71 books like The Progressive Historians

Historical thought, like everything else, has a history. But contrary to what you may think, such history doesn’t have to be dull, especially when told by a masterly writer who was also among the world’s most knowledgeable experts on the subject. So don’t think that this overview of what historians have written about the past since ancient Greece will be hard going. It isn’t. Sometimes it’s even fun. In fact, I know of no more enjoyable introductory guide to history’s history or a better place to start your journey within it than this book. Burrow canters through the major developments in historical writing and practices in the West over 2,500 years. His pages are peopled by pagan, Christian, Marxist, feminist, and many other kinds of thinkers and scholars. They’re a treat.

This book is important, authoritative, and compelling because it demonstrates that a conservative historian can be comfortable with revisionist history. Kagan, a Yale historian noted as a leading academic traditionalist, terms Thucydides “the first revisionist historian” not because he was like today’s leftists but because he took issue with his pioneering predecessor, Herodotus. In his great history of the Peloponnesian War, Thucydides threw down the gauntlet over which was the “best” and “right” way to do history. He thought its subjects should be politics, warfare, the relation between states, and—a surprise?—men. His views held the field for centuries. The Framers of the Constitution were its legatees. So were we until the late 20th century, when social and cultural subjects gained attention. This wonderful book shows why.

This masterful examination of the style of 4 classic historians – Gibbon, Ranke, Macaulay, and Burckhardt – shows how style was not just a matter of form for these historians but an expression of who they were and the world in which they lived. At the same time, as Gay emphasizes, style was also a tool these historians used to illuminate their subject, making it much more than simply a reflection of their time. Beautifully written, the book demonstrates that Gay was as much a master of style as the historians he discusses.

If you like dishy books, you’ll love this inside look at historians as they argue with each other and gossip behind other historians’ backs. While not offered as humor, Novick’s tale pulls back the curtain on academic historians’ ideological and often bitterly personal contests. In this case it’s over the central question of modern historical thought: whether or not history can achieve objectivity. Novick terms their arguments “essentially confused” and much like trying to nail jelly to the wall. Along the way, he reveals the altogether human elements behind all efforts to advance knowledge. The story is particularly relevant for a “post-modern” era in which it’s often argued that truth’s an illusion—it’s just fake. Novick’s story is of a very human world. He finds it fascinating. You will, too.

There are many books about Herodotus, but John Gould’s book remains the best introduction even after thirty years. It appeared in the series Historians on Historians, and Gould approaches history with an eye for what is distinct and unique in Herodotus’s work.

There are excellent chapters on how Herodotus narrates his history, his views on religion and causation, and many other important aspects of the work. I like that, in contrast to earlier treatments of Herodotus (which often had a condescending attitude), Gould is sympathetic to what Herodotus was trying to accomplish, though, at the same time, he maintains a critical distance towards the author and his work.

Finished in 1907, this famed book is worth rereading today for awareness that its pervasive pessimism proved totally wrong. Adams declared that western democracy was doomed, that freedom had no chance if forced into war versus dictatorship, that the pace change was overwhelming, that the U.S. educational system could not possibly teach science. A century later, democracy prevailed in both world wars, free nations out-produce dictatorships 10 to 1, and America has won more Nobel prizes in the sciences than the next five nations combined. Pessimism has long been with us – and almost always been wrong.

How do people react when a dictatorship forces them to make choices? To learn more, read this brilliant memoir by a journalist looking back on his life in 1930s Berlin. Happily focused on his legal training and circle of friends, Sebastian Haffner at first showed little interest in politics and rejected the Nazis out of instinct rather than principle. Disgusted but powerless, he was content to keep a low profile under the new regime. To his own lasting shame, however, he one day answered “yes” when an SA stormtrooper demanded to know if he was “Aryan.” But Haffner’s friendships and liaisons with Jews, and his belief in the rule of law, ultimately made him realize that he couldn’t live in Nazi Germany. His final choice? Exile in Britain.   

I was drawn to this book because it’s loaded with atmosphere, and features hill folk like I do, with the difference that McCrumb’s characters inhabit the hills of Tennessee, while mine live in the Berkshire Hills of Western Massachusetts. I especially like the way she weaves local lore and legends into the story, and how she reveals how the landscape appears to different characters, ranging from a long-ago woman, kidnapped by Indians who escapes and makes her way homeward, to a modern-day non-hillbilly who struggles to re-create her difficult journey. Then, there’s the way McCrumb adds a dash of the supernatural through a character with psychic powers—all of which have been grist to my fictional mill.

A dual-timeline novel, about a family on the ‘Titanic of the South’, the Pulaski a paddlewheel steamer that sunk in 1838, and a historian today, who is creating a museum showing of the disaster.

She also has a huge decision to make—live in the past, in survivor’s guilt, or to grab an uncertain future she’s not sure she deserves.

This is an eye-witness account of the French Revolution of 1848 by a major participant. It offers a fascinating, acerbic picture of the major actors, the revolutionary “days,” and Tocqueville’s unhappy experience as Foreign Minister. It vividly conveys a sense of both the fears of the propertied classes and the limitations of radicals who could only play at revolution, mimicking the roles and gestures of 1789-’94.

But what I find most compelling is Tocqueville’s preoccupation with questions that are central to our understanding of the failures of democratic politics, then and now. How is it that in the space of two generations, democratic revolutions twice culminated in Napoleonic dictatorship? Why do so many democratic governments, including ours, appear to be moving in the same direction now?