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Editorial Reviews. yazik.info Review. If your pulse flutters at the thought of castle ruins and The Historian - Kindle edition by Elizabeth Kostova. Download it. A historian is a person who studies and writes about the people and events of the past. Historians find out how people lived, what hap- pened to them, and what. This paper is a critical discourse of the major challenges the historian of continued relevance of history and historians can only be guaranteed if the latter .

The Historian Pdf

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The work of the historian: to research, summarize, and communicate1. O trabalho do historiador: pesquisar, resumir, comunicar. El trabajo del historiador. History and Historians: Selected Papers of R. W. Southern This book makes a selection of writings by the great medieval historian, Sir Richard Southern, available to the wider First Page · PDF · Request permissions · xml. Cambridge Core - Twentieth Century Regional History - The Historian and Film - by Paul Smith. Access. PDF; Export citation 6 - The historian as film-maker I.

The professionalhistoriandoes not have a monopoly of his peculiar time, or rather,as Carl Becker once put it, every man is on occasion his own historian.

But the historianalone lives systematicallyin the historian's own time. And from what we have been sayingit is clear that thistimehas a unique dimension. Each man in his own time tries to discover the motives and the causes of the actions of those people he has to deal with; and the historiandoes the like with varyingdegrees of success.

But, as other men do not and cannot, the historian knows somethingof the results of the acts of those he deals with: this is the unique dimension of the historian's time. If, in sayingthat the historiancannot escape his own time,the presentminded meant this peculiarly historical time-which they do not-they would be on solid ground.

For the circumstances are rare indeed in which the historianhas no notion whatever No. The very fact that he is a historianand that he has interestedhimselfin a particularset of events fairlyassures that at the outset he will have some knowledgeof what happened afterward. This knowledge makes it impossible for the historian to do merely what the history-minded say he should do-consider the past in its own terms,and envisage events as the men who lived throughthem did.

Surely he should try to do that; just as certainly he must do morethan that simplybecause he knows about those events what none of the men contemporary with them knew; he knows what their consequences were.

To see the events surrounding the obscure monk Luther as Leo X saw them-as another "monks' quarrel" and a possible danger to the perquisites of the Curia-may help us understand the of Papal policy at the time; but that does peculiar inefficacy not preclude the historianfromseeing the same events as the decisive step toward the final breach of the religiousunity of Western Civilization.

We may be quite sure however that nobody at the time, not even Luther himself, saw those events that way. The historian who resolutely refused to use the insightthat his own peculiartimegave him would not be superior to his fellows;he would be merelyfoolish,betrayinga singular failure to grasp what historyis.

For historyis a becoming, an ongoing,and it is to be understoodnot only in termsof what comes beforebut also of what comes after.


What conclusionscan we draw fromour cursoryexamination of the historian's own time and his own day? What of the necessity,alleged by the present-minded, of rewritinghistory anew each generation? In some respects the estimate is overgenerous,in one respect too niggardly. But there was no car, and the street dripped quiet and rustic under its yellow lights. My father looked sharply left and right. I thought I saw no one, although my longeaved hood partly blocked my sight.

He stood listening, his face averted, body stock-still. Then he let his breath out heavily and we walked on, talking about what to order for dinner at the Turist when we got there. There would be no more discussions of Dracula on that journey. His sanity? Chapter 3 At home in Amsterdam, my father was unusually silent and busy, and I waited uneasily for opportunities to ask him about Professor Rossi.

Clay ate dinner with us every night in the darkpaneled dining room, serving us from the sideboard but otherwise joining in as a member of the family, and I felt instinctively that my father would not want to tell more of his story in her presence. If I sought him in his library, he asked me quickly about my day or wanted to see my homework. If it was Mrs. I might have said he was avoiding me, except that sometimes when I sat near him, reading, watching for an opening to ask questions, he would reach out and stroke my hair with an abstracted sadness in his face.

At those moments, I was the one who could not bring up the story. When my father went south again, he took me with him.

He would have only one meeting, and an informal one at that, almost not worth the long trip, but he wanted me to see the scenery, he said.

This time we rode the train far beyond Emona and then settled for taking a bus to our destination. My father preferred local transportation whenever he could use it. Now, when I travel, I often think of him and bypass the rental car for the metro.

The other passengers looked completely at ease. Across the aisle an old woman in black sat crocheting, her face framed by the fringe of her shawl, which danced as the bus jolted. Just before sunset I was rewarded by the sight of a woman standing at the edge of the road, perhaps waiting for a bus going in the opposite direction. She was tall, dressed in long, heavy skirts and a tight vest, her head crowned by a fabulous headdress like an organdy butterfly.

She stood alone among the rocks, touched by late sun, a basket on the ground beside her. I would have thought she was a statue, except that she turned her magnificent head as we passed.

Her face was a pale oval, too far away for me to see any expression. When I described her to my father, he said she must have been wearing the native dress of this part of Dalmatia. I suppose most of the young people here wear blue jeans now. The city sat on a large round peninsula, and its walls looked impenetrable to sea storm and invasion, a giant wading off the Adriatic coast.

At the same time, seen from the great height of the road, it had a miniature appearance, like something carved by hand and set down out of scale at the base of the mountains.

The sea and sky were almost dark. Fishing boats danced on a sheet of wilder water at the far reaches of the harbor; the wind brought me sea sounds, sea scents, and a new mildness. You could steer by the stars from here directly to Venice, or to the Albanian coast, or into the Aegean. Maybe four or five. The first was years ago, when I was still a student. From beyond came the slop of boats in the dark harbor. At last my father spoke.

He sipped his whiskey. My father sighed. Especially that story. The November sky was brilliant as a summer day. My father put on his sunglasses, checked his watch, folded away the brochure about the rusty-roofed architecture below, let a group of German tourists drift past us out of earshot.

I looked out to sea, beyond a forested island, to the fading blue horizon. From that direction the Venetian ships had come, bringing war or trade, their red and gold banners restless under the same glittering arc of sky. Waiting for my father to speak, I felt a stirring of apprehension far from scholarly.

Perhaps those ships I imagined on the horizon were not simply part of a colorful pageant. Why was it so difficult for my father to begin?

I know that what I made the mistake, perhaps, of telling you earlier makes him sound—crazy. And I was deeply shocked, and filled with doubt about him, although I saw sincerity and acceptance in his face. When he finished speaking he glanced at me with those keen eyes. Or did then, at least. This archive is mostly odds and ends collected later by the Turks as they were gradually beaten back from the edges of their empire.

But it also contains documents from the late fifteenth century, and among them I found some maps that purported to give directions to the Unholy Tomb of a Turk-slayer, who I thought might be Vlad Dracula. There were three maps, actually, graduated in scale to show the same region in greater and greater detail.

There was nothing on these maps that I recognized or could tie to any area I knew of. Only a scholar with multiple linguistic resources at his command could have made head or tail of them. I did my best, but it was uncertain work. But I was beyond the reach of reason, I think, sitting in that hot, sticky library in Istanbul. I remember I could see the minarets of the Hagia Sophia through the grimy windows. You remember that Vlad Tepes is supposed to have been buried at the island monastery on Lake Snagov, in Romania.

Here and there on the map, nestled among roughly sketched mountains, was some writing that at first glance appeared to be placenames in a Slavic dialect but that translated as riddles, probably a code for real locations: the Valley of Eight Oaks, Pig-Stealing Village, and so forth—strange peasant names that meant nothing to me. The dragon looked nothing like the one in my—our—old books, but I conjectured it must have come down to the Turks with the legend of Dracula.

At this moment I was completely alone. Reader, unbury him with a word. Heavy footsteps came up the stairwell. I was still occupied with a flash of thought, however: the magnifying glass had just told me that this map, unlike the first two more general ones, had been labeled by three different people, in their three different languages.

The handwritings as well as the languages were dissimilar. So were the colors of the old, old inks. It had probably only later been labeled in that Slavic dialect to identify the places it referred to—in code, at least. If this were true, who, knowing Greek, had marked the map first, perhaps even drawn it?

His eyes met mine belligerently, and their long lashes looked somehow disgusting in that stern face. His skin was sallow but beautifully unblemished, and his lips very red.

You are involved in material the Turkish government considers private Turkish archive. May I see your papers, please? I had just time to see an ivory card with a jumble of Turkish titles on it. Is this true? I registered with the university here the day I arrived and received this letter as proof of my status. I will not be questioned by the police—or by you. I hoped one of the shuffling librarians had heard me and would come in to quiet us down. Then I realized that they would certainly have been responsible for admitting this character, with his intimidating business card, into my presence.

Perhaps he was actually someone important. He leaned forward. Move, please. He was a massive presence across the table, and I noticed he had an odd smell, like a cologne used not quite successfully to cover something disagreeable. At last he picked up the map I had been working over, his hands suddenly gentle, handling it almost tenderly. I do not believe that you will be needing it for foreign purposes.

And this piece of paper, this little map, brings you whole way from your English university to Istanbul?

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What a shame for foreign researcher. They were hidden in my suitcase at the hotel. And with the British embassy. Anyway, what possible objection can you have to my studying these documents? They are obscure pieces of medieval history. Some other time.

And then I saw, as if he meant the greasy daylight to fall on it, his neck above his expensive shirt collar. On the side of it, in the deepest flesh of a muscular throat, were two brownscabbed puncture marks, not fresh but not fully healed, as if he had been stabbed by twin thorns, or mutilated at knifepoint.

But the daylight was quite ordinary, the man in his dark wool suit perfectly real, down to the smell of unwash and perspiration and something else under his cologne. Nothing disappeared or changed. After a few seconds he turned back from the absorbing view, as if satisfied with what he had seen—or what I had—and smiled again.

A few minutes later one of the elderly librarians came in, a man with bushy gray hair, carrying two old folios, which he began to put away on a low shelf.

That bureaucrat? So you must catch him and make him return the map. No one has come in for the last three hours. I am down at the entrance myself.

Hexter - The Historian and His Day.pdf

Unfortunately we have few who do research here. I saw myself, suddenly, a crazy gesturing foreigner. I signed it out this morning, at the desk. In the middle of it lay an ordinary road map of the Balkans that I had never seen in my life.

The librarian was putting away his second folio. In the busy, trafficfilled street there was no sign of the bureaucrat, although several men of his build and height in similar suits hurried past me carrying briefcases. When I reached the room where I was staying, I found that my belongings had been moved, owing to some practical problems with the room.

My suitcase had been perfectly repacked.

The hotel staff said they knew nothing about it. I lay awake all night listening to every sound outside. The next morning I gathered up my unwashed clothes and my dictionaries and took the boat back to Greece. But I was suddenly shaken by belief, not doubt. But when it was inconclusive—and under some other influences—I dropped the whole thing and put the book on my shelf.

the Historian

Up there, eventually. I suppose familiarity erodes even the most awful memories, though.

I took a last sip of cold coffee; it was very bitter, the dregs. I have a theory, however, that this ghastly trail of scholarship, like so many less awful ones, is merely something one person makes a little progress on, then another, each contributing a bit in his own lifetime. And of course it could all be nonsense. For good or for evil, but inevitably, in every field. I gave up the search. He reached up among the books on his top shelf again, pulling down a sealed brown envelope.

Who destroys any research completely? I copied from memory what I could of the three maps and saved my other notes, the ones I had with me that day in the archive. Maybe it was that disjunction, or the deepening of the spring evening into night outside, that made me even more nervous.

But perhaps dangerous only in a psychological sense. As you know, human history is full of evil deeds, and maybe we ought to think of them with tears, not fascination. Besides, I have the feeling I took away with me all I could have needed to know. Or was? Unless, of course, you find yourself in trouble.

His face wore a look of actual grief that was new to me, and then he seemed to make himself smile. To my astonished embarrassment, I saw that there were tears in his eyes.

The sun reached only through my skin, not to my bones, which had picked up some cold breeze coming off the sea. We stretched and turned this way and that to look at the town below.

I glanced at my father, but he was gazing out to sea. Chapter 5 Because I felt such constraint with my father, I decided to do a little exploring by myself, and one day after school I went alone to the university library. My Dutch was reasonably good, I had studied French and German for years now, and the university had a vast collection in English.

The librarians were courteous; it took me only a couple of shy conversations to find the material I was looking for: the text of the Nuremberg pamphlets about Dracula that my father had mentioned. The library did not own one of the original pamphlets—they were very rare, the elderly librarian in their medieval collection explained to me, but he found the text in a compendium of medieval German documents, translated into English.

He had one of those very fair, clear faces you see sometimes among the Dutch—a direct, blue gaze, hair that seemed to have grown paler instead of going gray. I reread the first section from my notebook in the empty room: In the Year of Our Lord Drakula did many terrible and curious things.

When he was appointed Lord in Wallachia, he had all the young boys burned who came to his land to learn the language, four hundred of them.

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He had a large family impaled and many of his people buried naked up to the navel and shot at. Some he had roasted and then flayed. There was a footnote, too, at the bottom of the first page. The typeface of the note was so fine that I almost missed it. Looking more closely, I realized it was a commentary on the wordimpaled. Vlad Tepes, it claimed, had learned this form of torture from the Ottomans.

Impalement of the sort he practiced involved the penetration of the body with a sharpened wooden stake, usually through the anus or genitals upward, so that the stake sometimes emerged through the mouth and sometimes through the head. I tried for a minute not to see these words; then I tried for several minutes to forget them, with the book shut.

The thing that most haunted me that day, however, as I closed my notebook and put my coat on to go home, was not my ghostly image of Dracula, or the description of impalement, but the fact that these things had—apparently—actually occurred. I understand now, decades later, that he could never have told me. Only history itself can convince you of such a truth.

When I reached home that night, I felt a kind of devilish strength, and I confronted my father. He was reading in his library while Mrs. Clay rattled the dinner dishes in the kitchen. I went into the library, closed the door behind me, and stood in front of his chair.

He was holding one of his beloved volumes of Henry James, a sure sign of stress. I stood without speaking until he looked up. He was silent, tapping his fingers on the arm of the chair. Skip to main content. Log In Sign Up. The Historian and the Antiquarian: Simone Natale. Even German media theorist Friedrich Kittler confessed that it had taken him a long time to understand the precise meaning of the term Armitage , p. Recently, thanks also to the publication of works provid- ing a more comprehensive overview of the field Parikka ; Huhtamo and Parikka , media archaeology has ceased to be such a vaporous concept, to which different authors tended to attribute quite different definitions.

It now depicts a more clearly defined area, with a stronger and broader impact in the related disciplines of film and media history.

It is to be seen not only as a case study that extends and complements existing scholarship on the panorama Oettermann , but also as a systematic attempt to clarify and put into use media archaeology as a set of conceptual and methodological tools. Huhtamo has spent some three decades of his life collecting and studying texts, images and objects related to the moving panorama and other optical spectacles.

The result is a monumen- tal book providing exceedingly accurate insight into the role of moving panoramas and related spectacles in nineteenth-century visual and media culture. Its elegant design and abundance of illustrations make the book an object as attractive as the visual gadgets described in its pages—although the small typeface will be a challenge to the eyes of many readers. Moving panoramas fig. In contrast to the huge circular panoramas found in large cities in Europe and North America, which were presented in buildings constructed for the purpose, moving panoramas were brought to different locations by itiner- ant lecturers and showmen.

Such mobility justifies the transna- tional approach chosen by Huhtamo, who provides information on panoramas and related spectacles in different linguistic and national contexts across Europe and North America. Just as per- formers in show business moved along circuits that were increas- ingly transnational and transatlantic, moving panoramas and other visual attractions circulated in different cultural contexts throughout the nineteenth century.

The book takes a roughly chronological approach, starting by addressing visual spectacles that anticipated the panorama, mainly in the eighteenth centu- ry, and subsequently examining the development of numerous forms of moving panoramas, dioramas and related visual media throughout the nineteenth and early twentieth century.

It also sheds light on the different performative configurations1 that Fig. Panorama of Niagara Falls, author unknown, after Albumen silver print, Yet, in contrast to the emphasis on immersive viewing and illusion as the primary visual strategies employed in the nineteenth century that has characterized much scholarship in the area Nead ; Friedberg ; Schivelbusch ; Crary , Huhtamo describes the moving panorama as pri- marily a storytelling device, stressing the role played by the per- formances of speakers and lecturers accompanying its exhibi- tions.

Particular emphasis, in this regard, is given to the moving panorama as a mobile medium and to its reliance on a modality of spectatorship that encouraged audiences to move about and adjust their point of view within controlled environments. Indeed, the book succeeds in overcoming some of the limits that have often characterized other attempts to define this field and to describe its methods and goals.

In particular, one of the main problems of scholarship in media archaeology has been a tendency towards methodological anarchy see Natale a. Huhtamo himself adopted a similar perspective in The Historian and the Antiquarian: While such openness has allowed media archaeologists to shed light on aspects of media culture that were previously neglected, it some- times undermined their capacity to address issues of relevance, hierarchy and pertinence, which are crucial to historical inquiry.

The Finnish-born scholar combines the reference to different kinds of sources and cultural realms with a rigorous exercise of corrob- orative methods, by which the relevance of all information is carefully discussed and evaluated. While opening his study to issues and voices that are often left at the margins of history, Huhtamo nonetheless refuses to wander in the anarchic and occasionally inconclusive manner that has characterized some scholarship in media archaeology.

Media archaeology has been resistant to clear-cut definitions as a single field or approach. In fact, different scholars in this area have proposed rather different visions of its methods and scope see Goddard ; Huhtamo and Parikka ; Ernst The author, in fact, has carried out his research in libraries and archives as much as in antique shops, flea markets, private collections and muse- ums. He has collected not only an impressive range of textual materials regarding panoramas and other visual spectacles, but also a large array of objects and artefacts pertaining to this tradi- tion.

Such artefacts are discussed thoroughly in the text, and often presented to the reader in the form of photographs of the objects, or illustrations providing clues about their functioning and con- tent.Having discovered how idiosyncratic was the day of one historianwe may inquire whetherhis time is also peculiar.

The historian who resolutely refused to use the insightthat his own peculiartimegave him would not be superior to his fellows;he would be merelyfoolish,betrayinga singular failure to grasp what historyis. Oxford, England January 15, Part One How these papers have been placed in sequence will be made manifest in the reading of them. Had he lost his balance for a few minutes, in the telling of this story?

Such artefacts are discussed thoroughly in the text, and often presented to the reader in the form of photographs of the objects, or illustrations providing clues about their functioning and con- tent. He was ignoring me. I have never lands in the fifteenth studied the Economic Reports to the President that would enable me to appraise the state of the Americannation in Maybe it was because Rossi was on my mind as I passed under his windows that I became acutely aware of his lamp still shining there.