history vs past essay

Writing a history essay

An essay is a piece of sustained writing in response to a question, topic or issue. Essays are commonly used for assessing and evaluating student progress in history. History essays test a range of skills including historical understanding, interpretation and analysis, planning, research and writing.

To write an effective essay, students should examine the question, understand its focus and requirements, acquire information and evidence through research, then construct a clear and well-organised response. Writing a good history essay should be rigorous and challenging, even for stronger students. As with other skills, essay writing develops and improves over time. Each essay you complete helps you become more competent and confident in exercising these skills.

Study the question

This is an obvious tip but one sadly neglected by some students. The first step to writing a good essay, whatever the subject or topic, is to give plenty of thought to the question.

An essay question will set some kind of task or challenge. It might ask you to explain the causes and/or effects of a particular event or situation. It might ask if you agree or disagree with a statement. It might ask you to describe and analyse the causes and/or effects of a particular action or event. Or it might ask you to evaluate the relative significance of a person, group or event.

You should begin by reading the essay question several times. Underline, highlight or annotate keywords or terms in the text of the question. Think about what it requires you to do. Who or what does it want you to concentrate on? Does it state or imply a particular timeframe? What problem or issue does it want you to address?

Begin with a plan

Every essay should begin with a written plan. Start constructing a plan as soon as you have received your essay question and given it some thought.

Prepare for research by brainstorming and jotting down your thoughts and ideas. What are your initial responses or thoughts about the question? What topics, events, people or issues are connected with the question? Do any additional questions or issues flow from the question? What topics or events do you need to learn more about? What historians or sources might be useful?

If you encounter a mental ‘brick wall’ or are uncertain about how to approach the question, don’t hesitate to discuss it with someone else. Consult your teacher, a capable classmate or someone you trust. Bear in mind too that once you start researching, your plan may change as you locate new information.

Start researching

After studying the question and developing an initial plan, start to gather information and evidence.

Most will start by reading an overview of the topic or issue, usually in some reliable secondary sources. This will refresh or build your existing understanding of the topic and provide a basis for further questions or investigation.

Your research should take shape from here, guided by the essay question and your own planning. Identify terms or concepts you do not know and find out what they mean. As you locate information, ask yourself if it is relevant or useful for addressing the question. Be creative with your research, looking in a variety of places.

If you have difficulty locating information, seek advice from your teacher or someone you trust.

Develop a contention

All good history essays have a clear and strong contention. A contention is the main idea or argument of your essay. It serves both as an answer to the question and the focal point of your writing.

Ideally, you should be able to express your contention as a single sentence. For example, the following contention might form the basis of an essay question on the rise of the Nazis:

Q. Why did the Nazi Party win 37 per cent of the vote in July 1932? A. The Nazi Party’s electoral success of 1932 was a result of economic suffering caused by the Great Depression, public dissatisfaction with the Weimar Republic’s democratic political system and mainstream parties, and Nazi propaganda that promised a return to traditional social, political and economic values.

An essay using this contention would then go on to explain and justify these statements in greater detail. It will also support the contention with argument and evidence.

At some point in your research, you should begin thinking about a contention for your essay. Remember, you should be able to express it briefly as if addressing the essay question in a single sentence, or summing up in a debate.

Try to frame your contention so that is strong, authoritative and convincing. It should sound like the voice of someone well informed about the subject and confident about their answer.

Plan an essay structure

Once most of your research is complete and you have a strong contention, start jotting down a possible essay structure. This need not be complicated, a few lines or dot points is ample.

Every essay must have an introduction, a body of several paragraphs and a conclusion. Your paragraphs should be well organised and follow a logical sequence.

You can organise paragraphs in two ways: chronologically (covering events or topics in the order they occurred) or thematically (covering events or topics based on their relevance or significance). Every paragraph should be clearly signposted in the topic sentence.

Once you have finalised a plan for your essay, commence your draft.

Write a compelling introduction

Many consider the introduction to be the most important part of an essay. It is important for several reasons. It is the reader’s first experience of your essay. It is where you first address the question and express your contention. It is also where you lay out or ‘signpost’ the direction your essay will take.

Aim for an introduction that is clear, confident and punchy. Get straight to the point – do not waste time with a rambling or storytelling introduction.

Start by providing a little context, then address the question, articulate your contention and indicate what direction your essay will take.

Write fully formed paragraphs

Many history students fall into the trap of writing short paragraphs, sometimes containing as little as one or two sentences. A good history essay contains paragraphs that are themselves ‘mini-essays’, usually between 100-200 words each.

A paragraph should focus on one topic or issue only – but it should contain a thorough exploration of that topic or issue.

A good paragraph will begin with an effective opening sentence, sometimes called a topic sentence or signposting sentence. This sentence introduces the paragraph topic and briefly explains its significance to the question and your contention. Good paragraphs also contain thorough explanations, some analysis and evidence, and perhaps a quotation or two.

Finish with an effective conclusion

The conclusion is the final paragraph of your essay. A good conclusion should do two things. First, it should reiterate or restate the contention of your essay. Second, it should close off your essay, ideally with a polished ending that is not abrupt or awkward.

One effective way to do this is with a brief summary of ‘what happened next’. For example, an essay discussing Hitler’s rise to power in 1933 might close with a couple of sentences about how he consolidated and strengthened his power in 1934-35.

Your conclusion need not be as long or as developed as your body paragraphs. You should avoid introducing new information or evidence in the conclusion.

Reference and cite your sources

A history essay is only likely to succeed if it is appropriately referenced. Your essay should support its information, ideas and arguments with citations or references to reliable sources.

Referencing not only acknowledges the work of others, but it also gives authority to your writing and provides the teacher or assessor with an insight into your research. More information on referencing a piece of history writing can be found here .

Proofread, edit and seek feedback

Every essay should be proofread, edited and, if necessary, re-drafted before being submitted for assessment. Essays should ideally be completed well before their due date then put aside for a day or two before proofreading.

When proofreading, look first for spelling and grammatical errors, typographical mistakes, incorrect dates or other errors of fact.

Think then about how you can improve the clarity, tone and structure of your essay. Does your essay follow a logical structure or sequence? Is the signposting in your essay clear and effective? Are some sentences too long or ‘rambling’? Do you repeat yourself? Do paragraphs need to be expanded, fine-tuned or strengthened with more evidence?

Read your essay aloud, either to yourself or another person. Seek feedback and advice from a good writer or someone you trust (they need not have expertise in history, only in effective writing).

Some general tips on writing

• Always write in the third person . Never refer to yourself personally, using phrases like “I think…” or “It is my contention…”. Good history essays should adopt the perspective of an informed and objective third party. They should sound rational and factual – not like an individual expressing their opinion.
• Always write in the past tense . An obvious tip for a history essay is to write in the past tense. Always be careful about your use of tense. Watch out for mixed tenses when proofreading your work. One exception to the rule about past tense is when writing about the work of modern historians (for example, “Kershaw writes…” sounds better than “Kershaw wrote…” or “Kershaw has written…”).
• Avoid generalisations . Generalisation is a problem in all essays but it is particularly common in history essays. Generalisation occurs when you form general conclusions from one or more specific examples. In history, this most commonly occurs when students study the experiences of a particular group, then assume their experiences applied to a much larger group – for example, “All the peasants were outraged”, “Women rallied to oppose conscription” or “Germans supported the Nazi Party”. Both history and human society, however, are never this clear cut or simple. Always try to avoid generalisation and be on the lookout for generalised statements when proofreading.
• Write short, sharp and punchy . Good writers vary their sentence length but as a rule of thumb, most of your sentences should be short and punchy. The longer a sentence becomes, the greater the risk of it becoming long-winded or confusing. Long sentences can easily become disjointed, confused or rambling. Try not to overuse long sentences and pay close attention to sentence length when proofreading.
• Write in an active voice . In history writing, the active voice is preferable to the passive voice. In the active voice, the subject completes the action (e.g. “Hitler [the subject] initiated the Beer Hall putsch [the action] to seize control of the Bavarian government”). In the passive voice, the action is completed by the subject (“The Beer Hall putsch [the action] was initiated by Hitler [the subject] to seize control of the Bavarian government”). The active voice also helps prevent sentences from becoming long, wordy and unclear.

You may also find our page on writing for history useful.

Citation information Title : ‘Writing a history essay’ Authors : Jennifer Llewellyn, Steve Thompson Publisher : Alpha History URL : https://alphahistory.com/writing-a-history-essay/ Date published : April 13, 2020 Date updated : December 20, 2022 Date accessed : Today’s date Copyright : The content on this page may not be republished without our express permission. For more information on usage, please refer to our Terms of Use.

Steps for Writing a History Paper

Writing a history paper is a process.  Successful papers are not completed in a single moment of genius or inspiration, but are developed over a series of steps.  When you first read a paper prompt, you might feel overwhelmed or intimidated.  If you think of writing as a process and break it down into smaller steps, you will find that paper-writing is manageable, less daunting, and even enjoyable.  Writing a history paper is your opportunity to do the real work of historians, to roll up your sleeves and dig deep into the past.

What is a History paper?

History papers are driven by arguments.  In a history class, even if you are not writing a paper based on outside research, you are still writing a paper that requires some form of argument.  For example, suppose your professor has asked you to write a paper discussing the differences between colonial New England and colonial Virginia.  It might seem like this paper is straightforward and does not require an argument, that it is simply a matter of finding the “right answer.”  However, even here you need to construct a paper guided by a larger argument.  You might argue that the main differences between colonial New England and Virginia were grounded in contrasting visions of colonization.  Or you might argue that the differences resulted from accidents of geography or from extant alliances between regional Indian groups.  Or you might make an argument that draws on all of these factors.  Regardless, when you make these types of assertions, you are making an argument that requires historical evidence.  Any history paper you write will be driven by an argument demanding evidence from sources.

History writing assignments can vary widely–and you should always follow your professor’s specific instructions–but the following steps are designed to help no matter what kind of history paper you are writing.  Remember that the staff of the History Writing Center is here to assist you at any stage of the writing process.

• Sometimes professors distribute prompts with several sub-questions surrounding the main question they want you to write about.  The sub-questions are designed to help you think about the topic.  They offer ideas you might consider, but they are not, usually, the key question or questions you need to answer in your paper.  Make sure you distinguish the key questions from the sub-questions.  Otherwise, your paper may sound like a laundry list of short-answer essays rather than a cohesive argument. A helpful way to hone in on the key question is to look for action verbs, such as “analyze” or “investigate” or “formulate.”  Find such words in the paper prompt and circle them.  Then, carefully consider what you are being asked to do.  Write out the key question at the top of your draft and return to it often, using it to guide you in the writing process.  Also, be sure that you are responding to every part of the prompt.  Prompts will often have several questions you need to address in your paper.  If you do not cover all aspects, then you are not responding fully to the assignment.  For more information, visit our section, “Understanding Paper Prompts.”
• Before you even start researching or drafting, take a few minutes to consider what you already know about the topic.  Make a list of ideas or draw a cluster diagram, using circles and arrows to connect ideas–whatever method works for you.  At this point in the process, it is helpful to write down all of your ideas without stopping to judge or analyze each one in depth.  You want to think big and bring in everything you know or suspect about the topic.  After you have finished, read over what you have created.  Look for patterns or trends or questions that keep coming up.  Based on what you have brainstormed, what do you still need to learn about the topic?  Do you have a tentative argument or response to the paper prompt?  Use this information to guide you as you start your research and develop a thesis.
• Depending on the paper prompt, you may be required to do outside research or you may be using only the readings you have done in class.  Either way, start by rereading the relevant materials from class.  Find the parts from the textbook, from the primary source readings, and from your notes that relate to the prompt. If you need to do outside research, the UCLA library system offers plenty of resources.  You can begin by plugging key words into the online library catalog.  This process will likely involve some trial and error.  You will want to use search terms that are specific enough to address your topic without being so narrow that you get no results.  If your keywords are too general, you may receive thousands of results and feel overwhelmed.  To help you narrow your search, go back to the key questions in the essay prompt that you wrote down in Step 1.  Think about which terms would help you respond to the prompt.  Also, look at the language your professor used in the prompt.  You might be able to use some of those same words as search terms. Notice that the library website has different databases you can search depending on what type of material you need (such as scholarly articles, newspapers, books) and what subject and time period you are researching (such as eighteenth-century England or ancient Rome).  Searching the database most relevant to your topic will yield the best results.  Visit the library’s History Research Guide for tips on the research process and on using library resources.  You can also schedule an appointment with a librarian to talk specifically about your research project.  Or, make an appointment with staff at the History Writing Center for research help.  Visit our section about using electronic resources as well.
• By this point, you know what the prompt is asking, you have brainstormed possible responses, and you have done some research.  Now you need to step back, look at the material you have, and develop your argument.  Based on the reading and research you have done, how might you answer the question(s) in the prompt?  What arguments do your sources allow you to make?  Draft a thesis statement in which you clearly and succinctly make an argument that addresses the prompt. If you find writing a thesis daunting, remember that whatever you draft now is not set in stone.  Your thesis will change.  As you do more research, reread your sources, and write your paper, you will learn more about the topic and your argument.  For now, produce a “working thesis,” meaning, a thesis that represents your thinking up to this point.  Remember it will almost certainly change as you move through the writing process.  For more information, visit our section about thesis statements.  Once you have a thesis, you may find that you need to do more research targeted to your specific argument.  Revisit some of the tips from Step 3.
• Now that you have a working thesis, look back over your sources and identify which ones are most critical to you–the ones you will be grappling with most directly in order to make your argument.  Then, annotate them.  Annotating sources means writing a paragraph that summarizes the main idea of the source as well as shows how you will use the source in your paper.  Think about what the source does for you.  Does it provide evidence in support of your argument?  Does it offer a counterpoint that you can then refute, based on your research?  Does it provide critical historical background that you need in order to make a point?  For more information about annotating sources, visit our section on annotated bibliographies. While it might seem like this step creates more work for you by having to do more writing, it in fact serves two critical purposes: it helps you refine your working thesis by distilling exactly what your sources are saying, and it helps smooth your writing process.  Having dissected your sources and articulated your ideas about them, you can more easily draw upon them when constructing your paper.  Even if you do not have to do outside research and are limited to working with the readings you have done in class, annotating sources is still very useful.  Write down exactly how a particular section in the textbook or in a primary source reader will contribute to your paper.
• An outline is helpful in giving you a sense of the overall structure of your paper and how best to organize your ideas.  You need to decide how to arrange your argument in a way that will make the most sense to your reader.  Perhaps you decide that your argument is most clear when presented chronologically, or perhaps you find that it works best with a thematic approach.  There is no one right way to organize a history paper; it depends entirely on the prompt, on your sources, and on what you think would be most clear to someone reading it. An effective outline includes the following components: the research question from the prompt (that you wrote down in Step 1), your working thesis, the main idea of each body paragraph, and the evidence (from both primary and secondary sources) you will use to support each body paragraph.  Be as detailed as you can when putting together your outline.

If you have trouble getting started or are feeling overwhelmed, try free writing.  Free writing is a low-stakes writing exercise to help you get past the blank page.  Set a timer for five or ten minutes and write down everything you know about your paper: your argument, your sources, counterarguments, everything.  Do not edit or judge what you are writing as you write; just keep writing until the timer goes off.  You may be surprised to find out how much you knew about your topic.  Of course, this writing will not be polished, so do not be tempted to leave it as it is.  Remember that this draft is your first one, and you will be revising it.

A particularly helpful exercise for global-level revision is to make a reverse outline, which will help you look at your paper as a whole and strengthen the way you have organized and substantiated your argument.  Print out your draft and number each of the paragraphs.  Then, on a separate piece of paper, write down each paragraph number and, next to it, summarize in a phrase or a sentence the main idea of that paragraph.  As you produce this list, notice if any paragraphs attempt to make more than one point: mark those for revision.  Once you have compiled the list, read it over carefully.  Study the order in which you have sequenced your ideas.  Notice if there are ideas that seem out of order or repetitive.  Look for any gaps in your logic.  Does the argument flow and make sense?

When revising at the local level, check that you are using strong topic sentences and transitions, that you have adequately integrated and analyzed quotations, and that your paper is free from grammar and spelling errors that might distract the reader or even impede your ability to communicate your point.  One helpful exercise for revising on the local level is to read your paper out loud.  Hearing your paper will help you catch grammatical errors and awkward sentences.

Here is a checklist of questions to ask yourself while revising on both the global and local levels:

– Does my thesis clearly state my argument and its significance?

– Does the main argument in each body paragraph support my thesis?

– Do I have enough evidence within each body paragraph to make my point?

– Have I properly introduced, analyzed, and cited every quotation I use?

– Do my topic sentences effectively introduce the main point of each paragraph?

– Do I have transitions between paragraphs?

– Is my paper free of grammar and spelling errors?

• Congratulate yourself. You have written a history paper!

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History vs. The Past

What's the difference.

History and the past are closely related concepts, but they have distinct differences. The past refers to all events and experiences that have occurred before the present moment, encompassing everything from personal memories to ancient civilizations. It is a broad and inclusive term that encompasses both recorded and unrecorded events. On the other hand, history is a more specific and organized study of the past. It involves the systematic analysis, interpretation, and documentation of past events, often relying on written records and other sources of evidence. While the past is a vast and unstructured collection of experiences, history provides a structured framework to understand and make sense of the past.

Further Detail

Introduction.

History and the past are two concepts that are often used interchangeably, but they have distinct attributes that set them apart. While both refer to events and experiences that have already occurred, history is a more formal and structured study of the past, whereas the past encompasses all events and experiences that have happened before the present moment. In this article, we will explore the attributes of history and the past, highlighting their differences and similarities.

Definition and Scope

History is the academic discipline that systematically investigates and interprets past events, societies, and civilizations. It involves the critical analysis of primary and secondary sources, the examination of historical context, and the construction of narratives to understand the causes and consequences of past events. The scope of history is vast, covering a wide range of topics such as political, social, cultural, economic, and military aspects of human existence.

On the other hand, the past refers to everything that has occurred before the present moment. It includes not only the events and experiences studied by historians but also personal memories, oral traditions, and collective consciousness. The past is not limited to a specific academic discipline or methodology; it encompasses the entirety of human existence and the traces it has left behind.

Objective vs. Subjective

One of the key distinctions between history and the past lies in their objective and subjective nature. History aims to provide an objective account of past events, relying on evidence, facts, and rigorous analysis. Historians strive to minimize bias and interpret the past based on available sources and methodologies. While interpretations may vary, the goal is to approach an objective understanding of historical events.

On the other hand, the past is inherently subjective. It is shaped by individual perspectives, memories, and interpretations. Personal experiences, emotions, and biases influence how individuals perceive and remember the past. The past is not bound by the same standards of evidence and analysis as history, allowing for a more diverse and subjective understanding of events.

Documentation and Sources

History heavily relies on documentation and sources to reconstruct the past. Historians analyze primary sources, such as letters, diaries, official records, and artifacts, to gain insights into past events. They also consult secondary sources, including scholarly works and historical accounts, to build upon existing knowledge and interpretations. The rigorous examination of sources is crucial in ensuring the accuracy and reliability of historical narratives.

Conversely, the past is not always documented or preserved in a formal manner. Personal memories, oral traditions, and folklore play a significant role in transmitting knowledge about the past. While these sources may lack the same level of objectivity and verifiability as historical documents, they provide valuable insights into the lived experiences and perspectives of individuals and communities.

Interpretation and Narratives

Interpretation is a fundamental aspect of both history and the past. Historians interpret the available evidence to construct narratives that explain and make sense of past events. These narratives are subject to revision and reinterpretation as new evidence emerges or different perspectives are considered. Historians strive to provide well-supported and nuanced interpretations that contribute to our understanding of the past.

Similarly, individuals interpret the past based on their own experiences, beliefs, and cultural backgrounds. Personal narratives and collective memory shape how people understand and relate to historical events. These interpretations may vary widely, leading to diverse perspectives and understandings of the past within different communities and societies.

Legacy and Relevance

History has a lasting legacy and continues to shape the present and future. The study of history allows us to learn from past mistakes, understand the development of societies, and appreciate the achievements and struggles of previous generations. Historical knowledge provides a foundation for informed decision-making, policy development, and social progress. It helps us understand the complexities of the world we live in and fosters a sense of identity and belonging.

Similarly, the past has a profound impact on individuals and communities. Personal and collective memories shape identities, traditions, and cultural practices. The past influences our values, beliefs, and perspectives, providing a sense of continuity and connection to our roots. It reminds us of our shared humanity and the lessons we can learn from those who came before us.

In conclusion, while history and the past are closely related, they have distinct attributes that set them apart. History is a formal academic discipline that aims to provide an objective understanding of past events through rigorous analysis and interpretation of sources. It encompasses a wide range of topics and methodologies, contributing to our knowledge and understanding of the world. On the other hand, the past is a broader concept that includes all events and experiences that have occurred before the present moment. It is subjective, shaped by personal memories and interpretations, and encompasses a wider range of sources beyond formal documentation. Both history and the past play crucial roles in shaping our understanding of the world and our place within it.

Comparisons may contain inaccurate information about people, places, or facts. Please report any issues.

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19 Standards of Historical Writing

In this chapter, you will learn the basic expectations for writing an undergrad history research paper. At this point in your college career, you’ve likely had a great deal of instruction about writing and you may be wondering why this chapter is here. There are at least three reasons:

• For some of you, those lessons about writing came before you were ready to appreciate or implement them. If you know your writing skills are weak, you should not only pay close attention to this chapter, but also submit early drafts of your work to the History Tutoring Center (at UTA) or another writing coach. Only practice and multiple drafts will improve those skills.
• Those of you who were paying attention in composition courses know the basics, but may lack a good understanding of the format and approach of scholarly writing in history. Other disciplines permit more generalities and relaxed associations than history, which is oriented toward specific contexts and (often, but not always) linear narratives. Moreover, because historians work in a subject often read by non-academics, they place a greater emphasis on clearing up jargon and avoiding convoluted sentence structure. In other words, the standards of historical writing are high and the guidelines that follow will help you reach them.
• Every writer, no matter how confident or experienced, faces writing blocks. Going back to the fundamental structures and explanations may help you get past the blank screen by supplying prompts to help you get started.

As you read the following guide, keep in mind that it represents only our perspective on the basic standards. In all writing, even history research papers, there is room for stylistic variation and elements of a personal style. But one of the standards of historical writing is that only those who fully understand the rules can break them successfully. If you regularly violate the rule against passive voice verb construction or the need for full subject-predicate sentences, you cannot claim the use of sentence fragments or passive voice verbs is “just your style.” Those who normally observe those grammatical rules, in contrast, might on occasion violate them for effect. The best approach is first to demonstrate to your instructor that you can follow rules of grammar and essay structure before you experiment or stray too far from the advice below.

Introductions

Introductions are nearly impossible to get right the first time. Thus, one of the best strategies for writing an introduction to your history essay is to keep it “bare bones” in the first draft, initially working only toward a version that covers the basic requirements. After you’ve written the full paper (and realized what you’re really trying to say, which usually differs from your initial outline), you can come back to the intro and re-draft it accordingly. However, don’t use the likelihood of re-writing your first draft to avoid writing one. Introductions provide templates not only for your readers, but also for you, the writer. A decent “bare bones” introduction can minimize writer’s block as a well-written thesis statement provides a road map for each section of the paper.

So what are the basic requirements? In an introduction, you must:

• Pose a worthwhile question or problem that engages your reader
• Establish that your sources are appropriate for answering the question, and thus that you are a trustworthy guide without unfair biases
• Convince your reader that they will be able to follow your explanation by laying out a clear thesis statement.

Engaging readers in an introduction

When you initiated your research, you asked questions as a part of the process of narrowing your topic (see the “Choosing and Narrowing a Topic” chapter for more info). If all went according to plan, the information you found as you evaluated your primary sources allowed you to narrow your question further, as well as arrive at a plausible answer, or explanation for the problem you posed. (If it didn’t, you’ll need to repeat the process, and either vary your questions or expand your sources. Consult your instructor, who can help identify what contribution your research into a set of primary sources can achieve.) The key task for your introduction is to frame your narrowed research question—or, in the words of some composition instructors, the previously assumed truth that your inquiries have destabilized—in a way that captures the attention of your readers. Common approaches to engaging readers include:

• Telling a short story (or vignette) from your research that illustrates the tension between what readers might have assumed before reading your paper and what you have found to be plausible instead.
• Stating directly what others believe to be true about your topic—perhaps using a quote from a scholar of the subject—and then pointing immediately to an aspect of your research that puts that earlier explanation into doubt.
• Revealing your most unexpected finding, before moving to explain the source that leads you to make the claim, then turning to the ways in which this finding expands our understanding of your topic.

What you do NOT want to do is begin with a far-reaching transhistorical claim about human nature or an open-ended rhetorical question about the nature of history. Grand and thus unprovable claims about “what history tells us” do not inspire confidence in readers. Moreover, such broadly focused beginnings require too much “drilling down” to get to your specific area of inquiry, words that risk losing readers’ interest. Last, beginning with generic ideas is not common to the discipline. Typical essay structures in history do not start broadly and steadily narrow over the course of the essay, like a giant inverted triangle. If thinking in terms of a geometric shape helps you to conceptualize what a good introduction does, think of your introduction as the top tip of a diamond instead. In analytical essays based on research, many history scholars begin with the specific circumstances that need explaining, then broaden out into the larger implications of their findings, before returning to the specifics in their conclusions—following the shape of a diamond.

Clear Thesis Statements

Under the standards of good scholarly writing in the United States—and thus those that should guide your paper—your introduction contains the main argument you will make in your essay. Elsewhere—most commonly in European texts—scholars sometimes build to their argument and reveal it fully only in the conclusion. Do not follow this custom in your essay. Include a well-written thesis statement somewhere in your introduction; it can be the first sentence of your essay, toward the end of the first paragraph, or even a page or so in, should you begin by setting the stage with a vignette. Wherever you place it, make sure your thesis statement meets the following standards:

A good thesis statement :

• Could be debated by informed scholars : Your claim should not be so obvious as to be logically impossible to argue against. Avoid the history equivalent of “the sky was blue.”
• Can be proven with the evidence at hand : In the allotted number of pages, you will need to introduce and explain at least three ways in which you can support your claim, each built on its own pieces of evidence. Making an argument about the role of weather on the outcome of the Civil War might be intriguing, given that such a claim questions conventional explanations for the Union’s victory. But a great deal of weather occurred in four years and Civil War scholars have established many other arguments you would need to counter, making such an argument impossible to establish in the length of even a long research paper. But narrowing the claim—to a specific battle or from a single viewpoint—could make such an argument tenable. Often in student history papers, the thesis incorporates the main primary source into the argument. For example, “As his journal and published correspondence between 1861 and 1864 reveal, Colonel Mustard believed that a few timely shifts in Tennessee’s weather could have altered the outcome of the war.”
• Is specific without being insignificant : Along with avoiding the obvious, stay away from the arcane. “Between 1861 and 1864, January proved to be the worst month for weather in Central Tennessee.” Though this statement about the past is debatable and possible to support with evidence about horrible weather in January and milder-by-comparison weather in other months, it lacks import because it’s not connected to knowledge that concerns historians. Thesis statements should either explicitly or implicitly speak to current historical knowledge—which they can do by refining, reinforcing, nuancing, or expanding what (an)other scholar(s) wrote about a critical event or person.
• P rovide s a “roadmap” to readers : Rather than just state your main argument, considering outlining the key aspects of it, each of which will form a main section of the body of the paper. When you echo these points in transitions between sections, readers will realize they’ve completed one aspect of your argument and are beginning a new part of it. To demonstrate this practice by continuing the fictional Colonel Mustard example above: “As his journal and published correspondence between 1861 and 1864 reveals, Colonel Mustard believed that Tennessee’s weather was critical to the outcome of the Civil War. He linked both winter storms and spring floods in Tennessee to the outcome of key battles and highlighted the weather’s role in tardy supply transport in the critical year of 1863.” Such a thesis cues the reader that evidence and explanations about 1) winter storms; 2) spring floods; and 3) weather-slowed supply transport that will form the main elements of the essay.

Thesis Statement Practice

More Thesis Statement Practice

The Body of the Paper

What makes a good paragraph.

While an engaging introduction and solid conclusion are important, the key to drafting a good essay is to write good paragraphs. That probably seems obvious, but too many students treat paragraphs as just a collection of a few sentences without considering the logic and rules that make a good paragraph. In essence, in a research paper such as the type required in a history course, for each paragraph you should follow the same rules as the paper itself. That is, a good paragraph has a topic sentence, evidence that builds to make a point, and a conclusion that ties the point to the larger argument of the paper. On one hand, given that it has so much work to do, paragraphs are three sentences , at a minimum . On the other hand, because paragraphs should be focused to making a single point, they are seldom more than six to seven sentences . Though rules about number of sentences are not hard and fast, keeping the guidelines in mind can help you construct tightly focused paragraphs in which your evidence is fully explained.

Topic sentences

The first sentence of every paragraph in a research paper (or very occasionally the second) should state a claim that you will defend in the paragraph . Every sentence in the paragraph should contribute to that topic. If you read back over your paragraph and find that you have included several different ideas, the paragraph lacks focus. Go back, figure out the job that this paragraph needs to do—showing why an individual is important, establishing that many accept an argument that you plan on countering, explaining why a particular primary source can help answer your research question, etc. Then rework your topic sentence until it correctly frames the point you need to make. Next, cut out (and likely move) the sentences that don’t contribute to that outcome. The sentences you removed may well help you construct the next paragraph, as they could be important ideas, just not ones that fit with the topic of the current paragraph. Every sentence needs to be located in a paragraph with a topic sentence that alerts the reader about what’s to come.

Transitions/Bridges/Conclusion sentences in paragraphs

All good writers help their readers by including transition sentences or phrases in their paragraphs, often either at the paragraph’s end or as an initial phrase in the topic sentence. A transition sentence can either connect two sections of the paper or provide a bridge from one paragraph to the next. These sentences clarify how the evidence discussed in the paragraph ties into the thesis of the paper and help readers follow the argument. Such a sentence is characterized by a clause that summarizes the info above, and points toward the agenda of the next paragraph. For example, if the current section of your paper focused on the negative aspects of your subject’s early career, but your thesis maintains he was a late-developing military genius, a transition between part one (on the negative early career) and part two (discussing your first piece of evidence revealing genius) might note that “These initial disastrous strategies were not a good predictor of General Smith’s mature years, however, as his 1841 experience reveals.” Such a sentence underscores for the reader what has just been argued (General Smith had a rough start) and sets up what’s to come (1841 was a critical turning point).

Explaining Evidence

Just as transitional sentences re-state points already made for clarity’s sake, “stitching” phrases or sentences that set-up and/or follow quotations from sources provide a certain amount of repetition. Re-stating significant points of analysis using different terms is one way you explain your evidence. Another way is by never allowing a quote from a source to stand on its own, as though its meaning was self-evident. It isn’t and indeed, what you, the writer, believes to be obvious seldom is. When in doubt, explain more.

For more about when to use a quotation and how to set it up see “How to quote” in the next section on Notes and Quotation.”

Conclusio ns

There exists one basic rule for conclusions: Summarize the paper you have written . Do not introduce new ideas, launch briefly into a second essay based on a different thesis, or claim a larger implication based on research not yet completed. This final paragraph is NOT a chance to comment on “what history tells us” or other lessons for humankind. Your conclusion should rest, more or less, on your thesis, albeit using different language from the introduction and evolved, or enriched, by examples discussed throughout the paper. Keep your conclusion relevant and short, and you’ll be fine.

For a checklist of things you need before you write or a rubric to evaluate your writing click here

How History is Made: A Student’s Guide to Reading, Writing, and Thinking in the Discipline Copyright © 2022 by Stephanie Cole; Kimberly Breuer; Scott W. Palmer; and Brandon Blakeslee is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-ShareAlike 4.0 International License , except where otherwise noted.

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Home » Student Resources » Historical Essay: What is it?

Historical Essay: What is it?

A history essay starts with an argument or position you first form in your thesis statement, and that you then add to and support with evidence arranged in the body of the essay. Your conclusion then needs to respond directly to your thesis statement.

• Social Sciences

What is a historical essay?

A history essay is not exactly the same as a regular essay. The parts are similar: It has an “ introduction ” which includes your “ thesis statement “, which is then supported by evidence you collect and put together in the “ body ” of the essay. You also need to sum things up in a “ conclusion ” that responds directly to your thesis statement.

While planning, researching, thinking about and writing your history essay, there are a few tips to remember (See tabs above).

History needs time

Historians like you need consider the “chronology” of events in time. In other words, you need to know what time period you are talking about, and you need to  make that clear to your reader . How long ago you are talking about? What came before and after the events you are describing? When was this all happening? What do you call that time period?

The pictures above (by RECITUS.qc.ca) are from a film on how to prepare for an exam by Timelining the different time “periods”.

History needs historical contexts

The “context” for your essay means what else is going on at the time. You should be clear about that in your introduction and keep it in mind throughout the essay. For example, what were the economic, political, social, territorial and cultural changes that were happening? How was the world was changing then? What major events surround the time you are writing?

The pictures above (by RECITUS.qc.ca) are from a film on how to prepare for an exam by Timeline-ing the different time “periods”.

Historians use documents

Try to use different “primary source” original documents from the time period. And when you use “secondary sources” written by other historians that you find in books, newspapers, on websites, etc., make sure you indicate that these are secondary sources. In both cases, make sure the reader understands who wrote those documents, and their point of view.

The above documents (photographs, posters, newspapers) were taken from three excellent websites that offer primary source documents:

• Library and Archives Canada
• McCord Museum, Montreal History Museum
• Google Newspaper Archives

Note that in some cases (like on Exams!) you may be given document files, from which you must get your information and decide on the topics of your essay. Remember to pay attention to headings for these historical documents, and consider closely which parts of the original document has been chosen for you.

Historians think like historians

Historians examine the causes and the consequences of events. This is more precise than just the context; these are the reasons why something happened, and the things that happened afterwards because of it.

Historians also try to determine what has changed and what has stayed the same, and again, they try to explain why.

And like you, they state their opinion. You can do the same in your essay, and you can state why your opinion differs or is the same as other writers.

When you are writing a history essay, try to remember these strategies. Another good source for strategies is The Historial Thinking Project at  http://historicalthinking.ca/

The above image (s) were taken from the McCord online exhibit entitled Urban Life through Two Lenses, specifically from the photographic pairing entitled “ View of the Montreal Habour ” (Public Domain)

• Historical Thinking Project
• McCord Museum

Related How To's

Historical Essay: Conclusion

Historical Essay: The Body

Historical Essay: Introduction

Historical Essay: Thesis Statement

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All people are living histories – which is why History matters

Penelope j. corfield.

Historians are often asked: what is the use or relevance of studying History (the capital letter signalling the academic field of study)? Why on earth does it matter what happened long ago? The answer is that History is inescapable. It studies the past and the legacies of the past in the present. Far from being a 'dead' subject, it connects things through time and encourages its students to take a long view of such connections.

All people and peoples are living histories. To take a few obvious examples: communities speak languages that are inherited from the past. They live in societies with complex cultures, traditions and religions that have not been created on the spur of the moment. People use technologies that they have not themselves invented. And each individual is born with a personal variant of an inherited genetic template, known as the genome, which has evolved during the entire life-span of the human species.

So understanding the linkages between past and present is absolutely basic for a good understanding of the condition of being human. That, in a nutshell, is why History matters. It is not just 'useful', it is essential.

The study of the past is essential for 'rooting' people in time. And why should that matter? The answer is that people who feel themselves to be rootless live rootless lives, often causing a lot of damage to themselves and others in the process. Indeed, at the most extreme end of the out-of-history spectrum, those individuals with the distressing experience of complete memory loss cannot manage on their own at all. In fact, all people have a full historical context. But some, generally for reasons that are no fault of their own, grow up with a weak or troubled sense of their own placing, whether within their families or within the wider world. They lack a sense of roots. For others, by contrast, the inherited legacy may even be too powerful and outright oppressive.

In all cases, understanding History is integral to a good understanding of the condition of being human. That allows people to build, and, as may well be necessary, also to change, upon a secure foundation. Neither of these options can be undertaken well without understanding the context and starting points. All living people live in the here-and-now but it took a long unfolding history to get everything to NOW. And that history is located in time-space, which holds this cosmos together, and which frames both the past and the present.

The discussion is amplified under the following headings:

Answering two objections to History

Noting two weak arguments in favour of studying history, celebrating the strong case for history, the repentance of henry ford: history is not bunk.

One common objection that historians encounter is the instant put-down that is derived from Henry Ford I, the impresario of the mass automobile. In 1916 he stated sweepingly: 'History is bunk'. Actually, Ford's original comment was not so well phrased and it was a journalist who boiled it down to three unforgettable words. Nonetheless, this is the phrasing that is attributed to Ford and it is this dictum that is often quoted by people wishing to express their scepticism about the subject.

Well, then, what is the use of History, if it is only bunk ? This rousingly old-fashioned term, for those who have not come across it before, is derived from the Dutch bunkum , meaning rubbish or nonsense.

Inwardly groaning, historians deploy various tactics in response. One obvious reaction is to challenge the terms of the question, in order to make questioners think again about the implications of their terminology. To demand an accountant-style audit of the instant usefulness of every subject smacks of a very crude model of education indeed. It implies that people learn only very specific things, for very specific purposes. For example, a would-be voyager to France, intending to work in that country, can readily identify the utility of learning the French language. However, since no-one can travel back in time to live in an earlier era, it might appear – following the logic of 'immediate application' – that studying anything other than the present-day would be 'useless'.

But not so. The 'immediate utility' formula is a deeply flawed proposition. Humans do not just learn gobbets of information for an immediate task at hand. And, much more fundamentally, the past and the present are not separated off into separate time-ghettos. Thus the would-be travellers who learn the French language are also learning French history, since the language was not invented today but has evolved for centuries into the present. And the same point applies all round. The would-be travellers who learn French have not appeared out of the void but are themselves historical beings. Their own capacity to understand language has been nurtured in the past, and, if they remember and repeat what they are learning, they are helping to transmit (and, if needs be, to adapt) a living language from the past into the future.

Education is not 'just' concerned with teaching specific tasks but it entails forming and informing the whole person, for and through the experience of living through time.

Learning the French language is a valuable human enterprise, and not just for people who live in France or who intend to travel to France. Similarly, people learn about astronomy without journeying in space, about marine biology without deep-sea diving, about genetics without cloning an animal, about economics without running a bank, about History without journeying physically into the past, and so forth. The human mind can and does explore much wider terrain than does the human body (though in fact human minds and bodies do undoubtedly have an impressive track record in physical exploration too). Huge amounts of what people learn is drawn from the past that has not been forgotten. Furthermore, humans display great ingenuity in trying to recover information about lost languages and departed civilisations, so that everything possible can be retained within humanity's collective memory banks.

Very well, the critics then sniff; let's accept that History has a role. But the second criticism levelled at the subject is that it is basic and boring. In other words, if History is not meaningless bunk , it is nonetheless poor fare, consisting of soul-sapping lists of facts and dates.

Further weary sighs come from historians when they hear this criticism. It often comes from people who do not care much for the subject but who simultaneously complain that schoolchildren do not know key dates, usually drawn from their national history. Perhaps the critics who complain that History-is-so-boring had the misfortune to be taught by uninspired teachers who dictated 'teacher's notes' or who inculcated the subject as a compendium of data to be learned by heart. Such pedagogic styles are best outlawed, although the information that they intended to convey is far from irrelevant.

Facts and dates provide some of the basic building blocks of History as a field of study, but on their own they have limited meaning. Take a specific case. It would be impossible to comprehend 20th-century world history if given nothing but a list of key dates, supplemented by information about (say) population growth rates, economic resources and church attendance. And even if further evidence were provided, relating to (say) the size of armies, the cost of oil, and comparative literacy levels, this cornucopia of data would still not furnish nearly enough clues to reconstruct a century's worth of world experience.

On its own, information is not knowledge. That great truth cannot be repeated too often. Having access to abundant information, whether varnished or unvarnished, does not in itself mean that people can make sense of the data.

Charles Dickens long ago satirised the 'facts and nothing but the facts' school of thought. In his novel Hard Times ,( 1 ) he invented the hard-nosed businessman, Thomas Gradgrind, who believes that knowledge is sub-divided into nuggets of information. Children should then be given 'Facts' and taught to avoid 'Fancy' – or any form of independent thought and imagination. In the Dickens novel, the Gradgrindian system comes to grief, and so it does in real life, if attempts are ever made to found education upon this theory.

People need mental frameworks that are primed to understand and to assess the available data and – as often happens – to challenge and update both the frameworks and the details too. So the task of educationalists is to help their students to develop adaptable and critical minds, as well as to gain specific expertise in specific subjects.

Returning to the case of someone first trying to understand 20th-century world history, the notional list of key dates and facts would need to be framed by reading (say) Eric Hobsbawm's Age of Extremes: the Short Twentieth Century ( 2 ) or, better still, by contrasting this study with (say) Mark Mazower's Dark Continent ( 3 ) or Bernard Wasserstein's Barbarism and Civilization ( 4 ) on 20th-century Europe, and/or Alexander Woodside's Lost Modernities: China, Vietnam, Korea and the Hazards of World History ( 5 ) or Ramachandra Guha's India after Gandhi: the History of the World's Largest Democracy ( 6 ) – to name but a few recent overview studies.

Or, better again, students can examine critically the views and sources that underpin these historians' big arguments, as well as debate all of this material (facts and ideas) with others. Above all, History students expect to study for themselves some of the original sources from the past; and, for their own independent projects, they are asked to find new sources and new arguments or to think of new ways of re-evaluating known sources to generate new arguments.

Such educational processes are a long, long way from memorising lists of facts. It follows therefore that History students' understanding of the subject cannot be properly assessed by asking single questions that require yes/no responses or by offering multiple-choice questions that have to be answered by ticking boxes. Such exercises are memory tests but not ways of evaluating an understanding of History.

Some arguments in favour of studying History also turn out, on close inspection, to be disappointingly weak. These do not need lengthy discussion but may be noted in passing.

For example, some people semi-concede the critics' case by saying things like: 'Well, History is not obviously useful but its study provides a means of learning useful skills' . But that says absolutely nothing about the content of the subject. Of course, the ability to analyse a diverse array of often discrepant data, to provide a reasoned interpretation of the said data, and to give a reasoned critique of one's own and other people's interpretations are invaluable life- and work-skills. These are abilities that History as a field of study is particularly good at inculcating. Nevertheless, the possession of analytical and interpretative skills is not a quality that is exclusive to historians. The chief point about studying History is to study the subject for the invaluable in-depth analysis and the long-term perspective it confers upon the entire human experience – the component skills being an essential ingredient of the process but not the prime justification.

Meanwhile, another variant reply to 'What is the use of History?' is often given in the following form: 'History is not useful but it is still worthwhile as a humane subject of study' . That response says something but the first phrase is wrong and the conclusion is far too weak. It implies that understanding the past and the legacies of the past is an optional extra within the educational system, with cultural value for those who are interested but without any general relevance. Such reasoning was behind the recent and highly controversial decision in Britain to remove History from the required curriculum for schoolchildren aged 14–16.

Yet, viewing the subject as an optional extra, to add cultural gloss, seriously underrates the foundational role for human awareness that is derived from understanding the past and its legacies. Dropping History as a universal subject will only increase rootlessness among young people. The decision points entirely in the wrong direction. Instead, educationalists should be planning for more interesting and powerful ways of teaching the subject. Otherwise it risks becoming too fragmented, including too many miscellaneous skills sessions, thereby obscuring the big 'human story' and depriving children of a vital collective resource.

Much more can be said – not just in defence of History but in terms of its positive advocacy. The best response is the simplest, as noted right at the start of this conversation. When asked 'Why History?' the answer is that History is inescapable. Here it should be reiterated that the subject is being defined broadly. The word 'History' in English usage has many applications. It can refer to 'the past'; or 'the study of the past'; and/or sometimes 'the meaning(s) of the past'. In this discussion, History with a capital H means the academic field of study; and the subject of such study, the past, is huge. In practice, of course, people specialise. The past/present of the globe is studied by geographers and geologists; the biological past/present by biologists and zoologists; the astronomical past/present by astrophysicists; and so forth.

Among professional historians, the prime focus is upon the past/present of the human species, although there are some who are studying the history of climate and/or the environmental history of the globe. Indeed, the boundaries between the specialist academic subjects are never rigid. So from a historian's point of view, much of what is studied under the rubric of (for example) Anthropology or Politics or Sociology or Law can be regarded as specialist sub-sets of History, which takes as its remit the whole of the human experience, or any section of that experience.

Certainly, studying the past in depth while simultaneously reviewing the long-term past/present of the human species directs people's attention to the mixture of continuities and different forms of change in human history, including revolution as well as evolution. Legacies from the past are preserved but also adapted, as each generation transmits them to the following one. Sometimes, too, there are mighty upheavals, which also need to be navigated and comprehended. And there is loss. Not every tradition continues unbroken. But humans can and do learn also from information about vanished cultures – and from pathways that were not followed.

Understanding all this helps people to establish a secure footing or 'location' within the unfolding saga of time, which by definition includes both duration and change. The metaphor is not one of fixation, like dropping an anchor or trying to halt the flow of time. Instead, it is the ability to keep a firm footing within history's rollercoaster that is so important. Another way of putting it is to have secure roots that will allow for continuity but also for growth and change.

Nothing, indeed, can be more relevant to successful functioning in the here-and-now. The immediate moment, known as the synchronic, is always located within the long-term unfolding of time: the diachronic. And the converse is also true. The long term of history always contributes to the immediate moment. Hence my twin maxims, the synchronic is always in the diachronic . The present moment is always part of an unfolding long term, which needs to be understood. And vice versa. The diachronic is always in the synchronic: the long term, the past, always contributes to the immediate moment.

As living creatures, humans have an instinctive synchro-mesh , that gears people into the present moment. But, in addition to that, having a perspective upon longitudinal time, and history within that, is one of the strengths of the alert human consciousness. It may be defined as a parallel process of diachro-mesh , to coin a new term. On the strength of that experience, societies and individuals assess the long-term passage of events from past to present – and, in many cases, manage to measure time not just in terms of nanoseconds but also in terms of millennia. Humans are exceptional animals for their ability to think 'long' as well as 'immediate'; and those abilities need to be cultivated.

If educational systems do not provide a systematic grounding in the study of History, then people will glean some picture of the past and the role of themselves, their families, and their significant associations (which include everything from nations and religions to local clubs and neighbourhood networks) from a medley of other resources – from cultural traditions, from collective memories, from myths, rumours, songs, sagas, from political and religious teachings and customs, from their families, their friends, and from every form of human communication from gossip to the printing press and on to the web.

People do learn, in other words, from a miscellany of resources that are assimilated both consciously and unconsciously. But what is learned may be patchy or confused, leaving some feeling rootless; or it may be simplified and partisan, leaving others feeling embattled or embittered. A good educational system should help people to study History more formally, more systematically, more accurately, more critically and more longitudinally. By that means, people will have access to a great human resource, compiled over many generations, which is the collective set of studies of the past, and the human story within that.

Humans do not learn from the past, people sometimes say. An extraordinary remark! People certainly do not learn from the future. And the present is so fleeting that everything that is learned in the present has already passed into the past by the time it is consolidated. Of course humans learn from the past – and that is why it is studied. History is thus not just about things 'long ago and far away' – though it includes that – but it is about all that makes humanity human – up close and personal.

Interestingly, Henry Ford's dictum that 'History is bunk' now itself forms part of human history. It has remained in circulation for 90 years since it was first coined. And it exemplifies a certain no-nonsense approach of the stereotypical go-ahead businessman, unwilling to be hide-bound by old ways. But Ford himself repented. He faced much derision for his apparent endorsement of know-nothingism. 'I did not say it [History] was bunk', he elaborated: 'It was bunk to me '. Some business leaders may perhaps affect contempt for what has gone before, but the wisest among them look to the past, to understand the foundations, as well as to the future, in order to build. Indeed, all leaders should reflect that arbitrary changes, imposed willy-nilly without any understanding of the historical context, generally fail. There are plenty of recent examples as well as long-ago case-histories to substantiate this observation. Politicians and generals in Iraq today – on all sides – should certainly take heed.

Model-T Ford 1908

After all, Ford's pioneering Model T motor-car did not arrive out of the blue in 1908. He had spent the previous 15 years testing a variety of horseless carriages. Furthermore, the Model T relied upon an advanced steel industry to supply the car's novel frame of light steel alloy, as well as the honed skills of the engineers who built the cars, and the savvy of the oil prospectors who refined petroleum for fuel, just as Ford's own novel design for electrical ignition drew upon the systematic study of electricity initiated in the 18th century, while the invention of the wheel was a human staple dating back some 5,000 years.

It took a lot of human history to create the automobile.

Ford Mustang 2007

And the process by no means halted with Henry Ford I. So the next invention that followed upon his innovations provided synchro-mesh gearing for these new motorised vehicles – and that change itself occurred within the diachro-mesh process of shared adaptations, major and minor, that were being developed, sustained, transmitted and revolutionised through time.

Later in life, Henry Ford himself became a keen collector of early American antique furniture, as well as of classic automobiles. In this way, he paid tribute both to his cultural ancestry and to the cumulative as well as revolutionary transformations in human transportation to which he had so notably contributed.

Moreover, for the Ford automobile company, there was a further twist in the tale. In his old age, the once-radical Henry Ford I turned into an out-of-touch despot. He failed to adapt with the changing industry and left his pioneering business almost bankrupt, to be saved only by new measures introduced by his grandson Henry Ford II. Time and history had the last laugh – outlasting even fast cars and scoffers at History.

Because humans are rooted in time, people do by one means or another pick up ideas about the past and its linkages with the present, even if these ideas are sketchy or uninformed or outright mythological. But it is best to gain access to the ideas and evidence of History as an integral part of normal education.

The broad span of human experience, viewed both in depth and longitudinally over time, is the subject of History as a field of study.

Therefore the true question is not: 'What is the use or relevance of History?' but rather: 'Given that all people are living histories, how can we all best learn about the long-unfolding human story in which all participate?'

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Suggested further reading

H. Carr, What is History? (rev. edn., Basingstoke, 1986).

Drolet, The Postmodern Reader: Foundational Texts (London, 2003).

J. Evans, In Defence of History (London, 1997).

Gunn, History and Cultural Theory (Harlow, 2006).

Jenkins, Re-thinking History (London, 1991)

Jordanova, History in Practice (London, 2000).

The Routledge Companion to Historical Studies , ed. A. Munslow (London, 1999).

P. Thompson, The Poverty of Theory (London, 1978).

Tosh, The Pursuit of History: Aims, Methods and New Directions in the Study of Modern History (many edns., London, 1984–).

Penelope J. Corfield is professor of history at Royal Holloway, University of London. If quoting, please kindly acknowledge copyright: © Penelope J. Corfield 2008

The Institute of Historical Research © 2008

How to Write a History Essay with Outline, Tips, Examples and More

Samuel Gorbold

Before we get into how to write a history essay, let's first understand what makes one good. Different people might have different ideas, but there are some basic rules that can help you do well in your studies. In this guide, we won't get into any fancy theories. Instead, we'll give you straightforward tips to help you with historical writing. So, if you're ready to sharpen your writing skills, let our history essay writing service explore how to craft an exceptional paper.

What is a History Essay?

A history essay is an academic assignment where we explore and analyze historical events from the past. We dig into historical stories, figures, and ideas to understand their importance and how they've shaped our world today. History essay writing involves researching, thinking critically, and presenting arguments based on evidence.

Moreover, history papers foster the development of writing proficiency and the ability to communicate complex ideas effectively. They also encourage students to engage with primary and secondary sources, enhancing their research skills and deepening their understanding of historical methodology. Students can benefit from utilizing essay writers services when faced with challenging assignments. These services provide expert assistance and guidance, ensuring that your history papers meet academic standards and accurately reflect your understanding of the subject matter.

History Essay Outline

The outline is there to guide you in organizing your thoughts and arguments in your essay about history. With a clear outline, you can explore and explain historical events better. Here's how to make one:

Introduction

• Hook: Start with an attention-grabbing opening sentence or anecdote related to your topic.
• Background Information: Provide context on the historical period, event, or theme you'll be discussing.
• Thesis Statement: Present your main argument or viewpoint, outlining the scope and purpose of your history essay.

Body paragraph 1: Introduction to the Historical Context

• Provide background information on the historical context of your topic.
• Highlight key events, figures, or developments leading up to the main focus of your history essay.

Body paragraphs 2-4 (or more): Main Arguments and Supporting Evidence

• Each paragraph should focus on a specific argument or aspect of your thesis.
• Present evidence from primary and secondary sources to support each argument.
• Analyze the significance of the evidence and its relevance to your history paper thesis.

Counterarguments (optional)

• Address potential counterarguments or alternative perspectives on your topic.
• Refute opposing viewpoints with evidence and logical reasoning.
• Summary of Main Points: Recap the main arguments presented in the body paragraphs.
• Restate Thesis: Reinforce your thesis statement, emphasizing its significance in light of the evidence presented.
• Reflection: Reflect on the broader implications of your arguments for understanding history.
• Closing Thought: End your history paper with a thought-provoking statement that leaves a lasting impression on the reader.

References/bibliography

• List all sources used in your research, formatted according to the citation style required by your instructor (e.g., MLA, APA, Chicago).
• Include both primary and secondary sources, arranged alphabetically by the author's last name.

Notes (if applicable)

• Include footnotes or endnotes to provide additional explanations, citations, or commentary on specific points within your history essay.

History Essay Format

Adhering to a specific format is crucial for clarity, coherence, and academic integrity. Here are the key components of a typical history essay format:

Font and Size

• Use a legible font such as Times New Roman, Arial, or Calibri.
• The recommended font size is usually 12 points. However, check your instructor's guidelines, as they may specify a different size.
• Set 1-inch margins on all sides of the page.
• Double-space the entire essay, including the title, headings, body paragraphs, and references.
• Avoid extra spacing between paragraphs unless specified otherwise.
• Align text to the left margin; avoid justifying the text or using a centered alignment.

Title Page (if required):

• If your instructor requires a title page, include the essay title, your name, the course title, the instructor's name, and the date.
• Center-align this information vertically and horizontally on the page.
• Include a header on each page (excluding the title page if applicable) with your last name and the page number, flush right.
• Some instructors may require a shortened title in the header, usually in all capital letters.
• Center-align the essay title at the top of the first page (if a title page is not required).
• Use standard capitalization (capitalize the first letter of each major word).
• Avoid underlining, italicizing, or bolding the title unless necessary for emphasis.

Paragraph Indentation:

• Indent the first line of each paragraph by 0.5 inches or use the tab key.
• Do not insert extra spaces between paragraphs unless instructed otherwise.

Citations and References:

• Follow the citation style specified by your instructor (e.g., MLA, APA, Chicago).
• Include in-text citations whenever you use information or ideas from external sources.
• Provide a bibliography or list of references at the end of your history essay, formatted according to the citation style guidelines.
• Typically, history essays range from 1000 to 2500 words, but this can vary depending on the assignment.

How to Write a History Essay?

Historical writing can be an exciting journey through time, but it requires careful planning and organization. In this section, we'll break down the process into simple steps to help you craft a compelling and well-structured history paper.

Analyze the Question

Before diving headfirst into writing, take a moment to dissect the essay question. Read it carefully, and then read it again. You want to get to the core of what it's asking. Look out for keywords that indicate what aspects of the topic you need to focus on. If you're unsure about anything, don't hesitate to ask your instructor for clarification. Remember, understanding how to start a history essay is half the battle won!

Now, let's break this step down:

• Read the question carefully and identify keywords or phrases.
• Consider what the question is asking you to do – are you being asked to analyze, compare, contrast, or evaluate?
• Pay attention to any specific instructions or requirements provided in the question.
• Take note of the time period or historical events mentioned in the question – this will give you a clue about the scope of your history essay.

Develop a Strategy

With a clear understanding of the essay question, it's time to map out your approach. Here's how to develop your historical writing strategy:

• Brainstorm ideas : Take a moment to jot down any initial thoughts or ideas that come to mind in response to the history paper question. This can help you generate a list of potential arguments, themes, or points you want to explore in your history essay.
• Create an outline : Once you have a list of ideas, organize them into a logical structure. Start with a clear introduction that introduces your topic and presents your thesis statement – the main argument or point you'll be making in your history essay. Then, outline the key points or arguments you'll be discussing in each paragraph of the body, making sure they relate back to your thesis. Finally, plan a conclusion that summarizes your main points and reinforces your history paper thesis.
• Research : Before diving into writing, gather evidence to support your arguments. Use reputable sources such as books, academic journals, and primary documents to gather historical evidence and examples. Take notes as you research, making sure to record the source of each piece of information for proper citation later on.
• Consider counterarguments : Anticipate potential counterarguments to your history paper thesis and think about how you'll address them in your essay. Acknowledging opposing viewpoints and refuting them strengthens your argument and demonstrates critical thinking.
• Set realistic goals : Be realistic about the scope of your history essay and the time you have available to complete it. Break down your writing process into manageable tasks, such as researching, drafting, and revising, and set deadlines for each stage to stay on track.

Start Your Research

Now that you've grasped the history essay topic and outlined your approach, it's time to dive into research. Here's how to start:

• Ask questions : What do you need to know? What are the key points to explore further? Write down your inquiries to guide your research.
• Explore diverse sources : Look beyond textbooks. Check academic journals, reliable websites, and primary sources like documents or artifacts.
• Consider perspectives : Think about different viewpoints on your topic. How have historians analyzed it? Are there controversies or differing interpretations?
• Take organized notes : Summarize key points, jot down quotes, and record your thoughts and questions. Stay organized using spreadsheets or note-taking apps.
• Evaluate sources : Consider the credibility and bias of each source. Are they peer-reviewed? Do they represent a particular viewpoint?

Establish a Viewpoint

By establishing a clear viewpoint and supporting arguments, you'll lay the foundation for your compelling historical writing:

• Review your research : Reflect on the information gathered. What patterns or themes emerge? Which perspectives resonate with you?
• Formulate a thesis statement : Based on your research, develop a clear and concise thesis that states your argument or interpretation of the topic.
• Consider counterarguments : Anticipate objections to your history paper thesis. Are there alternative viewpoints or evidence that you need to address?
• Craft supporting arguments : Outline the main points that support your thesis. Use evidence from your research to strengthen your arguments.
• Stay flexible : Be open to adjusting your viewpoint as you continue writing and researching. New information may challenge or refine your initial ideas.

Structure Your Essay

Now that you've delved into the depths of researching historical events and established your viewpoint, it's time to craft the skeleton of your essay: its structure. Think of your history essay outline as constructing a sturdy bridge between your ideas and your reader's understanding. How will you lead them from point A to point Z? Will you follow a chronological path through history or perhaps dissect themes that span across time periods?

And don't forget about the importance of your introduction and conclusion—are they framing your narrative effectively, enticing your audience to read your paper, and leaving them with lingering thoughts long after they've turned the final page? So, as you lay the bricks of your history essay's architecture, ask yourself: How can I best lead my audience through the maze of time and thought, leaving them enlightened and enriched on the other side?

Create an Engaging Introduction

Creating an engaging introduction is crucial for capturing your reader's interest right from the start. But how do you do it? Think about what makes your topic fascinating. Is there a surprising fact or a compelling story you can share? Maybe you could ask a thought-provoking question that gets people thinking. Consider why your topic matters—what lessons can we learn from history?

Also, remember to explain what your history essay will be about and why it's worth reading. What will grab your reader's attention and make them want to learn more? How can you make your essay relevant and intriguing right from the beginning?

Develop Coherent Paragraphs

Once you've established your introduction, the next step is to develop coherent paragraphs that effectively communicate your ideas. Each paragraph should focus on one main point or argument, supported by evidence or examples from your research. Start by introducing the main idea in a topic sentence, then provide supporting details or evidence to reinforce your point.

Make sure to use transition words and phrases to guide your reader smoothly from one idea to the next, creating a logical flow throughout your history essay. Additionally, consider the organization of your paragraphs—is there a clear progression of ideas that builds upon each other? Are your paragraphs unified around a central theme or argument?

Conclude Effectively

Concluding your history essay effectively is just as important as starting it off strong. In your conclusion, you want to wrap up your main points while leaving a lasting impression on your reader. Begin by summarizing the key points you've made throughout your history essay, reminding your reader of the main arguments and insights you've presented.

Then, consider the broader significance of your topic—what implications does it have for our understanding of history or for the world today? You might also want to reflect on any unanswered questions or areas for further exploration. Finally, end with a thought-provoking statement or a call to action that encourages your reader to continue thinking about the topic long after they've finished reading.

Reference Your Sources

Referencing your sources is essential for maintaining the integrity of your history essay and giving credit to the scholars and researchers who have contributed to your understanding of the topic. Depending on the citation style required (such as MLA, APA, or Chicago), you'll need to format your references accordingly. Start by compiling a list of all the sources you've consulted, including books, articles, websites, and any other materials used in your research.

Then, as you write your history essay, make sure to properly cite each source whenever you use information or ideas that are not your own. This includes direct quotations, paraphrases, and summaries. Remember to include all necessary information for each source, such as author names, publication dates, and page numbers, as required by your chosen citation style.

Review and Ask for Advice

As you near the completion of your history essay writing, it's crucial to take a step back and review your work with a critical eye. Reflect on the clarity and coherence of your arguments—are they logically organized and effectively supported by evidence? Consider the strength of your introduction and conclusion—do they effectively capture the reader's attention and leave a lasting impression? Take the time to carefully proofread your history essay for any grammatical errors or typos that may detract from your overall message.

Furthermore, seeking advice from peers, mentors, or instructors can provide valuable insights and help identify areas for improvement. Consider sharing your essay with someone whose feedback you trust and respect, and be open to constructive criticism. Ask specific questions about areas you're unsure about or where you feel your history essay may be lacking. If you need further assistance, don't hesitate to reach out and ask for help. You can even consider utilizing services that offer to write a discussion post for me , where you can engage in meaningful conversations with others about your essay topic and receive additional guidance and support.

History Essay Example

In this section, we offer an example of a history essay examining the impact of the Industrial Revolution on society. This essay demonstrates how historical analysis and critical thinking are applied in academic writing. By exploring this specific event, you can observe how historical evidence is used to build a cohesive argument and draw meaningful conclusions.

FAQs about History Essay Writing

How to write a history essay introduction, how to write a conclusion for a history essay, how to write a good history essay.

Samuel Gorbold , a seasoned professor with over 30 years of experience, guides students across disciplines such as English, psychology, political science, and many more. Together with EssayHub, he is dedicated to enhancing student understanding and success through comprehensive academic support.

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• Source Kind and Type

Primary and secondary sources explained

Historical sources are central to your study of the past and are important to your success in History assessment pieces.

Therefore, it is of the utmost importance that you learn what they are and in what forms they come.

What is a historical 'source'?

A source is something that provides information about the historical topic you are studying.

They can either be written (e.g., books or websites), or non-written (e.g., photographs or artefacts).

No matter what you're doing in History, you will use sources.

This could be simply learning information from a textbook or website, or actually looking at ancient artefacts made in the past.

Either way, they provide information about the past and are considered 'sources of information'.

The two kinds of sources

There are two kinds of sources: primary and secondary. 

The main difference between a primary and a secondary source is when they were made.

In order to determine whether a particular source is a primary or secondary source, you need to discover its time of creation .

Primary sources

Primary sources were made during the historical period that is being investigated. 

These are often the hardest to find but, as a result, are often the strongest evidence you can use in your assessment pieces .

There are many different types of primary sources:

Watch a video explanation on the History Skills YouTube channel:

Watch on YouTube

Secondary Sources

Secondary sources were made after the time period you are investigating.  As you progress as a History student, you will start to find that some secondary sources are better than others.

As a general rule, value secondary sources that are created by scholars, as they are usually more reliable .

However, whilst m odern scholars aim to produce reliable and unbiased historical accounts, read their writings with the same critical eye as you would primary source creators.

Like primary sources, secondary sources come in different  types : 

For example

Demonstrating source kind and type in your writing:

An ancient Greek sword is a primary source because it was made at the time of the event. 

A modern website is considered to be a secondary source since it was made after the time of the events it describes.

The Gallic Wars is a firsthand, written account of Julius Caesar’s invasion of Gaul.

In a series of letters written in 1914 to the Russian Tsar, German Kaiser Wilhelm II wrote that “the responsibility for the disaster which is now threatening the whole civilised world will not lie at my door” (1914, n.p.).

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Home » Public » People » History » What is the Difference Between History and Historiography

What is the Difference Between History and Historiography

The main difference between history and historiography is that when you study history, you study the events of the past, whereas when you study historiography, you study the changing interpretations of the past events in the works of individual historians.

History is the study of the past, especially relating to human affairs, whereas historiography is the study of the written history or the study of the writing of history.

Key Areas Covered

1.  What is History        – Definition, Features 2.  What is Historiography      – Definition, Features 3.  Difference Between History and Historiography      – Comparison of Key Differences

What is History

History is the study of the past, especially relating to human affairs. It shows us about the events and incidents that took place in the past. History covers all aspects of human life including, society, culture, politics, economy, intellect, religion, technology, medicine, military developments, science, etc.

The term history can denote the history of the human race , the origin of civilization or even the events related to the conception of a place or an institution.  Every place on rather everything on earth has a history. Moreover, it is history that helps us to determine how something came into being, how it evolved over the years, and what made it the object or concept it is today.

History is based on facts and evidence as well as  legends, myths . Although we do not consider myths and legends as true events or real records of history, we cannot discard them as utter lies. Certain customs , traditions, as well as information about the past way of life, can be gained by looking at them. Historians use elements like written records of the past, fossils, and artefacts to study history.

What is Historiography

Historiography is the study of the written history or the study of the writing of history. To be more specific, it studies how historians developed history as an academic discipline and analyze the historical work on a particular subject. When you study historiography, you are not studying the events of the past directly, but you are studying the changing interpretations of the past events in the works of individual historians.

The historiography of a particular subject encompasses how historians have studied that subject using certain sources, techniques, and theoretical approaches. For example, what are the sources, techniques, and approaches historians used to analyze the French Revolution? Moreover, we can trace the origins of the discipline of historiography to the 5th century BC to the Histories  of Herodotus, who is considered the founder of historiography.

Difference Between History and Historiography

When you study history, you study the events of the past, whereas when you study historiography, you study the changing interpretations of the past events in the works of individual historians. Moreover, historiography studies how history was written, who wrote it, and what influenced how it was written.

History is the study of the past, especially relating to human affairs, whereas historiography is the study of the written history or the study of the writing of history. In brief, the main difference between history and historiography is that when you study history, you study the events of the past, whereas when you study historiography, you study the changing interpretations of the past events in the works of individual historians.

1. “ Historiography .” Wikipedia, Wikimedia Foundation, 24 Aug. 2021. 2. “ History .” Wikipedia, Wikimedia Foundation, 17 Aug. 2021.

Image Courtesy:

1. “ Story-past-knowledge-books-board-4171794 ” (CC0) via Pixabay 2. “ Vintage style from old vehicles and cards ” (CC0) via Pxhere

About the Author: Hasa

Hasanthi is a seasoned content writer and editor with over 8 years of experience. Armed with a BA degree in English and a knack for digital marketing, she explores her passions for literature, history, culture, and food through her engaging and informative writing.

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Memory vs. History: On the Neverending Struggle to See Clearly Into the Past

Sarisha kurup tries to map the personal over the public.

In autumn of 1993, as River Phoenix convulsed on a Los Angeles sidewalk, his body riddled with cocaine and morphine, my father sat somewhere in San Francisco, only four years older than the child star who would forever be 23.

Bill Clinton had just become president and a van had exploded outside the World Trade Center, killing six and injuring over 1,000. Rodney King testified against the four LAPD officers that brutally beat him, sending two of them to prison. Rivers flooded the American Midwest all April; the IRS granted the Church of Scientology full tax exemption; and my father tucked himself away in the Silicon Valley, making computer chips for Cirrus Logic.

My mother tells me these details over a broken phone signal. She still lives in the Bay Area, where she moved in August of 1994, and met my father only a month later. Today I am in a hotel room in Amsterdam, and I can barely ask her any of my questions because we rarely talk about him directly. I find myself stuttering, the words dissolving on my tongue. The easiest way to ask these questions is in a steady, emotionless voice, like an automated message.

What he was doing that autumn, how he spent his free time, who he called on an empty evening, what time he fell asleep, if he slept much at all—it’s all a mystery. He never kept any journals. He rarely changed his wardrobe throughout his adult life, so I can imagine, at least, how he dressed. Light wash jeans, black or brown belt, the kind of polo shirts where the shoulders hang down to mid upper arm. The printed photos in our family albums are not dated, and there are few of my father before he met my mother. She was always the photographer.

Photos of River Phoenix in 1993 are plentiful and, now, strange. His hair is long, blonde—the kind of hair one looks at in hindsight and laughs—his smile is mischievous. He doesn’t look like he should be in the last year of life. And yet, the night before Halloween, outside a club in Los Angeles, his younger brother placed a shaky 911 call and by the time the paramedics had arrived, River Phoenix was in cardiac arrest.

When people die young, it is often said that they are frozen in time. That while all their peers age and turn soft and grey, they will forever exist in photos and our minds just as they did in their last days. But I think there are people like River Phoenix, people who are so famous whose names roll off everyone’s tongues, people who, when they die, freeze even the time around them. We don’t all understand time the way historians do, and even they cannot control all of what we remember. Memory is inexplicable and selective, and nostalgia is strong. As the past collapses and scatters into something messier, less linear, we collectively remember only the road markers, the people and the things that cut the deepest.

Nineteen ninety-three will always belong to River Phoenix: frozen the moment he lost consciousness on the filthy sidewalk of the Sunset Strip. My memories do not extend to 1993, and yet when I think of that year I think of Johnny Depp and his band singing inside The Viper Room as River Phoenix slips from life just steps away, without them knowing, out in the evening air.

They found JFK Jr.’s body 120 feet below the surface of the Atlantic in July of 1999, only a few months after I was born. My father lived with me and my mother in a rented house then. On the day that John Jr’s plane went down the house was crowded with relatives who stumbled over each other in the little space, cooing and clapping to get the attention of the new baby. My father had started his own company only two years earlier. I understood very little about technology growing up, and still can’t wrap my head around the way most machines work, so I could never explain much to people who asked what it was that my father did. But I could say he helmed a tech company that was called Vitalect. There are photos from this period in his life, and videos too. My mother was the videographer, and the moving images are shot from her perspective. When you watch them you can see the way she must have seen us—a thirty-three-year-old man and a six-month-old baby, both with the same dimple indented into our left cheeks.

When his plane hit the Atlantic, JFK Jr. died on impact. They didn’t find his body until three days later. At the site of the wreckage he was still buckled in, trapped in the pilot’s seat. His family scattered his ashes in the Atlantic. I always thought this was strange—giving him back to the very thing that took him.

We scattered my father’s ashes at the base of the orange tree in our backyard. He loved that tree. It was heavy with fruit each December without fail, and on early grey mornings you could find him there, reaching up among the branches.

I often think of 1999 as my year. The year I wrote down on every document and form. I asked my mother how my father had spent 1999, and she said—as if it were the most obvious thing in the world— Well, it was the year you were born!

But I am a historian now, and I know that 1999 was the year that Bill Clinton was acquitted; the year Bill Gates became the richest man in the world; the year of a total solar eclipse. And yet the last year of the century still belongs to JFK Jr., the boy who saluted his father’s casket on his third birthday. His father, the man who froze 1963.

Did the news of JFK Jr.’s death shake the foundations of the rented house on Teal Street? My mother can’t recall, but it had always been my father who was deeply political, and I can’t imagine it hadn’t crossed his mind once or twice. The Kennedy Curse! Was he being bred for office? Was there some sort of conspiracy? The whole world was asking questions, but my parents weren’t ones to read the tabloids. My mother’s journals don’t cover this; there are no answers to find.

In January of 2008, my mother was preparing to leave California to go overseas for a month to bury her father. My father was preparing for a month of lone-parenting, meanwhile in his apartment in SoHo, Heath Ledger was overdosing on prescription medication. His housekeeper and his masseuse found him unconscious in bed, and their first call was to Mary Kate Olsen (not the paramedics, not 911), who sent them the number of a private security guard. By the time medical professionals arrived on the scene, Heath Ledger was dead. An Associated Press poll reported that news of his death was voted the top entertainment story of 2008. Promotional material for The Dark Knight, which was to be released later that year, had to be scrapped and re-done. A career high suddenly turned into a career end.

My father, like any good Democrat, knew to list Brokeback Mountain as a favorite movie. I’m certain he must have considered Heath Ledger’s death. I was old enough by then to leave my mother’s side while she perused aisles in the grocery store and instead make my way to the shelf of magazines. That month, I’m sure, his face plastered every one. Retrospectives, investigations, timelines. I imagine it was as if everyone’s breath caught at once.

Two thousand and eight was a good year for our family. My father’s company was doing well, and so was my mother’s magazine. We went on our first and only family cruise that summer. This is the first family vacation I can actually remember. I can see my father in his orange swimming trunks, floating on his back in the chlorine-blue water. I imagine he must have been happy, though I can’t really say for sure.

I once asked my mother to tell me how they’d met, something beyond the bare-bones story of a college reunion picnic at a California park. Had he dated anyone else before her? You should have asked him, she said, refusing to budge. I don’t know why she locks away these stories.

In autumn of 2016, my father died halfway across the world while doing press for his new book. I hadn’t seen him in months. He’d been having heart problems and strokes for two years before he finally gave in, but my memory around his death is blurry, perhaps because I never knew the exact circumstances or because I don’t want to remember, some coping mechanism of my brain. I’m not sure, but it’s never felt fair to ask my mother to relive it. He was already sick, and I think he fell out of his bed, which shocked his heart or his brain or something. I was never much of a doctor.

There was nothing I could do as I watched my father slip away. He didn’t freeze 2016. Two thousand and sixteen kept going, and I was still in school, still writing papers, still applying to colleges: helplessly watching as he recessed into time. How beautiful and devastating, to let things become the past.

Eventually, some weeks after his death, I took my journal to a café and wrote down every memory I had of him, cataloguing and archiving all that I could. By the end of it, I finally cried for him, for the first time. It was then that the act of writing became so important that it was essential, the most concrete form of remembering, and even then, sometimes, it wasn’t enough. I can’t remember who I was before my father died, what I cared about, what I knew to be right and wrong. I can’t remember the specificities of our relationship; my own memory collapses into flashes of moments and images with no linear narrative. I write what I can, but memory is not as as simple as a story, or an essay, or the collection of home videos we have on VHS tapes.

Historian Timothy Snyder writes about the difference between memory and history. Finding them distinctly opposed, he writes that “memory exists in first person. If there isn’t a person, there isn’t a memory. Whereas history exists above all in second or third person.”

I can tell you so much about how River Phoenix died, about the investigations and lawsuits that ensued. I can tell you more about JFK Jr’s final morning than my father’s. I’ve read Heath Ledger’s autopsy report, but I don’t know if my father even had one. (Do they do that for people who can’t or don’t freeze time?) I can tell you what each one of these men was wearing when he died. I cannot say the same about my father. With men like River, John Jr, and Heath, history and memory converge. To be so famous and vivid is to be memory and fact at once. Indisputable. Immutable.

Two thousand and sixteen probably belongs to people like that, to David Bowie, or Prince, or someone whose face people will never forget and will never be allowed to forget. When my mother is gone, much of my father will go with her. She knew him for 21 years of his life—nearly half of it. I knew him for 17, but my memories are already faint and fallible, and I recall less of the years before he got sick with every passing day. My children will never know him.

Since he died it has been my mission to turn memory into history. I photograph, I paint, I journal, and most importantly, I write. Everything must be archived; I do it for some undetermined future reader, researcher, historian. I am equally enchanted and repelled by the passage of time. Nothing can render something beautiful like the past, and yet, I know intimately the pain that can come of the march forward. Not everyone can freeze time; some are simply swept away.

Perhaps all the writing, all the archiving, is only delaying the inevitable. Sometimes I have to remind myself that my father is not a historical figure; he is not a 90s heartthrob, or the son of a president, or an adored, tragic actor. No one is languishing over the fact that he never kept a journal, or that he didn’t take many photographs, or that I can no longer recall the exact contours of his face from memory. And yet I can’t stop writing his history.

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Sarisha Kurup

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Philosophy of History

The concept of history plays a fundamental role in human thought. It invokes notions of human agency, change, the role of material circumstances in human affairs, and the putative meaning of historical events. It raises the possibility of “learning from history.” And it suggests the possibility of better understanding ourselves in the present, by understanding the forces, choices, and circumstances that brought us to our current situation. It is therefore unsurprising that philosophers have sometimes turned their attention to efforts to examine history itself and the nature of historical knowledge. These reflections can be grouped together into a body of work called “philosophy of history.” This work is heterogeneous, comprising analyses and arguments of idealists, positivists, logicians, theologians, and others, and moving back and forth over the divides between European and Anglo-American philosophy, and between hermeneutics and positivism.

Given the plurality of voices within the “philosophy of history,” it is impossible to give one definition of the field that suits all these approaches. In fact, it is misleading to imagine that we refer to a single philosophical tradition when we invoke the phrase, “philosophy of history,” because the strands of research characterized here rarely engage in dialogue with each other. Still, we can usefully think of philosophers’ writings about history as clustering around several large questions, involving metaphysics, hermeneutics, epistemology, and ethics: (1) What does history consist of—individual actions, social structures, periods and regions, civilizations, large causal processes, divine intervention? (2) Does history as a whole have meaning, structure, or direction, beyond the individual events and actions that make it up? (3) What is involved in our knowing, representing, and explaining history? (4) To what extent do facts about human history create moral responsibilities for the present generation?

1.1 Actors, structures, and causes in history

1.2 selectivity and scale in history, 1.3 memory, history, and narrative, 2.1 universal or historical human nature, 2.2 does history possess directionality, 2.3 hegel’s philosophy of history, 2.4 hermeneutic approaches to history.

• 2.5 Conceptual philosophy of history

3.1 General laws in history?

3.2 historical objectivity, 3.3 causation in history, 3.4 recent topics in the philosophy of history, 4. historiography and the philosophy of history, 5. historical understanding and the twentieth century, 6. ethics, history, and memory, other internet resources, related entries, 1. history and its representation.

What are the intellectual tasks that define the historian’s work? In a sense, this question is best answered on the basis of a careful reading of some good historians. But it will be useful to offer several simple answers to this foundational question as a sort of conceptual map of the nature of historical knowing.

First, historians are interested in providing conceptualizations and factual descriptions of events and circumstances in the past. This effort is an answer to questions like these: “What happened? What was it like? What were some of the circumstances and happenings that took place during this period in the past?” Sometimes this means simply reconstructing a complicated story from scattered historical sources—for example, in constructing a narrative of the Spanish Civil War or attempting to sort out the series of events that culminated in the Detroit race riot / uprising of 1967. But sometimes it means engaging in substantial conceptual work in order to arrive at a vocabulary in terms of which to characterize “what happened.” Concerning the disorders of 1967 in Detroit: was this a riot or an uprising? How did participants and contemporaries think about it?

Second, historians often want to answer “why” questions: “Why did this event occur? What were the conditions and forces that brought it about?” What were the motivations of the participants? This body of questions invites the historian to provide an explanation of the event or pattern he or she describes: the rise of fascism in Spain, the collapse of the Ottoman Empire, the occurrence of ethnic cleansing in Bosnia in 1992 and later. And providing an explanation requires, most basically, an account of the causal mechanisms, background circumstances, and human choices that brought the outcome about. We explain an historical outcome when we identify the social causes, forces, events, and actions that brought it about, or made it more likely.

Third, and related to the previous point, historians are sometimes interested in answering a “how” question: “How did this outcome come to pass? What were the processes through which the outcome occurred?” How did the Prussian Army succeed in defeating the superior French Army in 1870? How did the Polish trade union Solidarity manage to bring about the end of Communist rule in Poland in 1989? Here the pragmatic interest of the historian’s account derives from the antecedent unlikelihood of the event in question: how was this outcome possible? This too is an explanation; but it is an answer to a “how possible” question rather than a “why necessary” question.

Fourth, often historians are interested in piecing together the human meanings and intentions that underlie a given complex series of historical actions. They want to help the reader make sense of the historical events and actions, in terms of the thoughts, motives, and states of mind of the participants. For example: Why did Napoleon III carelessly provoke Prussia into war in 1870? Why did the parties of the far right in Germany gain popular support among German citizens in the 1990s? Why did northern cities in the United States develop such marked patterns of racial segregation after World War II? Answers to questions like these require interpretation of actions, meanings, and intentions—of individual actors and of cultures that characterize whole populations. This aspect of historical thinking is “hermeneutic,” interpretive, and ethnographic.

And, of course, the historian faces an even more basic intellectual task: that of discovering and making sense of the archival and historical information that exists about a given event or time in the past. Historical data do not speak for themselves; archives are incomplete, ambiguous, contradictory, and confusing. The historian needs to interpret individual pieces of evidence, and he or she needs to be able to somehow fit the mass of evidence into a coherent and truthful story. Complex events like the Spanish Civil War present the historian with an ocean of historical traces in repositories and archives all over the world; these collections sometimes reflect specific efforts at concealment by the powerful (for example, Franco’s efforts to conceal all evidence of mass killings of Republicans after the end of fighting); and the historian’s task is to find ways of using this body of evidence to discern some of the truth about the past.

In short, historians conceptualize, describe, contextualize, explain, and interpret events and circumstances of the past. They sketch out ways of representing the complex activities and events of the past; they explain and interpret significant outcomes; and they base their findings on evidence in the present that bears upon facts about the past. Their accounts need to be grounded on the evidence of the available historical record, and their explanations and interpretations require that the historian arrive at hypotheses about social causes and cultural meanings. Historians can turn to the best available theories in the social and behavioral sciences to arrive at theories about causal mechanisms and human behavior; so historical statements depend ultimately upon factual inquiry and theoretical reasoning. Ultimately, the historian’s task is to shed light on the what, why, and how of the past, based on inferences from the evidence of the present.

Three preliminary issues are relevant to almost all discussions of history and the philosophy of history. The first is a set of issues having to do with the "ontology" of history, the kinds of entities, processes, and events that make up the historical past. This topic concerns the entities, forces, and structures that we postulate in describing the historical phenomena, whether the medieval manor or the Weimar Republic, and the theory we have of how these social entities depend upon the actions of the historical actors who embody them. The second issue has to do with the problems of selectivity unavoidable for the historian of any period or epoch. Here we take up the question of how the unavoidable selectivity of historical inquiry in terms of theme, location, scope, and scale influences the nature of historical knowledge. The third issue has to do with the complicated relationship that exists between history, narrative, and collective memory. This topic addresses the point that real human beings make history. And, as Marc Bloch insists (1953), we humans are historical beings, we tell stories about ourselves, and those stories sometimes themselves have major historical consequences. The collective memories and identities of Serb nationalism were a historical fact in the 1990s, and these elements of mythic collective identity led to massive bloodshed, ethnic cleansing, and murder during the violent breakup of Yugoslavia (Judt and Snyder, 2012; Judt, 2006).

An important problem for the philosophy of history is how to conceptualize “history” happenings. What are the "objects" of which history consists? Are there social structures or systems that play a role in history? Are there causes at work in the historical process? Or is history simply an concatenation of the actions and mental frameworks of myriad individuals, high and low? If both structures and actors are crucial to understanding history, what is the relationship between them?

Marc Bloch (1953) provided a very simple and penetrating definition of history. History is "man in time". By this he meant that history is the product of human action, creativity, invention, conflict, and interaction. Bloch was skeptical about many other categories commonly used to analyze history—periods, epochs, civilizations, reigns, and centuries. Instead, he advocated for what can be called an "actor-centered" conception of history. If there are structures and systems in history, they depend upon the beliefs, attitudes, and actions of individual actors. If there are causes in history, they likewise depend upon the actions and interactions of human actors within a setting of humanly created institutions and norms. The task of the historian is to reconstruct the meanings, beliefs, values, purposes, constraints, and actions that jointly explain the moments of history, from the meaning of an ancient stele to the causes of the rapid defeat of France in 1940.

This perspective does not diminish the ontological importance of structures, systems, and ideologies in history. It simply forces the historian, like the social scientist, to be attentive to the problem of articulating the relationship that exists between actors and structures. A system of norms, a property system, and a moral ideology of feudal loyalty can all be understood as being both objectively present at a time and place, and being ontologically dependent upon the mental frameworks, actions, and relationships of the individual actors who make up these systems. This problem has been thoroughly discussed in the philosophy of social science under the rubric of "ontological individualism" (Zahle and Collin, 2014). Higher-level social entities are indeed causally powerful in the social world; and they depend entirely for their causal powers on the characteristics of the individual actors who constitute them. This is the requirement of microfoundations: extended social structures and causes depend upon microfoundations at the level of the individuals who constitute them (Little 2017). In particular, we need to have some idea about how individuals have been brought to think and act in the ways required by the structures and ideologies in which they function as adults. On this approach, history is the result of the actions and thoughts of vast numbers of actors, and institutions, structures, and norms are likewise embodied in the actions and mental frameworks of historically situated individuals. Such an approach helps to inoculate us against the error of reification of historical structures, periods, or forces, in favor of a more disaggregated conception of multiple actors and shifting conditions of action. This is the conception to which we are drawn when we understand history along the lines proposed by Bloch.

This orientation brings along with it the importance of analyzing closely the social and natural environment in which actors frame their choices. A historian’s account of the flow of human action eventuating in historical change unavoidably needs to take into account the institutional and situational environment in which these actions take place. Part of the social environment of a period of historical change is the ensemble of institutions that exist more or less stably in the period: property relations, political institutions, family structures, educational practices, religious and moral values. So historical explanations need to be sophisticated in their treatment of institutions, cultures, and practices. It is an important fact that a given period in time possesses a fund of scientific and technical knowledge, a set of social relationships of power, and a level of material productivity. It is also an important fact that knowledge is limited; that coercion exists; and that resources for action are limited. Within these opportunities and limitations, individuals, from leaders to ordinary people, make out their lives and ambitions through action.

Similar microfoundational accounts must be given in support of the idea of "causes in history". Once established, it is reasonably straightforward to see how a social structure such as a property system or an ideology "causes" a historical outcome: by constraining the choices of actors and contributing to their motivations and values in the choices they make, a structure or an ideology influences historically important events like social movements, market crashes, or outbreaks of ethnic violence. Structures influence individual actors, and individual actors collectively constitute structures. This approach gives a basis for judging that such-and-so circumstance “caused” a given historical change; but it also provides an understanding of the way in which this kind of historical cause is embodied and conveyed—through the actions and thoughts of individuals in response to given natural and social circumstances.

Are there large scale causes at work in historical processes? Historians often pose questions like these: “What were some of the causes of the fall of Rome?”, “what were the causes of the rise of fascism?”, or “what were the causes of the Industrial Revolution?”. These kinds of questions presuppose that there were grand causes at work that had grand effects. However, it is more plausible to believe that the causes of some very large and significant historical events are themselves small, granular, gradual, and cumulative. If this is the case, then there is no satisfyingly simple and high-level answer to the question, why did Rome fall? Moreover, astute historians like Bloch and his contemporaries recognized that there is a very large amount of contingency and path dependency in historical change (Pierson, 2004). Historical outcomes are not determined by a few large scale causes; instead, multiple local, contingent, and conjunctural processes and happening jointly come together in the production of the outcome of interest. It is possible, for example, that the collapse of the Roman Empire resulted from a myriad of very different contingencies and organizational features in different parts of the empire. A contingent account of the fall of Rome might refer to logistical difficulties in supplying armies in the German winter, particularly stubborn local resistance in Palestine, administrative decay in Roman Britain, population pressure in Egypt, and a particularly inept series of commanders in Gaul. Without drama, administrative and military collapse ensues. The best we can do sometimes is to identify a swarm of independent, small-scale processes and contingencies that eventually produced the large outcome of interest.

This approach might be called "actor-centered history": we explain a historical moment or event when we have an account of what people thought and believed; what they wanted; and what social, institutional, and environmental conditions framed their choices. It is a view of history that gives close attention to states of knowledge, ideology, and agency, as well as institutions, organizations, and structures, and examines the actions and practices of individuals as they lived their lives within these constraining and enabling circumstances. Further, it emphasizes the contingency and path-dependency of history, and it acknowledges the fact of heterogeneity of institutions, beliefs, and actions across time and place.

Historical research unavoidably requires selectivity in deciding what particular phenomena to emphasize. As Max Weber (1949) notes, there is an infinite depth to historical reality, and therefore it is necessary to select a finite representation of the object of study if we want to approach a problem rigorously. Let us imagine, for example, that a historian is interested in cities and their development over time. This might be pursued as an economic question, a question of regional geography, a question about cultural change, a question about poverty and segregation, a question about municipal governance, or a question about civil disturbances, and so one, for indefinitely many aspects of urban life. One generation of historians may be especially interested in cultural topics, while another generation is preoccupied with the organization of the economy at various points in history. The two orientations lead to very different historical representations of the past. Both inquiries lead to true depictions of the cities in question, but their findings and interpretations are very different. Likewise, the historian needs to make choices about location; is he or she interested in the cities of Britain, the cities of Europe, or all cities in the world? Further, the historian must consider whether to conduct a comparative history of cities, examining similarities and differences in the development of Paris and London; or instead restrict attention to a single case. Simply collecting “historical facts” about cities in the past is not a valid mode of historical inquiry. The question of how historians select and identify their subjects for research is an important one for the philosophy of history, and it has great significance for how we think about “knowing the past”.

Weber’s essays on methodology (1949) provide insight about these questions. Weber emphasizes the role that the scholar’s values play in his or her selection of a subject matter and a conceptual framework. So it is always open to historians of later generations to reevaluate prior interpretations of various aspects and periods of history. There is no general or comprehensive approach to defining the historical; there is only the possibility of a series of selective and value-guided approaches to defining specific aspects of history. We are always at liberty to bring forward new perspectives and new aspects of the problem, and to arrive at new insights about how the phenomena hang together when characterized in these new ways. This inherent selectivity of historical knowledge does not undermine the objectivity or veridicality of our knowledge; it merely entails that – like mathematics – history is inherently incomplete.

Doing history also forces the historian to make choices about the scale of the history with which he or she is concerned. Suppose we are interested in Asian history. Are we concerned with Asia as a continent, including China, India, Cambodia, and Japan, or the whole of China during the Ming Dynasty, or Hubei Province? Or if we define our interest in terms of a single important historical event like the Chinese Revolution, are we concerned with the whole of the Chinese Revolution, the base area of Yenan, or the specific experience of a handful of villages in Shandong during the 1940s? Given the fundamental heterogeneity of social life, the choice of scale makes an important difference to the findings.

Historians differ greatly around the decisions they make about scale. It is possible to treat any historical subject at the micro-scale. William Hinton provides what is almost a month-to-month description of the Chinese Revolution in Fanshen village—a collection of a few hundred families (Hinton 1966). Likewise, Emmanuel Le Roy Ladurie offers a deep treatment of the villagers of Montaillou; once again, a single village and a limited time (Le Roy Ladurie 1979). William Cronon provides a focused and detailed account of the development of Chicago as a metropolis for the middle of the United States (Cronon 1991). These histories are limited in time and space, and they can appropriately be called “micro-history.”

Macro-level history is possible as well. William McNeill provides a history of the world’s diseases (McNeill 1976); Massimo Livi-Bacci offers a history of the world’s population (Livi-Bacci 2007); and De Vries and Goudsblom provide an environmental history of the world (De Vries and Goudsblom 2002). In each of these cases, the historian has chosen a scale that encompasses virtually the whole of the globe, over millennia of time. These histories can certainly be called “macro-history.”

Both micro- and macro-histories have important shortcomings. Micro-history leaves us with the question, “how does this particular village shed light on anything larger?”. Macro-history leaves us with the question, “how do these large assertions about the nature of revolution or the importance of class conflict in mobilization apply in the context of Canada or Warsaw?”. The first threatens to be so particular as to lose all interest, whereas the second threatens to be so general as to lose all empirical relevance to real historical processes.

There is a third choice available to the historian that addresses both points. This is to choose a scale that encompasses enough time and space to be genuinely interesting and important, but not so much as to defy valid analysis. This level of scale might be regional—for example, G. William Skinner’s analysis of the macro-regions of China (Skinner 1977). It might be national—for example, a social and political history of Indonesia. And it might be supra-national—for example, an economic history of Western Europe or comparative treatment of Eurasian history. The key point is that historians in this middle range are free to choose the scale of analysis that seems to permit the best level of conceptualization of history, given the evidence that is available and the social processes that appear to be at work. And this mid-level scale permits the historian to make substantive judgments about the “reach” of social processes that are likely to play a causal role in the story that needs telling. This level of analysis can be referred to as “meso-history,” and it appears to offer an ideal mix of specificity and generality.

What is the relation between history, memory, and narrative? We might put these concepts into a crude map by saying that "history" is an organized and evidence-based presentation of of the processes, actions, and events that have occurred for a people over an extended period of time; "memory" is the personal recollections and representations of individuals who lived through a series of events and processes; and "narratives" are the stories that ordinary people and historians weave together to make sense of the events and happenings through which a people and a person have lived. Collective memory, the idea that groups such as Welsh miners, Serbian villagers, or black Alabama farmers possess a collective representation of the past that binds them together, can be understood as a shared set of narratives and stories about the past events of the given group or community. We use narratives to make sense of things that have happened; to identify meanings and causes within this series of events; and to select the "important" events and processes out from the ordinary and inconsequential.

What is a narrative? Most generally, it is an account of how and why a situation or event came to be. A narrative is intended to provide an account of how a complex historical event unfolded and why. We want to understand the event in time. What were the contextual features that were relevant to the outcome—the conditions at one or more points in time that played a role? What were the actions and choices that agents performed, and why did they take these actions rather than other possible choices? What causal processes—either social or natural—may have played a role in influencing the outcome? So a narrative seeks to provide hermeneutic understanding of the outcome—why did actors behave as they did in bringing about the outcome?—and causal explanation —what social and natural processes were acting behind the backs of the actors in bringing about the outcome? And different narratives represent different mixes of hermeneutic and causal factors. A crucial and unavoidable feature of narrative history is the fact of selectivity. The narrative historian is forced to make choices and selections at every stage: between "significant" and "insignificant", between "sideshow" and "main event", and between levels of description.

It is evident that there are often multiple truthful, unbiased, and inconsistent narratives that can be told for a single complex event. Exactly because many things happened at once, actors’ motives were ambiguous, and the causal connections among events are debatable, it is possible to construct inconsistent narratives that are equally well supported by the evidence. Further, the intellectual interest that different historians bring to the happening can lead to differences in the narrative. One historian may be primarily interested in the role that different views of social justice played in the actions of the participants; another may be primarily interested in the role that social networks played; and a third may be especially interested in the role of charismatic personalities, with a consequent structuring to the narrative around the actions and speeches of the charismatic leader. Each of these may be truthful, objective, and unbiased—and inconsistent in important ways with the others. So narratives are underdetermined by the facts, and there is no such thing as an exhaustive and comprehensive telling of the story—only various tellings that emphasize one set of themes or another.

When we consider collective memory and social identity, we are also forced to recognize that powerful institutions attempt to shape the narrative of important events in ways that serve political interests. A group identity can be defined as a set of beliefs and stories about one’s home, one’s people, and one’s past. These ideas often involve answers to questions like these: Where did we come from? How did we get here? And perhaps, who are my enemies? So an identity involves a narrative, a creation story, or perhaps a remembrance of a long chain of disasters and crimes. Identity and collective memory are intertwined; monuments, songs, icons, and flags help to set the way points in the history of a people and the collective emotions that this group experiences. They have to do with the stories we tell each other about who we are; how our histories brought us to this place; and what large events shaped us as a "people". Governments, leaders, activists, and political parties all have an interest in shaping collective memory to their own ends. Collective memories and identities are interwoven with myths and folk histories. And, as Benedict Anderson (1983) demonstrated, these stories are more often than not fictions of various kinds, promulgated by individuals and groups who have an interest in shaping collective consciousness in one way or another.

The philosophy of history must pay attention to the nexus of experience, memory, and history. There is no single “Civil Rights era” experience or “Great Depression” experience; instead, historians must consider a wide range of sources and evidence, including oral histories, first-person accounts, photographs, and other traces of the human experience of the time to allow them to discern both variation and some degree of thematicization of memory and identity in the periods they study. Second, attention to history and memory highlights the amount of human and individual agency involved in memory. Memories must be created; agents must find frameworks within which to understand their moments of historical experience. Museums and monuments curate historical memories — often with biases of their own. A third and equally important point is the fact that memories become part of the political mobilization possibilities that exist for a group. Groups find their collective identities through shared understandings of the past; and these shared understandings provide a basis for future collective action. Paul Ricoeur’s  Time and Narrative (1984-1988) sheds profound light on the profound relations that extend among memory, identity, narrative, and history.

2. Continental philosophy of history

The topic of history has been treated frequently in modern European philosophy. A long, largely German, tradition of thought looks at history as a total and comprehensible process of events, structures, and processes, for which the philosophy of history can serve as an interpretive tool. This approach, speculative and meta-historical, aims to discern large, embracing patterns and directions in the unfolding of human history, persistent notwithstanding the erratic back-and-forth of particular historical developments. Modern philosophers raising this set of questions about the large direction and meaning of history include Vico, Herder, and Hegel. A somewhat different line of thought in the continental tradition that has been very relevant to the philosophy of history is the hermeneutic tradition of the human sciences. Through their emphasis on the “hermeneutic circle” through which humans undertake to understand the meanings created by other humans—in texts, symbols, and actions—hermeneutic philosophers such as Schleiermacher (1838), Dilthey (1860–1903), and Ricoeur (1984-1988, 2000) offer philosophical arguments for emphasizing the importance of narrative interpretation within our understanding of history. Understanding history means providing a narrative that makes sense of it from beginning to end.

Human beings make history; but what is the fundamental nature of the human being? Is there one fundamental “human nature,” or are the most basic features of humanity historically conditioned (Mandelbaum 1971)? Can the study of history shed light on this question? When we study different historical epochs, do we learn something about unchanging human beings—or do we learn about fundamental differences of motivation, reasoning, desire, and collectivity? Is humanity a historical product? Giambattista Vico’s New Science (1725) offered an interpretation of history that turned on the idea of a universal human nature and a universal history (see Berlin 2000 for commentary). Vico’s interpretation of the history of civilization offers the view that there is an underlying uniformity in human nature across historical settings that permits explanation of historical actions and processes. The common features of human nature give rise to a fixed series of stages of development of civil society, law, commerce, and government: universal human beings, faced with recurring civilizational challenges, produce the same set of responses over time. Two things are worth noting about this perspective on history: first, that it simplifies the task of interpreting and explaining history (because we can take it as given that we can understand the actors of the past based on our own experiences and nature); and second, it has an intellectual heir in twentieth-century social science theory in the form of rational choice theory as a basis for comprehensive social explanation.

Johann Gottfried Herder offers a strikingly different view about human nature and human ideas and motivations. Herder argues for the historical contextuality of human nature in his work, Ideas for the Philosophy of History of Humanity (1791). He offers a historicized understanding of human nature, advocating the idea that human nature is itself a historical product and that human beings act differently in different periods of historical development (1800–1877, 1791). Herder’s views set the stage for the historicist philosophy of human nature later found in such nineteenth-century figures as Hegel and Nietzsche. His perspective too prefigures an important current of thought about the social world in the late twentieth century, the idea of the “social construction” of human nature and social identities (Anderson 1983; Hacking 1999; Foucault 1971).

Philosophers have raised questions about the meaning and structure of the totality of human history. Some philosophers have sought to discover a large organizing theme, meaning, or direction in human history. This may take the form of an effort to demonstrate how history enacts a divine order, or reveals a large pattern (cyclical, teleological, progressive), or plays out an important theme (for example, Hegel’s conception of history as the unfolding of human freedom discussed below). The ambition in each case is to demonstrate that the apparent contingency and arbitrariness of historical events can be related to a more fundamental underlying purpose or order.

This approach to history may be described as hermeneutic; but it is focused on interpretation of large historical features rather than the interpretation of individual meanings and actions. In effect, it treats the sweep of history as a complicated, tangled text, in which the interpreter assigns meanings to some elements of the story in order to fit these elements into the larger themes and motifs of the story. (Ranke makes this point explicitly (1881).)

A recurring current in this approach to the philosophy of history falls in the area of theodicy or eschatology: religiously inspired attempts to find meaning and structure in history by relating the past and present to some specific, divinely ordained plan. Theologians and religious thinkers have attempted to find meaning in historical events as expressions of divine will. One reason for theological interest in this question is the problem of evil; thus Leibniz’s Theodicy attempts to provide a logical interpretation of history that makes the tragedies of history compatible with a benevolent God’s will (1709). In the twentieth century, theologians such as Maritain (1957), Rust (1947), and Dawson (1929) offered systematic efforts to provide Christian interpretations of history.

Enlightenment thinkers rejected the religious interpretation of history but brought in their own teleology, the idea of progress—the idea that humanity is moving in the direction of better and more perfect civilization, and that this progression can be witnessed through study of the history of civilization (Condorcet 1795; Montesquieu 1748). Vico’s philosophy of history seeks to identify a foundational series of stages of human civilization. Different civilizations go through the same stages, because human nature is constant across history (Pompa 1990). Rousseau (1762a; 1762b) and Kant (1784–5; 1784–6) brought some of these assumptions about rationality and progress into their political philosophies, and Adam Smith embodies some of this optimism about the progressive effects of rationality in his account of the unfolding of the modern European economic system (1776). This effort to derive a fixed series of stages as a tool of interpretation of the history of civilization is repeated throughout the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries; it finds expression in Hegel’s philosophy (discussed below), as well as Marx’s materialist theory of the development of economic modes of production (Marx and Engels 1845–49; Marx and Engels 1848).

The effort to find directionality or stages in history found a new expression in the early twentieth century, in the hands of several “meta-historians” who sought to provide a macro-interpretation that brought order to world history: Spengler (1934), Toynbee (1934), Wittfogel (1935), and Lattimore (1932). These authors offered a reading of world history in terms of the rise and fall of civilizations, races, or cultures. Their writings were not primarily inspired by philosophical or theological theories, but they were also not works of primary historical scholarship. Spengler and Toynbee portrayed human history as a coherent process in which civilizations pass through specific stages of youth, maturity, and senescence. Wittfogel and Lattimore interpreted Asian civilizations in terms of large determining factors. Wittfogel contrasts China’s history with that of Europe by characterizing China’s civilization as one of “hydraulic despotism”, with the attendant consequence that China’s history was cyclical rather than directional. Lattimore applies the key of geographic and ecological determinism to the development of Asian civilization (Rowe 2007).

A legitimate criticism of many efforts to offer an interpretation of the sweep of history is the view that it looks for meaning where none can exist. Interpretation of individual actions and life histories is intelligible, because we can ground our attributions of meaning in a theory of the individual person as possessing and creating meanings. But there is no super-agent lying behind historical events—for example, the French Revolution—and so it is a metaphysical mistake to attempt to find the meaning of the features of the event (e.g., the Terror). The theological approach purports to evade this criticism by attributing agency to God as the author of history, but the assumption that there is a divine author of history takes the making of history out of the hands of humanity.

Efforts to discern large stages in history such as those of Vico, Spengler, or Toynbee are vulnerable to a different criticism based on their mono-causal interpretations of the full complexity of human history. These authors single out one factor that is thought to drive history: a universal human nature (Vico), or a common set of civilizational challenges (Spengler, Toynbee). But their hypotheses need to be evaluated on the basis of concrete historical evidence. And the evidence concerning the large features of historical change over the past three millennia offers little support for the idea of one fixed process of civilizational development. Instead, human history, at virtually every scale, appears to embody a large degree of contingency and multiple pathways of development. This is not to say that there are no credible “large historical” interpretations available for human history and society. For example, Michael Mann’s sociology of early agrarian civilizations (1986), De Vries and Goudsblom’s efforts at global environmental history (2002), and Jared Diamond’s treatment of disease and warfare (1997) offer examples of scholars who attempt to explain some large features of human history on the basis of a few common human circumstances: the efforts of states to collect revenues, the need of human communities to exploit resources, or the global transmission of disease. The challenge for macro-history is to preserve the discipline of empirical evaluation for the large hypotheses that are put forward.

Hegel’s philosophy of history is perhaps the most fully developed philosophical theory of history that attempts to discover meaning or direction in history (1824a, 1824b, 1857). Hegel regards history as an intelligible process moving towards a specific condition—the realization of human freedom. “The question at issue is therefore the ultimate end of mankind, the end which the spirit sets itself in the world” (1857: 63). Hegel incorporates a deeper historicism into his philosophical theories than his predecessors or successors. He regards the relationship between “objective” history and the subjective development of the individual consciousness (“spirit”) as an intimate one; this is a central thesis in his Phenomenology of Spirit (1807). And he views it to be a central task for philosophy to comprehend its place in the unfolding of history. “History is the process whereby the spirit discovers itself and its own concept” (1857: 62). Hegel constructs world history into a narrative of stages of human freedom, from the public freedom of the polis and the citizenship of the Roman Republic, to the individual freedom of the Protestant Reformation, to the civic freedom of the modern state. He attempts to incorporate the civilizations of India and China into his understanding of world history, though he regards those civilizations as static and therefore pre-historical (O’Brien 1975). He constructs specific moments as “world-historical” events that were in the process of bringing about the final, full stage of history and human freedom. For example, Napoleon’s conquest of much of Europe is portrayed as a world-historical event doing history’s work by establishing the terms of the rational bureaucratic state. Hegel finds reason in history; but it is a latent reason, and one that can only be comprehended when the fullness of history’s work is finished: “When philosophy paints its grey on grey, then has a shape of life grown old. … The owl of Minerva spreads its wings only with the falling of the dusk” ((Hegel 1821: 13). (See O’Brien (1975), Taylor (1975), and Kojève (1969) for treatments of Hegel’s philosophy of history.)

It is worth observing that Hegel’s philosophy of history is not the indefensible exercise of speculative philosophical reasoning that analytic philosophers sometimes paint it. His philosophical approach is not based solely on foundational apriori reasoning, and many of his interpretations of concrete historical developments are quite insightful. Instead he proposes an “immanent” encounter between philosophical reason and the historical given. Here is how W. H. Walsh (1960) describes Hegel’s intellectual project in his philosophy of history:

To accomplish this task the philosopher must take the results of empirical history as data, but it will not suffice for him merely to reproduce them. He must try to illuminate history by bringing his knowledge of the Idea, the formal articulation of reason, to bear upon it, striving, in a phrase Hegel uses elsewhere, to elevate empirical contents to the rank of necessary truth. (Walsh 1960: 143)

Hegel’s prescription is that the philosopher should seek to discover the rational within the real—not to impose the rational upon the real. “To comprehend what is, this is the task of philosophy, because what is, is reason” (1821: 11). His approach is neither purely philosophical nor purely empirical; instead, he undertakes to discover within the best historical knowledge of his time, an underlying rational principle that can be philosophically articulated (Avineri 1972).

Another important strand of continental philosophy of history proposes to apply hermeneutics to problems of historical interpretation. This approach focuses on the meaning of the actions and intentions of historical individuals rather than historical wholes. This tradition derives from the tradition of scholarly Biblical interpretation. Hermeneutic scholars emphasized the linguistic and symbolic core of human interactions and maintained that the techniques that had been developed for the purpose of interpreting texts could also be employed to interpret symbolic human actions and products. Wilhelm Dilthey maintained that the human sciences were inherently distinct from the natural sciences in that the former depend on the understanding of meaningful human actions, while the latter depend on causal explanation of non-intensional events (1883, 1860-1903, 1910). Human life is structured and carried out through meaningful action and symbolic expressions. Dilthey maintains that the intellectual tools of hermeneutics—the interpretation of meaningful texts—are suited to the interpretation of human action and history. The method of verstehen (understanding) makes a methodology of this approach; it invites the thinker to engage in an active construction of the meanings and intentions of the actors from their point of view (Outhwaite 1975). This line of interpretation of human history found expression in the twentieth-century philosophical writings of Heidegger, Gadamer, Ricoeur, and Foucault. This tradition approaches the philosophy of history from the perspective of meaning and language. It argues that historical knowledge depends upon interpretation of meaningful human actions and practices. Historians should probe historical events and actions in order to discover the interconnections of meaning and symbolic interaction that human actions have created (Sherratt 2006).

The hermeneutic tradition took an important new turn in the mid-twentieth century, as philosophers attempted to make sense of modern historical developments including war, racism, and the Holocaust. Narratives of progress were no longer compelling, following the terrible events of the first half of the twentieth century. The focus of this approach might be labeled “history as remembrance.” Contributors to this strand of thought emerged from twentieth-century European philosophy, including existentialism and Marxism, and were influenced by the search for meaning in the Holocaust. Paul Ricoeur draws out the parallels between personal memory, cultural memory, and history (2000). Dominick LaCapra brings the tools of interpretation theory and critical theory to bear on his treatment of the representation of the trauma of the Holocaust (1994, 1998). Others emphasize the role that folk histories play in the construction and interpretation of “our” past. This is a theme that has been taken up by contemporary historians, for example, by Michael Kammen in his treatment of public remembrance of the American Civil War (1991). Memory and the representation of the past play a key role in the formation of racial and national identities; numerous twentieth-century philosophers have noted the degree of subjectivity and construction that are inherent in the national memories represented in a group’s telling of its history.

Although not himself falling within the continental lineage, R. G. Collingwood’s philosophy of history falls within the general framework of hermeneutic philosophy of history (1946). Collingwood focuses on the question of how to specify the content of history. He argues that history is constituted by human actions. Actions are the result of intentional deliberation and choice; so historians are able to explain historical processes “from within” as a reconstruction of the thought processes of the agents who bring them about. He presents the idea of re-enactment as a solution to the problem of knowledge of the past from the point of view of the present. The past is accessible to historians in the present, because it is open to them to re-enact important historical moments through imaginative reconstruction of the actors’ states of mind and intentions. He describes this activity of re-enactment in the context of the historical problem of understanding Plato’s meanings as a philosopher or Caesar’s intentions as a ruler:

This re-enactment is only accomplished, in the case of Plato and Caesar respectively, so far as the historian brings to bear on the problem all the powers of his own mind and all his knowledge of philosophy and politics. It is not a passive surrender to the spell of another’s mind; it is a labour of active and therefore critical thinking. (Collingwood 1946: 215)

2.5 Conceptual history

The post-war German historian Reinhart Koselleck made important contributions to the philosophy of history that are largely independent from the other sources of Continental philosophy of history mentioned here. (Koselleck’s contributions are ably discussed in Olsen 2012.) Koselleck contributed to a “conceptual and critical theory of history” (2002, 2004). His major compendium, with Brunner and Conze, of the history of concepts of history in the German-speaking world is one of the major expressions of this work (Brunner, Conze, and Koselleck 1972-97). Koselleck believes there are three key tasks for the metahistorian or philosopher: to identify the concepts that are either possible or necessary in characterizing history; to locate those concepts within the context of the social and political discourses and conflicts of the time period; and to critically evaluate various of these concepts for their usefulness in historical analysis.

Key examples that Koselleck develops include “space of experience” and “horizon of expectation”. Examples of metahistorical categories in Koselleck’s account include “capacity to die and capacity to kill,” “friend and foe,” “inside and outside,” and “master and servant”. Koselleck represents these conceptual oppositions as representing conditions of possibility of any representation of history (Bouton 2016: 178).

A large part of Koselleck’s work thus involves identifying and describing various kinds of historical concepts. In order to represent history it is necessary to make use of a vocabulary that distinguishes the things we need to talk about; and historical concepts permit these identifications. This in turn requires both conceptual and historical treatment: how the concepts are understood, and how they have changed over time. Christophe Bouton encapsulates Koselleck’s approach in these terms: “[It is an] inquiry into the historical categories that are used in, or presupposed by, the experience of history at its different levels, as events, traces, and narratives” (Bouton 2016: 164). Further, Bouton argues that Koselleck also brings a critical perspective to the concepts that he discusses: he asks the question of validity (Bouton 2016). To what extent do these particular concepts work well to characterize history?

What this amounts to is the idea that history is the result of conceptualization of the past on the part of the people who tell it—professional historians, politicians, partisans, and ordinary citizens. (It is interesting to note that Koselleck’s research in the final years of his career focused on the meaning of public monuments, especially war memorials.) It is therefore an important, even crucial, task to investigate the historical concepts that have been used to characterize the past. A key concept that was of interest to Koselleck was the idea of “modernity”. This approach might seem to fall within the larger field of intellectual history; but Koselleck and other exponents believe that the historical concepts in use actually play a role as well in the concrete historical developments that occur within a period.

It is worth noticing that history comes into Koselleck’s notion of Begriffsgeschichte in two ways. Koselleck is concerned to uncover the logic and semantics of the concepts that have been used to describe historical events and processes; and he is interested in the historical evolution of some of those concepts over time. (In this latter interest his definition of the question parallels that of the so-called Cambridge School of Quentin Skinner, John Dunn, and J. G. A. Pocock.) Numerous observers emphasize the importance of political conflict in Koselleck’s account of historical concepts: concepts are used by partisans to define the field of battle over values and loyalties (Pankakoski 2010). More generally, Koselleck’s aim is to excavate the layers of meaning that have been associated with key historical concepts in different historical periods. (Whatmore and Young 2015 provide extensive and useful accounts of each of the positions mentioned here.)

Conceptual history may appear to have a Kantian background—an exploration of the “categories” of thought on the basis of which alone history is intelligible. But this appears not to be Koselleck’s intention, and his approach is not apriori. Rather, he looks at historical concepts on a spectrum of abstraction, from relatively close to events (the French Revolution) to more abstract (revolutionary change). Moreover, he makes rigorous attempts to discover the meanings and uses of these concepts in their historical contexts.

Koselleck’s work defines a separate space within the field of the philosophy of history. It has to do with meanings in history, but it is neither teleological nor hermeneutic. It takes seriously the obligation of the historian excavate the historical facts with scrupulous rigor, but it is not empiricist or reductionist. It emphasizes the dependence of “history” on the conceptual resources of those who live history and those who tell history, but it is not post-modernist or relativist. Koselleck provides an innovative and constructive way of formulating the problem of historical knowledge.

3. Anglo-American philosophy of history

The traditions of empiricism and Anglo-American philosophy have also devoted occasional attention to history. Philosophers in this tradition have avoided the questions of speculative philosophy of history and have instead raised questions about the logic and epistemology of historical knowledge. Here the guiding question is, “What are the logical and epistemological characteristics of historical knowledge and historical explanation?”.

David Hume’s empiricism cast a dominant key for almost all subsequent Anglo-American philosophy, and this influence extends to the interpretation of human behavior and the human sciences. Hume wrote a widely read history of England (1754–1762). His interpretation of history was based on the assumption of ordinary actions, motives, and causes, with no sympathy for theological interpretations of the past. His philosophical view of history was premised on the idea that explanations of the past can be based on the assumption of a fixed human nature.

Anglo-American interest in the philosophy of history was renewed at mid-twentieth century with the emergence of “analytical philosophy of history.” Representative contributors include Dray (1957, 1964, 1966), Danto (1965), and Gardiner (1952, 1974). This approach involves the application of the methods and tools of analytic philosophy to the special problems that arise in the pursuit of historical explanations and historical knowledge (Gardiner 1952). Here the interest is in the characteristics of historical knowledge: how we know facts about the past, what constitutes a good historical explanation, whether explanations in history require general laws, and whether historical knowledge is underdetermined by available historical evidence. Analytic philosophers emphasized the empirical and scientific status of historical knowledge, and attempted to understand this claim along the lines of the scientific standing of the natural sciences (Nagel 1961).

Philosophers in the analytic tradition are deeply skeptical about the power of non-empirical reason to arrive at substantive conclusions about the structure of the world—including human history. Philosophical reasoning by itself cannot be a source of substantive knowledge about the natural world, or about the sequence of events, actions, states, classes, empires, plagues, and conquests that we call “history.” Rather, substantive knowledge about the world can only derive from empirical investigation and logical analysis of the consequences of these findings. So analytic philosophers of history have had little interest in the large questions about the meaning and structure of history considered above. The practitioners of speculative philosophy of history, on the other hand, are convinced of the power of philosophical thought to reason through to a foundational understanding of history, and would be impatient with a call for a purely empirical and conceptual approach to the subject.

W. H. Walsh’s Philosophy of History (Walsh 1960 [1951]), first published in 1951 and revised in 1960, is an open-minded and well-grounded effort to provide an in-depth presentation of the field that crosses the separation between continental and analytical philosophy. The book attempts to treat both major questions driving much of the philosophy of history: the nature of historical knowledge and the possibility of gaining “metaphysical” knowledge about history. An Oxford philosopher trained in modern philosophy, Walsh was strongly influenced by Collingwood and was well aware of the European idealist tradition of philosophical thinking about history, including Rickert, Dilthey, and Croce, and he treats this tradition in a serious way. He draws the distinction between these traditions along the lines of “critical” and “speculative” philosophy of history. Walsh’s goal for the book is ambitious; he hopes to propose a framework within which the main questions about history can be addressed, including both major traditions. He advances the view that the historian is presented with a number of events, actions, and developments during a period. How do they hang together? The process of cognition through which the historian makes sense of a set of separate historical events Walsh refers to as “colligation” — “to locate a historical event in a larger historical process in terms of which it makes sense” (23).

Walsh fundamentally accepts Collingwood’s most basic premise: that history concerns conscious human action. Collingwood’s slogan was that “history is the science of the mind,” and Walsh appears to accept much of this perspective. So the key intellectual task for the historian, on this approach, is to reconstruct the reasons or motives that actors had at various points in history (and perhaps the conditions that led them to have these reasons and motives). This means that the tools of interpretation of meanings and reasons are crucial for the historian—much as the hermeneutic philosophers in the German tradition had argued.

Walsh suggests that the philosophical content of the philosophy of history falls naturally into two different sorts of inquiry, parallel to the distinction between philosophy of nature and philosophy of science. The first has to do with metaphysical questions about the reality of history as a whole; the latter has to do with the epistemic issues that arise in the pursuit and formulation of knowledge of history. He refers to these approaches as “speculative” and “critical” aspects of the philosophy of history. And he attempts to formulate a view of what the key questions are for each approach. Speculative philosophy of history asks about the meaning and purpose of the historical process. Critical philosophy of history is what we now refer to as “analytic” philosophy; it is the equivalent for history of what the philosophy of science is for nature.

The philosopher of science Carl Hempel stimulated analytic philosophers’ interest in historical knowledge in his essay, “The Function of General Laws in History” (1942). Hempel’s general theory of scientific explanation held that all scientific explanations require subsumption under general laws. Hempel considered historical explanation as an apparent exception to the covering-law model and attempted to show the suitability of the covering-law model even to this special case. He argued that valid historical explanations too must invoke general laws. The covering-law approach to historical explanation was supported by other analytical philosophers of science, including Ernest Nagel (1961). Hempel’s essay provoked a prolonged controversy between supporters who cited generalizations about human behavior as the relevant general laws, and critics who argued that historical explanations are more akin to explanations of individual behavior, based on interpretation that makes the outcome comprehensible. Especially important discussions were offered by William Dray (1957), Michael Scriven (1962), and Alan Donagan (1966). Donagan and others pointed out the difficulty that many social explanations depend on probabilistic regularities rather than universal laws. Others, including Scriven, pointed out the pragmatic features of explanation, suggesting that arguments that fall far short of deductive validity are nonetheless sufficient to “explain” a given historical event in a given context of belief. The most fundamental objections, however, are these: first, that there are virtually no good examples of universal laws in history, whether of human behavior or of historical event succession (Donagan 1966: 143–45); and second, that there are other compelling schemata through which we can understand historical actions and outcomes that do not involve subsumption under general laws (Elster 1989). These include the processes of reasoning through which we understand individual actions—analogous to the methods of verstehen and the interpretation of rational behavior mentioned above (Dray 1966: 131–37); and the processes through which we can trace out chains of causation and specific causal mechanisms without invoking universal laws.

A careful re-reading of these debates over the covering-law model in history suggests that the debate took place largely because of the erroneous assumption of the unity of science and the postulation of the regulative logical similarity of all areas of scientific reasoning to a few clear examples of explanation in a few natural sciences. This approach was a deeply impoverished one, and handicapped from the start in its ability to pose genuinely important questions about the nature of history and historical knowledge. Explanation of human actions and outcomes should not be understood along the lines of an explanation of why radiators burst when the temperature falls below zero degrees centigrade. As Donagan concludes, “It is harmful to overlook the fundamental identity of the social sciences with history, and to mutilate research into human affairs by remodeling the social sciences into deformed likenesses of physics” (1966: 157). The insistence on naturalistic models for social and historical research leads easily to a presumption in favor of the covering-law model of explanation, but this presumption is misleading.

Another issue that provoked significant attention among analytic philosophers of history is the issue of “objectivity.” Is it possible for historical knowledge to objectively represent the past? Or are forms of bias, omission, selection, and interpretation such as to make all historical representations dependent on the perspective of the individual historian? Does the fact that human actions are value-laden make it impossible for the historian to provide a non-value-laden account of those actions?

This topic divides into several different problems, as noted by John Passmore (1966: 76). The most studied of these within the analytic tradition is that of the value-ladenness of social action. Second is the possibility that the historian’s interpretations are themselves value-laden—raising the question of the capacity for objectivity or neutrality of the historian herself. Does the intellectual have the ability to investigate the world without regard to the biases that are built into her political or ethical beliefs, her ideology, or her commitments to a class or a social group? And third is the question of the objectivity of the historical circumstances themselves. Is there a fixed historical reality, independent from later representations of the facts? Or is history intrinsically “constructed,” with no objective reality independent from the ways in which it is constructed? Is there a reality corresponding to the phrase, “the French Revolution,” or is there simply an accumulation of written versions of the French Revolution?

There are solutions to each of these problems that are highly consonant with the philosophical assumptions of the analytic tradition. First, concerning values: There is no fundamental difficulty in reconciling the idea of a researcher with one set of religious values, who nonetheless carefully traces out the religious values of a historical actor possessing radically different values. This research can be done badly, of course; but there is no inherent epistemic barrier that makes it impossible for the researcher to examine the body of statements, behaviors, and contemporary cultural institutions corresponding to the other, and to come to a justified representation of the other. One need not share the values or worldview of a sans-culotte , in order to arrive at a justified appraisal of those values and worldview. This leads us to a resolution of the second issue as well—the possibility of neutrality on the part of the researcher. The set of epistemic values that we impart to scientists and historians include the value of intellectual discipline and a willingness to subject their hypotheses to the test of uncomfortable facts. Once again, review of the history of science and historical writing makes it apparent that this intellectual value has effect. There are plentiful examples of scientists and historians whose conclusions are guided by their interrogation of the evidence rather than their ideological presuppositions. Objectivity in pursuit of truth is itself a value, and one that can be followed.

Finally, on the question of the objectivity of the past: Is there a basis for saying that events or circumstances in the past have objective, fixed characteristics that are independent from our representation of those events? Is there a representation-independent reality underlying the large historical structures to which historians commonly refer (the Roman Empire, the Great Wall of China, the imperial administration of the Qianlong Emperor)? We can work our way carefully through this issue, by recognizing a distinction between the objectivity of past events, actions and circumstances, the objectivity of the contemporary facts that resulted from these past events, and the objectivity and fixity of large historical entities. The past occurred in precisely the way that it did—agents acted, droughts occurred, armies were defeated, new technologies were invented. These occurrences left traces of varying degrees of information richness; and these traces give us a rational basis for arriving at beliefs about the occurrences of the past. So we can offer a non-controversial interpretation of the “objectivity of the past.” However, this objectivity of events and occurrences does not extend very far upward as we consider more abstract historical events: the creation of the Greek city-state, the invention of Enlightenment rationality, the Taiping Rebellion. In each of these instances the noun’s referent is an interpretive construction by historical actors and historians, and one that may be undone by future historians. To refer to the “Taiping Rebellion” requires an act of synthesis of a large number of historical facts, along with an interpretive story that draws these facts together in this way rather than that way. The underlying facts of behavior, and their historical traces, remain; but the knitting-together of these facts into a large historical event does not constitute an objective historical entity. Consider research in the past twenty years that questions the existence of the “Industrial Revolution.” In this debate, the same set of historical facts were first constructed into an abrupt episode of qualitative change in technology and output in Western Europe; under the more recent interpretation, these changes were more gradual and less correctly characterized as a “revolution” (O’Brien and Keyder 1978). Or consider Arthur Waldron’s sustained and detailed argument to the effect that there was no “Great Wall of China,” as that structure is usually conceptualized (1990).

A third important set of issues that received attention from analytic philosophers concerned the role of causal ascriptions in historical explanations. What is involved in saying that “The American Civil War was caused by economic conflict between the North and the South”? Does causal ascription require identifying an underlying causal regularity—for example, “periods of rapid inflation cause political instability”? Is causation established by discovering a set of necessary and sufficient conditions? Can we identify causal connections among historical events by tracing a series of causal mechanisms linking one to the next? This topic raises the related problem of determinism in history: are certain events inevitable in the circumstances? Was the fall of the Roman Empire inevitable, given the configuration of military and material circumstances prior to the crucial events?

Analytic philosophers of history most commonly approached these issues on the basis of a theory of causation drawn from positivist philosophy of science. This theory is ultimately grounded in Humean assumptions about causation: that causation is nothing but constant conjunction. So analytic philosophers were drawn to the covering-law model of explanation, because it appeared to provide a basis for asserting historical causation. As noted above, this approach to causal explanation is fatally flawed in the social sciences, because universal causal regularities among social phenomena are unavailable. So it is necessary either to arrive at other interpretations of causality or to abandon the language of causality. A second approach was to define causes in terms of a set of causally relevant conditions for the occurrence of the event—for example, necessary and/or sufficient conditions, or a set of conditions that enhance or reduce the likelihood of the event. This approach found support in “ordinary language” philosophy and in analysis of the use of causal language in such contexts as the courtroom (Hart and Honoré 1959). Counterfactual reasoning is an important element of discovery of a set of necessary and/or sufficient conditions; to say that \(C\) was necessary for the occurrence of \(E\) requires that we provide evidence that \(E\) would not have occurred if \(C\) were not present (Mackie 1965, 1974). And it is evident that there are causal circumstances in which no single factor is necessary for the occurrence of the effect; the outcome may be overdetermined by multiple independent factors.

The convergence of reasons and causes in historical processes is helpful in this context, because historical causes are frequently the effect of deliberate human action (Davidson 1963). So specifying the reason for the action is simultaneously identifying a part of the cause of the consequences of the action. It is often justifiable to identify a concrete action as the cause of a particular event (a circumstance that was sufficient in the existing circumstances to bring about the outcome), and it is feasible to provide a convincing interpretation of the reasons that led the actor to carry out the action.

What analytic philosophers of the 1960s did not come to, but what is crucial for current understanding of historical causality, is the feasibility of tracing causal mechanisms through a complex series of events (causal realism). Historical narratives often take the form of an account of a series of events, each of which was a causal condition or trigger for later events. Subsequent research in the philosophy of the social sciences has provided substantial support for historical explanations that depend on tracing a series of causal mechanisms (Little 2018; Hedström and Swedberg 1998).

English-speaking philosophy of history shifted significantly in the 1970s, beginning with the publication of Hayden White’s Metahistory (1973) and Louis Mink’s writings of the same period (1966; Mink et al. 1987). The so-called “linguistic turn” that marked many areas of philosophy and literature also influenced the philosophy of history. Whereas analytic philosophy of history had emphasized scientific analogies for historical knowledge and advanced the goals of verifiability and generalizability in historical knowledge, English-speaking philosophers in the 1970s and 1980s were increasingly influenced by hermeneutic philosophy, post-modernism, and French literary theory (Rorty 1979). These philosophers emphasized the rhetoric of historical writing, the non-reducibility of historical narrative to a sequence of “facts”, and the degree of construction that is involved in historical representation. Affinities with literature and anthropology came to eclipse examples from the natural sciences as guides for representing historical knowledge and historical understanding. The richness and texture of the historical narrative came in for greater attention than the attempt to provide causal explanations of historical outcomes. Frank Ankersmit captured many of these themes in his treatment of historical narrative (1995; Ankersmit and Kellner 1995); see also Berkhofer (1995).

This “new” philosophy of history is distinguished from analytic philosophy of history in several important respects. It emphasizes historical narrative rather than historical causation. It is intellectually closer to the hermeneutic tradition than to the positivism that underlay the analytic philosophy of history of the 1960s. It highlights features of subjectivity and multiple interpretation over those of objectivity, truth, and correspondence to the facts. Another important strand in this approach to the philosophy of history is a clear theoretical preference for the historicist rather than the universalist position on the status of human nature—Herder rather than Vico. The prevalent perspective holds that human consciousness is itself a historical product, and that it is an important part of the historian’s work to piece together the mentality and assumptions of actors in the past (Pompa 1990). Significantly, contemporary historians such as Robert Darnton have turned to the tools of ethnography to permit this sort of discovery (1984).

Another important strand of thinking within analytic philosophy has focused attention on historical ontology (Hacking 2002, Little 2010). The topic of historical ontology is important, both for philosophers and for practicing historians. Ontology has to do with the question, what kinds of things do we need to postulate in a given realm? Historical ontology poses this question with regard to the realities of the past. Should large constructs like ‘revolution’, ‘market society’, ‘fascism’, or ‘Protestant religious identity’ be included in our ontology as real things? Or should we treat these ideas in a purely nominalistic way, treating them as convenient ways of aggregating complex patterns of social action and knowledge by large numbers of social actors in a time and place? Further, how should we think about the relationship between instances and categories in the realm of history, for example, the relation between the French, Chinese, or Russian Revolutions and the general category of ‘revolution’? Are there social kinds that recur in history, or is each historical formation unique in important ways? These are all questions of ontology, and the answers we give to them will have important consequences for how we conceptualize and explain the past.

When historians discuss methodological issues in their research they more commonly refer to “historiography” than to “philosophy of history.” What is the relation between these bodies of thought about the writing of history? We should begin by asking the basic question: what is historiography? In its most general sense, the term refers to the study of historians’ methods and practices. Any intellectual or creative practice is guided by a set of standards and heuristics about how to proceed, and “experts” evaluate the performances of practitioners based on their judgments of how well the practitioner meets the standards. So one task we always have in considering an expert activity is to attempt to identify these standards and criteria of good performance. This is true for theatre and literature, and it is true for writing history. Historiography is at least in part the effort to do this work for a particular body of historical writing. (Several handbooks contain a wealth of recent writings on various aspects of historiography; Tucker 2009, Bentley 1997, Breisach 2007. Important and innovative contributions to understanding the intellectual tasks of the historian include Bloch 1953 and Paul 2015.)

Historians normally make truth claims, and they ask us to accept those claims based on the reasoning they present. So a major aspect of the study of historiography has to do with defining the ideas of evidence, rigor, and standards of reasoning for historical inquiry. We presume that historians want to discover empirically supported truths about the past, and we presume that they want to offer inferences and interpretations that are somehow regulated by standards of scientific rationality. (Simon Schama challenges some of these ideas in Dead Certainties (Schama 1991).) So the apprentice practitioner seeks to gain knowledge of the practices of his/her elders in the profession: what counts as a compelling argument, how to assess a body of archival evidence, how to offer or criticize an interpretation of complex events that necessarily exceeds the available evidence. The historiographer has a related task: he/she would like to be able to codify the main methods and standards of one historical school or another.

There are other desiderata governing a good historical work, and these criteria may change from culture to culture and epoch to epoch. Discerning the historian’s goals is crucial to deciding how well he or she succeeds. So discovering these stylistic and aesthetic standards that guide the historian’s work is itself an important task for historiography. This means that the student of historiography will naturally be interested in the conventions of historical writing and rhetoric that are characteristic of a given period or school.

A full historiographic assessment of a given historian might include questions like these: What methods of discovery does he/she use? What rhetorical and persuasive goals does he/she pursue? What models of explanation? What paradigm of presentation? What standards of style and rhetoric? What interpretive assumptions?

A historical school might be defined as a group of interrelated historians who share a significant number of specific assumptions about evidence, explanation, and narrative. The Annales school, established by Marc Bloch and Lucien Febvre in the 1920s, represented a distinctive and fertile approach to social history (Burguière 2009), united by shared assumptions about both topics and intellectual approaches to the past. Historiography becomes itself historical when we recognize that frameworks of assumptions about historical knowledge and reasoning change over time. On this assumption, the history of historical thinking and writing is itself an important subject. How did historians of various periods in human history conduct their study and presentation of history? Under this rubric we find books on the historiography of the ancient Greeks; Renaissance historiography; or the historiography of German romanticism. Arnaldo Momigliano’s writings on the ancient historians fall in this category (Momigliano 1990). In a nutshell, Momigliano is looking at the several traditions of ancient history-writing as a set of normative practices that can be dissected and understood in their specificity and their cultural contexts.

A second primary use of the concept of historiography is more present-oriented and methodological. It involves the study and analysis of historical methods of research, inquiry, inference, and presentation used by more-or-less contemporary historians. How do contemporary historians go about their tasks of understanding the past? Here we can reflect upon the historiographical challenges that confronted Philip Huang as he investigated the Chinese peasant economy in the 1920s and 1930s (Huang 1990), or the historiographical issues raised in Robert Darnton’s telling of a peculiar and trivial event, the Great Cat Massacre by printers’ apprentices in Paris in the 1730s (Darnton 1984). Sometimes these issues have to do with the scarcity or bias in the available bodies of historical records (for example, the fact that much of what Huang refers to about the village economy of North China was gathered by the research teams of the occupying Japanese army). Sometimes they have to do with the difficulty of interpreting historical sources (for example, the unavoidable necessity Darnton faced of providing meaningful interpretation of a range of documented actions that appear fundamentally irrational).

An important question that arises in recent historiography is that of the status of the notion of “global history.” One important reason for thinking globally as an historian is the fact that the history discipline—since the Greeks—has tended to be Eurocentric in its choice of topics, framing assumptions, and methods. Economic and political history, for example, often privileges the industrial revolution in England and the creation of the modern bureaucratic state in France, Britain, and Germany, as being exemplars of “modern” development in economics and politics. This has led to a tendency to look at other countries’ development as non-standard or stunted. So global history is, in part, a framework within which the historian avoids privileging one regional center as primary and others as secondary or peripheral. Bin Wong makes this point in China Transformed (Wong 1997).

Second is the related fact that when Western historical thinkers—for example, Hegel, Malthus, Montesquieu—have turned their attention to Asia, they have often engaged in a high degree of stereotyping without much factual historical knowledge. The ideas of Oriental despotism, Asian overpopulation, and Chinese stagnation have encouraged a cartoonish replacement of the intricate and diverse processes of development of different parts of Asia by a single-dimensional and reductive set of simplifying frameworks of thought. This is one of the points of Edward Said’s critique of orientalism (Said 1978). So doing “global” history means paying rigorous attention to the specificities of social, political, and cultural arrangements in other parts of the world besides Europe.

So a historiography that takes global diversity seriously should be expected to be more agnostic about patterns of development, and more open to discovery of surprising patterns, twists, and variations in the experiences of India, China, Indochina, the Arab world, the Ottoman Empire, and Sub-Saharan Africa. Variation and complexity are what we should expect, not stereotyped simplicity. Clifford Geertz’s historical reconstruction of the “theatre state” of Bali is a case in point—he uncovers a complex system of governance, symbol, value, and hierarchy that represents a substantially different structure of politics than the models derived from the emergence of bureaucratic states in early modern Europe (Geertz 1980). A global history needs to free itself from Eurocentrism.

This step away from Eurocentrism in outlook should also be accompanied by a broadening of the geographical range of what is historically interesting. So a global history ought to be global and trans-national in its selection of topics—even while recognizing the fact that all historical research is selective. A globally oriented historian will recognize that the political systems of classical India are as interesting and complex as the organization of the Roman Republic.

An important current underlying much work in global history is the reality of colonialism through the nineteenth and twentieth centuries, and the equally important reality of anti-colonial struggles and nation building in the 1960s and 1970s. “The world” was important in the early-modern capitals of Great Britain, France, Germany, and Belgium because those nations exerted colonial rule in various parts of Africa, Asia, and South America. So there was a specific interest in gaining certain kinds of knowledge about those societies—in order to better govern them and exploit them. And post-colonial states had a symmetrical interest in supporting global historiography in their own universities and knowledge systems, in order to better understand and better critique the forming relations of the past.

A final way in which history needs to become global is to incorporate the perspectives and historical traditions of historians in non-western countries into the mainstream of discussion of major world developments. Indian and Chinese historians have their own intellectual traditions in conducting historical research and explanation; a global history is one that pays attention to the insights and arguments of these traditions. So global historiography has to do with a broadened definition of the arena of historical change to include Europe, Asia, Africa, the Middle East, and the Americas; a recognition of the complexity and sophistication of institutions and systems in many parts of the world; a recognition of the trans-national interrelatedness that has existed among continents for at least four centuries; and a recognition of the complexity and distinctiveness of different national traditions of historiography

Dominic Sachsenmaier provides a significant recent discussion of some of these issues (Sachsenmaier 2011). Sachsenmaier devotes much of his attention to the last point mentioned here, the “multiple global perspectives” point. He wants to take this idea seriously and try to discover some of the implications of different national traditions of academic historiography. He writes, “It will become quite clear that in European societies the question of historiographical traditions tended to be answered in ways that were profoundly different from most academic communities in other parts of the world” (17).

As should be clear from these remarks, there is a degree of overlap between historiography and the philosophy of history in the fact that both are concerned with identifying and evaluating the standards of reasoning that are used in various historical traditions. That said, historiography is generally more descriptive and less evaluative than the philosophy of history. And it is more concerned with the specifics of research and writing than is the philosophy of history.

Every period presents challenges for the historian, and every period raises problems for historiography and the philosophy of history. The twentieth century is exceptional, however, even by this standard. Events of truly global significance occurred from beginning to end. War, totalitarianism, genocide, mass starvation, ideologies of murder and extermination, and states that dominated their populations with unprecedented violence all transpired during the century. The Holocaust (Snyder 2010, 2015), the Holodomor (Applebaum 2017), the Gulag (Applebaum 2003), and the cultural and ideological premises of the Nazi regime (Rabinbach et al 2020) have all presented historians with major new challenges of research, framing, and understanding. How should historians seek to come to grips with these complex and horrifying circumstances? These occurrences were highly complex and extended and often hidden: many thousands of active participants, many groups and populations, millions of victims, conflicting purposes and goals, new organizations and institutions, numerous ideologies. Moreover, through too many of these novelties is woven the theme of evil – deliberate destruction, degradation, and murder of masses of innocent human beings. The historian of virtually any aspect of the twentieth century is confronted with great problems of frame-setting, explanatory purpose, and moral reflection.

These facts about the twentieth century raise problems for the philosophy of history for several reasons. They challenge historians to consider the depth, detail, and human experience that the historian must convey of the events and experiences that war, genocide, and totalitarianism imposed on millions of people. The discovery and truthful documentation of the extent and lived experience of these crimes is a painful but crucial necessity. Second, historians are forced to reflect on the assumptions they bring to their research and interpretations – assumptions about geography, political causation, individual motivation, and behavior resulting in these crimes. Third, historians must reconsider and sharpen their hypotheses about causation of these vast and extended crimes against humanity. Fourth, it appears inescapable that historians have a human responsibility to contribute to worldwide changes in culture, memory, and politics in ways that make genocide and totalitarian oppression less likely in the future.

The ways in which historians have sought to understand the Holocaust have undergone important historical realignment in the past twenty years. Raul Hilberg (1961) and Lucy Dawidowicz (1975) captured much of the postwar historical consensus about the Holocaust. However, recent historians have offered new ways of thinking about the Nazi plan of extermination. Timothy Snyder (2010, 2015) argues that the Nazi war of extermination against the Jews has been importantly misunderstood—too centered on Germany, when the majority of genocide and murder occurred further east, in the lands that he calls the “bloodlands” of central Europe (Poland, Latvia, Lithuania, Ukraine, the Soviet Union); largely focused on extermination camps, whereas most killing of Jews occurred near the cities and villages where they lived, and most commonly by gunfire; insufficiently attentive to the relationship between extermination of people and destruction of the institutions of state in subject countries; and without sufficient attention to Hitler’s own worldview, within which the Nazi war of extermination against Europe’s Jews was framed. Alexander Prusin (2010) conceptualizes the topic of mass murder in the period 1933–1945 in much the same geographical terms. Like Snyder, Prusin defines his subject matter as a region rather than a nation or collection of nations. The national borders that exist within the region are of less importance in his account than the facts of ethnic, religious, and community disparities that are evident across the region. Thus both historians argue that we need to understand the geography of the Holocaust differently. Snyder believes that these attempts at refocusing the way we understand the Holocaust lead to a new assessment: bad as we thought the Holocaust was, it was much, much worse.

Another strand of re-thinking that has occurred in the study of the Holocaust concerns a renewed focus on the motivations of the ordinary people who participated in the machinery of mass murder. A major field of research into ordinary behavior during the Holocaust was made possible by the availability of investigative files concerning the actions of a Hamburg police unit that was assigned special duties as “Order Police” in Poland in 1940. These duties amounted to collecting and massacring large numbers of Jewish men, women, and children. Christopher Browning (1992) and Daniel Goldhagen (1996) made extensive use of investigatory files and testimonies of the men of Reserve Police Battalion 101. Both books came to shocking conclusions: very ordinary, middle-aged, apolitical men of the police unit picked up the work of murder and extermination with zeal and efficiency. They were not coerced, they were not indoctrinated, and they were not deranged; and yet they turned to the work of mass murder with enthusiasm. A small percentage of the men of the unit declined the shooting assignments, but the great majority did not. Another important example of research on ordinary people committing mass murder is Jan Gross’s (2001) case study of a single massacre of Jews in Jedwabne, a small Polish town during the Nazi occupation, but not ordered or directed by the German occupation. Instead, this was a local, indigenous action by non-Jewish residents in the town who gathered up their Jewish neighbors and then murdered large numbers of them. Gross’s account has stimulated much debate, but Anna Bikont (2015) validates almost every detail of Gross’s original narrative.

As a different example, consider now the history of the Gulag in the Soviet Union. Anne Applebaum (2003) provides a detailed and honest history of the Gulag and its role in maintaining Soviet dictatorship. Stalin’s dictatorship depended on a leader, a party, and a set of institutions that worked to terrorize and repress the population of the USSR. The NKVD (the system of internal security police that enforced Stalin’s repression), a justice system that was embodied in the Moscow Show Trials of 1936–38, and especially the system of forced labor and prison camps that came to be known as the Gulag constituted the machinery of repression through which a population of several hundred million people were controlled, imprisoned, and repressed. Further, like the Nazi regime, Stalin used the slave labor of the camps to contribute to the economic output of the Soviet economy. Applebaum estimates that roughly two million prisoners inhabited several thousand camps of the Gulag at a time in the 1940s, and that as many as 18 million people had passed through the camps by 1953 (Applebaum 2003: 13). The economic role of the Gulag was considerable; significant portions of Soviet-era mining, logging, and manufacturing took place within the forced labor camps of the Gulag (13). Applebaum makes a crucial and important point about historical knowledge in her history of the Gulag: the inherent incompleteness of historical understanding and the mechanisms of overlooking and forgetting that get in the way of historical honesty. The public outside the USSR did not want to know about these realities. Applebaum notes that public knowledge of the camps in the West was available, but was de-dramatized and treated as a fairly minor part of the reality of the USSR. The reality—that the USSR embodied and depended upon a massive set of concentrations camps where millions of people were enslaved and sometimes killed—was never a major part of the Western conception of the USSR. She comments, "far more common, however, is a reaction of boredom or indifference to Stalinist terror" (18). Wide knowledge in the West of the scope and specific human catastrophe of the Gulag was first made available by Aleksandr Isayevich Solzhenitsyn (1974).

Similar references could be offered concerning Stalin’s war on the kulaks in the Ukraine (1930s), mass starvation in China (1958–61), the widespread violence of the Cultural Revolution in China (1966–1976), and the use of violence in the American South to enforce Jim Crow-era race relations (1930s–1960s). In each case terrible things took place on a wide scale, and barriers exist that make it difficult for historians and the public to come to know the details of these periods.

The twentieth century poses one additional challenge for the historian because it falls within the human memories of the living generation of historians grappling with its intricacies. When Tony Judt writes (2006) about the fall of Ceaușescu in Romania in 1989, or Timothy Snyder (2010) writes about the murderous actions of German order police in Ukraine in 1940, or Marc Bloch (1949) writes about the “strange defeat” of France in 1940, they are writing about events for which they themselves, or their parents, or Poles and Ukrainian Jews with whom they can interact, have direct lived experiences and memories. Timothy Snyder’s style of historical writing suggests that the nearness in time of the killings in the bloodlands both supports and warrants an especially personal and individual approach; thus Snyder’s use of many individual stories of victims of the killings of peasants, Jews, and other human victims of the killing machines of Hitler and Stalin suggests that he believes it is important for the historian to make an effort to convey the individual meanings of these events affecting millions of people. How does this accessibility of the recent past affect the problems facing the historian? Does it influence the ways in which historians select events, causes, and actions as “crucial”? Does this experiential access through living memory provide a more secure form of historical evidence than other sources available to the historian? Does it give rise to an experiential content and detail to historical writing that solve an interpretive problem for the reader – for example, how to put oneself in the position of a Ukrainian peasant slowly starving to death? Did the stories told in the Judt household in London in 1942 about beloved cousins then facing deadly threats in Brussels shape the historical consciousness of the adult historian (Judt and Snyder 2012)? Did Marc Bloch’s own experience as a French army officer in defeat at Dunkirk influence the way that he understood war and violence? Access to individuals who lived through the Holodomor or the Spanish Civil War is of course valuable historical evidence. Here too, however, Marc Bloch has important insights, for Bloch specifically challenges the idea that participants have an inherently more reliable or complete form of knowledge than more temporally distant historians (1953: chapter II). Memories and personal accounts are valuable for the historian, but equally, historians have access to other forms of historical evidence (archaeological, archival, government records, …) which may be comparably important and epistemically secure in attempting to piece together the complex history of Stalin’s war on the Ukrainian peasantry.

These topics in twentieth-century history create an important reminder for historians and for philosophers: a truthful understanding of inhuman atrocity is deeply important for humanity, and it is difficult to attain. We learn from Judt, Snyder, and Applebaum that there are powerful mechanisms of deception and forgetting that stand in the way of an honest accounting of these periods of the recent human past. Discovering and telling the truth about our past is the highest and most important moral imperative that history conveys.

As the previous section suggests, there is an ethical dimension involved in the quest for historical knowledge. Historians have obligations of truthfulness and objectivity; peoples have obligations of honest recognition; and nations have obligations of memory and reconciliation.

Historians themselves have obligations of truthfulness and objectivity in the accounts they provide of the past. This topic has occupied much of the discussion of history and ethics in the past few years (Fay 2004). Much of this discussion has centered on the intellectual virtues to which historians need to aspire, such as truthfulness, objectivity, and persistence (Creyghton et al 2016, Paul 2015). Perhaps more generally, we might argue that historians have an obligation to deliberately and actively include those aspects of the past for further research that are the most morally troublesome—for example, the origins and experience of slavery during the eighteenth century in the American South, or the role of the Gulag in the Soviet Union in the twentieth century. We may reasonably fault the historian of the American South in the nineteenth century who confines her investigation to the economics of the cotton industry without examining the role of slavery in that industry, or the historian of the USSR who studies the institutions of engineering research in the 1950s while ignoring the fact of forced labor camps. Historians have an obligation to squarely confront the hard truths of their subject matter.

There is a broader ethical question to ask about history that goes beyond the professional ethics of the historian to the responsibilities of the public in relation to its own history. The facts of genocide and other crimes against humanity make it clear that there are moral reasons for believing that all of humanity has a moral responsibility to attempt to discover our past with honesty and exactness. In particular, the facts of past horrific actions (genocide, mass repression, slavery, suppression of ethnic minorities, dictatorship) create a moral responsibility for historians and the public alike to uncover the details, causes, and consequences of those actions.

The thread of honesty and truthfulness runs through all of these ethical issues. Tony Judt (1992) argues that a people or nation at a point in time have a collective responsibility to face the facts of its own history honestly and without mythology. Judt’s points can be distilled into a few key ideas. Knowledge of the past matters in the present; being truthful about the past is a key responsibility for all of us. Standing in the way of honest recognition is the fact that oppressors and tyrants are invariably interested in concealing their culpability, while “innocent citizens” are likewise inclined to minimize their own involvement in the crimes of their governments. The result is "myth-making", according to Judt. Anna Wylegala (2017) illustrates the moral importance and complexity of this kind of investigation with regard to collective memory in post-1991 Ukraine. The history of the twentieth century has shown itself to be especially prone to myth-making, whether about resistance to Nazi occupation or refusal to collaborate with Soviet-installed regimes in Poland or Czechoslovakia. Judt (1992) argues that a very pervasive process of myth-making and forgetting has been a deep part of the narrative-making in post-war Europe. But, Judt argues, bad myths give rise eventually to bad collective behavior—more conflict, more tyranny, more violence. So the work of honest history is crucial to humanity’s ability to achieve a better future. Judt expresses throughout his work a credo of truth-telling about the past: we have a weighty obligation to discover, represent, and understand the circumstances of our past, even when those facts are deeply unpalatable. Myth-making about the past is not only bad history and bad politics, it is morally deficient.

This observation brings us to a final way in which moral questions arise in the context of honest history. The crimes of the past have consequences in the present. The facts of trans-Atlantic slavery continue to have consequences for millions of descendants of the men and women who were transported from Africa to the Americas; the facts of the Rwandan genocide have consequences for the living victims of these mass killings and their kin; and the fact of colonial exploitation of the Congo or southern Africa has consequences for the current poverty of much of Africa. Does knowledge of the crimes of the past create for the current generation an obligation of engagement in contributing actively to healing those wounds in the present and preventing their recurrence in the future? Does “truth and reconciliation” require more than simply recognizing ugly truths about the past? Does it require that we act differently, individually and collectively? It is of course a tragic and immutable reality of the human condition that the past cannot be changed; the murdered cannot be unmurdered, and the primary perpetrators of horrific crimes within a few generations are certainly beyond the reach of justice. The future is deeply contingent, while the past is fixed and unchangeable. But does this immutability imply that the present generation has no obligations created by past crimes? Or rather, does knowing the truth about our past create for us the obligation to learn from those tragic human actions how to avoid such crimes in the future? Does honest knowledge of the human crimes of the past bring with it an obligation to strive in good faith to address the consequences of those crimes in the present? Finally, can knowledge of history help us to become more empathetic, more just, and more farsighted in our dealings with each other in the grand affairs that make up future history? One would hope so; and perhaps this is the most pressing moral obligation of all that is created by our recognition of our own historicity.

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• Skinner, G. William, 1977. “Regional Urbanization in Nineteenth-Century China”, in In The City in Late Imperial China , G. W. Skinner (ed.), Stanford: Stanford University Press, p. 211–249.
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• Snyder, Timothy, 2010. Bloodlands: Europe between Hitler and Stalin , New York: Basic Books.
• –––, 2015. Black Earth: The Holocaust as history and warning , New York: Tim Duggan Books.
• Solzhenitsyn, Aleksandr Isaevich, 1974. The Gulag Archipelago, 1918–1956: An Experiment in Literary Investigation , New York: Harper & Row.
• Spengler, Oswald, and Charles Francis Atkinson, 1934. The decline of the west , New York: A.A. Knopf.
• Taylor, Charles, 1975. Hegel , Cambridge; New York: Cambridge University Press.
• –––, 1985. “Interpretation and the Sciences of Man”, in Philosophy and the Human Sciences: Philosophical Papers 2 , C. Taylor (ed.), Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, pp. 15–57.
• Toynbee, Arnold Joseph, 1934. A study of history , London: Oxford University Press.
• Tucker, Aviezer (ed.), 2009. A companion to the philosophy of history and historiography , Chichester, U.K., Malden, MA: Wiley-Blackwell.
• Vico, Giambattista, 1725. The first new science , L. Pompa (ed.), Cambridge texts in the history of political thought , Cambridge, New York: Cambridge University Press, 2002.
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How to cite this entry . Preview the PDF version of this entry at the Friends of the SEP Society . Look up topics and thinkers related to this entry at the Internet Philosophy Ontology Project (InPhO). Enhanced bibliography for this entry at PhilPapers , with links to its database.

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• UnderstandingSociety , maintained by Daniel Little (University of Michigan-Dearborn).

Berlin, Isaiah | Dilthey, Wilhelm | Hegel, Georg Wilhelm Friedrich | Hempel, Carl | Herder, Johann Gottfried von | hermeneutics | -->historiography --> | Ricoeur, Paul | Vico, Giambattista

Acknowledgments

Acknowledgement is offered to Christopher Bouton for valuable feedback on section 2.5.

Copyright © 2020 by Daniel Little < delittle @ umd . umich . edu >

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• Writing History: Past Tense versus Present Tense

Earlier this week, I wrote about verb tense and knowing when to use past perfect tense in historical writing . This was in response to Laura asking me for a post on verb tense in historical writing. Thanks again to Laura for the great suggestion for a series of posts!

This time, we’re going to focus on whether it’s okay to use present tense in historical writing, which generates a lot of debate and controversy within history writing circles.

Past or present?

When I was getting a history degree as an undergraduate, I was always taught to write my history papers in the past tense. This was true for term papers, as well as for the sizeable seminar paper I was required to submit as the capstone for my degree.

This requirement differed from what I’d always been taught in literature classes, which was to discuss texts in present tense. So, in a literature paper, no matter how old of a text that I was analyzing, I always wrote about it in the present tense.

As someone who double-majored in both English and history, I’ll confess to sometimes confusing myself when I was working on papers in each discipline, but the requirements make sense for each field. For historians, traditionally, the past is the past, and writing about it now doesn’t make it become the present. On the flip side, literature studies approach their field from a less time-dependent perspective—the elements that one can analyze from a text are not constrained by the time period in which you’re writing.

So, I learned pretty quickly to write about novels and short stories and poems in present tense for literature classes and then write about historical events and primary and secondary sources in past tense for my history classes. Sometimes, that meant writing about novels in past tense for history classes.

In recent years, though, it’s been increasingly more common for historians and historical nonfiction writers to use present tense, which is referred to as historical present when applied to events that happened in the past. Chicago Manual of Style , the default style guide for American publishing, has no objection to the use of historical present.

As you can imagine, this change in approach to tense is not universally accepted.

Battle lines are drawn

If you do a deep dive on the internet about present tense in historical nonfiction writing, you will find a lot of strong opinions on both sides.

What both sides agree on (but very much disagree on the desirability of) is that present tense brings an immediacy to discussions of the past that past tense doesn’t.

Let’s look at our examples from last time when we were playing around with past versus present tense.

“Hitler invaded Poland in September 1939” versus “Hitler invades Poland in September 1939.”

“In 1953, Sir Edmund Hillary and Tenzing Norgay successfully summited Everest” versus “In 1953, Sir Edmund Hillary and Tenzing Norgay successfully summit Everest.”

“General Pickett’s men advanced against Cemetery Ridge” versus “General Pickett’s men advance against Cemetery Ridge.”

For proponents of present tense, the advantage here is that it puts you, the reader, right there and makes the event more vivid and immediate to you, no matter how many years, decades, or centuries have passed since then. You’re right there as tanks roll through Poland, as Hillary and Norgay set foot on the highest mountain in the world, and as soldiers start advancing across a brutal battlefield.

It’s a standard narrative technique, and they see no reason not to employ it to draw readers in.

For opponents of present tense, the problem is that you’re not there and never will be, no matter how much you use present tense. For them, it seems distracting and gimmicky and can also even convey a lack of neutrality and distance that historical writing often strives for. It’s essentially too informal and excited sounding.  

Should I use present or past tense when I’m writing history?

For me, personally, my inclination is to write history in past tense. That’s what I was taught to do, and I don’t think there’s anything inherently wrong or even boring about past tense. As someone who also has a background in literature and is very interested in applying fictional techniques to nonfiction narrative, though, I can also see the argument in favor of how immediately gripping present tense can be.

My advice, therefore, would depend on the context of your writing—for whom are you writing?

If you’re writing for a general audience, they’re unlikely to have strong opinions on what tense you use, and they may be in need of more persuading to read history. In that case, present tense likely won’t cause you any problems and may even be a selling point for some of those reluctant readers. Be aware, though, that some people who aren’t historians are also not a fan of present tense. They trip over it for the same reason some historians dislike it–they feel like it’s an artificial attempt to make something seem like it’s happening now and they can’t suspend their disbelief to roll with it.

If you’re writing for an audience of historians or history buffs, they likely do have strong opinions on using past versus present tense and are already motivated to read history for the sake of history. In that case, erring on the side of caution and sticking with past tense is your safest bet and can even make you seem more professional. Fans of historical present may not be pleased, but you’re not technically doing anything wrong by following the traditional convention here.

Who’s publishing you is also worth considering for this issue. If you’re working with a history publisher, they may well have a marked preference, so it’s worth asking or checking for press-specific guidelines to see if they explain their stance on tense. More general interest publishers are unlikely to be as opinionated—though they might be—and will often default to Chicago Manual of Style , which, as noted earlier, isn’t opposed to present tense for past events. For self-publishing, likely audience is your best bet for determining whether to use past or present tense in writing about history.

Your purpose for writing may also play into your decision on which tense to use and will likely intersect with your decision on the intended audience. If your primary purpose is to provide a narrative about history, present tense may help you bring those events to life quite vividly. If your primary purpose is to analyze, however, present tense may not strike the right academic tone like past tense would. As a rule, though there are some exceptions, a focus on narrative also suggests what you’re working on is likely targeted toward a more general audience than something that’s primary purpose is analysis, which again would make present tense more likely to work for the former and past tense more appropriate for the latter.

Is present tense ever okay in historical writing for people who don’t like historical present?

Most of the heated discussions that break out about tense (I resisted the urge to make a pun about tense arguments since I already used that in the last post 😊 ) relate specifically to talking about the past.

There are times when present tense is unavoidable in historical writing, and in these instances, even people who are not fans of historical present don’t object to using present tense in these scenarios.

One of these instances is if something is still a matter of current fact. Even if you talk about the invasion of Poland in 1939 in past tense, you wouldn’t say “Warsaw was in Poland.” It’s still in Poland today, just as it was in 1939, so you’d use present tense there: “Warsaw is in Poland.” If you’re dealing with a historical context that has had fluid boundaries, then switching tense may even help clarify that for readers. (For example: “Today, Lviv is part of Ukraine, but in 1939, it was in Poland and called Lwów.”)

Providing one’s own conclusions is also a valid reason to use present tense in historical writing that is otherwise using past tense. So, in a hypothetical discussion of the start of World War II, the conclusions you’re arguing for are when you’d switch to present tense. It’s also okay to discuss contemporary research in present tense, as well as effects of the past that continue into the present day. Again, these aren’t scenarios where you’re writing about the past anymore. In these instances, you’re writing about contemporary effects, thoughts, and arguments, so present tense makes sense. Past tense may even seem odd and stilted in these moments.

I’ve not decided on the next topic I’ll write about it. I have a couple of different topics I’m considering, but I’m also open to suggestions. Are there any questions you have about writing that you’d like me to answer?

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No, Taylor Swift Did Not Endorse Donald Trump. A Look Back at the Pop Star’s Actual Political History

Taylor Swift isn’t new to the fight against predatory AI , and unfortunately, she’s about to get a lot more practice. On Sunday, former president and 2024 Republican nominee Donald Trump posted fake right-wing AI-generated images of Swift (including one of Swift in an Uncle Sam outfit urging her fans to vote for Trump, to which Trump responded “I accept”) on his social media channel, Truth Social. He also posted several screenshots of AI-generated Swift “fans” wearing “Swifties for Trump” tee shirts.

These photos are creepy and obviously fake. (I know Trump just survived an assassination attempt , but I don’t think he understands how the Tree Paine of it all is about to hit him.) But between the increasing sophistication of AI and the relative lack of information out there about Swift’s current political views, some explanation is warranted. To clear the matter up, find a full explanation of Swift’s political history below, and please note that it contains zero Trumpian dalliances.

Who did Swift endorse for president in 2020?

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Swift officially endorsed Joe Biden for president in 2020, shouting out vice president (and current 2024 Democratic nominee) Kamala Harris ’s debate performance and telling V magazine : “The change we need most is to elect a president who recognizes that people of color deserve to feel safe and represented, that women deserve the right to choose what happens to their bodies, and that the LGBTQIA+ community deserves to be acknowledged and included.” True to form, Swift even celebrated with custom Biden cookies!

What about 2016?

Well…to be completely honest, there isn’t much to report about Swift’s public political allegiances before 2018, the year when Swift endorsed former Tennessee Gov. Phil Bredesen—a Democrat—in his senatorial race against Republican Marsha Blackburn in Swift’s home state. “In the past I’ve been reluctant to publicly voice my political opinions, but due to several events in my life and in the world in the past two years, I feel very differently about that now,” Swift wrote on Instagram at the time, adding: I always have and always will cast my vote based on which candidate will protect and fight for the human rights I believe we all deserve in this country."

What political issues has Swift been outspoken about?

Swift has posted publicly in support of the youth gun control group March for Our Lives and the pro-LGBTQ+ Equality Act, referred to Trump's presidency as an “autocracy” in 2019, and describes herself as “obviously pro-choice.” Swift has also advocated for the removal of Confederate statues in Tennessee, lamented the 2022 overturning of Roe v. Wade and allowed her song “ Only the Young ” to be used in a political ad for California Democrat Eric Swalwell’s 2020 re-election campaign.

How has Swift’s involvement affected political engagement in the past?

California governor Gavin Newsom said last year that Swift’s influence on the 2024 presidential election would be “profoundly powerful,” and while Swift hasn’t backed a candidate as of yet, a Harris-Walz endorsement seems imminent. Swift’s fanbase, though broad, certainly skews progressive. “If an election was held today, and there were only two candidates on the ballot, 69% of Swift Fans would vote for Biden, 21% Trump, and 10% are unsure,” a recent report from the polling firm Change Research found, also noting that Swifties’ top political priorities included abortion bans, gun violence, climate change, and high healthcare costs.

Hey, if “Swiftonomics” really are boosting the global economy, who’s to say a dedicated and loyal band of Swifties can't effect meaningful political change? After all, on National Voting Day in 2023, a single Instagram story from Swift asking fans to register to vote at Vote.org brought in nearly 35,000 newly registered voters.

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More From Forbes

‘black myth: wukong’ blows past elden ring, cyberpunk 2077 steam records.

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Black Myth: Wukong

At the time of this writing, Black Myth: Wukong has already become the fourth most concurrently played game in Steam history with 2.215 million players at the moment . By the time I’m finished with this article, who knows.

The monster launch of Black Myth: Wukong is a surprise even for those expecting the game to do well, and the reason these numbers are this high is fairly obvious.

While certainly many in the west will play Wukong themselves, it’s hard to overstate just how massive this game always was going to be in China among its population of 1.4 billion. Black Myth: Wukong is made by Chinese developer Game Science and inspired by a legendary Chinese novel, Journey to the West, written in the 16th century.

This is not including any other platforms, so the totals are no doubt much higher, but from Steam tracking alone, Black Myth: Wukong is now the most-played single-player game ever, surpassing both Elden Ring and Cyberpunk 2077. Here’s the all-time list as it stands right now. I’ve already had to change the number earlier in this post because it jumped another 600,000 by the time I’m circling back to this article a few hours later.:

• PUBG – 3.257 million players
• Black Myth: Wukong – 2.215 million players
• Palword – 2.101 million players
• Counter-Strike 2 – 1.818 million players
• Lost Ark – 1.325 million players
• Dota 2 – 1.295 million players
• Cyberpunk: 2077 – 1.054 million players
• Elden Ring – 953,000 players
• Banana – 917,000 players
• New World – 913,634

Nicolas Cage’s ‘Longlegs’ Gets Digital Streaming Premiere Date

Today’s nyt mini crossword clues and answers for wednesday, august 21, who is kenneth chenault former amex ceo endorses ‘pro-business’ kamala harris at dnc.

I expect this will move past Counter-Strike 2 possibly soon, as it’s now 7 PM in China, prime gaming time. Palworld seems possible, and this may indeed hit #2. (Update: it did). That would be double Cyberpunk and Elden Ring’s totals, not simply topping them.

Whether today is the peak or it gets an even higher surge on the weekend, that remains to be seen. This is a single player game and will not have a long tail, but this week will be and has already been crazy in terms of playercount and no doubt, sales, as this is a fully priced title unlike many of the other games on this list. Taking that into account, it would no doubt be #1 in copies sold on Steam, from the looks of it, at least in this initial time window.

Black Myth: Wukong arrived with a solid 82 on Metacritic from mostly Western outlets. There has been some measure of controversy about reported sexism at Game Science, and recently, an email was circulated to creators asking them not to talk about COVID-19, Chinese industry policies or “feminist propaganda” in exchange for a free code.

Of course none of this matters in China, and has not put a dent in sales. Wukong has been hyped to an insane degree over there and we are now seeing the fruits of that here. It remains to be seen just how high this thing is going to go.

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From Biden to Gabbard, here’s what Harris’ past debates show before a faceoff with Trump

FILE - Former Vice President Joe Biden, left, listens as Sen. Kamala Harris, D-Calif., speaks during a Democratic presidential primary debates, July 31, 2019, in Detroit. (AP Photo/Paul Sancya, File)

FILE - Sen. Kamala Harris, D-Calif., left, questions President Donald Trump’s Supreme Court nominee, Brett Kavanaugh at his Senate Judiciary Committee confirmation hearing on Capitol Hill in Washington, Sept. 5, 2018. (AP Photo/Jacquelyn Martin, File)

FILE - Rep. Tulsi Gabbard, D-Hawaii, speaks during a Democratic presidential primary debate, July 31, 2019, in Detroit. (AP Photo/Paul Sancya, File)

FILE - Democratic presidential nominee Vice President Kamala Harris speaks at a campaign rally, Aug. 7, 2024, in Romulus, Mich. (AP Photo/Carlos Osorio, File)

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WASHINGTON (AP) — Vice President Kamala Harris has repeatedly taunted her opponent’s seeming reluctance to debate, telling a series of raucous audiences about Donald Trump’s criticisms of her: “As the saying goes, if you’ve got something to say, say it to my face.”

After first backing out of an agreement, Trump reversed himself and said he’d meet Harris on Sept. 10 for an event hosted by ABC. That sets up a long-anticipated faceoff between the Democratic and Republican nominees — and, indeed, the chance for both of them to deliver their attack lines directly at one another.

Sharing a stage with Trump presents a critical chance for Harris to define herself and her opponent in a truncated campaign, with many open questions about her policy positions. But it also sets up a major test — one that President Joe Biden failed badly enough that he ended his campaign and made way for her .

A former San Francisco district attorney and California attorney general, Harris has long presented her debating prowess as a strength, and her sharp questioning of opponents has produced many a career highlight. But she has also had testy exchanges that didn’t play as well.

“She’s certainly had a good rollout in the past few weeks and that will naturally translate to expectations on the debate stage,” said Aaron Kall, director of the University of Michigan’s debate program. “Part of the problem is, President Biden did so poorly in the first one, there’s no way she could do worse, and so that comparison is not going to help. But her debate history is a mixed bag.”

Trump faces high expectations too. And Biden’s disastrous performance helped obscure that the former president delivered many falsehoods — from lies about the Jan. 6 riot to misleading claims about abortion and immigration — that went unchecked during the debate.

Two Democratic primary moments offer insight into how Harris debates

Perhaps the pinnacle of Harris’ short-lived 2020 presidential campaign was a broadside against then-candidate Biden , who later made her his running mate anyway. She seized on Biden opposing busing to integrate public schools in the 1970s by describing a young girl who boarded such buses before offering, “That little girl was me.”

It was memorable but also planned. Harris’ campaign then posted the same phrase on social media over a picture of its candidate as a school-aged girl in pigtails.

But a low moment of Harris’ same campaign came at a subsequent debate. Another rival, former Rep. Tulsi Gabbard of Hawaii, launched a lengthy attack on Harris’ prosecutorial record.

Sen. Kamala Harris, D-Calif., left, questions President Donald Trump’s Supreme Court nominee, Brett Kavanaugh at his Senate Judiciary Committee confirmation hearing on Capitol Hill in Washington, Sept. 5, 2018. (AP Photo/Jacquelyn Martin, File)

Gabbard said Harris “put over 1,500 people in jail for marijuana violations and then laughed about it when she was asked if she ever smoked marijuana.” With the audience roaring, Gabbard further accused Harris of having “blocked evidence that would have freed an innocent man from death row until the courts forced her to do so.”

Gabbard now says she was surprised that Harris’ record hadn’t been more carefully scrutinized during the primary. She said she uncovered the issues she raised not with opposition research, but by using Google.

“I was surprised at how unprepared she was to respond to them. Just from, you know, I would imagine that you’d prepare before going into a debate,” Gabbard said in an interview. “And also that she made no attempt to deny them or frankly justify them, if she was proud of those decisions.”

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“Ultimately this is disrespectful to voters, if she’s not responding to, or addressing, questions about a record that she claims to be proud of,” she added.

In her response on the debate stage, Harris attempted to dismiss Gabbard, saying, “I am proud of making a decision to not just give fancy speeches, or be in a legislative body and give speeches on the floor, but actually doing the work.”

She got even more personal after the debate, calling herself a “top-tier candidate” while suggesting that Gabbard was polling at “0 or 1% or whatever she might be at.” At a subsequent debate, Harris hit back, saying Gabbard had spent years “full time on Fox News criticizing President Obama.”

Ironically, Gabbard, who has served as a Fox News contributor, remained in the presidential race long after Harris had dropped out.

Harris can show defiance in confrontational moments

Sometimes flashing a touch of defiance can work.

Harris first established a national reputation as being especially verbally nimble while questioning Trump’s nominee for attorney general, William Barr, and his pick for the Supreme Court, Brett Kavanaugh.

After Kavanaugh repeatedly sidestepped abortion questions, Harris demanded to know if he could think of “any laws that give the government the power to make decisions about the male body?” forcing Kavanaugh to concede, “I am not thinking of any right now.”

Kall, of the University of Michigan, said Harris’ 2020 debate performance against Republican Vice President Mike Pence was also well-received. Her most memorable line then was probably rebuking Pence’s interruptions by retorting, “Mr. Vice President, I am speaking.”

She used that line again when protesters decrying the Biden administration’s support for Israel’s war with Hamas in Gaza interrupted Harris at a rally this past week near Detroit’s airport . The vice president was at first accommodating, saying, “I am here because I believe in democracy, and everybody’s voice matters.”

But she then continued, “I am speaking now,” drawing sustained applause from rallygoers before adding, “If you want Donald Trump to win, then say that. Otherwise, I’m speaking.”

“Abandon Biden,” a progressive group that has opposed the president’s now-defunct reelection bid over his Israel policy, bristled at Harris’ “disdain for citizens of this country who are pleading for an end to a genocide.”

Cullen Tiernan, who was a spokesperson for Gabbard’s 2020 campaign, spent hours in debate prep with the then-congresswoman before the on-stage exchange with Harris. He played one of her other primary rivals, Tim Ryan , and laughed about “coastal elites starting being a big problem for me,” latching onto one of Ryan’s catchphrases.

Now a political activist based in New Hampshire, Tiernan said he saw parallels between Harris’ debate stage reaction to Gabbard’s criticisms and the interruption in Michigan — but not in a good way.

“As a progressive person, I’m looking for change and empathy, and understanding about what’s happening,” he said. “Not gaslighting, and feeling like the reality that is being discussed never existed.”

Gabbard said she hoped a Trump-Harris debate would showcase for voters the huge differences between the candidates.

“Given the history of many presidential elections, unfortunately, political theater is the norm,” she said. “But that substantive debate is really what we need and what we deserve right now.”

Watch CBS News

The evolution of Kamala Harris' stances on single-payer health care, fracking and the Supreme Court

By Kathryn Watson

August 15, 2024 / 1:39 PM EDT / CBS News

When then-Sen. Kamala Harris was running for the 2020 Democratic nomination for president with one of the most liberal voting records in the Senate, hers was a long-shot candidacy.

But now, less than five years later, as the Democratic presidential nominee, Harris is moderating some of her more controversial policy positions. 

With barely 80 days to go until Election Day, Harris is likely to need independent voters to prevail in a competitive race against former President Donald Trump in the general election this fall. She's spent 3.5 years in the executive branch examining and reconsidering some of her policy stances, and there have been some shifts. 

"The vice president's positions have been shaped by three years of effective governance as part of the Biden-Harris administration," a Harris campaign adviser said. Less than a month into her presidential candidacy, Harris and her advisers are still working on the major positions and policy initiatives she'll unveil over the course of the campaign.

Trump, who has shifted his own policy stances through the years on issues like abortion, mail-in voting  and more, is calling Harris a "chameleon." 

A month into her sudden presidential campaign, Harris has so far offered little new in the way of policy. But she has shifted her stances on a handful of issues since she first ran for president. A campaign spokesperson described Harris' approach as "pragmatic," contrasting her with Trump's "extreme ideas in his Project 2025 agenda." 

"It is that approach that made it possible for the Biden-Harris administration to achieve bipartisan breakthroughs on everything from infrastructure to gun violence prevention," Harris campaign spokesperson Mia Ehrenberg said. "As president, she will take that same pragmatic approach, focusing on common-sense solutions for the sake of progress."

Single-payer health care and "Medicare for all"

During her 2019 campaign, Harris' position on the future of private health insurance was sometimes confusing. Joe Biden's campaign manager at the time, Kate Bedingfield, said of Harris that she had a "long and confusing pattern of equivocating about (her) stance on health care in America."

During a primary debate in 2019, Harris raised her hand when moderators asked candidates if they would get rid of private health insurance. She quickly walked that back, saying that no, she would not work to eliminate private health insurance. 

Earlier that year, in April 2019, Harris co-sponsored Sen. Bernie Sanders' "Medicare for All" bill , which would have ended private health insurance and replaced it with a single government-run insurer for everyone in America.

Harris released a health care plan in 2019 that would have put the U.S. on a path to government-backed health insurance over 10 years but would not totally eliminating private health insurance. 

"We will allow private insurers to offer Medicare plans as part of this system that adhere to strict Medicare requirements on costs and benefits," Harris said at the time. "Medicare will set the rules of the road for these plans, including price and quality, and private insurance companies will play by those rules, not the other way around."

Harris will not push for single-payer government health insurance as president, according to a campaign official. 

The vice president plans to work on bringing down health care prices by other means, including the administration's current efforts to have Medicare negotiate with drug manufacturers to bring down the costs of some drugs, the campaign official said. At a recent event in Atlanta, Harris vowed to "take on Big Pharma to cap prescription drug costs for all Americans," and Mr. Biden and Harris announced Thursday that Medicare reached agreements with drug manufacturers on lower prices for 10 drugs selected for the administration's initial round of negotiation. The drugs are used to treat heart failure, blood clots, diabetes, arthritis, Crohn's disease and other illnesses and conditions.

"Our plan will lower costs and save many middle class families thousands of dollars a year," Harris said. 

As a candidate in September 2019, Harris said during a CNN town hall there was "no question I'm in favor of banning fracking." 

"And starting with what we can do on Day One around public lands, right?" she said at the time. "And then there has to be legislation, but yes — and this is something I've taken on in California. I have a history of working on this issue.... We have to just acknowledge that the residual impact of fracking is enormous in terms of the impact on the health and safety of communities." 

Fracking is short for hydraulic fracturing, the extraction of oil and natural gas from rock formations with drilling and chemicals. 

At a Pennsylvania rally earlier this month, Trump said Harris is "against fracking, she's against oil drilling" and would ban it.

But the Harris campaign is ambiguous about where she stands now, pointing to her support for clean energy and the growth in energy jobs under the Biden administration. 

"Vice President Harris was proud to cast the tie-breaking vote on the largest ever investment to address the climate crisis and under the Biden-Harris administration, America is more energy secure than ever before with the highest domestic energy production on record," a campaign spokesperson said. "...Vice President Harris is focused on a future where all Americans have clean air, clean water, and affordable, reliable energy while Trump's lies are an obvious attempt to distract from his own plans to enrich oil and gas executives at the expense of the middle class."

The Biden administration has worked to make it more expensive for oil and gas companies to frack on public lands but hasn't banned fracking on public lands. 

The size of the Supreme Court 

When she was running for president, Harris said she was open to pursuing expanding the Supreme Court. During a forum in New Hampshire in May 2019, Harris was asked how she felt about adding more justices to the nine-member court. She said she was "interested in having that conversation." 

The Harris campaign isn't elaborating much on where Harris stands now, except that a campaign official said she supports the proposed Supreme Court reforms Mr. Biden announced last month. 

Those reforms entailed imposing term limits for justices, requiring them to comply with binding ethics rules and ratifying a constitutional amendment that would limit presidential immunity. Mr. Biden's proposed reforms did not include expanding the size of the court. All of those changes would require immense support from Congress. 

Kathryn Watson is a politics reporter for CBS News Digital, based in Washington, D.C.

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W ith the benefit of hindsight, it is easy to paint Kamala Harris’s polling surge as inevitable. Americans consistently told pollsters they were dissatisfied with their presidential nominees. But Ms Harris has far exceeded expectations . She has transformed her personal ratings and enthused the Democratic base. She leads Donald Trump nationwide by three percentage points and has overtaken him in the most recent polling of most swing states. Our revised presidential forecast , launched this week, shows that on July 21st, the day he withdrew, Joe Biden had a 24% chance of re-election. Now, Ms Harris has a 52% chance of winning in November—in effect, it’s a toss-up.

Our model believes she would be the narrow favourite if the election were held today, with a 61% chance of winning. But history cautions against relying too heavily on polls at this stage. So far there are only three weeks’ worth of polls with Ms Harris and Mr Trump as candidates. During that time, Ms Harris’s numbers have improved markedly. But what has recently gone up could very well come back down. Our forecast therefore combines polling with “fundamentals”—based on more stable, long-term trends.

So what is our fundamentals prediction? Based on past elections, it suggests that Ms Harris will win the national popular vote by 1.8 percentage points. She benefits from not being the president at a time when our model takes the economy to be a slight political burden for the incumbent, thanks to accumulated inflation and lacklustre consumer sentiment. She also benefits from the Democrats being in power for only one term (parties in power for eight years or longer tend to suffer at the ballot box). But history suggests she will still be hurt by Mr Biden’s low approval ratings.

Crucially, our fundamentals model expects Democrats to continue to face an electoral-college disadvantage. In 2016 and 2020 polls underestimated Mr Trump’s performance in swing states in the Midwest. Our model expects Ms Harris to do worse in those states than she does nationwide. As a result, the fundamentals point to her winning the popular vote while losing the election—as Hillary Clinton did in 2016.

For now, Ms Harris is outperforming this prediction, leading by more than 1.8 points. Her swing-state polling has been mirroring this picture. Recent polling by the New York Times/ Siena College had Ms Harris leading Mr Trump by four points in each of Michigan, Pennsylvania and Wisconsin. Another pollster, David Wolfson, found her leading by six points in Nevada; others put her ahead in Arizona; and a poll by YouGov Blue showed her tied in North Carolina, a state Mr Trump won in 2020.

Our forecast takes these polls seriously, but cautiously. Ms Harris’s success may partly be the result of a sugar high. In a matter of weeks, American news coverage turned from very unfavourable for Democrats—lauding Mr Trump’s debate victory, reacting to his brush with death by assassination and reflecting an enthusiastic Republican National Convention—to very favourable for them.

The rapid change in mood could have led to a phenomenon known as “partisan non-response bias”, when enthused partisans are more likely to respond to pollsters, artificially boosting their candidate’s score. Opinions of Ms Harris may shift as Republicans hone their attacks over the coming weeks. Intense campaigning between now and November could remind voters why they have such a negative view of the administration in which she serves.

Ms Harris has achieved an impressive improvement on Mr Biden’s position. But she has a lot more work to do to establish a lasting lead. ■

Stay on top of American politics with  The US in brief , our daily newsletter with fast analysis of the most important electoral stories, and  Checks and Balance , a weekly note from our Lexington columnist that examines the state of American democracy and the issues that matter to voters.

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This article appeared in the United States section of the print edition under the headline “Too close to call”

United States August 17th 2024

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Guest Essay

How Harris Has Completely Upended the Presidential Race, in 14 Maps

Daniel Zvereff

By Doug Sosnik Graphics by Quoctrung Bui

Mr. Sosnik was a senior adviser to President Bill Clinton from 1994 to 2000 and has advised more than 50 governors and U.S. senators.

With Kamala Harris now at the top of the ticket, the enthusiasm and confidence within the Democratic Party feel stronger than at any point I’ve seen since Barack Obama ran for president in 2008. And it’s not just vibes: The paths to victory in the Electoral College have been completely reshaped for the Democrats – and for Donald Trump – since my last analysis of the electoral map on July 12, nine days before Joe Biden exited the race.

Not only have Democrats come home to support their party’s nominee, they are now also more energized about the election than Republicans. Ms. Harris has quickly picked up support from nonwhite and younger voters.

We are now back to the same electoral map that we had before Mr. Biden’s summertime polling collapse: Once again, the winner in November will come down to the seven battleground states of Arizona, Georgia, Michigan, Nevada, North Carolina, Pennsylvania and Wisconsin.

The seven swing states that will most likely decide the 2024 presidential election.

Current polling shows the transformed race: While Mr. Biden trailed Mr. Trump in all seven battleground states last month, Ms. Harris is now leading Mr. Trump by four points in Michigan, Pennsylvania and Wisconsin in the latest New York Times/Siena College polls . Other polls show Ms. Harris in a statistical dead heat in Georgia and Arizona .

Those polls also reveal one of Mr. Trump’s biggest obstacles to winning the election: A majority of the country has never supported him, either as president or as a candidate for office. In the Times/Siena surveys, Mr. Trump had polled at only 46 percent in Michigan, Pennsylvania and Wisconsin. And with the race no longer between two unpopular nominees, support for third-party candidates has dropped, making it much more difficult for Mr. Trump to win.

And yet: Republicans have a structural advantage in the Electoral College system of voting, giving Mr. Trump at least one advantage against a surging Ms. Harris.

The G.O.P. lost the popular vote in seven out of the last eight presidential elections, yet won the White House in three of those elections. In 2016, Mr. Trump eked out Electoral College wins in swing states like Wisconsin even as Hillary Clinton crushed him in the most populous states like California. The Republican edge has only grown stronger with the reallocation of electoral votes based on the most recent census.

Given that structural advantage, Georgia, and its 16 Electoral College votes, is increasingly becoming a pivotal state that Mr. Trump can’t lose. If Ms. Harris is able to carry Georgia – and Mr. Trump seems to be trying to help her by inexplicably attacking the popular incumbent Republican governor and his wife – then she would have 242 electoral votes, only 28 short of the 270 needed to win.

Mr. Trump may not understand the political consequences of losing Georgia, but his advisers appear to: His campaign and biggest aligned super PAC spent four times as much in advertising in the state in the two weeks since Ms. Harris became the Democratic Party nominee as they did in the rest of 2024 combined. And in this coming week, of the $37 million in ad buys that the Trump campaign has placed nationally, almost $24 million are in Georgia.

Pennsylvania looks increasingly to be the other key battleground state, and both parties know it. According to AdImpact , over $211 million in paid media has so far been purchased in Pennsylvania from March 6 until Election Day, which is more than double the amount in any other state.

Given its size and support for Democratic candidates in the past, if Ms. Harris loses Pennsylvania, that could be just as damaging to her candidacy as a loss in Georgia would be to Mr. Trump’s chances.

This is why Georgia and Pennsylvania are the two most important states to watch to see if one candidate is able to establish a decisive path to 270 electoral votes.

Ms. Harris starts out with 226 likely electoral votes compared to 219 for Mr. Trump, with 93 votes up for grabs. However, unlike Mr. Biden last month, she has multiple paths to 270 electoral votes.

The first path for Ms. Harris is to carry Pennsylvania , which Mr. Biden won by more than 80,000 votes in 2020 and has voted for the Democratic candidate in seven out of the last eight presidential elections. Assuming that Ms. Harris wins Pennsylvania, she will have 245 electoral votes and six paths to 270.

Scenario 1 Then all Ms. Harris needs are Michigan and Wisconsin (assuming that she carries the Second Congressional District in Nebraska) …

Scenario 2 … or Wisconsin and Georgia …

Scenario 3 … or Wisconsin, Arizona and Nevada …

Scenario 4 … or Michigan and Arizona …

Scenario 5 … or Michigan and Georgia …

Scenario 6 … or Georgia and Arizona.

The second path for Ms. Harris does not require her winning Pennsylvania. Instead she needs to win Wisconsin , Michigan , Georgia and …

Scenario 1 … Arizona …

Scenario 2 … or Nevada .

Based on past elections, Mr. Trump starts out with 219 Electoral College votes, compared to 226 for Ms. Harris, with 93 votes up for grabs.

It’s difficult to see how Mr. Trump could win the election if he cannot carry North Carolina , which generally favors Republican presidential candidates. That would give Mr. Trump 235 electoral votes and multiple paths to 270.

The first path involves carrying Georgia , a state he lost by fewer than 12,000 votes in 2020. Before then, Republicans won Georgia in every election since 1992. If Mr. Trump carried North Carolina and Georgia, he would have a base of 251 electoral votes.

Scenario 1 Then all Mr. Trump needs is Pennsylvania …

Scenario 2 … or Michigan and Nevada …

Scenario 3 … or Michigan and Arizona …

Scenario 4 … or Arizona and Wisconsin …

The second and more difficult path for Mr. Trump would be if he carried North Carolina but lost Georgia. He would then have only 235 electoral votes and would need to win three of the six remaining battleground states.

Scenario 1 Like Arizona, Michigan and Wisconsin …

Scenario 2 … or Arizona, Nevada and Pennsylvania .

A Look Ahead to November

Ms. Harris clearly has the momentum going into the Democratic National Convention, but she has not really been tested yet. At some point she will need to demonstrate that she can perform under pressure in order to win over undecided voters and less enthusiastic moderates and independents.

As unruly as this election year has been, there are still certain rules of politics that apply to the presidential race. History has repeatedly shown that the winning candidates are usually the ones best able to define who they are, whom they are running against and what the election is about.

Mr. Trump had made the election a referendum of his presidency compared to Mr. Biden’s – that he was a strong leader and Mr. Biden was weak.

In the past three weeks, Ms. Harris has set the terms of the campaign as a choice between change versus going backward – a positive view of the future compared to a dystopian view of the present with a desire to go back to the past.

But even though Ms. Harris’s favorability has gone up significantly since she announced her candidacy, the increase in support is soft. That is the reason that the Democratic convention is such an important opportunity for her to close the deal with key swing voters.

Mr. Trump, on the other hand, is fully defined in the minds of most voters, and has elected to double down on catering to his MAGA base despite alienating the key swing voter blocs that will determine the outcome of the election. During the last hour of his convention speech, and every day since then, Mr. Trump has offered words and actions that remind Americans why they voted him out of office in 2020.

Mr. Trump has increasingly looked like a washed-up rock star who can play only his greatest hits for his dwindling group of fans. If he loses in November, he will have been a one-hit wonder who led the Republican Party to four presidential and midterm election-cycle losses in a row.

More on the 2024 presidential election

What the Polls Say About Harris That the Trump Team Doesn’t Like

If a major change on the Democratic ticket fires up progressives, it wouldn’t be unusual to see a slightly higher number of progressive likely voters.

By Kristen Soltis Anderson

Don’t Listen to the Right. The Kamalanomenon Is Real.

There was Obama-level excitement at Harris’s Atlanta rally.

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Biden’s Path to Re-election Has All But Vanished

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Doug Sosnik was a senior adviser to President Bill Clinton from 1994 to 2000 and has advised over 50 governors and U.S. senators.

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