And a Historical Folklore Survey? A Reply to John Widdowson’s ‘New Beginnings’

This note is written in support of John Widdowson’s recent reflections on the direction of folklore studies in Britain. A general discussion is in everyone’s interest and with his words Widdowson has given a gentle whack to the beehive. This article offers more of the same, although from the perspective of historical folklore.     

<Emphasis Type="Italic">Garum and Liquamen,</Emphasis> What’s in a Name?

There is a dilemma at the heart of the study of the Roman fish sauce trade. The meaning of the Greek and Latin words used to name the fish sauces is still contested: currently there is much confusion and contradiction between modern scholars and ancient commentators about the use of the terms garum and liquamen. It is also not readily recognised that the ancients themselves were less than clear as to the exact meaning of the terms that they used, and this confusion has informed and exacerbated our own. In this paper some of the key texts that have been used to define fish sauce are re-evaluated in light of the need to distinguish and separate them out into the distinct types and sub-types.     

Toward a Received History of the Holocaust

In this article, I examine both the problem of so-called postmodern history as it relates to the Holocaust and suggest the ways that Saul Friedlander's recent work successfully mediates between the somewhat overly polemicized positions of “relativist” and “positivist” history. In this context, I find that in his search for an adequately self-reflexive historical narrative for the Holocaust, Hayden White's proposed notion of “middle-voicedness” may recommend itself more as a process for eyewitness writers than as a style for historians after the fact. From here, I look at the ways Saul Friedlander's reflections on the historian's voice not only mediate between White's notions of the ironic mode and middle-voicedness, but also suggest the basis for an uncanny history in its own right: an anti-redemptory narrative that works through, yet never actually bridges, the gap between a survivor's “deep memory” and historical narrative. For finally, it may be the very idea of “deep memory” and its incompatibility to narrative that constitutes one of the central challenges to Holocaust historiography. What can be done with what Friedlander has termed “deep memory” of the survivor, that which remains essentially unrepresentable? Is it possible to write a history that includes some oblique reference to such deep memory, but which leaves it essentially intact, untouched and thereby deep? In this section, I suggest, after Patrick Hutton, that “What is at issue here is not how history can recover memory, but, rather, what memory will bequeath to history.” That is, what shall we do with the living memory of survivors? How will it enter (or not enter) the historical record? Or to paraphrase Hutton again, “How will the past be remembered as it passes from living memory to history?” Will it always be regarded as so overly laden with pathos as to make it unreliable as documentary evidence? Or is there a place for the understanding of the witness, as subjective and skewed as it may be, for our larger historical understanding of events? In partial answer to these questions, I attempt to extend Friedlander's insights toward a narrow kind of history-telling I call “received history”—a double-stranded narrative that tells a survivor-historian's story and my own relationship to it. Such a narrative would chart not just the life of the survivor-historian itself but also the measurable effect of the tellings—both his telling and mine—on my own life's story. Together, they would compose a received history of the Holocaust and its afterlife in the author's mind—my “vicarious past.”