-historicist French thought in that
essay are Sartre and Camus rather than Foucault and Derrida. Nevertheless,
“The Burden of History” was anthologized in the popular textbook collection
Critical Theory Since 1965, published in 1986, in effect canonizing White as one
of the progenitors of the “theory” movement in literary and cultural studies,
which, in the mid to late 1980s, had hit its high-water mark (though it has
survived in various forms up to the present day).57
A new phase in the reception of White’s thought was opened up with the
publication of Metahistory: The Historical Imagination in Nineteenth-Century
Europe in 1973, which is still White’s best-known and most controversial work.58
From the perspective of the philosophy of history, to which Metahistory was
immediately seen as a seminal, if provocative, contribution, the work appeared

to have more in common with the classic representatives of the Anglo-American
tradition, especially with Collingwood and Dawson, and with Croce (to whom a
chapter was devoted), than with the poststructuralist revolution then underway
in France.59 Nonetheless, in retrospect, Metahistory is considered the chief
exponent in historical studies of what was then being called the “linguistic
turn,” a term popularized by Richard Rorty’s watershed 1967 anthology, The
Linguistic Turn, which documented the surge in interest among analytic
philosophers in the philosophy of language. In fact, one of the great accomplish-
ments of Metahistory was its reconfiguration and repackaging of philosophy
of history in a form that appeared to coincide with current concerns. White
sought to demonstrate, on the one hand, that philosophy of history could not
be separated from contemporary investigations into language, narrative, and
culture, and, on the other, that these investigations often adopted a methodo-
logically and epistemologically naïve view of history, removed as they were
from the decades-long debate about philosophy of history (which now seemed
impossibly obscure and abstruse). White’s novel use of tropology and later on
narrative theory to describe historical processes thus allowed him to insert
himself into the multifarious debates that raged in the late 1960s and 1970s
around the proper relationship between the “two cultures” of the humanities
and the sciences—an updated and linguistically centered version of the earlier
Naturwissenschaft/Geisteswissenschaft dichotomy.60
At least initially, the phrase “linguistic turn” was used to describe what looked
to be a parallel Copernican Revolution in Anglo-American and Continental
thought: coalescing around the later Wittgenstein and J. L. Austin, in the
case of the former; and, in the case of the latter, around the later Heidegger
and Ferdinand de Saussure. Indeed, for both styles of thought, the “turn”
signaled the adoption of a highly self-conscious attitude toward language
as the basis for the possibility (or impossibility) of any concept of truth or
reality. Heidegger’s dictum, “language is the house of being,” and Wittgenstein’s
aphorism “philosophy is a battle against the bewitchment of our intelligence by
means of our language”61 encapsulated this new perspective.62
While White agreed with the general aims of the “linguistic turn,” he rejects
such an appellation for his own work, preferring instead to call it a “discursive
turn.” As he remarks in a recent interview: “what [I] do is treat these disci-
plines as discourses which create their own object of study by processes that
we recognize as being grounded in language, but as being more rhetorical than,
say, grammatical, in their articulation or elaboration.”63 It is thus around the
notion of discourse, with its more humanist, practico-ethical implications, that

White organizes his philosophy of history, rather than around language per se
(which can also be non-human), or grammar (form or structure), even if, as
Lévi-Straussian structuralism or Chomskean linguistics demonstrated, such
investigations could yield powerful results. The discipline that takes discourse
as its object of study is rhetoric, and it was on the basis of rhetorical theory—
the theory of figures or tropes (the counterpoint to logic)—that White’s new
philosophy of history was conceived. This is not to say that White did not find
or seek out parallels between his resurrection of rhetoric (also influenced by the
rhetorical theorist Kenneth Burke)64 and the investigations emerging out nexus
between Heideggarian phenomenology and Saussurean semiotics, which he
often sought to co-opt for his own purposes (his 1973 essay “Foucault Decoded:
Notes from Underground” is a case in point). But his Metahistory was not
indebted to this current.65 White’s more immediate methodological influences
were Northrop Frye’s notion of archetypes in literary history (as elaborated in
his Anatomy of Criticism), Erich Auerbach’s historicization of the concept of
realistic representation (as expounded in Mimesis), and Vico’s philological and
tropological approach to cultural history (in his Scienza nuova).
Metahistory is a multifaceted book that endeavors to address several related
aims simultaneously, from a historical account of the evolution of historical
consciousness in the nineteenth century to a tropological account of the deep
structure of historical thought. Though it is most famous for the Vico-inspired,
fourfold theory of tropes (Metaphor, Metonymy, Synecdoche, Irony) developed
in an extensive introduction, Metahistory is also, and perhaps foremost, a
sustained defense of the philosophy of history genre. On the one hand, it infused
new life into philosophy of history by making it amenable to the new, linguisti-
cally oriented approaches in the humanities; on the other, it deconstructed the
cardinal opposition between straight history and philosophy of history that had
resulted in the excommunication of the latter from academic historiography.
The first goal was achieved by the performative nature of Metahistory itself:
Metahistory demonstrated that a tropological philosophy of history was possible
by its very elaboration. In this sense it less important to learn that, as White
writes, “Marx apprehended the historical field in the Metonymical mode,”66
which in itself is not very illuminating, than the fact that this kind of reflection
is incorporable into a tropological system that defines historical consciousness as
such.67
The second goal involved showing that the tropes structured all historical
discourse and thus that, at the deepest or most fundamental level, straight
history and philosophy of history are one (“the possible modes of histori-
ography are the same as the possible modes of speculative philosophy of
history”).68 But, of course, only a metahistorical approach can account for this
fact, thereby surreptitiously establishing its priority. White’s Metahistory was
in effect a meta-metahistory,69 since it involved the condition of possibility of
(historical and philosophical-historical) discourse itself, even if this condition
was conceived as tropological rather than as logical-conceptual.70 (White’s move
was not unlike Jacques Derrida’s deconstruction of the opposition between
speech and writing: both terms of the opposition are shown to inhere in a
common structure, a structure that can only be described by one of the terms,
“writing” or “arche-writing,” though Derrida’s “arche-” sounded paradoxically
more transcendental than White’s “meta-.”) As Harry Harootunian observes
in his contribution to this volume, White “[laid] to rest the claims of the
philosophy of history by shifting its ground to linguistic protocols that would
demonstrate how ‘empirical history’ was no more exempt from the mediations
of linguistic prefiguration than was philosophy of history.”
Thus, in his preface to Metahistory, White argues that the differences
between straight history and philosophy of history are more superficial than
essential, that “there can be no ‘proper history’ which is not at the same time
‘philosophy of history,’”71 meaning that, in addition to the common tropological
structure, all history writing inevitably embodies theoretical presuppositions
that concern history-in-general and that condition any elaboration of the
historical particulars. Proper or straight history is philosophy of history that
does not recognize itself as such (because of its unconscious conformity
to prevailing norms); philosophy of history, on the other hand, “contain[s]
within it the elements of a proper history,” choosing rather to emphasize the
“conceptual construct” over the historical data.72 Thus, from the perspective of
each of the opposing poles, straight history is criticized for its insufficiency of
meaning and philosophy of history for its excess of meaning. However, for White,
the idea that Marx apprehended historical reality Metonymically and that
Ranke apprehended historical reality Synecdochically was a more important
distinction than that between the philosophy of history embodied by the former
and the straight history exemplified by the latter.
Though White’s tropological grid appeared at first glance to be rigid and
deterministic, it was actually meant as a corollary to Sartre’s dictum that we
are “condemned to be free.” For once we see the tropological apprehension of
historical reality as constituted by a choice (among different tropological appre-
hensions) that we are condemned to make (“condemned” because we cannot
think discursively and thus historically outside of the tropes), we can then
unburden ourselves from the idea of corresponding to a non-linguistic reality,
from the illusion of representing historical reality “as it really was.” White writes
that “we are indentured to a choice among contending interpretative strategies
in any effort to reflect on history-in-general; […] the best grounds for choosing
one perspective on history rather than another are ultimately aesthetic or moral
rather than epistemological.”73 The “we are indentured to a choice” is clearly a
paraphrase of Sartre’s “we are condemned to be free.” However, White’s superim-
position of the moral and the aesthetic dimensions that inform and ultimately
constitute any “choice of interpretative strategy” already transcends the Sartrean
problematic (at least insofar as it was developed in Being and Nothingness).74
As the reader of Metahistory knows, the tropes are aligned with modes
of emplotment (Romantic, Tragic, Comic, Satirical), argument (Formist,
Mechanistic, Organicist, Contextualist), and ideological implication (Anarchist,
Radical, Conservative, Liberal). The choice of tropological apprehension, then,
cannot be motivated by purely epistemological or empirical reasons, but is
rather a function of the historian’s or philosopher’s ethical and aesthetic predi-
lections. This skeletal structure of the tropes is fleshed out, as it were, by the
other modes, which are subject to a virtually inexhaustible number of combi-
natory possibilities; these constitute for White a “historiographical style.”
One of the most important and enduring of White’s ideas put forward in
Metahistory is the aesthetic concept of “emplotment,” a term of his coinage.
Though it sounds as if it were hatched by a literary theorist, the term is in fact
designed to reveal something that is specific to historiography (for it would be
a redundant concept in literary theory). By “emplotment,” White meant that
the historian and the philosopher of history use conventional (i.e. preexisting
and culturally conditioned) narrative forms to organize and tell a story about
the past—or, to put it more succinctly, stories are made, not found. Traditional
historiography, on the other hand, had always held that the story is to be
discovered or uncovered in the amassed data, that the facts tell their own story.
But this view, if carried to its logical conclusion, presupposes that there are
an infinite number of possible stories, none of which bear any formalizable
(i.e. plot) resemblance to any other. White holds that this is an illusion, that
it is impossible to construct (or, if you like, reconstruct) a narrative, whether
composed of real or imagined elements, utterly bereft of conventional form
(plot type) or of “storiness” itself (i.e. as having, as Aristotle said, a beginning,
a middle, and an end). In other words, there is no such thing as narrative-
in-general, only particular kinds of stories, which White reduces, following
Northrop Frye, to the four archetypes mentioned above: Romance, Tragedy,

Comedy, Satire.
Thus to say that the historian or philosopher emplots the story that he/she
wants to tell about the past is not to say that he/she selects the kind of story that
he/she thinks best fits the facts, but rather to say that the choice of narrative
form is a way of “choosing the past”; in other words, there are a multiplicity of
ways of emplotting the same elements, none of which, formally speaking, can be
said to correspond better to “historical reality” than any other, since historical
reality itself is an effect of such a discursive choice. This idea was quite revolu-
tionary, since historians generally believed that, even if they used novelistic
techniques to make their accounts more (aesthetically) effective or (epistemo-
logically) convincing, these were on the order of mere form rather than content,
which, they believed, remained untainted by such “embellishments.” As White
observes in his essay for this volume (Chapter 1):
The form of the historian’s discourse (its form as a story) was conceived to
be contingent and detachable from its contents (information and argument)
without significant conceptual or informational loss. And this on two possible
grounds: either the story told in the discourse was a mimetic image of a
concatenation of events which, once established as facts, could be shown to
have actually manifested the same form as the story told about it; or, the story
told about the events was simply an instrument or medium of communication
used by the historian to convey information about an uncanny subject-matter
to a lay audience deemed incapable of comprehending it in its historiologically
processed form.
White thus contends that there is a “content of the form,” as one of his later
collections (1987) was titled, that the aesthetic form inevitably conveys a
moral, conceptual, and ideological content, forming a totality with the putative
“content,” with which it is in the end indistinguishable.
The rapprochement White effected between historical and fictional narrative
on the level of form was, unsurprisingly, considered a threat to the quasi-
scientific objectivity that historians saw as legitimating their discipline as
the search for the truth of the past. The idea that every narrative contains an
inexpugnable element of fiction (the very conventionality of form that preexists
and conditions any narrative process) appeared to strip history of its status as
an empirical, fact-driven discipline.75 If “all stories are fictions,” as White liked
to say, then how could the historian effectively separate his activity from that
of the novelist? And if fictionality (which, for White, is simply another name
for figuration) is fundamental to historicity, then how are we to conceive of
“historical reality,” the concept of which supposedly differentiated modern

historical inquiry from mythical thought?76
White’s response involved arguing, following Auerbach’s demonstration
in Mimesis, that “realism,” historical or otherwise, is an aesthetic and thus
a contingent concept, that the realistic representation of historical reality is
subject to the same vicissitudes of meaning and conventionality as the literary or
artistic concept of realism. There is one concept of realism, however, that White
thinks conditions all others, and this is figural realism, the title White gave to
his 1999 collection of essays.77 In Metahistory, however, White had spoken about
figuration in terms of “prefiguring the historical field”; that is, the figures/tropes
set out the basic modes of apprehending historical reality, the representation
of which (the historical account) was the fulfillment of the figure/trope that
structured it. This conception of “prefiguration” was compositional; that is, it is
what accounted for the historian’s construction of the historical referent, which,
as was stated above, only exists as an effect of discourse. But no “prefiguration”
is inherently more “realistic” than any other.
In White’s later work, however, he will use the concept of prefiguration as
projectional; that is, it involved seeing the prefiguration-fulfillment relation as
a function of a temporally realized project. (Karyn Ball, in her essay for this
volume, explores the various meanings and role of prefiguration in White’s
thought.) White comes to view the very act of narration (in addition to the
choice of narrative mode) as a means of “choosing the past,” thus uniting
White’s earlier existentialist view of historical meaning with his later, specifi-
cally narrativist and Auerbach-influenced approach (see White’s essay for this
volume, “History as Fulfillment”). This idea, elaborated in his article “Auerbach’s
Literary History: Figural Causation and Modernist Historicism” (and collected
in Figural Realism), takes as its starting point Auerbach’s literary-historical
reinterpretation of the Christian concept of figura (on which Auerbach had
written an eponymous essay in 1939), which White saw as the unacknowledged
methodological principle behind Auerbach’s Mimesis.78
The concept of figura derives from the Christian hermeneutic tradition. A
postulate of Biblical exegesis, it involved seeing one event in light of another,
one event as prefiguring another, from the perspective of the later event. It
thus differed from prophecy, which projects forward. Figural interpretation,
also called “typology” (the relation between “type” and its fulfillment in the
“antitype”), projects backward, treating earlier events as if they had been destined
to be fulfilled in later ones. This type of interpretation had the advantage of
preserving the reality or literalness of events that might otherwise be taken as
merely allegorical or symbolic. Figural interpretation was thus a prototype of

realistic historiography, of a way of generating specifically historical meaning.79 In
the Christian context, however, there was an assumed teleology to this interpre-
tative process: the earlier event was thought to actually cause or be intrinsically
connected to the later event (often occurring centuries later) as part of a divine
plan. Christian figural interpretation was thus, in theory, a way of understanding
or perceiving God’s project, even if, in practice, it was a very human project of self-
actualization that was being performed; for Christian typology, inevitably and
in effect, involved choosing the past. White called this aesthetic and secularized
analog to the Christian figura “figural causation.” One can thus perceive how the
Christian figura could become the prototype of the existentialist concept of histo-
ricity outlined above. As White writes in his essay for this volume:
Plot-meaning is a way of construing historical processes in the mode of a

fulfillment of a fate or a destiny considered, not as an instance of mechanical
or teleological causality, but as contingent on the interplay of free will (choice,
motives, intentions), on the one hand, and historically specific limits imposed
upon the exercise of this free will, on the other.
In more explicitly Sartrean terms, then, plot-meaning is a combination of

facticity (“historically specific limits”) and transcendence (“free will”). White
thus narrativizes the existentialist/Christian-figural concept of projection: the
generation of narrative meaning (emplotment) is simply a function of the
prefiguration-fulfillment dynamic, codified in such literary devices as “foreshad-
owing,” “dénouement,” “formal patterning,” “flashback,” etc.
The first specifically philosophical articulation of the dynamic of figuralism
is no doubt Søren Kierkegaard’s concept of repetition. In his eponymous book,
Kierkegaard writes that “the dialectic of repetition is easy, for that which is
repeated has been—otherwise it could not be repeated—but the very fact that
is has been makes the repetition into something new.”80 In a key, but little-
discussed essay on Northrop Frye, White observes that Kierkegaard’s concept of
repetition—“not the simple repeating of an experience, but the recreating of

it which redeems or awakens it to life”—names the process productive of the
type/antitype relationship by which a later event, text, period, culture, thought,
or action can be said to have “fulfilled” an earlier one. […] “Fulfillment” here is
to be understood as the product or effect of a kind of reverse causation—a kind
of causation peculiar to historical reality, culture, and human consciousness, by
which a thing of the past is at once grasped by consciousness, brought into the
present by recollection, and redeemed, made new.81
Figural causation is thus a kind of “reverse causation”; and in this sense, all
history, like the Sartrean “project,” is an act of redemption: one redeems the past
by choosing it, by choosing to actualize it in and for the present, thereby making
it “new,” or making it anew.
The difficulty for the modern historian in countenancing such an idea of
“reverse causation” is succinctly addressed by Gabrielle Spiegel in her essay for
this volume, where she observes that White is
secularizing typological notions of the relationship between figures and events

separated by centuries in a way that, I suspect, few contemporary historians
would understand or accept. For the notion of “fulfillment” suggests that an
earlier event/person/type in some (perhaps only “figural”) sense causes its
much later, distanced realization, hence bypassing immediate local contexts as
principles of explanation.
However, it is not so much that White’s figuralism “bypasses” immediate or local

contexts, but that it superimposes itself on them as their condition of possibility.
Certainly, White privileges narrative explanation over mechanical or efficient-
causal explanation in historical accounts. (And “causality” is, of course, itself a
highly contested term in philosophy.) He argues that narrativization (to which
even non-narrative history must ultimately succumb) underlies the creation
of any specifically historical meaning, even if the examination of “antecedent
causes” provides useful information for the construction of historical narratives.
White does not deny that the examination of nexuses of efficient-causal
relations can offer insights into how or why something happened the way it did,
just as one would naturally take into account such relations in the investigation
of the causes of a car crash or the results of an election. But to “explain” a car
crash in purely causal-physicalistic terms (as one entity of a certain shape and
size, making contact with another at a certain velocity, a certain angle, and in
certain weather conditions, etc.) does little to “explain” such an event in terms of
the human factor involved, even if a strictly objective description is considered
adequate for the physical or exact sciences. Thus no one “explains” the results
of an election by saying that one candidate got more votes than another, or by
describing the voting technology, even if these are valid causal explanations.
Insight into human events demands understanding, imagination, and ultimately
interpretation, and, for White, interpretation is nothing but figuration. To
“explain” a car crash or an election is to say what it means; such explanation
is thus indissociable from the act of interpretation, with all that the term “act”
entails (i.e. the moral, the volitional, the practical). Putatively “empirical”
descriptions tend to suppress, deemphasize, or even eliminate the role of the

will in meaning making or interpretation. They proclaim their objectivity under
the self-deceptive (and perhaps even self-serving) guise of passivity. As White
observes at the end of his introduction to Tropics of Discourse, ours is “an age
which has lost its belief in the will and represses its sense of the moral implica-
tions of the mode of rationality that it favors. But the moral implications of the
human sciences will never be perceived until the faculty of the will is reinstated
in theory.”82
Philosophy of history after Hayden White
I turn now to a brief discussion of the essays that comprise this volume. The first
chapter features a previously unpublished essay by White. Originally given as a
keynote address, “History as Fulfillment,” is an excellent introduction to White’s
later thought as well as one of the few essays in which White explicitly defines
how his notion of figuralism relates to historical studies, a topic that White had
addressed in the article on Auerbach cited above. Unlike the latter essay, however,
White here develops the notion that narrative itself—“plot-meaning”—is a
manifestation of the prefiguration-fulfillment dynamic, thereby connecting
his earlier philosophy of history with his later thought (a unity I have sought
to describe in this introduction according to the idea of “choosing the past”).
“Emplotment,” the key-term of White’s Metahistory, can therefore be seen as a
kind of figuralism. In addition, White reiterates that, despite structuralist and
pseudo-scientific attempts to reduce history to its conceptual content, narrative
is essential to history, not merely as a discourse genre, but as a discipline:
“history, anthropology, and psychoanalysis are, I believe, the only disciplines of
the human sciences that still treat narrativization as a legitimate means of expla-
nation, rather than as an instrument of vulgarization by which to introduce
findings to a lay audience.” This is because, when it comes to human events,
such as those that history recounts, “the figure precedes the concept, rather than
the reverse.” It would not be an exaggeration to say that the working out of this
deceptively simple idea is the guiding thread of White’s philosophy of history.83
F. R. Ankersmit’s essay, “A Plea for a Cognitivist Approach to White’s
Tropology,” treats the question of how White’s theory of tropes can represent a
“contribution to historical rationality.” Ankersmit thus diverts White’s tropology
from its original purpose in Metahistory (which was to examine historical
discourse in terms of the structuring effects of the most basic tropes), thereby
developing White’s thought in ways that are suggested by but not explicitly
elaborated in Metahistory.84 Specifically, Ankersmit seeks to address how the
referential or truth value of historical writing can be assessed according to
the logic of tropes. Ankersmit notes that since White’s main purpose was to
show how historical meaning was generated, White gives scant attention to
the truth value of the tropes. Given that the tropes are, by nature, negations of
literal truth, and that historical texts do not, of course, present themselves as
negations of literal truth, but, on the contrary, as facts strung together in some
coherent form, the question arises as to what happens to this literal truth—i.e.
its cognitive status—as the structuring and ordering function of the tropes
take over, as it must in any discursive rendering of historical reality. Therefore,
Ankersmit seeks to establish which tropes best capture the cognitive relation
between historical discourse and historical reality. In his tour through the four
tropes, Ankersmit begins by eliminating Irony and Metonymy from contention:
the first because it transcends or frustrates any cognitivist account; the second
because the “trope itself remains outside of any effort to make sense of the
world.” He concludes that only Synecdoche and Metaphor can constitute a
specifically cognitive relation to historical reality or historical truth—a finding
that will demonstrate, according to Ankersmit, “how Whitean tropology may
shed some new light on the cognitivist aspects of historical writing.”
In her essay “Deliver Us from A-Historicism: Metahistory for Non-Historians,”
Mieke Bal also tackles the question of truth in historical scholarship, but from
a very different perspective. She describes her first encounter with White’s
Metahistory as a seminal moment in her own intellectual formation, for it
offered a way out of the rigid formalism-historicism binary that characterized
the critical discussions of that time. Those in the formalist camp (like Bal) were
invariably accused of ahistoricism, of refusing to acknowledge the relevance of
historical meaning. White’s philosophy of history, however, had demonstrated
how all history, philosophical or straight, is inevitably structured and hence
subject to formalist analysis. But Metahistory also showed that formalism, far
from being ahistorical, is firmly rooted in time, specifically in the way in which
the present frames the past. Bal observes that “by endorsing the present as a
historical moment in the act of interpretation itself, one can make much more of
the object under scrutiny.” Bal notes how her notion of non-linear history, which
she calls “preposterous history” (“the impact the present has on the past”), can
be considered in a similar light as White’s figuralism (i.e. as reverse causation),
except that she separates her account from any suggestion of redemption. In
the second part of her essay, Bal takes White’s work to an area where it is not
often applied (Stephen Bann’s work being an important exception), that is,
to visual art. Bal analyses at length a slide instillation by Belgian artist Ana
Torfs entitled Du Mentir-Faux (Concerning Lying-Falsehood), which purports
to thematize questions of historical truth and reality by analogizing the
photographic image of a contemporary woman with the historical figure of
Joan of Arc. Unlike most of White’s interpreters, Bal does not see White’s
philosophy of history as undermining the idea of historical truth, but rather as
recasting it beyond the fact-fiction, true-false dichotomies—an operation she
sees embodied in Torfs’s installation. According to Bal, by “explicitly bracketing
the question of truth,” White “leaves it and the desirability of its pursuit intact.”
Karyn Ball’s essay, “Hayden White’s Hope, or the Politics of Prefiguration,”
seeks to reconcile the seeming transcendentalism of White’s philosophy
of history, i.e. the “precritical” function of tropic prefiguration, with “his
commitment to recapturing the potential for visionary politics forsaken by a
disenchanted historical profession.” In her investigation into White’s transcen-
dentalism, Ball invokes Kant’s distinction between the transcendent (that
which is beyond experience) and the transcendental (necessary condition
of experience), to show how the objectivist historian, by treating historical
reality as existing apart from historical discourse, falls prey to what Kant calls
the “transcendental illusion”: the confusion of a noumenal idea of history,
what history is in itself, with objective reality and knowledge. This Kantian
distinction allows Ball to “shed light on White’s ‘transcendental narrativism’
as an ‘aestheticist’ approach to the critique of historiography.” Ball’s resulting
rapprochement between the aesthetic and the political dimensions in White is a
welcome corrective to commentaries that miss the inherently political nature of
White’s formalist-aestheticist approach to philosophy of history, or the aesthetic
nature of White’s politics. In this vein, Ball notes how White’s association (in his
essay “The Politics of Historical Interpretation”) of the aesthetic category of the
sublime with a visionary philosophy of history “amplifies what is at stake in his
politics of interpretation: a potentially mobilizing recognition of the negativity
of history—its dynamic withdrawal from the totalizing presumptions of the
understanding.”
As mentioned above, Arthur Danto had also been inspired by the teaching
of William J. Bossenbrook at Wayne State University. He thus begins his essay,
“Hayden White and Me: Two Systems of Philosophy of History,” with a tribute
to Bossenbrook, whom he credits with having taught his students “to think
grandly about history,” but also with stressing the importance of narrative in
historiography, something that became central to both Danto’s and White’s
philosophies of history. Though they hailed from a common source, their

ideas diverged considerably. Danto notes that whereas White, in Metahistory,
was interested in the “rhetoric of narration,” Danto’s Analytical Philosophy of
History was concerned with the “logic of narration,” that is, with narration as
“explanatory schemata,” even if both opposed efforts to scientize history. In
Danto’s case, it was a matter of redefining philosophy of history in the wake of
Logical Positivism. Contesting both Hempel’s system as well as the Verstehen
tradition stemming from Collingwood, Danto focused on what he called
“narrative sentences,” an idea first laid out in an eponymous 1962 essay.85 Danto
holds that historical discourse is based on sentences that “refer to at least two
time-separated events though they only describe (are only about) the earliest
event to which they refer.”86 This logic of narration (expressed in such sentences
as “Petrarch opened the Renaissance”) implies a historian’s perspective, since
the event is recounted in the light of unforeseeable later events; past agents are
by definition not capable of conceiving such sentences. For Danto, this means
that “to live in history” is to live “in the light of futures cognitively inacces-
sible to us”—an idea that is also, though in a different way than Danto intends,
consistent with White’s idea of figuralism, a point that White clarifies in his
“Comment” at the end of this volume. (In his essay for this volume, Richard
Vann describes just such a rapprochement, commenting that “since histo-
rians know most outcomes of historical actions, as do many of their readers, a
certain amount of foreshadowing is unavoidable. It is intrinsic to the ‘narrative
sentence’ described by Arthur Danto as particular to historical narrative.” And,
as Vann further observes, foreshadowing is nothing but figuralism.)
Danto’s idea of what it means to “live in history” corresponds roughly to
White’s distinction between the “historical past” and the “practical past.” As
White writes:
Nobody ever actually lived or experienced the historical past because it could
not have been apprehended on the basis of whatever it was that past agents
knew, thought, or imagined about their world during their present. Historians,
viewing the past from the subsequent vantage point of a future state of affairs,
can claim a knowledge about the past present that no past agent in that present
could ever have possessed.87
In his essay, Danto thus unwittingly reveals more commonalities than diver-
gences between his and White’s philosophies of history. Both see historical
understanding as an irreducible fusion between past and present against the
illusion of a fixed and autonomous past.88
Another alumnus of Bossenbrook’s classes, Harry Harootunian, treats in his

essay, “Uneven Temporalities/Untimely Pasts: Hayden White and the Question
of Temporal Form,” the notion of mixed temporalities—the idea that time is a
cultural construct whose inherent heterogeneity is restrained and suppressed
by the dominant historical narrative, which, in the modern era, is invariably
an amalgam of nationalism and capitalism.89 By separating philosophy from
history, as Rankean empirical historiography had advocated, the problem of
time and its cultural specificity was safely banished to the realm of abstract
philosophizing, with which academic historiography need not concern itself.
According to Harootunian, the nationalist-capitalist vision of history, which
emerged concomitantly with the establishment of history as a discipline,
sought to master the confluence of disparate temporal regimes (e.g. memory,
lived time, labor time), in the formation of a national identity. This move
combined the ideology of linear unfolding (the progressive realization of a self-
legitimating totality) with a static or neutral temporality (history as completed
in the present) that crowds out other possibilities. In more Whitean terms,
Harootunian is criticizing the subsumption of practical pasts, here considered
as embodying diverse temporal forms, within a historical past that enforces
temporal uniformity and conceptual standardization. Harootunian sees White’s
“privileging of the present,” which is “both the scene of the historical itself ” and
“the place of production of its critique,” as the crucial point de départ for any
ethically responsible philosophical approach to history. For, as Harootunian
observes, “the present is always the place where the specters of difference
materialize with the threat of untimely unpredictability, to confront and
threaten the stable boundaries on which any contemporary historical identity is
founded.” To illustrate his point, Harootunian explores three twentieth-century
works that narrativize and thematize forms of temporal resistance to capitalist
time (i.e. to a time that is linear, functionalist, uniform, totalizing, etc.): Jacques
Rancière’s La Nuit des prolétaires, Peter Weiss’s The Aesthetics of Resistance, and
the Japanese “worker’s circles” of the 1950s, as recounted in the journal Gendai
shiso. Finally, Harootunian finds in White’s use of Bakhtin’s “chronotope” (in
a 1987 essay entitled “The ‘Nineteenth Century’ as Chronotope”) to decon-
struct the conventional concept of a historical period a viable and effective
alternative to the nationalist-capitalist metanarrative and its homogenization of
time.
Hans Kellner, a student of White’s at the University of Rochester in the 1960s,
weaves his reminiscences of White’s classes with a focus on White’s concept
of figuralism. His contribution, “Hopeful Monsters or, The Unfulfilled Figure
in Hayden White’s Conceptual System,” observes how figuralism, though not

explicitly deployed in Metahistory, nevertheless informed White’s developing
understanding of historical narrative: “White moves from tropes to figures to
figuration via narrative.” Kellner introduces the term “backshadowing” into
White’s concept of figuralism, to show how its misuse can sometimes lead to
condemnations of past actors for failing to anticipate a future that now appears
inevitable. Kellner writes that such a use “presume[s] that the truth of the
fulfillment was evident in its figure at the time of the figure.” Kellner concludes
that “what we take to be great events may turn out to be forgotten; the thing that
was not noticed may assume a great meaning.” The former is what Kellner terms
the “unfulfilled figure”: the unrealized potential of an event whose fulfillment
is infinitely deferred. The unfulfilled figure can also be conceived as an absolute
refusal of meaning, as the noumenal reality of the thing-in-itself, presentable
only via the negative presentation of the sublime (in the Kantian-Lyotardian
sense). Thus, to use an example Kellner cites earlier in his essay: to think of
the Holocaust as an unfulfilled figure is to see it in terms of an inadequacy of
discursive forms that could ever “fulfill” its meaning and conduce to a “normal”
historical apprehension, i.e. to one that redeems the past. This reflection is
particularly a propos when one takes into account what White has to say, in his
essay for this volume (Chapter 1), about the redemptive element of figuralism
and the controversial Historikersteit (Historian’s Debate) in Germany.90
Gabrielle Spiegel’s contribution, “Rhetorical Theory/Theoretical Rhetoric:
Some Ambiguities in the Reception of Hayden White’s Work,” explores the
various and often contradictory ways in which White’s thought has been
interpreted, which she sees as due in large measure to the rhetorical and
sometimes ambiguous formulations that White employs to articulate his ideas.
Spiegel views White’s earlier work as equivocating between a general rhetorical
or semiotic theory and one that specifically applied to historiography. For
there is nothing in White’s tropology that limits it to history per se, and yet
White’s seeming refusal to embrace his theory’s generality opens him up to the
critique that his thought is not adequately elaborated. Further, White’s flirtation
or fascination with structuralism and poststructuralism, critical movements
with which he alternately seemed to align himself and keep at arm’s length,
made it difficult to discern if he was positioning himself as a Nietzschean avant-
gardist or a more “responsible,” Kantian type of thinker. Specifically, Spiegel
wonders if White’s tropological theory of historical writing is conventional (i.e.
contingent, subject to cultural determination) or structural (i.e. necessary, like
a Kantian condition of possibility), since it often appears as if it could fit either
mold. As an example, Spiegel discusses White’s intervention in the area of

Holocaust studies (“Historical Emplotment and the Problem of Truth,” 1992),
which came at a time when the special historical status of this event emerged
as a defining issue in historical studies. While she views White’s firm stance
against the dream of a “wholly literal, non-aestheticized account of the event”
as consistent with his long-held positions, she is less certain of White’s advocacy
of modernist modes and of the middle voice in particular to avoid “unseemly
aestheticization.” She sees White’s effort to soothe his critics as a “retreat from the
most basic positions that he had earlier set forth about the nature of historical
representation.” With regard to the concept of “prefiguration,” Spiegel observes
the wide gulf that separates the use of this term in Metahistory, where it had a
“precritical” function, from its role in White’s later thought on figuralism, where
it concerns the temporal dislocation of meaning. (I attempted to clear up this
ambiguity above, by distinguishing between “compositional” and “projectional”
conceptions of prefiguration.) Evincing skepticism about White’s “aesthetic”
reappropriation of figuralism and typology, Spiegel contends that White’s
commitment to a kind of “figural causality,” however qualified, “displaces
‘prefiguration’ from a mode of linguistic and literary activity on the part of the
historian to one inherent in the course of history itself,” thereby raising the
specter of an ontological realism that White has always sternly rejected.
In “Hayden White and Non-non-Histories,” Richard Vann explores an area
that has not received much attention from historians or historical theorists:
experimental history writing. Vann takes as his point of departure White’s essay
“The Modernist Event,” which he sees as having been prescient in anticipating
the advent of history that, as Vann quotes White, flouts “the taboo against
mixing fact with fiction except in manifestly imaginative discourse.” Of course,
as Vann notes, White has throughout his career argued that there is an inher-
ently fictional element in historiography, all while maintaining the difference
between real and imagined events. However, as White contends in “The
Modernist Event,” the seeming disappearance of the event in the media age
(the age of the “simulacra,” as Jean Baudrillard put it) has led to a dissolution
of the dichotomy between real and imagined events. Indeed, what White, in a
recent lecture, called “non-non-histories” represents a much more radical form
of experimentation than what had previously been viewed as acceptable or
even possible. Vann first considers quasi-experimental historical works, those
that both use and deviate from the conventions of historians, but, since these
are written by novelists, are invariably classified as “novels.” Vann’s examples of
novelized true stories include Truman Capote’s In Cold Blood, Norman Mailer’s
The Executioner’s Song, and Thomas Keneally’s Schindler’s Ark, all of which
inhabit the ambiguous space between history and fiction. In the second part of
his essay, Vann examines truly experimental works of historical writing: those
of the medieval social historian John Hatcher, whose account of the Black Death
uses fictional characters “to provide a framework for the facts,” as Hatcher
himself claims; and of Keith Hopkins, a social and demographic historian of
ancient Rome, whose A World Full of Gods: The Strange Triumph of Christianity
(2001) purports to be academic history, though it features time-travellers and
an imagined “confession” of Saint Augustine. Vann concludes that these are
“hybrid” works, presenting themselves as both historical (a contribution to
historical scholarship) and fictional (with invented characters and events),
without being reducible to either pole (unlike, say, the historical novel, which
is first and foremost a novel). These hybrid works serve a singular critical
function, according to Vann, since “thoroughly fictionalized historiography
can also complicate the notion of historical knowledge that is presupposed by
uncritical acceptance of the fiction/non-fiction binary.” Vann concludes his
essay by observing that such a complication of historical knowledge has in fact
been White’s unquestioned legacy.
Finally, Gianni Vattimo, in his essay “From the Problem of Evil to Hermeneutic
Philosophy of History,” shows how White’s critique of the objectivist credo of
traditional empirical historiography, which presupposes a stable and immutable
historical reality, can be considered in light of Heidegger’s cardinal idea of
the “ontological difference,” that is, Heidegger’s critique of metaphysics as
the confusion of beings (objective being, scientific realism) with Being (the
self-revelation of what is)—for in both cases it is a matter of a “hermeneutic
philosophy of history” transcending a narrow-minded and socially oppressive
objectivism.91 Vattimo begins his essay by noting how Heidegger’s ontological
difference or the “destructuring of the ontological tradition” (i.e. of the history
of ontology)92 is a “direct consequence of the traditional reflection on the
problem of the ‘reality’ of Evil.” That is, how can Evil, traditionally understood
as non-being, exist? This polemic is transformed, in Heidegger’s thought, into
a new ontological thesis: “‘a being that exists does not exist,’ but happens.” In
this formula, Vattimo implicitly collapses the theory of historicity articulated
in Heidegger’s Being and Time (which I analyzed above) into Heidegger’s
later idea of Being as happening or “event” (Ereignis). Vattimo thus proposes
a “radical reading of Heidegger,” which translates into a “radical historicism,”
that is, a historicism that results from an “ontology of the present” and from
its triple function of “inheriting-interpreting-transforming.” As we have seen,
this is essentially White’s conception of figuralism: for the historical figura at

once inherits, transforms, and interprets the past by choosing it in the present.
Thus Vattimo’s contention that “the past is not an immutable datum… but a
call, a message that always addresses itself to the projectural capacity [capacità
progettuale] of the one who receives it and who actively interprets it” is certainly
redolent of White’s figural hermeneutics, and particularly of its existentialist
dimension in the language of the “project.” In this vein, Vattimo concludes that
“rethinking the work of Hayden White today in the light of these considerations
opens onto a meaning that is not merely commemorative or celebratory”; that
is, White’s work still has a “clearly polemical importance” in resisting the return
to scientific realism, or to a “new [philosophical] realism” that harks back to
essences and linguistic determinism.
***
It is now—and perhaps abundantly—clear that the one theme that runs through
virtually all of the essays in this volume is that of figuralism. Moreover, one
could say that all of the essays contained in Philosophy of History After Hayden
White represent, in their own eclectic ways, fulfillments of White’s oeuvre,
fulfillments that will, in turn, serve as figures for new interpretations. If all great
thought is measured by its capacity to create new meanings, White’s philosophy
of history is certainly no exception.
1
History as Fulfillment
Hayden White
How are historical pasts constructed? That historical pasts have to be constructed
seems self-evident. To be sure, historians speak of their work as reconstruction
rather than construction. For historians, the past preexists any represen-
tation of it, even if this past can be accessed only by way of its shattered and
fragmentary remains. Historians speak of their work as reconstruction in
order to distinguish their object of study from the constructions of fabulists,
novelists, and poets who, even though they may invoke the historical past,
refer to it, and make statements about it, are licensed to ignore the available
evidence about the real past and to make of its elements whatever the imagi-
nation and their powers of poetic creativity might wish it to have been.
Historians work with the remains (ruins and relics) of past forms of life,
and their aim is to restore and display, as accurately as possible, the original
forms of life of which these remains, even in their state of decay, are tokens
and manifestations. But as anyone knows who has studied the restoration
of artistic, architectural, or archeological artifacts, every reconstruction—of
a painting, a building, a wall, a document, a tool, or weapon—requires not
only a great deal of original construction but also a considerable amount of
destruction of the original as well. Putting back together what God, time, man,
or nature has damaged is a delicate technical matter, but also a matter of profes-
sional ethics hinging on the difficult question of living men’s responsibility to
their predecessors. This is why the ancient Greeks and Romans believed that
any kind of bridge-building activity, indeed any building at all, was a sacred
enterprise, to be attended by sacrifices and rites of propitiation to the gods for
presuming to wish to join together what fate and the gods had put asunder.
If the aim of historical research is reconstruction of the past as it really
was or had been, if it is a bridge spanning the gap between any past and the
present from which a historical inquiry is to be launched must be constructed,
this bridge-building activity presupposes a notion (ontological) of a present at

once continuous with and disjoined from that part of the past that constitutes
the target-object of interest. That this target-object once existed is attested by
the presence in the present of those artifacts—documents, monuments, imple-
ments, institutions, practices, customs, and so on—that bear the aspect of “the
old” (the once-having-been young) and “the dead” (the once-having-been-
alive). Thus, one aim of historical research (whatever other uses may be made
of its findings) is certainly reconstructive (whatever other uses may be made of
its reconstructions), but its reconstructions can be achieved only on the basis of
constructions as much imaginative or poetic as rational and scientific. Among
these constructions is that “present” that must serve as a solid ground from
which a bridge can be projected into a past incompletely mapped and inhabited
by ghosts and marked by graves. Historical research thus requires a double
construction: of a present from which to launch an inquiry; and of a past to
serve as a possible object of investigation.
History, or rather, historical studies, remains the least scientific—in both its
achievements and its aspirations—of all the disciplines comprising the human
and social sciences. Ever so often, there is a move to make historical studies
more scientific, either by providing it with a theoretical basis such as positivism
or dialectical materialism, or by importing into it a methodology from one
or another of the “social sciences.” But these efforts seldom succeed, largely
because of the way that the principal object of historical study—the event—is
defined. Historical events are considered to be time- and place-specific, unique
and unrepeatable, not reproducible under laboratory conditions, and only
minimally describable in algorithms and statistical series. This is why efforts to
transform history into a science typically take the form of attempts to redefine the
event or eliminate it altogether as a proper object of scientific study. Nonetheless
(or possibly therefore) history continues to enjoy a status as foundational
vis-à-vis the other human and social sciences. As Michel Foucault pointed out
in Les mots et les choses (The Order of Things), since the mid-nineteenth century,
history has occupied a place both intimately related to but only contiguous with
(rather than integrated into) the other human sciences. History serves as both
basis and antitype of the other human sciences—in virtue of its continuing
commitment to an idiographic (analogical) method for the description of
singular events and its conviction that the establishment of a relationship of
temporal successivity between events is explanatory of them. This manner of
construing events by describing or otherwise representing them (mimetically,
History as Fulfillment 37
for example) is basic to any human or social science committed to empiricism

as a means of constituting events as possible objects of scientific study. But
as Claude Lévi-Strauss was fond of saying, an empirical procedure that aims
at the establishment of a relationship of successivity (or, as Edward Said calls
it, consecution) does not constitute a method or even a theory. It is, rather, a
preliminary step in the processing of data on the way to their treatment by a
properly scientific method: an arrangement of events in their order of chrono-
logical occurrence. Such an arrangement provides only a primitive taxonomy
(that of the calendar) of the events so ordered, but nothing in the way of a scien-
tific explanation of why they occurred as they did (except the commonsensical
principle of post hoc ergo propter hoc (after this, therefore because [on account]
of this). Therefore, Lévi-Strauss concluded, a merely historical account of social
or human phenomena can at best provide information more or less useful for
specific scientific disciplines, but in itself can provide no comprehension (except
of a commonsensical sort) of these phenomena at all.
This critique of the scientific status of historical studies took account of
the traditional belief of historians that history explains events by narrativ-
izing them. Indeed, the structuralist revolution in history (from the 1950s to
the 1970s) sought to substitute structures for events as the proper object of
study and specifically indicted the narrative mode of representing historical
phenomena as the principal sign of history’s pre-scientific status. Roland
Barthes, speaking on behalf of a structuralist approach to historical analysis,
insisted that one could tell by its narrative form alone and without any consid-
eration of its contents, that traditional history was still “mythic” in its mode of
comprehension. And in a famous reversal of Benedetto Croce’s once-canonical
dictum about the relation of history to narrative, Fernand Braudel argued that
where there was narrative, there could be no history—at least, not of a scientific
kind.
It is important to stress, it seems to me, that this debate between structuralists
and narrativists did not turn on the issue of whether “the past” could serve as a
proper object of Wissenschaftliche study, but rather on the issue of how the data
(the records, documentary, monumental, and geological) of this past were to be
construed: whether as singular events or as classes of events; and how they were
to be represented in a discourse: whether as stories (grands récits or petits récits),
or as structures. Nor was it a matter of “constructivism.” The past was for the
structuralists a congeries of real processes that could be truthfully represented
in the form of statistical correlations, just it was for the narrativists a congeries
of real actions of individuals and groups engaged in struggles and conflicts that
could be truthfully represented in the form of the kinds of stories met with
in myth, fiction, and drama. The task of the researcher was to discover these
structures or stories in the data—the documentary, monumental, and archeo-
logical record—and to choose and apply (rather than construct) the modes
of description best suited to their truthful (or intelligible) representation in a
written discourse. To be sure, some structuralists believed that the narrativists
were inventing their stories and imposing them upon the facts, and most narra-
tivists believed that the structuralists were imposing upon the data conceptual
schemes or models that deprived events and processes of their concreteness
(“concreteness” being defined as the indissociability of form and substance).
But these differences were thought to be reconcilable by analytical procedures
that discriminated among levels of historical integration (natural, social, and
political) at which different temporal durations (long, medium, and short) and
intensities of occurrence (cold, lukewarm, and hot) could be discerned.
But this was before the “linguistic” or more specifically the “discursive” turn
struck the human sciences, and analytical attention shifted from the object (or
referents) of historiological research to the products of that research, the written
texts in which historians presented their findings. Here the issue soon devolved
into a discussion of what György Lukács was wont to call “the philosophy of
composition.” The conventional view was that the research phase of an historical
investigation could be kept relatively distinct from the phase of composition.
Indeed, it was thought that the establishment of the facts could be kept distinct
from the analysis of their status as evidence in a particular causa or the inter-
pretation of their significance as elements of a structure of meaning. As the great
historian of Italian Fascism, Renzo de Felice, often stressed: “First the facts, then
the interpretation.”
The canonical view was that the competent historian would always first
discover the facts and martial his thoughts about them, and only then sit down
and compose a discourse in which he presented both the facts and his thoughts
about them in a “literary” or “scientific” manner. In many respects, this view
of the relation between research and composition resembled the relation
that historians had to presume existed between the past and the present; the
research phase of the historian’s labor was both disjoined from and continuous
with the phase of composition. The historical account was a report about the
events established as facts in the research phase and the historian’s thoughts
(explanations and interpretations) about the facts subsequently composed and
presented in the form of a written prose narrative. On this view, the form of the
historian’s discourse (its form as a story) was conceived to be contingent and
detachable from its contents (information and argument) without significant

conceptual or informational loss. And this on two possible grounds: either the
story told in the discourse was a mimetic image of a concatenation of events
which, once established as facts, could be shown to have actually manifested
the same form as the story told about it; or the story told about the events was
simply an instrument or medium of communication used by the historian to
convey information about an uncanny subject-matter to a lay audience deemed
incapable of comprehending it in its historiologically processed form.
Now, this notion of the relation between the contents of the messages being
conveyed by the historian to his (real or possible or imagined) audiences
(addressees) and the forms in which these messages might be conveyed (trans-
mitted) was undermined by developments in both historical theory and theory
of discourse in the 1980s. The demise of the structuralist revolution led by
Braudel and the Annales group and the revival of narrative history forced recon-
sideration of the ontological status of narrative form. Was “story” itself a form
of a specifically historical kind of human existence? Did stories exist not only
in discourse but also in extra-discursive “reality”? If such were the case, then
the aim of historical inquiry had to be conceived as a search for those stories
actually lived by human agents and agencies in the past. And, as the philosopher
Louis O. Mink argued, the specifically historical event had to be identified as
those kinds of events that could be plausibly shown to be elements of stories.
Stories explained the events to which they referred by showing how these events
could be “configured” as stories. Sets of events might be cognitively “grasped” by
other modes of comprehension: algorithmic, taxonomic, structural, statistical,
and so on. But they were properly comprehended historically only insofar as
they could be shown to display the attributes of the elements of stories.
This development led to complex and extensive reexamination of the relations
obtaining among narrative and other modes of construing reality, whether past
or present, whether conceived to be developing or in a steady-state condition,
and whether considered to be narrative or algorithmic in substance—of which
the work of Paul Ricoeur (but also Arthur Danto, Krystof Pomian, Foucault,
Barthes, Hans-Georg Gadamer, Jürgen Habermas, and a host of others) may
be considered exemplary. The significant outcome of these investigations was
to return thought about processes to a consideration of the modes of their
articulation in time, an interest in the philosophy of modalizations of which the
widespread interest in Spinoza was a manifestation.
But for historians—at least for those who took any interest in such theoretical
matters—the collapse of the distinction between the form and the content of
their accounts of the past raised the threat of formalism, anathema to both
the Left and the Right of the ideological spectrum. If a historical process was
identifiable by its form and if this form was that of the narrative, how could
one distinguish between historical and fictional, or for that matter, “mythical”
narratives? The response of the leading professional historians was to moot
this question by appeal to the authority of the rules and procedures honored
as properly historiological in nature by “the community of professional histo-
rians.” The relativism implied in this investiture of authority in “the” community
of professional historians to decide what was and what was not a properly
historical method or mode of representation was to be blocked by the culti-
vation of a “critical” historiography—an openness to all theories of history that
did not feature a frivolous or nihilistic approach of the kind supposedly caused
by “the linguistic turn” in the human sciences.
This phrase “the linguistic turn” refers to a conception of history as a
constructivist enterprise based on a textualist conception of the relation
between language and reality. Textualism presumes whatever is taken as
the real is constituted by representation rather than preexists any effort to
grasp it in thought, imagination, or writing. The representation of anything
whatsover—whether in visual, auditory, haptic, or verbal imagery—establishes a
site whereon the difference between a reality and its forms of manifestation can
be discerned. But, at the same time, the representation of a state of affairs (such
as a historical event) in a given medium (such as a historical narrative) invites
attention to the difference between the thing represented and its representation.
It is this difference that makes possible the critical comparison between one
representation of “the past,” or any aspect of it, and another. The belief in the
commensurability of different representations of any aspect of the past hinges
on the prior belief in a past to which all representations of it can be referred and
differentially assessed as to their validity and their status as contributions to our
knowledge of it. But the real past is not, of course, accessible except by way of
its representations—indexical, iconic, or symbolic, as the case may be.
It is, of course, a commonplace of traditional historical studies that the
past represents itself in the remains—documentary, monumental, and archeo-
logical—that it has left behind. According to this view, a historian’s work is like
that of an archeologist, which is to find a past hidden in rubble and requiring
only the clearing away of accumulated detritus for it to present itself as it really
was in its more or less pristine condition. As thus envisaged, the compositional
task of the historian is that of a transcriber rather than that of a translator
between past and present. The messages lying dormant in the ruins of the past
do not have to be reconstructed but only decoded for reception by their present
and future receivers. Historians are the passive receivers and forwarders of
these messages, not co-composers thereof. The validity of their transmissions
are assessable on the basis of what the “community of professional historians”
regards as the rules and procedures for handling evidence of a particularly
historical kind. Thus, the representation of the past, its elements, and the
relations among these is not a problem, because the objects of historical interest
have been self-constituted by the actions of past agents and agencies. It is all
a matter, not even of interpretation or explanation, but of description and the
inscription of the description in a written discourse that displays the historicity
of the objects described.
Now, from the perspective of a textualist conception of representation,
description is a means of constituting states of affairs as possible objects of a
historical interest and as candidates for inclusion among the class of objects
deemed worthy of being inscribed in a historical discourse. If the discourse
in question is to be cast in the mode of a narrative, then the objects to be
represented must be described simultaneously as possessing the attributes of
historicity and narratability. The historicity (historical substance) of an object
is to be established by the description of the object according of the rules
of evidence prevailing in “the community of historians” at a particular time
and place. But its narratability is quite another matter. There are no rules of
narration similar to the rules of evidence (unless it be admitted, as I believe, that
the rules for processing historical materials in order to constitute them as data
relevant to a given causa are as conventional, and therefore as socially specific,
as the rules of narration). And this is because narration requires that historical
agents, events, institutions, and processes be not so much conceptualized as
enfigured (mise en figure) in a twofold way. First, they must be imaged as the
kinds of characters, events, scenes, and processes met with in stories—fables,
myths, rituals, epics, romances, novels, and plays. And secondly they must
be troped as bearing relationships to one another of the kind met with in the
plot-structures of generic story types, such as epic, romance, tragedy, comedy,
and farce. The description of past entities as figures of stories located in specific
times and places produces the chronicle type of historical representation. The
endowment of these figures with plot-functions endows the trajectory of their
life-courses with plot-meaning. Plot-meaning is a way of construing historical
processes in the mode of a fulfillment of a fate or a destiny considered, not
as an instance of mechanical or teleological causality, but as contingent on
the interplay of free will (choice, motives, intentions), on the one hand, and
historically specific limits imposed upon the exercise of this free will, on the
other. Fulfillment (Erfüllung) is understood as an exfoliation of all the possi-
bilities for action contained in the “situation” (the context enfigured as a
scene of possible action). The enfiguration of agents, agencies, actions, events,
and scenes as elements of dramatic conflicts and their resolutions (either as
victories or defeats) is the means by which narrative interpretations of historical
processes are constructed. Emplotment (mise en intrigue) is the means by which
a specific set of events, initially described as a sequence, is de-sequentiated and
revealed to be a structure of equivalences—in which earlier events in the chain
are shown to be anticipations, precursors, or prototypes of later, more fully
“realized” instantiations thereof. (In Tacitus’s account of Nero’s rule, the events
of his “quinquennium,” the first five years of his rule, in which he appeared to
be a “good” emperor, are shown to be “figures”—incomplete, partial, or masked
anticipations—of the “bad” emperor he subsequently revealed himself to have
been.)
It is the fulfilled figure that casts its light back—retrospectively and, in the
narrative account, retroactively—on the earlier figurations of the character
or process being related. It is the figure-fulfillment model of narrativity that
lends credence to the commonplace that the historian is a prophet, but one
who prophesies “backward.” It is what justifies the notion that the historian,
as against the historical characters he studies, occupies a privileged position of
knowledge in virtue of the fact that, coming after a given set of events have run
their course, “he knows how events actually turned out.” But what can “actually
turned out” mean here? It can only mean that the historian has treated his enfig-
uration of a given set of events as an “ending-as-fulfillment” that permits him
to “recognize” in earlier events in the sequence dim and imperfect anticipations
of “what will have been the case” later on. The meaning-effect of the narrative
account of the sequence is produced by the technique of relating events in the
order of their occurrence but construing them as “clues” of the plot-structure
which will be revealed only at the end of the narrative in the enfiguration of
events as a “fulfillment.”
There is much more to be said about the figure-fulfillment model of narrativity
and the different forms it takes in Classical, Christian, and post-Renaissance
writing and historiography. Above all, we should note its function as the model
of every historical account of the past cast in a celebratory or redemptive mode.
What Andreas Hillgruber and Ernst Nolte called “the pleasures of narration”
was advanced in the cause of redeeming a “portion” of the German past deemed
worthy of being narrated and narrated as a drama of fulfillment rather than
of degradation and degeneracy. The drama of redemption as a relationship of

promise and fulfillment is already contained (we might say, “fulfilled”) in Jesus’s
words (in Mark 1.15): “The time (kairos) is fulfilled (peplerotai),” on the eve of
his entrance into Jerusalem, where the covenant between God and the Jews
would be “fulfilled” in His passion.
But these considerations require a fuller treatment than can be given here. The
important point has to do with the constructive (or more precisely, the construc-
tivist) nature of narrativization and the nature of those techniques of figuration
without which historical events cannot be endowed with narrative meaning.
History, anthropology, and psychoanalysis are, I believe, the only disciplines
of the human sciences that still treat narrativization as a legitimate means of
explanation, rather than as an instrument of vulgarization by which to introduce
findings to a lay audience. That narratives have to be composed (or constructed)
goes without saying—even if their “construction” is thought to be an activity
of copying the reality they represent rather than that of matching a pre-made
model of sequentiality to a portion of the world that it is then discovered
to resemble. But both of these notions of narrative verisimilitude ignore or
repress awareness of the fact that the portion of reality-to-be-represented as,
or in, a narrative must itself be constructed—by techniques of description that
turns facts (contexts, persons, events, institutions, and processes) into figures.
The historical personage Napoleon III must be “enfigured”—as either hero or
charlatan—if he is to be believably apprehended as a “character” who could be
plausibly presented as appearing in the kind of “dramas” that Proudhon and
Marx respectively scripted about him.
To be sure, there is a difference between an enfiguration and a conceptual-
ization of historical events and processes. But viewed as operations by which a
narrative representation, on the one hand, and an explanation in the form of
a demonstration, on the other, are produced, a conceptualization is always an
abstraction from a figure. When it comes to constructing the historical past,
the figure precedes the concept, rather than the reverse. This is the difference
between history à la Ranke and philosophy of history à la Hegel.
Let me give an example—although I am fully aware of the risk I run in
crippling my own argument by doing so, since an “example,” as we all know,
is itself a rhetorical figure that is supposed to give the “concreteness effect” at
the expense of diverting attention from a weakness in conceptual argument by
covering it up.
In the recent Historikerstreit (Historian’s Debate) in Germany, the discussion
turned not only on the “uniqueness” or “comparability” of the Third Reich to
other regimes more or less genocidal known to history, but also on the possibly
cosmeticizing effects of a “narrative” of the actions of any group in any way
connected with the Final Solution. Andreas Hillgruber was turned into lamb
or goat to be sacrificed on the altar dedicated to both science and justice for
deigning to call what happened to Germany during the last two years of the
War “die Zerschlagung des Deutschen Reiches (“the shattering of the German
Reich”) and what happened to the Jews “das Ende des europäischen Judentums
(the end of the European Jewry)” You will recall how Hillgruber was pilloried
for daring to suggest that a specific group of historical agents—units of the
Wehrmacht defending the Eastern Front in the final year of World War II—
could plausibly be represented in a narrative account that would redeem their
status as heroes of a kind and thereby redeem something of German national
honor from the ashes of a general disgrace. In other words, Hillgruber was to
have been run out of the profession for doing what historians have always done:
try to legitimate the national past and tell stories about it—or rather, by telling
stories about it.
In this debate, it was taken as given that everybody knew what was being
referred to by Germany, the Soviet Union, the Gulag, the Second World War,
the Holocaust, the Final Solution, the Eastern Front, not to mention the Turks,
the Armenians, Pol Pot, Himmler, and so on—and so they did. These were or
had been real things, events, persons, programs, places, peoples, what have
you. There was no denying their once or present reality. What was only dimly
perceived, or if perceived, not stressed, was that what was being compared or
held to be “incomparable,” “unique,” or “incommensurable” were the different
descriptions of these entities that had been “laid down” (posited) and enfigured
as possible objects of comparison, explanation, or moral judgment prior to the
bringing to bear upon them the specific methodologies, conceptual tools, and
technical terminologies that were supposed to fix them as “facts” in a specific
zone of “the past.” (In this case, the “recent” past, itself less a concept than
“figure” of temporality of a peculiarly ambiguous kind.) The debate turned on
questions of evidence and on how to assess the remains of the past available
in the documentary record, and consequently took the form of charges of
bad faith, special pleading, or political prejudice, on both sides. And this even
though, as everyone admitted or professed to believe, the litigants were profes-
sional historians with impeccable credentials of professional achievement. The
cause of this paradoxical situation, as I see it, was the fetishism of literalness
that has burdened the historians’ profession since it cut itself off from its
tradition as a literary or discursive practice and began to aspire to the status of
a “science” of the “concrete.” I will not go into this history at this time, except to
say that, by this move, historical studies became systematically blinded to the
fact of its own discursive nature, its status as a practice of “composition,” and its
irredeemably tropological methods of constituting its objects of study. By this I
mean that because of the nature of the historian’s object of study—as an object
located in “the past” and by definition no longer an object that can be defined
by ostention, i.e. an object that can be indicated or referred to only by way of
its remains—the historian must and can only indicate it as a figure, a verbal
image, a simulacrum of a thing that might be viewed, a virtual thing, a thing
therefore that admits of different notions of what it might have been or might
have consisted of in its formerly realized state. And this sets a limit on not only
the possibility of reducing contending interpretations of the thing to the best or
most plausible interpretation, but also on the possibility of reducing contending
notions of “what are the facts” to the best or most accurate representation of the
facts. For the facts are figurations posing as predications, images posing or being
represented as manifestations of conceptual contents of utterances governable
by a logic of identity and non-contradiction. But the logic of narrative repre-
sentations of the world—whether of its past or of its present or of the relations
between them—is a logic of figures and tropes, which is not a logic at all unless
an assemblage of images can be said to be a structure of meaning logical in kind.
I think that Walter Benjamin perceived this when he wrote that “History
does not break down into stories; it breaks down into images”—in response
to Theodore Adorno’s criticism of his work as a mélange of “mysticism and
positivism” because it lacked a “theory.” Benjamin tried to theorize what he
called the “dialectical image,” which captured the contradictory nature of every
specifically “historically significant” event of the past. For him, the images that
we can find “caught” in the record like a fly in amber are not those that figure
forth an unambiguous and internally consistent social reality, but those that
capture, as in the still photograph, a moment of tension and change, an inter-
mittency between two moments of putative presence. I am not sure about this,
but I think that in his attempts to theorize the “dialectical image,” Benjamin
betrayed an insight expressed in the observation I noted above: that “history
does not break down into stories; it breaks down into images.” The truth is—and
I speak only figuratively rather than literally—that all images of the past are
“dialectical,” filled with the aporias and paradoxes of representation. And that
they can only be “fulfilled” by narrativization: as stories.
2
A Plea for a Cognitivist Approach to

White’s Tropology
F. R. Ankersmit
Introduction
Metahistory was not only Hayden White’s magnum opus; it was also by far
the most important work published in philosophy of history since World War
II. No book was more lengthily and intensively discussed; no book was more
prominent in debates around philosophy of history in the almost forty years
since its publication in 1973.
Discussion of Metahistory mostly focused on the structuralist grid it
proposed—too well known to be rehearsed here. And in course of time,
discussion concentrated on the role of the four tropes—metaphor, synecdoche,
metonymy, and irony—in historical writing. Self-evidently, this was wholly in
agreement with Metahistory itself, insofar as the book mainly consisted of a
close analysis of the oeuvre of eight nineteenth-century historians and philoso-
phers of history, whereas only the introduction and the conclusion dealt with
the tropes in a more technical and systematic way. In fact, this was precisely
one of the principal merits of Metahistory. For whereas pre-Whitean philoso-
phers of history often got lost in the mists of theoretical abstraction, White
firmly rooted his theory in the practice of historical writing. He thus achieved
a rapprochement of philosophy of history and historiography (i.e. the history of
historical writing), and this is still where the emphasis is, down to this day.
The result was, however, that relatively little attention was paid to the tropes
as such, and, especially, to the question of how tropological utterances—
metaphors, synecdoches, metonymies, and ironies—relate to the world, the
question of what kind of knowledge of, or insights into, the world is expressed
by them and of how this may contribute to a better understanding of the ways
in which the historical text relates to the past of which it claims to be a verbal
image. In a word: what is the cognitivist function of the tropes in the context of
historical writing? This will be my topic in this essay.
White’s tropology
In 1998, Richard Vann published in History and Theory a most perceptive and
informative essay on the Rezeptionsgeschichte of Hayden White’s work up until
that time. The essay carefully retraced how White’s philosophy of history made
its way in the intellectual world—at first slowly, then ever and ever faster and
in ever more fields, beginning with the discipline of history itself and then
anthropology, geography, law, literary studies, psychology, and so on; even
extending its influence to such unlikely and remote fields as communications
and administration science.1 It has been the unparalleled success story of all
twentieth-century philosophy of history.
Three things stand out in Vann’s account. In the first place, though the
triumph of White’s philosophy of history self-evidently started with history,
curiously enough interest for his work increased faster outside of historical
studies than within that discipline. It was as if the provocation of his ideas was
often part of its impact, as if the intellectual shock produced by his writings
went apace with its spreading from one discipline to another. His oeuvre
attacked by surprise, so to speak. And so it still is the case, for White rarely sat
down to carefully re-elaborate previous insights; instead he typically preferred
to present his readers with ever new and still unexplored possibilities. His
oeuvre is a wellspring of ideas. This is why his work still has the same freshness
and originality that it did in the 1970s.
Secondly, Vann argues that there has been “a common tendency to emphasize
White’s adaptation of Northrop Frye’s four plot-types, often to the exclusion of
his more radical view of the underlying tropes,”2 though Vann went on to say
that, as time passed, the interest moved in the opposite direction, so that now
the tropes are generally regarded as the heart of White’s philosophy of history.
Part of the explanation is that the tropes were far harder to relate to actual
historical writing than were Frye’s modes of emplotment—or those of argument
and of ideological implication, for that matter.
This is so since tropes such as metaphor, synecdoche, metonymy, and irony
will typically be found in sentence-like utterances; and it is not easy to see how
to relate them to (historical) texts taken in toto. We know what it means to say
A Plea for a Cognitivist Approach to White’s Tropology 49
that the utterance “John is a pig” is a metaphor; but what makes a (historical)
text metaphorical? You do not have in a (historical) text an obvious counterpart
to the semantic tension or deviance typical of metaphorical utterances such
as “John is a pig” and requiring us to think how to combine what we could
associate with John, on the one hand, and with pigs, on the other, in some
meaningful way. On the contrary, the historical text is ordinarily a long string
of statements, organized to relate to each other as smoothly and as naturally
as possible, and thus to minimize as much as possible any semantic friction.
For only this will guarantee the text’s coherence. Much the same can be said of
the other three tropes (synecdoche, metonymy, and irony). In all cases, tropes
begin by deliberately creating semantic friction in order to make clear that the
utterance in question should not be read as an assertion claiming propositional
truth for itself. Whatever “truth” the figural utterance conveys can only be estab-
lished on the condition that it be recognized as literally false.
Hence our perplexity about how the relation of the semantic friction of
metaphor to the semantic “smoothness” and continuity of the (historical) text
is to be reproduced by synecdoche, metonymy, and irony. All of the tropes
start with semantic friction, and all of the tropes then require us to make sense
somehow of the figural utterance. Hence, all of them raise this problem of how
to reconcile the semantic friction of figural language with the absence of friction
in, and the smoothness of, the (historical) text.
As far as I know, White never addressed this problem. Perhaps because there is
an obvious answer to it. Think, for example, of climbing a mountain; after you reach
the summit, you can contrast the start of your itinerary with its end—where there
may well be hundreds of yards between the former and the latter. But, next, you may
think of the itinerary itself—where you move from one step via the next, from the
beginning to the end, and where you gradually and almost imperceptibly make your
way to the top of the mountain. Having these two images in mind, one might say
that what figural utterances achieve at a single stroke (moving from the beginning of
your itinerary to its end) is achieved in (historical) texts only step by step; in figural
utterances you only become aware of the semantic journey you have travelled when
comparing not individual steps with their previous ones, but the very first with the
very last. Then you can maintain, first, that (contrary to appearances) historical
texts are semantically identical to figural utterances, such as metaphor, metonymy,
synecdoche, and irony—notwithstanding the fact that prima facie there seems to be
no semantic friction in historical texts. The semantic friction is truly there—though
we recognize it only if we contrast the beginning with the end. And, second, you
can maintain that there are always different ways to climb a mountain, e.g. from the
South, the North etc., and that this corresponds to how each of the four tropes might
achieve historical meaning in a way that is specific to itself.
The fact that all tropes announce themselves by means of semantic friction
could be used in support of the idea that there is a dimension of irony in all of
White’s tropes. This would explain—and justify—why White considers irony to
be, in some way or other, a “master-trope” that is superior to and more basic
than the other three. For in all tropes there is a dimension of denial, of denying
that what is said should be literally true. In all cases there is semantic friction,
urging us to deny or to negate the literal truth of an utterance. And this is,
of course, what we primarily associate with irony. So irony is what all tropes
have in common. Irony is what separates figural or tropological utterances
in general from their literal counterparts. Though, again, tropology makes us
aware of the fact that the denial—or negation—may take different forms. It is
the shortcoming, or naivety, of Aristotle’s law of the excluded middle to suggest
that there should be just one form of denial or negation—i.e. the one we would
primarily relate to irony. So denial can take different forms: there is irony, but
also metaphor, metonymy, and synecdoche as “variants of irony.” Put differently,
tropology requires that we recognize that there is not a vacuum between truth
and its denial but, instead, a continuum, which is best explored with the help of
tropology and the “variants of irony” thereof.
And if you wish to know more about these “variants of irony”—about how
they all achieve irony in their own inimitable way and about how each of them
finds its own way in the territory between truth and its denial—one need only
look at the (historical) text. For there, what is done step by step is what ironical,
metaphorical, synecdochical, and metonymical utterances do in one single
(but unanalyzable) stroke. It is the (historical) text that will enlighten us about
the finer details and differences between irony, metaphor, synecdoche, and
metonymy and, thus, also of all the variants of negation on the level of literal
language of which we have hitherto been unaware.
Speaking more generally, when analyzing the relationship between the
statement and the text, we always moved from the former to the latter.
Admittedly, this seems to be the most natural thing to do. But tropology, and
White’s successful application of tropology to the text, invites us to explore,
for a change, the opposite route as well and to ask ourselves how the text may
affect sentential meaning. This would add a new dimension to contemporary
philosophy of language.
Finally, this brings us to a third problem that was, according to Richard
Vann, occasioned by White’s tropology. Historical texts consist of statements
about the past, and if the historian has done his homework properly, each of
them expresses some (literal) truth about the past. But, as we saw a moment
ago, when you have such a very long string of literally true statements about
the past as is offered by historical texts, then you may find, after having moved
from one to the other, that you have defined your position to the past in a
way that is captured by one of the tropes. So what happens to truth when you
move from the level of the literally true individual statement about the past to
the historical text relating to the past in a tropological way? Is (literal) truth
lost then somewhere on that trajectory? Can (literal) truth be recaptured if we
closely analyze what happens on that trajectory, or does some wholly new, and
still unnoticed, kind of (tropological) truth arise in the course of that trajectory?
This is a difficult problem—all the more so if we try to deal with it within the
framework of White’s own philosophy of history. For it is one of the peculiarities
of White’s approach to the philosophy of history that he does not himself much
warm up to issues of historical truth and to the cognitivist dilemmas occasioned
by it. As Vann observes, White “has bracketed considerations of historical
knowledge, as he has bracketed treatments of referentiality.”3
It is not hard to explain why this kind of issue, traditionally at the center
of philosophy of history, was relegated to the background in White’s work.
Metahistory’s main message has been that the historical text should not be seen
as a transparent medium through which we can observe the past, as if we were
looking through a window to the landscape outside it. The historical text is not
something that we look through, but something we look at, in much the same
way that we always look at paintings and not through them, as if they were mere
transparent windows. It is true that both the historical text and paintings evoke
the illusion of looking at something lying beyond, or behind, the text or the
paintings themselves. This is the miracle of representation. So our real question
must be how the historical text may succeed in representing the past, in much
the same way that we do when we unproblematically grant paintings this
capacity. And this will compel us to investigate how the historical text, as such,
can generate historical meaning; again, much in the same way that paintings
generate pictorial meaning.
So if philosophical semantics traditionally investigates truth, reference,
and meaning, and if philosophy of history traditionally focuses on issues of
truth and reference, White reversed this by privileging meaning to truth and
reference. Thus a wholly new set of questions was put on the philosopher of
history’s agenda, and whatever the future of philosophy of history will look like,
it is simply inconceivable that these questions might be struck again from it. It is
unthinkable that we should ever return to the naivety with regard to the text that
was characteristic of pre-Whitean philosophy of history. In this way, Metahistory
can be seen as a contribution to our insight into the nature of historical writing
that will never be questioned again. And if this ever happened, we would surely
see it as a sign that we had returned to historiographical barbarism and that the
Middle Ages had returned in our discipline.
However, rearranging the field of forces between truth, reference, and
meaning in favor of meaning does not automatically imply that the other two,
then, should now lose all significance for a correct understanding of historical
writing. It is true that White himself was not much interested in the question
of how his revolution in the hierarchy between reference, truth, and meaning
might affect the (cognitivist) issues of the referentiality and truth claims of
historical writing. He even seemed to go so far as to imply that the question of
the cognitivist value of the tropes is basically misguided. Think, for example, of
his notorious claim that historical writing is “fictional.” The claim is undoubtedly
correct insofar as historical writing is something that is “made” and not “found”
by the historian. The same is true of scientific theories, since you will never
encounter these in reality itself, but only in the scientist’s treatises; and, as we all
know, this does not stand in the way of the scientist’s cognitivist pretensions. So
why should it be different with history? However, when speaking of the “fiction-
alism” of historical writing White also wished to claim that historical writing
is closer to fiction, i.e. to the novel, than to science—which certainly seems to
discourage a cognitivist approach to historical writing.
However, by no means does this does rob the question of its urgency! All
the more so, since White has often been criticized for suggesting that there are
no good (epistemological) reasons for preferring one representation of some
part of the past to some other, whereas one need only look at the review pages
of historical journals to recognize that historians are ordinarily very capable of
finding out what is weak and unconvincing in some historical representations
and what deserves approval in others. And the scope of historical rationality
is emphatically not restricted to the more elementary level of factual truth,
but also includes how the past is represented in all of the historical texts on,
say, the Industrial Revolution or the American Civil War. Hence, the level on
which White’s tropes are active and structure the historical text (as a whole).
Which raises the question as to what contribution to historical rationality can
be expected from White’s tropes.
Finally, it is true that philosophers of language and of science were rarely inter-
ested in synecdoche, metonymy, and irony. But metaphor has been intensively
discussed and its cognitive potentials widely recognized and explored since Max
Black’s influential essay on metaphor.4 The philosopher of science Mary Hesse
even reversed the whole traditional argument about metaphor by arguing not
that metaphor conveys literal truth but that there is a metaphorical dimension
to what at first sight seem to be true literal statements. In this way metaphor
can be said to take over what used to be seen as the literal statement’s unique
prerogative, namely the capacity to express propositional truth. Metaphor
then penetrates right into the cognitive heart of the sciences themselves. So
if metaphor can be argued to be so central in the acquisition of scientific
knowledge, why would we then recoil from attributing to metaphor (and to the
tropes generally) a cognitive faculty in our effort to represent and understand
the past?
A first preliminary remark
But before embarking on my discussion of the cognitivist powers of the tropes

I will venture one preliminary remark. White insists that we should discern
between two types of historians. On the one hand, you have the historians who
neatly fit in White’s structuralist grid of tropes, modes of argument, emplotment,
and ideological implication. It is as if these historians had known about the
structuralist grid all along, and had decided to respect its prescriptions for how
tropes, modes of argument, emplotment, and ideological implication ought to
be connected. In White’s view, these are the solid but, in the end, uninteresting
historians. He regards them much like John Locke’s under-laborers in the
garden of science. Their work may be reliable, but it will never be innovative. On
the other hand, you have the historians who wander through the structuralist
grid in unexpected and even counter-intuitive ways.
It is clear that White’s sympathies lie with the latter. More specifically, the
historians he discusses in Metahistory are those who sin against the structuralist
grid systematically and unrepentingly, and for whom it seems to exist only in
order to show them how to escape from it. The suggestion is that such an escape
is the condition of an encounter with the past as it has really been—as uncon-
taminated by the categories that the structuralist grid invites us to project on
it. For it is with these categories as it is with the Kantian categories: they make
knowledge possible, but, at the same time, they also alienate us from the “world
as such,” from the world as a Kantian an sich. That is the price we have to pay for
the acquisition of knowledge. Put differently, there is knowledge and something
that is somehow more, or “deeper,” than knowledge: the former is what we may
achieve with the help of the structuralist grid, but there is a superior kind of
knowledge, reminiscent of the effort to grasp the Kantian noumenon, which
may be our paradoxical reward for sinning against the structuralist grid. Let us
call this historical insight.
Now, White’s tropology accounts for all of this. And it does so by means
of the trope of irony. As White himself emphasizes, the trope of irony
stands a bit apart from the other three. It is, as he says, a kind of “master-
trope,” for it continuously reminds us of the provisional character of all
historical knowledge. Elsewhere White most perceptively characterizes irony
as a “metatrope”; hence, a trope expressing a message about the other three,
namely that the historical knowledge produced under their aegis will always
be provisional and always in need of correction. Or, rather, the past as given
to us by the other three tropes is always a merely phenomenal past, the past as
it appears to us, and whose rights must give way immediately to the noumenal
past, to the past “as such.”
The trope of irony is meant to make us aware of this. But for a proper under-
standing of White’s intentions a few comments must be added. To begin with,
when saying that irony makes us aware that historical knowledge is always in
need of correction, White does not invite us to liken the feats of irony to Karl
Popper’s “trial and error,” or to his model of “conjecture and refutation.” This is,
indeed, how science grows—but without ever leaving the domain of the strictly
phenomenal. And this surely has its counterpart in historical writing: historians
often correct each other, but without questioning the most basic assumptions of
their approach to the past. However, the historians that White is interested in
attack precisely these most basic assumptions. All our most basic assumptions
about how we relate to the past are then at stake. And such a total challenge to
accepted historical knowledge can only happen in the name of the past itself, of
the “quasi-noumenal” past.
Next, we should not radically exclude or separate irony from metaphor,
synecdoche, and metonymy, as if there were a time for metaphor, one for
synecdoche, one for metonymy, and then the night arrives where irony, like
the Penelope of historical writing, undoes what had been achieved by the other
three. For irony, being a metatrope, is at work all of the time, as we might have
expected already, because each trope—metaphor, synecdoche, and metonymy,
no less than irony itself—contains in itself a moment of denial, namely, the
denial of a literal truth. This is the metatropological insight conveyed by irony
(which we discussed already in the previous section).
This also is where irony must remind us of Friedrich von Schlegel’s notion of
“romantic irony,” best characterized as the “deferral” of all trust in final truths about
the world. It need not surprise us, therefore, that Jacob Burckhardt was White’s
crown-witness for the case of irony. For Burckhardt succeeded in his provocative
effort to openly incorporate irony in his writings, by eliminating all emphasis from
his expositions of the past. Normally the statement “p” is said to be equivalent to
the statement “p is true.” Burckhardt’s text, however, reminds us of someone saying
“p” but without wishing to commit himself to “p is true.” This comes close to what
Schlegel had in mind with his romantic irony. Romantic irony is dialectical, but it
is essentially different from Hegel’s dialectics. For Hegel, dialectics is the process
that carries you more or less automatically from one stage to the next. But in
romantic irony, the dialectical process is suspended, in the sense that the shift
from one stage to the next is denied to you. It is as if, while watching a movie, the
movie suddenly stops so that you get stuck with one image only. Of course such a
thing is possible only with movies and not with reality itself—reality always moves
on and on. This is why romantic irony provoked Hegel’s ire. He rightly suspected
romantic irony to be an ironization of his dialectical understanding of the past, by
particularizing it into ever smaller bits that gradually fade out of existence and by
thus suggesting that the most supreme wisdom is that there is no wisdom.
As White puts it, commenting on Burckhardt:
Burckhardt’s manner of representing the Renaissance was that of the
connoisseur beholding a heap of fragments assembled from an archaeological
dig, the context of which he divines “by analogy” from the past. But the form
of the context can only be pointed to, not specified. It is like those “things in
themselves” which Kant maintained we must postulate in order to account for
our science, but about which we cannot say anything. The voice with which
Burckhardt addressed his audience was that of the Ironist, the possessor of a
higher, sadder wisdom than the audience itself possessed. He viewed his object
of study, the historical field, Ironically, as a field whose meaning is elusive,
unspecifiable, perceivable only to the refined intelligence, too subtle to be taken
by storm and too sublime to be ignored.5
So, indeed, irony has its origins in Burckhardt’s awareness of the past as a quasi-
Kantian “thing in itself,” and his genius was to be able to express this awareness
in his text on the Renaissance. For that is certainly not an easy thing to do (as
White’s brilliant exposition of Burckhardt amply demonstrates). The quote is
also of interest, since White explicitly refers here to the sublime in a way that
seems to anticipate his later and much-discussed essay on the historical sublime,
in which he writes the following:
insofar as historical events and processes become understandable, as conserva-

tives maintain, or explainable, as radicals believe them to be, they can never
serve as a basis for a visionary politics more concerned to endow social life
with meaning than with beauty. In my view, the theorists of the sublime had
correctly divined that whatever dignity and freedom human beings could lay
claim to could come only by way of what Freud called a “reaction-formation” to
an apperception of history’s meaninglessness.6
Here, too, the sublime and sublime meaning are presented as the “ironic” result
of the apperception of history’s intrinsic meaninglessness. Here, too, the pivot
on which White’s argument turns is the contrast between history as science (the
counterpart of Kantian beauty) and the encounter with history in its quasi-
noumenal manifestation (the counterpart to the Kantian sublime).
In sum, when White discusses irony he does not have in mind its more
pedestrian variant such as “Bush’s war on Iraq was a stroke of political genius,”
where clearly the opposite of the utterance’s literal meaning is meant. This
variant of irony never leaves the domain of meaning. White’s irony, however,
always implies a moment of the mirroring of meaning in the meaninglessness
of a (past) reality’s quasi-noumenal manifestation. Perhaps I may add that I feel
the greatest sympathy for White’s proposal.7 In fact, when writing some time
ago a book on sublime historical experience, I had something similar in mind. I
therefore consider White’s conceptualization of irony and the historical sublime
to be one of the most fascinating aspects of his oeuvre.
The only comment I would have, though, is that the term “paradox” would
probably have been more appropriate here than “irony.” Surely, paradox and
irony have much in common, so in the end this is certainly a mere debate about
terminology. Nevertheless, this openness can also be attributed to paradox,
to the aforementioned quasi-noumenal past, whereas irony must necessarily
remain blind to it, since it never requires us to leave the domain of linguistic
meaning. Paradox is ordinarily defined as a statement that the language in
which it is stated prevents us from recognizing as true, and yet we must recognize
it to be true if we look at the facts. Think of Bernard de Mandeville’s paradox that
private vices are public virtues: all that we associate with vices and virtues—
hence what these concepts mean to us!—militates against this equalization. And
yet (supposing Mandeville to be right about this) reality can be said to confirm
the truth of this statement.
This, then, is the essence of paradox: our trust in language and in its capacity
to subject reality to our aims and purposes is suddenly tripped up. A hole
reveals itself in the complex and infinitely fine mesh-work that language has
woven around all of reality and through which we then may momentarily
perceive naked reality itself and without the concealing linguistic clothes
in which it normally presents itself to us. All the efforts (and successes!) of
language to “domesticate” reality and to conform to the well-bred etiquette of
language are suddenly and momentarily found to be glaringly inadequate and
helpless—so that we have to encounter reality without the shock-absorbers
of language. The encounter is therefore inevitably painful—and the technical
term of the sublime is meant to express exactly this. In this way, the notion of
paradox certainly comes closer to White’s relevant intentions than does irony.
Or, to put it in words close to White’s own intentions, paradox makes us aware
that the revelations of historical Truth and the deepest insights are to be found
in the holes and fissures between the categories of the historical understanding,
as exemplified by the structuralist grid. So, perhaps, the notion of paradox better
captures what White had in mind than that of irony. But, again, this is a matter
of mere terminological detail. And I do wholly agree with White with regard to
the substance of the issue and with what he expects from irony.
At the same time, however, this is also what would effectively discredit irony
(and paradox) as tropes furthering a strictly cognitivist account of historical
understanding. As a “metatrope,” irony deliberately transcends the effort to
achieve an understanding of the past that satisfies cognitivist requirements.
So if we ask ourselves the question of the cognitivist dimensions of Whitean
tropology, we shall have to put irony aside. The “beauty” of the scientific
approach to the past requires us to avoid the sublimity of irony (and paradox),
even though the two belong together like day and night—and I leave it to the
reader to decide which corresponds to which.
This leaves us thus with metonymy, synecdoche, and metaphor.
A second preliminary remark
In 1525 a medal was struck to commemorate the victory at Pavia of the German
Emperor Charles V over King Francis I of France in that same year.8 On this
medal, we see a crowned cock in the claws of a crowned eagle, and around this
battle of the birds it says: “Gallus succumbit aquilae, anno 1525” (The cock
succumbs to the eagle, in the year 1525).
To begin with, there is a referential obscurity here: do the words “gallus” and
“aquila” refer to France and Germany, or to their respective monarchs? The fact
that both the cock and the eagle are crowned seems to suggest that the words
were meant to stand for the two monarchs actually wearing these crowns. On
the other hand, it seems odd to depict Francis I as a cock (though his reputation
as a womanizer would give some support to the idea to do so) and Charles V as
an eagle. It is hard to see what message one might wish to convey by presenting
them in this way. So probably we had best take the words “gallus” and “aquila” as
standing for France and Germany respectively—all the more so since the French
cock and the German eagle were often used to refer to France and Germany,
regardless of who their monarchs happened to be.
Self-evidently, there is a great deal of mere coincidence and arbitrariness
here, even though a historical explanation can be given of why France was
often represented by a cock and Germany by an eagle.9 This also is why we
would say that France is represented by, rather than as, a cock (and the same
would be true of the German eagle). “Representing as” is to be distinguished
from “representing by”; when you represent A “as B” you wish to suggest that B
intimates some important truth about A, whereas in the case of “representing
by” the link between A and B is purely coincidental. And it was a matter of pure
linguistic coincidence that the Latin word “gallus” could mean both “cock” and
“an inhabitant of Gallia” (i.e. France). This is what Napoleon failed to recognize
when rejecting the proposal made by a commission of councilors of state to use
the cock as the nation’s emblem. Napoleon pointedly objected that “the cockerel
has no strength; in no way it can stand as the image of an Empire such a France.”
So, instead, he chose the (German) eagle, while, at roughly the same time, the
Austrian Emperor Francis I also imported the German eagle from Germany
into Austria.
Using words like “cock” or “eagle” to stand for France or Germany respec-
tively resembles the arbitrariness of proper names; for is it not a matter of pure
coincidence that you have the name you happen to have? What difference
would it make to you if your parents had decided to call you “William” instead
of “John”? Or think of Shakespeare’s “What’s in a name? A rose if called by
any other name would smell as sweet.” However, there may well be something
more to this that we must take into account when we recall Gottlob Frege’s
contrast between 1) “Phosphorus is identical with Hesperus” and 2) “Hesperus
is identical with Hesperus.” Both statements are true, but 1) is empirically true,
whereas 2) is a logical truth. The asymmetry can only be explained, says Frege,
if we assume (against what John Stuart Mill and, for that matter, common
sense, would make us believe) that proper names not only refer, but also have a
meaning. For example: “Phosphorus” also means the star you see in the morning
at some place in the sky, whereas “Hesperus” also means a star in the evening
sky (in both cases Venus). For if “Phosphorus” and “Hesperus” had no such
meaning and possessed only the capacity to refer (i.e. to the planet Venus),
statement 1) would be just as much a logical truth as 2). Thus there would be no
difference between the two of them. Only because these two proper names each
have a meaning of their own can 1) express an empirical truth of some minor
(astronomical) interest.
But perhaps this does have a certain basis in how we do intuitively think
about proper names. I have in mind here the fact that in daily life the use of our
own proper name leaves us indifferent, whereas when concentrating intensly
on one’s own proper name, when we start thinking “I am … (fill in your own
proper name),” an odd feeling of vertigo tends to take over that is suggestive of
our proper name throwing us into the unfathomable depth of the person we are.
Our proper name then becomes suffused with meaning. And this seems to be
in agreement with Frege’s account of proper names rather than that of common
sense (and Mill).
The phenomenon deserves our interest, since something similar also happens
with proper names for collective entities, such as institutions, organizations,
and, above all, nations. We may use the proper names Germany, France, or
America disinterestedly and where these proper names have no other function
than to refer to a certain nation. But we may also use them in contexts such as
“Deutschland, Deutschland über alles,” “la gloire de la France” or “God bless
America,” and then these proper names also get suffused with nationalist or
even chauvinist meaning. Much the same will be true of French “cocks,” British
“lions,” or American “eagles.” The mere sight of these cocks, lions, and eagles
may make the heart of Frenchmen, Englishmen, and Americans leap for joy
or instill fear and hatred in the minds of the victims of their past and present
actions outside their borders. The tendency of the relevant proper names and
the way nations are symbolized to have this effect on us has been an autonomous
historical factor of great historical significance during the past two centuries. In
sum, Frege’s logical point goes a long way to explain why we rarely experience
proper names as wholly arbitrary sounds merely standing for what is designated
by them and why hosts of pleasant or sinister meanings tend to cluster around
or cling to them.
Put differently, it takes quite an effort to keep these meanings at bay and to
assure that proper names remain semantically “clean.” Doing so goes against
our nature and our natural inclinations and, if Frege is right, even against the
nature of signs themselves. Reference and meaning naturally go hand in hand.
All this can be reformulated in terms of the distinction between metaphor and
metonymy. The French cock, the British lion, etc., can all be said to function like
metaphors. There is semantic friction, as is the case with metaphor, for France is
not a cock and England not a lion. But these words invite us to project what we
associate with cocks and lions onto France and England, just as the metaphor
“John is a pig” invites us to project piggishness on John.
However, there are contexts where getting rid of these associations is
absolutely necessary. Think of mathematics. Thus David Hilbert (1862–1943)
had argued that the symbols and primary terms used by mathematicians should
have no meanings other than those attributed to them in the axioms pertaining
to them. For example, from concepts like points, lines, and planes we must
remove all that we ordinarily associate with these words, so that we are left only
with what is said concerning their use in the axioms of Euclidian or Riemannian
geometry. A point, line, or plane can then just be anything, be a model of them,
as that term is used in mathematics and the sciences, if it satisfies what is said
about them in the relevant axioms. So reality can then be a model of calculus,
and not the reverse, as the notion of model is ordinarily understood. Ordinarily
the model is said to be a model of something existing in reality—think of the
models one builds of actual aeroplanes in order to find out about their aerody-
namic properties in wind tunnels. Here models are simulations of reality. But
in mathematics and in the sciences it is exactly the other way round: there you
have, first, the abstract calculus and you can then inquire, next, what aspects of
reality can be explained in terms of it. The relevant aspects of reality are then
said by the mathematician and the scientist to be a “model” of the calculus.
This comes close to White’s understanding of the trope of metonymy. Think
of how White defines metonymy:
in metonymy, phenomena are implicitly apprehended as bearing relationship to

one another in the modality of part-part relationships, on the basis of which one
can effect a reduction of one of the parts to the status of an aspect or function
of the other.10
So you have certain phenomena (in reality), and the relationship between
the symbol naming them and these phenomena is purely “functional.” The
meaning of these symbols is then not defined by their referential ties, but by
how they function in an abstract system or calculus. And in order to get to that
metonymical meaning of these symbols we must wipe them clean, so to speak,
from all associational meaning that we might project on them. This, then, is
where metonymy is the very opposite of metaphor. For whereas metaphor
always invites us to take best advantage of all the associations we happen to
have (rightly or wrongly) with certain words, metonymy requires us to avoid all
such associations. This is precisely why we must agree with White when arguing
that metonymy is the trope having an innate affinity with the sciences, for the
sciences can only achieve their impressive results when they carefully avoid the
contamination of the concepts used in scientific theory with meanings origi-
nating outside that theory.
As White himself emphasizes, socio-scientific historical writing best
exemplifies the metonymical approach to history. For then the facts of the past
are made sense of by explaining them with the help of socio-scientific laws and
theories that have been established on the basis of facts quite different from
the historical facts they are applied to. Think of using John Maynard Keynes’s
General Theory of 1936 for explaining the economic growth of eighteenth-
century England. Observe that in this instance White is playing a nice trick on
his socio-scientific opponents. Metonymy makes it clear that tropology is not in
the least opposed to the socio-scientific approach to history, as the advocates of
that approach always complain. Metonymy and the scientific (or, rather, scien-
tistic) approach to history is certainly not irreconcilable with White’s tropology.
In fact, it is just one of the options the historian has in his effort to make sense
of the past.
At the same time, however, this compels us to remove metonymy, too, from
the list of tropes to be studied for their cognitive value. For, as the foregoing
makes clear, all that is of cognitive interest only takes place after one has decided
to make use of that trope. But the trope itself remains outside of any effort to
make sense of the world. Its role is restricted to the choice of a certain method
of making sense of the world. But it could never itself be part of that method,
just as the decision to play a game of chess is not part of the game itself.
Synecdoche and metaphor
So that leaves us with synecdoche and metaphor. Unlike irony (or paradox),
synecdoche and metaphor do have cognitivist aspirations and, unlike metonymy,
they are undoubtedly part of the cognitive machinery for the acquisition of
historical knowledge and understanding. So let us now have a closer look at
these.
With regard to the cognitivist pretentions of synecdoche, it will be sufficient
to recognize how close it comes to what the so-called “Ideen-Lehre,” the doctrine
of the “historical ideas,” under whose banner historicists such as Leopold von
Ranke and Wilhelm von Humboldt hoped to explore and map the past. Ranke’s
and Humboldt’s “historical ideas” are best compared to the Aristotelian notion
of entelechy. Entelechy is a principle of development inherent in all things of
nature. And we should recall that the Greek word for nature is phusis, derived
from the verb phuein meaning “to grow” (part of Aristotle’s metaphysics has its
origin in this etymological fact). Thus the suggestion is that the development,
growth, or evolution of all things in nature is determined by an entelechy
inherent in them—in the way that there is an entelechy in an acorn making it
grow into a huge and mighty oak. So if we wish to explain the miracle of a puny
acorn developing into an oak in the course of time, we will have to discover
that entelechy. This is more or less how we should conceive of Ranke’s and
Humboldt’s “historical ideas.” And then the main insight is that it is the histo-
rian’s task to discover a nation’s, a people’s, or a civilization’s “historical idea.” If
the historian has got hold of that, this will enable him to explain the history of
that nation, people, or civilization.
We have all been taught to reject this as nineteenth-century metaphysical
rubbish—if not worse. As opposed to this almost unanimously shared communis
opinio, I see instead the beginning of all wisdom about historical writing;
however, I would emphasize that it is “the beginning” and certainly not “the last
word”—for it requires a great deal of logical refinement to demonstrate where
the historicists were basically right and where they irreparably erred.
Self-evidently, this is not the appropriate place for addressing that issue. So
I restrict myself to recalling the close agreement of the historicist’s doctrine
of the historical idea with the way in which almost every historian conceives
of what historical writing is all about. Will every historian not express his
enthusiastic and spontaneous assent with the view that it is the historian’s
task to discover “the essence” of the past and that he has explained the past
in the way we expect this from him when he has given a convincing account
of this “essence”? Now, replace “essence” by “historical idea,” and then you
have the message that Ranke and Humboldt wished to convey to us. If we
translate Ranke’s doctrine of the historical idea from a theory about historical
phenomena into a theory of historical writing (i.e. into an exhortation to the
historian to present in his text what he considers to be the essence of the past),
we shall have a theory that seamlessly agrees with how historians conceive of
their practice.11
As White made clear in the introduction to Metahistory, synecdoche is the
trope that will give us the essence of things. The synecdoche “he is all heart”
reduces the immense complexity of someone’s personality to that part of it
that is essential to it and in terms of which we may explain a good deal of

that person’s actions and behavior. So we may conclude that synecdoche is
the trope embodying the historicist’s conception of the nature of historical
knowledge. This, then, is how we must conceive of this trope’s cognitivist
aspirations, as White himself insists in his chapter on Ranke. Synecdoche is the
trope adequately capturing how, within the historicist’s conception of historical
writing, historical knowledge comes into being. It is synecdoche that gives us
the cognitive heart of historical knowledge.
Finally, metaphor. Whereas the cognitivism of synecdoche has rarely been
discussed, as far as I know, the inquiry into metaphor’s contributions to cogni-
tivist knowledge—my apologies for the pleonasm—is a well-trodden path, if
not ad nauseam. Metaphor has been painstakingly and endlessly discussed by
a whole army of philosophers, including such antipodes as Donald Davidson
and Jacques Derrida. I had better avoid doing a crash-course on the subject and
shall restrict myself, again, to some wholly innocuous and trivial truths about
metaphor. Few, though not all, philosophers will contest that metaphors may
express knowledge of the world or be a contribution to knowledge. Richard
Harvey’s metaphor “the heart is a pump,” Paul Churchland’s metaphor that
“the mind is a computer,” or Georg Simmel’s metaphor that “money is trust,”
all express interesting and non-trivial factual claims that we can discover to be
either true or false. Thus, in this way, metaphors can properly be assessed in
terms of their truth value.
But metaphors do something more than just this. There is also the implication
that if you wish to come to an adequate understanding of the function of an organ-
ism’s heart, you had best begin by conceiving of it as if it were a pump. Generally
speaking, metaphor suggests that you should see one thing as if it were something
else, if you wish to get a proper grasp of it. Surely, this is where metaphor comes
close to synecdoche: just like synecdoche, metaphor also intimates what we should
recognize as “the essence” of a thing, or as the set of truths we should specifically
take into account in order to understand it. And, self-evidently, this is exactly
what the historical text aims at. When writing his text, the historian selects, out
of all the statements he could possibly make about a certain part of the past,
those he considers the most illuminating for the understanding of that part of
the past. In the end, historical writing is principally a matter of selection—that is
to say, of dismissing what is useless and irrelevant and of retaining what is worth
mentioning, or “essential,” for understanding part of the past.
Therefore, metaphor seems to be no less an indispensable instrument in
the historian’s cognitive toolkit than synecdoche. And this presents us with a
problem. For if both synecdoche and metaphor claim to give us the “essence”
of part of the past, they do so in different ways. For, as we have seen in the case
of synecdoche, we get to that essence by getting hold of something that is part
of the object of historical understanding itself—just as the heart is part of an
organism; whereas metaphor finds the essence by having recourse to something
outside the object of understanding—just as hearts and pumps, or minds and
computers, are different things, and are not parts of one and the same kind of
thing. And yet, both synecdoche and metaphor have been found to capture
adequately how historical understanding comes into being and what we should
recognize as its cognitive pivot point. So we may now begin to worry whether
there is, perhaps, something ineradicably schizophrenic about historical under-
standing and whether we have inadvertently hit here upon one of the intrinsic
weaknesses of all historical writing.
However, there is no reason to despair about historical writing and its disci-
plinary coherence and solidity, for the problem is not hard to solve. Ordinarily
metaphor is seen as a purely linguistic phenomenon. Take a metaphor like
“the heart is a pump,” which is a falsehood if taken literally, since the heart is
not a pump. So the metaphor invites us to manipulate the literal meanings of
the words “heart” and “pump” in such a way that some illuminating insight
emerges. But this is a play with meanings and firmly keeps us within the domain
of language—though, admittedly, the ultimate purpose of this interplay of
meaning is a better understanding of the world. But the world itself is not an
ingredient in the production of metaphorical meaning.
But now consider the claim that a historical text is an invitation to see a
certain part of the past in terms of that text. That preserves the basic form of
metaphor; hence the form of “see A as if it were B” is the form of the statement
“see the heart as if it were a pump.” However, in this case, A stands for a part of
the past, for the world itself, whereas B stands for the historical text. In that case,
we shall have pulled the world itself, or part of past reality itself, into metaphor.
Metaphor, then, is no longer an interplay of mere meanings but an interplay
between language and the world. And in this interplay, metaphor then singles
out a certain part or aspect of the past that we should consider to be its essence,
insofar as this essence is not something outside what it is the essence of, but part
of it.
Now, obviously, this is what synecdoche does. Think of White’s own example:
“he is all heart”; here someone’s “essence” is situated in what is part of him, i.e.
his heart. So if metaphor is redefined as it was above—a redefinition of metaphor
that is wholly in agreement with the practice of historical writing—metaphor
and synecdoche can be reconciled with each other and be shown to be indis-
cernible from the perspective of the practice of historical writing itself.
Conclusion
Finally, one may ask oneself what is the point of theoretical speculations such as
these. Let me put it this way. Traditional cognitivist and epistemological analysis
somehow resembles a young man who spoils his love-affair with a girl by making
his intentions too obviously clear. Traditional epistemology is too much focused
on its purpose—the definition of Truth—to remain open to how knowledge
may arise out of other endeavors. But knowledge is no less a work of art than
art itself. Hence the enveloping movements of tropology may yield unexpected
insights—as is the case here, when discussing how Whitean tropology may shed
some new light on the cognitivist aspects of historical writing.
In historical writing we have to pass through tropology in order to achieve
historical truth; and this is how we should conceive of the cognitive faculties of
the tropological or figural use of language in historical writing.
3
Deliver Us from A-Historicism: Metahistory

for Non-Historians
Mieke Bal
Introduction
It must have been decades ago, and regretfully, I do not remember the details.
In a daily newspaper that was rarely interested in academic pursuits, I read
a brief article stating that a National Endowment for the Humanities-funded
project conducted by an interdisciplinary team of researchers had found the
answer to the question: “Was Joan of Arc really a woman?” Triumphantly—
and predictably—the answer was “no.” She must have been a man disguised
as a woman disguised as a man… I never heard about the project again, never
mustered the interest to look into it. Perhaps it was only a dream. What stayed
with me from that fleeting moment was the flabbergasting question itself.
Who would wish to spend time, energy, intelligence, and money on finding
out whether the one woman hero of Western history was “really”—meaning
what, exactly?—female? For someone like myself, who always worries about
the relevance of my research questions, this was a shocking little piece of
press. Rather than the answer, it was the question (both in its futility and the
confusion of female and woman) that has always stayed with me as a caricature
of historical inquiry, as well as of the funding agencies that decide on the fate of
academic projects. Not a caricature by which I would judge that discipline, of
course, but an example of excess in its obsession with “truth.”
“Truth” is the name of the pursuit of scholarship and science, and it epito-
mizes in particular the discipline of history. When, in 1973, Hayden White’s
Metahistory appeared, I was working exclusively in literary theory and, with my
structuralist bent, not too versed in considerations of history. What I studied
was the imagination; a richer field I could not imagine. But we literary theorists
were somewhat embattled by those who did not believe that the imagination
had anything to do with reality and could therefore not be subjected to the test
of “truth.” I countered that the imagination is part of reality, even if the worlds
it produces may not exist.
I remember vividly how colleagues came into the building waving this
new miracle book. For those of us on the far side of the historical vs. struc-
tural approaches, the appearance of this spectacular book was, indeed, a bit
of a miracle. It vindicated our supposition that those colleagues who contra-
dicted everything we said about literature with the injunction “Historicize!
Historicize!” and scolded us for “formalism,” and, worse, “interpretation,”
were proven wrong. They were just blind to their own interpretative and
formal choices. The word “imagination” in the subtitle, yoked to the qualifier
“historical,” made our case.
Those were days of fierce polemics, when we had not yet learned to be
nuanced and to refuse to be locked up in binary oppositions. You either did
history, or you were “a-historical” and, hence, dismissed. My sense of “form”—of
the aesthetic side of the artifacts I studied, the influence of form on meaning—
was too strong to compromise, and I happily called myself a “formalist.” When
I started to work on visual art and realized that, simultaneously with White’s
“formal,” indeed, literary turn in historiography, the contextual turn was
beginning to rage in art history, and there “formalism” rapidly became a fresh
taboo.
And then, here was a book about the historical imagination—something that
seemed almost inconceivable by definition. This book told us that historians
too adopt a form, interpreting their alleged “data” after first selecting these
according to principles of form. As Metahistory bluntly stated on one of its
first pages: “My method, in short, is formalist”1—something that I would never
have dared say out loud. At the time—and I see this as a historical moment—to
adopt a formalist methodology was to endorse a certain universalism of forms.
Indeed, one of the constructive critics, Ernst Van Alphen, criticized White on
that very point: he did not appear to historicize his own categories of analysis.2
For me, this was not so clear. Not that Van Alphen was wrong in arguing
that White did not historicize his categories. But I believed then, and still
believe, that historicization is both possible and beside the primary point.
Universalizing formalism has never been the only possible alternative to what
we, alleged formalists, sometimes labeled a bit easily as “naïve historicism.” I did
not see White as stepping over from one side of the picket fence to the other.
For me, the book that made White famous across the disciplines overnight
Deliver Us from A-Historicism: Metahistory for Non-Historians 69
was not to be limited to the formalist side of a formalism-historicism divide,

but instead, cut right through that opposition, as well as through others. My
excitement came from that realization. The key that opened all doors was the
word “imagination.”
Suddenly, I had an ally coming from the other side, bridging—as I sought
to do—that divide that had so far made meaningful progress on either side
difficult. Decades later, it was again the figure of Joan of Arc that made me
realize how profound White’s impact on my thinking had been. The 2000 slide
installation Du mentir-faux by the Belgian artist Ana Torfs—a complex repre-
sentation of the trial of Joan of Arc in what White, following Roland Barthes,
would call the “middle voice”3—undermines binary opposition in rigorous and
multiple ways. I juxtapose this work here to the question of history as White
taught me to consider it. Like the writings of those old masters of history that
White analyzes, Torfs’s artwork approaches the story through her “historical
imagination.”
The ideology of binary opposition
In my academic situation at the time, I indeed needed an ally such as White.

I have often been accused of a-historicism, especially apropos my work on
visual art,4 and although I even wrote an entire book to respond to that
ongoing dismissal, the stigma stuck.5 Yet, I never believed that it was true
that my work—or any work that was “formalist” in the sense that form was
taken seriously as meaningful in itself and as meaning-producing—was for
that reason a-historical. It was, I realized retrospectively, Metahistory that had
delivered me, not from history, but from the stigma that indicted my work for
a-historicism. What I have always considered eminently historical about White’s
position is the fact that he firmly positioned his analysis, not just in relation
to form, representation, and ideology, but in the present of his thinking and
writing, in a temporal version of his beloved “middle voice.”
White’s book may have been suspected of an aesthetic formalism of its own.
Its typology of four categories seems too systematic to be plausible—in the same
way that Charles Sanders Peirce’s threesomes appear too neat to be true. But
that comparison actually gives White excellent company. For in Peirce’s work, if
not so obviously in White’s, the over-systematization of the categories makes it
possible to follow and play with that system to get at nuances that would have
otherwise remained unseen. In the case of Peirce, and perhaps also of White, I
would even go so far as to say that over-categorization helps rather than hinders
a liberation from taxonomy’s straitjacket, that it is the over-categorization that
allows for a bold amount of messiness in the analyses. This is manifest in appli-
cations of Peirce’s categories.6
Thus, Peirce’s threesomes only work if one deploys them to map overlaps and
crossings. To cite a well-known example: the sign that indicates the exit of, for
instance, a train station pertains to the symbolic, indexical, and iconic grounds
all at once. The interrupted square iconically represents the exit; the arrow
indicates it by continuity, and the convention by which we recognize this sign
makes it readable. The brilliant philosopher knew very well that not everything
in the universe or the human mind can be divided into three possibilities—on
the contrary. In my view, he made them threesomes for reasons other than a
systemic (over-)drive. If I may speculate by taking the effect for the cause, he did
so, firstly, to deliver us from the domination of binary opposition; secondly, to
establish a dynamic, a temporal element that later even the brilliant semiotician
Umberto Eco was not able to build into his revised Peircean theory; and thirdly,
to make it possible, indeed indispensable, to keep moving from one point of
the triangles to another, none of them ever being satisfactory on its own as a
label that would characterize a single phenomenon. In short, one system was
mobilized to beat another, so that in the end, users of his theory were given tools
to make up their own combinatoire.
For me, White’s book had a similar effect. His categories are so clearly
readerly devices, hints for establishing contexts and connections, rather than
rigid grids, that I would venture to say that his “system” of foursomes, in its
invitation to disobey it, virtually contains its own historicization, but one that
is established in the present. The casual language in which he introduces these
foursomes already indicates this.7 And, even when he is on his best academic
behavior and leaves his tongue out of his cheek, his discourse cannot be locked
up in an either/or (formalist or historicist) camp.
In the sentence right before the one referred to above, White characterizes
historical writing as follows: “a verbal structure in the form of a narrative prose
discourse that purports to be a model, or icon, of past structures and processes
in the interest of explaining what they were by representing them.”8 In the first
half of the description, formalist terms abound: a historical work is a (verbal)
structure, in a particular form, espousing a semiotic mode—narrative—and
a discourse that, as we have learned from Michel Foucault, produces what
it analyzes; namely, a model to be followed or an icon to keep the work
protected from change. In the second half, however, we encounter the terms
that are contested at the other side of the formalism/historicism divide. The
structures are now in the past, even if they remain structures and, hence, are
“contaminated” by the formalism of the first half. The term “interest” stipulates
a goal-orientedness that, after Habermas,9 we cannot take lightly either. If this is
formalism, then there is no opposite easily captured.10
In this, White remains abreast of those who come after him. Fellow historiog-
raphers Hans Kellner and Frank Ankersmit—co-editors, with Ewa Dománska,
of a recent volume devoted to White’s influence11—characterized Metahistory
as debunking the traditional conception of history. Kellner saw it as an
attempt to “challenge the ideology of truth.”12 Ankersmit called it “postmod-
ernist.”13 Both of these responses remain—given the academic climate at the
time, understandably—bound to a binary opposition in which “truth” is one
thing, and form, or relativism, another. It almost seems a question of personal
preference. Ankersmit’s later book on historical experience explicitly makes this
an acceptable choice for a historian.14
Detractors and, as the recent volume mentioned above testifies, admirers
alike have kept their loyalty to the pact of binary opposition, with truth on one
side, and myth (Stephen Bann), language (David Harlan), narrative (Nancy
Partner), or rhetoric (Allan Megill) on the other, even if they admire and
approve of the mix. Yet, all these terms are complicated in White’s hands. Myth,
in White’s vision, becomes “remythification”;15 language becomes poetic or “a
verbal structure”;16 narrative, story and “emplotment”;17 and rhetoric, signs.18
None of these alternative terms can be opposed to truth. Instead, as some of
White’s articles demonstrate, the problem is binary opposition itself.
Although he does not give much explicit attention to it in his groundbreaking
book Metahistory, binary opposition is what White’s theory undermines; not
“truth” in whatever sense one wishes to impute to that notion. Indeed, in
the article “The Forms of Wildness: Archaeology of an Idea,” he unpacks
in detail the effects of binarization. In the same move, he demonstrates the
relevance of questioning a form of thought that may well be the most universal
structure in the mind. He does this by showing, through the deployment of an
eminently useful rhetorical concept, that the idea of “the wild man” serves as
an “ostentatious self-definition by negation” throughout history.19 That concept,
or as he calls it, “device,” is a tool for groups of humans, bound together by
nationality, citizenship, or other collective identities, to assert who they are
without having to bother to come up with contestable descriptions. Even the
rejected other needs no definition; all it takes is to point at him or her, and
assert: “I am not like that.”20
This is a fundamental device to keep hostilities to otherness alive. This

ostentatious self-definition by negation is an outcome of three other moves
implicated in binary thought: polarization, simplification, and hierarchization,
in that order. First, this structure opposes two categories; then it simplifies all
nuances to fit the pair; and subsequently, a horizontal polarization is turned
vertical, so that one of the two categories ends up on top. This paves the way
for White’s “device.” Once one is on top, the other becomes negative, undefined,
and vague, like “the West” and “the rest.” Thus the possibility is ensured for the
simple act of finger pointing as a sufficient gesture of dismissal. The top, or self,
needs no definition whatsoever; superiority goes without saying.
Binary opposition is not only implicitly rejected by the proposed categories.
White, inspired by Barthes and the form of the middle voice in ancient Greek,
also proposes a non-binary writing style. As a positive demonstration, his
essay on the “middle voice” argues that declining to make a binary choice in
writing—such as that between the active and the passive voice—allows for a
more profound access to the historical reality one seeks to approximate. His
discussion of this style in his essay “Historical Emplotment and the Problem
of Truth” demonstrates, moreover, that this is not merely a matter of style, of
literariness so to speak, but a serious matter of history-writing.21 In this article,
White explicitly and relentlessly critiques polemics against styles and forms in
writings that aim to give a historical account of the Holocaust. Again, form—and
its study, “formalism”—is not a meaningless or futile exercise, but a profound
epistemological tool, even, or precisely, when the historical truth matters most.22
The ideology of binary opposition, however, is easier critiqued than undone.
At the price of oversimplification, it has proved itself convenient in the academic
disputes described above, which hold that one can only either endorse or
dismiss truth. And giving up on the idea of truth is impossible, especially in
history, where the past is, after all, what “really” happened. Any relativization
of that reality is, in the wrong hands, in danger of engendering an irresponsible
revisionism or negationism—one need only think of Holocaust denial. In other
words, holding on to historical truth is necessary, less for the past than for the
present (and the future). White never denied the importance of this. One may
disagree on what truth is and how to get at it. Yet no one in their right mind
would dismiss the idea that the pursuit of truth is the goal of history writing,
even if a great deal of disagreement among various historical accounts is to be
expected.
The kind of argument White’s Metahistory deploys is not at all invested in
such debunking of “truth.” If anything, by explicitly bracketing the question of
truth and the relative merit of the discourses he examines as conveyors of truth,
he leaves it and the desirability of its pursuit intact. The opponent his approach
targets, if any, I contend, is binary opposition itself, and this is also the thrust of
Ana Torfs’s artwork that engages with Joan of Arc. That the contested historical/
mythical figure of Joan of Arc is at the heart of that work is no coincidence. Like
White, Torfs declines to invest in decisions about truth and falsehood, but rather
thematizes them, probing the difficulty of access to truth and exploring ways of
enabling that access. Like White, Torfs has not chosen truth or falsehood as
her object of examination, but the cruelty and, more generally, the beside-
the-pointedness of classical ways of getting at the truth. These include torture,
intimidation, insistent repetition, and other forms of extortion that prove that
truth is, precisely, what is not being pursued.
Binary thinking defeated
What in academic writing seems so difficult in performing and accepting when

others perform it, is less problematical in art. Works of visual art are frequently
explorations of possibilities. The conventions that, for academics, are part of
their repertory for self-criticism and peer judgments are, for artists, indis-
pensable backdrops for making their works understood, yet also surpassed or
avoided in the endeavor to say the unsaid, or even the unsayable. I do not wish
to contend that originality is overrated as a criterion for art. But the function
and significance of convention shifts when we move from one cultural habit,
academic writing, to another, art-making.
When we keep this at the back of our minds it is the more remarkable that
Torfs’s monumental work Du mentir-faux deploys a quite traditional medium.
It is an installation of slides, accompanied by an eponymous book that is an
integral part of the work. The slide projection shows a series of black-and-white
portraits of one and the same young woman: unadorned, dressed in a white
sweater, without any make-up on, and her hair cut without any concern for
fashion. She never smiles. Her images, about seven in one round of slides, come
and go, until text slides start interrupting the seriality of the appearances. Every
once in a while, a black slide with white lettering shows a short text, consisting
only of an incomplete sentence.
Du mentir-faux: with such a title, and with its double medium of images
and words, this work presents itself as, somehow, dual. This duality piqued
my interest, since I am invested in critiquing binary opposition. The title is
Figure 1 Ana Torfs, Du mentir-faux (2000)

Installation view, Fotomuseum, Winterthur (Switzerland), 2007
© photo: Ana Torfs
composed of two elements, connected by a hyphen. But these elements are

not, as is usual, arranged in a binary opposition. Similarly, the work itself is
composed of pairs of two elements that cannot be opposed. The two words of
the title are near synonyms. The verb “lying” is used as a noun, as the prepo-
sition-cum-article “du” indicates. The connected “faux” or “false” can be taken
to qualify the lying. But how can lying be anything other than false? That is the
question this work poses at first glance.
As becomes readily apparent, this is precisely the question on a theoretical
level: how can two near-synonyms differ, and how do two such words hang
together, as indicated by the connecting hyphen? Difference without opposition
as well as without equalization—that is what this title, and, as I contend, the
work as a whole, propose to probe. The work as a whole, its contents, the trial
of Joan of Arc, its forms (black-and-white photography and slide installation),
and its materiality (the huge projections of the slides and the workings of the
slide carousel)—all this similarly questions the possibility of oppositional logic,
as well as the (binary) alternative: unity. The pairs of concepts this work consists
of, or invokes, form pairs of mutually qualifying, not opposing, aspects. Within
each pair, the elements inflect each other in an extremely subtle, nuanced
manner. This refusal of both opposition and unity is suggested by the hyphen
that connects the two elements. On closer inspection there seems to be an
imaginary hyphen that connects the elements within each pair, as well as the
pairs to one another. More than in the content of the words, what matters lies in
that specific kind of duality, as well as in the connection. Of these potential but
not actualized oppositions, the primary one is lying, as in fiction, accompanied
by false, as in untrue, deceptive. But fiction cannot lie. Then, there are words and
images, sound and vision, space and time, black and white, light and darkness,
surface and depth, history, with all its mentir-faux, and the present.23
In the current thought climate, one would expect the pairs to be deconstruc-
tions of the oppositions they reference. But this is not the case either. Rather
than deconstructing each other, the elements of each of these pairs begin a
composition together. Take history and the present—not as history versus the
present, but rather as history in the present. The messiness of that truth about
history—its “presence” in the present makes a bird’s eye view of it impossible—
is overdetermined by another messiness. The story of which Du mentir-faux
presents a glimpse is historical as well as mythical: a reality no longer acces-
sible, and a fiction we must believe in. It is part of the history of violence and its
complexities, of which the character of Joan of Arc is one of the most intriguing
examples. The question of gender is crucial to understanding this particular
kind of violence, in which the State and its representatives, the notables, were
invested in determining the truth of Joan’s obedience to their laws of gender.
Whether Joan was a woman or a man was less important than the fact that she
went around performing her revolutionary militantism as a woman dressed as
a man.
The question of medium is related to (hence, neither opposed nor separated
from) it. Not only was Joan’s gender, in a way, a medium unto itself, since her
dressing up as a man was one of the reasons put forward for sentencing her to
death at the stake, but also Torfs’s work is part of the history of the medium
of photography, into which it inserts itself on different levels. This medium
promises access to reality and hence, to reliable documents of history. Once we
see the past not as the opposite but as a companion of the present, we realize
that the present is characterized by its own incidences of violence and its own
disbelief in and disregard of women’s voices.
The pair of history and the present also casts its light, or shadow, on the work
itself. The present of contemporary art is, as Torfs’s work tells us, entangled in
its own history. This insight underlies the deployment of black-and-white still
photography in an age of the moving image and of color photography. Reverting
to black-and-white photography is not necessarily, as it is frequently under-

stood, a nostalgic move; nor is it a historical statement—far from it. Although
this work is made primarily with photography, the temporality in which the
photographs appear and disappear also harbors the medium of film. The history
of film, silent and black-and-white, re-emerges in the present, in the medium
that allegedly preceded it. Time itself stumbles and tumbles; before and after
cannot be ordered in neat sequences. This implicit questioning of the linearity of
history is resonant with the concept of “preposterous history” that I proposed in
my book Quoting Caravaggio: Contemporary Art, Preposterous History (1999).
Of all my work, this is the book in which I find myself most closely affiliated
with the work of Hayden White.
The idea I develop there is not new. There are several different areas where
a return of the past in the present has been discussed. White has treated
this idea of temporal dislocation specifically through the notion of figura,
which has its origins in Biblical exegesis (in which the relation between a
prefiguration and a fulfillment is construed “backwards,” that is, from the
perspective of the “fulfillment,” in this case, the New Testament). He explores
this idea principally in an essay on Auerbach (“Auerbach’s Literary History:
Figural Causation and Modernist Historicism”),24 but also in an essay on
Northrop Frye,25 in which White discusses Kierkegaard’s conception of
“repetition” as the fulfillment of a prefiguration. This comes closest to Michael
Holly’s consistent interest in the way artworks, in some sense, predict the kind
of criticism they will later encounter.26 Other similar engagements include the
recent flow of responses to Aby Warburg’s surviving or resurfacing figures
from the past in unequal reappearances in modern art.27 And partly in the
wake of the renewed interest in Warburg, but also in other contexts, the
idea of a productive anachronism has been put forward. What I mean with
preposterous history is slightly different from these approaches to the notion
that time is neither linear nor singular.
To put it very bluntly and over-simply, I see in Warburg’s survival a desire
for permanence, as if everything goes underground until the time is ripe,
whereas preposterousness is a new emergence that connects to an older one,
not necessarily the latter’s reappearance. The idea of fulfillment, similarly,
suggests a permanence of something still undisclosed but already there, and to
my ear sounds a bit too much like redemption. Anachronism is a less religiously
inflected concept, but it begs the question of who performs the activity that
makes the connection. In the case of Torfs’s work, for example, it is not a
permanently, albeit invisibly, present historical motive that returns in her work.
Instead, the artist makes a new work, for which the raw material is a set of
historical streams, such as misogyny, photography, violence, and grief.
Due to its forceful, implicit, multiple arguments, as much as its formal
beauty, Ana Torfs’s Du mentir-faux remains, for me, one of the most gripping
and meaningful works of contemporary art. On a large projection surface of at
least four and a half by three meters, portraits of a single woman appear and
disappear—another one of those intricate pairs. The timer gives the image, and
takes it away.28 Disappearance makes us grateful for appearance; appreciative
of the time allotted to seeing, in a robust form of montage. In a twenty-minute
loop, the length of each slide’s presence varies between seven and fifteen
seconds, so that neither haste nor visual laziness compelled by routine can enter.
The historical device of the slide show allows this work to be just as much time-
based as it is space-based. The brief periods of silence and darkness between
images are interrupted by the click of the slide falling into the carousel. With
each falling slide, silence retrospectively becomes a form of sound, an effect that
permeates the entire work.
More intertwined dualities creep in, further defeating binary thinking.
What silence does to sound, white does to color—even if, strictly speaking,
white consists of all colors. The images are so similar in light, composition,
and distance that one is irresistibly drawn to take in the subtleties of the hues

© photo: Ana Torfs
of white. The predominance and autonomy of white is enhanced by the blank

wall in the photographs behind the figure and behind the slides. The gallery
is not entirely darkened; its walls remain white. Clearly, even in this black-
and-white photography, the opposition between black and white is put in
jeopardy. Here, the pair of black and white (perhaps the most universal and
heavily consequential expression of binary thought) engages in a silent dance of
nuances—entangled, inseparable.
The duality of distance and closeness, almost inevitable in a spatial
arrangement of visual art, is also suspended—or rather, entangled. The even
distance in the photographs keeps the figure in the same scale. The distance in
the gallery is close enough to see the grain of each image and distant enough to
avoid voyeuristic proximity. For those who are accustomed to measure visuality
in terms of access, this careful calibration of distance positions the viewer in
the invisible space between image and reality, or between fiction and what we
believe to be truth. For, while if the scale of these faces is unrealistic and the
distance a balancing act, the solid fact remains that the medium promises a
reality of the face that at the same time belies the truth of the figure’s history.
All these relationships undermine the possibility of binary opposition, and that
they do so in the medium of back-and-white photography is significant.29
Photography as history
All these defeated dichotomies join forces when we consider photography itself.
Photography, itself a medium of mentir-faux, allows the artist to create a fiction
that lies all the more forcefully as we are compelled to suspend our disbelief. As
photography proves for us, this woman is alive in the present. But the medium
did not exist at the historical time she invokes. So, even if this woman is real,
the figure she represents is not. Photographing the fifteenth-century figure of
Joan of Arc is a foolproof method of declaring her fictional. What is more—
something that I would refrain from even mentioning if it were not so directly
relevant for this discussion—like the figure she represents, this woman was
seriously ill at the time these photographs were taken, and she is no longer alive
today. Like Joan, she was aware of her imminent death. This makes the issue of
representation and the confused realities dealt with here even more troubling.
Also, visually, qua image, she is just out of reach, not only in terms of
distance, but also as per her own volition. The woman in the photographs never
confronts us; her eyes are averted even when the image is almost, but not quite,

© photo: Ana Torfs
frontal. In each set of photographs, the relations between face and picture plane
vary slightly, visible only through tiny shifts in the light as time glides through
the day. Throughout the cycle of the installation, it is as if she turns slowly, from
gazing to the left in the beginning, to half-right toward the end, always in the
direction of the light. In all these portraits, she is engrossed in a mood that we
can almost grasp, but not quite. It is tempting to say that the images express
grief; as if to sustain that claim, a tear sometimes appears on her face as the
images are screened.30
But “express” is the wrong word, and that is where the trouble begins. We
cannot “read” her anguish. We can only surmise it on the basis of that intricate
combination of an image and a face, a history and a myth, that constitutes the
imagination. There is no exact match between the two-dimensional image and
the three-dimensional face. The gap of visual imagination stubbornly remains,
even if both the medium of photography and the slow pace of her appearances
conspire to make the figure believable. The photographs’ high visual quality
surrenders the grain of the surface, easily called “skin.” But it is as if the skin
of the face and the surface of the image were trading places, so that we cannot
distinguish them from each other. The white of the skin of the photograph
becomes the surface of the face. The woman’s face withholds the nature of her
grief, hence, the (historical?) cause of it. The tears that appear so sparingly are
symptoms of something to which we have no access.31
Just like the story of Joan of Arc, often taken as the story of a heroic and
strong-faithed young woman, what I mentioned above about the woman posing
in the photographs might easily entice a sentimentalist view of the work. Not
only is such an appeal rigorously avoided, but I even speculate that the work
seems to skirt that temptation, in order to dismiss it more forcefully. As many
have argued, sentimentalism encourages forms of identification based on
emotional appropriation, absorption of otherness within the self, and vicarious
suffering. These three movements encourage neither reflection nor action
within the political present-with-past, but, on the contrary, its evasion.32
These three emotion-based entrapments hang together in the following
way. The first movement, or the trap that seduces viewers to that movement, is
the primary problem of sentimentality; of an identification that either appro-
priates someone else’s pain or exploits it to feel oneself feeling, in a time when
the overflow of visual representations of suffering tends to inure one to the
confrontation—and thus feel good about oneself. The joy is in the feeling itself;
in feeling that one has regained the capability of feeling. The emotional realm in
which such identification may occur most easily is that of suffering. The identi-
fying viewer may appropriate the suffering of others in a more bearable form
and feel good about it.
This entails the second trap, frequently discussed within trauma studies,
which involves the model of a cannibalizing form of identification. The
viewer identifying with other people’s (represented) suffering appropriates the
suffering, cancels out the difference between self and other, and in the process
makes cheap of the suffering. Vicarious suffering, thirdly, is obviously an
extremely lightened form, and if this lightening comes with the annulling of
difference, in the end the suffering all but disappears from sight, eaten up by the
commiserating viewer.
To remedy this triple danger, Dominick LaCapra proposes a response he calls
“empathic unsettlement.”33 Through this concept he attempts to articulate an
aesthetic based on both feeling for another and, as Jill Bennett phrases LaCapra’s
view, “becoming aware of a distinction between one’s own perceptions and
the experience of the other.”34 With all these qualifications in mind, I propose
to read the appearing and disappearing face of Torfs’s woman as an affection-
image that steers away from these traps. Gilles Deleuze seems to share this
reluctance to endorse the centrality of the face in the humanistic sense, the
sense that is seducing us to sentimental identification. Instead, as Mark Hansen
argues in a different but related context, the philosopher identifies the affection-
image—which, in order to avoid all conflation of Deleuzian affection with the
realm of the emotions, I will call from now on affect-image—that he spotted in
the close-ups of classical cinema not only with but as the face. Deleuze writes:
There is no close-up of the face. The close-up is the face, but the face precisely
in so far as it has destroyed its triple function [individuation, socialization,
communication]. . . . [T]he close-up turns the face into a phantom… The face
is the vampire.35
The view of the close-up image qua face, standing in as face instead of the
human face, becomes increasingly relevant as the installation continues and no
image other than this face is forthcoming. This unique face is a close-up of and
to the viewer that collapses subject and object.
For Hansen, this Deleuzian view leads affect away from the viewer’s body. In
contrast, in what Hansen calls “digital-facial-images” (DFI), the viewer’s body
is directly addressed and hence mobilized, not into action, but into affective
response. Regardless of the relevance of oppositional reasoning here, the
viewer’s body, although not forced into motion as in interactive video, is swept
into the motion that is observed and within which the two-screen installation
has positioned it.36
The face we see in each photograph is indeed a close-up. If the close-up is
the face, then the face is also the close-up. Hence, the slight distance built into
the dispositif (material and spatial) of the installation, by which the work avoids
locking the viewer up and denying the woman any space at all; it avoids both facile
conflation and an appeal to the sentimentality described above. It gives the face a
frame within which it can exercise its mobility and agency—here, its relation to
the light. That slight distance, then, provides the space for a freedom that can be
called “critical,” a freedom à la Spinoza.37 Such a freedom is “critical” because it
stimulates the imagination.38 Critical freedom is the practice of seeing the speci-
ficity of one’s own world as one among others. Intertemporally, this freedom sees
the present as fully engaged with a past that, insofar as it is part of the present,
we can rewrite a little more freely. For me, this is the key consequence of White’s
allegedly formalist approach to the writing of history, as well as of Torfs’s dispo-
sition of the face on the image. The white around the face, then, in addition to the
obvious homonymy with Hayden White’s name, is an active part of the image as
“writing in the middle voice”; it provides the playing ground for critical freedom.
It is equally crucial that the woman withholds her gaze; we cannot look her
in the eye. This, too, is a visual version of the middle voice. It is not imposing a
gaze into which, once locked, we cannot but let ourselves be seduced to identify.
Instead, it leaves us with the “burden of history”—to recycle the title of an essay
White wrote in 1966—which is, here, to decide what to believe of the signs we
see. For, just as White delivered us scholars in the arts from the indictment of
a-historicism, so Umberto Eco delivered us from the burden of submission to
what our eyes see. His statement “The sign is everything that can be used in
order to lie” is congenial to the title and thrust of Torfs’s artwork; linked to it, so
to speak, by a hyphen.39 Since her woman figure withholds her gaze, she cannot
tell us to believe her; neither is it possible to assign an intention to her facial
“expression” or even to the scarce tear.
This is yet another mode in which modesty is brought to the table. Symptoms
are involuntary signs, as distinct from signals, which are signs sent out
intentionally. Whether caused by profound grief, as in fiction, or by the cutting
of onions, as in Torfs’s studio, the crying subject—historical figure or model—
cannot call up tears at will. This questioning of intention as well as of expression
is yet another of the many levels at which this work glosses the way we tend to
think. For, as I have argued many times, most extensively in Travelling Concepts
in the Humanities,40 intentionalism, the interpretation of art through the artist’s
intention, is perhaps art’s worst mentir-faux. I see in the argument against
intentionalism in art interpretation the key to a kind of history that I have called
“preposterous” and that I see as the backdrop of White’s analysis of history.
When we are standing before a work of art and we admire it, are touched,
moved, or even terrified by it, when a work of art somehow seems to do
something to us, the question of artistic intention loses its obviousness, for
the artist is no longer there to direct our response. Something happens in the
present, whereas what the artist did happened in the past. That act, we may
suppose, was willful, intentional. What is not so clear is that between the event
in the present and the act in the past the same intentionality establishes a direct
link. While it would be futile to doubt that an artist wanted to make her work
of art and that she proceeded to do so on the basis of that intention, the control
over what happens between the work and its future viewers is not in her hands.
But that later event is still, logically, a consequence of that act—the doing of an
agency. Torfs was not there when I experienced her work. And even if she had
been, she would not have been able to control that experience. But what she, or
rather her work, could do was make that distinction clear. In this way, art, not
the artist, is the historian, of a history beyond the opposition to formalism.
Present–past. It is history’s mission to be attentive to change over time. It is
a cultural commonplace, in the present, that art has the remarkable capacity
to move us in the present. If this contention can be maintained, regardless of

the question of what non-artistic objects do to us, then the history of those
cultural activities we call in shorthand “art” has its task cut out from the start:
to understand the agency of artworks across time. This task is not predicated
upon a universalist conception of “beauty,” but on the simple fact that all works
of art, even those made today, require time and a change of situation to reach
their receivers and “do” things to them. Art “works” across time, if not across
eternity. But the artist is involved only part of the way. She disappears, gives her
work over to a public she will not know. What happens after the work has been
made is not determinable by artistic will.
And here photography’s truth returns through the back door. The medium’s
indexical relationship to reality matters less than its analogy—and “analogy”
is what Kaja Silverman theorizes as an ethical imperative.41 Far from being the
facile trope of mimeticism it has been thought to represent, analogy underlies
the ethical act of endorsing communality with others: to dare acknowledge
that I am like others, even like the most unlikely others, with whom I share, as
Silverman has it, “my flesh.” In historical moments when flesh is sold cheap and
people who are of the same flesh are burnt on the stake for giving the wrong
answers to the wrong questions, this ethical imperative is sorely needed. It
dictates that no one is alone, nor is anyone protected from sharing the flesh of
others.42
This insight also cancels the possibility of both artistic autonomy and scholarly
objectivity. The imagination that underlies both activities is larger than that of
any individual worker. Together with the work’s very formal perfection, analogy
interrogates the possibility of artistic control. A precious, fragile collaboration
must occur between the artist, the medium, and the woman we so easily refer
to with that impersonal, reifying word “model,” but to whom the photograph
invites an analogy to be activated. Precisely those few tears from which we must
remain at a modest distance (their appearance being so tenuously bound to the
will of either woman) pay homage to art’s refusal to give the artist full control.
And those tears—of Joan, who knows she is doomed, and of the woman in the
photograph whose task it is to make us believe in Joan—are also those of the
viewer, melancholically regretting the easy option of surrendering to belief.
And then, there are the words, those half-sentences with indirect questions
without answers. Rather than anything else, it is the words that come into this
work that do the lying the old texts call mentir-faux, as well as suspending it. As
I mentioned earlier, after some slides of the portraits a short series of text slides
presents fragments from the interrogation of Joan of Arc. These fragments are
all multiply indirect; syntactically, they are indirect questions, like “Interrogated
if she had seen or made any images…” No answers are included in the slides. In
the book that is part of the work the artist explains the historical indirectness of
these testimonies. They are severely belated, since they were written down from
memory decades after the trial took place. As a gloss, or parody of the use of
historical sources, these indirect questions do their “lying” up-front.
The indirect half-questions and the absence of answers make the discourse
a hovering, anonymous threat. The selection of the indirect questions overde-
termines the violence done to the young woman. Since she cannot answer, it
is obvious that she does not stand a chance. It is clear, then, that control is as
impossible as unambiguous truth. All dualities are thus resolved in a time-based
oscillation instead of a merging. As a result, rather than unifying in a false
harmony at the cost of complexity, this work retains all tensions as precious,
but, along with the answers to Joan’s interrogators, refuses the structure of
opposition. What remains, instead, is an infinitely rich fabric of possibilities.
The middle voice is nested in this fabric; it is there that experiencing-with
becomes possible, without encouraging the forms of identification I have above
imputed to sentimentality and its traps.
Du mentir-faux and Metahistory as theoretical objects
I allege Torfs’s work here to be making a theoretical argument, just as I allege

Metahistory to be making a point about art. This argument concerns history in
its relation to the present; it is a meta-historical argument. I do not consider Du
mentir-faux simply a “case” of what I seek to argue, nor do I set up Metahistory
as a work of art. Instead of the term “case,” which has been overly inflected by
exemplarity and comprehensiveness and which has also, paradoxically, been
marred by generalization, I am more inclined to use the alternative, equally overex-
tended but more specific term “theoretical object.” As Hubert Damisch, the creator
of that term, explains it in an interview with Yve-Alain Bois, a theoretical object
obliges you to do theory but also furnishes you with the means of doing it.
Thus, if you agree to accept it on theoretical terms, it will produce effects
around itself… [and it] forces us to ask ourselves what theory is. It is posed in
theoretical terms; it produces theory; and it necessitates a reflection on theory.43
What I find appealing in this description is the share of activity assigned to

the viewer, who is also, then, a theorist. In the dynamic between the work as
object, its viewers, and the time in which these come together, accompanied
by the off-white space that surrounds both, a compelling thought process
emerges. This process concerns primarily, I have argued, the suspension or
even annihilation of binary opposition. This cancellation of opposition leaves
the relationship between the two sides of each pair unspecified. It is the need to
consider the nature of such a relationship further that constitutes the theoretical
activity Damisch describes.44
Since I propose to establish a partnership here between White’s academic
work and Torfs’s artwork, the term “theoretical object” suits my approach better
than the simpler one of “case.” The theoretical activity is the work viewers and
readers do, in an ongoing performativity. This performativity is significant for
work that is still—mute and unmoving—photography. Thanks to its performa-
tivity, it cannot stand still; it is also, and will always be, “becoming.” By that
Deleuzian term I mean something quite specific. The becoming of an artwork
implies a retrospective temporal logic according to which each new moment
of viewing recasts the terms in which the previous encounter with the work
could be understood. Each new phase of that becoming is informed by a later
work that retrospectively glosses an earlier work. Each work puts a spin on the
ensemble of what came before it. It is this retrospective impact that is the point
of my discussion.
These aspects, moves, or strategies through which I juxtapose and intertwine
Metahistory and Du mentir-faux form a kind of rhizome, parts of which pop
up above ground while others stay underground, yet continue to grow and
work.45 Here, I will limit the root system of that rhizome to the one feature
through which these two works are primarily connected: their vision of the past.
For White, this is his primary concern. Early on in Metahistory, when White
interrogates the diachronic process characteristic of a history conceived as an
account of change over time, his formulation demonstrates the entanglement of
history and the present, as when he writes:
When a given set of events has been motifically encoded, the reader has been
provided with a story; the chronicle of events has been transformed into a
completed diachronic process, about which one can then ask questions as if he
were dealing with a synchronic structure of relationships.46
The illusion, created by the complete series of events “motifically” encoded—in

other words, given meaning according to some semantic unification—appears
as an account of a diachronic process (change over time), but for the reader or
viewer of such an account, the questions that emerge are relational as well as
synchronic. This comes very close to an illusion of presentness, salvaged from

naïve presentism only by the relationality in which the reader is caught.
To measure the difference between White’s view and a more common
presentist denial of historical change, let us compare this statement with the
principle underlying Omar Calabrese’s study of contemporary baroque art
entitled Neo-Baroque: A Sign of the Times (1992). Calabrese analyzes what he
calls “neo-baroque artefacts” as texts with specific underlying morphologies,
which he then distinguishes from the value judgments attached to them. This
seems close enough to White’s procedure. Both the morphologies and the
value judgments are subsequently examined for their duration and dynamics,
in order to define a “taste” or “style” as the tendency to attach value to certain
morphologies and their dynamics.47 Within this logic, he then treats specific
Baroque motifs: “But the knot and the labyrinth are destined to emerge from
a specific historical period, because they can be interpreted as signs of a more
universal, metahistorical baroque.”48 Although Calabrese’s book aims to describe
a Baroque of the late twentieth century—hence, a historically specific return
of forms, motifs, and structures of thought that emerged in another historical
period—his postmodern times, as opposed to the “other” Baroque, are simply
universal. This casual slippage indicates a common illusion that I have elsewhere
termed “paronthocentrism”: a “natural” centering on the present as the outcome
of a development.49
This illusion is so common, especially in practices of interpretation, that
one hardly notices it. Yet, with this assumption one deprives the present of its
position in history and the interpreter of contemporary culture of a measure
by which to gauge meaning. This is why I consider White’s recourse to
synchronicity, as well as my own work on visual art, as anchored in the present,
as more, rather than less historically responsible than many a historical study.
Calabrese’s slippage may seem innocuous enough. I contend, however, that by
endorsing the present as a historical moment in the act of interpretation itself,
one can make much more of the object under scrutiny. One can learn from it,
enable it to speak and to speak back, making it a full interlocutor in debates
about knowledge, meaning, aesthetics, and their importance in today’s world.
This is what I see White as using his foursomes for—not to universalize them,
but to mobilize them for a comparative analysis that, even if it is not itself
historicized, does not resist a historicizing analysis.50
Interestingly, Calabrese uses the prefix “meta-” to express his a-historical
universalism. Metahistorical, as he uses it, means encompassing, transhis-
torical, universal, as opposed to the historical other, in his case the Baroque of
the seventeenth century. That is not what “meta-” means to me, or, I think, to
most scholars of historical objects. If anything, “meta-” means “about,” as in
“critical examination of.” Metahistorical, therefore, would be the perfect term
for a critical examination of what historicity means—and can mean—both for a
reappraisal, say, of the “old” Baroque and for a critical examination of our own
position in reconstructing it. Something similar can be said of Du mentir-faux.
The indirect questions have a function comparable to White’s categories. They
are artificially streamlined, given the same form, so that they can be meaning-
fully compared, both to one another and to any other document of juridical
proceedings. A universal present, in contrast, is literally “the end of history.”
Mutidirectional history
The difficulty of a historical approach to the present is, precisely, the absence of
tools for “emplotment,” White’s term for the establishment or construction of an
understandable coherence, as opposed to one that is “found.” In this sense, the
present is structurally analogous to trauma: the incapacity to interpret or, indeed,
experience what does not fit in any known framework.51 And this incapacity to deal
with the present outside of established frameworks can either lead to the kind of
universalizing paronthocentrism I see Calabrese as unwittingly espousing or to an
impulse to radical innovation. If White’s book, in spite of the well-known categories
it deploys, has had such innovative impact, it may well be because of the unusual
framework he proposed for history. Conversely, Torfs, as an artist, experiments
with, and probes, not the present that is her starting point, but the past to which she
knows from the start she cannot have access. Yet, she will not give up on this past,
since history, as all good artists know, is where art and its subjects must be inscribed.
The concept of preposterous history I have developed acknowledges the
impact the present has on the past. White’s term “historical imagination”
also captures this and, in my view, better than Frank Ankersmit’s “historical
experience.”52 The difference is the status of experience, which in common
parlance suggests a kind of authority of knowing. The experiencing subject
“knows better” “what it feels like” to be in the experienced situation; one can
thus be considered an “experience expert.” Historical thinking and represen-
tation are better off staying aloof of such authority. The point is not that anyone
knows better, but that anyone, given a sufficiently serious commitment to the
historical object, is able to contribute from her own present the specific, always
subjective but potentially intersubjective view that is the imagination.
Such imagination, then, is not simply preposterous, putting what came

later before what came first, as the term indicates. Instead, I borrow a term
from Multidirectional Memory (2009), an important recent study by Michael
Rothberg that opens a different line of historical thinking and imagining,
moving sideways, so to speak. His interest is in overcoming “memory envy,”
or competitive memory, which sees descendants of slaves and of Holocaust
survivors compete about the “uniqueness” of the horrors they or their forebears
have endured. This horror envy is a caricature of memory; a trap easily fallen
into if we continue to consider memory a subjective, individual event.
But if we acknowledge that memory, like history, partakes, too, of the imagi-
nation, not to discount its truth value but to extend its relevance, then such
competition can be transformed, Rothberg argues, to encompass a solidarity
with others who suffered horror, a horror so stark that the very experience of it
becomes impossible, let alone the telling of the tale. In the face of such horrors,
solidarity is not dispensable and competition ruinous. The imagination—
historical, multidirectional, and collective—seems the best remedy yet for the
utter loneliness that results from the denial of the equally horrific suffering
of others. That single tear on the face of the woman in Du mentir-faux is the
symptom of the threat of such loneliness. The viewer who sees it, in that brief
moment between appearance and disappearance, is assigned the task, with the
help of the historical imagination, to let herself be contaminated by that bit of
sticky liquid.
4
Hayden White’s Hope, or the Politics

of Prefiguration
Karyn Ball
Since “The Burden of History” was first published in 1966, Hayden White
has been accused of many crimes. In the eyes of mediocre moralists, he is the
unrepentant relativist whose linguistically turned emphasis on the poetics
of historiography has opened the door to Holocaust deniers. To the stalwart
defenders of objectivity, he is the saw-toothed murderer of historical truth,
vampirically gorging on facticity’s innocent blood. To the post-anti-founda-
tionalists, he is a nihilist trapped in the ironist’s cage, or a “secular creationist”
who endows historians with an unlimited power to construct meaning.1 For
his fans, he remains the revolutionary scourge of naïve positivists, calling them
to account not only for the self-proclaimed transparency of their scientific
methods, but also for the gratuitousness of their unacknowledged desires.
Indeed, as Dirk Moses aptly observes: “The picture we have of White is
curiously bifurcated: on the one hand, the wayward historian under Nietzsche’s
spell with the consequent dubious politics and seeming inability to safeguard
the historical integrity of the Holocaust’s facticity; on the other, the lopsided
formalist whose analyses of historical rhetoric appear as intellectually sterile as
they are politically impotent.”2 A recent collection entitled Re-Figuring Hayden
White (2009) counters a narrow-minded polarization of White’s critical incli-
nations with fresh perspectives on the wily metahistorian’s adventures in the
course of a nearly sixty-year career. F. R. Ankersmit designates his long-time
interlocutor an “aestheticist” with a neo-Kantian slant. In Ankersmit’s inter-
pretation, White’s tropology resembles Kant’s categories of the understanding,
as Hans Kellner had previously argued,3 by virtue of its success “in reconciling
the claims of empiricism with those of transcendental historical reason.”4
Ankersmit nevertheless regrets that White’s “transcendentalist narrativism”
does not translate into “real political conviction,”5 a failure he attributes to

White’s “peculiar” investment in the Sartrean idea of mauvaise foi (bad faith),
“that is to say, in the existentialist thesis that the claims of freedom and of ethical
obligation are boundless and may never be curtailed by an appeal to how we—
or others—are determined by the past.”6
While I disagree with his conclusions, it would be unfair to reduce
Ankersmit’s decades-long dialogue with White to this short essay. Instead of
engaging with Ankersmit systematically, I will take his argument about White’s
neo-Kantianism as the departure point for an alternative map of White’s
“transcendental narrativism” and the politics it could be said to generate. To
read White with a Lacanian ear is to hear him urging historians to avow, once
and for all, the risks of interpretation by (finally) taking responsibility for their
preconscious political, moral, and creative desires.7 My exploration of White’s
standpoint on narrativity stresses his insistent attention to the (habitually
disavowed) role of prefiguration in historiography. His conception of this role is
political, I will argue, because it is intended to revive a utopian interest in social
transformation that historians dispensed with, according to White, when they
sought to establish history as a “science” rather than an “art.” White’s conception
of prefiguration is critically “aestheticist,” because it subverts the distinction
between imagination and understanding in historical symbolization. My aim
in revisiting Kant is to reconcile the quasi-transcendental character of White’s
conception of prefiguration with his commitment to recapturing the potential
for visionary politics forsaken by a disenchanted historical profession.
White’s “transcendentalism”
Ankersmit’s discussion of White’s neo-Kantianism leans on Kellner’s 1992 essay,

“Hayden White and the Kantian Discourse: Tropology, Narrative, and Freedom,”
where Kellner briefly highlights “Kant’s distinction between a noumenal world
of the ‘real per se’ and the phenomenal world which we can know in our human
way.” According to Kellner “White’s analysis of discourse, particularly its
tropological dimension, suggests that this human way of knowing is precisely
figurative.”8 Henry E. Allison notes that Kant’s noumena is a “nonsensible
object,” which underscores its “transcendental” as opposed to its “empirical”
reality.9 Though Kellner prefers to dwell on White’s debt to Kant’s “reflections on
history, rather than any of the three prior Critiques,”10 Kellner’s allusion to the
noumenal status of “the real per se” borrows Kant’s transcendental focus from
Hayden White’s Hope, or the Politics of Prefiguration 91
the first Critique to draw our attention to the a priori status of White’s tropo-
logical “blueprints” that underwrite historical apprehension and reasoning.
To shed light on the transcendental and political lineaments of prefiguration,
I would like to revisit the question of White’s neo-Kantianism by reviewing
Kant’s distinction between the transcendental and the transcendent in this
section, before turning to his opposition between determinative and reflective
judgment in the next. Very briefly, the term transcendental in The Critique of
Pure Reason identifies the mode of cognition “that is occupied not so much with
objects but rather with our a priori concepts of objects in general.”11 Conversely,
the term transcendence holds out the prospect of thinking beyond experience,
which is conditioned by a priori principles. In effect, Kant’s definition of
transcendental in the first Critique translates into a theoretical focus on the a
priori conditions of possible modes of cognition, or, to update his terms, on the
preconscious forms and parameters involved in the configuration of knowledge.
Kant’s transcendental focus propels him to emphasize the necessity of
distinguishing immanent “principles whose application stays wholly and
completely within the limits of possible experience” from transcendent principles
“that fly beyond these boundaries.”12 By insisting that the “transcendental and
transcendent are not the same,” Kant does not merely draw the “boundaries of
the territory in which alone the pure understanding is allowed its play”; he also
emphasizes the extraordinary power of transcendent principles “that actually
incite us to tear down all those boundary posts [Grenzphähle] and to lay claim to
[anzumaßen] a wholly new territory [einen ganz neuen Boden] that recognizes
no demarcations anywhere.”13
In confining the work of pure understanding to an empirical application, Kant
simultaneously upholds the agency of transcendent principles that “take away”
this limit and thus transcend experience. The need to preserve this opposition
spurs Kant’s worry that judgment might fail to heed the difference between
“immanent” and “transcendent” principles, so defined, and thereby succumb
to the humiliating naivety (or arrogance) of the “transcendental illusion.”
Under the sway of this illusion, judgment defies “all the warnings of criticism”
in transporting “us away beyond the empirical use of the categories” and then
seducing us with the “semblance” of an extension of pure understanding.14 The
problem Kant anticipates here is that “pure understanding” might perpetuate
the transcendental illusion rather than dispel it. An inescapable lesson from
the first Critique is that embarrassing uncertainties result when the faculty of
understanding oversteps its own boundaries. A vigilant and humble recognition
of these boundaries is the departure point for any endeavor to move between
what we understand and what we desire to know (a desire directed from the
present into the future). Most importantly, perhaps, respect for the empirical
limits of the understanding serves to protect the freedom of those arenas
wherein transcendent principles may suitably come into play.15
In light of Kant’s resolute attention to the forms, boundaries, and pitfalls
of the understanding, it is easy to see why critics (such as Kellner) have been
tempted to compare White’s introduction to tropology in Metahistory with the
Prussian philosopher’s topography of the conditions and limits of cognition and
judgment. Drawing principally from Giambattista Vico’s The New Science and
Northrop Frye’s Anatomy of Criticism, White identifies the “representational,”
“reductionist,” “integrative,” and “negational” operations of metaphor,
metonymy, synecdoche, and irony respectively, along with their corresponding
romantic, tragic, comic, and satirical emplotments, as fundamental schemata
that determine possible “styles” of relating various elements in historical
discourse. In short, Metahistory translates the four tropes into “categories for
analyzing different modes of thought, representation, and explanation,” while
also presenting them as “a basis for classifying the deep structural forms of the
historical imagination in a given period of its evolution.”16
White’s reference to the precritical “structural forms of the historical
imagination” resonates with the ideality of the a priori principles that, in
Kant’s transcendental idealist framework, fundamentally condition experience
and cognition. In keeping with the “transcendental level, which is the level of
philosophical reflection upon experience,” as Allison elucidates it, the term
ideality “is used to characterize the universal, necessary, and, therefore, a priori
conditions of human knowledge.” When Kant in the Transcendental Aesthetic
“affirms the transcendental ideality of space and time on the grounds that they
function as a priori conditions of human sensibility,” he is asserting their status
as “subjective conditions in terms of which alone the human mind is capable
of receiving the data for thought or experience.”17 J. M. Bernstein agrees with
Allison that Kant’s “transcendental idealism is not equivalent to any form of
phenomenalism,” or, for that matter, to a recapitulation of Berkeley’s idealism,
as standard condemnations of Kant’s project presume. As Bernstein notes,
“[o]bjects of experience are not synthetic productions constructed out of
sense data. Rather, categories are best conceived of as characterizing ‘the way
we connect perceptions in thought… if we are to experience through them’
objectively obtaining states of affairs.”18
From a rhetorical standpoint, Kant’s faculties, categories, and concepts
function poetically as modes of transfer between empirical and non-empirical
principles and domains. His breakdown in the first Critique of intuition and
concepts as the requisite components of cognition suggests that any attempt
to perform knowledge about historical events will correlate these elements,
and, should one or the other be lacking, then it will have to be discovered or
invented. Robert Doran identifies a parallel between Kant’s claim that intuition
and concepts constitute the foundation of knowledge and White’s contention
that the “tropes are the building blocks of all formed thought (discursivity).”
For this reason, Doran stipulates, they “cannot correspond to reality the
way that literal language is thought to refer to the world—that is, in a direct
unmediated way.” Instead, the “[t]ropes produce or ‘make’ historical reality
because they prefigure (condition) the semantic field in which they are inevi-
tably fulfilled (made manifest).”19 According to Doran, then, “White’s procedure
[in Metahistory] is analogous to that of Kant’s in The Critique of Pure Reason”
in “[sketching] out the conditions of possibility of historical writing, which,
[White] contends, are tropological in nature, in order to assess the unity of what
we call ‘historical knowledge.’”20
Yet while the Kantian categories of the understanding are necessary for
knowledge, Ankersmit notes that “the tropes, and the modes of emplotment,
argument, and ideological implication ‘consonant’ with them are all optional,” or
at least they appear to be.21 According to Ankersmit, “the Whitean counterpart
to Kant’s transcendental aesthetics and transcendental analytics is to be found
in his theory of the ‘prefiguration’ of the historical field, preceding all that the
historian might wish to say about the past.”22 White’s tropological theory of
prefiguration tells us how “a historian determines […] what kind of events
make up the past and what is the nature of the relationship between them.”23
In declaring White a transcendental narrativist, Ankersmit spotlights White’s
assumption that “prefiguration is no longer optional: it can truly be said to be the
transcendental condition of the possibility of historical knowing.”24
Ankersmit acknowledges the limits of grafting tropology onto Kant’s
transcendental categories, preferring instead to dwell on White’s theory of
prefiguration. This theory metahistoricizes Erich Auerbach’s analysis of a
tendency in biblical exegesis to construct the Old Testament as a “type” that
only achieves its full meaning in its “antitype,” the New Testament.25 In effect,
this tendency positions the Old Testament as a prefiguration of events that are
inevitably “fulfilled” in the New Testament, a logic of “figural causation” that
entrenches the privilege of a (progressive) Christian present (and future) with
respect to its (outmoded) Jewish past. As Doran explains, “[t]he theological
understanding of figuralism held the relation between type and antitype to
be intrinsic and causal; that is, willed by God, providential.”26 White gener-
alizes Auerbach’s figuralism into a tropology that permits us to decode logics
of progressive fulfillment (or unfulfillment) in historical writing. Hence, even
though history is “literally chronological,” it is, in Doran’s rephrasing of White,
“figurally anachronistic,” since it is inspired by “the will to see a later event as
if it were intrinsically related to an earlier event, in the absence of any efficient-
causal connection.” Prefiguration, in this function, is nothing more nor less than
an inventive process with metaleptic and proleptic effects; by elevating a past
to the status of an origin or a model, individuals and groups bestow “meaning
retrospectively” and thereby “choose a present.”27
As Ankersmit describes it, White’s prefiguratively empowered tropological grid
“transforms the chaos—‘the manifold,’ as Kant would put it—of the past into a
reality that can be mapped, investigated, and discussed.” The salient point is that
even though prefiguration conditions the writing of history, it “does not determine
what the historian will actually say about the past…”28 Echoing Kellner, Ankersmit
represents White’s conception of historical writing as oscillating back and forth
“between the tropological constitution of historical reality and what is explicitly
said about the past in the historian’s text. In both the ‘surface’ of the historical text
and its prefigurative ‘depth,’ the nature of historical reality is at stake.”29
Ankersmit’s double reference to “historical reality” in the space of two
sentences divides this concept into different registers that merit a close reading.
In an initial register, a tropologically formed “historical reality” is grammatically
distinct from “what is said about the past in the historian’s text.” This passive
construction implies that a historian’s statements take place in an anonymous
zone without belonging to or emanating from a particular speaker, as if the
author of a historical narrative is merely the vehicle of an intersubjective repre-
sentation without any special agency to bring to bear on it. In another register,
the historiographical text, which is comprised of a historian’s statements, itself
splits into a textual-manifest surface and a prefigurative-latent depth. This split
codes prefiguration as the “repressed” content of both historical consciousness
and its textual configuration. In contending that “the nature of historical reality
is at stake” in this manifest-latent split, Ankersmit ambivalently confirms
White’s radical premise that there is no “reality” with a “nature” for the historian
(or anyone) that somehow exists “out there,” anterior to its formalization in a
discourse; however, a tension nevertheless emerges between the position of the
historian-as-vehicle and a subjectivity empowered to construct history itself.
White consistently argues that the historian’s research and writing do not
recreate a preexisting reality; he or she uses empirical or textual research as a
partial basis for imaginatively conjuring a referent that is subsequently accorded

or denied the authority of a proper representation by other expert members
of a professional (disciplinary) community. White’s emphasis on figuration
promotes his fundamental recognition that there is no “content” for us without
the constitutive function of “form,” just as, for Kant, there is no possible
knowledge without the categories of the understanding.
In addition, Ankersmit’s remarks about prefiguration reiterate a key motif of
White’s “existentialist” ethics.30 Ankersmit reminds us that White is not positing
the transcendental-narrative “consciousness” of history in order to confine it to
a narrow grid or to castigate the historian for failing to think “outside the box”
of familiar plot lines. Instead, an awareness of written history’s tropological
constitution—its ineluctable performativity—should inspire the historian not
only to renounce the earnest Rankean presumption that his or her sober task
is (or should be) to mirror the past “as it really was,” but also to move beyond
the conservative dictates of merely logical coherence and diplomatic restraint.
In calling upon historians to transcend their “good behavior”—their dignified
staging of scientific authority—he is daring them to explore their artistic
freedom to make history.31 White the neo-Kantian aestheticist thereby morphs
into White the anti-puritanical liberator, who explodes the prison-house of
professionally neutered language to reveal a Barthesian playground where the
transformative potential of textual pleasure is the non-purposive purpose of the
game.
I would like to proffer a few suggestions about how Kant’s distinction
between immanent and transcendent sheds light on White’s “transcendental
narrativism” as an “aestheticist” approach to the critique of historiography.
From White’s rhetorical standpoint, a historian falls prey to a historiographical
version of the “transcendental illusion” when he or she mistakenly views profes-
sional standards and stylistic conventions as “immanent” to the field of data
that he or she configures. As they pursue doctoral degrees, disciples of profes-
sional history learn to fulfill the protocols governing a rigorous application of
the rules of evidence. These protocols establish ground rules for both inductive
and deductive modes of inquiry; such rules are trans-empirical to the extent
that their consistent application decides the formal parameters of every inves-
tigation. When historians confound trans-empirical disciplinary standards
with the “immanent” demands of an empirical field, they indulge in the
onto-aesthetic fantasy of mimetic adequation. This is a fantasy that forgets the
ideality of the precognitive forms, images, and moral concepts that a historian
passively absorbs from everyday sociocultural interactions (including his or
her upbringing and institutional training) and that he or she reinscribes while
assembling the results of a comparative analysis of different sources.
Roland Barthes’s analysis of realist discourse illustrates how it summons
the force of a referential illusion—a feeling of genuine intimacy between
“reality” and its symbolization.32 What I am calling a mimetic fantasy involves
a similar aesthetics of misrecognition, because the historian caught in its
web does not register the precritical confluence of the various behavioral and
aesthetic protocols that elicit the feeling of disciplined thought when fulfilled.33
This fantasy also elides a historian’s identification with past and present
mentors—as well as favored paradigms—as he or she seeks to “do justice” to
an intersubjectively constructed image of an event. In addition, if the faculty
of understanding requires unity according to Kant (and a certain Hegel), the
synthetic interest motivating the recourse to a narrative to bridge disparate
pieces of evidence subliminally establishes the conjunctive possibilities for an
imaginative staging of an historical situation. White’s account of prefiguration
thus blurs the opposition between imagination and understanding in historical
writing by revealing the subterranean poetics historians employ in seeking to
bring about a sense of verisimilitude and coherence.
Yet if White is a “transcendental narrativist,” in Ankersmit’s assessment,
he is not, by any stretch, a transcendental idealist. Rather, he extends the
lessons of the Critical Philosophy to historians who seem reluctant to admit
that a presentation of evidence in writing does not transparently reflect an
unmediated perceptual manifold—a “raw” field of data. White’s rhetorical
approach highlights the malleability of a historical referent that coalesces in the
interplay between passively intuited details and a historian’s training-guided
contact with them.
To identify what is involved in this interplay, it is useful to note that the
translation of Anschauung as intuition does not convey its complexity for Kant.
Allen Wood explains that “[t]he German word Anschauung simply means
‘looking at,’ and the Latin word intuitus (which Kant regarded as its equivalent)
was the traditional term used in scholastic epistemology for any immediate
cognitive contact with individual objects.”34 Kant’s usage of the term intuition is
ambiguous, according to Wood, since “it can refer to the state of being in such
contact, or to the thing with which we are in contact regarded simply as an
object of intuition, or to the mental state (or representation) afforded us when
we intuit an object.”35 Both instances associate intuition with the “receptivity
of the mind that enables an individual object to be given to cognition,” or
sensibility, so defined. When viewed as the material of the senses, or the
imagination, intuition’s passivity contrasts with the roles of understanding and

reason in thinking (or conception), which is Kant’s term for “the active function
of mind enabling representations to be combined.”36 “In Kantian parlance,”
Wood writes, “it is intuition that represents the immediate, individual contact
between knower and object that makes perspectivity possible, while thinking is
what makes possible the concepts that afford to the occupant of any possible
perspective the opportunity of making judgments that are true, and hence valid
equally for all perspectives.”37
Wood’s introduction gives us a legible coda for parsing Kant’s contrast
between “passive” intuition and “active” conception that helps to illuminate a
metahistorical relationship between prefiguration and configuration in historical
writing. White’s attention to the role of narrativity in historical writing stresses
that while the poetic and imaginative work of configuration is necessary, its
specific process and effect are not. To the extent that history is written as
a procession of images, it draws on contextually animated “repertoires” of
people, place, and event-impressions; morally saturated idioms and formulas
(plots and character types) that derive from heterogeneous sources, including
family memories, history books, visual media, and even fairy tales.38 Abiding
by the rules of evidence on a conscious level entails “checking” this stealthily
shifting repertoire against the dynamic nexus of documentary evidence that
the historian holds in abeyance until he or she pins down its arrangement.
While professional researchers might strive to rein in the preconscious levels
of symbolizing past actors and motivations in favor of a logical, comparative
assessment of testimonial and documentary evidence, the question nevertheless
remains open, as White’s emphasis on prefiguration insists, as to where passive
intuition in Kant’s sense ends and the swirl of details actively posited as
historical data or knowledge begins.
White’s account of prefiguration accommodates the speculation that not all
aspects of historical description and explanation are conscious or “active” and
that tropological grids operate like transcendental principles in precognitively
shaping the historian’s narratives. If we understand intuition as passive, then
its operation resembles the work of unconscious and preconscious associative
networks that guide a historian’s imagination in the subsumptive-deductive
manner of a covert determinative judgment that induces particulars to answer
to a general claim.39
In Gabrielle Spiegel’s contribution to this volume, she questions the firmness
of the distinction between White’s conception of prefiguration, which stresses
the agency of troping in shaping a historian’s “perception and modes of
narration,” on the one hand, and the logic of prefiguration-fulfillment that

structures Auerbach’s figuralism, on the other. My response to this question is
to differentiate the “tropological unconscious” outlined above as sociographic,
to distinguish it from the phylogenetic elements in Freud’s account: White’s
“tropological unconscious” comprises the subliminal inscription of social values
and behavioral norms imbedded in logical conventions, narrative types, and
linguistic idioms. While Freud will fatefully insist that ontogenesis recapitulates
the intertwined trajectories of organic and cultural development, White’s
existentially slanted figuralism prods historians to choose their sociomoral and
typological inheritances strategically, if not artistically, instead of permitting
them tacitly to overdetermine the parameters of engaging with the past.40 Yet I
hesitate to reduce White’s politics to a model of progressive enlightenment, which
demands that historians become conscious of the preconscious determinants of
their evidence constellations.41 I also hear White renewing the psychoanalytic
premise that the stubborn nets of repression and censorship perversely inspire a
potentially creative urge to transgress them. In this respect, White’s delineation
of prefiguration retains the potential for transcendence, for even if subjects
cannot go “outside” the intersubjective matrices of history and language, the
prospect of an intrasubjective transcendence abides in the idiosyncratic or
experimental admixtures between individual memory, fantasy, and image
repertoires that mediate and are mediated by present concerns.42
On the path toward defining the relationship between prefiguration and
configuration, I am arguing that intersecting cultural and individual image
repertoires also supply the forms of intuition that contour a historian’s responses
to evidence about the past. In foregrounding certain elements in the repertoire
while relegating others to the shadows, present concerns provisionally and
ineffably shape the historical referent as historians and their readers come to
“know” it. To urge historians to divest the mimetic illusion is to call upon them
to acknowledge the inevitability of prefiguration as a professional blind spot
and to affirm their creative agency as writers with the capacity to shape the
self-understanding of communities.43 History produced within the swell of this
agency bears witness to a tumultuous past over and against a submissive respect
for coherence that ferments into complacency about the inherent rationality of
the current order.
White’s sublime (or beautiful) utopianism
Kant’s definition of the transcendental illusion quintessentially follows through

on one of the principal aims of the first Critique: to delimit reason “as the
faculty that provides the principles of cognition a priori,”44 while legislating
what the different faculties can and cannot (or should not) do. To the extent that
Kant draws a map for navigating an edifice of his own making, the distinction
between transcendental and transcendent bears a synecdochic relationship
to the project of the Critical Philosophy: it emblematically captures the core
values and strategies of a style of philosophy inaugurated by Kant, while serving
poetically to integrate the first Critique.
Ankersmit’s sketch of White’s “neo-Kantian aestheticism” does not delve
into the transcendental-transcendent distinction, which has permitted me to
elaborate on the critical implications of a “passive” intuition for a theory of
prefiguration. Instead, Ankersmit touches on another famous opposition, that
between determinative and reflective judgment from the third Critique. In the
section entitled “On the power of judgment as an a priori legislative faculty,”
from the “Introduction,” Kant defines judgment “in general” as “the faculty for
thinking the particular as contained under the universal.” Judgment becomes
determining [bestimmend] if “the universal (the rule, the principle, the law) is
given” that “subsumes the particular under it.” If, however, “only the particular
is given, for which the universal must be found,” Kant states, “then the power of
judgment is merely reflecting [bloß reflektierend].”45
Ankersmit rightly emphasizes White’s commitment to the indeterminacy
of reflective judgment, which places White’s theoretical interventions at the
forefront of a post-metaphysical turn in the 1970s and 1980s. Already in 1966,
White sponsored a non-teleological reflective attitude that remains dynamically
open to the new. This irreverent, Nietzschean attitude resists a conservative
abuse of history that inculcates a sense of indebtedness to a stillborn past as a
bulwark against a frenetic present.
Given the poststructuralist intellectual legacy that White crucially helped to
define, it is not surprising that Ankersmit links White with the open-endedness
of reflective judgment. Ankersmit initially forges this link by citing a consonance
between Kellner’s characterization of White’s “shuttle diplomacy”46 and Kant’s
analysis of the beautiful. “In both cases,” Ankersmit explains, we encounter “the
process of a continuous ‘shuttling back and forth,’ to use Kellner’s terminology,
between what is given to us and our effort to make sense of it.” As Ankersmit
contends, “[i]n the case of Kant’s analysis of the beautiful, this aim will never
[be] realized, because in the Kantian reflective judgment there is no pre-given
concept in terms of which the realization of the aim could be established.”47
Ankersmit’s move to align White with the aesthetic ideology of the beautiful
is puzzling, when we take into account White’s explicit endeavors to distance
himself from its dangers. Indeed, as Ankersmit knows very well, in “The
Politics of Historical Interpretation: Discipline and De-Sublimation” (originally
published in Critical Inquiry in 1982), White traces the history of a preference
for the beautiful over the sublime beginning in eighteenth-century aesthetics
as the symptom of a conservative expropriation of utopian politics. History
follows suit insofar as its emergence as an autonomous discipline depends on
its demonstration that it could serve the law-preserving interests of the State. To
restore a taste for visionary politics, White famously aligns his view of history
with the aesthetics of the sublime.
To grasp the historicity and connotations of White’s intervention here, it
will be useful to situate it at a particular turning point in intellectual history,
when the anti-foundationalist theories generated by the linguistic turn in
France were reaching the apex of their influence in literary studies. The Hayden
White who published “The Politics of Historical Interpretation” in 1982, two
years before Jean-François Lyotard’s The Postmodern Condition appeared in
English, seemingly anticipated the North American appreciation of Lyotard’s
anti-instrumentalist politics of the sublime. More explicitly than any other of
the so-called “postmodernists” heavily influenced by Nietzsche’s rejection of
false continuities and circular moralities, Lyotard would take to heart Kant’s
rendering of aesthetic judgment as a mode of non-nomological and non-teleo-
logical reflection, as contrasted with Hegelian logic and its alleged unification
of particulars, the totalitarian ideologies of the twentieth century, and the
extensive impact of capitalist rationalization. The Postmodern Condition revises
Martin Heidegger’s and Theodor Adorno’s respective critiques (after Georg
Lukács) of the compartmentalization of knowledge in an alienating modernity.
In “The Age of the World Picture,” Heidegger expresses anxiety that the increas-
ingly hegemonic status of the mathematically based sciences will deform the
temporally open inquiry pursued in the humanities. Lyotard’s promotion of the
sublime responds to Heidegger’s concern about the modern subject’s failure to
consider the dangers of its own “unthought” as the shadow cast by a solipsistic
world picture.48 The French philosopher’s turn toward the sublime also furthers
the Frankfurt School’s repudiation of an instrumental reason that holds thinking
hostage to the capitalist criteria of efficiency, productivity, and calculability.
In response to an increasingly profit-oriented circumscription of knowledge

promulgated in late capitalist societies, The Postmodern Condition notoriously
celebrates the radical potential of a postmodernist politics of the sublime, which
would honor the suppressed histories that defy coherent teleologies. In the
aesthetic of the sublime, Kant ascribes an initial feeling of displeasure to the
imagination’s inability to comprehend a sensory manifold in a single intuition;
however, reason’s power to think imagination’s failure supersedes its negativity.
Following Adorno, Lyotard would have us abide in the displeasure of this
failure without reason’s recuperation. His politicized revision of the Kantian
sublime upholds its dynamic affectivity as a contravention against (integrative)
rationalization and (reductive) thematization; it also instructs us to respect
the overwhelming effect of a cataclysmic event that transforms our historical
perspective: we might apprehend its impact, but we cannot comprehend it as a
unified image. 49
In “The Politics of Historical Interpretation,” White joins with Lyotard in
favoring the potential open-endedness of the sublime as the effect of a nontotal-
izable encounter with the chaos, terror, and meaninglessness of history and as
a counterpoint to positivist-capitalist epistemological hierarchies that preempt
the prospect of their own transcendence. As the full title of the “Politics” essay
suggests, the discipline of history, in White’s account, achieves its autonomy
through a progressive “desublimation”—by embracing a realist poetics that
fetishizes facticity, on the one hand, and distancing itself from the philosophy
of history, its politics and its utopianism, on the other. White observes that
discipline (in all senses of the term) demands “the subordination of historical
narrative to the deliberative mode of the middle style,” which limits historical
thinking to “the kinds of events that lend themselves to the understanding of
whatever currently passes for educated common sense,” while excluding religious
belief, ritual, the miraculous, and the magical as well as “the kinds of ‘grotesque’
events that are the stuff of farce, satire, and calumny.”50 These exclusions produce
the descriptive protocols that decide what will count as a fact or not; however,
these protocols are stylistic and rhetorical in their operation, since “facticity”
results from a description that acquires sufficient authority to command belief
in its validity by obeying professional rules. “Because history, unlike fiction,
is supposed to represent real events and therefore contribute to knowledge of
the real world,” White observes, the assumption develops that “imagination (or
‘fancy’) is a faculty particularly in need of disciplinization in historical studies.”51
Nevertheless, even if historians shield themselves against a partisan misreading
of documents through an assiduous application of the “rules of evidence,” the
imagination, as White reminds us, “operates on a different level of the histo-

rian’s consciousness.”52 Logical assessments cannot sidestep the imaginative
work of empathetic identification—what is typically referred to as Verstehen in
the German hermeneutic tradition—as a vehicle for fleshing out the presenti-
ments, motives, and blind spots of historical actors. As White recognizes, the
“scientific” interest in “putting oneself in the place of past agents, seeing things
from their point of view… leads to a notion of objectivity that is quite different
from anything that might be meant by that term in the physical sciences.”53
To the extent that such a practice is “imaginative” as opposed to descriptive,
it poses a particular risk for the historian who “cannot know that what he has
‘imagined’ was actually the case, that it is not a product of his ‘imagination’ in
the sense in which that term is used to characterize the activity of the poet or
writer of fiction.” The need arises, then, to discipline the imagination by subor-
dinating it “to the rules of evidence which require that whatever is imagined be
consistent with what the evidence permits one to assert as a ‘matter of fact.’”54 In
attempting to restrict the imagination’s purview, a rhetorically repressed social-
scientific style betrays the historian’s anxiety about the precognitive operations
involved in constituting the past as a pseudo-real referent.
In the Critique of Pure Reason, Kant’s definition of the transcendental
illusion polices a potentially deceptive understanding by circumscribing its
field of operation. When White provocatively contends in “The Politics of
Historical Interpretation” that history’s self-production as a science disavows
the “essentially aesthetic nature” of understanding,55 he can be read as extending
Kant’s lesson in humility to historians who deflect the limits of understanding
events that exceed comprehension. Yet, while Kant warns his audience against
confusing transcendent with immanent principles, White’s linguistically turned
update of the transcendental illusion is less cautionary than encouraging: he
would persuade historians to acknowledge the prefigurational infrastructures
of their engagements with “raw data” that render the latter term obsolete. Such
infrastructures not only unravel an absolute opposition between determinative
and reflective judgment; to the extent that they carry forward unanalyzed
ideas and socially shaped expectations, they also corrode the ideal of a purely
non-purposive, inductive relationship with archival materials that stands in for
historiographical “objectivity.”
What is formally remarkable about the “Politics” essay is White’s move to
narrate the equation between “desublimation” and “science” by juxtaposing
the naturalization of a realist poetics as the fulcrum of “discipline” with the
discursive lineage of aesthetics as the domain of the imagination and judgments
of taste. In configuring these two lines of development, White performatively

enunciates the formal tendency of intellectual historians to imply influence as a
type of causality through contiguity and parallelism.
White reads key eighteenth- and nineteenth-century contributors to the
discourse of aesthetics as differentially denigrating the sublime by associating it
with irrationality, turmoil, and terror, while privileging the beautiful as the analogue
of cognitive and moral rationality, that is to say, common-sense understanding.56
Notably, this aesthetic politics is not exclusive to conservative bourgeois historians
who would depoliticize historical events and processes by desublimating them;
it also permeates the convictions of supposedly more radical thinkers such as
Marx, who, in White’s words, thought “that history is not a sublime spectacle but
a comprehensible process the various parts, stages, epochs, and even individual
events of which are transparent to a consciousness endowed with the means to
make sense of it in one way or another.”57 White holds both conservatives and
Marxists accountable for uncritically accepting the displacement of the sublime,
thereby entrenching a nineteenth-century tendency to restrict “speculation on any
ideal social order to some variant in which freedom was apprehended less as an
exercise of individual will than as a release of beautiful ‘feelings.’”58
In White’s account, the privileging of the beautiful over the sublime parallels
a conservative investment in the comprehensibility of history, which regulates
“what politics [a historian] will credit as realistic, practicable, and socially
responsible.” As White points out, “the conviction that one can make sense of
history stands on the same epistemic plausibility as the conviction that it makes
no sense whatsoever.” To the extent that he believes that “a visionary politics can
proceed only on the latter conviction,”59 White’s existentialist aestheticism vouch-
safes the prospect that a persuasive interpretation can bring about a different
future, one that can be hoped for, but not fully imagined—a concept without an
intuition in Kant’s terms. This is the case insofar as the theorists of the sublime
“correctly divined that whatever dignity and freedom human beings could lay
claim to could come only by way of what Freud called a ‘reaction-formation’
to an apperception of history’s meaninglessness.” In successfully promoting a
beautiful comprehensibility, modern ideologies of history deprive it “of the kind
of meaninglessness that alone can goad living human beings to make their lives
different for themselves and their children, which is to say, to endow their lives
with a meaning for which they alone are fully responsible.”60 White’s preference
for the sublime thus amplifies what is at stake in his politics of interpretation:
a potentially mobilizing recognition of the negativity of history—its dynamic
withdrawal from the totalizing presumptions of the understanding.61
Ankersmit seemingly disregards the implications of White’s promotion of

the sublime when he hears the author of Metahistory celebrating a Hegelian
notion of the State, in which an “imbalance of private and public interests”
comprises the condition “for the exercise of a specifically human freedom.”62
For Ankersmit, this celebration evokes an aestheticist conception of the State
wherein “the freedom mediating between private and public interests seems to
have its anticipation in the ‘free play’ of the imagination between perception
and conceptualization in Kant’s aesthetics.”63 Without adopting Ankersmit’s
conclusions about White’s covert allegiance to a Hegelian notion of the State,64 it
is nevertheless worth probing Ankersmit’s supposition that White’s aestheticism
inclines toward the beautiful, rather than towards the sublime, as elaborated
in the “Politics” essay. My question is whether there is a basis for reading
White’s utopianism as somehow beholden to the figure of sensus communis that
functions as the hinge of Kant’s Analytic of the Beautiful.
In his chapter devoted to Kant in The Fate of Art, J. M. Bernstein unravels the
antagonisms miring the eighteenth-century philosopher’s concept of aesthetic
“disinterestedness,” which depends on a clear distinction between reflective and
determinative judgment. While Kant privileges “pure” concept-free judgments
of beauty over their ideal-burdened counterparts, Bernstein argues that this
distinction is impossible to sustain inasmuch as disinterestedness itself is
undeniably “measured against, and perhaps determined by, the powerful
interests from which it withdraws.”65 To navigate this performative contradiction,
Bernstein proposes to read the pleasure that the beautiful kindles as if it were
“memorial.” According to this thesis, judgments of the beautiful mourn the
separation of beauty from truth and goodness.66 What issues, then, “from
the experience of beauty is not the recognition of morality and nature in a
transcendent beyond, but rather a recognition of their present intractable but
contingent separation.” The pleasure of beauty, in Bernstein’s interpretation, is
the “sepulcher” of their lost unity.67
Bernstein’s thesis depends on Kant’s identification of the beautiful as
the symbol of the morally good, a confluence that underwrites a judging
subject’s inclination to exact agreement from everyone else.68 Nevertheless,
the unbridgeable chasm between them renders the claim of universality in
judgments of taste “parasitic,” in Bernstein’s description, “upon the claim to
universality constitutive of morally worthy practical judgments.”69 Thus, even if
judgments of taste “inhabit a domain between what can be expected and what is
commanded (by the morally good),”70 their force derives from a subject’s sense
of entitlement to universal agreement that nonetheless cannot guarantee actual
assent. Judgments of the beautiful take place as if they were universally commu-
nicable, and they are aesthetic to the extent that they transpire as if we were
judging in accordance with a (lost) common sense. Bernstein speculates that
this “as-if ” memorializes the feeling that a common sense once existed or could,
in the future, emerge. This feeling is bound up with an indefatigable longing,
at once nostalgic and aspirational, for a community wherein the universal
communicability of aesthetic judgments closes the gap between beauty, on
the one side, and morality and truth, on the other. The forlorn pleasure of the
beautiful both seduces and defers this longing for communion.
Bernstein’s memorial thesis pinpoints the melancholic tone of a judgment
of the beautiful in the third Critique that suffers from a longing for universal
validity it cannot fulfill, even if we recognize taste as the subjectively universal
vehicle of this longing itself. With respect to this want, judgments take place as if
the common sense—Kant’s sensus communis—that preconditions their univer-
sality might have been or could be possible. The key to this particular mode of
judgment in White’s terms is, then, a prefigurative desire for a community in
which everyone shares the same sensibility.
According to Dirk Moses, “White’s aim is to cultivate a utopian subjectivity in
his readers rather than a ‘realistic’ anti-utopian one,” by exposing “the irreducible
ideological or metahistorical component in every historical account.”71
Bernstein’s memorial thesis suggests that this aim could be oriented by the
aesthetic of the beautiful. As a political idea, the as-if community that heartens
judgments of the beautiful refracts a utopian yearning for social integration and
perhaps also for unconditional solidarity. From White’s perspective, however,
the historian who wrests coherence from chaos reverts to a nineteenth-century
script that stages a sensible attunement between understanding and the moral
imagination as an analogue for a harmonious world.72 Moreover, as White is
acutely aware, historical events have shown us how a desire for harmony can
propel a dangerous drive to construct and liquidate difference in the name of
cultural unity and unilateral state sovereignty.
It is intriguing to consider White’s wariness about beauty as the centrifuge
of a deadly aesthetic ideology in light of Hannah Arendt’s recourse to Kant’s
analysis of taste as a supplement to her repudiation of cultural philistinism
and the idea of “mass culture.” In “The Crisis in Culture: Its Social and Political
Significance,” Arendt observes that the third Critique posits “a different way
of thinking, for which it would not be enough to be in agreement with
one’s own self, but which consisted of being able to ‘think in the place of
everybody else’ and which he therefore called an ‘enlarged mentality’ (eine
erweitere Denkungsart).” Emphasizing its public and intersubjective valence

in consonance with Kant’s categorical imperative, she argues that a judgment
that “knows how to transcend its own individual limitations” is incapable of
functioning “in strict isolation or solitude; it needs the presence of others ‘in
whose place’ it must think, whose perspectives it must take into consideration,
and without whom it never has the opportunity to operate at all.” Yet even if the
logic of judgment inscribes the presence of others, “[i]ts claims to validity can
never extend further than the others in whose place the judging person has put
himself for his considerations.”73
What Arendt finds startlingly new in Kant’s treatment of the beautiful is not
a recognition of judging as the preeminent activity in which a “sharing-the-
world-with-others comes to pass.”74 Rather, it is his discovery that the alleged
arbitrariness and subjectivity of taste does not defuse its political relevance.
As Arendt contends, judgments of taste resemble political opinions in their
impetus to persuade, to “woo the consent of everyone else,” as Kant writes,
“in the hope of coming to an agreement with him eventually.”75 Alluding to
the Greeks, Arendt understands persuasion as the fundamental intercourse of
“citizens of the polis because it excluded physical violence” but also “nonviolent
coercion, the coercion by truth.”76 The grammar of the beautiful thus permits
Arendt to advance her thesis that culture and politics “belong together, because
it is not knowledge or truth which is at stake, but rather judgment and decision,
the judicious exchange of opinion about the public life and the common world,
and the decision what manner [sic] of action is to be taken in it, as well as
to how it is to look henceforth, what kinds of things are to appear in it.” It is
from the standpoint of this “common experience,” then, that taste involuntarily
discloses who the judging subject striving for validity is beyond his or her
idiosyncrasies, and thereby “decides not only how the world is to look, but who
belongs together in it.”77
While White can be read as sponsoring an alternative conception of aesthetic
judgment as a mode of self-revelation and creation that bears the potential
to consolidate or fracture communities, he does not endorse an implicitly
prescriptive notion that such a disclosure “gains in validity to the degree that
it has liberated itself from merely individual idiosyncrasies.”78 White’s hope for
historiography hinges on the non-teleological promise of aesthetic reflection as
an analog for an open future. The challenge has been to reconcile this hope with
White’s view of prefiguration as the Achilles’ heel of any “science” that naively
confuses a self-effacing performance with objectivity. The conflation between a
“realist” or “desublimated” representation and a “truthful” transcription of an
empirical field disavows the coextensive relationship between the forms and
conventions precritically directing the historian’s symbolization of a historical
phenomenon and its rhetorical presentation as an object of understanding.
Understanding becomes “deceptive” in Kant’s sense, as historians seek to endow
their choice of form with the authoritative force of empirical necessity by
insinuating that any rational subject would intuit evidence in the same way. To
orchestrate this effect, historians emulate the disinterested subject of aesthetic
judgment who proclaims the beautiful as if everyone could or should agree with
him or her. It is in this respect that Bernstein and Arendt inversely clarify why
White rebuffs the historian’s professional pretension of writing as if he or she
serves as the vehicle of a universal judgment. In exhorting writers of history to
assume the irreducible risks of their statements by struggling over their implica-
tions for transformative action in the present, he also invites historians to take
pleasure in the dissensus that both goads and inspires all rhetorical endeavors—
to divest the prefigurational lull of sensus communis that nurtures a puritanically
realist discipline heaven-bent on instilling quietism.
5
Hayden White and Me: Two Systems of

Arthur C. Danto
Hayden White and I attended Wayne State University—or “Wayne” as we called

it back in the Forties—and we were both deeply influenced by an historian of
great pedagogical originality to think grandly about history, though I at least
had no interest in becoming an historian. This was William J. Bossenbrook,
and each of us has written about his impact on our formation as intellectuals.
The courses I most remember were in Medieval and Renaissance history.
Bossenbrook was a tall, lean man, with an intoxicating lecture style. He would
pace back and forth, make some marks on the board, and begin by talking about
“The tumult in the piazza,” a phrase that came back to me in the years of protest
and demonstration at Columbia University, whose architecture was made to
order for tumultuous political outbursts. There is indeed a piazza, marked by
two fountains, at the base of the staircase that leads from the university’s main
administration building, Low Memorial Library, a masterpiece of neo-Roman
design modeled on the Pantheon. The platform in front of Low lent itself to the
purposes of a podium from which the student hordes listened to inflammatory
rhetoric via cheap bullhorns. Low was the second building to be occupied by
the students, who would sit on the generous ledge outside the president’s office,
waving the television cameramen away from the tulip plantings that first spring
of 1968, when what happened at Columbia more or less set the script for student
uprisings the world over.
Those were wonderful days at Wayne, just after the war, with a faculty of
eccentrics left over from the Depression, and a student body distinctive because
of the returning veterans. I am four years older than Hayden, which meant that
I had spent nearly four years in military service, but I imagine that relation-
ships between faculty and students of whatever age were pretty easy because
of the overall relative maturity, and we all benefited from the ease with which
we were able to meet with our mentors to discuss intellectual matters. There
was nothing like that for me when I enrolled in graduate school at Columbia,
where I found my professors for the most part pretty gelid and intellectually
indifferent, though they were learned enough. I had applied to the philosophy
departments of NYU and Columbia—I wanted to be in New York because I was
in pursuit of an artistic career—and was turned down by NYU because I had
taken no philosophy courses at Wayne. I never asked Hayden if he had taken
any philosophy there. I had not because one had to first pass a course by a man
suitably named Trapp in order to go on to the course in aesthetics that everyone
talked about, taught by Raymond Hoekstra. So far as I know, Hayden and I
never really met at Wayne, though we got to know one another later, when we
were both teaching in New York. He went on to do graduate work in history,
and though he certainly had a philosophical bent, I surmise that the philosophy
he learned was through his omnivorous reading.
My main influence at Columbia was Ernest Nagel, a distinguished philos-
opher of science; though it was in my first job, teaching at the University of
Colorado, that I encountered the kind of analytical philosophy to which I was
to devote myself. Two of my peers were deep in the British tradition known
as Ordinary Language Philosophy. One was a student of Norman Malcolm,
at Cornell, a disciple of Wittgenstein, the other was a student of Gilbert Ryle
at Oxford, whose The Concept of Mind was the cutting-edge work at the time.
Ryle and Wittgenstein both had the view that philosophy was more or less
the product of linguistic disorders. Through Malcolm’s disciple, John Nelson,
we were able to read monographic editions of The Blue and Brown Books, as
well as of the Math Notes, all of which the three of us discussed endlessly (the
Investigations were not as yet translated.) It was at Colorado that I learned what
was expected of one’s writing if one was going to be taken seriously by other
philosophers in the movement. When I returned to Columbia, I had a mission,
which was to proclaim that all philosophy was philosophy of language. Except
for Nagel, Columbia stood to the philosophy scene like a kind of Tibet. It was
just an awful scene dominated by the fuddy-duddies of early twentieth-century
thought.
What is striking about the two of us is that we both made narrative a central
concept in our thought and writing. In both our cases, though certainly in
mine, I attribute this to Bossenbrook. Hayden’s masterpiece, Metahistory,
published in 1973, more or less took narrative as given, the question being what
the historian was to do with his or her narrative. In effect, he was interested in
Hayden White and Me: Two Systems of Philosophy of History 111
what one might call the rhetoric of narration. Hayden was in some degree a
follower of Kenneth Burke in this. I was a reader of Burke myself, and I suppose
one could call my first book—Analytical Philosophy of History—a study in the
logic of narration. But in truth, the difference between our approaches was
greater than the difference between logic and rhetoric. How different could
be derived from Hayden’s hospitality to the ideas of poststructuralist writing,
which had no appeal for me. My approach, then and now, was an amalgam of
ordinary language analysis and philosophy of science in the Logical Positivist
vein. Metahistory is, in the end, a remarkable work of history: its subtitle is “The
Historical Imagination in Nineteenth-Century Europe.” The title of my book,
Analytical Philosophy of History, was meant to imply a rejection of speculative
philosophies of history, exemplified by Hegel and Marx, so I suppose it could
be called in a subtitle “Historical Speculation in Nineteenth-Century Thought,”
though a more piquant title might be: “Why We Can’t Write the History of the
Future.” In any case, White’s book is about a set of actual narratives written
by nineteenth-century historians. Mine was not concerned primarily with
specific narratives, but with narratives as explanatory schemata, in contrast
with scientific explanations as logical schemata. I was from the outset taking a
stand against the philosophy of history as conceived of by the Encyclopedia of
Unified Science, which expressed the way Logical Positivism construed history
as a retarded form of science.
The canonical text in the analytical philosophy of history was a famous
essay by C. G. Hempel, published in 1942: “The Function of General Laws in
History,” perceived at the time as a fundamental contribution to the Unity of
Science agenda of the Logical Positivist movement. The idea of Unified Science
was opposed to an alleged irreducible division drawn in German philosophy,
between nature and what Hegel called Spirit, or Geist, and hence between two
kinds of science—natural science, or Naturwissenschaft, and the sciences of
“spirit” (for which we have no exact English term) called Geisteswissenschaft.
These were thought to have contrary modes of cognitive address—explanation
(Erklären) and understanding (Verstehen). A natural phenomenon is explained
with reference to a general law, but a spiritual phenomenon has a kind of
uniqueness that rules out explanation, so understood. It has to be grasped
through a special operation of understanding. History accordingly can be
understood, but not explained, since there are no historical laws. Each unhappy
family is unhappy in its own way, but each happy family is happy in its own way
as well. We understand families, happy or unhappy, by grasping what is unique
in each. And what is true of families is true of nations, and indeed of forms
of life in general, or, to use a Hegelian expression, of Objective Spirit in all it

manifestations.
It is greatly to Hempel’s credit that he reduced the murkiness in which the
Erklären-Verstehen controversy was cast. Explanation in science consists in
deducing a description of the event to be explained (the explanandum) from
a set of necessary and boundary conditions together with a covering law
(the explanans). To explain is in effect to be able to predict. We cannot give
explanations (make predictions) in history, but we have what Hempel called
“explanation sketches” that more or less fit that model. We explain that Louis
XV died unpopular because of his tax policies. We could have predicted that
he would die unpopular, because his subjects resented paying for his wars,
when there were no overriding reasons that would make them love him—like
overwhelming hatred for his opponents, say. We do not have, in history, laws
like those that govern the relationship between pressure, volume, and temper-
ature in the behavior of gases, but we have explanation sketches. Much the
same model of explanation works in human affairs as in mere natural events,
more or less. The unity of science cannot ask for more, given the present state
of knowledge. As we reduce the sketchiness, we narrow the distance between
nature and spirit. The difference between them is not substantive.
In the polemics of the era, this indifference came under attack largely
because it was felt that in explaining human actions, we make essential
reference to human intentions, and how agents view their situations, for which
an operation something like what defenders of the Natur/Geist distinction
called Verstehen—a kind of internal understanding for which there is nothing
comparable in physical explanation. No one has to try by an act of empathetic
understanding to understand what a body of gas has in mind in order to explain
why it exerts pressure of a predictable measure on a container. No one has to
figure out how what a body of gas believes is its volume or temperature. But
the standard model for explaining actions is to identify the relevant beliefs and
desires of the agent. In the natural course of things, Unified Sciences found a
much preferred model in operant conditioning, and tried to rule out internal
understanding even in the subject’s own case. And that is where matters stood,
roughly speaking, until Behaviorism sustained some sharp knocks through
Noam Chomsky’s review of Skinner’s effort to give a Behaviorist account of
language acquisition. Chomsky’s postulation of internal structures that enable
any normal human child to construct the grammar of any natural language
pretty much demolished Skinner’s model of language acquisition and at the
same brought considerable support to the approach of cognitive science. It did
not, however, especially validate the introspective procedures of Verstehen. It in

fact weakened the continental model, which required two irreducible modes of
cognitive address.
My own position was that the Verstehen model of grasping the internal state
of agents did not really touch what was distinctive about historical discourse.
It could not account for descriptions typical of history such as “Petrarch
opened the Renaissance.” Whatever Petrarch did, he did not intend to open
the Renaissance. His famous act of climbing Mount Ventoux opened the
Renaissance only with reference to relations with events that took place long
afterward. Or again, Archduke Ferdinand’s assassin only meant to strike a blow
for Serbian independence, but unleashed a cascade of interlocking decisions
that became the Great War, which he certainly did not mean to start. And if we
redescribe “The Great War” narratively as “World War I” in the light of World
War II, he certainly could not have framed the intention to bring that about—
though it is not in any sense false to say that the assassination caused World
War I.
Let me now turn to philosophical research, as understood by Ordinary
Language philosophers, which consisted in part in identifying the ways in which
language was ordinarily used. To identify these uses was to make a contribution
to philosophical understanding. Often this research took the form of jokes.
What I came to call narrative sentences involved a play on tenses. Someone who
kept track of Petrarch’s doings could say, when asked what he was up to, that he
was out climbing Mount Ventoux—but hardly say that he was out opening the
Renaissance. “The Renaissance” did not yet exist as a concept. Even if we could
read Petrarch’s mind, we would not encounter that concept in his conception
of what he was doing that day. My favorite example was “The Thirty Years’ War
began in 1618,” a piece of boilerplate history. But no one would have been able
to have said, in 1618, “The Thirty Years’ War began today.” I have the most vivid
memory of walking across Columbia’s campus with my pal, Judy Jarvis (later
Judy Thompson), a student of John Wisdom, making up these kinds of jokes.
Like a friend of Spinoza boasting that he was the greatest pre-Kantian moralist
in the Lowlands. Nobody in the seventeenth century would have known
anything about Kant’s eighteenth-century contribution to moral philosophy!
My thought was that neither Hempel nor his opponents came close to
capturing historical, which is to say narrative, representation, nor hence in
giving us an adequate philosophy of living in history, which is living in the
light of futures cognitively inaccessible to us. The narrative sentence yielded
descriptions of events under which they could not be observed, depending as
they did upon events that could not be predicted because there were no laws,
and that could not be intended, since they typically involve consequences that
cannot be foreseen. In Analytical Philosophy of History—reissued under the
title Narration and Knowledge1—I used as a paradigm Yeats’s great poem, Leda
and the Swan, in which he writes “A shudder in the loins/engendered there/the
burning wall, the broken tower/and Agamemnon dead.” All that was engen-
dered in the rape of Leda was something to which anyone who saw a woman
being molested by a swan had to have been blind. Zeus’s other rapes—Europa,
Danae, and the many like—have no history similar to the one that would bring
into the same plot Agammenon, Clytemnestra, Orestes, Elektra, Cassandra, and
of course Iphegenia, and to make the climax of Zeus’s act seem retrospectively
a destiny. At the moment it took place it would merely have been one of Zeus’s
picturesque erotic interventions, no more important in his eyes than any of the
others. It turned out to be important because Helen—but only under narrative
redescription, Helen of Troy—was conceived on that occasion, and she was to
become causally implicated in the great event of antiquity, the Trojan War. There
would or could be no law of nature connecting up the shudder in the loins,
the successful investiture of Troy (“the broken wall, the burning tower”), and
the murder of Agamemnon. None of this could have been predicted but only,
perhaps, prophesied, to use the profound distinction Karl Popper introduced
in The Poverty of Historicism (1957). Prophecy is not a scientific achievement,
and it only seems like a cognitive possibility because we are able to construct
a narrative that leads back from the death of Agamemnon, through the fall of
Troy, to that fateful moment when Zeus inseminated his squirming victim.
What makes that event important is the later interest of those whose lives were
affected by the momentous conflict on the plains of Troy. It is this overlay of
interest onto happening that singles out events as having historical significance.
Helen’s twin brothers, Castor and Pollux, were great athletes who led busy and
eventful lives before they became stars in the ancients’ firmament. Her sister and
future sister-in-law, Clytemnestra, are coincidentally related to one another in
the Fall of Troy, since the latter’s daughter and the former’s niece, Iphigenia, had
to be sacrificed because a prophet believed that that would enable the battle to
proceed. Her son, Orestes, does not enter the narrative at all.
Witnesses to the monstrous event of Leda ravished by Zeus in his swan
metamorphosis would naturally be blind to the narrative that the poet, from
a later position in the temporal order, is able to spell out for his auditors. The
narrative sentence refers to two time-separated events, and though the first
event can have been observed, it cannot be observed under the description
the later event makes available, turning the first event into history. Thinkers
used to say that it is a defect of history that the events it speaks of cannot be
observed—but it would do us no good to observe them, as far as history is
concerned. It is not a metaphysical defect in history, but what makes history
possible. But it is human interest—what the Positivists used to refer to as
the pragmatist dimension of meaning—that relates the two events. What we
cannot do is break the narrative down into explanatory episodes under laws of
a number of social or social-psychological or economic sciences, for we lose the
meaning the conditions in the explanandum acquire under the perspective of
narration, which in turn derive from our interests in the like of great beauties,
acts of treachery and betrayal, codes of honor, terrible sacrifices—the past seen
as a tapestry of dramatic occurrences. It is human interest that guarantees the
autonomy of history and the inescapability of narrative redescription that hold
us spellbound as storytellers take us from the ravishing of Leda to the death of
Agamemmnon and beyond—the story arbitrarily ending when the Furies are
transformed into the good guys, and the age of justice begins. Tell me about it.
Jürgen Habermas told me that my book brought analytical philosophy to
the threshold of hermeneutics. It breached the gap between analytical and
continental philosophy, and, I was told, it had considerable impact on higher
education in Germany. Administrators were seriously concerned with the place
of history in the curriculum and proposed to replace history with one or another
social science. But here was a book, which came out of the scientifically oriented
movement of High Positivism, that argued for the autonomy of history. History
teaches us about ourselves, for the interests that lead us to the past are those that
relate us to one another, which is what it means to say that narration is internally
related to what it means to exist historically, as a mode of being human.
Let us now consider the second sense of living in history, which was insuf-
ficiently emphasized in my book. This other mode of historical being is not quite
so readily indexed to matters of tense, reference, and observation, but it is of no
less human importance than viewing life as narratively structured. It concerns
the fact that we are always living in a historical period. A period—or a culture—
is the weave of everything in what Hegel called “objective spirit,” which consists
of all the institutions of human life at a given time: language, art, clothing, laws,
etc. In any period, there are certain temporal concepts indispensable to the
conduct of life: earlier and later; before, after, and at the same time; now and
then. But these would not enable those who belong to a period to experience
time, as most of us do, historically—seeing things as belonging to other periods.
Hence they could not experience their period as a period.
Here is an example, close to home. My parents were in their twenties in the

Twenties. I have a sepia photograph of my mother in a wedding gown of the era—
short, beaded, with a pointed hem, and wearing a veil over her bobbed hair, with
a band of silk flowers. She looks like Zelda Fitzgerald, but tinier and dark-eyed.
I say a wedding gown of the era, but she would not have described it that way at
the time. For her, it would just have been the kind of dress smart girls wore to be
married in. The photo was taken in 1923, though they had been married earlier.
She wanted a picture of herself as she had looked, before she lost her figure. She
was carrying me, as she wickedly confessed when she gave me the photograph. I
was born New Year’s Day, 1924. Years later, I asked what it was like to live in the
Twenties, but she could not tell me a lot, even when I asked specific historical
questions like: what was it like to be a flapper? To dance the Black Bottom?
My father, despite his bulk—he had played football, and was a long-distance
swimmer—was an amazing dancer, even in his eighties. But my mother never
succeeded in giving me a sense of what anything was like, and I later realized that
I was asking her to describe what had been the present when it was long past. It
would be like asking the ghost of Thomas Aquinas what it was like to have been
a medieval philosopher. He would have been baffled by the term. The medievals
could not have known what it was like to be medieval, which was a term histo-
rians used after the period referred to was over. Only the moderns can know
what modernity is like—medieval and ancient are our terms. We would have to
translate “ancient” into non-temporal terms, if the ancients were to understand
what we meant, should we encounter them in the asphodel fields.
Since, however, “ancient” and “modern” are inter-referential, I would have
to explain enough of modernity to them if I am to make clear what it means to
say “You guys are ancient.” When The New Yorker still had great cartoons, there
was a superb one by Lee Lorenz, at the time the art director of the magazine.
It showed two men standing in front of a cave. One looks the way we expect
cavemen to look, wearing skins, carrying a cudgel, whiskers down to here, and
of course unshorn. His partner looks like his twin, except that he is wearing a
business suit, and a short-brim fedora, and carries an attaché case. The caveman
is pre-ancient. He says to the modern “Evolution has been good to you, Sid.”
That sentence is deliciously unsayable. There is no way the two figures can be
contemporaries. What we cannot do is experience the past as present. That is
why history is irreducible: we cannot eliminate the differences that make history
fascinating, or that make it history.
I had wanted to see if at some point there might be some convergence
between Hayden’s philosophy of history and mine, since we drank at the same
fountain, one might say. The truth is that we owe little to one another, despite
our veneration for the same teacher as undergraduates at Wayne State. My
hunch is that his branch of the philosophy tree has a lot more leaves than mine.
That is because philosophers who are interested in the philosophy of history are
pretty scarce. Maybe that is true of historians as well—but there are a lot more
of them than there are philosophers.
Robert Doran, a far closer student of Hayden’s writing than I, has suggested
a way in which our two bodies of thought have a greater community than that.
He has pointed out Hayden’s engaging discussion of figurational mimesis,2
brilliantly used by Erich Auerbach in his great work on literary history, Mimesis:
The Representation of Reality in Western Literature. The notion of figuration is
really the notion of prefiguration, where hermeneuticists seek ways in which
New Testament events are foretold by Old Testament events. “Foretelling” is
of course prophesy. An Old Testament episode, if it foretells a New Testament
episode, does not enable one to predict but to foresee, which is not scientifically
credible. The one certainly does not cause the other, whereas with narrative
sentences, the first steps in a causal narrative are laid down.
But figurational mimesis is another matter. Later figures copy earlier ones in
certain ways. The great mime of history as he reads it is Don Quixote, and his
book is comedic because it is too late. My own politics encourage me to believe
that the Tea Party is quixotic in this respect, making clowns out of those who
regard themselves as heroes. But when later characters get it right, as in making
the Renaissance, as Hayden tracks it, then something like history happens twice.
This is a great example. It consists in using the past as a model for the present
or the immediately future. It is mimesis, if you can bring it off. History becomes
a guide to the perplexed. Like Columbia University in 1969 mimes Columbia
University 1968, taken as a scenario. The scenario got more and more diluted as
the years advanced. It need not happen as a farce the second time, but it often
does. White’s idea is very rich indeed, a produce of Wayne at its ripest.
6
Uneven Temporalities/Untimely Pasts: Hayden

White and the Question of Temporal Form
Harry Harootunian
Any consideration of the philosophy of history after the intervention of

Hayden White’s Metahistory: The Historical Imagination in Nineteenth-Century
Europe immediately calls to mind Jacob Burckhardt’s verdict demanding its
elimination. “Above all,” Burckhardt insisted, “no more philosophy of history.”1
Moreover, he continued, there should be a moratorium on all subsequent
attempts to understand the historical philosophically, since history “coordi-
nates” and hence is “unphilosophical,” whereas philosophy aims to subordinate
and is unhistorical.2 Despite differences peculiar to their different moments,
both Burckhardt and White were responding to what might be called the
culture of historical excess—the intense specialization, valorization, and
production of facticity that in Burckhardt’s time sought, through appeals to
universal reason, to achieve a genuine world history, and in White’s repre-
sented the attempt to determine history’s claim to scientific status in an era
preoccupied with the struggle of objectivity over ideology. While Burckhardt
was convinced that only cultural life, defined as the “sum total of those
mental developments” in their uniqueness and singularity, can accomplish
the task of world history, White turned to identifying the a prioristic or
prefiguring principles authorizing certain interpretations that structured not
history, as such, but its various narrative representations. In so doing, he
called into question precisely how the very empirical authority informing
historical practice, its putative factual base qualifying its status as an “objective
science,” presumably setting it apart from the philosophy of history, was
already prefigured and thus mediated by linguistic protocols implicated in the
construction of a coherent historical account. In this regard, historical practice
had not been freed from the philosophy of history, but was ineluctably bound
to it, for it shared its fundamental presuppositions. If Burckhardt wanted to

liberate history from its subordination to universal reason in favor of the play
of spontaneous cultural forms, White, perhaps inadvertently, seems momen-
tarily to have fulfilled Burckhardt’s desire by laying to rest the claims of the
philosophy of history by shifting its ground to linguistic protocols that would
demonstrate how “empirical history” was no more exempt from the mediations
of linguistic prefiguration than was philosophy of history.
In his most expansive gesture, White aimed to show how the movement of
master narratives constituted a progression within consciousness that appeared
aligned with the facility of cognitive apprehension. With this perception,
he came close to joining forces with a philosophy of history founded on the
primacy of narrative form as a cognitive faculty of the mind rather than a
culturally derived form that would not necessarily have the same valences in
other cultural formations. But it is important to acknowledge that White was on
record as recognizing that a history informed by a tropic strategy of figuration
was rooted in a Western historical consciousness and fell short of presuming the
status of a “law.” What is interesting about both Burckhardt’s choice of cultural
spontaneity as the governing principle and White’s privileging of narrative as
the representational space of historical enactment (telling a story of a certain
kind) is the lessening of the role played by time as a factor in the process of
constituting historical forms. Burckhardt’s cultural forms remain static counte-
nances, timeless, materializing spontaneously, whereas White’s representational
narratives, as reflected in the tropological grid he proposes, conduct themselves
according to a structured progression that seems to constrain time to a repet-
itive movement, recalling Giambattista Vico’s progression from metaphor to
irony. Yet both are clearly preoccupied with the temporality of the present,
especially their respective presents: Burckhardt was persuaded in his moment to
abandon the project of a national history, which had become not only dominant
during his day but appeared to affirm the Hegelian conviction that history and
the modern nation-state were indistinguishable, whilst White selected histo-
rians who, for the most part, were less concerned with national narratives, as
such, but rather with other, broader units of experience. But White, and perhaps
Burckhardt less explicitly, was convinced early on that whatever its defects, the
philosophy of history still possessed utility because of its penchant for fixing on
the circumstances of the present, recognizing that it comprised a vast pool of
competing cultural forms embodying the temporality of different pasts.
In a significant early review-essay on the English translation of the
Muqaddimah (The Prolegomena, by the fourteenth-century North African
Uneven Temporalities/Untimely Pasts 121
thinker Ibn Khaldun), which brought space and time together in the forms
of history and social structure, White instantiated both this privileging of the
present as the scene for rejecting a historical practice dedicated to valorizing
“the historically given world as a value in itself,” and the incidence of historical
speculation carried on within the broader arena of world cultures.3 Here, it
seems to me, White’s appraisal of Ibn Khaldun’s monumental achievement,
occurring outside of the zone of European historical consciousness and
conceived well before the formation of modern society, explicitly bespeaks how
forms of thought are still culturally derived expressions mediated by time and
space, and, despite showing a commonality across borders, are thus remote
from reflecting a universally shared cognitive disposition. More often than
not, they are markedly different from what might ordinarily look familiar to
us and what we think they resemble. In the case of Ibn Khaldun, there is the
genuine absence of human agency in the making of history, which, according
to White, distinguishes it from the “great philosophies of the history” of the
Western tradition centered on “man as a social creature burdened with ultimate
responsibility for his own fate.” Instead, what we have in the Muqaddimah is the
action of an abstract mechanism personified by the figure of a social structure
that writes its own history.4
In any case, White’s observation implies that the present resembled a
reservoir filled with the multiplicity of forms and their different temporalities,
whereby the spectacle of their coexisting occupancy made it both the scene of
the historical itself—what writers like Paul Ricoeur and Peter Osborne have
called the “historical present”—and the place of production of its critique.
What philosophy of history had managed to preserve, in White’s reckoning,
is precisely the identity of a “multiplicity of life forms” in the present, with
their trailing train of temporalities marking their moment, always capable of
inducing the “fatigue” or “ennui” that will lead to attempts to overcome them.5
Yet it was the vocation of national history to undermine the creative force of
a present filled with multiple, coexisting forms denoting different pasts, to
prevent their unscheduled, untimely appearances from interfering with the
temporal dominant of rectilinearity in a nation’s narrative. More than any other
factor, this bonding of nation and its history resulted in altering the relationship
between space and time and literally severed history from the force of time by
spatializing the nation form as a static, completed figure that subsumed time.
The specter of untimeliness was always associated with the “scandal” of under-
development and backwardness attributed to societies outside of Euro-America,
outside of the frame of the nation-form and its temporally sophisticated
“modernity.” Ultimately, the classification of untimeliness merely reflected how

modern nations sought to export their own experience of living an uneven
temporality abroad, in an effort to displace its presence at home. When the
nation-form and the representation of its history were designated both as the
political form for entry into the world market and a place-holder for capital,
the necessity to extinguish spectral reminders of unevenness and untimeliness
became even more compelling.
The result of this move to yoke nation to history was to finally terminate the
relationship between history and philosophy and thus establish a new epistemo-
logical division of labor that brought both an end to their mutual answerability
and to the production of critique as a vocation of historical practice. Moreover,
in the new division of labor, considerations of time were classified as a philo-
sophic problem, rather than a historical one. But the “fatigue” White associates
with the production of philosophy of history, which prompted its subsequent
criticism of the present, nonetheless still enables identification of the presence of
multiple forms occupying the present’s precincts, opening the way to a creative
engagement with it as the site of culturally embodied forms of coexisting
temporalities capable of acting with the force of agency to produce history.
Where White departed from Burckhardt was in his decision to return to the
relationship between history and philosophy by restoring its original promise
for critique, which recalled Benedetto Croce’s insistence on the necessary
coupling of historical practice and philosophic reflection—not to forget his
later formulation that recommended contemporizing history, i.e. actualizing
its presentness. R. G. Collingwood, an early influence on White, put it the
following way:
All history is contemporary history; not in the ordinary sense of the word,
where contemporary history means the history of the comparatively recent past,
but in the strict sense: the consciousness of one’s own activity as one actually
performs it. History is the self-knowledge of the living mind.6
Owing to White’s own historical circumstances, his decision to retain this

function of critiquing the present meant addressing the question of history’s
claim to being an objective science. While White was equally convinced that
philosophy of history could claim no privilege in adjudicating whether or not
history was a science, his response was to approach this question by persua-
sively demonstrating the extent to which all history is conditioned by linguistic
prefigurations that made it no less free from ideological taint than the Marxism
that its “value free science” was seeking to discount in the Cold War struggle.
Here, White discerned that the lasting purpose of philosophy of history was to
criticize a current situation exhausted by a crowding of cultural forms, which
invariably would lead to exhaustive “fatigue” and the necessity of constructing a
critique aimed at its overcoming.
It is interesting to note, in this connection, that Japanese philosophers of
the Kyoto school in the late 1930s, armed with Ernst Troeltsch’s powerful
critical articulation of what he called the contemporary “crisis of historicism,”
similarly sought to provide a philosophic critique for the effort to “overcome”
the “contemporary” (gendai) filled with plural cultural forms.7 For the Kyoto
philosophers, as for White, this required relating philosophy to history, for
without this linkage there would be no possibility for understanding the
“actuality” of the present situation and of constructing an appropriate critique
of it. White’s own criticism of historical practice in his present was, I believe,
prompted by a Cold War obsession to “end ideology” in the name of value-free
scientific objectivity, which had already driven historical practice further from
the perspective of philosophic critique and closer to the safety of an empirically
grounded (social) science.
In what follows, I would like to explore further some of the possibilities offered
by this effort to reunite historical practice and philosophic reflection. Instead
of returning to the more familiar terrain of White’s theorization of narrative
discourse, which others are better qualified to address, I will be especially
concerned with his observation, derived from his reading of the philosophy of
history, regarding in particular how the present constitutes a vast historical inter-
section of different temporalities containing “multiple life forms” and how these
forms come to embody the critical force of temporal agency in constructing
and containing a historical field, rather than merely providing the occasion for
exhaustion. In this respect, my attention will focus on trying to provide a critical
philosophy of history with a slightly revised vocation that seeks specifically to
expand and enlarge upon the primacy of the present as the site of the historical,
ascertaining its promise for a prospective strategy of historical comparability
consisting of temporal forms acting as agents. It is my contention that any
historical account founded on the linearity of time will inhibit and foreclose the
prospect of comparability, as against representations based on the presumption
of non-linear coexistence of heterogeneous temporalities, which leave open the
possibility of constructing perspectives for comparative research.
It has often been observed that different pasts and their temporalities
continue living on into the present, pressing upon it, thereby making visible the
diverse experiences that produced them. Yet this observation suggests that the
coexistence of different pasts and their trailing train of temporalities marking
their moment are only products of the present, some attaining dominance,
others fading into forgetfulness and taking up residence as retired memories,
often invisible but never entirely disappearing from sight and always ready
for recall and reanimation. What seems striking about this observation is the
role played by the immediate phenomenal present in structuring historical
pasts and the practice devoted to extracting its knowledge of them. Moreover,
the “scandal” attributed to untimely occurrences, especially their capacity for
interruptions and caesura, invariably comes in the form of confrontations
challenging the present’s version of history’s narrative, an exigency of the rarely
questioned vocation of historical practice to focus on the dominant unit of
national history, thereby further risking calling into question the relationship
between the two tenses of past and present. The unscheduled appearance of
revenants in the present, reminding its inhabitants of the untimely past now in
their midst, refer less to some debt the present must pay to the past than to the
transformative energy such ghostly arrivals are capable of unleashing.
Before World War II, French sociologist Maurice Halbwachs had already
rejected this presumption of acculturation to externality, in what he dismissed as
“historical memory,” which, he warned, invariably leads to a gradual bleaching
of the strange and unfamiliar from history and thus to the disappearance of
its uncanniness.8 Halbwachs had already absorbed the Bergsonian discourse
on time and especially its stunning proposition of mixed temporalities, which
pointed to the possibility of rescuing what the national narrative had elimi-
nated as strange. At the same moment Halbwachs was discounting history’s
involvement in the nation, the Japanese literary critic Kobayashi Hideo (another
closeted Bergsonian) was similarly proclaiming that all historical narratives,
Marxian and bourgeois alike, inevitably miss the real content of historical
experience, which only the vocation of literature is able to conserve. For
Kobayashi, the content of true history was the common and the ordinary—the
everyday—which never changes.9 In my reading, the recognition of multiple
and overlapping pasts in the present, which we might designate as the “historical
present,” exemplifies the defect of the national narrative form, because it seeks
to eliminate the equivalence claimed by the insinuation of coextensive pasts. In
this understanding, the uncanny refers to the spectacle of coexisting, uneven
temporalities. What is troubling about national narratives is the presumption
of a completed past and a national experience that all are asked to commonly
share, which enables the virtual eviction of the force of time itself, apart from the
obligatory gestures of marking and dating significant moments in its making.

In this regard, we might recall Ernst Bloch’s judgment that “‘nationhood’ drives
time, indeed history out of history; it is space and organic fate, nothing else…”
and his subsequent decision to insert in this blank seriality the overdetermined,
if not overheated, temporality of “non-contemporaneous contemporaneities.”10
However, it is important to recognize that the present is always a thickly
filled temporality with multiple, commingling pasts, which remain unseen
and unacknowledged in the eclipse of a dominant national narrative; but it
is a principal condition of the national narrative to be able to announce its
linear succession from a chosen past (though this “choice” is never explicitly
declared as such), which it can do only if the agon of untimely temporalities
has been removed. What therefore had been considered as completed, played
out, or simply identical or non-identical with the present (depending on your
conception of history and politics), and thus forgotten, now appears as unmas-
tered and incomplete, despite the endeavor of historical practice to maintain
a sharp succession between these temporal moments, by making it seem that
what is past has really passed. It is in this way that the present is always the
place where the specters of difference materialize with the threat of untimely
unpredictability, to confront and threaten the stable boundaries on which any
contemporary historical identity is founded.
An often unacknowledged paradox of historical practice—whose knowledge
has been organized according to categories denoting time and its passage,
origins, emergence, transition, and change, and classified by spans of duration
called periods, eras, epochs, all signs of temporalized totalization—is how
little interest it has shown in the question of time or temporality itself and its
status in constructing the “historical field.”11 What seems puzzling about this
seeming paradox is the reluctance to recognize that any conception of history is
invariably accompanied by an experience of time, usually implicit in it, shaping
and configuring it to the extent that it must thereby be elucidated.12 According
to Walter Benjamin, this experience came as a “remembrance” that escaped
the constraints of “positivist historicism,” and its return became history’s—
that is, historical materialism’s—true vocation. This conception of history as
“remembrance” meant that experience was neither reducible to the claims of
any version of “science” nor to particular economic conditions attending their
formation. As forms of experience, they possessed the force of effects shaping
the historical field when they reappeared as “images” of a past and its temporal
structure, especially announcing their divergence from the time associated
with linear progress. The image Benjamin designates as the form in which a past is
“returned” is a charged combination of “now and then.”13 Here, there is a resem-

blance between the charged images of the present, comprised of the now and
unforgotten pasts, and White’s configuration of a present overdetermined with
multiple life forms demanding some sort of release through an act of criticism
possibly leading to resolution.
We should also mention, in this connection, the equally important corollary
that if every culture produces historical accounts of itself and if these are
“foremost” informed by a “particular experience of time,” then no new cultural
formation seems possible without an alteration of this experience.14 Giorgio
Agamben reminds us, as did Walter Benjamin before him, that the task of
revolutions is not only to change the world, but also to change time, stop it, start
it up anew in a different register announcing a new time. This is best illustrated by
the French Revolution’s attempt to inaugurate a new calendar: literally restarting
time, as it were, with Year I (1792). Yet we must allow that “changing the world”
requires grasping the nature of the temporal dominant ushering in the modern
era everywhere—the circumstances of the revolutionary force of capitalism that
established the hegemony of a vast conceptual organization of time deposited
and embodied in forms empowered to act as agents capable of reconfiguring the
historical field. Marx’s Capital is still the most detailed accounting of capital’s
structure of abstract temporality, an example of Hegel’s abstract in action, now
posing as natural ordinary time, world time, whose notice has even escaped the
practice of historical materialism at risk of “diluting” its conception of history.15
One of the most important consequences of this immense (should I say
“world-historical”?) conceptual temporal configuration (the other being the
fusion of national time with the time of capital) was the reorganization of the
everyday into the temporal form of a highly structured working day based
on abstracting labor (that is, measuring the magnitude of work time) and
separating it from the remainder of lived time. This transformation was marked
by injecting the figure of commodified labor into the marrow of everyday life,
whereby time, once seen as the secret but energetic motor driving history, is
now replaced by conflict creating social relationships based on production. The
immense multiplication of time that Marx perceived introduced “the impos-
sible totalization of historical development” that brought its train of uneven
pasts and untimely temporalities into constant collision in the present. And,
as Daniel Bensaid has reminded us, the measuring of socially necessary labor
time, aimed at converting mere duration into ferocious intensity, is at the core
of capital’s ceaseless trajectory of motion.16 This reorganization was further
accompanied by a crucial differentiation—but not separation—of historical
time from capitalist time, which resulted in subordinating the former to the
latter through the process of inversion enabled by the commodity form. Thus,
Benjamin famously warned that the representation of time he characterized as
homogenous and empty became the avenue through which ideology filtered
into the precincts of historical materialism. Marxian historical practice, in
close imitation of the bourgeois historiography it has eschewed, differs only in
content rather than form (as it should have) and has maintained agreement over
the presumed correspondence between the trajectory of time and meaning, as
if the former dutifully reflected the latter and the latter provided the authori-
tative ground of the former. The relation between writing and history “cannot
be reduced to narratives that are supposed to impose order on the chaos
of facts.” There is a “disjunction,” “discrepancy,” “discordance,” an inevitable
“uneven relation” and development between “material production and artistic
production,” and a social formation is always “irreducible to the homogeneity
of the dominant production relation.”17
Perhaps this is what Michel Foucault meant when he proclaimed that he
could see no difference between Marxism and bourgeois historical practices.
Here, it is worth noting that the national narrative worked hand in glove with
capital to remove the very incidence of mixed and uneven temporalities and
to contain capitalism’s own temporal contradictions, by transmuting them into
the smooth, untroubled succession demanded by both the nation-state and
capital to operate properly. Chronology, an abstract and quantitative measure
of time, came to replace the movement and action of time by routinizing and
standardizing time in such a way as to establish an agreed-upon normal social
time regulating the rhythms of state and society that would allow no alternative
forms of temporal accountancy to interrupt it. This was precisely the function of
world standard time, which would regulate the temporal conduct of states and
economies. Georg Simmel once remarked that if all the clocks and watches in
Berlin stopped for a few minutes the whole social, political, and economic life
of the city (and probably the nation) would cease. The relationship thus meant
that the nation-form would act as a placeholder for the contradictory temporal
operations of capital, that is to say, the linearity demanded by production, the
cyclical and negative time driving circulation, and the organic time of repro-
duction. In fact, the nation-form shared with capital Marx’s reformulation
of time into the organization of social time, a radical desacralization, which
reconfigured historical representation into what Antonio Gramsci described
as “immanent history.” But rather than lead to history as an immanent work in
process occurring in the present, always in a state of incompletion, as Marx had
envisaged in his own histories, its fixed spatial form turned to a finished past
as the location of historical time. In this regard, the nation form and its history
increasingly functioned to contain the surplus of capital’s ceaseless movement,
its cycles, rhythms, crises—in short, the excess of an untotalizeable history
of development and any present filled with the contradictory uncertainties
announced by untimely residues and new quests.
If, in any case, historians have manifested a studied indifference to recog-
nizing the temporal imperative demanded by their own conceptions of history,
literary critics, writers and philosophers early on expressed their unease with
strategies employed to measure and quantify the external and objective world.
Georg Lukács’s powerful attack on philosophy’s own dedication to quanti-
fication and objectification (enacted by both modern science and capital)
reinforced a growing dissatisfaction with the disappearance of qualitative and
internal time, and his turn to the present, what he described (glossing Ernst
Bloch) as the “unbridgeable and persisting ‘chasm of the present,’” announced
a new perspective on historical time he shared with others, like M. M. Bakhtin,
in their respective explorations of literary genre. What is significant about this
turn to the present was the recognition of how time acquired the force of form
to affect and alter the historical scene. Hence, Lukács’s meditations on the
historical novel worked to fill the past with the present, by pointing to those
writers who were able to grasp the social processes “arising” in their present and
thereby understand the nature of social reality lived in past presents. Lukács was
obviously calling attention to the writer’s capacity to totalize a social situation,
discerning in it the interplay of its contradictions, as a condition of grasping the
social configuration marking prior presents.
By the same measure, Bakhtin sought to fill the present with prior pasts
in the effort to explain the character of the modern novel enabled by the
category—or, as he called them, “forms”—of the chronotope: the modalities
of space/time relationships embodied in literary forms that ceaselessly change
over and through time in a continuous process of reappropriation. While in
this connection White turned to the chronotope as a containing strategy in
an essay he wrote years after Metahistory, titled “The ‘Nineteenth Century’
as Chronotope”18 (which sought to revisit the question of historical time and
reconfigure the basis of periodization, to which I will return below), it should
be said here that in its original formulation Bakhtin wanted to demonstrate
how elements of prior chronotopic figuration were reappropriated to acquire
new leases on literary life in later periods. In the process, the deposited residues
continued to signify the moment of their production as they now coexisted
with a different time/place relationship. But what both Lukács and Bakhtin were
pointing to was how things change through time’s action itself, through forms
embodying it, rather than in it, where their place or moment is only marked and
dated.
In this regard, Paul Ricoeur has observed that despite the kinship shared
by narrative and temporality and especially their reciprocal structures,
their concurrence has usually been overlooked. The reason for this is that
epistemologies and methodologies of history and criticism of fictional narratives
take for granted that every narrative must occur within a temporal framework.
Because this presupposition is assumed to be unproblematic, it is seen as
unworthy of serious attention within a temporal matrix that corresponds to
the ordinary representation of time as a linear succession of instants. Ricoeur
condemns philosophers too for having ignored the contribution of narrative to
a critique of time, by appealing either to cosmology and physics or by simply
falling back on an inner experience of time and duration without considering
a relationship to a narrative activity.19 It should be pointed out, as well, that
the Japanese philosopher Tosaka Jun had already made this observation in the
1930s, when he demonstrated how the practice of history has been uncriti-
cally based on what he described as “borrowed time,” rather than on its own
time, which he identified as the now of the everyday present. What troubled
him most was how considerations relating to the representation of historical
time resulted in re-presenting a representation of time that derived from the
“temporal representation of things.” This maneuver linked time to the problem
of consciousness, making it foremost an aspect of its domain. For this reason,
he continued, historical time was nothing more than an accessory to a sense of
time belonging to consciousness, which he named “phenomenological time,”
an interior, psychological temporal state that history must “borrow” from
the representation of “phenomena that are outside of history.” As a result, the
temporal principle of phenomenology, despite its unhistorical derivation and
application, is smuggled into history to replace true historical time with a
temporality derived from phenomena that are not, as such, historical.20 What
Tosaka identified as “phenomena outside history” was the state of interior
consciousness and psychological time of the individual subject, as against an
everyday present constituted by the calculation of labor time, which he located
within history. But even more importantly, Tosaka saw in narrative construction
the dangers of large-scale developmental plots that risked resembling the
story lines of national history (he remained silent on the great contemporary
debate among Marxists on the development of capitalism in Japan) and how it
predictably departed from history’s true content and its proper temporal calling,
which corresponded to what he called the “character of politics” of any specific
era. By the time of World War II, Kyoto philosophers such as Miki Kiyoshi,
Kosaka Masaaki, and Tanabe Hajime had gone even further in discounting
the utility of historical narrative and its association with Japan’s “modernity,”
in favor of seeing in it the historical index of a stage Japan had surpassed and
which had contributed to preparing it for the momentous engagement with the
present and an evolving world historical perspective that promised to exceed
the unit of the nation-state and the vocation of historical practice dedicated to
it.
In this connection, both Ricoeur and White come close to identifying
narrative—the form of emplotment—as a cognitive endowment. Yet in doing
so, they risked subordinating the force and form of historical time to narrative
space and an irreducible linearity that marked the unfolding of a story-line,
resulting in a closing off of any real possibility for historical comparisons other
than the recounting of a blank and homogenous seriality of successive moments
denoting a before and an after.
With Ricoeur, there is a sensitivity to how history should be answerable to
both literary production and philosophy and vice versa, which dramatizes the
imperative to reunite narrative function and the experience of time. White
is right to remind us that one of the consequences of Ricoeur’s theorization
of history and narrative is to show that, despite the differences between
“history” and “literature,” they ultimately share a common referent: “the human
experience of time or the ‘structure of temporality.’”21 But we already know
that such a structure of temporality belongs to phenomenology and to interior,
psychological time inscribed in consciousness. While White appears to have
differed from Ricoeur by evading a dependency on a Heideggerian conception
of time and historical temporality, he still manages to integrate this “structure
of temporality” into the formal rhetorical properties of the form of historical
narrative itself, to become narrative’s time. Ricoeur, following a Heideggerian
trajectory, is constrained to distinguish a state of “within-time-ness” that already
differs from conventional linear time. In Ricoeur’s reckoning, “historicality”
constitutes time at an even deeper level of temporality and permits the recovery
of the extension between birth and death in the “work of ‘repetition,’”22 which
he proposed as the true content of time’s form. In this Heideggerian scheme, it
is already possible to see the positing of a temporal totalization comprised of a
palimpsestic figure of multiple layers of time marked by the coexistence of past,
present, and future. But despite this conception of time, it remains subordinated
to the form of narrative and thus becomes human (as against cosmic) insofar as
it is addressing human existence.23 Hence, Ricoeur is directed to reducing the
philosophic (and historical) problem of time to a “poetics of time,” by placing
it within the “space of historical and fictional narrative,” where the “aporetics of
temporality” find their “deepest imaginative exploration.”24 This gesture further
runs the risk of removing the dialectical tension between the analytic rescue of a
historical mise en scène and its capture in narrative space by closing the distance
between them, a distance that resulted from a reduction of a distinct historical
time to an “imaginative exploration.” Ultimately, Ricoeur is primarily interested
in historical consciousness rather than the force of temporal circumstances (like
Tosaka’s now [ima] of the everyday acting as a chronotopic intersection of time
and space) that constitute history’s true principle and the source of its distinct
temporality.
This effort to restore the lost family resemblance between history’s time and
narrative, while avoiding the implied hint of a fetishizing of the latter at the
expense of the former, was more recently reactivated by Jacques Rancière in
a penetrating article that aimed to contest what the historian Lucien Febvre
proclaimed as the historical “sin of sins,” which, of course, is anachronism.25
Rancière seized upon the dangers of this notorious temporal disorder and its
misrecognition by arguing that what, at bottom, is a philosophic question—the
constitution of historical time—cannot be resolved as if it were reducible to the
methodology or epistemology of history. In fact, the knotted problem posed
by history’s time concerns not a fidelity to the idea of the past as it really was,
running in a straight sequential series of nows, but rather a question between
the present of historical enunciation and the pasts it seeks to rescue. With this
observation, Rancière was able to shift the trajectory of history’s time from a
horizontal to a vertical direction, since he was convinced that to determine what
was and is sayable depends more on the relationship between time, speaking,
and truth, rather than the presumption that there is a time proper to what can
or cannot be said. For Rancière, like for White, the resolution of this problem
takes place not within the historian’s discourse, as such, but rather through the
operation of poetic procedures. Anachronism thus becomes a poetic concept,
often approximating the behavior of allegory itself, which works to resolve
the difference between asynchronic moments. But the resemblance historians
presume to exist between what was sayable and its time is achieved only in
the eternal present, in a time without chronology. Therefore, in the scenario
depicted by Rancière, the chronological time of succession that authorizes
the identity of anachronism—being outside of time, the untimeliness of time
out of joint, so to speak—depends upon a temporality without succession, a

pure present. Febvre’s complaint derived from a conceptualized form of time
that was not differentiated from other forms of belief and regimes of religious
socialization. More than merely the putative semblance between a form and
its time, what Rancière perceived was the intimation that time constitutes its
own forms in the historical field, determining action and performing as an
agent. This was particularly evident in those cases where a form of time is no
longer linked to other kinds of forms, or when it happens to collide with other
temporal forces capable of pressing their own claims on society, as exemplified
in those moments when residues of earlier pre-capitalist economic formations
are thrown into an uneasy coexistence with later, developed capitalist practices.
In fact, in a present always filled with residues from different pasts, there can be
no viable agreement on what constitutes an anachronism.
We must, in any event, acknowledge that our modern representation of time
as homogenous, linear, and empty is drawn from the experience of manufac-
turing, work, and is sanctioned by modern technology, whose development
establishes the primacy of uniform, progressive movement over circular and
cyclical motion.26 Thus, the new social time of Marx’s immanent history was the
present (rather than desire for the future as it was for Heidegger and Reinhart
Koselleck), where the appearance of mixed temporalities was intensified and
where production started and took place, and time was explicitly personified
in social relations, to become the same domain and temporal tense of the
nation-state. The experience of dead time abstracted from lived time, which
characterized life in modern cities and factories, reinforced the idea that the
present, constituted of fleeting instants, what Benjamin described as a succession
of instantaneous nows, had become the condition of human time and the “hell”
of modernity. What Marx sought to accomplish was an accounting that would
demonstrate how the social metabolism of the everyday was reconfigured by
the ceaseless effort to prolong and consume the linear working day; by the same
measure, the domain of lived time was increasingly replaced by dead time,
leaving only a truncated remainder—a memory—which was still able to exist
outside of the regime of commodified wage labor and abstracted surplus value.
This “excess,” thought in terms of disposable time, was the object of struggle
over the limits of the working day, even though it was allegedly reserved for the
worker’s self-development and cultural satisfaction. Ultimately, the recognition
of an opposing dualism between this quantification of abstract time and a more
human time would prefigure and lead to a complex philosophic discussion in
twentieth-century European philosophy (which Heidegger named “reckoning
with time”) devoted to finding the domain of qualitative time. For our purpose,
the Marxian observation of the conquest of the working day and the recon-
figuration and secularization of everydayness allowed the identification of
those efforts committed to regaining what many believed to be an authentic
historical time, not through a linear experience involving a Hegelian negation
of negation, but by praxis—concrete activity—directed toward an approximate
recovery of the original historical nature of humans. In this sense, Marx’s
decision to separate historical time from capitalism meant that history could not
be associated with a socially normative time as simply empty and homogenous,
or even with a “continuous and infinite succession of precise moments,” since it
showed that capitalist modernity—the regime devoted to the “restless striving of
the new”—had not yet been able to conceive an experience of time adequate to
its notion of history.27 History occurs when capitalist crises explode; according
to the rhythmatics of capital,28 this is when homogenous time is interrupted and
politics become primary. Marx had clearly proposed the idea that humanity
never strives to remain as something it has become, but rather aims to exceed
itself in “the absolute movement of becoming,” which is the “absolute working
out of creative potentialities.”29 In this respect, Giorgio Agamben reminds us of
the split between “being-in-time” as an elusive flow of instants and the “being-
in-history” that refers to an original human historical nature, inflecting the
threefold claim: 1) that a distinctive social being has existed since the first act
of cooperation; 2) that it possesses an accompanying and distinctively human
temporality that has become historical; and 3) that history itself has come to
be associated with philosophy, notably through its capacious totalization of the
time of the human.30
What this temporal architecture suggests is the silhouette of a strategy for
comparison that might allow us to identify the appearance of those instants
when coexisting temporalities are sharply drawn and accentuated by observers
or writers, who are made aware of them by living through the competition of
multiple claims or by being made sensitive to the presence of a disjuncture
between normal time and the lived time of a particular everyday they have
entered. Frequently exemplified by a not always self-reflexive ethnographic
experience, this perception of temporal dissonance is found in those who might
actually expect to see such a spectacle, or in writers like both Sato Haruo, who
unexpectedly confronted an isolated native group living in its own time, such
as the aborigines of colonial Taiwan in the 1920s, and Carlo Levi, when he was
forcibly exiled by the fascist government to southern Italy to literally live and
experience the “southern question.” These and other similar cases reveal the
incidence of a mutually common temporal immanence, the shared equivalence

of contemporaneity, that is, coevalness, between the observer and those he/
she encounters, yet provides dramatic evidence that they are also occupying
different temporal registers with the power to mediate and even determine their
action.
It is also important to recognize the force of this temporal preoccupation
in all those attempts to win back historical time from a degraded abstracted
state marked by chronology—what some have called a “pseudo history” and
a “simple pseudonym for life” under capitalism—and especially the forms
of practice and action recruited to enact the experience and endow it with
meaning and materiality. What appears at stake here with the interruption
incurred with every struggle to restore a forgotten memory of a group or an
identity—exclusions—is a reanimation of other times from the past that are
now rescued in and for the present. This move represents the hope for a “quali-
tative alteration of time” itself and the recovery of a forgotten history, which, in
some instances, resembles the act of remembering an “original home.”31 Hence,
the operation seeks to recover what will appear as an “uncanny” history that
has been whitened out by the external chronology of a national or some other
dominant narrative, by rescuing a conception of “counter-time” (contretemps)
that reflects the identity of a group that will bring this memory to everything it
seeks to do, to each instant in the present.
It is thus evident that considerations of time as an agent in the historical field
means thinking outside the unit of the nation-form. In this respect, the most
useful candidate is the perspective of other forms of time offered by the everyday
present embedded in normal, continuous linear time and the possibility it
supplies for thinking about both the prospect of carrying out comparative study
and defining the shape of a world history unburdened by the spatial privilege
accorded to units like the nation-state and regional culture. The reason for this is
principally heuristic, because the everyday affords a primary temporal category
that is capable of providing a momentary minimal unity to a time and its place,
organizing experience in the present according to a relationship between the
time of work and non-work, within the perimeters of the twenty-four-hour day.
Yet the everyday crosses national borders to challenge the regime of national
time everywhere by resisting assimilation, appearing as a remaindered excess
that manages to elude the State’s reach. Moreover, it is always the site of routi-
nized practices and relationships, the unexpected occurrence, the accidental
and contingent event, constantly open to chance and randomness that defy
completion.32 However, this is not to suggest that the everyday constitutes an
ontological ground à la Heidegger’s “being-in-the-world”; nor should it be

meant to imply that it occupies an unproblematic status claiming exemption
from criticism. For my purpose, it supplies the space-time coordinates to serve
as a conjunctural site for staging the confluence of multiple times and housing
them, by situating the former—time—in a broader immanent framework that
prevents the latter—place—from claiming an irreducible and exceptional spatial
privilege. But everydayness, as Tosaka proposed, comprises the space/time
location that permits us to recover history by unveiling the concealed “kernel of
history”—its “mystery”—and is thus positioned to: 1) grant the occasion to see
how these mixed temporalities were immanently grasped across a global space-
time spectrum; and 2) make available an interpretative lens through which to
recognize and identify those ruptures and interruptions that aim to halt normal
time or seize it in order to restore a repressed memory or an excluded identity
of the past and rescue it for the present.
The former has been amply illustrated by writers and thinkers such as Ernst
Bloch, Carlo Levi, Jose Carlos Mariategui, Yanagida Kunio, and Chinua Achebe
(notably in The Arrow of God), who have in one form or another recorded the
phenomenon of coexisting and colliding mixed temporalities and have tried
to transmute the event of these lived and experienced moments into forms of
time sanctioned to determine the course of history. With the latter, we have
the overlapping of history and memory, and thus any number of possibilities
showing themselves “in a sort of ‘non-contemporaneity’” (as theorized by Ernst
Bloch) or a “discordance of times” (as imagined by Daniel Bensaid), ranging
from the interruptions of religious fundamentalist groups who manage to
successfully fuse modern technology with older religio-ideological intensities
in politically charged organizations, like the Zapatistas of Chiapas; they are
simultaneously embedded in the rhythms of cyclical time of the indigenous
communities yet implicated in promoting a project of liberation, inscribed in a
Marxist narrative of modernity as well as in the perpetual present of the contem-
porary world and the global domination they are combating.33 There are other
possibilities that would conceivably manifest themselves once we are sensitized
to the spectacle of uneven and overlapping temporalizations as embodied forms
acting through time instead of merely in it. In fact, it was precisely this instance
of unevenness that constituted for the Japanese literary critic Maeda Ai, in his
magisterial Toshi kukan no naka no bungaku (Literature Within the Space of
the City), the true character of modernity itself, whereby the city provided the
intersection—a virtual permanent conjuncture—for the collision of lived times
and the unscheduled appearance of past temporal residues that still managed
to actively intervene in and shape the everyday.34 Finally, I might offer the idea
of world conjuncture itself as a temporal site momentarily empowered to draw
together a number of disparate forces and societies into a unified yet compar-
ative experience, as exemplified best by the 1930s.
The examples chosen for illustration, which will be briefly described, consist of
three attempts by workers in different locales and times to wrest their disposable
time from the regime of abstract labor by expending it in artistic and cultural
activity. These three episodes were initially discounted or disregarded in their
respective national histories, but were recently narrativized in Jacques Rancière’s
La Nuit des prolétaires (Proletarian Nights, 1981),35 concerning French workers
in the mid-nineteenth century, Peter Weiss, Die Aesthetik des Widerstands (The
Aesthetics of Resistance, 1975),36 a historical novel focused on young German
workers in the 1930s, putting into question the crucial relationship between
fiction and history, and the “worker’s circles” of Japan in the decade of the
1950s, whose narrative first appeared in the journal Gendai shiso (2007).37
Furthermore, each attempt, it should be recognized, was implicated in seizing
time from the everyday or from that portion of it that did not belong to either
capital or to the nation. This seizure supplied a temporally unified basis for the
activities taking place in three different moments and places.
To grasp the mode of appearance of these three narratives, we must first
recall our previous discussion of Hayden White’s early turn to the present and
its capacity to house coexisting, multiple cultural forms. White had observed
that the present constituted a vast arena filled with diverse, residual forms
derived from previous pasts, bringing with them their different temporal tenses,
and thereby making it, the present, the site of the historical itself, the “historical
present” and the place of producing its critique. The coextensive presence of
White’s “multiple cultural forms” and the spectacle of competing temporalities
announced a capability, if not an aptitude, for inducing the “fatigue” and
“ennui” or demanding a resolution that might finally consign these forms of
exhaustion and the residues that had produced them to their proper pasts, or
deliver them to an indefinite future. In this respect, these cultural forms would
lead to the present’s attempt to confront the challenges they posed and the
search for ways to overcome their charged occurrence. We know that history’s
principal vocation has been to prevent the unscheduled, untimely spillover
of these residual cultural forms from intervening in the temporal dominant
of the present, to displace them or simply quarantine their possible appetite
for disruption. The narrativization of these three events, one in a “history” of
“otherness” (Rancière), one in a historical novel (Weiss), and one in an archival

state waiting to acquire narrative form (worker’s circles), attest to an overdeter-
mination of a prior but recurring separation of politics and culture, mental and
manual labor, whose resolution has now become the mission of the present.
The sense of the untimely and its unpredictability suggested earlier is thereby
a way for envisaging a historically remote episode like the Japanese “worker’s
circles” in a broader, more comparative framework; it encourages us to release
it and others from its more recognizable socio-historical environment and
resituate it in another, unfamiliar terrain and temporality no longer shaped by
the agenda of national history, but one formed out of disparate experiences from
different times and places. While this scene is no longer fixed, the sites are made
contemporaneous with each other because they have been retrieved by, for, and
in the present. In other words, they now share a common, immanent tempo-
rality, even as they inflect and mark their own circumstances and moment of
appearance. It is this shared resonance that gestures toward the possible project
of world history, the “making-worldly of history.” It should be added, in this
connection, that White, in an early essay on the British medievalist Christopher
Dawson, was already alerted to the idea of envisaging a possible world history,
which, according to Marx, had yet to be written. Even though this agenda was
never fulfilled, its dormant but pulsating promise remained embedded in a
number of White’s more theoretical essays.38
Thus, Rancière’s La nuit des prolétaires recalls for us the figure of workers
in mid-nineteenth-century France who steal time at night for the pleasure of
artistic and poetic production. Peter Weiss’s novelized historical narrative The
Aesthetics of Resistance concentrates on the activity of young German workers
in Hitlerite Germany who sought to secure an artistic education as part of their
formation (bildung). The recently developed archive on worker’s circles in 1950s
Japan is beginning to disclose how large numbers of workers in the immediate
postwar years challenged a division of labor based on the abstract differen-
tiation of mental and manual work.
As suggested above, the three episodes of workers involved the seizure of
time (Marx’s disposable time outside the working day) for the pleasure of
artistic pursuit. The reasons prompting the narratives are different, to be sure, as
are their forms of presentation. While the narrativization of the three episodes
appeared at about the same, time they remained as singular and specific events
stemming from three different pasts and places. It is nevertheless important to
grasp why this concurrence of three events occurring in different moments is
submitted to a process of narrativization in our present and what they embody
in common that now demands such a narrativization. Perhaps it points to the

urgency in our present of a commonly shared longing to satisfy a time outside of
the working day. A more pertinent reason may be the desire to reject a division
of labor that is locked in a permanent separation between mental and manual
work. If the former reflects a long-standing attempt to shorten the working day
for greater disposable time, the latter represents a struggle with an abstraction
that has imprisoned workers in an inescapable identity. But the principal
impulse driving these events and their narrativization derives from the meaning
these different pasts hold for a later (and our) present and what we choose to
recollect in order to articulate a specific relationship between the past and the
present.
Here, we must appeal to Hayden White’s reflections on “figuralism” and
in particular the way in which he defines it in his essay on the literary
critic Northrop Frye. These reflections are helpful for explaining the narrative
appearance of these three events, especially the dynamic governing the
operation of recollection, and the form of temporality he identifies with its
force of historical change, without relying on either a linear or simple cyclical
(circular) trajectory. According to White, Frye had, for his purposes, envisaged
a world of cultural forms as a kind of “plenum” rather than a historical configu-
ration, static and synchronic rather than changing and diachronic.39 While
Frye rejected any program of historical inquiry that might “recover” or lead to
a reconstructing of the past, he drew upon Søren Kierkegaard’s conception of
“repetition” as a substitute for the act of recollection.40 White explained here
that Frye was not referring to a more familiar and simple understanding of
repetition of an experience, but instead to an act of “recreation” that would
redeem and “reawaken” it anew, as if to satisfy a promise incurred from the
past that now demanded a response in the immediate present. Frye’s theory
of repetition closely resembled the idea of a religious reawakening “to make
all things new,” quoting from the Book of Revelation (21.5).41 The appeal to
a Kierkegaardian conception of repetition resonates with other, more recent
models, such as Walter Benjamin’s vision of awakening as recovery of a recol-
lection long forgotten and lost to the historical record and Gilles Deleuze’s
systematic accounting of “repetition with difference.” But with Frye, “repetition
and recollection are the same movement, only in opposite directions; for what
is recollected has been, is repeated backwards, whereas repetition properly
so-called is recollected forwards.”42
White reapprehended this sense of temporal repetition in the form of a
dialectic of historical change, a recreating of a prior experience resulting in a
later “fulfillment” of the earlier “figure.” In this process, White envisaged the
realized state of fulfillment as having been produced from a kind of “reverse
causation,” whereby the past that is brought into the present is made new or
different.43 Moreover, the “fatigue” and “ennui” transmitted from the past to
the present, especially if it appears overdetermined, now requires some kind of
determined confrontation in order for the present to move beyond its past(s).
(As will be shown below, this theme is amplified when White addresses the
figure of the chronotope.) It is, in any event, worth noting that White’s inter-
pretation of the “prefiguration-fulfillment” model supplies a way of accounting
both for how forms produced by historical cultures are renewed and recreated,
and for the identity of repetition as its corresponding mode of temporal agency,
or, as he named it, “a retrospective expropriation” of the past that strives to
either resolve or make new a prior experience.44
Returning now to our examples, what we thus have is a combining of three
different episodes from different times and places that bear out a common
struggle to actively fuse culture and politics and finally reunite mental and
manual labor through the decision of workers to seize time to produce art and
literature in a capitalist society that excluded their entry into such domains.
The “fulfillment” of events, initially signaling the moment of seizure and
entry, was embodied in narrative repetitions, which are more recreations and
reawakenings than “reconstructions” of past episodes, whose overdetermined
appearance in our present would dramatize the challenge posed by its demand
for resolution.
These are all stories that had already been lived, experienced, and told, and
their example suggests that their importance for today is not simply in their
telling and retelling (the closure fixed by narrative), but in their capacity to be
remembered, lived, and experienced again in the present. They are thus less
about telling than doing, which, unlike narrative, is never completed, since the
images they call up are charged with a productive and transformative energy.
This is particularly true of the illustration they portray of workers in different
times who refused to remain confined in the category of labor and, by extension,
in any rigid system of classification. Their singularity in our present provides
the occasion for their further renarrativizing in relation to one another, by
bringing them together, out of their times in our present, which constitutes
for us the threshold of common convergence. This renarrativization of three
different events from differing pasts and places into an expression of common
resonance allows us to think beyond both their singularity and their specificity,
without abandoning either, to open up the perspective of a making-worldly of
their history. If they are now linked in a relationship each has not known and
could not have possibly known and that has nothing to do with the immediate
contexts in which each was generated, they collectively signify yet another
event, forms of time still capable in combination to provide agency in a time
other than their own.
The question raised by the three cases and the resonating commonness
that brings them momentarily together was the effort of workers (and thereby
anyone) to lay claim to addressing and engaging the aporetic relationship between
politics and culture in the production of art. In committing themselves to cultural
activity, workers were already exceeding the limits defined by class and occupa-
tional grouping and striking at the heart of the informing principle of modern
bourgeois society, which abstracted and separated manual from mental labor.
Why this seems so important is that cultural activity, based on this division, had
been monopolized by the bourgeoisie, defining its difference from all other classes
and insisting upon the necessary separation of an autonomous domain of art
and culture from the sphere of politics as a condition of value formation. The
workers who laid claim to making art saw this act of appropriation as a vital
component in their own formation; they no longer wished (as Rancière demon-
strates) to be identified with the merely social classification of labor, as such, but
were free to choose other identities and pleasures once exclusively reserved by
and for the middle classes. What this move pointed to was entry into a world of
artistic production no longer proscribed to workers, one which, by removing
the class privilege regulating admittance, would lead to a transformation of art
and presumably politics. The radical effect of the act would be to undermine the
categorization of culture, especially into high and low, elite and mass registers, and
conceivably lead to a re-evaluation of value itself. The action called into question
the ways the bourgeois social order had used art and culture to differentiate those
who were in a position to know from those who were not. To those who know,
like the bourgeois, is “granted the science of the conjuncture,” that is to say, “the
privilege of reconstituting a hierarchy that is principally a domain of time and
value that others are presumed not to share,” which permits them to decide when
it is proper to act in certain ways and what is good and bad.45 But it is precisely this
relationship between knowledge and the masses—and thereby between different
temporalities—that was announced the moment workers began to invade the
domain of art and culture. If, then, there is the time of intervention manifest in
the workers’ appropriation of culture and art, there is also the time of its recovery,
pointing to what in the various movements demands its subsequent “rescue”
in our present. The importance of these two temporalities, according to Kristin
Ross,46 derives from time’s capacity to give form and force to multiple relationships
of power and its aptitude for “denaturalizing” and “destabilizing” those relations.
In the cases I have cited, the form is expressed as an event, whereby those who
have remained silent and unseen acquire speech, that is, powers of expressibility,
and thus are positioned to realize the potentiality of the subjective moment.
The appropriation of an entire language (verbal and visual), claiming what has
not been allowed, given a fixed identity, resembles the performance of an act of
dis-identification, what art historian Adrian Rifkin has called the écart, the fissure
in whatever had previously secured identity but that is driven by the decision to
now “tear time,” rupture and arrest the temporal structure from which previous
identities, inclusions, and exclusions derived their fixed place in society.47 Here,
I believe, is the relevance and utility of Narita Ryuichi’s characterization of the
worker’s circles as an expression of subjectivization (rather than a fixed theory
of the subject) that exceeds its immediate Japanese historical habitus and speaks
directly to the larger and transnational perspective and context.48
All three events are concerned with enunciation and enactment by workers,
with their decision to seize time to become subjects capable of experiencing
a qualitative lived time and its pleasures. More importantly, each has targeted
the classic bourgeois problematic of politics and art. Rancière, in his La nuit
des prolétaires, recovers from the archive the instant when French workers in
mid-nineteenth-century Paris are launched in the act of stealing time. What
Rancière wishes to show is the operative force of Marx’s powerful observa-
tions concerning the capitalist organization of the “working day.” While some
have proposed that Rancière was actually trying to demonstrate how strongly
Marx had sided with capitalism and the production of surplus value by drama-
tizing the capture of night for cultural work—composing poetry, writing
stories, essays—I think that the setting aside of the night for this activity is
consistent with Marx’s own response to how the worker was obliged to elude the
constraints imposed by the working day—particularly the effects of commodifi-
cation.49 Marx had recognized in the remainder of the everyday not devoted to
surplus value its importance for the worker and his/her well-being as an outside
to the working day. “The worker needs time,” he wrote, “in which to satisfy
his intellectual and social requirements.”50 But we are, I believe, indebted to
Rancière for having relocated the worker in another kind of time and for having
recorded for us the way he/she was able to move from the working day to its
everyday remainder and the possibilities it offered, without hierarchicizing the
two temporal domains. This is a movement of non-synchronicity—a fracture
through which the worker acquires subjectivity and is momentarily free from
the standard working time and the regime of producing surplus labor for the
pursuit and production of art and culture.51
With Weiss’s account of young German workers in the 1930s, the narrative is
cast in the form of a historical novel that charts the activities of the workers in
their quest for self-formation (bildung) during the Hitler era. Although formally
a fictional narrative, The Aesthetics of Resistance shares a kinship with the
classic form of the historical novel, inasmuch as only the anonymous narrator
(obviously a young worker) and his friends are imagined, while the majority
of figures peopling it have historic and empirical authenticity. While Weiss’s
narrative “commemorates political failure and defeat,” as Fredric Jameson writes
in his introduction to the novel, it is neither a testimony nor bears witness to the
depredations of fascist violence in 1930s Germany.52 Rather, it was concerned
with the “immediacy of the body and the anguished mind,”53 the movement to
fuse manual and mental labor. Weiss’s German workers are in reality subalterns
confronting the violence of a system of abstraction founded on the separation
of mental and manual labor. Their history of failed resistance is inextricably
woven into their effort to fuse the domain of labor with the realm of art and
culture, body and mind, as it were. In this sense, their subalternity had less to do
with representing and becoming the custodians of a fixed and timeless culture
than with the practice of actively making culture while they remained laborers,
thereby signaling the merger of doing and thinking, and self-formation. While
Weiss’s workers share with Rancière’s French and the Japanese workers a
subalternity immersed in the process of an aesthetic education, a difficult and
different labor, the choice of the form of a historical fiction over a narrative
historical account enriches our understanding of the psychology of self-
formation and the labor expended in the signal act of dis-identification leading
to the reunion of mental and manual work. But it is still the shared condition of
subalternity, according to Jameson, that marks this invasion into the bourgeois
world with genuine difference.54
Through Weiss’s novel we are made to see the self-formation of young
German workers, who learned about resistance through history and myth as
embodied in the statuary of the Pergamum Altar in Berlin. “Historic events,”
Weiss writes, “appeared in mythological disguise,” yet not entirely under-
standable to the populace who, on solemn days, scarcely looked up to the “effigy
of its own history.” In the archaic scene that produced this frieze, only the priests,
philosophers, poets, and artists were informed with a knowledge that permitted
them to talk about the altar. “The work gave pleasure to the privileged; the
others sensed a segregation under a draconian law of hierarchy.” What these
young workers grasped was that art gave to the privileged rank and authority
“the appearance of the supernatural.” If they learned about resistance through
history, they also grasped it through the appropriation of “a whole aesthetic
culture.”55 This appropriation of an aesthetic culture was meant to augment
their political education and develop the powers of their enunciative voice in
completing the process to subjecthood, which, in many ways, would become the
precondition of learning the more practical and contingent lessons of politics.
The first step in this praxis-oriented bildungsroman was a visit to the Pergamum
Altar by three school friends (one soon to depart for Spain), who gaze upon a
representation of the Giants defeated by the Olympians. This inaugural political
lesson is thus “a mythological, aesthetic and imaginary one.”56 “We looked back
at a prehistoric past,” the narrator remarks, “and for an instant the prospect
of the future likewise filled up with a massacre impenetrable to thoughts of
liberation.”57
Despite its longer but recessive history, the recent resurfacing of the “worker’s
circles” under the auspices of an issue of the journal Gendai shiso (Contemporary
Thought) devoted to “The Postwar People’s Spiritual History” heralds the retrieval
of one of postwar Japan’s most promising, if not forgotten, social movements.
By the early 1960s, it had all but disappeared from the scene, eclipsed by the
shadow cast by economic success and the politics of single-party “democracy.”
With the publication of this special issue, along with earlier essays by scholars
such as Narita Ryuichi and the collective work sponsored by the editorial
committee of the Shiso no kagaku kenkyukai, we are offered the ongoing labor
of scholars dedicated to collecting an archive of worker’s circles magazines,
journals, poetry, and wood block illustrations. Its moment in the 1950s,
according to Michiba Chikanobu, reminds us of a context marked by a rich
tableau of aspirations of the masses in the immediate postwar period and before
the spectacle of a consensus society and the “impact” of “Politics” proposed by
the communists.58 What this context resembles is a thick present filled with
mixed temporalities reflected in the diversity of aspirations and desires. Michiba
claims that this mixture of diverse contexts was so discernable that it eluded
narrativization as a “pure bildungsroman.” And he is correct, I believe, to argue
that studies of the time failed to position the cultural movement as a component
of political history and as a necessary complement to political pedagogy. Here,
Narita’s understanding of the historical importance of the worker’s circles is
particularly useful, as I have already suggested, and points to how their moment
brought together a movement of “mass socialization” connected to the social
problem:
The circle’s movement emphasized the subject—shutai, a subject that writes, a

subject that reads, a subject that acts, a subject that poeticizes. At the same time,
these subjects have become the subject of history and society. The mass culture
created is a culture of the masses… The circles, like a nest of boxes (iriko), were
the subject and society of the 1950s, wherever they existed.59
I should add to this that they were, at the same time, subjects who worked. Yet
it was also an immense effort, according to another historian, that aimed to
expand the “range toward a (greater) adherence between everyday life and the
position of labor,” inasmuch as the cultural work of workers echoes precisely
Marx’s earlier injunctions concerning how disposable time should be spent:
Under the capitalist mode of production this necessary labor can form only a
part of the working day; the working day can never be reduced to this minimum.
On the other hand, the working day does have a maximum limit. It cannot be
prolonged beyond a certain point. This maximum limit is conditioned by two
things: first, by the physical limits of labour-power; within the twenty-four
hours of the natural day, a man can only expend a certain quantity of his vital
force. Similarly, a horse can work regularly for only eight hours a day. During
part of the day the vital force must rest and sleep; during another part the man
has to satisfy his physical needs to feed, wash, and clothe himself. Besides these
purely physical limitations, extensions of the working day encounter moral
obstacles. The worker needs time in which to satisfy his intellectual and social
requirements, and the extent and number of these requirements is conditioned
by the general level of civilization.60
For a moment, the possibility for a genuinely social democratic order in Japan
appeared within reach.
We must read these poetic texts of the South Tokyo group and the literary
productions of circle groups elsewhere not for what they tell us of workers’ lives,
but rather for their unscheduled “interruptions” and “suspensions” of working
life when workers try to appropriate for themselves the power claimed by and
reserved for their “other”: the intellectual and the bourgeois. What is important
is the act of bringing the workday and the everyday into closer congruence for
a mass audience that could see themselves in it; by addressing specific problems
of the times, they had also wrested time itself from the working day to address
the immediate question of politics and art and challenge their received limits.
Moreover, the decision to compose poetry or illustrate a theme announced a
break with the rhythms of the workplace and the sociability of everyday life. This
practice, which acquired the status of an event, was neither merely political nor
cultural, as such, but rather both simultaneously, inasmuch as the theft of time
constituted a necessary step in the political education of workers to acquire a
subjective voice through the active production of culture, thereby momentarily
shifting and shaking the old myth about who has the right to speak. But it was
also an attempt to dramatize precisely the division between mental and manual
labor, which had constituted the privileged representation of the bourgeois
conception of the social order and the class delegated as the custodian of its
preservation. In this sense, the worker’s circles constituted a form of bildung—
self-formation—and closely resemble the historical figures portrayed by both
Rancière and Weiss. It is important to recognize that these diverse, marginal
subalterns arrived in their time like “time travelers,” as if by “accident, neither as
spokespersons nor as representatives of sociological categories, but as worker-
poets, writers and artists, committed to struggle and mobilized to engage in
and provide a diagnostic for the contemporary situation.”61 And because of that
“they are beyond our reach,” “untimely remnants, revenants,” not demanding
debt repayment but rather refugees who came onto its scene quickly to take hold
of it and make it for themselves, in order to fully enter a modernity into which
they have only been allowed partial entry. But they have never disappeared
from the present, where they have remained, still waiting to be summoned to
exact their promise at any moment, for they are “released from time, not at the
millennium, but now.”62
This excursus into untimeliness paradoxically brings us back to Hayden White.

We have seen that in his earlier work, before his now-classic critique of
nineteenth-century historical consciousness, Metahistory, White gestured
toward an engagement with the temporality of the present by calling attention
to the necessity of producing a critical philosophy of history. This appeal aimed
to reunite history and philosophy, where each recognized a certain answer-
ability to the other. But when he turned to anatomizing historical narratives, to
show how they were structured according to linguistic and rhetorical protocols
unacknowledged by historians, he moved nearer to closing off the productive
role enacted by historical time, by subordinating it to the constraining generic
requirements of narrative emplotment—telling a story of a certain kind—whose
own trajectory proceeded on an irreversible linear track leading to some sort
of reconciliation or progressive advance. Under this scenario, the forms of
time are assimilated to chronological markers denoting central moments in
the story’s development. This effort to confine time to the quantitative and
abstract measure of chronology and narrative space threatened to remove the
dialectical tension between historical time and narrative by closing the distance
between them. In diminishing the agency of time’s forms, White also managed
to displace the differing and multiple times of temporality that always intersect
with each other in any present to announce the moment of politics and the
“radical immanence” of history.
But in the above-mentioned essay “The ‘Nineteenth Century’ as Chronotope”
(written in 1987, but rarely read by historians, even today), White revisited the
question of historical time and the forms embodying it and invested with the
force of determination and agency, to literally reverse his prior commitment
to narrative’s privilege and its cognitive claims. This essay resembles a classic
instance of inversion, which turns the relationship between narrative and time
inside out. In this turnabout, faintly recalling Marx’s observation of how space
dissolves into time, quantity into quality, narrative time is folded into the time
governing narrative and cognition into consciousness. White’s embracing of
the containment strategy offered by M. M. Bakhtin’s conceptualization of the
chronotope required abandoning the linearity driving the storyline, if not the
genres disposing them, for embodiments of specific space-time relationships
capable of comprising generic environments, criss-crossed by different times
and places. This does not mean abandoning narrative, but rather turning to
other cultural forms, like the everyday, a primary temporal category that comes
to us as sedimented strata of “repetitive practices” and past temporal residues,
yet remains incomplete and open to chance, the unexpected, “the surprising
event,” what Bakhtin identified as “novelization.”63 In Bakhtin’s reckoning, the
novel embodied the sense of modern everyday life, as had earlier narrative
forms denoting previous modes of production and that, in time, would be
supplanted by successive forms of communication. Despite subsequent forms
of familiarization induced by montage cinema and the logic of the image,
replacing more formal plot lines authorizing a certain kind of story, as well as
the further reinforcement of the structure of different temporalities making the
present the center of orientation and experience, the result was not some form
of “postmodern” injunction calling for dehistoricization and the disappearance
of narrative connection, but the reverse. Rather these changes demanded paying
greater attention to both the different ways experience in the larger, epochal-
totalizing structure has been unified by narrative and to the opportunities
offered by “new cultural forms” for newer “historicizations and temporaliza-
tions of history.”64
Here, White pointed to how conventional chronologically defined periods
like “the nineteenth century” might be reinvented and refigured into distinct
historical scenes belonging to pasts possessing a relationship to our present as

one of its conditions of possibility. While in Bakhtin’s original formulation the
chronotope was seen as foremost a temporal category, whose space-time config-
uration faintly echoed the rumor of a distant mode of production, even though
the space-time configurations were never immediately reducible to it, White
envisaged this process of reinvention as a transformation from a chronologi-
cally marked “period,” quantitatively measured, to a chronotopic relationship
embracing a qualitatively specific space-time constellation as a constituted
unity. Transcribing a measured period or era, which has acted as a substi-
tution for its totalization determined by a lifeless chronology, into the figure
of the chronotope suffused with a specific space-time relationship, White may
have uncovered the way to resolve the question of how to adequately totalize
historical moments. What he offered with this move was a shift away from a
prior position that captured time within narrative space to one that promised its
release, in order to establish a distinct relationship between a specific historical
time and its forms, and space or place, as represented by specific genres, to
combine into a historical “containment strategy.”
White, I believe, was correct in preferring the chronotope over the choice
of the conventional period, primarily because it possesses the “advantage” of
serving as a “designator of the fundamental unit of historical inquiry,” whereas
the “period has the effect of flattening out, linearizing and dispersing the event
presumed to mark its development across a temporality apprehended as made
up of befores and afters, beginnings and ends, anticipation and realizations…
reinforcing our tendency to think of historical relationships on the analogy
of biological ones.”65 This observation has two important consequences for
historical practice. First, it showed how history depended upon the unwavering
linearity of time serving a developmentalist trajectory, which effectively
constrained comparability to the evaluative criterion of identifying a before
and after, here and there, now and then, thus binding it to a meager and narrow
comparative perspective reducible to emphasizing continuity and discontinuity
and capable of denoting only a completed or uncompleted progress toward
the desired present that has closed off the possibilities of “relative progress.”66
Retrieving the idea of a “relative progress” not only removes the obsession with
a “universal history,” but also demands a consideration of non-linearity that
will take into account “missed opportunities and defeated possibilities.”67 More
importantly, it will require historical practice to see every present filled with
multiple coexisting paths of development that do not share the same index of
“normality.” And in articulating the various temporalities associated with these
differing lines of development, which are always heterogeneous to each other,

we have the possibility for the representation of non-linear comparability and
historical research already authorized by the chronotope.
Second, periodicity, the centrality of the historical period, refers to a system
of dating a duration and affirms the pastness and completion of some action
or eventfulness that has occurred and is now ended. A period, then, is just
that—a termination. But, by contrast, the chronotope White proposes to
instate in its place implies a different unit of analysis, not so much driven by
quantitative measure in some putative universalizing history, but by an active
and dynamic process defining the specific intersection of space and time and
the form embodying it. It is an active “constitutive category,” which, accord-
ingly, determines the human image in literature, as well as in other historically
cultural expressions, and seeks to “assimilate real historical time and space to
discourse.”68 Empowered to instantiate “socially determining structurations,”
the chronotope “sets limits on what can possibly happen” within its specific
space-time precinct and constrains what its inhabitants and agents are able to
perceive and act on in a restricted horizon.69 The units designated for chrono-
topic figuration will always be smaller and more concrete than the larger spatial
objects of conventional historical discourse, like the “period” for the nation, and
more temporally precise, because their confined environment requires a closer
articulation between synchronic and diachronic elements, the site and moment
of a practice or action. Bakhtin saw that in the chronotope time is thickened
and acquires “flesh” and space invested with the “movement of time,” that is,
the conditions of fusing space and time, which, in White’s understanding, were
represented as multiple products of “human labor, domination, repression,
and sublimation.” Hence, the chronotope always appears in a mediating role
between differing orders of spatial and temporal existence, between nature and
culture as a “mediation among nature, specific kinds of production,” and the
social relations they will establish.70
In this regard, White proposed that the chronotope comes to us as a fact of
“consciousness,” governing the “mind who produces them” as well as others who
reproduce them, “either as a recognizable condition of possibility for the their
own labors or as an object of study by historians of events that take place within
its confines.”71 It is thus a fusion of “concomitance,” as White names its operation,
that endows the chronotope with a capacity to structure, that is, contain. In this
reckoning, the chronotope’s “active” conduct exceeds what historians have
usually called “background” or even the much valorized “context,” and its scale
is more modest and accessible, if not immediate (the street, slum, boulevard,
sea, Benjamin’s arcades, etc.), than the “period” or any such macrocosmic unit
of analysis. Owing to this dimension of scale, it contains and excludes, but also
functions as a form of repression of older, forgotten residual content beneath
the surface, laying in readiness to be recalled and rescued in the present. At
the same time, it offers to stand as a mediate point that affords us the prospect
of seeing the complex interrelationships between large-scale, world-historical
events, epochal spatial durations, and the world of high culture, as well as the
social experiences, practices, and demands of everyday life.72
But while acknowledging the necessity of contemporary historical practice
to distance itself from earlier forms in order to allow us to finally release them
to a finished past, to find our own way in the present, so to speak, White
reminds us that the chronotopic figure of coexisting past times in the present,
what have been “systematically and generally forgotten, repressed… excluded
or marginalized”—a society’s unconscious—not only regularly stalk every
present, including our own, but also come to us as enactments of “general social
condition(s)” that still involve us as much as those who preceded us.73 For
White, like Marx, recognizes that pasts persist in the presents, are “alive” and
are immediately contemporary “in the form of residues” that will act as “causes”
and “impediments” to the “resolution” of problems unique to our moment,74
heralding the immanence of untimeliness and its spectacle of non-contempo-
raneous contemporaneity. Where such intersections of temporal discordance
appear is the point of politics and is history’s true vocation.
7
Hopeful Monsters or, The Unfulfilled Figurein

Hayden White’s Conceptual System
Hans Kellner
To study the career of Hayden White is to study a series of concepts. His work
is not primarily a sequence of monographs about one period, or one thinker, or
one problem. It is, rather, driven by the force of the conceptual proposals he has
offered. The first major proposal was that we consider the formal and ideological
structures of historical texts from a standpoint that was based, at bottom, on
the organizational force of rhetorical tropes in the construction of a coherent
account of the past. Certainly, White’s desire to see things from a higher point of
view, his tactic of moving up to a higher level of abstraction to grasp and better
characterize a complex field of phenomena, found its first major expression
in the tropes. Operating at a higher level than the field of historical discourse
they were meant to clarify, the tropes could serve other discursive forms as
well, and White was not reluctant to extend his ideas to narrative in general,
by focusing on the level of narrative discourse where the tropological strategies
came into play. And so, in time, the language of the tropes virtually disappeared
from White’s work, to be replaced by a discussion of emplotment. No longer
simply a way of categorizing plot-forms, such as the forms he had found in the
work of Northrop Frye, emplotment became an ideological device of narrative,
always forcing coherence (even by giving form to incoherence) on the events it
presents. In this sense, emplotment, with its suppression of any sense of sublime
chaos in history, is far from being a neutral medium for the representation
of human events; it is rather, as White recognized, the ideological content of
narrative form and the fulfillment of the promise provided by the tropes as
narrative structures.
From the study of emplotment, White moved on to the mechanism by
which emplotment, and narrative discourse in general, produced meaning and
overcame non-meaning. This happens by way of a special form of explanation,

a form that was neither genetic, nor logical, nor physical, but rather uniquely
humanistic. It is called figuralism. Figuralism, as White describes it, is a special
form of explanation, in which a later event calls forth and names an earlier one,
which is then deemed to have somehow “caused” the later phenomenon. This
is how emplotment functions: the conclusion of the narrative establishes and
fixes the plot of the work, as romance, comedy, or whatever, and that emplotted
outcome will not only establish the meaning of the whole, but will also assign
to each of the parts of the story its significance as a figure to be fulfilled by a
later event. These core concepts of the figural basis of emplotted narrativity have
guided White’s work.
White begins as a young medievalist who quickly allied himself with older
colleagues in publishing projects—appealing in the publishing world of the
1960s, when history was an important academic major—that took him into
much wider areas than the medieval Church, his academic beginning.1 In 1966,
with the encouragement of friends—Louis Mink and Richard Vann—White
expressed the professional discontents of some of his generation in “The Burden
of History,” and then proceeded to locate the source of the problem in the
nineteenth century.2 Metahistory was one result of this. On the one hand, it is a
historical sketch (and no more) of how a Golden Age of romantic freedom and
individualism gave way to the professional and ideological world of discipline;
but, intertwined with this story-sketch is another Metahistory, a sprawling,
ambitious, rather messy book, fascinating and questionable in all its parts. The
method presented was cobbled together from available sources and made to
look systematic; but the most apparently rigorous part, identified as the “deep
structure,” became the flashpoint, the offensive member for those who felt that
they were under attack—in Greek, no less—by the “theory” of tropes.
It was the tropes that turned White’s story away from disciplinary history,
slowly, by presenting a tool so general (or deep, if you prefer) that it could
be used as a historiographic index (as in Metahistory), or a kind of intel-
lectual history (as in White’s essays on Darwin, Croce, and Foucault, among
others),3 or as an account of almost anything else that has a discursive form
(including the description of a fountain in Proust).4 Derrida’s famous “il n’y
a pas de hors-texte” (there is no outside to the text) is another way of saying
“il n’y a pas de hors-trope.” It need not have been the case that Metahistory
and tropes became synonymous; this was a case of the reception creating, to
some extent, the book. Or rather, books, since Metahistory contains a number
Hopeful Monsters or, The Unfulfilled Figure 153
of different books, each attracting a different set of allies and opponents.5

Unquestionably, the interest was in the tropes, and they were extrinsic to
“normal” history. The essays of Tropics of Discourse demonstrated the uses
and disadvantages of tropes. They were a splendid premise for examining
many texts and thinkers; but a theory that can do anything will sooner or
later become tiresome. Tropes had become “foregrounded,” as the formalists
say. Once recognized, they can be discounted.6 White’s subsequent turn to
narrative proposed another “deep structure”—narrativity—as the content of
the form of narratives; as a content, narrative made its own, often overlooked,
demands. Above all, narrativity demanded that the story make sense, that it
have a coherence and a meaning, which was fine for imaginary stories that
somehow expressed the order and meaning of an authorial mind, but which
added an ideological dimension to stories that purported to reflect real
events, events that have meaning only if this is intended by a divine author
or supplied by a less-than-divine narrator.
Peter Brooks has noted the sudden decline of interest in poetics in the
1980s, when a turn to historical and ideological angles replaced the dictums of
Northrop Frye and Jonathan Culler.7 Instead of the vision of a basis of under-
standing how discourse works, a serious poetics of forms and structures that
deferred any urge to evaluation, we got a wholesale rush to judgment. The rise of
Michel Foucault marks this turn, and I think it is characteristic of White that his
early treatments of Foucault—a decoding, as he put it—made the Frenchman
into an orthodox tropologist.8 White remained faithful to poetics, as indicated
by his comments on the New Historicism, charging that they failed to succeed
at either poetics or history.9
Metahistory had said nothing about narrativity and not much, really, about
narrative, and the essays that derived from the tropes in Tropics of Discourse
did not either. On the other hand, The Content of the Form, collecting White’s
thoughts on narrative, is basically trope-free. If the figures of speech are absent,
however, the figuration that underlies them and projects them into temporality
is emerging. White moves from tropes to figures to figuration via narrative.
Because White, like Aristotle, elected to place emplotment at the heart of
narrative, the emergence of figura, in the sense that Erich Auerbach had traced
this term from antiquity and had awarded its apotheosis in Dante, was natural.10
The title of White’s subsequent collection of essays, Figural Realism, reminds us
that there is no direct encounter with the real, which might in brief be taken as
the whole of White’s teaching. It also reminds us that all three of White’s major
theoretical devices—the theory of tropes, the content of narrativity, and the
figure/fulfillment process—are all enormously abstract structures, offering a

view that is potentially meta-everything.
There has always been something scandalous about Hayden White, something
that brought forth excess hostility. The cause seems to lie in the “system.” Like
Gorgias the Sophist, White has treated the serious with wit, and the comic
with seriousness. For four decades, I can attest, graduate students were warned
against the “sophism” of White’s way of thought. White has reordered the five
canons of rhetoric, elevating style above invention, and treating “evidence” with
almost as little attention as Quintilian or Aristotle, for whom evidence seems
to define what is brought forth using torture. White had been interested in
other things, and those other things led, again and again, to the aesthetic. Like
Walter Pater, Hayden White has attended to the forms of things; the subjects
are incidental. If you simply substitute “history” for poem and picture in the
following passage from Pater, White’s aesthetics will emerge:
That the mere matter of a poem [history], for instance—its subject, its given
incidents or situation; that the mere matter of a picture [history]—the actual
circumstances of an event, the actual topography of a landscape—should be
nothing without the form, the spirit, of the handling; that this form, this mode
of handling, should become an end in itself, should penetrate every part of
the matter: this is what all art constantly strives after, and achieves in different
degrees.11
Given this attention to “the mode of handling,” otherwise known as “the

content of the form,” it is no surprise that White’s eye ranges from topic to
topic. “Hum a few bars,” and White will fake it, usually convincingly, because
the “given incidents or situation”—to repeat Pater’s words—are occasions for the
deployment of his formal system.
This system was first deployed in Metahistory, at which point it was schemati-
cally based on categories—the remarkable quadruple tetrad drawn from Vico,
Frye, Stephen C. Pepper, and Karl Mannheim. One might also include Erich
Auerbach, if only for the technique of using quotations as the guide to the
discourse. At this point, structuralism meant Claude Lévi-Strauss, Roman
Jakobson, and, interestingly, an unnamed Noam Chomsky. From Chomsky,
White derives the expression “deep structures,” which designates the role of
the Vichian tropes in the system. (As a later version of the system will put it,
the “deep structure” is the figure that is fulfilled in the surface expressions, or,
as Pater might have put it, “the spirit of the handling” penetrates the “mere
matter of a picture.”) Of course, the wired-in, Cartesian aspects of Chomskian
linguistics never had a place in the system. For White, the “deep structures”
were never so deep as to be more than “conventions.” Jakobson had provided
a general sense of how figures of speech (metaphor and metonymy) could be
inflated into cognitive models (similarity and contiguity), but White always
adapted what he needed, which was usually a broadly linguistic vocabulary,
particularly a description of the levels of language.
But, since there would be no way of arbitrating among the different modes of
explanation that might be chosen by a given historian (Organicism,

Contextualism, Mechanism, Formism) on the one hand, or the different modes
of emplotment he might use to structure his narrative (Romance, Comedy,
Tragedy, Satire) on the other, the field of historiography would appear to be rich
and creative precisely in the degree to which it generated many different possible
accounts of the same set of events and many different ways of figuring their
multiple meanings. At the same time, historiography would derive whatever
integrity it was supposed to have from its resistance to any impulse either to
move to the level of outright conceptualization of the historical field, as the
philosophy of history was inclined to do, or to fall into apprehension of chaos,
as the chronicler did.12
Insofar as there was a problem here, it lies in the consequences. White remarked,
citing the “aged Kant” at the end of Metahistory, that histories should be judged
on “moral and aesthetic” grounds, but the balance between them is hard to find.
In his lectures on Kant’s third Critique, Jean-François Lyotard writes: “the Idea
of freedom leads not to moral action but to aesthetic feeling.”13 And aesthetic
feeling is always a little scandalous, particularly among historians and in a time
that has turned away from formal poetics.
White has had little use for psychology in his work; he seems to share the
disdain for psychoanalysis displayed by Sartre and Foucault. His treatment of
Freud is as a tropologist and follows Émile Benveniste in its general direction.
And so we read in Metahistory White’s explanation of why a set of four person-
ality types are missing. In the first place, he says, “present-day” psychology
is as anarchic as history was in the nineteenth century, and therefore liable
to show the same interpretive forms that Metahistory found in historical
discourse. The second point is more important. Psychoanalysis is meant for
neurotics and psychotics, those who are by definition unable “to sublimate
successfully” their dominant obsessions. The geniuses discussed in Metahistory,
however, have demonstrated by their very accomplishments their “sublimative
capability.”14 This suggests that these people are to be defined not by who they
are, as psycho-genetically determined by Oedipal forces or by other business,

but rather by what they did. In producing their texts, they showed a sense
of freedom that White links with sublimation, but not quite in the Freudian
sense. White means that they acted as if they were free to choose their fates and
the family that they would conceive as their intellectual progenitors. All the
psycho-historical probing imaginable would be inadequate to change Marx’s or
Tocqueville’s ability to escape the mold of the doctrinaire, who acts within an
inescapable set of obsessions, but they have done this themselves by acts of will.
White’s choice of the word “sublimation” in Metahistory is clearly a figure of
the later de-sublimation that marked the turn-of-the-nineteenth-century profes-
sionalization (and thus ironization, in the bad sense) of historical discourse. The
freedom that sublimation brought for the Golden Age was an aesthetic freedom,
but it figured forth a Utopianism that sparked the imagination in a way that the
de-sublimated, professionalized history of the later nineteenth century could
not; and White is always an advocate for Utopianism. It is in the life of the mind
that real changes occur, because only there do we have that measure of freedom
that humanity is accorded. White’s treatment of Marx, like his treatment of
Freud and Foucault, is to choose him as an ancestor, but only insofar as he can
show strong family resemblances to White himself. So Marx becomes a dialec-
tical tropologist, even as he derides Utopias and seeks laws of history.15
Modernism is a kind of fulfillment rather than a reaction to earlier realisms.
It is a further elaboration of nineteenth-century history, which now appears
as a figure beginning to be fulfilled: “It is not history that is being rejected
but the nineteenth-century form of it.”16 Hayden White’s relationship with
the nineteenth century in Europe is complex. In general, he splits it into the
good nineteenth century and the bad nineteenth century. The good nineteenth
century is the early decades that saw the escape from Enlightenment historical
irony and the flowering of a garden of remarkably individualistic historical
visions. The bad nineteenth century begot the historical profession as we
know it, returning to an ironic stance, but in a worse form than had obtained
in the eighteenth century. It is an irony of “value-free” objectivism, not of the
detached aesthetic observer analyzed by Lionel Gossman.17 Gossman describes
a situation in which the factuality of history was taken to be problematic,
leaving the contemplative eighteenth-century observer free to reflect ironically
on the meaning of this questionable record. In this, Gossman asserts, “historical
narrative and fictional narrative were constructed in fundamentally similar
ways.”18 Freedom was the product of this ironic detachment. At the end of the
next century, as described by White, the irony was, on the contrary, that of the
newly professional historian, whose contemplation was detached because of the

purportedly “value free” methodology that formed the basis of his calling, thus
eliminating his status as a free and interested party. It was, notes White, the
outsiders to professional historiography who produced the speculative response
to the irony of the profession. And it is at this point in Metahistory that White,
famously, notes that the only reasons for preferring one form over another “are
moral or aesthetic ones.”19
The superiority of the Golden Age historians, if we code them according
to White’s system in Metahistory, is that they operate powerfully at the most
creative levels of language, the lexical and the semantic. In other words, they
felt free to create a new historical vocabulary, with new players, processes, and
functions, while, at the same time, they were able to project these lexical terms
into larger worlds of meaning that imaged a future of their dreams, often a
Utopian dream. We recall here the epigraph to Metahistory, from Bachelard:
“One can study only what one has first dreamed about.” If I may quote myself:
The epigraph of Metahistory, from Bachelard, stresses the importance of

dreaming to any kind of conceptualization. We must be free to dream, White
implies; this may be the only freedom we can hope for. And dreaming of a
different future, a future which is not emplotted in advance by the narrative
power of “realities,” must involve an enthusiasm for replotting the past in the
interest of other realities. Insofar as a certain sort of historicizing has served to
foreclose the openness of the past to redescriptions, reemplotments, representa-
tions of another kind, White resists.20
The lexical and semantic levels seem to be the avatars of poetry, its prefigura-
tions. Prose, on the other hand, is the fulfillment of grammar and syntax, the
middle levels of language, where the basic terms and ultimate meanings are
deployed, but rarely questioned. And the later nineteenth century, in giving
birth to the social sciences, renounced the dreams of the Golden Age and its
creative, sometimes Utopian, visions of humanity in time, replacing this with
narratives that aspired to re-presenting the past as it was, while marginalizing
versions of the past—those that might lead to a new direction or choice of
ancestry—as “philosophy of history,” a very different thing indeed. This is what
White told us in Metahistory.
Irony is the enemy throughout Metahistory. It was found in the debilitating
skepticism that the Enlightenment bequeathed to the Romantics, who had the
task of overcoming it, in White’s view, but again and again “fall” back into it.
The professionalization of history as a value-free sort of activity with truth as its
goal was the return of the repressed irony. In the eighteenth century, the man of
letters could look upon the past from a detached philosophical viewpoint, as did
David Hume or Edward Gibbon. A century later, the historian would try to be
equally detached, but the detachment came from a methodological stance based
on the exclusion of fundamental aspects that were either too basic or too grand.
But the way out of irony is through irony itself. If we can envision human
experience as a semantic field in which irony is only one of the possible plausible
(that is, “epistemologically responsible”) ways of figuring the story, then we
have a dialectical view that liberates us from indenture to any one vision. By
way of this higher ironic attitude, we leave irony behind as bondage, and enter
a new world of ironic freedom. We have only to will this to prove that “the
aged Kant was right, in short; we are free to conceive ‘history’ as we please,
just as we are free to make of it what we will.”21 Thus, we have an escape from
eighteenth-century irony, via Hegel and the dialectic, followed by a fall into
nineteenth-century irony, defined as the historicist straitjacket that rendered
illegitimate any fundamentally critical view of the past. And this was followed
by a new freedom made possible by a crisis:
The “crisis of historicism” into which historical thinking entered during the last
decades of the nineteenth century was, then, little more than the perception
of the impossibility of choosing, on adequate theoretical grounds, among the
different ways of viewing history which these alternative interpretive strategies
sanctioned.22
Another, related, strike against the nineteenth century was its neutering (White
speaks of feminization) of art as a significant cognitive authority, by suppressing
rhetoric in the interests of a masculinized discourse. Aestheticism and utilitari-
anism marginalize both art and rhetoric, which might otherwise have offered
genuine insights into the nature of power relations in society and shown the
other elements of the trivium, grammar and logic, to be tropic alternatives
within a fully articulated human community.23 Rhetoric claims to know the
secret to both the poetic and the practical; namely, that they are essentially one,
a figural product through and through.24 Rhetoric is the mediator, as dialectic
had been earlier.
But there is yet another suppression to be blamed on the nineteenth century,
namely, the suppression of the historical sublime, presented as the apprehension
of the meaninglessness of history. For “Ranke and his epigones,” whatever
problems might be encountered in historical reflection are to be attributed to
“surface phenomen[a],” gaps in the evidence, errors in archival maintenance,
or basic human absent-mindedness—in other words, precisely the mistakes

in the grammar and syntax of historical processing that White’s “system”
had found to be part of the bad nineteenth century.25 The overall fault of this
nineteenth century was its insistence upon finding meaning in things, or rather,
its resistance to meaninglessness. For it is meaninglessness that White believes
will push us toward the freedom that is there for the taking. The impediment
to our proper sense of meaninglessness is narrative; as Roland Barthes notori-
ously commented, language is fascist, not because it prevents us from speaking,
but, on the contrary, because it forces us to do so. So it is with narrative, White
maintains, which will control us via emplotment to such an extent that even
a work purposely bereft of plot becomes a fully emplotted statement of the
plotless—for example, Jacob Burckhardt. What White is calling for is what
Barthes announced in his 1968 essay “The Death of the Author”—the victory
of the reader over the author.26 Like the “text” for Barthes, history may be seen
as a vast Utopian space, where no code, no trope, no plot can claim interpretive
preeminence.
The danger, for White, is not meaninglessness, but meaning, because it
is everywhere, invisible, embedded in everything. The “middle voice” that
Barthes, Derrida, Heidegger, and White found intriguing, not as a grammatical
device, but as a functional recasting of subjectivity, seemed appealing precisely
because it threw a monkey wrench into the situation of agency that underlay
meaning. Barthes may have seen the demise of the middle voice as the start
of modernity, and it may well resemble what Derrida had in mind with his
notion of différance; but White, in proposing it as a proper mode of representing
the Holocaust and other “modernist events,” cannot resist bringing up the
nineteenth century again. Cultural modernism is a reaction to the nineteenth
century’s goal of describing reality realistically, “where reality is understood to
mean ‘history’ and realistically means the treatment not only of the past but
also of the present as ‘history.’ ”27 And this, the present as history, I take to mean
full of meaning, emplotment, constrained. Above all, it is part of a narrative.
It is Barthes again who remarks that the world is drowning in narratives, that
they are “numberless,” and that narrative is “international, transhistorical,
transcultural, narrative is there, like life.”28 This is the present as history, a world
always already told. But Barthes dreams of a world that would be “exempt from
meaning,” not in order to imagine a pre-meaning (reality itself), but rather to
imagine a post-meaning, where he imagines a “utopia of suppressed meaning.”29
One way of resisting the present as history, full of received meaning in received
narrative, would be to imagine yourself as free to choose your past, your
genealogy, your reality. If you are the self-proclaimed fulfillment of something

that happened long ago and far away, then your present ceases to be history and
becomes something else.
It is hardly surprising that White would find this figural dynamic; it was
inherent in his ideas from an early date. In 1967, White cancelled one of his
graduate seminars; it was on European thought in the 1920s. We graduate
students wondered where he had gone, and so we asked him when he
returned. He replied simply that he had been in Colorado speaking at a biology
conference. Years later I read in the proceedings of the conference what he said
there; I mention it here because I think it should be better known, although
both David Harlan and I have discussed it in Re-Figuring Hayden White.30 White
claimed that our human status as biological creatures, obeying the biological
system of genetics, is meaningful to us only to a limited extent. Insofar as we
lead “distinctively human lives” within time and change, we must take into
account what he calls a “historical system” (the title of the talk was “What Is a
Historical System?”), which reverses the genetic logic of biology. Our biological
ancestors may determine who we are as animals, but when it comes to our
cultural genealogy, we are in charge, at least potentially, because we choose our
ancestors. White’s example was the end of the ancient world, explained in three
lines.
What happened between the third and eighth centuries was that men ceased
to regard themselves as descendants of their Roman forbears and began to treat
themselves as descendents of their Judeo-Christian predecessors.31
White’s summary: “I am suggesting that historical systems differ from biological

systems by their capacity to act as if they could choose their own ancestors.”32
This fictional cultural ancestry was the crisis of the Roman world—to act as if
one were free. By converting in some way to Christianity, they were choosing as
ancestors a group of Eastern Mediterranean Jews who had lived centuries before
and had nothing to do with their biological forebears. This happened, for some
reason, but it happened.
The 1967 talk at the biology conference contained within it the figure that was
fulfilled by White’s later turn to figuralism as a form of realism different from
the genetic kind. Figuralism, as White redefined it, does not see the present as
history (as a determined thing), and figural realism, as Auerbach conceived
of it, is a special form of mimesis. It is what Nietzsche must have had in mind
when he said that historians begin to believe backwards; White’s figuralism is
a choosing backwards. The figure, as Lyotard might put it, is what “will have
been the case,” the future anterior. Because White’s notion of narrative is based
on emplotment, rather than on voice or topic; the plot creates the tale, and it
does this backwards. Only at the end of the tale do we know whether we have a
comedy, tragedy, or whatever. Figuralism in its original form as a mechanism for
narrative imagines a very narrow cosmos, with only two dimensions—forward
and backward, prolepsis and analepsis; it is all the product of the arrow of time,
at least on a given level of discourse. Only with the fulfillment do we know the
figure’s truth. But the figure lends itself to foreshadowing for those who claim to
be armed with special insight, as the fulfillment does to backshadowing.
Backshadowing turns the past into a tightly emplotted drama, and insists
that the actors (like stage actors) pretend not to know what the ending will be,
but actually do know, or ought to. Signs of the denouement are being signaled
throughout the drama. As Chekhov said, if a gun hangs over the mantle in the
first act, it must go off by the end of the third. It is the outcome that determines
what events occur in the drama—everything is focused backwards. And we
judge the actors by the outcome, because we have the feeling that they should
have known.33
Was the Holocaust the inevitable result of cultural and political events, or
the free choice of individuals who could have been stopped? The preference
for the former attitude, I think, is an attempt to match the magnitude of the
event with a large and powerful explanatory mechanism. To say that it was all
the fault of a handful, or even a nation, of individuals, is to diminish the event.
It was, however, an unimaginable event. The paradoxes of backshadowing are
described by Michael André Bernstein:
On a historical level, there is a contradiction between conceiving of the Shoah

as simultaneously unimaginable and inevitable. On an ethical level, the contra-
diction is between saying no one could have foreseen the triumph of genocidal
anti-Semitism, while also claiming that those who stayed in Europe are in part
responsible for their fate because they failed to anticipate the danger.34
Bernstein’s warning against backshadowing—presuming that the truth of the

fulfillment was evident in its figure at the time of the figure—reminds us that
figural understanding has its dangers. Because in the present, if it is seen as
history, fulfillments are apparent and choose their figures, but figures are
much harder to make out. What we take to be great events may turn out to be
forgotten; the thing that was not noticed may assume a great meaning.
This absence of a clear historical meaning in an open present has something
of the sublime about it, bringing into view another concept from White’s
armory. Lyotard comes close to describing the open figure, without a fulfillment
in view, in his evocation of the sublime. “It takes place, on the contrary, when
the imagination fails to present an object which might, if only in principle, come
to match a concept.”35
White has used the example of a promise to illustrate the relation of figure
and fulfillment. To make a promise is to put in place a figure, which may or may
not be fulfilled—or “kept,” as we say of promises. If kept, the figure-fulfillment
logic is maintained, according to this example. Certainly, Christian doctrine
(but not Jewish) would see the commandments given to Moses on Mount
Zion as a figural promise, waiting to be “kept” or fulfilled by the Beatitudes
of the Sermon on the Mount in the New Testament. Presumably, without the
New Testament fulfillment that forms the model for Dante’s, and Auerbach’s,
and White’s figuralism, the Old Testament would be waiting for an infusion of
spiritual meaning that could be provided only by a Messiah. And, to be sure, this
describes the attitude of hopefulness in the Hebrew messianic tradition. This is
not to say that there is any explicit theological foundation in any of the modern
discourses of figuralism and narrative, although in Walter Benjamin we find a
historical theorist who might disagree. The post-theological role of the figure,
however, remains.
What I am suggesting here is that the notion of figuralism that is the basis of
narrative understanding and of historical reasoning, as White describes it, has
a Messianic anticipation at its heart. Like the Jewish wish at Passover—“Next
year in Jerusalem”—there is a hopefulness, a speech-act that reaches out for a
fulfillment that may or may not come. This is a “hopeful monster,” an unfulfilled
figure. (I borrow the phrase “hopeful monsters” from genetics, where it once
described a mutant that survives and may lead to a new species.) What has
interested me about figuralism is the idea of the unfulfilled figure. Any event
may become a figure, but that cannot happen until it is fulfilled, somehow, for
some reason. Then we may view it as a foreshadowing of the later happening;
the usual rhetoric of prolepsis and analepsis is pertinent. Until the fulfillment
has occurred, which is to say nothing other than that we have chosen the former
(or lower level) happening as our figure, the candidate for figurehood is an
orphan, unclaimed like a pound puppy. At that point—and that point may well
last forever—it has no meaning historically, but it may potentially become many
things.
The unfulfilled figures that I have called “hopeful monsters” resemble both
Lyotard’s happenings for which we do not yet have concepts, and Giorgio
Agamben’s “whatevers.”
Lyotard writes: “Those are Ideas of which no presentation is possible.

Therefore, they impart no knowledge about reality (experience); they also
prevent the free union of the faculties which gives rise to the sentiment of the
beautiful; and they prevent the formation and stabilization of taste. They can be
said to be unpresentable.”36 These are not events because they lack the essential
narrativity needed to constitute an event of any magnitude. So I call them
“happenings,” part of the “advent,” the undifferentiated happenings in time.37
As it happens, the best description I know of for the nature and import of these
hopeful monsters is in Leo Tolstoy, where they are a theater of sideshadows, an
endlessly complex set of possibilities, things that might become events. Precisely
because we live in time—except when we play the role of narrators, historical
or other, and know how the story comes out—we share the uncertainty of the
hopeful monsters, waiting for something to create a plot, or perhaps not. And
this is what White describes at the conclusion of his essay on War and Peace
as Tolstoy’s message: “History is not something that one understands; it is
something one endures—if one is lucky.”38
There is another aspect of the novel, however, that White, surprisingly,
resists, even as he takes note of it. This is the sense that the meaning of it all
is, to use Saul Morson’s words, “hidden in plain view,” in the tiny, innumerable
happenings of everyday life. White writes of the Epilogue to the novel: “nothing
really happens,” and blames Tolstoy for simply tacking on the final epilogue that
recounts what became of the principals of the story a decade later.39 The novel
“stumbles to a close,” as though Tolstoy were bored and “somewhat irritated”
with his characters. The fulfilled Natasha, for instance, ferociously domestic and
matronly, has lost her figure. Echoing Yeats, White asks: “Did she put on this
new spirit with the weight she gained after her marriage?” He is frustrated, but
by what?
In his book on War and Peace, written two decades before White’s essay on
Tolstoy, Morson accuses White of embracing “simultaneously the two epistemo-
logical poles between which Pierre alternates.”40 These poles are that historical
events are meaningless, and that this meaninglessness is a good thing, for it
leads to a sublime embrace of transformative action. Perhaps Pierre Bezhukov
is not the worst character to resemble. He becomes, after all, the richest man
in Moscow and the husband of Natasha, but it may be useful to examine this
not unperceptive observation before looking further at what White has written
since on Tolstoy’s “mastertext.”
What would it mean to say that historical events are meaningless? This
proposition must presume some situation in which human beings, considering
history, find no meaning there and consequently derive no lesson from their
contemplation. And it is not hard to come to this conclusion on the basis of
one of White’s major works, the essay “The Politics of Historical Interpretation,”
where he talks about the suppression of the historical sublime. At crucial points,
his syntax becomes quite tortured. For example, two sentences:
What is ruled out by conceiving the historical object in such a way that not
to conceive it in that way would constitute prima facie evidence of want of
“discipline”?41
And:
In my view, the theorists of the sublime had correctly divined that whatever
dignity and freedom human beings could lay claim to could come only by way
of what Freud called a “reaction-formation” to an apperception of history’s
meaninglessness.42
The triple negation of the first sentence, a rhetorical question that seems to
require the answer, historical meaninglessness, and a clear acknowledgment of
history’s meaninglessness in the second, are misleading. They imply only that
“history” has no meaning apart from the interpretive activity of the humans
who make it. What White has asserted is not that history has no meaning, but
rather that it possesses many meanings, as many as the protocols of our age and
situation, and the force of our need and will, afford us. At the level of historical
reflection, there will always be a meaning—or contesting meanings—offered,
because there will always be a situation in which people must suffer and hope.
At the level of metahistorical reflection, however, these meanings are figures
of our capacity to create meanings, a capacity White has been describing since
Metahistory. This is why the metahistorical level views the level of practice
ironically.
It is important to keep in mind when considering the systematic Hayden
White that there are usually two levels at which the same thing has different
consequences. The model for this may be said to be Kant’s Analytic of the
Sublime, where at one level, we feel pain, anxiety, and even terror (as Edmund
Burke had noted) when confronted with something that escapes our conceptual
abilities. At another level, however, this produces pleasure, the pleasure of
the sublime, because we are able to observe ourselves considering aesthetic
ideas that surpass mere nature. So it is with irony, which is dispiriting when
it dominates the field of experience, as was the case in the late eighteenth
century, but liberating when it considers the field of experience as open to many
conceptions, of which the former sort of irony is only one. So it is with narrative,
which is oppressive when it reveals to us the fulfillment for all possible figures in
the form of a masterplot; this is the Grand Narrative (grand récit) that Lyotard
associated with totality. However, the only escape from this turns out to be a
multitude of little narratives (petits récits) that reveal to us, not the many sides of
reality, but our many powers of rendering and fulfilling the figures that we have
chosen. Finally, meaning, as Barthes or Tolstoy feared, can saturate the world
and present us with the banal, useless maps that we encounter everywhere. Yet
an explosion of meanings in a truly creative world (of modern art, for example)
has the opposite effect. More irony, more narratives, more meanings, and, of
course, more histories, are the only antidotes to the problem. And they must
be taken at a different level, an aesthetic level, which will concern itself with,
as Pater said, the forms of things. This reverses the normal hierarchy, in which
the more general transcends the multiplicity, and demonstrates its true content.
And this reversal is the scandal of the aesthetic.
Tolstoy believes in “creation by potential,” in which every moment of time
has a vast number of potentials, all the things that might (or might not) follow
from the moment. Things that might, in other words, figure forth many possible
fulfillments. “Each present moment is to have its own irreducible integrity, and
to demand details that are potentially, but perhaps not actually, significant.”43
What I am saying is that reality, the lives we lead, consist of unfulfilled figures,
which we persistently mistake for, on the one hand, proper completions of past
foreshadowings, and, on the other, as reliable prognostications of the future
dreams we project. The idea that, at any moment, our plans may go anywhere
at all is disheartening, because it suggests that our wills cannot prevail and that
our history may be, well… meaningless. Tolstoy’s novel may be read as a satire
on the human propensity for planning; or put another way, it challenges our
relentless optimism that our actions are figures that will lead to great fulfill-
ments. Again, Morson:
Novels, like histories, are themselves ‘plans’—or models—of how we plan. They,
too, select a few causal lines from among the indefinitely large number that
govern real events, are written and read according to tricks of art and memory,
and cannot escape from their implicit participation—and implication—in the
historical process.44
And White has noted this:
And at the very end of the novel, in the epilogue that shows us the Bezukhov
and Rostov families in 1820, Karataev is invoked as a test for Pierre’s desire to
return to the world of society and take part in a political movement. Natasha
asks Pierre whether Karataev would have approved of him and his plans to enter
the political fight. “No, he would not have approved,” said Pierre after reflection.
“What he would have approved of is our family life. He was always so anxious
to find seemliness, happiness, and peace in everything, and I should have been
proud to let him see us.” This is the last scene in the novel. It is not an ending,
but we have no idea what the future holds for Pierre and Natasha.45
Here, surprisingly, White calls out for meaning, for narrative fulfillment, some
hint that a thousand-odd pages of life will pay off for the survivors, whom he
calls “vapid representatives of [Tolstoy’s] growing archaism.”46 Perhaps. But it is
also possible to see them as living in sideshadows, like us, with “no idea what
the future holds.” Although Pierre is always energetically searching for whatever,
Natasha knows herself to be a “whatever,” that is, in Giorgio Agamben’s terms,
she is a singularity that is determined by the “totality of its possibilities.”47 This
knowledge disrupts the present as history (and goodness knows, they have
experienced a lot of history—Pierre had Napoleon in his gunsight!). It frustrates
narrative. Instead of archaism, one might find modernism here, a rejection of
what was bad—in White’s own terms—about the nineteenth century. White
says that Tolstoy gives us a feel for the territory, not a map; the nineteenth
century was full of maps. They turned any present into its history, rather than
its possibilities.
White is ambivalent about everyday life and its pathos. If the “hopeful
monsters” that we all are are not fulfilled, so that a backshadowing choice of
direction can mark our taking charge of ourselves in an existential gesture, we
lack narrative interest. And, as Hans Ulrich Gumbrecht writes, White is not
alone in this:
In Auerbach’s eyes fate as concrete everyday life was always depressing. But he
also experienced everyday life as always elevating and exhilarating because it
implied the obligation to impose the forms of composure and authentic individ-
uality to the suffering which it caused. This may have been why Auerbach,
instead of trying to escape his contemporary world, eagerly exposed himself to
the fate of its challenges and trials.48
Dante’s idea of life as figural, to be fulfilled in another life, as the Old Testament
is fulfilled in another dispensation, inspires Auerbach to emphasize Dante’s
originality in asserting the essential historical reality of this life, thus rejecting
any notion that it is merely allegorical or symbolic or in any other sense less
than fully real. It is in this sense that Dante’s Comedy is a landmark in the
Western idea of realistic representation that Auerbach took as his subject. And
yet, there is also the sense in Dante that the figure—the unenlightened human
life of Francesca or Brunetto Latini—is preordained, in the mind of God at least.
Neither Auerbach nor White present figuralism as an explicit theology, but there
is a hint of this in the idea that the figure is like a promise. In this presentation,
as White puts it forth, the figure is always linked to a potential fulfillment from
the moment of its emergence in the flow of events. Often, this is the case: decla-
rations of war imply conclusions, victory or defeat; coronations imply reigns, as
birth implies life and death. There are, however, many happenings that imply
nothing, or rather that imply anything at all. These happenings generally have
no (intrinsic) meaning or importance, but sometimes they become crucial to
human events. Insofar as they have no importance, they are not exactly figures,
because no fulfillment attaches itself to them at the moment of their appearance.
And it is unlikely that these events will ever be fulfilled in any way. They promise
nothing. It is tempting to say that from a historical perspective it is these events
that cause “the reality effect” that Roland Barthes has described as a part of
realist literature. The reality effect is characteristic of description, as opposed
to narrative, and it is scandalous for narrative, which Barthes believes to be as
figurally organized as White does, although he never uses the term.
Description is entirely different: it has no predictive mark; “analogical,” its

structure is purely summatory and does not contain that trajectory of choices
and alternatives which gives narration the appearance of a huge traffic-control
center, furnished with a referential (and not merely discursive) temporality.49
In other words, Barthes presents narrative in the same controlling, backward-

looking mode as White. In a narrative, the end determines the beginning; the plot
establishes what leads up to its outcome; the fulfillment entails all of its figures. This
is the traffic-control center. The items that are not entailed, however, and appear to
be purely descriptive and arbitrary, are scandalous to narrative because they seem
to be outside the economy of figuralism. Barthes famously names and validates
these things as the “reality effect”—giving significance to the insignificant. What
they signify is reality itself. In a written narrative, for a formalist reader, these reality
effects will remain significantly insignificant permanently. Nothing will call them
to life, because their function is residual. They are the residue that points away from
the excessive organization of narrativity toward the unredeemed meaninglessness
of “concrete reality.” The tension between text and life is found here.
It is important to distinguish Roland Barthes’s reality effect from the mimesis
of Erich Auerbach. White correctly describes Auerbach’s mimesis—a fully
historicized vision of human reality—with the fulfilled figure. “The figure-

fulfillment model is, therefore, a model for comprehending the syntagmatic
dimensions of historical happening and for constructing the narrative line for
the presentation of that history.”50 This notion of reality as “syntagmatic” and as
having a narrative “line” is precisely the opposite of what Barthes meant by his
“reality effect.” Barthes understood that syntax and line were effects of narrative,
and that narrativity, once foregrounded, undercut any sense of reality that was
not a construction. Therefore, he posited a residue that was not part of any
syntax and did not fit into a storyline. The element of this residue was a hopeful
monster, and its presence attested to a reality that was not entirely under the
control of narrative. When White speaks of the “mimesis effect” in his book on
figuralism, he reminds us that the Western representation of reality described
by Auerbach is in the thrall of narrative, which is a form whose content, he
has often explained, is realistic only in a highly mediated way. This mediation,
according to Barthes, ceaselessly substitutes meaning for a copy of events
themselves. White comments: “And it would follow that the absence of narrative
capacity or a refusal of narrative indicates an absence or refusal of meaning
itself.”51 Here we have precisely the monstrousness of the unfulfilled figure—it is
abandoned, meaningless, a copy of pure reality.
Figuralism, as described by White and Auerbach, is the controlling brain
of any meaningful representation of human reality. It is what makes narrative
work. The question is whether it is a standing insult to the dignity of human
life, suggesting as it does in this account that promises have been made that
are to be kept, even though we all know that they rarely are, and that life is as
disillusioning as Stendhal and Flaubert make it out to be. From the start, White
has held to Louis Mink’s declaration that narratives are human creations, not
found in the historical record, but rather constructed after the fact. For White,
it is important to note that these constructions are made for specific human
purposes; the meaning of life is placed there by people acting out of their own
motives. This attitude toward narrative and history has been disputed, notably
by David Carr, whose phenomenological perspective clashes with the existen-
tialism of White.
We argue, by contrast, that action, life, and historical existence are themselves
structured narratively, independently of their presentation in literary form, and
that this structure is practical before it is aesthetic or cognitive. This is not to
say that the literary embodiment of narrative is incidental to the life from which
it springs, or that it has no effect on that life. We have said of historical writing
that it is an extension of historical existence, its continuation by other means;
something similar could be said of fiction in relation to individual existence,

though we have not tried to argue that here. The effect of both forms of writing
on the culture from which they derive is unmistakable. But what they provide
is examples of how the narrative form can be filled in, representations of how
to live, both as individuals and as communities. But they do not provide the
narrative form itself.52
Carr believes that the traffic-control center that Barthes found in narrative
and its figural entailment is an aspect of human life, which is frighten-
ingly dominated by the relationship of figure and fulfillment that produces
narrative meaning. He writes of stories: “They are told in being lived and lived
in being told. The actions and sufferings of life can be viewed as a process
of telling ourselves stories, listening to these stories, and acting them out or
living them through.”53 The scripted quality of life in this rendering is similar
to the scripted artificiality of narrative. It is just that we have the script in
our heads, collectively.
My contention is simply that there is a contradiction between the closed
text of figuralism, in which everything is taken to be a promise in the mind
of some great promise-keeper, and the open world of the untellable sublime,
where we can speak of things only in terms of a language drawn from another
universe—of “hopeful monsters” and “reality effects” and “unfulfilled figures.”
This latter world, I suggest, is the one we live in, and try to overcome by fitting
our lives into the narratives—that is, by becoming the figures—that David Carr
describes. Redeeming the everyday would seem to be the point of this, but
Tolstoy reminds us that in everyday life, with no promises and no need for hope
of anything better, let alone a hope for “the historical,” we find all the meaning
there is, and all that we need.
By transforming the horizontal figuralism of the Church Fathers (Old
Testament figures and New Testament fulfillments) and the vertical figuralism
of Dante (earthly figures and fulfillments in eternity) into a narrative figuralism
that is both horizontal and vertical, White has inflated the figural process in a
way analogous to his inflation of the rhetorical tropes into narrative devices in
Metahistory.54 The inflated figuralism that White puts forth is horizontal in its
relation to emplotment—what happens in a discourse will be shown to have
meaning at the later moment when the plot has emerged. In this sense, every-
thing is to be made meaningful in a narrative precisely because narrative is
figural in its essence. At the same time, White notes, any portion of a discourse
may figure forth another discursive layer by serving as a microcosmic generator
of the broader view; for a text may be a figure to be fulfilled in its interpretive
rendering, which becomes itself a figure to be fulfilled in an examination of its

context, and so forth. This is the method Auerbach uses in Mimesis. Citation is
the classic example. To include a foreign body—the cited text—into one’s own
textual world is to seek a way to generate another world, using the cited text as
a synecdoche for one or another aspect of its possible contexts. Auerbach, to be
sure, uses the inflatable figure throughout Mimesis. It is White, however, who
identifies and articulates this device.
White understood figuralism before it became a concept in his system. The
fulfillment of a figure, after all, is nothing more than a backward attribution of
meaning or historical relevance; it is the move by which the present takes hold
of the past and makes of it what is necessary. And this is what White has been
describing, on the one hand, and calling for, on the other, for decades. His call
is for the assertion of the rights of the present. The present, however, is a divided
thing in this view. We can make meaning by fulfilling the figures of our past,
either as interpreters, or, as David Carr would assert, in our ordinary lives,
as agents, private or historical. But in another sense we are cast as “hopeful
monsters,” living everydays that have no compelling narrative shape, except the
importance of their ordinariness, the ordinariness of reality before it becomes a
narrative “effect.” This meaning is “hidden in plain view,” and it describes what
I have called the hopeful monster, the unfulfilled figure. It is not the present
as history, but as present; and it is something any “figural realism” should take
note of.
8
Rhetorical Theory/Theoretical Rhetoric: Some

Ambiguities in the Reception of Hayden
White’s Work
Gabrielle M. Spiegel
It goes without saying that one hardly needs to stress the critical importance
of Hayden White’s work to the development of historical thought over the
last thirty-five years. Yet the precise ways it which that body of work was
understood, and the complex response that the historical profession had and
continues to have to Professor White’s formulations concerning the nature
of history and historiography is not equally evident. On the one hand, there
is abundant evidence of resistance to his theories, to the point of active (if at
times stealthy) rejection. On the other, there is also widespread recognition
that Metahistory: The Historical Imagination in Nineteenth-Century Europe
represented a significant intervention into questions of historical thought and
writing, ignored only at one’s peril. Having said this, however, it remains the
case that the mixed response to White, initially to Metahistory, and then to the
subsequent volumes of essays, was complicated by what I think were ambigu-
ities in his theory of rhetoric and in the rhetorical ways in which he elaborated
it, ambiguities that engendered correspondingly divergent tendencies and
ambiguities in its reception.
In my view, these ambiguities were of a double nature, that is to say, they
were both contextual and textual and involved not only these two domains in
themselves, but the ways in which they interacted in his writings. Contextual,
in the sense that it was not always easy to locate White’s evolving propositions
about the linguistic character of all historical narration within the larger field
of theory, both structuralist and poststructuralist, that was, during the seventies
and eighties, being deployed to large effect in all the humanistic disciplines.
Textual, in the sense that White himself entertained ambiguous positions on
major issues such as referentiality, relativism, linguistic mediation and the

like that were at the same time being considered anew under the pressure of a
broad variety of critical theories, which in the historical fields eventually came
together under the rubric of “the linguistic turn,” a phrase that only occasionally
appeared in White’s work.
Metahistory appeared in 1973, the same year that Clifford Geertz’s The
Interpretation of Cultures was published. What seemed to tie the two together,
for those of us who read them more or less at the same time, was their common
reliance on Northrop Frye for some key concepts concerning the nature of
literary texts, since Geertz, no less than White, embraced a textualist position.
While The Interpretation of Cultures, in many ways, owed more to Northrop
Frye’s theory of archetypes than to semiotics proper, Geertz clearly grasped
and argued for a semiotic concept of culture as an “interworked system of
construable signs,” which was to be the object of an interpretive, rather than
a functionalist, anthropology. In his classic essay, “Deep Play: Notes on a
Balinese Cockfight,” Geertz put to anthropological use Frye’s insistence that
the meaning of literary texts is expressive and formal, not instrumental, by
treating the Balinese cockfight as a “sustained symbolic structure,” a way “of
saying something of something,” whose meaning was to be understood not
as a problem of social mechanics (how cockfights functioned within Balinese
society to reinforce status, deploy power, advance interests, etc.), but of social
semantics.1 Geertz’s brand of cultural anthropology, as he later claimed, was
“preadapted to some of the most advanced varieties of modern opinion,” which
he defined as “the move toward conceiving of social life as organized in terms
of symbols (signs, representations, signifiants, Darstellungen… the terminology
varies), whose meaning (sense, import, signification, Bedeutung…) we must
grasp if we are to understand that organization and formulate its principles.”2
Geertz’s and White’s common use of Frye and their mutually insistent focus on
textuality—which in White’s case lay at the heart of his critique of nineteenth-
century historicism and its fantasies of objectivity and transparency—meant,
I think, that willy-nilly, White was pulled by the force of this context into
a semiotic camp that he both inhabited and seemed often to neglect, if not
downright disavow.
Indeed, in his writings, it was never entirely clear exactly where White
stood in relation to semiotics, and hence to structuralism, not to mention
poststructuralism. For a “theoretician” of historical narration as a fundamen-
tally linguistic and literary art, he was and long remained disconcertingly
vague about his precise understanding of how language, as such, functioned
Rhetorical Theory/Theoretical Rhetoric 173
and what he believed to be its intrinsic nature—which is only a way of saying

that he was fairly disinterested in linguistics. And this remains the case despite
his strong focus on rhetoric, for rhetoric is primarily a theory of how language
works, rather than of what language is. Thus Robert Doran is surely correct in
noting that, “although White sometimes calls himself a structuralist, his point
of departure is not Saussurean semiology but Vichian rhetoric.”3
Nonetheless, White often seemed to embrace a semiotic model of language.
Two early essays, “The Problem of Change in Literary History” (in New Literary
History in 1975)4 and “Method and Ideology” (in the important collection
edited by Dominick LaCapra and Stephen Kaplan in 1982),5 appeared to
endorse a semiotic understanding of language in phrases like the following:
“language is an instrument of mediation between human consciousness and the
world that consciousness inhabits” (an assertion later repeated in “Fictions of
Factual Representation”).6 This impression, moreover, was strongly reinforced
by the constant references in his writings to Claude Lévi-Strauss, Roland
Barthes, Michel Foucault, and even Jacques Derrida, which seemed to align
him with both structuralism and potentially with poststructuralism of the
Derridian sort, although it soon became clear that White was not a poststruc-
turalist, for all the reasons that Hans Kellner powerfully explained in terms of
White’s “linguistic humanism,”7 and which soon enough became apparent in
White’s essay on the “absurdist moment.”8 But White often offered approving
judgments of the importance of Barthes, such as we find in “Literary Theory
and Historical Writing,” in which he noted that “Barthes proffered the ‘text’ in its
modern linguistic-semiotic conceptualization as a new object… [I]f we follow
out the implications of this suggestion, we can begin to grasp the significance
of modern literary theory for the understanding of what is involved in our own
efforts to theorize historical writing.”9 This sort of statement pointed, especially
at the time, to structuralism as a governing scheme in White’s understanding
of both history and historical writing, hence constituting another contextual
pull towards the linguistic turn, however possibly misguided. White’s failure to
specify his operative understanding of language (and his articulated disinterest
in linguistics) left his “system” very much within the confines of neoclassical
rhetoric, where, of course, he intended it to reside. But coming as it did in the
midst of the linguistic turn, with its espousal of a strongly semiotic and even
poststructuralist/deconstructive view of language, White’s strong pronounce-
ments on the importance of language and literary theory for historical writing
were bound to be conflated with the foregoing by historians for the most part
not accustomed to thinking along these lines.
Where White seemed to depart from the structuralist critics, whom he

otherwise deployed to such great effect, was on the question of the degree to
which language served not only as a mediating force between “consciousness
and the world it inhabited,” but actually “constituted” reality via its particular
linguistic mechanisms. After all, the key innovation of semiotics was to
consider language not as a reflection of the world it captures in words, but
as constitutive of that world, that is, as “generative” rather than “mimetic.”
In structuralist and poststructuralist thought, mediation functions not, to
borrow Fredric Jameson’s definition, via “the intervention of an analytic
terminology or code which can be applied equally to two or more structurally
distinct objects or sectors of being”10 but rather, as Theodore Adorno defines
it, “is in the object itself, not something between the object and that to which
it is brought,” a concept of mediation that attempts to abolish (or overcome)
dualism altogether.11 In this view, mediation is an active process that
constructs its objects in precisely the sense that poststructuralism conceives
of the social construction of reality in and through language. Hence language
is anterior to the world it shapes, and what we experience as “reality” is but
a socially (i.e. linguistically) constructed artifact or “effect” of the particular
language systems we inhabit.
But did White share this view? And if not, why did he seem to by deploying
aspects of semiotic theory and by citing structuralists and poststructuralists so
often and so approvingly in his work? White’s self-designation as a “formalist”
did not necessarily resolve the question, since it defined his conception of how
the historian approaches narrative, rather than how he approaches “reality” (i.e.
did research), a question that, as his commentators frequently noted, he often
bracketed in his work. Nor, as I hope to show in a moment, was the ambiguity
necessarily resolved by his initial and seemingly primary focus on Vico’s theory
of tropes, despite the fact that this placed him squarely in a rhetorical rather
than a semiotic context—but a rhetorical context of a rather special kind. It
was the ambiguities in his treatment of language that, I believe, led to both a
rejection and an acceptance of his narratology, whether presented in terms of
tropes or discourse.
I linger on this question because coming to terms with the ways in which
White understood (and understands) language is critical to comprehending his
notion of tropology and, with it, of the whole question of the referentiality of
language, the core question for all historians, who are compelled to investigate
an absent past primarily through the language the past itself generates. In short,
for most working historians, as Peter Haidu once put it, theory “is forced to
reckon with reference—as unsatisfactory as contemporary accounts of reference

may be—as a necessary function of language and all forms of representation.”12
Although White eventually came to focus more on discourse than tropology,
it was the centrality of tropes in Metahistory that conditioned the ways in
which historians understood his narratology and responded to his claims for
its importance. Richard Vann, in his article “The Reception of Hayden White,”
noted that patterns of citation to White and reviews of Metahistory written by
historians tended to focus on his use of Northrop Frye’s modes of emplotment
“to the exclusion of his more radical view of the underlying tropes.”13 Doubtless,
there were many reasons for this, not least the fact that the four primary tropes
identified in Vico’s neoclassical rhetoric were very hard to spell! But they were
also very hard to grasp as historiographical mechanisms in the particular way
that White presented them, since he so resolutely insisted that, following Vico,
tropes were not merely figures of speech (something even historians could
comprehend) but, rather, functioned as figures of thought and, indeed, as he
continued to elaborate his position, appeared to be analogous—even identical—
to cognitive modes and forms of consciousness. Historians were encouraged to
read him this way by statements such as “the figurative language used to charac-
terize the facts points to a deep structural meaning.”14 This placement of the
tropes on a deep level of consciousness, together with their “prefiguring” opera-
tions—critical for White’s critique of old-style historicism—inevitably raised the
question of whether the tropes were conventional (as literary figures of rhetoric)
or structural, perhaps the most fundamental ambiguity in White’s oeuvre, and
the one with the most powerful consequences; since if they were structural,
then it followed that the charges of relativism about the status of facts, data,
events, truth, etc., had a genuine basis in White’s thought.15 Moreover, it was
here that the earlier ambiguity about White’s relationship to structuralism and
the “linguistic turn” interacted (probably in ways that were not entirely welcome
to him) with his theories of tropes and discourse, so that ambiguities about
the former inflected one’s interpretation of the latter. In short, the question
was: at what point does the prefiguring operation of the tropes begin, and are
they constitutive, as well as ordering, of the historical record that makes up the
content in the form of the historical account?
To be sure, White was always careful to point out that historical events differ
from fictional events “in ways that it has been conventional to characterize
their differences since Aristotle,”16 and he often referred to “raw data,” the
“unprocessed historical record,” and “events in themselves” (“singular existential
statements”),17 and even considered the “chronicle” as a non-narrativized
form of historical writing, a position that, as someone who works on

medieval chronicles, I do not think really holds up and which, in any case,
he himself rejected in “The Problem of Change,” when he protested that
“the chronicle is a fiction which permits the historian to act as if he has
found a world of data which his theories can then fashion into a cogni-
tively secure body of knowledge… There is no such thing as a ‘chronicle,’
tout court, of anything; there are only histories more or less structured.”18
Moreover, the specific ways in which he talked about the tropes seemed to
belie his crucial exclusion of “data” and the “unprocessed historical record”
from the operation of troping, since he often suggested, as Dominick LaCapra
remarked, that such material was basically inert until animated—troped—
“by the shaping mind of the historian.”19 On the most fundamental level, if
we accept his definition that facts are “events under a description,”20 then the
mode of description would seem to be determined, in some stronger or weaker
sense, by the mode of troping employed. Indeed, White claimed that “there is
no such thing as a single correct original description of anything, on the basis of
which an interpretation of that thing can subsequently be brought to bear. All
original descriptions of any field of phenomena are already interpretations of its
structure.”21 Indeed, he claimed, one cannot, within discourse, “distinguish facts
from interpretation,”22 that is, from their (always) already troped forms. And
this does not even take into account the fact that historians, for the most part,
even in their archival work, deal with texts, that is, with already narrativized or
troped documents, making, as Dominick LaCapra repeatedly pointed out, the
distinction traditionally drawn between text and “document” problematic, since
both participate equally in the play and intertextuality of language itself. If facts
are prefigured by their original description, then it would seem that a literal
description of them is literally impossible.
This interpretative “reception” of White’s position was abetted by his view
that tropes “informed” the linguistic protocol the historian uses to prefigure the
field of historical occurrences singled out for investigation, suggesting that, as
in the case of semiotic theory, the linguistic protocol operates to constitute, and
not merely to describe, the historical field as such. Or, as the Introduction to
Tropics of Discourse appears clearly to state: “Tropics is the shadow from which
all realistic discourse tries to flee. This flight, however, is futile; for tropics is the
process by which all discourse constitutes the objects which it pretends only to
describe realistically and to analyze objectively.”23 Perhaps White only meant
to state the by-now anodyne position that there is no such thing as a historical
fact until the historian identifies it as such; but that is not exactly what he said,
and the association of the language of “constituting objects” with structuralist

and poststructuralist theory was unavoidable even for the best-intentioned and
most sympathetic reader.
The potentially legitimate identification by readers of troping as consonant
with a “linguistic turn” approach to the reality of the past was strongly
reinforced by White’s own analogizing of the process to other forms of
consciousness and cognition. To begin with, and on the most fundamental level,
White’s use of Vico and the explicit grounding of his theory of tropes in Vico’s
formulation of them clearly placed tropes at the level of figures of thought and
modes of historical consciousness, a position far too well known to require
rehearsal here. But White did not rest there. At various points he compared
the operation of Vico’s four tropes to the processes of dreamwork identified
by Freud in The Interpretation of Dreams, suggesting that they operated at a
level so deep as to be unconscious.24 Similarly, the comparison to Jean Piaget’s
stages of cognitive growth in children equally located them on a deep level of
modes of perception and comprehension, since as cognitive stages in the child’s
maturation, they were beyond the child’s conscious control.25 But perhaps the
most compelling source of confusion derived from White’s identification, in
his essay “Foucault Decoded,” of epistemic regimes with Vico’s tropes.26 For
if Foucauldian épistèmes were essentially, as White argued, forms of Vico’s
“master” tropes, then did the equation not run both ways, and were not tropes
essentially kinds of epistemes?27 And if this were true, did tropes not operate in
precisely the way that Foucault explained the workings of epistemic regimes,
that is, as composed of fundamental “codes of culture… that establish for every
man the empirical order with which he will be dealing.” Such codes, according
to Foucault, formed the “mental grids” with which people processed infor-
mation and thus lived their lives, constituting individual perception as an effect
of what Foucault called “the already encoded eye.”28 Or, as White himself put it
in that essay, language and the poetic act of representation determine “the very
contents of perception.”29 In that sense, the tropes, for White, may be conven-
tional in their intrinsic nature, but they appeared to be structural in the way that
they functioned as mental operations.30
White repeatedly shied away from these implications, asserting forthrightly,
in Figural Realism, for example, that “there is nothing in the theory implying
linguistic determinism or relativism. Tropology is a theory of discourse, not of
mind or consciousness. Nor does it suggest that perception is determined by
language” (but see above). Similarly: “Tropology does not deny the existence
of extra-discursive entities, or our capacity to refer to and represent them in
speech. It does not suggest that everything is language, speech, discourse or text,
only that linguistic referentiality and representation are much more complicated
matters than the older literalist notions of language and discourse made out.”31
But such defensive rhetoric in 1999, while wholly compatible with White’s
early and perduring insistence on human freedom—including the freedom to
choose one’s own past, as he says at one point—probably came too late for most
historians, who had focused on the prefiguring function of tropes. In that sense,
the rhetorical verve of the earlier articulations of his narrative and discursive
theories worked against a clear understanding of his theory of rhetoric. From
this perspective, White’s efforts to retain the integrity of the literal and extra-
discursive begins to look like an attempt to save the phenomenological along
with the phenomena.
The consequences of White’s notion of tropes as deep structures (if such it
was), understood in a more or less structuralist sense for the status of facts,
“data,” the “historical record,” and so on, are too obvious to describe here. Not
surprisingly, therefore, the ambiguities in White’s articulation of his position
and of its reception came to a head in the 1992 conference organized by Saul
Friedlander at the University of California, Los Angeles on “Probing the Limits
of Representation,” with the central question being how to write the Holocaust.
Here, the relativism inevitably stemming from White’s insistence on the inevita-
bility of formalist choices in the representation of the past came up against the
quasi-sacred character of the Holocaust and the perceived need to preserve it
from willful misrepresentation and, at the limit, revisionism, or what the French
more aptly term négationisme. The Holocaust was, as White himself had earlier
acknowledged, “the bottom line of the politics of interpretation, which informs
not only historical studies but the human and social sciences in general.”32
To understand the rather tortuous path that White sought to tread through
the question of representing the Holocaust, it helps, I think, to recall that 1992
was a moment when revisionism in France and elsewhere was at its height, as
was the corresponding effort to preserve the memory of the Holocaust and its
testamentary transmission, at a time when the generation that experienced it,
and hence served as the keepers of its memory, was approaching its demise.
It was also a moment when concern with the Holocaust was at its peak, after
decades of silence broken first only in the mid-sixties.33 There was, therefore,
a sense of urgency about preserving a literal record of the catastrophe, lest it
slip into oblivion or be delivered into the hands of the revisionists. At bottom,
the question turned on whether or not the representation of the Holocaust
should be allowed to be “normalized,” hence subject to the routine sorts of
reinterpretation that historical work always entails. It was as much against the
“normalization” of the Holocaust as against its denial that scholars like Berel
Lang struggled, although in my view unrealistically, to establish and preserve a
wholly literal, non-aestheticized account of the event.
White’s response to the charge of relativism was, I think, entirely forthright
and appropriate, in his continued insistence that “there is a certain inexpug-
nable relativity in every representation of historical phenomena. The relativity
of the representation is a function of the language used to describe and thereby
constitute past events as possible objects of explanation and understanding.”34
Thus, as White had already asserted in 1975, “there can be no such thing as
a non-relativistic representation of reality, inasmuch as every account of the
past is mediated by the language mode in which the historian casts his original
description of the historical field.”35 Relativism, in any case, had ceased to be a
genuine problem for historians as long ago as Carl Becker’s well-known presi-
dential address, “Everyman His Own Historian,” to the American Historical
Association in 1931,36 and it had been clearly laid to rest in the presidential
address of 1969 by C. Vann Woodward, who proclaimed with lapidary clarity
that “if physicists could live with relativity, historians could live with relativism.”37
Equally consistent was White’s fidelity to the notion that the Holocaust
could be represented and that, in the end, there were no grounds for necessarily
preferring one mode of troping and emplotting its representation over another,
other than a certain sense of appropriateness (decorum) or “elective affinity.”
But, in order to mitigate the seemingly unabashed, if “responsible relativism”
(in Ewa Domanska’s felicitous phrasing)38 of his position, White, in an attempt
to meet the rather stringent demands from participants in the conference
for a non- or minimally narrativized account of the Holocaust, had recourse
to the idea of the “middle voice” and recommended a modernist version of
“intransitive writing” to avoid the problem of unseemly aestheticization. To
those familiar with his work, this appeared to be a retreat from the most basic
positions that he had earlier set forth about the nature of historical represen-
tation as necessarily figural, in that it held out the conceptual possibility of a
sort of denarrativized (literalist) historical account along the lines Berel Lang
advocated (and Lang certainly understood it as such in his response to Hans
Kellner, Wulf Kansteiner, and Robert Braun in the Forum, “Representing the
Holocaust”).39 But also, I think, it did not work even on its own terms.
Leaving aside the fact that in Greek there are five grammatical forms of
the “middle voice”40 and that English has none, the notion that events could
“speak for themselves” seemed particularly unconvincing, coming, as it did,
from someone who had repeatedly indicated that history, past events, and
the facts “do not speak for themselves” and that “stories are not lived, they are
told,” are invented, not found. And, of course, if tropes are structural and not
merely conventional, then the notion of unmediated access to a past, which
in turn presents itself in literal form in the historian’s account, is a conceptual
impossibility. Notably, White himself insisted at the end of the essay that he
did not think that the Holocaust “is any more unrepresentable than any other
event in human history,”41 only that it required a new, modernist style for its
representation.
However, all the examples that White adduced of the kind of modernist
narrative that he had in mind were those of modernist—or, in the case of
Derrida, postmodernist—authors, the point being that, whatever their specific
character, they were produced by writers. But in the absence of an author, and
assuming a narrative other than that of the transcript of a survivor’s memories,
who, or what, writes the Holocaust? To suggest, in this context, that the events
might write themselves was, in effect, to endow them with Logos, and thus to
sacralize them in a way that might not disturb Lang, but surely runs counter to
everything White believes as a historian.
In this, whether intentionally or not, White’s position was aligned with that
of scholars like Shoshana Felman, Dori Laub, and Cathy Caruth who at the
time were working on Holocaust “traumatic” memory, but with the crucial
difference that he was talking about historians and their narratives and not
survivors and their testimony.42 His effort thus participated in what, at that
moment, I believed was a strenuous effort to recuperate “presence” after the
“linguistic turn,” although White himself has always denied access to presence
when dealing with the past, a position he reiterated as recently as February
2009 in a published conversation with Erlend Rogne.43 In this connection, it is
perhaps apposite to recall that Claude Lanzmann (often invoked in this context
as offering an exemplar of the kind of “distanced realism” that Friedlander,
among others, thought desirable for the representation of the Holocaust),44
explicitly maintained that “the purpose of the [film] Shoah is not to transmit
knowledge,”45 and characterized the film as an “incarnation, a resurrection.”
And to underscore this return of presence via resurrection and reincarnation, it
is noteworthy that, in a passage far less often cited, Lanzmann asserted that the
film is no more memory than history: “The film was not made with memories,
I knew it immediately. Memory horrifies me; memory is weak. The film is the
destruction of all distance between past and present.”46 Such a destruction of the
distance between past and present would, in fact, achieve in historical writing
the effect of Barthes’s notion of intransitive writing as that which “denies the
distances among the writer, text, what is written about, and finally the reader,”47
but it presupposes the ability to resurrect the past and make it live in the present,
a characteristic of Jewish liturgical and commemorative practices, but hardly
tenable in relation to modern, or even modernist, historiography. To the extent
that the “middle voice,” as the grammatical instrument of “intransitive writing,”
participates in this complex of reasoning, one is tempted to say with Nietzsche:
“I am afraid we have not got rid of God because we still have faith in grammar.”48
One could easily identify other domains where similar sorts of ambiguity
reign in White’s work, the most important of which would be the changing
meaning of “prefiguration,” which initially referred to the action of language
and troping in casting the shape of the historian’s perceptions and modes of
narration, but came, in White’s later work, to be synonymous with the kind
of typological relationships established, initially in Biblical exegesis, to link
together Old and New Testament figures and events. In Figural Realism White
deploys typology—or figuralism—to establish retrospective forms of filiation
between earlier and later events, much as medieval exegetes proclaimed Old
Testament figures to be types, and in some special sense determinants, of their
later New Testament fulfillments. In typological, or figural, exegesis, an earlier
event, analogous to the later, becomes a foreshadowing of it, a ‘‘type” of the
later.49 Thus just as Jonah in the belly of the whale prefigures the three days of
Christ’s entombment before the resurrection, so do David, Constantine, and
other exemplary heroes of the past “prefigure” and shape the meaning of a
Charlemagne, who is a “new David,” a “new Constantine,” or the realization of
some other figural complex. By means of typological interpretation in medieval
historical writing, the significance of the past is reaffirmed for the present; the
old becomes a prophecy of the new and its predeterminant, in the sense that
its very existence determines the shape and interpretation of what comes later.
In this way, the past becomes an explanatory principle, a way of ordering and
making intelligible a relationship between events separated by vast distances of
time.
This is precisely the way that White has described the structure of
“emplotment” in historical writing:
It is the fulfilled figure that casts its light back—retrospectively and, in the
narrative account retroactively—on the earlier figurations of the character
or process being related. It is the figure-fulfillment model of narrativity that
lends credence to the commonplace that the historian is a prophet, but one
who prophesies “backward.” It is what justified the notion that the historian,
as against the historical characters he studies, occupies a privileged place of

knowledge in virtue of the fact that, coming after a given set of events have run
their course, “he knows how events actually turned out.”50
But as Erich Auerbach makes clear in his important essay “Figura,” in Scenes
from the Drama of European Literature,51 the “truth” established by identifying
such relationships between earlier and later figures and events is guaranteed
by God, who stands outside of time and crafts its structure, movement, and
meaning. For medieval exegetes, the essential relationship between past and
present is not strictly linear, but interpretive and figural, passing through God
to find its final realization and achievement. To be sure, White is clear that he
intends “fulfillment” to be understood “on the analogy of a specifically aesthetic
rather than a theological model of figuralism.”52 Yet it remains the case that
when White adopts figural reasoning to explain the prefiguring force of relations
between past and later eras as that of “fulfillment,” he is secularizing typological
notions of the relationship between figures and events separated by centuries in
a way that, I suspect, few contemporary historians would understand or accept.
For the notion of “fulfillment” suggests that an earlier event/person/type in
some (perhaps only “figural”) sense causes its much later, distanced realization,
hence bypassing immediate local contexts as principles of explanation. To adopt
White’s notion of figural fulfillment, then, would entail abandoning the most
basic modes of contemporary historical reasoning about causation.53 At the
very least, seen from the perspective of White’s own body of work, it certainly
displaces “prefiguration” from a mode of linguistic and literary activity on the
part of the historian to one inherent in the course of history itself.
So where does all this ambiguity leave us in identifying where White belongs
as a theorist of historiographical narratives and history? In light of his lifelong
embrace of the historical sublime and deeply moral concerns for human
freedom, I think I would be tempted to locate him among, or at least alongside,
those “eschatological structuralists”—Lévi-Strauss, Barthes, Foucault—who, as
he wrote, “concentrate on the ways in which structures of consciousness actually
conceal the reality of the world.”54 Like them, he, too, I suspect, is prone to take
seriously Mallarmé’s conviction that things “exist in order to live in books” and
sees historical narrative as that place where the “Flesh is made word.”
9
Hayden White and Non-Non-Histories

Richard T. Vann
Hayden White has generally, though not always, refrained from obtruding his
tastes in historiography into his analyses of it, and thus has seldom directly
told us what they are. He professes a relativism that precludes the usual objec-
tions that historians make to works they do not like and is so far from having
produced any handbook of historiographical method, or even advice, that he
tells readers that if they do not find his books useful, they should just put them
aside.1 He has, however, called loudly from time to time for different, perhaps
enhanced or even transmuted, styles of historical writing. “Very few historians,”
he noted as early as 1966, “have tried to utilize modern artistic techniques in
any significant way.” He offers as one example (of very few, not specified) of
how this might be done: Norman O. Brown’s Life Against Death (1959). Brown,
he says, “begins by assuming nothing about the validity of history” and “uses
historical materials… in precisely the same way that one might use contem-
porary history.” Once all the “data of consciousness” have been reduced to the
“same ontological level,” Brown can then, “by a series of brilliant and shocking
juxtapositions, involutions, reductions, and distortions,” force the reader “to see
with new clarity materials to which he has become oblivious through sustained
association, or which he has repressed in response to social imperatives.”2
Historians are certainly more adventurous than they were in 1966. They
have explored the history of odors, soap, anger, potatoes, sleep, lunacy, and the
limitless world of counterfactual history; and they have broken sufficiently from
the model of the nineteenth-century realistic novel to produce histories without
characters or plots. However, as White argues in his pivotal 1996 article “The
Modernist Event,”3 they have not come to terms in their own writing with the
practices of modernistic writing, and art generally, which proclaim the “disso-
lution of the event as a basic unit of temporal occurrence and building block of
history.” This dissolution, he claims, “undermines the very concept of factuality
and threatens therewith the distinction between realistic and merely imaginary
discourse.” This means that “the taboo against mixing fact with fiction except in
manifestly imaginative discourse is abolished.” In fact, the conception of fiction
seems to have suffered the same fate as that of factuality, since literature is now
conceived “as a mode of writing which abandons both the referential and poetic
functions of language use.”4
Historians who receive the intelligence that the oldest and most familiar
of their few conceptual friends have now gone missing will probably want
to know more about the circumstances in which they vanished and the
prospects, if any, of their reappearance. However, things are not quite as
desperate as they seem at first blush; what White calls “singular existential
events” (e.g. John F. Kennedy was assassinated in Dallas on November 22,
1963) have not been dissolved, but have been displaced in historical discourse
because, White says, it is no longer possible to know their significance. These
“singular events,” White used to say, can be recounted in chronicles and are
necessary but not sufficient conditions of significant historical narratives;
more recently, he has associated narrative with the exercise of state power
and has explored the possibilities offered not only by chronicles but also
what he calls “anti-narratives.”5 Nevertheless, if truth claims are made about
events at this micro-level, and they are true, no matter how unsuitable for a
“respectably scientific knowledge,” they do shore up the supposedly under-
mined notion of factuality. 6
The “modernist events” that interest White, however, are of vastly greater
scope and duration. His examples are events, he claims, “that not only could not
possibly have occurred before the twentieth century but whose nature, scope,
and implications no prior age could even have imagined.” Among these are
the two world wars, a growth in world population hitherto unimaginable, poverty
and hunger on a scale never before experienced, pollution of the ecosphere by
nuclear explosions and the indiscriminate disposal of contaminants, programs
of genocide undertaken by societies utilizing scientific technology and ration-
alized procedures of governance and warfare (of which the German genocide of
six million European Jews is paradigmatic.)7
These events “function in the consciousness of certain social groups exactly

as infantile traumas are conceived to function in the psyche of neurotic
individuals.” As a consequence, they “cannot be simply forgotten and put out
of mind, or, conversely, adequately remembered.” “Adequate” remembrance
involves clear and unambiguous identification of the meaning of the events
Hayden White and Non-Non-Histories 185
“contextualized in the group memory in such a way as to reduce the shadow

they cast over the group’s capacities to go into its present and envision a future
free of their debilitating effects.”8
The assertion that there can be an exact analogy between social memory
and infantile traumas (assuming that we can get knowledge of what is at least
partly unconscious) is certainly debatable, but it is plausible enough to serve
as a basis for White’s arguments. These however could use some clarification.
Some of the grand events in his lists (world population growth and concomitant
poverty, atmospheric pollution) should probably be considered instead as states
of affairs; in any case, they had no discernible start and are still going on, so
it seems hard to fit them into the classic definition of trauma. I believe only
truly massive deaths and dislocations, such as the Holocaust, of course, but
also the Black Death, the transatlantic slave trade, the world wars, and the tens
of millions killed by the orders of Mao and Stalin could have such a profound
effect on consciousness. A comparative study would probably find that in this
respect they were markedly different from world population growth, poverty, or
environmental degradation.
“In December 1910, consciousness changed,” Virginia Woolf famously
observed. That would be towards the end of England’s Edwardian summer or
France’s belle époque—a bit early for modernism to have reflected the enormous
upheaval of World War I. But maybe Woolf was prescient; literature, as has
been observed, is the clock that always runs fast, and perhaps the dawning of
modernism presaged the collapse of European order that was to come and to
affect the great modernist writers.
Nevertheless, as White says, the Holocaust is the paradigmatic modernist
event and surely the one where indications of social trauma are most apparent.
He associates modernist events with what he calls “postmodernist parahis-
torical representation,” found in books like Truman Capote’s In Cold Blood
(1965), Norman Mailer’s The Executioner’s Song (1979), E. L. Doctorow’s
Ragtime (1975), Don DeLillo’s Libra (1988), D. M. Thomas’s The White Hotel
(1981), and Ishmael Reed’s Flight to Canada (1976); TV series like “Holocaust”
and “Roots”; and movies such as “My Hitler,” “The Return of Martin Guerre,”
“JFK,” and “Schindler’s List.”
White also refers to “the kinds of antinarrative nonstories produced by
literary modernism” as offering “the only prospect for adequate representa-
tions of the kind of ‘unnatural’ events—including the Holocaust—that mark
our era.”9 He has not said whether “postmodern parahistorical representations”
need to be “antinarrative non-stories,” and if not, whether they can perform
the same therapeutic work; for it is their therapeutic effect that determines
their adequacy, and this therapy is incompatible with narrative form. The
modernist—or traumatic—events must not be turned into a narrative, because
“telling a story, however truthful, about such traumatic events might very well
provide a kind of intellectual mastery of the anxiety that memory of their occur-
rence may incite in an individual or a community. But precisely insofar as the
story is identifiable as a story, it can provide no lasting psychic mastery of such
events.”10
In a recent lecture, White introduced yet another term—“non-non-history.”
I do not think he is trying to recognize, much less create, a new genre and
find an acceptable name for it. There are already many loosely applied labels;
besides his “parahistorical representations,” White cites docudrama, faction,
infotainment, the fiction of fact, and historical metafiction.11 He has displayed
interest in, but also skepticism toward, the whole concept of genre, detecting
in it a manifestation of power.12 He is known for his fertility in the coinage of
neologisms, some of which have found their way into general usage, but can be
no less creative with existing words. “Non-non,” if not exactly one of the glories
of our language, offers him and us possibilities not allowed by other languages
where double negatives are mere intensifiers. It might, since it resembles the first
two terms of a rather stripped-down dialectical triad, invite us to think about a
possible, synthetic, third term. Less ambitiously, it could help us find our way
amidst the remarkable flowering in the last ten years of books by historians and
others that “deal with historical phenomena and… appear to fictionalize, to a
greater or lesser degree, the historical events and characters that serve as their
referents in history.”13
What does it mean to “fictionalize”? As White (correctly) says, “it seems
as difficult to conceive of a treatment of historical reality that would not use
fictional techniques in the representation of events as it is to conceive of a
serious fiction that did not in some way or at some level make claims about the
nature and meaning of history.”14 But if “fictional techniques” are present in all
histories, there must be something else that allows us to distinguish “parahis-
torical representations” from ordinary academic histories. Ann Rigney makes a
useful distinction among the various senses in which the word “fiction” and its
attendant adjectives and verbs are employed. The original meaning, and primary
sense, of fiction, is “that which is constructed.” (It comes from fictum, the past
participle of the Latin verb fingo, to form or imagine.) Made rather than found,
in other words—but not excluding the possibility of something made from what
one has found. The appropriate adjective for fiction, in this sense, is fictive. The
word fictitious, a second meaning of “fiction,” distinguishes things that are real
from those that are imaginary. “Fiction” can also be used to characterize an
attitude towards information that sees invention or make-believe as legitimate;
this is the realm of the fictional, which parahistories are attempting to colonize.
Finally, fiction can be a portmanteau word for short stories and novels, to which
library cataloguers and blurb writers resort. These might be called novelistic.15
Histories must be fictive in having plots and also, White says, in being
influenced at the deeper tropological level. Historians seldom discuss these,
and almost all who do fail to distinguish between the fictive elements in
all histories and fictitious or fictional ones, which can lead them to make
the untrue charge that White makes no distinction between histories and
fictions. Of course, when historians do find the fictitious, the fictional, or the
novelistic—invented speeches, made-up characters or events, for example—in
works purporting to be histories, they are unlikely to regard them as such.
Accepted professional standards require that every truth claim be supported
or at least supportable from documents (artefacts as well as written texts) and
that the reader be given adequate information to inspect these documents
for themselves. The author must not be a character in the narrative—using
the pronoun “I” is frowned upon—but should be what literary critics call an
omniscient narrator, not necessarily claiming to know everything, but striving
for a universal viewpoint comparable to the Olympian position of the authors
of the well-made Victorian novels that still serve as models for most long
historical prose works. Speculations are allowable if clearly identified as such,
but the ideal is that nothing be altogether unexplained, and where human
agency is at least part of the explanation, historians must try to reconstruct
the motives of the actor.
Note that this sketch of “histories” is formal. The poorly annotated, the
psychologically inept, or the injudiciously speculative are all histories—they
are just bad ones. If the sketch is at all adequate, it should make it easy to
identify histories, which can usually be done just from inspecting the paratext
(the footnotes, bibliography, foreword, and so forth); there is little need to read
further and none to inquire closely into the adequacy of the arguments. Really
good histories, it is widely believed, offer not only a distinctive way, but the only
one by which to convey the truth about the human past. However, whatever one
might think of White’s assertions about modernist events, or question whether
the examples he gave in 1996 of works that “deal with historical phenomena
and… appear to fictionalize, to a greater or lesser degree, the historical events
and characters that serve as their referents in history” really are “postmodern
parahistories,” there have nevertheless been a number of recent works by histo-

rians and others that deviate from one or more of the conventions of academic
histories, yet are equally difficult to place confidently on the “fiction” side of the
perhaps increasingly problematic fiction/non-fiction binary.
Some of the books mentioned by White presented themselves as novels
enriched by the factual content of historiography, but they were hybrids of
novels and what was called the “New Journalism.” They shared almost every
characteristic of academic histories, and were proud of it. Capote’s In Cold Blood,
published first in The New Yorker and written well before the vogue of postmod-
ernism, recounts the murder of a rural family in Kansas and the subsequent trial
and execution of the two murderers. It is filled with speeches Capote could not
have heard and for which he supplies no footnotes; but he boasted about the
amount of research he had done (even citing the exact number of documents
he consulted) and maintained that all of the statements in the book could be
supported by evidence. Perhaps he meant documentary evidence; but he subse-
quently declared that after multiple interviews (with the murderers and the
townspeople) he felt able to “reconstruct conversation by the deceased family.”16
Capote concluded that he blended recorded dialogue, psychological depth, and
novelistic form with the constraints of reporting only fact, as journalists—and
historians, though he did not mention them—are supposed to do.17
The “novelistic form” of In Cold Blood is conventional. Capote is the omnis-
cient (and invisible) narrator, writing entirely in the third person, and assigning
“recorded” (or reconstructed) dialogue to his characters without even making
much use of free indirect discourse. He does build a sort of suspense by intro-
ducing facts about the identity of the murderers only as they became available
to those investigating it, but since almost every reader already knew who they
were (they had been executed just before the book appeared) this mainly served
the useful purpose of writing a history of the investigation, more than of the
crime. The “psychological depth” that Capote claimed as the distinctive feature
of the “non-fiction novel” was achieved by probing, through many interviews,
the disturbances and tensions in the mind of Perry Smith (the other man
executed had little depth to probe). The book leaves us with no answer to the
question “Why did he do it?” and this refusal of explanation, rather than the
array of “factors” which many historians would have had recourse to, is more
of a deviation from conventional historiography than the “reconstructed”
conversations.
Much the same could be said of works by Norman Mailer and Thomas
Keneally. Mailer claims his enormous entry in the history of murderers, The
Executioner’s Song, “does its best to be a factual account of the activities of

Gary Gilmore and the men and women associated with him” during the last
nine months of his life. Besides interviewing more than a hundred people in
about three hundred separate sessions, he read primary sources and quotes
liberally from newspaper articles (some of which he reproduced, subject to
minor editing). Because of his heavy reliance on oral sources, he grants that
though “the story is as accurate as one can make it,” it does not “come a great
deal closer to the truth than the recollections of the witnesses” (his research
assistant having discovered that “people had characteristic flaws or tics in
recollection”).18 Mailer is, speaking formally, almost as conventional as Capote.
He operates as an invisible and omniscient narrator; he employs, to a greater
degree, the cinematic technique of jump-cutting, and bursts occasionally into
demotic prose (wow! when he does that it sounds real strange). Had Mailer
used a low register of English more consistently, his “non-fiction novel” would
have bent interestingly in the direction of reproducing instead of processing his
oral sources. But he is too intent on establishing that he—and his large army of
helpers—have properly done their archival work.
The only feature distinguishing these “parahistories” from typical academic
histories is the invention of dialogue for the historical characters. Capote and
Mailer both claim their “non-fiction novels” show superior psychological
insight into the motives of the murderers and seem to think that the “limits” of
historiography prohibit the historian from inquiring into these motives.19 This,
of course, is a howler; historians may fail in learning such motives, but many
argue that historical explanation consists precisely in learning them.
On the other hand, Thomas Keneally in Schindler’s Ark (1982), later adapted
for the screen by Stephen Spielberg as Schindler’s List,20 showed little concern
for such arguments. Far from thinking that the novelistic form can facilitate
or even enable attribution of motives to characters, Keneally does not think a
full accounting of Schindler’s motives can be given. He does not even specify
whether he has written a novel or a history. It is a story which, though true, “has
many of the qualities and excitements of fiction.” These are that Schindler was
a scoundrel/savior, but also “in the strictest literary sense, a hero,” and so “there
was ambiguity in Schindler’s story, and ambiguity is the bread and butter of the
novelist.” Furthermore, his “life has a shape to it which makes it very appropriate
for a novelist to write about it, even if it happens to be the truth.” The shape, of
“almost artistic neatness,” is revealed in the role reversal at the end of the war,
when Schindler became “the dependent and virtual child of the Schindlerjuden
whose lives he had saved.”21
Keneally thus appears to believe that Schindler’s life had formed itself into
an exciting story—by chance, a true one—with a hero and a comic peripeteia
its end. The view that stories are lived before they are subsequently told by
historians has its defenders, but it is incompatible with any version of postmod-
ernism. No wonder, though, that Keneally found it hard to decide whether his
book was fiction or non-fiction. His publishers, however, were committed to
claiming that Schindler’s Ark was fiction in order to make it eligible for the very
lucrative Booker Prize, which it won five days after it was published, much to
the annoyance of a number of novelists who complained—bizarrely—that there
are insufficient prizes for novels as compared to histories.
I am content to leave this fiction versus non-fiction issue to publishers
flogging their books, librarians cataloguing them, and bookstores arranging
them on their shelves; but even if we want to deny that the books I have
discussed so far are “really” histories, they are much too much like them to
warrant calling them “non-non-histories.” I would not even call them parahis-
tories. They were all written by novelists, and that is probably why they regarded
them as novelistic, despite the feebleness of their arguments for this position.
Writers like Capote and Mailer say they were seeking to achieve the same
goals as conventional historiography, but in a different way, rather than calling
anything about it into fundamental question. When they contrast fictional
writing with historical research, they smuggle in an association of novels with
form and history books with content. If Hayden White has taught us anything,
it is that this is a false dichotomy.
Furthermore, some historians have already adopted many so-called novelistic
practices. Here is a list taken from literary critics and the “non-fiction novelists”
themselves: shaping the facts reported; manipulating the readers’ response to
the characters and situations described; use of extensive dialogue, foreshad-
owing, flashbacks, and scene-by-scene presentation rather than “historical
narration.”22 To this one must add invention of imaginary characters—not to
affect the course of the action, but to comment on it. Except for this, few devices
claimed to be distinctive to novels would violate acceptable historical practice.
“Shaping the facts” is intrinsic to the fictive character of historical narratives
(even though some historians may assume or persuade themselves that the
facts have arranged themselves into one and only one shape). “Manipulation”
of the readers’ response seems to describe the effort at persuasion that charac-
terizes historians, no less than novelists. Foreshadowing has been regularly
used by historians since Herodotus—some skillfully, some all too clumsily and
obviously. Indeed, since historians know most outcomes of historical actions, as
do many of their readers, a certain amount of foreshadowing is unavoidable. It

is intrinsic to the “narrative sentence” described by Arthur Danto as particular
to historical narrative.23 Belief in oracles, whose ambiguous predictions and
advice were resources for dramatic irony for the Greek historians, has somewhat
declined since then, as have the skill and habit of reading figurally, like those
interpreters of the Hebrew Bible who found in it prefigurations of the events
in the New Testament.24 However, even historians who have been resolutely
theory-averse and most intent on sticking to the perspectives of the characters
they are writing about have invoked the ironies that come when we know how
things turned out.
Flashbacks, scene-by-scene representation, and the use of extensive dialogue
would normally be found together in novels and sometimes in histories. It
would be unusual—though perhaps not impossible—for an historical work to
consist of nothing but scenes, without any tissue of diegetic continuity between
them. This of course regularly happens in history plays, and White remarks that
this is a hallmark of high modernism, such as in Virginia Woolf ’s last novel,
Between the Acts.25 It is not, however, hard to think of histories that do consist
of a sequence of scenes (Garrett Mattingly’s The Armada [1958], for example).
Even invented dialogue and invented characters can be found in works by
historians that were not only accepted, but even admired by the American
historical profession. (To elicit such responses it probably helps to be a
Professor of History at an Ivy League university.) Mattingly again provides some
examples—probably in The Armada, and certainly in his earlier biography,
Catherine of Aragon (1941).26 Carl Becker’s The Eve of the Revolution (1920)
tries to “create for the reader the illusion… of the intellectual atmosphere of
past times” by “telling the story by means of a rather free paraphrase of what
some imagined spectator or participant might have thought or said about the
matter in hand.” At pains to alert us to how naughty he is being, he calls this a
“literary device (this, I know, gives the whole thing away).” Anticipating that a
critic might object that this is not history, he responds:
I am willing to call it by any name that is better: the point of greatest relevance
being the truth and effectiveness of the illusion aimed at—to the extent… to
which it enables the reader to enter into such states of mind and feeling. The
truth of such history (or whatever the critic wishes to call it) cannot of course
be determined by a mere verification of references.
Becker concludes his introduction to the work by thanking a colleague who read
the manuscript, but whom he would name “only if it could be supposed that an
historian of an established reputation would wish to be associated, even in any

slight way, with an enterprise of questionable orthodoxy.”27
This sounds more daring than it was, for one can “paraphrase” with
unlimited freedom what never existed in any other form. Becker does not do
anything very different from the historians’ frequent practice of characterizing
“public opinion.” His real originality was in choosing a sort of modal figure
to reproduce “the quality of the thought and feeling of those days.” He did
not inform readers what parts of the book were fictional (although there is a
bibliography, there are no footnotes), and the direct quotations, most of them
introduced by some indication of where they come from, blend seamlessly into
the rest of the text. This makes it impossible to tell what was conjectured and
what derived directly from the evidence—except that people in eighteenth-
century colonial America did not talk or write like professors of history at
Cornell University in the early twentieth century, and Becker made no effort to
imitate eighteenth-century prose. Writing dialogue is one of the most difficult
things that novelists and playwrights have to do, and it is not surprising that
Becker, or Simon Schama for that matter, have not entirely succeeded.28
When these books were reviewed in the American Historical Review, which
certainly did not usually promote experimental writing, the reviewers (also
professors of history at Ivy League universities) made no fuss about them,29
though historians generally regard “non-fiction novels” as a nefarious effort
to undermine historiography. I think, on the contrary, they originated in an
effort to support fiction by giving it the cachet of historicity. This seems the best
explanation of why their authors clung to the claim not to be deviating from the
historical record.
Though the books I have been discussing do not really show the sort of daring
innovation in fictionalizing historical events they claimed for themselves,
this does not discredit White’s arguments in “The Modernist Event.” Instead,
as so often, he seems to have been prescient, because since the publication
of that essay, several books by both historians and novelists have gone in the
direction of experimental history writing. Some have followed in the footsteps
of Capote, Keneally, and Becker; others have undertaken much more radical
experiments with form and produced works that can best be characterized as
“non-non-histories.”
“Non-non-histories” can tentatively be described as, at the very least, fictional,
as having an attitude towards information that sees invention or make-believe as
more legitimate than Rigney does, but also as conveying so much insight into the
past as to leave the boundary between the fictionalized and the historical insub-
stantial. Many of the techniques employed depart radically from some basic
tenets of orthodox academic historiographical practice, such as the necessity,
or at least the appearance, of objectivity, verifiability of all truth claims through
references, clear chronology, a reliable and unobtrusive (preferably invisible)
narrator, and the creation of a well-made and reader-friendly narrative. Yet
they present a perspective on the real—not a counterfactual or wholly imagined
past—that is so thoroughly informed by acquaintance with that past that it is
not appropriate to dismiss them simply as unhistorical.
Historians have moved gingerly in this direction. John Hatcher, an eminently
respectable medieval social historian, has recently produced a “personal history”
or “literary docudrama” about the Black Death in an East Anglian parish. He
has invented the characters of a saintly parish priest (loosely based on Chaucer’s
idealized one) and another priest to serve as the narrator within the text. Many
parishioners are named (the manorial records are unusually full), but they
would have been merely names until Hatcher endowed them with experiences
and words. His recourse to fictions, he says, “evolved from a search to find a
new way of adding to our knowledge and understanding” of the Black Death,
and is intended to provide a framework for the facts.30 His formulation leaves
the relationship between facts and fictions unclear (are these frameworks that
constrain or support?), but the claim that fictions can “add to our knowledge”
and not just our “understanding” is noteworthy.
Fictions are justifiable, Hatcher argues, “because there is scarcely any truly
personal information on a vast majority of men and women who lived at the
time.” The documentary sources were created by clerks and administrators with
very different interests; histories that rest entirely on them leave the ordinary
people in a “deep, impenetrable shadow.”31
The literary problems that usually attend writing that attempts to blend
fictions with adherence to fact are incompletely resolved in Hatcher’s tale. He
chose conventional styles of historical writing both for the story of the afflicted
parish and for the unproblematized factual sections inserted in italicized
sections before each chapter. Hatcher, the narrator of the text, affects invis-
ibility. He tells us that the narrator within the story “has a similar voice and
character” to that of Master John, the parish priest; but in fact his voice is similar
to Hatcher’s. Nobody would mistake his “historical” account for a medieval
chronicle, and Master John hardly has a voice at all, since the majority of his
utterances are sermons, liturgies, or pastoral addresses. Finally, in a laudable
effort to avoid the “pish! tush!” vocabulary sometime used by Sir Walter Scott
and his innumerable imitators, Hatcher has made his characters use today’s
standard English. His characters did not know how rats and fleas affected them
and attributed their misfortunes to the wrath of God, but they speak too much
like our contemporaries.
Whether fictional elements can actually add to our knowledge of the past
is an intriguing problem best left to epistemologists; but if they can, historians
would have to suppress their instinct simply to add them to what is orthodox
historiography in every other respect. When this instinct is given free rein, the
result may be something like what Keith Hopkins, a distinguished social and
demographic historian of ancient Rome, has produced in A World Full of Gods:
The Strange Triumph of Christianity (1999).
It is always a bad sign—and perhaps an indication of fictionalized histories
in search of a generic label under which they can take shelter—when historians
introduce their work with apologies or evasive descriptions of what they are
up to. Hopkins characterizes himself as “far too inhibited an academic to make
things up” and denies having produced a novel—even if his book “has a few
novel-like characteristics.”32 Nevertheless, the first two chapters feature two time
travellers who report on paganism (in Pompeii in 77 ce and Roman Egypt) and
a television interview with a survivor of the Qumran community (imagined to
have been excommunicated before the rest of the community committed mass
suicide at Masada). He does scrupulously reproduce visual images and amass
textual support for the reports of the time travellers and the participants in
the television show. Furthermore, after the inventions of the first two chapters,
he seems to settle definitively into ordinary discursive historical prose for a
couple of hundred pages, until the reader suddenly comes upon a section called
“Augustine’s Nightmare.” It purports to be another “confession,” which Saint
Augustine wrote in 430 ce, “in secret, so as not to distress his closest admirers”
and buried “beneath the floor of his library, which miraculously escaped being
burned when the Vandals captured Hippo a few months later.”33
In it Augustine questions many of the major decisions of his life: leaving
his mistress, his encouragement of harsh measures against the Donatists, his
polemics against Pelagius. This is sensational stuff, and it comes as a let-down,
almost ninety pages later, in endnote 82, to learn that Hopkins wrote it—what
he calls “my invented reconstruction of what Augustine should have thought
if he wondered that he was wrong, and took the accusations of his opponents
more seriously than the defensive stance in his polemical writings.”34 Nothing
seems to follow from this counterfactual exercise. Hopkins in this book has
clearly managed to transcend his inhibitions about making things up, but to
little effect; the fictional elements in the book as a whole do not rise above the
level of arbitrary intrusions.
Despite these reservations, I welcome any effort to vivify historical imagi-
nation. I only regret that historians active today have not yet used—or, more
likely, trusted—their imaginations enough to create an aesthetically successful
hybrid between fictional and factual elements. Hatcher, Hopkins, and Schama
have fictionalized one or more elements of orthodox academic history, but only
ones like invented dialogue or positing modal persons that have been on the
borderline of professional acceptability. They have also carefully distinguished
what they have made up (obviously fictional) from what can be supported by
documentary evidence. But if you infringe the canons of orthodox historiog-
raphy, why not sin boldly and go further than these exercises in the insertion
of some fictions into history? Besides enhancing “the short and simple annals
of the poor,”35 thoroughly fictionalized historiography can also complicate the
notion of historical knowledge that is presupposed by uncritical acceptance of
the fiction/non-fiction binary. It can intimate to readers all the uncertainties
and ambiguities confronting historians as they try to make out the lineaments
of the past through the opaqueness of “the sources”—the impenetrable silence
where no documents ever existed, the vagaries of memory, the deliberate obfus-
cations and unacknowledged prejudices of witnesses, or the sheer sublimity of
“modernist events.”
Peter Carey’s True History of the Kelly Gang (2000) accomplishes both goals.36
It reworks what is in some ways a familiar story, at least to Australians, since
Ned Kelly is the preeminent Robin Hood/Jesse James figure of Australian lore.
In Carey’s treatment, Kelly is the narrator and his infant daughter the (eventual)
narratee of thirteen “parcels” of “stained and dog-eared papers” that constitute
a history, his autobiography, and an apologia for his career as an outlaw. In
Carey’s book they are prefaced by a two-page “undated, unsigned, handwritten
account” of his last shoot-out with the police. This preface, despite its (to say the
least, uncertain) provenance seems to have been roughly contemporary with the
event, and Carey, by printing it in italics, appears to signal that it is authentic, but
of unknown or undisclosed authorship. It has a shelf mark from the Melbourne
Public Library and presumably can be consulted there. At the very end of the
book, also in italics, is a “12–page pamphlet in the collection of the Mitchell
Library, Sydney,” printed in 1955, which gives a much fuller account of the
confrontation between the Kellys and the police more than seventy years earlier.
Sandwiched between these are the thirteen manuscript “parcels.” Carey has
taken pains to impart verisimilitude to them, especially by describing their
physical appearance—the “rank untidy nest of paper” (sometimes stolen)

they were written on, with its stains and punctures, in places nearly illegible.
Furthermore, Kelly writes in a distinctive and often gripping demotic English
gleaned from the lexical sources, including considerable bad language and
outback argot (for which no glossary is provided).37 He knows that “he never
learned his parsing,” which means that he cannot punctuate properly, as
countless run-on sentences demonstrate, but otherwise just uses non-standard
forms of tenses and irregular verbs. (Quite implausibly, he spells perfectly.)
In sum: it is the sort of source that historians frequently have to decipher and
interpret if they venture on a topic before the typewriter came into common
use—except that it was written by Carey, not Kelly. In the words of John Updike,
it is a “brilliant imposture.”38
Although Carey never assigns his book to a genre, the Booker Prize judges
had no hesitation—unlike the controversy that surrounded the question of
whether Schindler’s Ark was a novel—in giving it the prize for 2001. Yet its
literary power is employed to persuade readers to treat it as authentic histori-
ography; in my first reading, I could not decide whether it was authentic or an
“imposture.” Ned Kelly, as Carey presents him, is certainly a partial, and perhaps
an unreliable, narrator, but his voice—poetic, wryly humorous, defiant—illumi-
nates how many poor and oppressed people in what was still a colony lived and
spoke of living. For all the desire of social or women’s historians to give those
left out of historiography a voice, that voice has seldom been their voice. It has
been, in short, a version of the pastoral. Carey simulates—almost channels—it;
and, by presenting the reader with a simulacrum of an original source, Carey
models the process of historical interpretation.
A similar model, presented by quite different means and with greater
psychological depth, can be found in Austerlitz (2001), by W. G. Sebald. Like
Carey—but not the historians—Sebald makes no preliminary justification of it;
in fact, it has no foreword or any other paratext; he simply calls it “a prose book
of indefinite form.”39 It is a 414–page stream of prose, without paragraphs or
chapter breaks. Its labyrinthine sentences can easily cover half a page or longer;
one extends from page 331 to page 342.40
It uncoils as the narrator first encounters Austerlitz in the main train station
of Antwerp. They have some further chance meetings there. We never find out
much about the narrator; Jacques Austerlitz is an architectural historian, doing
research on capitalist architecture and its tendency towards monumentalism.
“Why he had embarked on such a wide field, said Austerlitz, he did not know;
very likely he had been poorly advised when he first began his research work.”
Then for almost twenty years they lose touch, during which time both moved
to England (Austerlitz became a professor at what sounds like the Warburg
Institute).
By chance they encounter one another again. By this time, Austerlitz had
decided to take early retirement, partly “because of the inexorable spread of
ignorance, even to the universities” and partly out of his hope to “set out on
paper my investigations into the history of architecture and civilization.” His
retirement, however, provoked a deep mental crisis, so that he could no longer
write or even read, talk, or listen to others talk. The voluminous manuscripts he
had written on architecture and civilization had become unintelligible to him,
and he eventually buries them in his garden. His life as a historian seems to have
come to a dead end; but actually it is only starting, for now he begins to become
a historian of his own life.41
The process begins in the disused Ladies’ Waiting Room in Liverpool Street
Station with his first memory: that “it must have been to this same waiting-
room I had come on my arrival in England half a century ago.” The “sense of
desolation through all those past years” begins slowly, and incompletely, to lift
as he realizes “how little practice I had in using my memory, and conversely how
hard I must always have tried to recollect as little as possible, avoiding every-
thing which related in any way to my unknown past.”42
We now see why the ruin of his project as an academic historian was a
necessary precondition of this breakthrough. Austerlitz says that while growing
up he did not know “anything about the conquest of Europe by the Germans
and the slave state they set up, and nothing about the persecution I had
escaped.” For him, “the world ended in the late nineteenth century. I dared
go no further than that, although in fact the whole history of the architecture
and civilization of the bourgeois age, the subject of my research, pointed in the
direction of the catastrophic events already casting their shadows before them
at the time.” He had repeated his foster parents’ avoidance of newspapers, and
he listened to the radio only at certain hours; now he recognized that his pursuit
and accumulation of historical knowledge was an attempt to create a “substitute
or compensation memory” to protect himself “from anything that could be
connected in any way, however distant, with my own early history.”43
His protective amnesia crumbles further when he overhears a radio program
in a bookshop where two women were discussing the “children transports”
that took German Jewish children to England. One happened to mention her
crossing the North Sea on the ferry Prague. “I knew beyond any doubt that these
fragments of memory were part of my life as well,” says Austerlitz; furthermore,
“although I did not know whether I had come to England on the Prague or
some other ferry, the mere mention of the city’s name in the present context was
enough to convince me that I would have to go there.”44
Fortunately, he still has his research skills, and some luck as well, for in
Prague he finds in the register of households for 1939 the name and address of
his mother Agáta. He goes there and meets Vera Ryšanov, who was his nursery
maid as a boy and could tell him what happened to his mother before she was
deported to Theresienstadt (now Terezin).45 The photographs she shows him
really unlock his memories (Austerlitz was much given to sorting his many
photos, and small reproductions of them are found all over the text). Now that
he knows what Agáta looked like, he is consumed by a desire to see a picture of
her in Theresienstadt and, from some frames of a Nazi propaganda film played
at one-quarter speed, believes he might have glimpsed her.
Austerlitz expresses his disgust with academic historiography when it proves
useless in his search for his father. He rails at the Bibliothèque Mitterand (now
known as the Bibliothèque National de France), built, as he notes, on the site
where the Nazis stored their loot: “an immensely complex and constantly
evolving creature which had to be fed with myriads of words, in order to bring
forth myriads of words in its own turn.” As this suggests, the book is no comedy
of therapeutic knowledge. Austerlitz is still plagued by anxiety attacks (“It was
obviously of little use that I had discovered the sources of my distress”) and
later falls prey to several fainting fits, causing temporary but complete loss of
memory.46 In the rest of the book, Austerlitz relates, with a mixture of poignancy
and horror, what life was like in Theresienstadt, with its characteristic brutality
administered with bureaucratic rationality. All his evidence comes from Sebald’s
historical research, a good deal of it (including the contents of the twelve-page
sentence), from H. G. Adler’s Theresienstadt 1941–1945. Das Antlitz einer
Zwangsgemeinschaft. Geschichte, Soziologie, Psychologie.47
In picking out only a single narrative thread from Sebald’s vast and intricate
tapestry, I have made it sound like an epic parable based on Nietzsche’s The Use
and Disadvantage of History for Life. This would be a gross simplification, since
its form, with its involutions, disgressions, and aporias, exemplifies a modernist
anti-narrative. Its content is in its form, not in any précis—including this one.
Austerlitz is thus like an imaginary toad in a real garden.
Austerlitz contains a polemic against academic history pronounced by a
professional historian who, throughout the book, is thinking about concepts
salient in historiography today—“modern events,” memory, time, trauma.
Another theme is the dead coming back to life, which is what historians in
their way try to achieve.48 And it seems almost to have been foretold by Hayden
White.
Even if “non-non-histories” remain a class with very few members, which,
given the extraordinary skill required to create one, seems likely, they nevertheless
challenge conventional ways to represent the past and open up possibilities for
the future, possibilities that White’s oeuvre has effectively prefigured.
10
From the Problem of Evil to Hermeneutic

Philosophy of History: For Hayden White
Gianni Vattimo
Could we, without any irreverence, or better still, with full consciousness and
respect, apply the famous phrase of Dietrich Bonhoeffer “Einen Gott, den es
gibt, gibt es nicht” (A God that exists does not exist)1 to the problem of Evil: “Ein
Boeses, das es gibt, gibt es nicht” (An Evil that exists does not exist)? This would
not only be a way to sum up much of the traditional speculation on the problem
of Evil—beginning with Saint Augustine—but it would also be a thesis that is
perfectly in line with that of the “destructuring of ontology”2 begun by Martin
Heidegger, which constitutes one of the most important and most intimately
religious achievements of twentieth-century philosophy.
One could even demonstrate that Heidegger’s destructuring of ontology—or
rather, his thesis according to which Being is not to be identified with beings, that
Being has nothing “objective” about it except perhaps the light in which every
objectivity is able to appear—is a direct consequence of the traditional reflection
on the problem of the “reality” of Evil. It is precisely in the case of Evil, as moreover
in the case of God, that the insufficiency of the notion of Being that Heidegger
called “metaphysics” is revealed, a notion he identifies with a form of objective
existence, “given” as definitive, necessary, and therefore graspable by reason. Yet
when we specify that God is, or exists, we do not really understand very well what
this could mean: certainly it cannot mean that God “exists” in the sense that God
“is there” [si dà], es gibt (is there/is given),3 like a being that can be encountered in
space-time, an object of which we can have ordinary experience. Philosophical
atheism of all historical periods has always reveled in demonstrating the absurdity
of the “existence of God,” understood in these terms. However, this God is the
God of the philosophers which, as Pascal said, has nothing to do with the God of
Abraham, of Isaac, and of Jacob, or with the incarnation of God as Jesus Christ.
Just as in the case of the “existence of God,” it is above all Jesus who renders
superfluous both the metaphysical notion of divinity and, for that very reason,
the thesis of atheism (since demonstrating that the God of the philosophers
does not exist does not in any way undercut the truth of the Gospels). Thus,
the arguments about the reality or non-reality of Evil can be transcended only
by the Christian message of the Resurrection. The thesis I proposed earlier, that
is, “an Evil that exists does not exist,” simply translates Saint Paul’s question:
“Death, where is thy victory?”4
Let me clarify: 1) the metaphysical arguments about the reality or non-reality
of Evil have never been able to resolve the problem they set out to resolve.
Nothing that exists can be called Evil, either because, from a religious stand-
point, it was created by God, or because, even without reference to God, it
appears impossible not to identify the Good with Being itself. This impossibility
of conceptualizing Evil reveals the insufficiency of the ontological categories
given to us by metaphysics. After all, Heidegger began his critique of the
metaphysical conception of Being by reflecting on the problem of freedom and
predestination: if true Being, that is, divine Being, were really pure act or the
necessary Being of metaphysics, that is, the God of the philosophers, we would
not be able to conceive of our existence as Being—since we are history, freedom,
hope, everything except stable and necessary reality.
2) Within the framework of the metaphysical conception of Being—in
which Being is really only what “exists/is there/is given” [si dà] in a stable
form, rationally necessary, demonstrable, and “scientifically” verifiable—one
cannot think either God or Jesus, or the historicity of our existence, or even
Evil. All of these “realities,” of which we do nevertheless have experience,
which appear to us as undeniable, do not “exist” in this metaphysical sense.
But if Being is not objective existence, is not what “gives itself ” (darsi) objec-
tively, what can it be? A phrase of Georges Bernanos (the last one in his
Journal d’un curé de campagne, I think)5 comes to mind: “All is grace.” In
philosophical terms we would say with Heidegger that Being, if it is anything,
is event, Ereignis.6 Certainly, es gibt Sein (there is Being/Being exists); but only
in the sense that es, das Sein, gibt (it, Being, gives). Being gives/Being exists/
there is Being—that is its only conceivable “essence.” I am not proposing
that we simply skip over philosophical language to arrive at that of Christian
revelation. What I mean to say is that philosophy itself—at least in the form
that seems to me most capable of corresponding to our epoch and to our
specific historical vocation—must turn to the Christian message to resolve the
contradictions and aporias of metaphysics.
From the Problem of Evil to Hermeneutic Philosophy of History 203
3) From the perspective of Being as gift or event, Evil does not exist. But this
does not mean that the discussion is over; in fact, it has barely begun. How do
we explain the undeniable experience of Evil? That is to say, social injustice,
mass exterminations, and our own individual awareness of being in some sense
“guilty” (or, according to an emblematic page of the Gospels, the problem of the
Man Born Blind).7
4) For philosophy (mine, ours) today—and therefore not according to a
doctrine that makes a claim to be definitive and metaphysically necessary—
Evil is principally and precisely metaphysics itself, the identification of Being
with existence or “giving itself ” [darsi] as stable object; the confusion of the
God of Jesus with the God of the philosophers. The unbridled domination of
measurable objectivity is Evil, as is the anxiety over the possible loss of this
domination, in all of the multiple ways in which we experience it, from the
pressure not to lose the physical attractiveness that allows us to seduce, to enjoy,
to triumph over others, to the will to power of the great figures of history, to the
multiple forms in which the principle of performance is manifested at all levels
of our existence.
5) But why the reference to Saint Paul and to the question “Death, where is thy
victory?” The metaphysical confusion of Being with the stable and immutable
givenness (Gegebenheit) of the object makes it impossible to conceive of death,
to accept it as “natural.” The greatest crime we know of is to take someone’s life,
homicide. And yet, whoever is born is also always faced with dying a “natural”
death. The traditional problem of theodicy, itself also metaphysical, arises from
this consideration. If one dies, and most often one does so “naturally,” it seems to
be the fault of God, a fault that we have to justify. Biblical Revelation, however,
does not offer any support for a metaphysically satisfying theodicy. Neither the
story of Job nor the Gospel episode of the Man Born Blind offers an explanation
of Evil. In both these cases, it seems in fact that the error, and the Evil itself,
consist in the desire to seek an explanation that does not exist. Human reason, it
appears, would consider itself satisfied if it were able to grasp some objective law
by which the misfortunes of Job or the blindness of the innocent would appear
to have been deserved. But instead, what the Scriptures ask of us in these two
cases is to accept these events as “grace”—as what has pleased God.
If we alter the terms of Bonhoeffer’s phrase thus, “God does (not) exist,”
and we translate it to read, “Evil does not exist,” and this in turn becomes the
keystone of an ontology of the event, by means of which even “a being that exists
does not exist,” but happens, then Bernanos’s sentence that I quoted above,
“everything is grace”—that is, gift, that is, geben (everything is given, is “giving
itself ” [darsi]: Wittgenstein’s idea that the world is everything “that is the case”
[was der Fall ist]) becomes simply “everything is history.” The revolution against
metaphysics inaugurated by Heidegger is the beginning of a post-Nietzschean
thought, which, realistically, is not only the product of philosophical excogi-
tation, but which also plays a role in the way that Being happens in the epoch of
realized nihilism, the epoch in which es mit dem Sein selbst nichts mehr ist (there
is nothing to Being as such).8
The breakdown of Eurocentrism, the dissolution of the idea that history
provides the only possible development of events whose center has always
been thought of as the civilization of European humanity, is not the invention
of anyone in particular, not even of Hayden White—who nevertheless has
powerfully contributed to making this rupture an explicit part of our cultural
consciousness; it is about precisely the event of (our) Being, or simply the event
of Being that returns us to our existence and to our historical situation. We
know that Michel Foucault used the term “ontology of the present,” though with
much less ontological emphasis than it ought to have been given. For him, the
expression indicated only a thinking that reflects back on the specific historical
existence about which he philosophized; so that it might be more appropriate,
in his case, to use instead the expression “anthropology of the present.” Foucault
was perhaps already beyond structuralism, but his intent remained nonetheless
primarily descriptive. It is only by means of a radical reading of Heidegger—what
I am allowing myself to call a reading “to the left” of Heideggerianism—that the
ontology of the present becomes the only thinkable ontology. And to the extent
that it is not descriptive, is not contemplative or aesthetic (cf. Heidegger’s review
of Karl Jaspers’ Psychologie der Weltanschauungen [Psychology of Worldviews,
1919]), the ontology of the present is involved substantially in the event itself,
which endeavors “to gather together.”9
In short, we are facing a radical historicism, according to which Being is only
that which happens, and the happening is the result of the response that human
beings give to the messages they receive from their Geschick (destiny),10 from
the totality of all that gets sent to them and which, in turn, is nothing but the
result of other such happenings of the same kind. The problem of understanding
the call of Being and Time to “choose one’s own death” can be resolved only if
one interprets it as a call to the radical historicity of human existence; each one
of us is only a mortal who inherits and transforms the traces of other human
beings—and Being is only the crystallization of this inheriting-interpreting-
transforming. Even Benedetto Croce’s view, according to which history is (only)
the (hi)story of liberty,11 must be understood as going beyond the metaphysical
Hegelian residues that seem to weigh it down even now (is Spirit “something”
that has history? or is it nothing but history?);12 and it assumes its full meaning
only if we conceive of it within the framework of the Heideggerian ontology of
Being as event. Thus, as in the famous Eleventh Thesis on Feuerbach, in which
Marx asserts that philosophers should seek to change the world and not just
to interpret it, Croce’s idea assumes a meaning that is no longer metaphysico-
positivistic—that is, if one understands it in the light of the Heideggerian notion
of the event, which is always necessarily interpretation and transformation at
the same time, that is, authentic praxis.
Rethinking the work of Hayden White today in the light of these considera-
tions opens onto a meaning that is not merely commemorative or celebratory. It
has a clearly polemical importance in relation to the call for a return to realism
that characterizes a certain strain of contemporary philosophy, which hopes to
overcome the “linguistic turn”—putting aside for the moment Jacques Derrida
and Richard Rorty, and also, if I may, the hermeneutics of il pensiero debole
(weak thought)13—in the name of an ontology that returns to the early Husserl,
to the regional ontologies that were overcome once and for all by even Husserl
himself, and then by Heidegger, with the shift to fundamental ontology. This
new realism, born from a type of mésalliance between the residues of phenom-
enology and those of analytical philosophy, offers an absolutely innocuous
philosophical thought, whose function nevertheless is to maintain imperial
order. One picks up a dictionary to understand the meaning of words in an
ordinary sense (the legacy of analytical philosophy), then one attributes to these
meanings the status of phenomenological essences, and one extracts from this
a type of metaphysics of the existent, from which one also deduces an ethics,
to serve the existing structures of domination. “In reality you are what the
dictionary says you are, and you must correspond to this ‘essence.’” If one objects
that even the dictionary is just a crystallization of historical meanings, and thus
also of relationships of power, one is immediately accused of relativism—which
is, not for nothing, one of the favorite arguments of the authoritarian teaching
of the Catholic Church of Benedict XVI.
As one will remember, Antonio Gramsci, in his prison writings, called Marxism
the “philosophy of praxis.”14 Thus, facing the always new tendencies of philosophy
to make of itself a description of essences, and, for this very reason, an apology
for the existing order, a hermeneutic ontology of the Heideggerian sort is today
the authentic philosophy of praxis, and perhaps also, for this very reason, the
most radical form of Marxism.15 One cannot change the world, as Marx wanted
to do, by applying a descriptive positivistic schema, as if it were simply a matter
of objectively looking at the state of things—with a type of scientific gaze—so as

to be able, then, to work on this state and modify it. If one believes that there is an
objective scientific gaze that might guide the action of transformation, one has
already fallen into the trap of metaphysics, and of the domination it reflects and
sustains. Every gaze, even that of the empirical sciences, is already oriented by a
pre-understanding (Vorverstaendnis) that it keeps hidden, and that is identical
to its historical condition, as Thomas Kuhn clearly understood with his theory
of paradigms.16 However, Kuhn left relatively indeterminate the problem of the
“provenance” of these paradigms: every period of a scientific field inherits an
ensemble of consolidated certainties, tested methodologies, even prejudices,
and works with these foundations to resolve problems that arise within their
horizons. A “normal” science is the one that operates in precisely this way, in
constituting the ordinary life of scientific inquiry.
A revolutionary science, however, is one that undergoes a radical change of
paradigms; indeed, it already operates in the light of a different paradigm. Kuhn’s
famous example is the opposition between the Copernican and the Ptolemaic
cosmologies. How is a new paradigm able to establish itself? Certainly, it does
not do so by means of a confrontation with the rival paradigm, since there is
no meta-paradigm by which to arbitrate between them. To explain shifts of
paradigm, Kuhn refers to the difficulty of the older paradigm to take account
of the many data that appear more comprehensible in light of the new one.
But even he ends up by saying that the Ptolemaic paradigm fades away almost
naturally, because those who sustained it die without disciples. This allusion to
dying without disciples, that is, to a contingent fact of life (and of death), evokes
something not unlike the vicissitudes that, in terms of social history, have to
do with the ascent of new classes—like the struggle of the bourgeoisie against
the nobility that lies at the origins of modernity, or the struggle of the working
class against the bourgeoisie in advanced industrial society. In Heideggerian
terms, we would be speaking of a history of Being, which implies both a strict
connection between “structure and superstructure,” even though one cannot
draw an absolute distinction between the two levels, and, as well, the element of
interpretation, that is, of praxis, even in regard to the most rudimentary reading
of Marxism. There is no history of Being other than that of human praxis; and
there is no objective structure other than that of history considered as previous,
that is, as interpreted for and by the present, a history that, as Being and Time
teaches, is never vergangen (gone) but always only gewesen (what has been).17
That is, the past is not an immutable datum (the rock of the es war [it was] of
Nietzsche’s Zarathustra) but a call, a message that always addresses itself to the
projectural capacity of the one who receives it and who actively interprets it.
What is “real” is not in any way objective Being, but only that which has been
produced by other beings existing before us, themselves active interpreters,
involved in a process that might have developed differently. Factum infectum
fieri nequit (a thing done cannot be undone) is an old juridical adage that
certainly serves to reinforce the value of contracts and, when necessary, to nail
the guilty to their responsibilities. But the fact that it may carry value in the
world of the law shows perhaps the connection between every pretense of objec-
tivity and structures of power. To whose advantage is it that what has been done,
or simply “that which is,” should appear immutable, and impose itself with all of
the dignity of Being?
In Heidegger’s refusal to identity Being with beings we find that this clearly
political aspect of his thought is not explicit; but to read it in these terms, that
is, to bring his ontology closer to a Marxist type of philosophy of praxis, is
completely legitimate. After all, even the original polemic, already fully present
in Being and Time, against the notion of truth as adaequatio intellectus et rei
(correspondence of mind and reality), is already clearly an anti-metaphysical
(ethical) polemic, and not at all inspired by theoretical motivations (and we
should note that this comes just a few years after Wittgenstein’s Tractatus, when
the conception of the proposition as the depiction of the state of things [the
picture theory of language] was still dominant!). That is to say, one should not
think that Heidegger rejects the idea of truth as “correspondence” in the name
of another description of truth that would be more “adequate.” The inspiration
behind his anti-metaphysical polemic, beginning with the rejection of the idea
of truth as correspondence, can be read only as a politico-ethical revolution
against the objectivism that inspires the scientistic conception of positivism,
which Heidegger, like the entire intellectual avant-garde of the early twentieth
century, considered to be responsible, or at least partly responsible, for the rise,
between the end of the nineteenth century and World War I, of the “totalitarian
society,” as it was called by the Frankfurt School.
It may be that Hayden White, with his “Anglo-Saxon” seriousness, even
if abundantly nourished by the Latin heritage of Giambattista Vico, is not
disposed to consider his own work of reflecting on history as an event of the
“history of Being;”18 or perhaps he considers his work as only potentially a
revolutionary act. But the meaning of an oeuvre, especially if it is an oeuvre of
crucial importance, always goes far beyond the intentions of its author.
Translated by Margaret Brose

11
Comment
Hayden White
I appreciate Robert Doran’s production of this collection of essays on “Philosophy

of History After Hayden White” even though, I have to admit, I do not think of
myself as a philosopher or even a philosopher of history. His reasons for doing
so are spelled out in his eloquent introductory essay which, I think, makes me
sound more “philosophical” than I am. Although I have learned a great deal
about historical discourse from certain contemporary or recently deceased
philosophers (in both the “analytical” and the “continental” traditions), I
have been more interested in a discourse-analytical approach to the study of
historiography than in a strictly philosophical one. This is to say that I regard
modern historical studies as a product of a reflection which is more practical
than theoretical, and by practical I mean ethico-political rather than epistemo-
logical and ontological in kind. I also believe that—as Hegel and after him Croce
taught—philosophy is about concepts and history is about time-and-space-
specific events. A concept is one thing, an event or, for that matter, any thing,
is quite another. One difference lies in the fact that concepts are related to one
another by the logical categories of contrariety, contradiction, and implication,
while events and things are related to one another by cause and effect, by genetic
affiliation, by similarity and contiguity, and by a host of other possibilities,
including contingency. It is only by construing events and things as concepts or
as being related to one another in the way that concepts are related that one can
even imagine a philosophy of history.
To be sure, in the past, philosophers have tried to conceptualize events and
things and even to imagine the historical process as a series of concepts related
to one another in the modes of contrariety, contradiction, and implication:
this is what is called a “dialectical” notion of history or history as a dialec-
tical process. But such a history has to be a history of concepts, not a history
of events and things or persons or even institutions. Histories of concepts
(Begriffsgeschichten) have been tried, most notably by Reinhart Koselleck and

his colleagues at Bielefeld University. But a history of concepts is only a possible
history, a treatment of concepts as if they could not only be thought but also
lived. But concepts exist only in thought, not in time and space, and not in
things or events. So there can be no history of concepts—except insofar as
“history” is construed as consisting of concepts as its substance. And one would
have to be mad—or a genius like Hegel—to think that.
Traditionally, history has been thought to be a kind of knowledge about
“the past,” but traditionally “history” has also functioned as a term that is
synonymous with “the past.” However, as the philosopher Michael Oakeshott
insisted, the concept “history” is never taken to be coterminous with “the past”
in its entirety. The idea of “prehistory” (a time before history) alone confirms
this. Thus, Oakeshott distinguishes between the past in general, on the one
hand, and that part of the past accessible by the methods used by historians
to produce the kind of accounts of the past called “historical.” But even within
the area of the past theorized as “history,” there are large parts of it that are not
accessible by historiological methods or, as in the case of personal memories,
do not count as parts of “the historical past.” But these non-historical parts
of the historical past—the contents of which are made up of individual and
group memories—are actually more important for the production of the kind
of knowledge that individuals and groups require for the solution of practical
problems in the present, including problems of judgment, choice, and decision
about how to construe the historical present. Oakeshott calls this part of the
past “the practical past,” to postulate a difference between the study of the past
motivated by scientific or theoretical questions and that part of it motivated by
ethical and political questions. It is my contention that the social function of the
kind of studies of the past called historical has been for the most part been more
of a “practical” than of a scientific or “theoretical” nature.
Now, if any of this is plausible, it would follow that “philosophy of history,”
properly so-called, would most pertinently address not only questions of the
ontology of historical being (“What is a specifically historical mode of being?”)
or epistemology (“How can we know how to study “history” properly?”), as if
the aim were to answer the question: “How is a knowledge of history possible?”
where “knowledge” is understood to be “scientific,” but to concern ethical
questions as well. Philosophy of history would also be deployed for purposes of
illuminating the relation between scientific knowledge of history and the modes
of practical application of this knowledge. But, insofar as “scientific” were
presumed to mean “the kind of knowledge produced by the various natural or
Comment 211
physical sciences,” philosophy of history would have to proceed by revising the

very concept of science itself, in order to justify the designation of history (and
the other “human disciplines”) as sciences: for example, by restoring the older
idea of the “moral and humane” sciences, but on theoretical bases of a more
pragmatic or pragmaticist kind.
Now, in the modern West, for whatever reasons and quite unlike many other
cultures, time or temporality is conventionally divided into a present in which
we live and have our being, a past into which is deposited commemorative
residues of this present existence, and a future that consists of the not-yet-
present events bearing down upon us from out there. Because the experience
of the becoming-past of the present is coexistent with the experience of the
coming-to-be-present of the future, whatever it is we mean by “the present”
is peculiarly unstable. In the West—and I want to stress that, in my view, the
distinction between the historical past and the practical past is a distinctively
Western notion—the present can be given a certain stability by the kind of
detachment-attachment operation typically underlying and authorizing the
kind of inquiry called “historical” (or, more properly, historiological). On the
one hand, the past is continuous with and implicitly present in the present time;
on the other hand, the past lies “out there,” detached from the past as the dead
are detached from the living. The dead are the no longer present; the living are
the not yet dead. But the relation between the past and the present, conceived as
a relationship between the dead and the living, can be immediated by “history”
conceived as the relation between past and present, which is both a disjunction
and a conjunction.
It is often asserted that history and historical knowledge is about “time” or
“temporality,” as if this interest were what distinguished historiological from
other kinds (sociological, anthropological, geological, etc.) of inquiry. In my
view, historians have not shown any particularly specific insights or developed
any conceptions of time and temporality of a transcultural or theoretically
transcendent nature. Time does not cause anything to happen. And such expres-
sions as “the passage of time,” “time flies,” or “time is linear,” “time is cyclical,”
etc., are all expressions that try to capture different experiences of change,
growth, and degeneration, or simply “aging,” in a metaphor. Time does not
cause the decline and fall of empires any more than it might cause the birth and
growth of empires. Changes in the rates of the growth and decline of societies
may occur (the brevity of the Greek poleis is often contrasted with the longevity
of the Roman republic-empire), but it was not time that caused this difference.
We use different calendrical systems to measure both the duration of societies
and their rates of growth, but no one would confuse a calendrical system with a
causal factor in the life and death of institutions.
There is much discussion these days on the possibilities of utilizing a
Darwinian model (properly revised in the light of modern genetics) for concep-
tualizing a “deep history” or a species-mutation model of historical phenomena.
I think that it is important to keep in mind that historical systems do not
possess an equivalent of the genetic code by which to map the relations among
generations of the same species, in the way and with the precision that biolo-
gists can do. This is why, it seems to me, that one can insist on the distinction
between genetic affiliation amongst organic systems and the kind of genealogical
affiliations that prevail among historical systems. It is not that the ideas of norm
and mutation are not useful for describing the kinds of changes that occur in
historical systems. But human generations, organized and acting as members
of distinct social groups, effectively choose their ancestors, elect the ideal
ancestors from which they would wish to have descended, as against the geneti-
cally identifiable ancestors from which they actually descended, and constitute
thereby the equivalent of what Freud called cultural “Ego ideals” by which to
constitute a historical identity quite distinct from that of groups that may share
their gene pool, but have made different choices about their ideal identities by
their thought and action in specific “concrete” situations. And it is this element
of choice in the constitution of a cultural or ideal identity that bears upon “the
practical past” and about which students of “the historical past” may have much
to say but hardly the last word.
One last word of my own about the past-present relationship. In his contri-
bution to this volume, my friend (and teacher in matters philosophical) Arthur
Danto remarks that, although it is perfectly acceptable to say of Petrarch that
“he opened the Renaissance,” we should not think that Petrarch acted forward
in history; for Petrarch did not because he could not possibly have “intend[ed]
to open the Renaissance. His famous act of climbing Mount Ventoux opened
the Renaissance only with reference to relations with events that took place
long afterward.”1 This is a salutary reminder of the dangers of the doctrine of
“influences” in history and of the dangers of thinking that one might provide a
scenario for the future in the way that we can quite obviously provide scenarios
of past processes and transformations. In her essay for this volume as well as in
her book Quoting Caravaggio: Contemporary Art, Preposterous History,2 Mieke
Bal has considered whether it makes any sense at all to ask if or how the present
might change the past, and she concludes—if I understand her aright—that in
the domain of culture and specifically of art, the present can change the past,
Comment 213
because by “the past” one must mean that “historical past” which, according
to Oakeshott, is accessible only in history books. Whether the real past, the
past made up of events that are over and done with, events that cannot even be
replicated, much less revised, whether this past can be changed in any way is
a moot point, because the only access we have to this past is that past distilled
into works of history. But the past that we know only as it has been worked
up as a “historical past” in history books, this past can be revised, because it
is itself a complex web of nothing but revisions. Every history is a counter-
history, written against as much as with the archive, and even the first historian,
Herodotus, presupposes a version of “the past” against which his discourse
presents itself as a contending, alternative version.3
But about Petrarch: although he certainly did not “intend to open the
Renaissance,” it is undeniable that he envisioned a renaissance or rebirth of
his notion of classical culture, which he had put forth as a possible program
for his own time or for some future time. This possibility, in the specific form
in which Petrarch presented it, lay, as it were, dormant until it was picked up
by later scholars and intellectuals as a possibility for themselves in a way that
it was not for Petrarch. In building their program on Petrarch’s they effectively
constituted Petrarch as one of the architects of what, through their actions,
became the Renaissance (though even this “Renaissance” was not constituted as
a “historical” reality until the writings of Jules Michelet and Jacob Burckhardt
in the nineteenth century).
It is considerations such as these that lead me to view (Western) historiology
or historiosophy as a complex dialectical relationship between people still
alive and those who are dead or dying, rather than a process in which some
abstraction called “the past” influences, sets limits on, or determines another
abstraction called “the present.” To be sure, it is a process in which what appears
to be still alive or at least not yet dead of the past can be violated, disrespected,
transformed, and destroyed by the living. Why such violation, disrespect, trans-
formation, or destruction should horrify us or why, although it should horrify
us, it might not do so, is the problem that motivates ethical reflection on history,
historical consciousness, and the value that history has for us.
Notes
Introduction
1 F. R. Ankersmit, “A Plea for a Cognitivist Approach to White’s Tropology,” Chapter

2 of this volume.
2 F. R. Ankersmit, “White’s ‘Neo-Kantianism’: Aesthetics, Ethics, and Politics,” in
Re-figuring Hayden White, ed. F. R. Ankersmit, Ewa Domanska, and Hans Kellner
(Stanford, CA: Stanford University Press, 2009), 34.
3 The collections are: Hayden White, Tropics of Discourse: Essays in Cultural
Criticism (Baltimore: Johns Hopkins University Press, 1978); Hayden White, The
Content of the Form: Narrative Discourse and Historical Representation (Baltimore:
Johns Hopkins University Press, 1987); Hayden White, Figural Realism: Studies
in the Mimesis Effect (Baltimore: Johns Hopkins University Press, 1999); and
Hayden White, The Fiction of Narrative: Essays on History, Literature, and Theory,
1957–2007, ed. Robert Doran (Baltimore: Johns Hopkins University Press, 2010).
4 It should be noted that the last three are all practicing historians. Some readers may
be unfamiliar with these historians’ dual identities. Richard Vann has written such
historical accounts as The Social Development of English Quakerism, 1655–1755
and, with David Eversley, Friends in Life and Death: The British and Irish Quakers
in the Demographic Transition, 1650–1900; Gabrielle Spiegel has written Romancing
the Past: The Rise of Vernacular Prose Historiography in Thirteenth-Century France
(in addition to being a past president of the American Historical Association); and
Harry Harootunian has authored numerous historical studies of modern Japan.
5 See especially White’s essay, “Historical Pluralism and Pantextualism,” in The Fiction
of Narrative, chapter 15.
6 For a treatment of White as primarily a philosopher of history see the exhaustively
researched study by Herman Paul: Hayden White: The Historical Imagination
(Cambridge: Polity Press, 2011, Key Contemporary Thinkers Series).
7 Stephen Bann notes that “the mere achievement of Anno Domini dating was, one
supposes, an immense cultural achievement which retrospectively endowed the
whole Christian epoch with structure and significance. I would agree moreover
with Hayden White that the conditions of narrativity are met by annals which
refer, even in a lacunary way, to events collocated with precise AD dating” (Bann,
“History as Competence and Performance: Notes on the Ironic Museum,” in A New
Philosophy of History, ed. Frank Ankersmit and Hans Kellner [Chicago: Chicago
216 Notes
University Press, 1995], 197). Bann is referring to White’s discussion of annals

in Hayden White, “The Value of Narrativity in the Representation of Reality” (in
White, The Content of the Form, 1–25).
8 The term “literature” came into general usage only in the early nineteenth century,
after the publication of Germaine de Staël’s De la littérature considérée dans ses
rapports avec les institutions sociales in 1800.
9 Christopher Dawson, The Dynamics of World History, ed. John J. Mulloy (New York:
Sheed & Ward, 1956), 289.
10 On this view, the difference, then, between the Rankean historian and the
philosophical historian is that the former makes his/her ideas fit with the facts,
whereas the latter makes the facts fit with his/her (preconceived) ideas.
11 Dawson, The Dynamics of World History, 282.
12 Ibid., 282. In an interview with Ewa Domanska, White notes that “I think that all
of the great historians do both history and philosophy of history” (Domanska,
Encounters: Philosophers of History after Postmodernism [Charlottesville: University
of Virginia Press, 1998], 18).
13 Dawson, The Dynamics of World History, 283.
14 Ibid.
15 White, The Fiction of Narrative, 144.
16 Popper’s The Poverty of Historicism was originally given as a lecture in 1936 and
then made into a book in 1957.
17 “Model of explanation according to which to explain an event by reference to
another event necessarily presupposes an appeal to laws or general propositions
correlating events of the type to be explained (explananda) with events of the type
cited as its causes or conditions (explanantia). It is rooted in David Hume’s doctrine
that, when two events are said to be causally related, all that is meant is that they
instantiate certain regularities of succession that have been repeatedly observed
to hold between such events in the past” (Encyclopedia Britannica <http://www.
britannica.com/EBchecked/topic/155455/covering-law-model> [accessed October
4, 2011]).
18 Arthur Danto, Narration and Knowledge (New York: Columbia University Press,
1985), 182.
19 Thus the resemblance between Hempel’s nomothetic approach and speculative
“laws of history” is merely formal.
20 Danto, Narration and Knowledge, 1.
21 See William H. Dray, Laws and Explanation in History (London: Oxford University
Press, 1957) and Philosophy of History (Englewood Cliffs, NJ: Prentice-Hall, 1964).
22 See: W. H. Walsh, An Introduction to Philosophy of History (London and New York:
Hutchinson’s University Library, 1953); Patrick Gardiner, The Nature of Historical
Explanation (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1952); W. B. Gallie, Philosophy and
Notes 217
the Historical Understanding (New York: Schocken Books, 1964); Alan Donagan,
Philosophy of History (New York: Macmillan, 1965).
23 Reprinted as Chapter 1 in White, The Fiction of Narrative.
24 Ibid., 21.
25 See Richard Rorty’s Philosophy and the Mirror of Nature (Princeton, NJ: Princeton
University Press, 1979/2009, Thirtieth Anniversary Edition), 322ff. Regarding
Kuhn’s impact in Analytic philosophy, Danto writes: “I have always found it ironical
that Kuhn’s book was a volume in the projected Encyclopedia of Unified Science,
a thirty-volume monument to Neo-Positivist thought. His theory of scientific
revolution subverted the enterprise that sponsored it, and opened the way to
discussing science as a human and historical matter instead of a logical Aufbau of
some immaculate formal language” (Knowledge and Narration, xi–xii).
26 Arthur Danto, “The Decline and Fall of the Analytic Philosophy of History,” in
A New Philosophy of History, 72–3. Danto further notes that “as editor of the
Journal of Philosophy, I see a fair sample each year of what philosophers offer as
their most advanced work: my estimate is that a contribution on any aspect of the
philosophy of history occurs at a rate of one per thousand submissions” (ibid, 72).
However, there are periodic reconsiderations of philosophy of history, such as the
recent “Forum” marking the fiftieth anniversary of Kuhn’s magnum opus: “Kuhn’s
Structure at Fifty,” Modern Intellectual History 9, no. 1 (2012), with contributions by
several prominent philosophers.
27 For example, the article on “Philosophy of History” in the online Stanford
Encyclopedia of Philosophy does not even mention Kuhn’s name.
28 I employ the terms “grand narrative” and “metanarrative” here as loose equivalents.
However, for a more differentiated and precise discussion, see Allan Megill, “‘Grand
Narrative’ and the Discipline of History” (in A New Philosophy of History, 151–73), where
he makes a fourfold distinction between narrative, master narrative, grand narrative, and
metanarrative. He defines “grand narrative” as “the claim to offer an authoritative account
of history generally” (152), which is basically what I have been calling philosophy of
history in this introduction. Like White, Megill also observes a rapprochement between
grand narrative/philosophy of history and academic historiography (such as Ranke’s),
but his typological presentation points up fine distinctions not explored by White.
29 In an interview, White notes that “Like [Fredric] Jameson, my formation was in
existentialism. As a young man I was completely swept into the Jean Paul Sartre
world and Nietzsche” (Angelica Koufou and Miliori Margarita, “The Ironic Poetics
of Late Modernity. An Interview with Hayden White,” Historein 2 [2000] <http://
www.historein.gr/vol2_interview.htm>, accessed January 28, 2013).
30 Jean-Paul Sartre, Being and Nothingness: An Essay on Phenomenological Ontology,
trans. Hazel Barnes (New York: Philosophical Library, 1956), 621.
31 See Robert Doran, Editor’s Introduction to White, The Fiction of Narrative, xxv–xxxii.
218 Notes
32 Sartre, Being and Nothingness, 643.

33 Ibid.
34 In his essay for this volume (Chapter 1), White observes that “what Andreas
Hillgruber and Ernst Nolte called ‘the pleasures of narration’ was advanced in the
cause of redeeming a ‘portion’ of the German past deemed worthy of being narrated
and narrated as a drama of fulfillment rather than of degradation and degeneracy.”
35 Sartre, Being and Nothingness, 640, original emphasis.
36 See Robert Doran, “The Work of Hayden White I: Mimesis, Figuration, and the
Writing of History,” in The SAGE Handbook of Historical Theory, ed. Nancy Partner
and Sarah Foot (London: Sage Publications, 2013): 106–18.
37 Sartre, Being and Nothingingness, 643 (original emphasis).
38 White himself noted in “The Politics of Contemporary Philosophy of History”
(1973) that “I fail to see how the operations of the ordinary historian differ in
principle from those of the speculative philosopher of history, even with respect to
the matter of the attempt to predict the future. It seems just as questionable to me
to maintain, even implicitly, as the ‘ordinary historian’ characteristically does, that
the forces at work in the past or the present will be different in the future as it is
to assume a uniformitarian posture and to seek, by reflection on past and present
historical processes, to discern the general form that the future will assume” (White,
The Fiction of Narrative, 145).
39 White, Tropics of Discourse, 39.
40 White does use the term “bad faith” at one point in his essay: “In short, everywhere
there is resentment over what appears to be the historian’s bad faith in claiming
the privileges of both the artist and the scientist while refusing to submit to critical
standards currently obtaining in either art or science” (ibid., 28).
41 Ibid., 41.
42 White, The Fiction of Narrative, 132, original emphasis.
43 Ibid., original emphasis.
45 Ibid., 135.
46 Both Heidegger and Sartre owe a great debt (often unacknowledged) to Søren
Kierkegaard. Understanding this nexus is key to uncovering the animating principle
of existentialist philosophy of history, which, I contend, finds its most elaborate
expression in White’s work.
47 Martin Heidegger, Being and Time: A Translation of Sein und Zeit, trans. Joan
Stambaugh (New York: SUNY Press, 1996), 352–3, original emphasis.
48 As Richard Rorty explains in his essay, “The Decline of Redemptive Truth and the
Rise of a Literary Culture” (unpublished): “As Heidegger emphasized, to achieve
authenticity in this sense is not necessarily to reject one’s past. It may instead be
a matter of reinterpreting that past so as to make it more suitable for one’s own
Notes 219
purposes. What matters is to have seen one or more alternatives to the purposes
that most people take for granted, and to have chosen among these alternatives—
thereby, in some measure, creating yourself ” (original emphasis).
49 See Gianni Vattimo and Santiago Zabala, Hermeneutic Communism: From
Heidegger to Marx (New York: Columbia University Press, 2011).
50 Hayden White, “The Practical Past,” Historein 10 (2010): 10–19.
51 This passage appears only in the manuscript version of “The Practical Past.”
52 White, “The Practical Past,” 16.
53 Ibid., 18.
54 I could also mention in this context White’s recent essay “The Historical Event,”
differences: A Journal of Feminist Cultural Studies 19, no. 2 (2008): 9–34.
55 The Uses of History: Essays in Intellectual and Social History. Presented to William J.
Bossenbrook, ed. Hayden V. White (Detroit: Wayne State University Press, 1968), 11.
56 I should note that Bossenbrook introduced White and also Harry Harootunian to
Christopher Dawson. Commenting on White’s Preface to The Fiction of Narrative,
Harootunian writes: “Hayden’s short preface referring to the inclusion of an essay
on Christopher Dawson brought back vivid memories. I was in the class when we
were assigned to read Dawson’s book and listen to Bossenbrook’s amazing lecture
on it” (personal email of May 27, 2010).
57 The decline of “theory” can be traced to 1987, when it was revealed that one of
the foremost avatars of the movement, Paul de Man, in his youth, had published
in a magazine with Nazi sympathies and had authored at least one specifically
anti-Semitic article. The late 1980s also saw the rise of postcolonial theory and
gender studies, which generally eschewed the ideology of “textualism” that
undergirded poststructuralist thought. In these new critical approaches, the figure
of the author is considered crucial to an understanding of his/her text.
58 By 1980, a special issue of History and Theory had been organized to address it, with
the polemical title “Metahistory: Six Critiques.”
59 One could also note, in this context, the influence of American philosopher
Louis O. Mink. Herman Paul observes that “arguably, White’s interest in issues of
narrative was greatly stimulated by a ground-breaking article Mink wrote in 1970
for the journal New Literary History” (Hayden White, 85–6). Mink’s article was
entitled “History and Fiction.”
60 I am referring to the famous 1959 essay by C. P. Snow, first given as a lecture,
entitled “The Two Cultures and the Scientific Revolution.” This concept or slogan
became emblematic of the divide between the humanities and the sciences, a divide
that explains in part why the traditionally humanistic disciplines such as history
and philosophy have sought to align themselves as much as possible with the
sciences.
61 Ludwig Wittgenstein, Philosophical Investigations (1953), §109.
220 Notes
62 A similar statement from White can be found in the famous footnote to the
Introduction of Metahistory, where White observes that concepts or categories of
thought (such as those used in Foucault’s Les mots et les choses) are “little more than
formalizations of the tropes” (Metahistory, 3).
63 White, “The Ironic Poetics of Late Modernity.”
64 In 1982, White published an anthology of essays, co-edited by Margaret Brose,
entitled Representing Kenneth Burke (Baltimore: Johns Hopkins University Press).
65 In the lengthy footnote to the Introduction of Metahistory, mentioned above, White
writes: “I have also profited from a reading of the French Structuralist critics:
Lucien Goldmann, Roland Barthes, Michel Foucault, and Jacques Derrida. I should
like to stress, however, that I regard the latter [the “former” being Northrop Frye
and Kenneth Burke] as being, in general, captives of tropological strategies of
interpretation in the same way that their nineteenth-century counterparts were” (3).
66 White, Metahistory, 281.
67 It should be said that there is nothing uniquely tropological about historical
discourse; tropology is a theory of discourse tout court.
68 White, Metahistory, xi.
69 Or in David Carr’s felicitous phrase, “metaphilosophy of history”: “this project, it
seems to me, deserves to be called something other than ‘metahistory,’ which many
people now use as a generic term for the analysis of works of history; I suggest
metaphilosophy of history, or the philosophy of the philosophy of history” (Carr,
“Metaphilosophy of History,” in Re-figuring Hayden White, 17).
70 Karyn Ball, in her essay for this volume, explores the Kantian-transcendental aspect
of White’s thought.
71 White, Metahistory, xi.
72 Ibid., 427–8.
73 Ibid., xii, original emphasis.
74 Our knowledge of Sartre’s ethical thought largely derives from his posthumously
published Notebooks for an Ethics, which appeared well after White’s
groundbreaking work of the 1970s.
75 Nancy Partner makes the point that “formal fiction” should be distinguished from
“fictional invention”: “only the formal fictions—for example, significant event, plot,
narrative structure, closure, all the artifacts of intelligibility created by language and
imposed on the formless seriatim of experience—fill the category of ‘the fictions
of history’ in modern lit. crit. discourse, the area Hayden White brought forward
so strongly in Metahistory” (Partner, “Historicity in an Age of Reality-Fictions,” in
A New Philosophy of History, 24, original emphasis).
76 What Vattimo, Sartre, and Heidegger (as well as Nietzsche and Kierkegaard before
them) are aiming at in their discussion of historicity should be understood in light
of the modern project to separate itself definitively from traditional culture, i.e.
Notes 221
from practices and modes of thought based on continuity and the appeal to origins.
Being “modern” means breaking with the past. This perspective yielded the idea
of an objectified past, the past of Rankean historicism. What the existentialists
attempted to do in their critique of modernity was to put into question this
objectification of the past, the absolute discontinuity between past and present,
without however, falling into the traditionalist or “primitive” conception of a living
past (myth). Their individualist conception therefore puts the past at the service of
a self that seeks to affirm its freedom vis-à-vis the past as a function of its “project,”
that is, of a nexus of possibilities.
77 The full title is Figural Realism: Studies in the Mimesis Effect.
78 For a discussion of the question of Auerbach’s methodology in Mimesis, see Robert
Doran, “Literary History and the Sublime in Erich Auerbach’s Mimesis,” New
Literary History 38, no. 2 (2007): 353–69, and Robert Doran, “Erich Auerbach’s
Humanism and the Criticism of the Future,” Moderna, semestrale di teoria e critica
della letteratura 11, no. 1/2 (2009): 99–108.
79 White quotes Northrop Frye in this context: “What typology really is as a mode
of thought, what it both assumes and leads to, is a theory of history, or more
accurately of the historical process: an assumption that there is some meaning and
point to history, and that sooner or later some event or events will occur which
will indicate what that meaning or point is, and so become an antitype of what has
happened previously” (quoted in White, The Fiction of Narrative, 270).
80 Søren Kierkegaard, Fear and Trembling/Repetition, trans. Howard V. Hong and Edna
H. Hong (Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press, 1983), 149.
81 White, The Fiction of Narrative, 270–1.
83 See also Hayden White’s “Comment” at the end of this volume, where he discusses
the “histories of concepts” (Begriffsgeschichten).
84 That is, according to White, the basic tropes are the very glue by which otherwise
isolated elements (congeries of facts and artifacts) are integrated into a coherent
whole known as the historical work.
85 Arthur Danto, “Narrative Sentences,” History and Theory 2, no. 2 (1962): 146–79.
86 Danto, Narration and Knowledge, 143.
87 White, “The Practical Past,” manuscript version (this passage does not appear in the
published version).
88 It should be noted that despite the fact that White associates himself more with
Continental thought, and Danto with Analytic philosophy, Danto and White share
an interest in Sartre (Danto published an introduction to Sartre’s thought in 1975),
which could explain some of the commonalities.
89 Georg Iggers notes that a concept of temporal plurality has figured in many of
the major historical works of the twentieth century: “even within a set social
222 Notes
framework, differing conceptions of time coexisted or competed, as in Jacques

Le Goff ’s distinction between the time of the clergy and of the merchant in the
Middle Ages, or Edward P. Thomson’s view of the confrontation of preindustrial
and industrial time in an age of emergent industrial capitalism” (Georg G.
Iggers, Historiography in the Twentieth Century: From Scientific Objectivity
to the Postmodern Challenge [Middletown, CT: Wesleyan University Press
1997/2005], 7).
90 “[Andreas] Hillgruber was pilloried for daring to suggest that a specific group
of historical agents—units of the Wehrmacht defending the Eastern Front in the
final year of World War II—could plausibly be represented in a narrative account
that would redeem their status as heroes of a kind and thereby redeem something
of German national honor from the ashes of a general disgrace. In other words,
Hillgruber was to have been run out of the profession for doing what historians
have always done: try to legitimate the national past and tell stories about it—or
rather, by telling stories about it” (White, “History as Fulfillment,” included in this
volume).
91 For an insightful discussion of Vattimo’s philosophy of history, see Silvia Benso,
“Emancipation and the Future of the Utopian: On Vattimo’s Philosophy of History,”
in Between Nihilism and Politics: The Hermeneutics of Gianni Vattimo, ed. Silvia
Benso and Brian Schroeder (New York: SUNY Press, 2011): 203–20.
92 In his essay for this volume, Vattimo uses the shortened formula “destructuring of
ontology,” whereas I quote from the first reference to “destructuring” (Destrucktion) in
Heidegger’s Being and Time (23), which specifically references the concept of history.
Chapter 2
1 Richard T. Vann, “The Reception of Hayden White,” History and Theory 37 (1998): 147.
2 Ibid., 149.
3 Ibid., 143.
4 Max Black, “Metaphor,” in Models and Metaphors: Studies in Language and
Philosophy (Ithaca, NY: Cornell University Press, 1962), 25–48.
5 Hayden White, Metahistory. The Historical Imagination in Nineteenth-Century
Europe (Baltimore: Johns Hopkins University Press, 1973), 250.
6 Hayden White, “The Politics of Historical Interpretation: Discipline and
De-sublimation,” in The Content of the Form: Narrative Discourse and Historical
Representation (Baltimore: Johns Hopkins University Press, 1987), 72.
7 Not least am I thinking here of this notion of mirroring, where the historical text
is like a lamp illuminating certain aspects of the past, so that these aspects can be
said to “mirror” (or to reflect) what is said about the past in the historical text. The
Notes 223
idea was nicely put in a comment by Coleridge on Wordsworth’s The Prelude: “of
moments awful,/Now in thy inner life, and now abroad,/When power streamed
from thee. And thy soul received/The light reflected, as a light bestowed.” See F. R.
Ankersmit, Meaning, Truth and Reference in Historical Representation (Ithaca, NY:
Cornell University Press, 2012), 112, 113.
8 Frans van Mieris, Histori der Nederlandsche Vorsten. Tweede Deel (Graavenhaage:
P. De Hondt, 1733), 210.
9 This fact might invite us to add an extra dimension to Saul Kripke’s theory of the
so-called “rigid designators.”
11 The agreement of historicism (as defined by Ranke and Humboldt) with the
circumscription of the nature of historical writing as described here was one of the
main claims of my Narrative Logic: A Semantic Analysis of the Historian’s Language
(The Hague: Martinus Nijhoff, 1983).
Chapter 3
1 Hayden White, Metahistory: The Historical Imagination in Nineteenth-Century

Europe (Baltimore: Johns Hopkins University Press, 1973), 3.
2 See Ernst Van Alphen, “Geschiedfilosofie zonder subject,” Forum der Letteren 33,
no. 2 (1992): 83.
3 See “Writing in the Middle Voice,” in Hayden White, The Fiction of Narrative: Essays
on History, Literature, and Theory, 1957–2007, ed. Robert Doran (Baltimore: Johns
Hopkins University Press, 2010): 255–62.
4 See Mieke Bal, Reading “Rembrandt”: Beyond the Word-Image Opposition
(Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1991).
5 See Mieke Bal, Quoting Caravaggio: Contemporary Art, Preposterous History
(Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1999).
6 One of many examples is Mary Ann Doane’s deployment of Peirce to characterize
major issues in early cinema, all concerning the presumed indexicality of film.
See Doane, The Emergence of Cinematic Time: Modernity, Contingency, the Archive
(Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 2002).
7 White, Metahistory, 6–7.
8 Ibid., 2; emphasis in text.
9 See Jürgen Habermas, Knowledge and Human Interests, trans. Jeremy J. Shapiro
(London: Heinemann Educational, 1972).
10 There is no clearer programmatic statement on form’s importance than White’s The
Content of the Form: Narrative Discourse and Historical Representation (Baltimore:
Johns Hopkins University Press, 1987).
224 Notes
11 Re-figuring Hayden White, ed. Frank Ankersmit, Hans Kellner, and Ewa Dománska
(Stanford, CA: Stanford University Press, 2009).
12 Hans Kellner, Language and Historical Representation: Getting the Story Crooked
(Madison: University of Wisconsin Press, 1989), 24.
13 F. R. Ankersmit, De navel van de geschiedenis: Over interpretatie, representatie en
historische realiteit (Groningen: Historische Uitgeverij, 1990), 31.
14 F. R. Ankersmit, Sublime Historical Experience (Stanford, CA: Stanford University
Press, 2005). I am not judging the validity of aesthetic views of history or the
category of “historical experience.” I only wish to point out that both scholars
assume a position that rejects “truth” in favor of something else. This is the choice
White skillfully bypasses.
15 Hayden White, “The Forms of Wildness: Archaeology of an Idea,” in The Wild Man
Within: An Image in Western Thought from the Renaissance to Romanticism, ed.
Edward Dudley and Maximillian E. Novak (Pittsburgh: University of Pittsburgh
Press, 1972), 7. This essay was reprinted in Tropics of Discourse: Essays in Cultural
Criticism (Baltimore: Johns Hopkins University Press, 1978): 150–82.
16 White, Metahistory, 2, 4.
17 Ibid., 5.
18 White, “The Forms of Wildness,” 7.
19 Ibid.
20 This device is close to the notion of “the barbarian.” See Maria Boletsi’s brilliant
study on that topic: “Barbarism, Otherwise: Studies in Art, Literature, and Theory,”
Ph.D. diss. (University of Leiden, 2010).
21 See “Historical Emplotment and the Problem of Truth,” in Probing the Limits of
Representation: Nazism and the “Final Solution,” ed. Saul Friedlander (Cambridge,
MA: Harvard University Press, 1992), 37–53. This essay was reprinted in Figural
Realism: Studies in the Mimesis Effect (Baltimore: Johns Hopkins University Press,
1999), 27–42.
22 As White also notes, the middle voice was used by Jacques Derrida in an
extremely effective passage to explain the point of his term différance (ibid., 39; see
Jacques Derrida, Speech and Phenomena and Other Essays on Husserl’s Theory of
Signs, trans. David B. Allison [Evanston, IL: Northwestern University Press, 1973],
130).
23 As I will later discuss, lying is the foundation of the possibility of signification; a
sign is everything that can be used to lie. See Umberto Eco, A Theory of Semiotics
(Bloomington: Indiana University Press, 1976).
24 Essay collected in White, Figural Realism, 87–100.
25 “Northrop Frye’s Place in Contemporary Cultural Studies,” in Hayden White, The
Fiction of Narrative, 263–72.
26 Michael Ann Holly, Past Looking (Ithaca, NY: Cornell University Press, 1996).
Notes 225
27 See recent books by Giovanni Careri, Philippe-Alain Michaud, and Georges

Didi-Huberman, to name only three authors who have written on this topic.
28 There is no timer in the strict sense, but a program that sends the images to the
projector. The effect is that of a timer.
29 The alleged connection between photography and truth has overstayed its welcome
because of Roland Barthes’s influential notion of the index as the primary signifying
code in the medium. For a seminal study of the index in contemporary art, see
Rosalind E. Krauss, “Notes on the Index: Seventies Art in America” (Parts 1 and 2),
October 3 (Spring 1977): 68–81; October 4 (Autumn 1977): 58–67. But Barthes had
more to say about photography; see his Camera Lucida: Reflections on Photography,
trans. Richard Howard (New York: Hill and Wang, 1981).
30 Portraiture is usually considered in terms of realism, a discourse that is
emphatically irrelevant for Torfs’s work. For an example of such a realistic discourse
on portraiture, see Richard Brilliant, Portraiture (London: Reaktion Books,
1991). On portraiture in a non-realistic sense, see Ernst Van Alphen’s essay “The
Portrait’s Dispersal: Concepts of Representation and Subjectivity in Contemporary
Portraiture,” in Portraiture: Facing the Subject, ed. Joanna Woodall (Manchester:
Manchester University Press, 1997): 239–56.
31 The work with the face in Du mentir-faux contrasts term-by-term with my own
video installation Nothing is Missing (2006). See my article “Facing Severance,”
Intermédialités 8 (Autumn 2006): 189–224. Yet both Torfs’s and my work activate
the Deleuzian concept of the face as performative: not what a face says or expresses,
but what it does (see Gilles Deleuze, Cinema 1: The Movement-Image, trans. Hugh
Tomlinson and Barbara Habberjam [London: Athlone Press, 1986], esp. 99).
32 For an excellent discussion with many relevant references, see Jill Bennett, Empathic
Vision: Affect, Trauma, and Contemporary Art (Stanford, CA: Stanford University
Press, 2005).
33 See Dominick LaCapra, Writing History, Writing Trauma (Baltimore: Johns Hopkins
University Press, 2001).
34 Ibid., 41, discussed in Bennett, Empathic Vision, 8.
35 Deleuze, Cinema I, 99.
36 I think Mark Hansen somewhat misleadingly suggests a theoretical opposition
here, whereas the distinction pertains to the examples each author uses and to their
individual historical positions. Deleuze’s examples—the works of D. W. Griffith and
Sergei Eisenstein—are alien to the digital images that Hansen discusses (“Affect as
Medium, or the ‘Digital-Facial-Image,’” Journal of Visual Culture 2, no. 2 [2003]:
205–28). For an excellent explication of affection-images, see Patricia Pisters, The
Matrix of Visual Culture: Working with Deleuze in Film Theory (Stanford, CA:
Stanford University Press, 2003): 66–71; and Paula Marrati, Gilles Deleuze: Cinéma
et philosophie (Paris: P.U.F., 2003), 46–52. An excellent in-depth study of Deleuze’s
226 Notes
cinema books that both of these texts also reference is D. N. Rodowick’s Gilles
Deleuze’s Time Machine (Durham, NC: Duke University Press, 1997).
37 See Moira Gatens and Genevieve Lloyd, Collective Imaginings: Spinoza, Past and
Present (London: Routledge, 1999).
38 James Tully, Strange Multiplicity: Constitutionalism in an Age of Diversity
(Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1995).
39 Eco, A Theory of Semiotics, 10.
40 Mieke Bal, Travelling Concepts in the Humanities: A Rough Guide (Toronto:
University of Toronto Press, 2002), esp. 253–85.
41 Kaja Silverman, Flesh of My Flesh (Stanford, CA: Stanford University Press,
2009).
42 I cannot do justice to Silverman’s rich and dense argument. What she seeks to do
in this ambitious book is to displace the myth of Oedipus, with its emphasis on
rivalry and difference, from its central place in Western thought, in favor of the
myth of Orpheus, which, full as it is of ambivalences, includes thought on analogy.
Silverman is currently writing a book on the relationship between analogy and
photography.
43 Yve-Alain Bois et al, “A Conversation with Hubert Damisch,” October 85 (Summer
1998): 8.
44 Damisch’s concept of the theoretical object sometimes seems to suggest that these
are objects around which theories have been produced. At other times, as in the
interview quoted here, he attributes to the artwork the capacity to motivate, entice,
and even compel thought. I use the term in this second sense.
45 See Gilles Deleuze and Félix Guattari, A Thousand Plateaus: Capitalism and
Schizophrenia, trans. Brian Massumi (London: Athlone Press, 1987).
46 White, Metahistory, 6; emphasis in text.
47 Omar Calabrese, Neo-Baroque: A Sign of the Times, trans. Charles Lambert
(Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press, 1992), 21.
48 Calabrese, Neo-Baroque, 132; emphasis added.
49 See Bal, Quoting Caravaggio.
50 This tendency to consider recurrence as equivalent to the transhistorical is fairly
common, although not often theoretically posited. See Jean-Marie Benoist, Figures
du baroque (Paris: P.U.F., 1983); or Christine Buci-Glucksmann, La folie du voir: de
l’esthétique baroque (Paris: Galilée, 1986).
51 See Ernst Van Alphen, “Symptoms of Discursivity: Experience, Memory, and
Trauma,” in Acts of Memory: Cultural Recall in the Present, ed. Mieke Bal, Jonathan
Crewe, and Leo Spitzer (Hanover, NH: University Press of New England, 1999):
24–38.
52 See Ankersmit, Sublime Historical Experience.
Notes 227
Chapter 4
1 Dominick LaCapra coins this term in “Tropisms of Intellectual History,” Rethinking

History 8 (2004): 513.
2 Dirk Moses, “Hayden White, Traumatic Nationalism, and the Public Role of
History,” History and Theory 44 (2005): 316.
3 Hans Kellner, “Hayden White and the Kantian Discourse: Tropology, Narrative, and
Freedom,” in The Philosophy of Discourse: The Rhetorical Turn in Twentieth-Century
Thought, ed. Charles Sills (Portsmouth, NH: Boynton/Cook Publishers, 1992).
4 F. R. Ankersmit, “White’s ‘New Neo-Kantianism’: Aesthetics, Ethics, and Politics,” in
Re-Figuring Hayden White, ed. F. R. Ankersmit, Ewa Domanksa, and Hans Kellner
(Stanford, CA: Stanford University Press, 2009).
5 Ibid., 50.
6 Ibid., 51.
7 A slightly mischievous question that I might pose to Ankersmit is why desire White’s
ostensible “lack” of political conviction when there are so many avenues through
his texts that could prompt the very opposite conclusion? In his article, “Hayden
White, Traumatic Nationalism, and the Public Role of History,” Dirk Moses offers an
incisive reconstruction of White’s politics, while assessing what he perceives to be its
inadequate response to ethno-nationalist violence. In the course of a magisterial tour
through White’s oeuvre, Moses revisits Metahistory, where a comparative analysis
of philosophies of history compels its author both to confess his capitulation to the
ironist’s contemplative distance and to emphasize the importance of superseding this
attitude. Thankfully, Moses does not fall into the trap of some of White’s less careful
readers who reduce him to an avatar of postmodernist irony. “The problem with the
ironic mood,” according to Dirk Moses, “is its anti-utopian political implication: it
‘tends to dissolve all belief in the possibility of positive political actions’” (Moses,
“Hayden White,” 312, quoting Hayden White in the second half of the sentence:
Metahistory: The Historical Imagination in Nineteenth-Century Europe [Baltimore:
Johns Hopkins University Press, 1973], 37). Though he sides with White’s demand
that historians transcend the political-moral paralysis of the ironic standpoint,
Moses nevertheless insists that White’s “left-wing” existentialism (“Hayden White,
Traumatic Nationalism,” 319) does not go far enough; it is not sufficient to promote a
non-hierarchical attitude that respects the “freedom” of competing narratives. Moses
argues that historians should perform an urgent diplomatic service by adjudicating
among and perhaps bridging incommensurable collective narratives of victimization
that incite paranoid attacks as well as ethno-nationalist and territorial disputes.
8 Kellner, “Hayden White and the Kantian Discourse,” 250.
9 Henry E. Allison, Kant’s Transcendental Idealism: An Interpretation and Defense
(New Haven, CT: Yale University Press, 1983), 7.
228 Notes
10 Kellner, “Hayden White and the Kantian Discourse,” 256.

11 Immanuel Kant, Critique of Pure Reason, trans. Paul Guyer and Allen W. Wood
(New York: Cambridge University Press, 1998), A12/B25.
12 Ibid., A296/B352.
13 Ibid., A296/B352–353. Kant’s tone here is difficult to pin down, since the German
original for “to lay claim” in Paul Guyer and Allen W. Wood’s translation is
anmaßen (to presume, to usurp, to arrogate to one’s self). If Kant intended to
be bold here, then his employment of anmaßen represents the transcendently
principled demolition of Grenzpfähle (boundary posts) as an admirably decisive
appropriation of territory; if, however, we read the Prussian philosopher as
generally calling for restraint where all epistemological borders are concerned, then
the violent imagery of usurpation belies Kant’s anxiety about the arrogance of going
beyond them.
14 Ibid., A295/B352.
15 Kant’s commentary on the transcendental illusion might provoke his contemporary
audience to anticipate a future moment in his thinking on judgment, when the
barriers that Kant erects around the faculties in the first Critique determine the
pleasures of trespass in the third. In the Critique of the Power of Judgment, Kant
stages various scenarios in which certain kinds of phenomena precipitate a relative
mode of transcendence as intuitions fail to correspond to concepts, and vice
versa, at the expense of cognition. In this context, Kant defines ideas in the most
general sense as “representations related to an object in accordance with a certain
(subjective or objective) principle, insofar as they can nevertheless never become a
cognition of that object.” He then goes on to differentiate aesthetic ideas from ideas
of reason (or, in Werner S. Pluhar’s translation, rational ideas) as the respective
pivots of “subjective” and “objective” failures of representation. Aesthetic ideas are
“intuitive,” according to Kant, because their function follows a “merely subjective
principle of the correspondence of the faculties of cognition with each other (of
imagination and of understanding).” Ideas of reason, in contrast, are “transcendent”
insofar as they adhere to an objective principle, “yet can never yield a cognition
of the object.” This definition distinguishes rational ideas from concepts of the
understanding, which Kant calls immanent because “an adequately corresponding
experience can always be ascribed” to them. Kant also notes that an “aesthetic idea
cannot become a cognition because it is an intuition (of the imagination) for which
a concept can never be found adequate.” Conversely, an “idea of reason can never
become cognition, because it contains a concept (of the supersensible) for which no
suitable intuition can ever be given.” Ultimately, then, Kant will call the aesthetic
idea an “inexpoundable presentation of the imagination” while identifying the idea
of reason as an “indemonstrable concept of reason.” This is to distinguish both
types from concepts of the understanding that must “always be demonstrable” (i.e.
Notes 229
capable of being exhibited) (Immanuel Kant, Critique of the Power of Judgment,

trans. Paul Guyer and Eric Matthews [Cambridge: Cambridge University Press,
2000], 217–18). In the (subjective) instance of aesthetic ideas, intuition transpires
without an accompanying concept. In the (objective) modality of rational ideas, a
concept emerges without an intuition. Aesthetic ideas involve a failure of cognition
because “the understanding, by means of its concepts, never attains to the complete
inner intuition of the imagination which it combines with a given representation.”
Likewise, in the instance of rational ideas, “imagination, with its intuitions, never
attains to the given concept” (Kant, Critique of the Power of Judgment, 219, italics in
the original). The symmetry of these failures formally reinforces Kant’s premise that
knowledge does not take place if an idea cannot be expounded or demonstrated.
The need for this stipulation arises as a critique of the conditions of possible
knowledge confronts an inherent limit in those ideas that lie beyond either intuition
or conception and therefore vex the very demarcations that are intended to offset
their unrepresentability.
17 Allison, Kant’s Transcendental Idealism, 7.
18 J. M. Bernstein, The Fate of Art: Aesthetic Alienation from Kant to Derrida and
Adorno (College Park, PA: The Pennsylvania State University Press, 1992), 56, citing
Allison, Kant’s Transcendental Idealism, 225.
19 Robert Doran, “The Work of Hayden White I: Mimesis, Figuration, and the Writing
of History,” in The SAGE Handbook of Historical Theory, ed. Nancy Partner and
Sarah Foot (London: Sage Publications, 2013): 106–118.
20 Robert Doran, “Editor’s Introduction,” in The Fiction of Narrative: Essays on History,
Literature and Theory, 1957–2007, ed. Robert Doran (Baltimore: Johns Hopkins
University Press, 2010), xx.
21 Ankersmit, “White’s ‘New Neo-Kantianism,’” 37.
22 Ibid., 38.
23 Ibid., 42.
24 Ibid., 38.
25 See Auerbach’s 1939 essay “Figura” (in Auerbach, Scenes from the Drama of
European Literature [Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press, 1984]: 11–78)
and Auerbach, Mimesis: The Representation of Reality in Western Literature, trans.
Willard Trask (Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press, 2003).
26 Doran, “Editor’s Introduction,” xxix.
27 Ibid., xxxi, italics in the original. See White’s “Auerbach’s Literary History: Figural
Causation and Modernist Historicism,” in Literary History and the Challenge of
Philology: The Legacy of Erich Auerbach, ed. Seth Lehrer (Stanford, CA: Stanford
University Press, 1996): 124–42, reprinted in Figural Realism: Studies in the
Mimesis Effect (Baltimore: Johns Hopkins University Press, 1998), 87–100. See also,
230 Notes
White’s “What Is a Historical System?” in White, The Fiction of Narrative, 126–35.

For a recent consideration of White’s debt to Auerbach, see Allan Megill, “The
Rhetorical Dialectic of Hayden White,” in Re-Figuring Hayden White, 190–215.
28 Ankersmit, “White’s ‘New Neo-Kantianism,’” 42, my emphasis.
29 Ibid., 43, my emphasis.
30 According to Herman Paul, the “early White,” who co-authored The Emergence of
Liberal Humanism with Wilson H. Coates and J. Salwyn Schapiro (1966), exhorts us
to “take your life into your own hands, without ever projecting moral authority or
moral responsibility into whatever transcendental realm” (Paul, “Hayden White and
the Crisis of Historicism,” in Re-Figuring Hayden White, 60).
31 In Moses’s reading of Metahistory, White reveals his admiration for Northrop Frye
in insisting that historians “take on the role of the artist-critic… to overcome the
real with the conceivable in the name of a free society” (Moses, “Hayden White,
Traumatic Nationalism,” 313).
32 Barthes defines the poetic device he calls the “reality effect” as follows: “Semiotically,
the ‘concrete detail’ is constituted by the direct collusion of a referent and a signifier;
the signified is expelled from the sign, and with it, of course, the possibility of
developing a form of the signified, i.e. narrative structure itself… This is what we
might call the referential illusion. The truth of this illusion is this: eliminated from
the realist speech-act as a signified of denotation, the ‘real’ returns to it as a signified
of connotation; for when these details are reputed to denote the real directly, all
that they do—without saying so—is signify it” (“The Reality Effect,” in The Rustle of
Language [Los Angeles and Berkeley: University of California Press, 1989]: 147–8).
33 Robert Doran arrives at a similar formulation of this fantasy: “For White, there is
no being of history other than the ontological effect—the reality or mimesis effect—
produced by historical discourse” (Doran, “The Work of Hayden White I,” 109).
34 Allen Wood, Kant (Oxford: Blackwell Publishing, 2005), 30.
35 Ibid., 30–1.
36 Ibid. According to Allen Wood, “All combining is done by our active cognitive
faculties. These include understanding (which forms concepts of objects and makes
judgments about them) and reason (which connects such judgments through
inferences and unifies our cognition under principles specifying the self-directing
aims of our cognitive faculties as a whole)” (ibid., 31).
37 Ibid., 33. By extension, when Kant, in the Critique of the Power of Judgment,
identifies the “intuitive” basis of aesthetic ideas, he emphasizes the subjectivity of
their sensory content, on the one hand, and the passive comportment of the mind
that receives them, on the other.
38 I am borrowing the concept of the image repertoire from Barthes’s Roland Barthes
by Roland Barthes, trans. Richard Howard (Berkeley: University of California Press,
1977).
Notes 231
39 This is to stress, with Hans Kellner, White’s “[assertion] that the vision of a given
historian derives not from the evidence, since the vision decides in advance what
shall constitute evidence, but rather from conscious and unconscious choices made
among possibilities offered by the categories of his historical poetics” (“Hayden
White and the Kantian Discourse,” 246–7).
40 “Thus conceived,” Kellner writes, “the purpose of the writing of history is to sound
out the ability of a culture to encode real events with the meanings offered to it by
its inherited and developing literary forms” (ibid., 261).
41 If it can be argued that White accords prefiguration the quasi-transcendental
status of a condition for the linguistic mediation of experience, he does not repeat
Paul Ricoeur’s emplotment of the cycle of threefold mimesis as an Aufhebung of
the hermeneutic circle, whereby readers “transfigure” the prefigurative collective
codes communicated secondarily by narrative as a necessary means of configuring
temporally distended experience. Ricoeur’s prefiguration-configuration-transfiguration
cycle seemingly collapses the distinction between “lived stories” that define
experience at a prefigurative level and the configuration that excavates them. In “The
Metaphysics of Narrativity: Time and Symbol in Ricoeur’s Philosophy of History,”
White gestures at this collapse without explicitly naming it when he characterizes
Ricoeur’s standpoint as follows: “Historical events can be distinguished from natural
events by virtue of the fact that they are products of the actions of human agents
seeking, more or less self-consciously, to endow the world in which they live with
symbolic meaning. Historical events can therefore be represented realistically in
symbolic discourse, because such events are themselves symbolic in nature. So it
is with the historian’s composition of a narrative account of historical events: the
narrativization of historical events effects a symbolic representation of the processes
by which human life is endowed with symbolic meaning” (The Content of the
Form: Narrative Discourse and Historical Representation [Baltimore: Johns Hopkins
University Press: 1983], 178). As Robert Doran observes, White criticizes Ricoeur’s
conception of “lived narratives” (a concept he shares with David Carr), which
identifies historical narrative as “the product of a process of verbal figuration that
insofar as the story told conforms to the outline of the story lived in real life, is to be
taken as literally true” (quoted in Doran, “The Work of Hayden White I,” 109 [White,
Figural Realism, 9, italics in the original]). White objects to “this collapse of the
figurative into the literal,” which “merely puts us back into the position of historical
objectivism.” For if historical narratives are seen as literal in this sense, White writes,
“the task of the historian would be what it has always been thought to be, namely, to
discover the ‘real’ story or stories that lie embedded within the welter of ‘facts’ and to
retell them as truthfully and completely as the documentary record permits” (ibid.).
42 In “Getting Out of History: Jameson’s Redemption of Narrative,” White defends
modernist experimentation against Fredric Jameson’s charge that it represses
232 Notes
politics (The Content of the Form, 167). While White honors the utopian
impulses informing Jameson’s framework in The Political Unconscious for
arriving at the historicity of the poetic forms and imagery that allegorically
sublimates writers’ reactions to the constraints of their sociopolitical situations,
he also disclaims Marx’s assumption that the challenge lies in transforming
a pseudo-historical mindset into a genuinely historical existence as the
springboard and telos of revolution. Over and against Jameson’s Marxist
commitment to historical consciousness as a cause in its own right, White
celebrates modernist experimentation as a repudiation of an “outdated” politics
that leans on a redemptive plot. This repudiation sloughs off the burden of
history in Nietzsche’s sense by relinquishing the “no longer” while beckoning at a
“not yet” (ibid., 168).
43 In Doran’s words, as “a tropological account of historical practice,” White’s
Metahistory “reveal[s] the essential contingency of historical writing and historical
consciousness. This revelation of contingency is not a capitulation to nihilism, but
rather an affirmation of freedom, a freedom born of the necessity of tropes. That
is to say, once the fundamentally rhetorical nature of historical writing is made
manifest, it can have the effect of liberating the historian, not necessarily to satisfy a
will to power (though this cannot be excluded), but to realize his or her creative role
in the self-understanding of his or her community” (“Editor’s Introduction,” xxi,
italics in the original).
44 Kant, The Critique of Pure Reason, A11/B24.
45 Kant, The Critique of Judgment, 66–7. Rather than adopting Paul Guyer’s and
Eric Matthews’s translation of bestimmend and reflektierend as determining and
reflecting, I am abiding with Werner S. Pluhar’s use of the terms determinative and
reflective (Critique of Judgment, trans. Werner S. Pluhar [Indianapolis, IN: Hackett
Publishing Company, 1987], 18–19). Sidestepping the Prussian philosopher’s
ambiguous use of merely (the German bloß) to delimit reflective judgment,
third Critique readers should be cautious about opposing it in any absolute
sense to determinative judgment. As J. M. Bernstein suggests, “the work of the
understanding presupposes reflective judgment,” which informs the identification
of principles and categories that will act subsumptively. For this reason, it is more
precise “to conceive of the difference between reflective and determinate judgment
as a difference of degree (and use) rather than an absolute difference in kind, since
the former is submerged but present in the activity of the latter” (The Fate of Art,
57). For an analysis of the implications of Kant’s employment of bloß, see Rodolphe
Gasché, “Chapter 1: One Principle More” in Gasché, The Idea of Form: Rethinking
Kant’s Aesthetics (Stanford, CA: Stanford University Press, 2003), 13–41. Gasché
notes that while bloß typically serves to stigmatize “a modality of nondiscursive,
nonrigorous, or even sloppy thinking” (ibid., 20), Kant’s use of this qualifier
Notes 233
here should not be interpreted as maligning reflective judgment. Rather, it is a

qualification that “serves to delimit a mode of reflecting comparison with respect
to possible concepts, in the face of representations for which the understanding
has no determined concepts to offer” (ibid., 18). “In the mode of mere reflection,”
Gasché suggests, “the power of judgment as a cognitive power is used in
isolation… ‘Mere’ in merely reflective judgments thus indicates an autonomy in the
power of judgment, because in the experience of particulars for which no concepts
are available, this power is disengaged from its usual ties to the determining mode
of the other faculties” (ibid., 25). Ultimately, then, Gasché’s analysis of bloß specifies
“the ability of [reflective] judgment to shed light on the affective dimension of
cognition in a broad sense” and thereby “[illuminates] what thinking feels when
it thinks, over against, and in distinction from, the overpowering role of the
understanding (and morality) in the ordinary employment of the faculties” (ibid.,
26).
46 “Once a field of data has been described,” Kellner writes, “the process of discourse
engages, acting like a ‘shuttle’ in order to commute between the phenomena and
the argument or narrative that the phenomena have been chosen to serve” (Kellner,
“Hayden White and the Kantian Discourse,” 243).
47 Ankersmit, “White’s ‘New Neo-Kantianism,’” 43.
48 For my analysis of the shadow metaphor in Heidegger’s “The Age of the World
Picture” and Horkheimer’s and Adorno’s The Dialectic of Enlightenment, see
Karyn Ball, “Paranoia in the Age of the World Picture: The Global ‘Limits of
Enlightenment,’” Cultural Critique 61 (2005): 115–47.
49 See Lyotard’s chapter on “The Sign of History,” in Jean-François Lyotard, The
Differend: Phrases in Dispute, trans. Georges Van Den Abbeele (Minneapolis:
University of Minnesota Press, 1988).
50 White, The Content of the Form, 66.
51 Ibid., 67.
52 Ibid.
53 Ibid.
54 Ibid.
55 Ibid., 71.
56 White’s reconstruction of this lineage touches on Burke, Kant, Schiller, and Hegel,
while acknowledging that, despite his participation in its demotion, “Schiller
himself joined the notion of the historical sublime to the kind of response to it that
would authorize a totally different politics” (ibid., 69).
57 Ibid., 73.
58 Ibid., 69.
59 Ibid., 73.
60 Ibid., 72.
234 Notes
61 “For White,” as Kellner contends, “the essential ‘unpresentable’ is historical reality,

which is unpresentable not because of any failure of representation itself, nor even
because we humans do not live immediately meaningful, storied lives, but rather
because it is possible that the chaos of the historical record is more than a surface
phenomenon in need of historical beautification through narrative” (“Hayden
White and the Kantian Discourse,” 263).
62 Ankersmit, “White’s ‘New Neo-Kantianism,’” 49, citing White, Metahistory 108–9;
italics in the original.
63 Ibid. Here is the unabbreviated comment about Hegel from Metahistory that Ankersmit
offers in a shortened form as evidence for White’s aestheticist concept of the State: “But
every actual state, precisely because it is a concrete mechanism, an actualization rather
than a potentiality or a realization of the ideal state, fails to attain this harmonious
reconciliation of individual interests, desires, and needs with the common good. This
failure of any given state to incarnate the ideal, however, is to be experienced as a
cause for jubilation rather than despair, for it is precisely this imbalance of private and
public (or public with private) interests which provides the space for the exercise of a
specifically human freedom” (White, Metahistory, 108–9; italics in the original).
64 Anksermit argues that the “irreconcilability of the public and the private” is “crucial
to both Hegel’s and White’s arguments,” and adds that, “[t]his is, of course, a
rephrasing of Machiavelli’s insight into the irreconcilability of (Christian) ethics and
politics” (Ankersmit, “White’s ‘New Neo-Kantianism,’” 49).
65 Bernstein, The Fate of Art, 25.
66 Ibid., 17.
67 Ibid., 18.
68 Despite their “lack of conceptual grounding,” Bernstein observes, “[j]udgments of
the form ‘This is beautiful’ state more than ‘This object pleases me’; they also state
that any and all others who judge this object distinterestedly will and should find it
beautiful” (ibid., 19).
69 Ibid., 24.
70 Ibid., 27.
71 Moses, “Hayden White, Traumatic Nationalism,” 323.
72 Kellner delineates White’s position on the beautiful as follows: “Interest in the
beautiful, Kant insisted in the third Critique, is the work of a good soul, a
characteristic of sociability; and White maintains that the nineteenth-century
professionalization of history as a narrative ordering, and hence philosophical
beautification, of human events, was aimed at the production of good citizens,
willing participants in the social world surrounding them” (Kellner, “Hayden White
and the Kantian Discourse,” 257).
73 Hannah Arendt, “The Crisis in Culture: Its Social and Political Significance,” in
Arendt, Between Past and Future: Eight Exercises in Political Thought. Enlarged
Notes 235
Edition (New York: Penguin Books, 1977), 220–1, citing Kant, The Critique of
Judgment, §40 and Introduction VII).
74 Arendt, “The Crisis in Culture,” 222.
75 Ibid., citing Kant, The Critique of Judgment, §19.
76 Arendt, “The Crisis in Culture,” 222–3.
77 Ibid., 223.
78 Ibid.
Chapter 5
1 Arthur Danto, Narration and Knowledge (New York: Columbia University Press,
2007).
2 Hayden White, “Auerbach’s Literary History: Figural Causation and Modernist
Historicism,” in White, Figural Realism: Studies in the Mimesis Effect (Baltimore:
Johns Hopkins University Press, 1999), 87–100.
Chapter 6
1 Jacob Burckhardt, Force and Freedom, ed. James Hastings Nichols (New York:
Pantheon, 1943), 72 (translation altered).
2 Ibid.
3 Hayden White, “Ibn Khaldun in World Philosophy of History,” Comparative Studies
and History 2, no. 1 (1959): 111.
4 Ibid.
5 Ibid.
6 For Croce, see R. G. Collingwood, The Idea of History (Oxford: Clarendon, 1952),
201–3. White does not deal with this aspect of Croce’s historical thought, which
Collingwood mentions only in passing. But it is important to White’s own effort to
reunite history and philosophy. It is interesting to note that Georg Lukács earlier
proposed that historical materialism was capital’s self-knowledge.
7 See Harry Harootunian, “Philosophy and Answerability: Miki Kiyoshi and The
Epiphanic Moment of World History,” in Overcoming the Modern and Kyoto
Philosophy, ed. Isomae Jun and Sakai Naoki (Tokyo: 2010, in Japanese).
8 Maurice Halbwachs, La Mémoire collective, ed. Gerard Namier (Paris: Albin Michel,
1997), 97–192.
9 For Kobayashi’s thinking on history, see Harry Harootunian, Overcome by
Modernity: History, Culture, and Community in Interwar Japan (Princeton, NJ:
Princeton University Press, 2000), 65–94.
236 Notes
10 Ernst Bloch, The Heritage of Our Time, trans. Neville Plaice and Stephen Plaice
(Berkeley and Los Angeles: University of California Press, 1990), 90.
11 Apart from Reinhart Koselleck’s classic Futures Past: On the Semantics of Historical
Time (Cambridge: MIT Press, 1990), there have been recent attempts to rectify this
problem in French historical writing. See: Jean Leduc, Les Historiens et le temps
(Paris: Seuil, 1999); Krzysztof Pomian, L’Ordre du Temps (Paris: Gallimard, 1984);
François Hartog, Régimes d’histoiricité (Paris: Seuil, 2003).
12 Giorgio Agamben, Infancy and History, trans. Liz Heron (London and New York:
Verso, 1993), 91.
13 Andrew MacGettigan, “As Flowers Turn Towards the Sun: Walter Benjamin’s
Bergsonian Image of the Past,” Radical Philosophy 158 (November/December 2009):
26.
14 Agamben, Infancy and History, 91.
15 Ibid.
16 Daniel Bensaid, Marx For Our Times, trans. Gregory Eliott (London and New York:
Verso, 2009), 71, 74.
17 Ibid., 21.
18 Essay collected in Hayden White, The Fiction of Narrative: Essays on History,
Literature, and Theory, 1957–2007, ed. Robert Doran (Baltimore: Johns Hopkins
University Press, 2010), 237–46.
19 Paul Ricoeur, “Narrative Time,” Critical Inquiry 7, no. 1 (1980), 169–76.
20 Tosaka Jun Zenshu (Tokyo: Keiso shobo, 1966, vol. 3): 95–6. See also, Robert
Stolz’s translation of Tosaka’s essay “The Principle of Everydayness and Historical
Time” [1934] (Nichijosei no genri to rekishiteki jikan), in From Japan’s Modernity:
A Reader, Select Papers, vol. 11 (The Center for East Asian Studies, University of
Chicago, 2002).
21 Hayden White, The Content of the Form: Narrative Discourse and Historical
22 Ricoeur, 171.
23 See Peter Osborne, The Politics of Time (London and New York: Verso, 1995), 47.
24 Ibid., 45.
25 Jacques Rancière, “Le concept de l’anachronisme et la vérité de l’historien,” Inactuel
6 (1996), 53–69.
26 Nicos Poulantzas, State, Power, Socialism (London and New York: Verso, 2000),
101–10.
27 Agamben, Infancy and History, 99–100.
28 Bensaid, Marx For Our Times, 35; see also Henri Lefebvre, Rhythmanalysis, Space,
Time and Everyday Life, trans. Stuart Elden and Gerald Moore (London, New
York: Continuum, 2004), for the first real attempt to chart the temporal rhythms in
capitalist life, a veritable “rhythmology.”
Notes 237
29 Karl Marx, Grundrisse: Introduction to the Critique of Political Economy, trans.

Martin Nicholas (London and New York: Penguin, 1972), 488.
30 Peter Osborne, “Marx and The Philosophy of Time,” in Marxism and Japanese
Ideology (MEARC, Leiden University, February 2004), 3.
32 Osborne, 197; 160–96. See Harry Harootunian, History’s Disquiet (New York:
Columbia University Press: 2000), 1–23.
33 Enzo Traverso, Le passé, modes d’emploi: histoire, mémoire, politique (Paris: La
Fabrique, 2005), 45.
34 There is a partial English translation of this great work: Maeda Ai, Text and the City,
Essays on Japanese Modernity, ed. James Fujii (Durham, NC: Duke University Press,
2004).
35 Jacques Rancière, La Nuit des prolétaires: archives du rêve ouvrier (Paris: Fayard,
1981); translated as The Nights of Labor: The Worker’s Dream by John Drury
(Philadelphia: Temple University Press, 1989).
36 Peter Weiss, Die Asthetik des Widerstands, vol. 1 (Frankfurt am Main: Suhrkamp,
1975); translated by Joachim Neugroschel as The Aesthetics of Resistance, with a
foreword by Fredric Jameson (Durham, NC: Duke University Press, 2007).
37 Gendai shiso (Contemporary Thought), “Sengo minshu seishinshi” (Spiritual History
of the Postwar) 35, no. 17 (December 2007).
38 Hayden White, “Religion, Culture, and Western Civilization in Christopher
Dawson’s Idea of History” [1958] in White, The Fiction of Narrative, 23–49. Even
though White rejected Dawson’s principal religious presupposition that linked
such a project to the formation of culture, he recognized in the impulse, especially
the components that structured every culture and the forces that accounted for
their different worldly inflections, a promising candidate for seeing through such
a historical program in the postwar environment. But in the postwar period,
enthusiasm for such a figure of world history was quickly overtaken by a new kind
of Cold War “universal history” based on a developmentalist model driven by the
principle of rationality as embodied in capitalism. In the early Cold War years,
Arnold Toynbee’s multi-volume The Study of History, begun before World War II
and reflecting that era’s sense of urgency to construct a “world history” to overcome
the “crisis of historicism,” was perhaps the last major attempt to realize this agenda
before it was overtaken by a renewed effort to envision a “universalist history”
founded on progressive development.
40 Ibid., 269.
41 Ibid., 270.
42 Quoted in ibid., 269.
43 Ibid., 270.
238 Notes
44 Ibid., 271.
45 Kristin Ross, “Historicizing Untimeliness,” in History, Politics, Aesthetics: Jacques
Rancière ed. Gabriel Rockhill and Philip West (Durham, NC: Duke University
Press, 2009), 24.
46 Ibid.
48 Narita Ryuichi, “Sakuru undo no jidai e no danpen” (Fragment on the Circle
Movement of the 1950s), in Bungaku (Literature) 5, no. 6 (2004): 115. See also
Michiba, in Gendai shiso, 38.
49 See Ross, “Historicizing Untimeliness,” 23.
50 Karl Marx, Capital, A Critique of Political Economy, trans. Ben Fowkes (London:
Penguin, 1975), I, 341.
51 Ross, “Historicizing Untimeliness,” 23–4.
52 Fredric Jameson, Foreword to Weiss, The Aesthetics of Resistance, x.
53 Ibid.
54 Ibid., ix-xix.
55 Ibid., x.
56 Ibid.
57 Weiss, The Aesthetics of Resistance, 9.
58 Gendai shiso, 38.
59 Ibid.
60 Marx, Capital, I, 341.
61 Ross, “Historicizing Untimeliness,” 25.
63 Osborne, The Politics of Time, 197.
64 Ibid.
66 Bensaid, Marx for Our Time, 32. I am also indebted to Bensaid’s La Discordance des
temps (Paris: Les Editions de la Passion, 1995) for my own understanding of uneven
and untimely temporalities, for what he names contretemps as the French equivalent
to Marx’s formulations on the coexistent heterogeneity of times.
67 Ibid.
68 Quoted in White, The Fiction of Narrative, 240.
69 Ibid., 242.
70 Ibid.
71 Ibid., 243.
72 Ibid., 242.
73 Ibid., 244.
74 Ibid., 246.
Notes 239
Chapter 7
1 White’s doctoral dissertation dealt with medieval Church history and was entitled
“The Conflict of Papal Leadership Ideals from Gregory VII to St. Bernard de
Clarivaux with Special Reference to the Papal Schism of 1130” (University of
Michigan, 1955).
2 See Hayden White, Tropics of Discourse: Essays in Cultural Criticism (Baltimore:
Johns Hopkins University Press, 1978).
3 See the following essays, collected in White’s Tropics of Discourse: “Foucault Decoded:
Notes from Underground”; “What Is Living and What Is Dead in Croce’s Criticism
of Vico”; “Fictions of Factual Representation” (which contains a section on Darwin).
4 See White’s essay “Narrative, Description, and Tropology in Proust” in Figural
Realism: Studies in the Mimesis Effect (Baltimore: Johns Hopkins University Press,
1999), 126–46.
5 See Hans Kellner, “Twenty Years After: A Note on Metahistories and Their
Horizons,” Storia della storiografia 24 (1993): 109–17.
6 See James Mellard, Doing Tropology: Analysis of Narrative Discourse (Urbana:
University of Illinois Press, 1987).
7 See Peter Brooks, “Aesthetics and Ideology: What Happened to Poetics?” Critical
Inquiry 20, no. 3 (1994): 509–23.
8 See Hayden White, “Foucault Decoded: Notes from Underground,” in White,
Tropics of Discourse, 230–60.
9 See Hayden White, “New Historicism: A Comment,” in The New Historicism:
Political Commitment and the Postmodern Critic, ed. H. Aram Veeser (New York:
Routledge, 1989). This essay was republished in White’s Figural Realism as part of
chapter 3: “Formalist and Contextualist Strategies in Historical Explanation.”
10 See “Figura” in Erich Auerbach, Scenes from the Drama of European Literature
(Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press, 1984), 11–78.
11 Walter Pater, The Renaissance: Studies in Art and Poetry (New York: New American
Library, 1959), 95.
12 Hayden White, Metahistory: The Historical Imagination in Nineteenth-Century
Europe (Baltimore: Johns Hopkins University Press, 1973), 275–6.
13 Jean-François Lyotard, Lessons on the Analytic of the Sublime, trans. Elizabeth
Rottenberg (Stanford, CA: Stanford University Press, 1994), 139.
15 Ibid., 281–330.
16 White, Figural Mimesis, 99.
17 Lionel Gossman, “History and Literature: Reproduction or Signification,” in The
Writing of History: Literary Form and Historical Understanding, ed. R. Canary and
H. Kosicki (Madison: University of Wisconsin Press, 1978): 23–4.
240 Notes
18 Ibid.
19 White, Metahistory, 433
20 Hans Kellner, “Twenty Years After,” 116.
22 Ibid., 432.
23 See White, “The Suppression of Rhetoric in the Nineteenth C entury,” in The Fiction
of Narrative: Essays on History, Literature, and Theory, 1957–2007, ed. Robert Doran
(Baltimore: Johns Hopkins University Press, 2010), 302–3.
24 Ibid., 300–1.
25 Hayden White, The Content of the Form: Narrative Discourse and Historical
26 See Roland Barthes, The Rustle of Language (New York: Hill and Wang, 1986).
27 White, Figural Realism, 39–40, original emphasis.
28 Roland Barthes, The Semiotic Challenge (New York: Hill and Wang, 1988), 95.
29 Roland Barthes, Roland Barthes (New York: Hill and Wang, 1977), 87.
30 Re-Figuring Hayden White, ed. F. R. Ankersmit, Ewa Domanska, and Hans Kellner
(Stanford, CA: Stanford University Press, 2009). The essay in question “What is
a Historical System?” has been republished in White, The Fiction of Narrative,
chapter 8.
31 White, The Fiction of Narrative, 132, original emphasis.
33 Gary Saul Morson, Hidden in Plain View: Narrative and Creative Potentials in ‘War
and Peace’ (Stanford, CA: Stanford University Press, 1987), 236–7.
34 Michael André Bernstein, “Against Foreshadowing,” in The Holocaust: Theoretical
Readings, ed. N. Levi and M. Rothberg (New Brunswick, NJ: Rutgers University
Press, 2003), 348.
35 Jean-François Lyotard, The Postmodern Condition: A Report on Knowledge, trans.
Geoffrey Bennington and Brian Massumi (Minneapolis: University of Minnesota
Press, 1988), 78.
36 Lyotard, The Postmodern Condition, 78.
37 Hans Kellner, “Naive and Sentimental Realism: From Advent to Event,” Storia della
storiografia 22 (1992): 117–23.
38 Hayden White, “Against Historical Realism: A Reading of War and Peace,” New Left
Review 46 (2007): 110.
39 Ibid., 97.
40 Morson, Hidden in Plain View, 293.
42 Ibid., 72.
43 Morson, Hidden in Plain View, 185.
44 Ibid., 129.
Notes 241
45 White, “Against Historical Realism,” 98.

46 Ibid., 103.
47 Giorgio Agamben, The Coming Community (Minneapolis: University of Minnesota
Press, 1993), 67.
48 Hans Ulrich Gumbrecht, “Pathos of the Earthly Progress: Erich Auerbach’s
Everydays,” in Literary Historyand the Challenges of Philology: The Legacy of Erich
Auerbach, ed. Seth Lerer (Stanford, CA: Stanford University Press, 1996): 31.
49 Roland Barthes, The Rustle of Language (New York: Hill and Wang, 1986), 143.
50 White, Figural Realism, 91.
52 David Carr, Time, Narrative, and History (Bloomington: Indiana University Press,
1986), 185.
53 Ibid., 61.
54 Hans Kellner, Language and Historical Representation: Getting the Story Crooked
(Madison: University of Wisconsin Press, 1989), 228–51.
Chapter 8
1 Clifford Geertz, “Deep Play: Notes on a Balinese Cockfight,” in Geertz, The

Interpretation of Cultures (New York: Basic Books, 1973), 448.
2 Ibid., 449.
3 Robert Doran, Editor’s Introduction (“Humanism, Formalism, and the Discourse of
History”), in Hayden White, The Fiction of Narrative: Essays on History, Literature,
and Theory, 1957–2007, ed. Robert Doran (Baltimore: Johns Hopkins University
Press, 2010), xvii.
4 Reprinted in White, The Fiction of Narrative, chapter 10.
5 Modern European Intellectual History: Reappraisals and New Perspectives, ed.
Dominick LaCapra and Steven L. Kaplan (Ithaca, NY: Cornell University Press,
1982), 280–310.
6 Hayden White, Tropics of Discourse: Essays in Cultural Criticism (Baltimore: Johns
Hopkins University Press, 1978), 126.
7 See Hans Kellner, “A Bedrock of Order: Hayden White’s Linguistic Humanism,”
History and Theory 19 (1980): 1–29.
8 See Hayden White, “The Absurdist Moment in Contemporary Literary Theory,” in
Tropics of Discourse, 261–82.
9 Hayden White, Figural Realism: Studies in the Mimesis Effect (Baltimore: Johns
Hopkins University Press, 1999), 25.
10 Fredric Jameson, The Political Unconscious: Narrative as a Socially Symbolic Act,
(Ithaca, NY: Cornell University Press, 1982), 225–6. Jameson further stipulates that
242 Notes
“it is not necessary that these analyses be homologous, that is, that each of the objects
in question be seen as doing the same thing, having the same structure or emitting
the same message. What is crucial is that, by being able to use the same language
about each of these quite distinct objects or levels of an object, we can restore at least
methodologically the lost unity of social life and demonstrate that widely distant
elements of the social totality are ultimately part of the same global process” (226).
11 Quoted in Lee Patterson, Negotiating the Past: The Historical Understanding of
Medieval Literature (Madison: University of Wisconsin Press, 1987), xi. See also
Raymond Williams, Marxism and Literature (Oxford: Oxford University Press,
1978), 98–9; and Raymond Williams, Keywords: A Vocabulary of Culture and
Society (New York: Oxford University Press, rev. edn, 1985), 204–6. Mediation in its
“classical” sense here corresponds to Williams’s definition (ii), while Adorno’s falls
within his category (iii).
12 Peter Haidu, “The Dialectics of Unspeakability: Language, Silence and the
Narratives of Desubjectification,” in Probing the Limits of Representation: Nazism
and the ‘Final Solution,’ ed. Saul Friedlander (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University
Press, 1992), 294.
13 Richard T. Vann, “The Reception of Hayden White,” History and Theory 37 (1998):
149.
14 “Historicism, History and the Figurative Imagination,” History and Theory 14, no. 4,
Beiheft 14: Essays on Historicism (1975): 58.
15 For a comparable view of tropes functioning as “deep structures” in White’s
Metahistory, although approached from a rather different perspective, see the
interesting essay by Herman Paul, “Metahistorical Prefigurations: Towards a
Re-Interpretation of Tropology in Hayden White,” Journal of Interdisciplinary
Studies in History and Archaeology 1 (2004): 1–19. Paul makes a compelling case
that, despite White’s insistence on tropes as linguistically cast modes of historical
consciousness and the constitutive role of language in comprehending reality, in
Metahistory tropes refer, in effect, not to the actual linguistic or literary properties
of the historical texts analyzed, but rather to metahistorical concepts, that is to
say, to the moral, aesthetic, and ontological presuppositions underlying historical
writing and thought.
16 Hayden White, “The Fictions of Factual Representation,” in White, Tropics of
Discourse, 121.
17 See, for example, Hayden White, “Historical Emplotment and the Problem of Truth
in Historical Representation,” in White, Figural Realism, 28.
19 Cited in Richard T. Vann, “The Reception of Hayden White,” 153.
20 A definition proffered in “The Politics of Historical Interpretation: Discipline and
De-Sublimation,” Critical Inquiry 9 (1982): 123.
Notes 243
21 White, Tropics of Discourse, 127–8.

22 White, “Historicism, History, and the Figurative Imagination,” 55.
24 See Hayden White, “Freud’s Tropology of Dreaming,” in Figural Realism, 101–25.
25 These comparisons are set forth in Tropics of Discourse, 7ff.
26 See White, “Foucault Decoded: Notes from Underground,” History and Theory 12
(1973): 23–54.
27 White himself has taken up the question of an intrinsic affinity between Vico’s
theory of tropes and structuralist/poststructuralist concepts of language in “Vico and
Structuralist/Poststructuralist Thought” (in White, The Fiction of Narrative, chapter 13).
But in that essay he is at pains to point out the different place and significance that
history has in Vico, for whom it represents the central aspect of his “science” of society,
culture, and consciousness, in stark contrast to the structuralist/poststructuralist denial
of history as an autonomous realm of human inquiry that exists and is knowable
independently of the linguistic apparatus by which it is constituted.
28 Michel Foucault, The Order of Things: An Archeology of the Human Sciences (New
York: Pantheon Books, 1971), xxi.
29 White, “Foucault Decoded,” 45.
30 Cf. Noël Carroll, “Interpretation, History and Narrative” (The Monist 73, no.
2 [1990]: 151): “Tropes thought of as mental processes subvert the distinction
between the literal and figurative that White himself needs [in order] to
particularize what he thinks is special about the way historical narratives inform us
about the world.”
32 White, “The Politics of Historical Interpretation,” 131.
33 The view that silence reigned about the Holocaust until the mid-sixties has recently
been contested by Hasia Diner, We Remember With Reverence and Love: American
Jews and the Myth of Silence after the Holocaust, 1945–1962 (New York: New York
University Press, 2009).
34 White, Figural Realism, 27. This essay, “Historical Emplotment and the Problem of
Truth in Historical Representation,” was originally published in Friedlander, ed.,
Probing the Limits of Representation.
35 White, “Historicism, History and the Figurative Imagination,” 65.
36 Carl Becker, “Everyman His Own Historian,” American Historical Review 37 (1932):
221–36.
37 C. Vann Woodward, “The Future of the Past,” The American Historical Review 75
(1970): 712.
38 See Ewa Domanska, “Hayden White: Beyond Irony,” History and Theory 37 (2002): 179.
39 Lang says that they think that “their erstwhile forebear, groundbreaker in the
discovery of history as narrative form, has recently regressed, honorably but
244 Notes
mistakenly troubled by the phenomenon of the Holocaust in relation to his own

earlier historiographical tour de force. Now he looks to the middle-voice or, in any
event, to some voice that will speak for non-interpreted facts” (Berel Lang, “Is it
Possible to Misrepresent the Holocaust?” History and Theory 34, no. 1 [February
1995]: 86). The essays to which Lang was responding are: Hans Kellner, “‘Never
Again’ is Now,” History and Theory 33 (1994): 127–44; Wulf Kansteiner, “From
Exception to Exemplum: The New Approach to Nazism and the ‘Final Solution,’”
History and Theory 33 (1994): 145–71; and Robert Braun, “The Holocaust and
Problems of Historical Representation,” History and Theory, 33 (1994): 172–97.
40 They are: direct or reflexive middle, indirect, causative, permissive, and deponent
middle voice.
42 See Shoshana Felman and Dori Laub, Testimony: Crises of Witnessing in Literature,
Psychoanalysis, and History (New York: Routledge, 1992); Cathy Caruth,
“Unclaimed Experience: Trauma and the Possibility of History,” Yale French Studies
79 (1991): 181–92; and Caruth, Unclaimed Experience: Trauma Narrative and
History (Baltimore: Johns Hopkins University Press, 1996).
43 In response to Rogne’s query whether White thought that “working with concepts
like ‘experience’ and ‘presence’ to describe history and historical understanding was
a fruitful approach,” White forthrightly proclaimed that “the idea that you could
have an experience of a past phenomenon—an experience of the presence of the
past—can only be an illusion” (“The Aim of Interpretation is to Create Perplexity
in the Face of the Real: Hayden White in Conversation with Erlend Rogne,” History
and Theory 48 [2009], 73). Both Rogne and White are thinking here of recent efforts
by F. R. Ankersmit and Eelco Runia (among others) to rehabilitate the notion of the
presence of the past in historical discourse.
44 See, for example, Friedlander’s comments in Probing the Limits of Representation, 17.
45 Cited in Shoshana Felman, “Film as Witness: Claude Lanzmann’s Shoah,” in
Geoffrey H. Hartman, ed., Holocaust Remembrance: The Shapes of Memory (Oxford:
Blackwell, 1994), 97.
46 Ibid., 103.
47 “Le film n’est pas fait avec des souvenirs, je l’ai su tout de suite. Le souvenir me fait
horreur; le souvenir est faible. Le film est l’abolition de toute distance entre le passé
et le présent, j’ai revécu cette histoire au présent” (“Le Lieu et la Parole,” in Au Sujet
de Shoah: Le film de Claude Lanzmann, ed. Michel Deguy [Paris: Belin,1990]: 301).
48 Quoted in White, Figural Realism, 37.
49 I owe this quote to Professor Richard Vann, cited in “Louis Mink’s Linguistic Turn,”
History and Theory 26 (1987): 13.
50 Tom F. Driver, The Sense of History in Greek and Shakespearean Drama (New York:
Columbia University Press, 1960), 59.
Notes 245
51 Hayden White, “History as Fulfillment,” Chapter 1 of this volume.

52 Erich Auerbach, “Figura,” in Scenes from the Drama of European Literature: Six
Essays (New York: Meridian Books, 1959): 11–76.
53 White, Figural Realism, 90. The essay is entitled “Auerbach’s Literary History:
Figural Causation and Modernist Historicism.”
54 I think that most historians would instinctively interpret “fulfillment”—even of
a figural sort—as implying some sort of causal relationship, especially if they are
medievalists (and assimilate it to typology); that or an Aristotelian notion of a
potential-actualization scheme, which is a sort of genetic mode. For why pose it as
fulfillment if there is not some “real” connection?
55 White, “Foucault Decoded,” 53.
Chapter 9
1 Ewa Domanska, Encounters: Philosophers of History after Postmodernism

(Charlottesville: University of Virginia Press, 1998), 15, 25, 30.
2 Hayden White, “The Burden of History,” History and Theory 5 (1966), 129, reprinted
in Tropics of Discourse: Essays in Cultural Criticism (Baltimore: Johns Hopkins
University Press, 1978), 45.
3 Hayden White, “The Modernist Event” (1996), in Hayden White, Figural Realism:
Studies in the Mimesis Effect (Baltimore: Johns Hopkins University Press, 1999), 66–86.
4 White, Figural Realism, 66–7.
5 See, for example, Hayden White, “The Value of Narrativity in the Representation
of Reality,” in Hayden White, The Content of the Form: Narrative Discourse and
Historical Representation (Baltimore: Johns Hopkins University Press, 1987), 13.
7 Ibid., 69. A similar list of “holocaustal” events is given on the next page, adding the
Great Depression to the misery list.
8 Ibid.
9 Ibid., 67, 81.
10 Ibid., 81.
11 Ibid., 67.
12 See Hayden White, “Good of Their Kind” and “Anomalies of Genre: The Utility
of Theory and History for the Study of Literary Genres,” New Literary History 34
(2003): 367–76; 597–617.
14 Ibid., 70.
15 See Ann Rigney, Imperfect Histories: The Elusive Past and the Legacy of Romantic
Historicism (Ithaca, NY: Cornell University Press, 2001), 5.
246 Notes
16 Quoted in John Hollowell, Fact and Fiction: The New Journalism and the
Non-Fiction Novel (Chapel Hill: University of North Carolina Press, 1977), 79.
18 Norman Mailer, The Executioner’s Song (Boston: Little, Brown and Co., 1979),
1051–2.
19 This argument is made most fully by Mailer in his Armies of the Night: History as a
Novel, the Novel as History (New York: Signet, 1968), 384.
20 I am no expert on what White calls “historiophoty,” but when I read the book after
seeing the movie, I was surprised by how faithful the adaptation seemed. I do not
think it was any more “parahistorical” than the book.
21 Thomas Keneally, Schindler’s Ark, Text Plus Edition with introduction by Keneally
and notes by Terry Downie (London: Hodder and Stoughton, 1989), iv-vi.
22 John Hollowell, Fact and Fiction, 85, 91, 70.
23 This is a sentence that refers to an event in terms that incorporates information
about posterior events, such as: “The Thirty Years War began in 1618.” See Arthur
Danto, “Narrative Sentences,” History and Theory 2 (1962): 146, 155.
24 And of course other figural readers who appear in Auerbach’s Mimesis and White’s
Figural Realism.
25 On this, see White, Figural Realism, 76–9.
26 See, for example: Garrett Mattingly, The Armada (New York: Houghton Mifflin
Company, 1959), 39, 49, 228–9, 240, 243, 379, 384, and 388; and Garrett Mattingly,
Catherine of Aragon (Boston: Little, Brown, 1941), 74–5, 77, 101–3, 106–7, 119,
280, 286, 290. Mattingly’s annotations are skimpy at best, and in 1960 he issued an
edition of Catherine of Aragon without any footnotes. Hans Kellner in Language
and Historical Representation: Getting the Story Crooked (Madison: University of
Wisconsin Press, 1989), 45–7, spotted one bit of clearly invented speech and gives
the best short discussion of invented speeches that I have encountered.
27 Carl Becker, The Eve of the Revolution: A Chronicle of the Breach with England (New
Haven, CT: Yale University Press, 1919), vii-viii.
28 In Dead Certainties (Unwarrented Speculations) (New York: Vintage, 1991), Part
One, “The Many Deaths of General Wolfe,” Simon Schama imagines what a soldier
fighting with General Wolfe before and in the battle for the Heights of Abraham
might have said about his situation. At least he does not speak like an Ivy League
professor.
29 See the reviews in the American Historical Review 24 (1919), 734–5; and American
Historical Review 47 (1941–2), 579–80.
30 John Hatcher, The Black Death: A Personal History (Philadelphia: Da Capo Press,
2008), ix.
31 Ibid., x-xi. The same claim is made, and artfully vindicated, in Melanie McGrath’s
Hopping: The Hidden Lives of an East End Hop Picking Family (London: Fourth
Notes 247
Estate, 2009), whose exhaustively assembled written and spoken evidence is

“embroidered” by her imagination.
32 Keith Hopkins, A World Full of Gods: The Strange Triumph of Christianity (New
York: Free Press, 2000), 3.
33 Ibid., 284.
34 Ibid., 372.
35 Thomas Grey, “Elegy Written in a Country Courtyard.”
36 Originally published by the Queensland University Press in Brisbane and slightly
later by Knopf in New York.
37 In consideration for the tender ears of his daughter, Kelly always puts “adjectival” or
“effing” in place of obscene participial adjectives and uses hyphens for the interior
letters of what must be “bastard” or “bugger.”
38 Review in The New Yorker, January 22, 2001.
39 Ruth Franklin, “Rings of Smoke,” in The Emergence of Memory: Conversations with
W. G. Sebald, ed. Lynne Sharon Schwartz (New York: Seven Stories Press, 2007), 123.
40 W. G. Sebald, Austerlitz, trans. Anthea Bell (New York: Modern Library, 2001).
There are diminutive and demure asterisks on pages 42, 165, 354, and 403 that
unobtrusively mark discontinuations and resumptions of the discourses that
Austerlitz delivers to the first-person narrator. (They are hardly conversations, for it is
impossible to tell in the German text whether Austerlitz uses the formal or informal
you to the narrator, who never says anything to him.) Anthea Bell, the translator, has
performed prodigies to help the reader through these enormous sentences.
41 Ibid., 170–8.
42 Ibid., 192–3, 197.
43 Ibid., 198.
44 Ibid., 200, 202.
45 Ibid., 211, 215.
46 Ibid., 401, 322, 364, 374.
47 Tübingen: Mohr, 1955.
48 See, for example, Sebald, Austerlitz, 184–8, 261, 322.
Chapter 10
Notes provided by Margaret Brose and Robert Doran.
1 [Dietrich Bonhoeffer (1906–45) was a German Lutheran pastor, theologian, and

martyr, who was executed by the Nazis for subversion.]
2 [The more recent translation of Being and Time, by Joan Stambaugh (Albany:
State University of New York Press, 1996), translates Heidegger’s term Destruktion
248 Notes
by “destructuring,” instead of the more literal “destruction” used in the 1962

translation by John Macquarrie and Edward Robinson. Heidegger writes
that “the question of being attains true concreteness only when we carry out
the destructuring of the ontological tradition” (Being and Time, 23). By this
Heidegger means a kind of “unbuilding” or reorientation of the history of
philosophy.]
3 [The German idiom es gibt is akin to the English expression “there is” (or “il y a” in
French), though literally it reads “it gives.”]
4 [1 Corinthians 15.55: “O death, where is thy victory? O death, where is thy
sting?”(New American Standard Bible).]
5 [Georges Bernanos (1888–1948), a French author and a soldier in World War I,
wrote Journal d’un curé de campagne in 1936; it was the winner of the “Grand prix
du roman de l’Académie française” and was published in English by Boriswood,
London in 1937 as Diary of a Country Priest. It was made into a film by Robert
Bresson in 1951.]
6 [The Italian term Vattimo uses here is evento (event), but Heidegger’s Ereignis has also
been rendered in English as “appropriation,” “belonging together,” and “enowning.” The
term is used in Heidegger’s later works as a replacement for “Being.”]
7 [The expression “Man Born Blind” is from John, 9.1–7, in which Jesus heals a man
blind from birth.]
8 [Martin Heidegger, Nietzsche: Volumes 3 and 4, trans. David Farrell Krell (San
Francisco: Harper & Row, 1991), 202. The entire passage reads: “Absurdity is
impotent against Being itself, and therefore also against what happens to it in its
destiny—that within metaphysics there is nothing to Being as such.”]
9 [See note 6 above.]
10 [In Heideggarian usage, Geschick is also related to “historicity” (Geschichkeit) and
“fate” (Schicksal).]
11 [See Croce’s book, La storia come pensiero e come azione (1938), translated into
English by Sylvia Sprigge as History as the Story of Liberty (London: G. Allen and
Unwin, 1941).]
12 [This is a reference to Croce’s reading of Hegel’s Phenomenology of Spirit
(Phänomenologie des Geistes, 1807), a work that describes the evolution of
consciousness conceived as “spirit” or “mind,” i.e. as a kind of universal subject.]
13 [For an explanation of Vattimo’s concept of “weak thought,” see Gianni
Vattimo, The End of Modernity: Nihilism and Hermeneutics in Postmodern
Culture (Baltimore: Johns Hopkins University Press, 1985). See also Hayden White’s
review of this book: “Vattimo’s ‘Weak’ Thought and Vico’s ‘New’ Science,” New Vico
Studies 9 (1991): 61–8.]
14 [See Antonio Gramsci, Prison Notebooks (vol. 1, 2, 3), trans. Joseph A. Buttigieg
(New York: Columbia University Press, 2010).]
Notes 249
15 [See Gianni Vattimo and Santiago Zabala, Hermeneutic Communism: From

Heidegger to Marx (New York: Columbia University Press, 2011).]
16 [See Thomas Kuhn, The Structure of Scientific Revolutions (Chicago: University of
Chicago Press, 1996).]
17 [This is where Heidegger’s Kierkegaard-inspired concept of Wiederholung
(“repetition” or “retrieve”) comes into play. As Heidegger writes in a section of
Being and Time entitled “The Essential Constitution of Historicity” (paragraph 74):
Retrieve is explicit handing down, that is, going back to the possibilities of Da-sein
that has been there. The authentic retrieve of a possibility of existence that has
been—the possibility that Da-sein may choose its own heroes—is existentially
grounded in anticipatory resoluteness… The retrieve of what is possible neither
brings back “what is past,” nor does it bind the “present” back to what is “outdated.”
[…] Rather retrieve responds to the possibility of existence that has-been-there.
[…] Retrieve neither abandons itself to the past, nor does it aim at progress”
(352–3, original emphasis). Hayden White discusses this structure of “choosing
one’s past,” which has been important for his thought, in the first essay in this
volume: “History as Fulfillment.” See also the Editor’s introduction to the
present volume.]
18 [See Hayden White, “The Historical Event,” differences 19, no. 2 (2008): 9–34,
in particular the following passage: “But then that leaves us with the problem of
identifying the contrary of event’s antithetical term, that is, destiny, which must
be, according to Aristotle’s way of reasoning, the ‘non-destinal,’ or anything that
is not headed anywhere, has no proper place, no substance, and is therefore
only a pseudo event, element of a pseudo destiny (Rämö). And this suggests
that whatever an event will finally turn out to be, the one thing that we can
say about it is that it is not destiny, that it is not the whole process that might
ultimately endow contingency with meaning, the meaning of place in a sequence,
placefulness, or situation. This is to say that the event is not and can never be
the whole of whatever it is a part, element, or factor—except at the end, when
it comes into its own or finds a place it was destined to come to at last. Maybe
this is what Heidegger had in mind when he spoke of history as Dasein’s ‘on-the-
way-ness’ to a place it would never reach and Dasein’s fate as eine Verwindung,
a meandering, a wending, a drift, slide, or roaming that always ends short of a
destination, because destiny implies propriety and mankind is ohne Eigenschaften”
(23–4). Verwindung is also a key concept in Vattimo’s thought. See Gianni Vattimo,
“Verwindung: Nihilism and the Postmodern Philosophy” SubStance 16, no. 2
(1987): 7–17.]
250 Notes
Chapter 11
1 Arthur Danto, “Hayden White and Me: Two Systems of Philosophy of History,”
Chapter 5 of this volume.
2 Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1999.
3 Recall that Herodotus is specifically writing against the legends, lies, and stories
handed down by what he calls the logographoi or storytellers more interested in
repeating the anecdotes from the past than in discovering what can be said about
the Greek past on the basis of “inquiry” (historia).
Index
Achebe, Chinua 135 Balzac, Honoré de 3

Adler, H. G. 198 Bann, Stephen 27, 71, 215–16
Adorno, Theodor 45, 100, 101, 174, 233, 242 Baroque 86–7, 226
aestheticism 99, 103, 104, 158 Barthes, Roland 37, 39, 69, 72, 95–6, 159,
aesthetics 2, 86, 96, 100, 102, 103, 104, 110, 165, 167–9, 173, 181, 182, 220, 225,
154 230, 240, 241
Agamben, Georgio 126, 133, 162, 166, 236, Baudrillard, Jean 31
237, 238, 241 beautiful, the 99–100, 103–7, 163, 234 see
Ai, Maeda 135, 237 also sublime
allegory 131 Becker, Carl 179, 191–2, 243, 246
Allison, Henry 90, 92, 227, 229 being, philosophical concept of 11, 13–14,
Alphen, Ernst Van 68, 223, 225, 226 17, 32, 115, 133–4, 174, 201–7,
analytical philosophy 7, 110–11, 115, 205, 210–11, 230, 248
209 Bensaid, Daniel 126, 135, 236, 238
Ankersmit, F. R. 1, 2, 25–6, 71, 87, 89–90, Benveniste, Emile 155
93–6, 99–100, 103–4, 215, 223, 224, Bergson, Henri 124, 236
226, 227, 229, 230, 233, 234, 244 Bernanos, Georges 202–3, 248
Annales school of historiography 39 Bernstein, J. M. 92, 104–5, 107, 229, 232, 234
anthropology 25, 43, 48, 172, 204, 211 Bernstein, Michael André 161, 240
archaeology 71, 224 Bible, the 191, 202, 248
archetypes (mythoi) 18, 21, 172 Bildungsroman 143
Arendt, Hannah 105–7, 234, 235 biological systems 12, 160
Aristotle 20, 50, 62, 153, 154, 175, 249 Black, Max 53, 222
artifact (verbal) 35–6, 68, 174, 220, 221 Bloch, Ernst 125, 128, 135, 236
Auerbach, Erich 18, 22, 25, 76, 93, 94, 97, Bonhoeffer, Dietrich 201, 203, 247
117, 153, 154, 160, 162, 166–8, 170, Bossenbrook, William J. 15–16, 27, 29,
182, 221, 229, 230, 235, 239, 241, 109–10, 219
245, 246 Braudel, Fernand 37, 39
Mimesis: The Representation of Reality Brose, Margaret 220, 247
in Western Literature 18, 22, 117, Brown, Norman O. 183
170, 229, 246 Burckhardt, Jacob 55, 119–20, 122, 159,
Augustine, Saint 3, 5, 32, 194, 201 213, 235
Austin, J. L. 17 Burke, Edmund 164, 233
autonomy 10, 78, 83, 101, 233 Burke, Kenneth 18, 111, 220
of history 115
avant-garde 16, 207 Calabrese, Omar 86–7, 226
Camus, Albert 16
Bachelard, Gaston 157 Capote, Truman: In Cold Blood 31, 185,
bad faith (la mauvaise foi) 10–13, 44, 90, 218 188–90, 192
Bakhtin, Mikhail 29, 128–9, 146, 148 Carey, Peter: True History of the Kelly Gang
Bal, Mieke 2, 26, 212, 223, 226 195–6
Ball, Karyn 2, 22, 27, 220, 233 Carr, David 168–70, 220, 231, 241
252 Index
Caruth, Cathy 180, 244 Domanska, Ewa 71, 179, 243

causality, in historiography 23–4, 31, 41, Encounters: Philosophers of History after
102 Postmodernism 245
Chikanobu, Michiba 143 Re-Figuring Hayden White 215, 216,
Chomsky, Noam 18, 112, 154 224, 240
chronicle (historical) 41, 85, 155, 175–6, Donagan, Alan 8, 216
184, 193 Doran, Robert 93–4, 117, 173, 215, 217,
chronotope 29, 128, 139, 146–8 218, 221, 223, 229, 230, 231, 232,
Churchland, Paul 63 236, 240, 241, 247
Coates, Wilson H. 230 Dray, William 7, 216
Cold War 122–3, 237
Coleridge, Samuel Taylor 223 Eco, Umberto 70, 82, 224
Collingwood, R. G. 8, 17, 28, 122 empiricism 37, 89
The Idea of History 6–7, 235 emplotment 20, 23, 25, 42, 48, 53, 71, 87,
comedy (as plot-type) 21, 41, 152, 155, 161 92–3, 130, 145, 151–3, 155, 157,
commodity, commodification 127 159, 161, 169, 175, 181, 231
Constantine I 181 Enlightenment 156–7
counterfactual history 183, 193–4 epic (as plot type) 41
creativity 35 Erklären (explanation) 11, 111–12
Critical Inquiry (journal) 100, 236, 239, 243 existentialism 2, 8–13, 15, 22–3, 33, 90, 95,
Croce, Benedetto 4, 6, 17, 37, 122, 152, 103, 168, 217, 218, 221, 227
204–5, 209, 235, 239 explanation 130
History as the Story of Liberty 248 figural 152
Culler, Jonathan 153 historical 38, 41, 58, 155, 179, 182,
187–9
Damisch, Hubert 84–5, 226 mechanistic 4
Dante Alighieri 153, 162, 166–7, 169 narrative as 24–5, 43–4
Danto, Arthur C. 2, 7–8, 15, 27–8, 39, 191, nomological 7–8, 216
212, 221, 246, 250 scientific 37, 111–12
Narration and Knowledge 216, 217, 235 tropological 92, 97
Darwin, Charles 152, 212, 239
Dawson, Christopher 5–6, 17, 137, 219, fact/factuality
237 in historiography 4, 20–1, 26, 38–9,
The Dynamics of World History 216 44–5, 52, 56, 61–3, 119, 127, 175–6,
deconstruction 19, 75, 248 178, 180, 188, 216, 221, 231, 244
Deleuze, Gilles 80–1, 138 versus fiction 27, 31–2, 184, 186, 190,
A Thousand Plateaus: Capitalism and 193, 195
Schizophrenia 226 facticity 10–12, 23, 89, 101, 119
Cinema 1: The Movement-Image 225 farce (as plot-type) 41, 101, 117
Delillo, Don 185 fascism 6, 38
Derrida, Jacques 16, 19, 63, 152, 159, 173, Febvre, Lucien 131–2, 236
180, 205, 220, 248 Felice, Renzo de 38
Speech and Phenomena and Other Felman, Shoshana 180, 244
Essays on Husserl’s Theory of Signs fictional 4, 31–2, 52, 78, 186–7, 190, 192–5,
224 220
Descartes, René (Cartesiasm) 3, 154 cultural ancestry 160
determinism (linguistic) 33, 177 narration 21, 40, 131, 142, 156
dialectical materialism 36 versus factual 27, 31–2, 175, 184
Dilthey, Wilhelm 7 fictive 186–7, 190
Index 253
figuralism 23–6, 28–33, 93–4, 97–8, 152, Hansen, Mark 80–1, 225
160–2, 167–70, 181–2 Harlan, David 71, 160
figurative language (versus literal language) Harootunian, Harry 2, 15, 19, 29, 215, 219,
11, 18, 90, 175, 231, 243 235, 237
Flaubert, Gustave 168 Hartman, Geoffrey 244
formalism 26, 40, 68–72, 82, 174 Haruo, Sato 133
Foucault, Michel 16, 18, 39, 70, 127, 152–3, Hatcher, John: The Black Death: A Personal
155–6, 173, 177, 182, 204 History 32, 193–5, 246
The Order of Things (Les mots et les Hegel, G. W. F. 3–6, 43, 55, 96, 100, 103–4,
choses) 9, 36, 220, 243 111–12, 115, 120, 126, 133, 158, 205,
Francis I, Emperor of Austria 57–8 209–10, 233, 234, 248
Frankfurt School 100, 207 Heidegger, Martin 17, 32, 100, 130, 132,
free indirect discourse 188 159, 201–2, 204–7, 218, 220, 233, 249
Frege, Gottlob 58–60 Being and Time 8, 13–15, 134, 218, 222,
French Revolution 10, 126 248
Freud, Sigmund 56, 98, 103, 155–6, 164, Hempel, Carl xxiii, 8, 28
177, 212, 243 Covering Law 7, 112, 216
Friedlander, Saul 178, 180, 224, 242, 243, 244 “The Function of General Laws in
Frye, Northrop 18, 21, 13, 48, 76, 92, 138, History” 6–7, 111–13
151, 153–4, 172, 175, 220, 221, 224, Herder, J. G. von 3
230 hermeneutics 2, 33, 115, 205
Anatomy of Criticism 18, 92 Herodotus 190, 213, 250
fulfillment (and prefiguration) 22–5, 30, Hesse, Mary 53
33, 41–2, 76, 94, 97, 138–9, 151, Hideo, Kobayashi 124
154, 156–7, 160–2, 165–70, 181–2, Hilbert, David 60
218, 245 Hillgruber, Andreas 42, 44, 218, 222
historical
Gadamer, Hans-Georg 39 change 86, 138
Gallie, W. H. 8, 216 consciousness 3, 9, 18, 94, 120–1, 131,
Gardiner, Patrick 7, 216 145, 177, 213, 232, 242
Geertz, Clifford 172 knowledge 4, 32, 51, 54, 61, 63, 93, 195,
Geisteswissenschaft (sciences of spirit) 6–7, 197, 211
111 meaning 5, 10, 22–4, 26, 50–1, 161,
genealogy 159–60 164, 205
Gentile, Giovanni 6 reality 4, 16, 19–23, 26–7, 32, 72, 93–4,
Gibbon, Edward 3, 158 166, 186, 213, 233
Goldmann, Lucien 220 system (sociocultural system) 12–13,
Gorgias 154 160, 212
Gospels 13, 202–3 understanding 28, 57, 64, 244
Gossman, Lionel 156, 239 histories of concepts (Begriffsgeschichten)
grammar (grammarians) 18, 106, 112, 209–10, 221
157–9, 181 Historikerstreit (historian’s debate) 30, 43
Gramsci, Antonio 127, 205, 249 Holocaust 30–1, 44, 72, 88, 89, 159, 161,
Guattari, Félix 226 178–80, 185, 243, 243, 245
Hopkins, Keith: A World Full of Gods: The
Habermas, Jürgen 39, 71, 115, 223 Strange Triumph of Christianity 32,
Haidu, Peter 174, 242 194–5, 247
Hajime, Tanabe 130 human sciences (sciences of man) 6–7, 25,
Halbwachs, Maurice 124, 234 36, 38, 40, 43 see also social science
254 Index
humanism 173 Lévi-Strauss, Claude 18, 37, 154, 173, 182

humanities 2, 17–18, 67, 100, 219 linguistic turn 16–25, 40, 89, 100, 102,
Humboldt, Wilhelm 62, 223 172–3, 175, 177, 205, 244
Hume, David 158, 216 literary history 2, 18, 117
Locke, John 53
Iggers, Georg 221–2 Lukács, Georg 38, 100, 128–9, 235
intellectual history 16, 100, 152 Luther, Martin 13
irony (as master trope) 18, 26, 47–50, Lyotard, Jean-François 9, 30, 100–1, 155,
53–7, 61, 92, 120, 156–8, 164–5 160, 162–3, 233, 239, 240
Jakobson, Roman 154–5 Machiavelli, Niccolò 234

Jameson, Fredric 142, 174, 217, 231–2, Mailer, Norman: The Executioner’s Song 31,
237, 238 185, 188–90, 246
The Political Unconscious 231, 241–2 Mallarmé, Stephane 182
Jaspers, Karl 204 Man, Paul de 219
Joan of Arc 27, 67, 69, 73–5, 78, 80, 83 Mannheim, Karl 154
Jun, Tosaka 129, 131, 135, 236 Mariategui, Jose Carlos 135
Marx, Karl and Marxism 4, 6, 8–9, 14,
Kant, Immanuel 15, 27, 30, 53–6, 89–107, 18–19, 43, 103, 111, 122, 124, 126–7,
113, 155, 158, 220, 228, 232–4 129, 132–3, 135, 137, 141, 144, 146,
Critique of Pure Reason 91, 93, 102, 149, 156, 205–7, 232, 238
228, 232 Capital 126, 238
Critique of the Power of Judgment 99, Grundrisse 237
105, 155, 164, 228–30, 232, 234, Masaaki, Kosaka 130
235 Mattingly, Garrett 191, 246
Kellner, Hans 2, 29–30, 71, 89–90, 92, 94, Megill, Allan 71, 217, 230
99, 173, 179, 215, 224, 227, 228, 231, memory (and history) 29, 88, 98, 113, 124,
233, 234, 239–41, 244, 246 132, 134
Keneally, Thomas: Schindler’s Ark 32, metahistory (concept of) 5–7, 19, 86–7, 97,
188–90, 192, 246 105, 164, 242, 220
Keynes, John Maynard 61 metaphor (as master trope) 18, 26, 47–50,
Khaldun, Ibn 121, 235 53–4, 57, 60–1, 63–5, 92, 120, 155,
Kierkegaard, Søren 13, 23, 76, 138, 218, 211, 222, 233
220, 221, 249 metonymy (as master trope) 18, 26, 47–50,
Kiyoshi, Miki 130, 235 53–4, 57, 60–1, 92, 155
Koselleck, Reinhart 132, 210, 236 Michelet, Jules 213
Kuhn, Thomas 8–9, 16, 206, 217 middle voice 31, 69, 72, 81, 84, 159, 179,
The Structure of Scientific Revolutions 181, 223, 224, 244
8, 249 Mill, John Stuart 58–9
Kunio, Yanagida 135 mimesis 117, 160, 167–8, 230, 231 see also
realism
Lacan, Jacques 90 Mink, Louis O. 1, 39, 152, 168, 219, 244
LaCapra, Dominick 80, 173, 176, 225, 227, modernism 156, 159, 166, 185, 191
241 modes, theory of 20, 22, 31, 39, 53, 92–3,
Lang, Berel 179, 244 97, 155, 181, 209, 242
Lanzmann, Claude 180, 244 Frye’s notion of 48, 175, 177
Laub, Dori 180, 244 Moore, Gerald 236
Lefebvre, Henri 236 Morson, Saul 163, 165, 240, 241
Levi, Carlo 133, 135 Moses, Dirk 89, 105, 227, 230, 234
Index 255
myth 11, 22, 37–8, 40–1, 71, 73, 75, 79, poetics 89, 96, 101–2, 131, 153, 155, 231,
142–3, 221, 226 239
Pomian, Krzysztof 39, 236
Nagel, Ernest 110 Popper, Karl 54
Napoleon I 10, 58, 166 The Poverty of Historicism 6, 114, 216
Napoleon III (Louis Bonaparte) 43 positivism 28, 36, 45
narrative 2, 4, 17, 20–5, 30, 37–45, 70–1, logical positivism 111, 115, 207
94–8, 101, 110–11, 119–21, 123–5, postmodernism 188, 190
127, 129–1, 134–9, 142, 145–7, poststructuralism 30, 172–4
151–3, 155–7, 159, 161–2, 166–70, praxis 14, 16, 133, 143, 205–7
174, 178, 180–2, 184–7, 193, 198, prefiguration (and fulfillment) 22–3, 25,
219, 220, 227, 230, 231, 233–4 31, 76, 89–107, 117, 139, 181–2,
grand narrative (grand récit) 9, 165, 217 191
metanarrative 9, 29, 217 linguistic 19, 22–3, 27, 31, 89–107, 120,
narrative sentences 28, 113–15, 117, 122, 157, 181–2, 231
191, 221, 246 prehistory 210
Naturwissenschaft (science of nature) 6–7, Proudhon, Pierre-Joseph 43
17, 111 Proust, Marcel 152, 239
Nazism (National Socialism) 6, 11, 224, 242 psychoanalysis 25, 43, 155
New Historicism 153, 239
New Testament 76, 93, 117, 162, 169, 181, 191 radicalism 6, 20, 32, 56, 204
Nietzsche, Friedrich 4, 9, 15, 30, 89, 99–100, Rancière, Jacques 131–2, 236, 238
160, 181, 198, 204, 206, 217 La Nuit des prolétaires (Proletarian
nihilism 204, 232 Nights) 29, 136–7, 140–2, 145, 237
Nolte, Ernst 42, 218 Ranke, Leopold von 4–6, 14, 19, 29, 43,
62–3, 95, 158, 216, 217, 221, 223
Oakeshott, Michael 14, 210, 213 Reed, Ishmael 185
objectivism 4, 32, 156, 207, 231 referentiality 26, 51–2, 60, 96, 167, 172,
objectivity 4, 11, 14, 21, 25, 83, 89, 102, 106, 174, 178, 184, 230
119, 123, 172, 193, 201, 203, 207 relativism 10, 40, 71, 172, 175, 177–9, 183,
Old Testament 93, 117, 162, 166, 169, 181 205
Osborne, Peter 121, 236, 237, 238 Renaissance 28, 42, 109, 113, 117, 212–13
Burckhardt’s view of 55
Partner, Nancy 71, 218, 220, 229 repetition, retrieve
Pascal 201 Heidegger’s notion of 13–14, 130, 249
Pater, Walter 154, 165, 236 Kierkegaard’s notion of 13, 23, 76,
Paul, Herman 215, 219, 230, 242 138–9, 221
Paul, Saint 13, 202–3 revisionism (negationism) 10–11, 72, 178
Peirce, Charles Sanders 69–70, 223 rhetoric 2–3, 17–18, 28, 30, 43, 71, 89,
Pepper, Stephen C. 154 95–6, 101–2, 107, 111, 130, 145,
performative 18, 85, 95, 102, 104, 225 154, 158, 171–82, 232
periodization, period 23, 29, 86, 115–16, and tropology 151, 145, 169
125, 128, 146–8, 201 Ricoeur, Paul 39, 121, 129–31, 231, 236
Petrarch, Francesco 28, 113, 212–13 Rifkin, Adrian 141
phenomenology 8, 18, 129, 130, 205 Rigney, Ann 186, 192, 246
Piaget, Jean 177 romance (as plot-type) 21, 41, 152, 155
plot 20, 23, 25, 41–2, 48, 95, 97, 114, 129, Romans (Roman empire) 12–13, 35, 160,
146, 151–2, 159, 161, 163, 165, 167, 211
169, 183, 187, 220, 232 Rorty, Richard 8, 17, 205, 217, 218
256 Index
Ross, Kristin 140, 238 Thomas, D. M. 185

Rothberg, Michael 88, 240 Thomism (Saint Thomas Aquinas) 116
Ryle, Gilbert 110 Tocqueville, Alexis de 156
Ryuichi, Narita 141, 143, 238 Tolstoy, Leo 163, 165–6, 169
Torfs, Ana 27, 69, 73–87, 225
Said, Edward 37 Toynbee, Arnold J. 4, 8, 237
Sartre, Jean-Paul 8–13, 16, 19–20, 23–4, 90, tragedy (as plot-type) 21, 41, 155, 161
155, 218, 220, 221 Troeltsch, Ernst 123
Being and Nothingness 8–13, 20, 217 tropes, theory of (tropology) 2, 18, 20, 22,
Critique of Dialectical Reason 8–9 25–6, 30, 41, 45, 47–65, 83, 92–3,
satire (as plot-type) 21, 101, 155, 165 151–4, 169, 174–8, 180, 220, 221,
Saussure, Ferdinand de 17–18, 173 232, 242, 243
Schiller, Friedrich 233 type/antitype 22–3, 36, 93, 221 see also
science prefiguration and fulfillment
human and social sciences 56, 90, 106, typology (prefiguration-fulfillment) 22–3,
122, 125, 211 31, 191, 221, 245
positive and empirical sciences 4, 6–8,
17, 24, 45, 52–6, 60–1, 100, 102, universal history 147, 237 see also world
111–12, 119, 206, 217, 219 history
Scott, Walter 3, 193 Updike, John 196
Sebald, W. G.: Austerlitz 196–8, 247 utopianism 101, 104, 156
semiotics, semiology 18, 172–4, 224, 226
Shakespeare, William 58, 245 Vann, Richard T. 2, 28, 31–2, 48, 51, 152,
Silverman, Kaja 83, 226 175, 215, 244
Simmel, Georg 63, 127 “The Reception of Hayden White” 222,
Skinner, B. F. 112 242
social sciences (human sciences) 6–8, 25, Vattimo, Gianni 2, 14, 32–3, 219, 220, 222,
36–8, 40, 43, 115, 123, 157, 178, 243 248–9
Soviet Union 44 Verstehen (understanding) 7, 11, 28, 101,
speech-act theory 162, 230 111–13
Spengler, Oswald 4 Vico, Giambattista 3, 120, 154, 174–5, 177,
Spiegel, Gabrielle M. 2, 24, 30–1, 97, 215 207, 239, 243
Spinoza, Baruch 39, 81, 113, 226 The New Science 18, 92, 249
spirit (Geist) 111–12 Voltaire 3
Stendhal 3, 168
structuralism 18, 30, 154, 172–5, 204 Walsh, W. H. 7, 216
sublation (Aufhebung) 231 Warburg, Aby 76
sublime, sublimity 27, 30, 56–7, 98, 100–4, Weber, Max 7
151, 158, 161–4, 169, 182, 221, 224, Weiss, Peter: The Aesthetics of Resistance
226, 233, 239 see also the beautiful 29, 136–7, 142, 145, 237, 238
synecdoche (as master trope) 18, 26, Williams, Raymond 242
47–50, 53–4, 57, 61–5, 92, 170 Wittgenstein, Ludwig 17, 110, 204, 207, 219
Wood, Allen 96–7, 228, 230
Tacitus, Publius Cornelius 42 Woodward, C. Vann 179
temporality (time) 22, 29, 31, 36, 38, 34, Woolf, Virginia 185, 191
69–70, 76, 81, 85, 100, 114–16, 119–49, world history 119, 134, 137, 235, 237 see
153, 167, 183, 211, 221, 231, 236, 238 also universal history
textualism 40, 219
theology 167 Yeats, William Butler 114, 163

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Philosophy of History

After Hayden White

Bloomsbury Studies in American Philosophy presents cutting-edge

America’s First Women Philosophers, Dorothy G. Rogers

Edited and with an Introduction

50 Bedford Square 175 Fifth Avenue

First published 2013

© Robert Doran and Contributors, 2013

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Editor’s Note vii

Editor’s Introduction: Choosing the Past: Hayden White and the

2 A Plea for a Cognitivist Approach to White’s Tropology 47

3 Deliver Us from A-Historicism: Metahistory for Non-Historians 67

4 Hayden White’s Hope, or the Politics of Prefiguration 89

5 Hayden White and Me: Two Systems of Philosophy of History 109

6 Uneven Temporalities/Untimely Pasts: Hayden White and the

7 Hopeful Monsters or, The Unfulfilled Figure in Hayden White’s

8 Rhetorical Theory/Theoretical Rhetoric: Some Ambiguities in the

9 Hayden White and Non-Non-Histories 183

10 From the Problem of Evil to Hermeneutic Philosophy of History:

F. R. Ankersmit is Professor Emeritus of Intellectual History and Historical

issue of Cultural Critique (2000) on “Trauma and Its Cultural Aftereffects.” Her

Arthur C. Danto is Johnsonian Professor of Philosophy Emeritus at Columbia

Robert Doran is James P. Wilmot Assistant Professor of French and Comparative

Harry Harootunian is the Max Palevsky Professor Emeritus of History and

Nativism (1988); Postmodernism in Japan (with Masao Miyoshi, 1989); Japan

Hans Kellner is Professor of English at North Carolina State University. A

Gabrielle M. Spiegel is Krieger-Eisenhower Professor of History at Johns

Richard T. Vann is Professor of History and Letters Emeritus at Wesleyan

Gianni Vattimo is Professor Emeritus of Theoretical Philosophy, University

Hayden White is Professor Emeritus of the History of Consciousness at the

1 Ana Torfs, Du mentir-faux (2000) 74

2 Ana Torfs, Du mentir-faux (2000) 77

3 Ana Torfs, Du mentir-faux (2000) 79

Choosing the Past: Hayden White and the

In choosing our past, we choose a present;

continues to have, profound, far-reaching effects in diverse areas of inquiry,

The vicissitudes of philosophy of history

Both the philosophy of history and the establishment of history as an academic

universalizing, totalizing, and normative view of the course of human civili-

I can think of very little in philosophy of history from the middle-1960s to

On the Continent, however, due to the popularity of Marxism, the grand

In the 1960s, with influence of Nietzsche largely displacing that of Marx,

Choosing the past: Existentialist philosophy of history

“being-for-itself ” (human consciousness or transcendence) and “being-in-

this existentialist view, transforming it into a full-blown philosophy of history.

The essentials of Heidegger’s existential conception of history are contained

The historical past is a theoretically motivated construction, existing only in

White’s philosophy of history and the “linguistic turn”

immediately seen as a seminal, if provocative, contribution, the work appeared

notion of discourse, with its more humanist, practico-ethical implications, that

Northrop Frye, to the four archetypes mentioned above: Romance, Tragedy,

1 Ana Torfs, Du mentir-faux (2000) 74

2 Ana Torfs, Du mentir-faux (2000) 77

3 Ana Torfs, Du mentir-faux (2000) 79