Awe for the Tiger, Love for the Lamb
edited by Rod Preece
This intelligently edited, deeply researched anthology presents a wealth of writing, from antiquity to the beginning of the twentieth century, on compassion toward animals. Despite the expressions of pity it contains, it is largely a history of obduracy, casual cruelty, and sadism. Although in the 1600s the rational and scientific René Descartes performed experiments on dogs that could only be described as psychopathological, a seemingly modern sympathy for animals, and a revulsion for humanity's brutality toward them, goes back to Plutarch and Lucretius. But Preece's compilation clearly shows that an ethical revolution took place in nineteenth-century Britain—a society that explored with rigor, moral imagination, and (of course) earnestness both the fact of human beings' viciousness toward other creatures and the idea of humanity's obligation to animal welfare. It is an intellectual feat that remains impressive today. (Certain progressives who cultivate a cheap toughness say they can't muster any sympathy for cute furry creatures so long as human beings anywhere are oppressed. Lest they sneer at Victorian sentimentalism and hypocrisy, they should be reminded that many of those who championed animal protection also led the fights against the slave trade and child labor and abuse.) Preece's anthology—half of which is devoted to nineteenth-century (mostly British) writers—can be approached equally as a literary anthology and a historical one, because it contains selections not only from Bentham, Mill, and Darwin, but also from Sheridan, Blake, Wordsworth, Coleridge, Shelley, Christina Rossetti, the Brontës, Dickens, Hardy, Stevenson, John Henry Newman, Ruskin, Lewis Carroll, Shaw, Twain, Tolstoy, and Dostoyevsky. Readers may want to pair it with James Turner's insightful history Reckoning With the Beast: Animals, Pain, and Humanity in the Victorian Mind, recently reissued by Johns Hopkins University Press.
The Course of German History
by A.J.P. Taylor
Taylor was, to appropriate the title of his favorite among his books, a troublemaker. Provocative and showy, his arguments annoyed complacent historians and angered readers wedded to the conventional wisdom. No twentieth-century historian wrote with more brio or precision. None so thoroughly cut through cant and qualifications to render truly brilliant and usually unsettling—and often highly debatable—judgments. This book, first published in 1945 and recently brought back into print, was his first best seller. A lucid survey of German history from 1792 to the outbreak of the Second World War, it's really an elegant, interpretive historical essay, which is more rewarding (and occasionally exasperating) the more the reader knows about the subject. The book—which discerned continuities in German history and argued that Nazi foreign policy wasn't an aberration but merely an extreme expression of Germany's drive for the mastery of Central and Eastern Europe —was and remains enormously controversial. And, of course, Taylor courted controversy, from his celebrated opening sentences ("The history of Germany is a history of extremes. It contains everything except moderation, and in the course of a thousand years the Germans have experienced everything except normality") through his frequent epigrammatic summaries ("No one can understand the Germans who does not appreciate their anxiety to learn from, and to imitate, the West; but equally, no one can understand Germans who does not appreciate their determination to exterminate the East"). But the subsequent scholarship of Hans Gatzke, Fritz Fishcher, Immanuel Geiss, and Taylor himself (in The Origins of the Second World War) testifies to the cogency—if not the correctness—of his interpretation of "the German problem."More important, this book still contains the most concise, intelligent, and pungent assessments in English of, among many other topics, the revolutions of 1848, the impotence—and therefore the historical irrelevance—of German liberalism, Bismarck's and Stresemann's strategies, and the irrationality of Tirpitz's "risk fleet" ("Nothing could better express the roaring spluttering energy of Germany, like a ship's propeller out of water, than this vast naval force, absorbing great quantities of economic power, engendering disastrous international friction, destined never to be used to any decisive purpose in war, but to perform a role in history only as the match which began the explosion and collapse of the Hohenzollern Reich"). Taylor's work is a model of stylish, scintillating compression. This edition is part of an important publishing venture—the Routledge Classics series, which brings out unusually handsome paperback reissues of often neglected seminal works of twentieth-century sociology, psychology, history, philosophy, and criticism.
The First Day on the Somme
by Martin Middlebrook
July 1, 1916, is the bloodiest day in Britain's history. At seven-thirty that morning an unbroken line of British soldiers along an eighteen-mile section of the Western Front climbed out of their trenches and began to advance slowly and methodically toward the German positions, which were in some places less than 200 yards away. By dusk the British had suffered more than 57,000 casualties; 20,000 men were dead, and three of every four officers had been killed or wounded. On that day the British people suffered their most profound national trauma, from which in many ways they have yet to recover. Middlebrook minutely reconstructed the first day of the four-month Battle of the Somme, using letters, diaries, division and battalion histories, and above all the testimony of more than 500 British soldiers who had survived. His book, published in 1971 and now back in print, remains one of the most innovative and harrowing works of military history ever written. In the past ten years a number of historians, notably Tim Travers, have with great sophistication reassessed British strategy and tactics on the Western Front. This new crop of books supplements but doesn't supersede Middlebrook's microhistory. It's still the definitive account of that day of slaughter, and the most unsentimental yet heartbreaking appreciation of the British infantrymen —stolid, sardonic, comradely—who fought and died in the Great War.
The Anti-Semitic Moment
by Pierre Birnbaum
Hill and Wang
This meticulous account of the anti-Semitic hysteria that swept France in 1898—engendered by the Dreyfus affair and encouraged by the Catholic Church—makes for terrifying and fascinating reading. Terrifying because Birnbaum, who has mined local archives and police records, explicates the size and ferocity of the frequently violent mobs (often chanting and fueled by genocidal slogans) that attacked Jewish businesses and neighborhoods throughout France; fascinating because his often gripping chronicle is social history at its best, showing how these demonstrations spread to the cities, towns, and even villages of every section of the country. But the great surprise is that for all the savagery of the rhetoric and the viciousness of the crowds, no Jews (except in Algeria) were killed. The forces of order, although hardly philo-Semitic, stanched the furor and ultimately, if imperfectly, upheld the law.