‘Simplify me when I’m dead’: emotions and agency, an intersubjective and hauntological approach

Introduction

I begin with Keith Douglas’s poem, Simplify me When I’m Dead (1946), whose title I incorporate in my own title. The poet’s imagining of what will be remembered of him after his death touches me as a historian and speaks to me of my professional practice. It opens: Remember me when I am dead/and simplify me when I’m dead. And I do remember, for I cannot, simply cannot resist that direct plea from people in the past to remember them. And I have encountered it many times. But there is more. As you can see, the poet reflects on how the passage of time will shape, perhaps distort how people will imagine him in the future. His desire to be remembered pains me and his knowledge that he will only ‘survive’ in a modified way discomforts me. He notes that some ‘learned man’ will ascribe agency to him: ‘you may/ deduce, from the long pain I bore/the opinions I held, who was my foe/and what I left’. It is this emotional relationship between the scholar and the historical subject and its dyschronicity, or confusion of time, that I explore in thinking about the relationship between the conference’s two themes of agency and emotion.

This is an excellent moment to explore these connections. The history of the ‘less powerful’ is so well established that agency, its ‘master trope’ has been thoroughly theorised in the last few years, while the more recent ‘emotional turn’ means that emotions scholarship is perhaps one of the most theoretically self-conscious. Although I am attuned to the ways in which historical actors’ agency was facilitated by emotions and achieved through emotional expression and acts,[1] my focus today is to explore the academic’s role in the relationship between emotions and agency, positioning the authorial self as the triangulating point between the two. Essentially, the question I want to address is: do emotions help us to recover historical subjects’ agency and what challenges do our own feelings present in that work? Thankfully, scholars are now far more able to forefront their own subjectivity in their work, offering reflexive accounts of how their own experiences and their feelings for the archive and their subjects shape their understandings of and responses to their research. Thus, I am going to reflect on my own positionality in my work on agency to date, suggest where emotions might play a part in identifying agency, and, since researchers are more prepared to grapple with their place in this nexus, summarise the complexities that can arise. I will conclude by considering how emotional intersubjectivity and hauntology might offer some ways to accommodate scholarly self-awareness, emotional connectedness, and their disruptive forces and potentialities without losing sight of our historical subjects.

Joanne and agency

The urge to recover both agency and emotions in the people I study in the past has informed all of my research interests. I have worked on three areas: marriage, marital relationships and intimate partner violence; parenting and parent-child relationships; and, thirdly, the history of masculinities. What is common to all these areas is that I work on the long 18th and 19th centuries and I’m interested in power dynamics, with a concern to expose the impact of various categories like gender, age, and class on those who held less power. In addition, I also tend to use materiality as the lens to uncover what we might call, for now, unproblematically, historical actors’ agency. By materiality, I mean the material determinants of people’s lives – their bodies, their physical and spatial environments, and their stuff. Thus, as you may infer, I’m also interested in non-human agency, in that my work shows that spaces and objects act upon people’s behaviour and feelings, often – to use Sara Ahmed’s concept – sticky with emotional meaning that disseminated and maintained various values that informed identities.[2]

My book Unquiet Lives and related articles sought to do more than explain how spouses suffering conflictual marriages sought solutions to their difficulties. It does that very thing, I hope, but it also returns repeatedly to the power dynamics between wives and husbands, seeking out how the household and its management, the family and community, and the everyday interactions of spouses constrained or enabled women and men’s personal and public actions. Like many historians, I used the court records and legal status of spouses, and, literally, the law of agency, to argue that what might look like the oppression of women could be read more sensitively as spaces for wives to manoeuvre within to resist patriarchy and, sometimes, set their own destinies. While compiling my data and analysing it, I sought to locate wives’ agency, finding that their important roles in household economies facilitated it. In turn, I was interested in how this wifely agency set some limits on men’s potential for unconstrained agency within and without their families and households. Interestingly, I see now how I resisted the view that wives might be complicit with patriarchy, although I acknowledged that they could achieve more by allying with aspects of its structures. You know, being asked to reflect on one’s body of work through the lens of a specific theme can be revelatory about oneself and one’s concerns. So, when I picked up this book again, when writing this paper, I was surprised by my conclusion’s final sentences, which revealed just how much I had set out to uncover agency in the first place:

The benefits of marriage for both men and women, therefore, outweighed any of its disadvantages. Husbands and wives were not puppets of an unfair gender order, but reacted to and against the circumstances of life-cycle, social and financial status, and changing ideologies. They determined themselves whether they had quiet lives.[3]

Alongside this, I’ve published on intimate partner violence. I’ve always found this aspect of my research a huge challenge, partly because the graphic physical and emotional details within the records distress me in their accounts of the fear, violent acts, and the pain that the abuser inflicted. I’ll return to that emotional response later in my talk. But I also realise that the subject troubles me further, largely because the extent to which wives could exercise agency in these situations was far more limited than in non-violent relationships. Thus, I found the handful of women who were described as escaping abuse, or, striking back, easier to cope with. This is a feature of the problematic role of the author in identifying agency, which I recognise in the critical accounts of agency that I will move on to later. Anyway, reflecting on my body of work in this area, I realise that, as a result, I focused instead, therefore, on the role of non-human agency – the ways in which spaces and objects had agentic force in shaping spousal abuse and responses to it. So, in a first article on this I traced the way the built environment defined and shaped men’s violent acts and in my second article I proposed that objects like beds and household stuff were emotional objects that helped manifest abuse, sites over which spouses fought to exert control. I also argued that spaces like stairs and landings were the loci for the enactment and visibility of assaults, conduits in the violence that flowed through multiple and single-family occupancy homes. As I argue, stairs were often points of egress, routes by which wives could leave their husband, and since they spatially symbolised wives’ potential for independence from their husbands may have been sites that especially antagonised controlling husbands.[4]

My second area of research addresses family relationships more broadly, with a focus on parenting and parental identities in the late Georgian era, but attending to parent-child and generational relations too. My approach in this work was more deliberately emotions driven, so, if you had asked me what my focus was at the time, I would have replied that I was not so compelled to identify the agency of those who were the dependents in these relationships. I’d have said that I was more interested in ascribing agency to emotions themselves, especially to structures of feeling that shaped parents’ construction of self and personal identities. In any case, far more of the individuals I worked on were from the professional ranks and the middle classes, those groups I tended to see as possessing more autonomy. Yet, if I look again at this work, I can see that my urge to delineate who had the capacity to intentionally shape their worlds had not really waned. When I describe the qualitative software I used, for instance, I state that ‘It shows when [people] used the vocabularies and cultural motifs [of feeling], flags up ambivalences, and demonstrates individuals’ agency where they adapt them in their own ways’.[5]

And of course, my focus on parental identities and self-fashioning brought moments of agency into sight. I wrote about women who selected and used maternal identities in order to claim greater authority and contrasted their self-declared ‘superior’ actions with their husbands’ ‘inferior’ ones. I described lower-status men who juggled the tropes of tender and providing fatherhood in order to justify their actions as fathers, and lay claim to ideals of masculinity, when their actions otherwise failed to meet the ideals of mature patriarchal manhood. I also added pauper parents, because I wanted to see how far parents who were hugely disadvantaged by their economic dependence might nevertheless deploy emotional strategies and vocabularies to improve their and their children’s situations. And, that is indeed what I discovered in their pleas to their readers’ sensibility and sympathy. I was also interested in locating how parents and children negotiated their duties, obligations, and privileges towards each other. After all, family structures and relationships shifted across life courses as people grew up, aged, and adopted new roles; experienced as a rise and fall of individual agency across a lifetime. Even men were not immune from this. A boy might exercise some agency derived from being away from home at school, able to dodge writing home if he wished, or use the ties of affection to request gifts of food and clothes. Yet his agency might wane again when trying to secure employment with family approval, only coming to the fore once he was established, more financially autonomous, and with a wife and offspring. As fathers got older, or became grandfathers, they in turn felt less able to influence others and turned to that rhetoric of the less powerful, affection and love, in order to impact family members. In 1812, for example, George Courtauld saw his own role expanding at his son’s approaching adulthood as he decided what business to take up. He explained,

my parental duties are not concluded, as they probably are at this juncture of more importance than at any other, (for upon a young man’s first start in life his future wellbeing most imminently depends) it would be a cowardly dereliction of duty—and impious dependence upon the Almighty—to give up the agency He has appointed me.[6]

Of course, here George used the contemporary sense of acting as a superior’s agent – in this case God, to exert autonomy and authority over others. Interestingly, he later blamed himself for the diminution of his children’s love, by having taught them to think for themselves.[7]

Researching fatherhood led me to focus more specifically on masculinity and my most recent work has been on manliness in the long nineteenth century. Here the connections between bodies, emotions, and material culture have been my primary focus. Reflecting on this book from a little distance (it was published in March this year) is quite interesting. The project began in 2012 with what I imagined was a shift away from a history of the powerless, since I was focusing upon men and the construction of manliness, the dominant form of masculinity in the long nineteenth century. Researched in the interstices between teaching and later my head of school role, I designed it so it could be primarily done from digitised print, visual, and material culture sources, rather than manuscripts in archives. About halfway through, however, the project transformed into a study of the way that men’s emotionalised bodies and emotional objects were key to transmitting the values of manliness to a wider audience. Here materiality is agentic, since the emotions that bodies and objects elicited were sticky with meaning. This utilises the cultural theorist, Sara Ahmed’s formulation of ‘stickiness’, whereby meaning sticks to objects, signs, and bodies which then transfer that meaning – conveyed through a process of substitution from one object to another. I argue that this ’intermateriality’ means that when people encountered the idealised manly attributes linked with men’s bodies in other forms and locations, they recognised them and the feelings they stirred acted to reinforce associated ideas around gender identities.

When writing the book in a semester’s sabbatical in 2018, a further shift occurred as I suddenly realised that the men’s bodies depicted were predominantly working-class ones. This transformed the book again, and perhaps indicates that my interest in those who hold less power had not waned. And so – very late in the day – Manliness in Britain became an account of the cultural uses of imagined working-class men’s bodies. In this process I sought to queer the history of masculinities and its hierarchies, determining to avoid heteronormative assumptions when thinking about the ways in which gendered values were communicated. I show that manly bodies were objectified and intended to arouse feelings in those who encountered them which, whether specifically erotic or not, made the gender attributes they embodied desirable. The idealised, eroticised young working man was desired by some elite men as a lover, for others, he was alluring because his physical and emotional charisma displayed ideal manliness. In parallel, unmanliness was projected through abjectified working-class bodies, intended to stir disgust and aversion in viewers and readers. Both objectified and abjectified bodies were intended to be didactic lessons for the working classes, the former helped render the working classes less threatening for middle-class consumption by modelling a patriotic, well-behaved, hardworking, trustworthy citizen, acting as a counterpoint to the upheaval of modernity.

5614203 The Champion of England, engraved by G. S. Shury, 1860 (colour litho) by Maguire, Thomas Herbert (1821-95) (after); 57.7×44.6 cm; Tyne & Wear Archives & Museums; Published Feby. 1st. 1860; by E.Gambart and Co. 25, Berners Street, Oxford Street,_Nottingham, Shaw and [&] Sons bottom centre : inscription : printing : THE CHAMPION OF ENGLAND. \’The Challenge_\’ \’THE FOE THOUGHT HE\’D STRUCK_BUT HE SUNG OUT AVAST! AND THE COLOURS OF OLD ENGLAND HE NAIL\’D TO THE MAST!\’ From the original Picture in the Collection of J.L.Thackeray, Esqre, The Park Nottingham, to whom this Engraving is respectfully dedicated by this obliged Servants. Shaw and [&] Sons); © Tyne & Wear Archives & Museums; English, out of copyright.

The desire I identify troubles the standard account of the gendered gaze, which positions a male viewer as active and dominant and the object of his gaze as female and subordinate. When the body being objectified and gazed at is male, and the viewer can be both female and male, then the binary of the agency of the gazer and lack of agency of the gazed at is disrupted. This is because the idealised manly body was active, the agent of prized gender values. Yet, it was also passive, the object of both a male and female desirous gaze, and subordinate, since the majority of these idealised manly bodies were working class. My inclination to seek out the agency of those who operated in the domain of the less powerful also found its way into the final section of my book, where I look at how working-class men deployed the idealised manly working man in their own cultural products. Using the material culture of working-class organisations, like trade unions and friendly societies, I argue that working-class people depicted workers’ manly emotionalised bodies in less eroticised ways. Their heroic workers were less the subject of the consuming gaze, less objectified, and associated with values intended to serve working class ends.  I turn to the end of this final chapter, only to find myself once more beguiled at handing over agency to my guys: in this instance, working-class men, who I observe:

co-opted the imagery for their own organisational and political ends, reshaping it subtly so that it shed its condescension. The manly workers that they chose to represent them, and whom they performed in public for an audience, possessed remarkable confidence and assuredness. Perhaps in some small way, this gendered identity could, over time, take on less conciliatory aspects to aid workers in asserting their rights.   

Rethinking, troubling, and critiquing agency

Perhaps it is time for me to confess that, for all this engagement with agency, I’ve not grappled properly and fully with what I mean when I use the term. Agency has been an amorphous concept that I attach to human and non-human actors, acts and events with the assumption that everyone reading my work will understand what I mean. Actually, when writing this talk, I recalled that I was made aware of this from the start of my career. When I was a JRF at Merton College I was friends with a physicist who had an amateur interest in history and would read my work on marriage. On one of these occasions he asked me to explain what I meant by agency. I don’t honestly think I did that very effectively at the time; and, regardless, it certainly didn’t stop me using the term perhaps too unthinkingly in a number of my ensuing works. What strikes me, however, on outlining my work and where it explores human and non-human agency, is how much I am a fellow traveller with other scholars searching for agency among their subjects, following the routemap of agency as it has unfolded over the last seventeen years since my first book was published.

And I can see this in the rethinking, troubling, and critiquing of agency that has taken place in the last ten to fifteen years as a number of scholars have opened up agency to scrutiny. They include Walter Johnson on North American slavery, in 2003,[8] and Cornelia Hughes Dayton, on dispossessed early modern Europeans, in 2004.[9] Lynn Thomas reflects on African women and gender, in 2016, and Megan Webber, in 2017, uses case studies from early 19th century charitable organisations. Chris Pearson surveys non-human agency in 2015 and, more generally, historians of material culture have extended our understandings of agency to include objects. Together this body of work sharpens up our critical faculties on agency and its development as a field of enquiry over time. Thomas, in particular, encourages scholars to avoid the ‘agency as argument’ trap, where agency is both the predicable and safe endpoint of analysis.

Most of these critics trace scholars’ endeavour to recover agency from its emergence in New Social History, especially in E. P. Thompson’s work in the 1960s. They identify the limitations inherent in the concept of agency as we often apply it, in that it is, as Johnson observes, a product of 19th century liberalism, which over-emphasises independence and choice. Instead, as these scholars remind us, we should attend as much to the many constraints on people’s capacity to act and make decisions as to those who self-consciously exerted autonomy. Collectively, these critics point out that agency is not synonymous with intentionality, or resistance, or pre-meditated tactics. Thinking in terms of contemporary stereotypes of the passivity or victimhood of women, for example, enables us to acknowledge the individuals who selected dependence or conformed to hierarchical structures as exercising agency too. As such, these studies of agency include alternative forms of agency, such as compliance with and submission to those holding power, or to the divine will. Some propose that one way out of the cul-de-sac of agency is to focus on subjectivity.[10] Others advocate that scholars pay attention to the imagination and mind as much as to physical acts of agency. Thomas, for instance, urges us to reformulate agency by highlighting ‘psychical desire, [and] fantasy’ as well as social and political structures.[11] This critical work has been particularly helpful in delineating more recent developments in exploring agency beyond its human forms. As Chris Pearson comments, a focus on agency as resistance ‘obscures how human and nonhuman agents exist in close relationship to each other and how their ability to act is contingent on these historically situated relations’.[12] Like others inspired by Bruno Latour’s ‘actor network theory’, these scholars have begun to explore the agency of objects, space, non-human animals, and nature.

Do emotions offer insights into agency?

These thoughtful analyses of the concept remind us that agency is neither trans-historic nor universal, but historically contingent, differentiated by gender, age, time, place, as well as environment. In this opening up and criticism of the concept of agency and our uses of it, the elephant in the room, it seems to me, is scholars themselves. These thought pieces are not simply guidance on historicising agency, nor sharpening up our definitions so we find agency in more situations and behaviours. They also warn the academic about their own positionality and subjectivity when evaluating their subjects as agents in their respective historical worlds. Some – often implicit – criticism is therefore directed at scholars’ lack of reflexivity. So, scholars who critique agency are directing us to scrutinise our own political and intellectual stance when they remind us of agency’s liberal roots, or when they urge us not to adopt the role of saviour of the victim, the oppressed, and the dispossessed, and when they ask us to consider that agency can take many forms, which do not necessarily match with our own heroic concept of worthy resistance or autonomy. Dangerous too, as its critics observe, is the well-intentioned tendency to overemphasise the agency of our subjects in the past. One of the things that worries me is that scholars deploy agency as a form of approval – is it our favourite types of subjects who we see as exercising agency? Furthermore, shouldn’t the language of giving people ‘back’ or restoring and recovering their agency unsettle us? Isn’t this imperative both condescending and exclusionary to those we study? As Katie Barclay points out, historians of subaltern groups often understand ‘their ethical obligation to their subjects as giving them voice, of placing them back into history’. Perhaps this can be read as empathy, but I wonder if it could also be read as cultural appropriation.[13] Indeed, Megan Webber is explicit about this, recommending that historians be ‘transparent about how their political, personal, and historiographical concerns inform their portrayal of agency.[14] 

I suggest we go a step further as scholars, which is to explore our own emotional responses to our subjects when researching their agency. Scholars are only just beginning to unpick the role of researchers’ feelings around their subjects of study. Not only do they recognise that neutral objectivity is a myth, and urge the researcher to expose the role their personal experience plays, they go on to scrutinise the role of emotions as a constitutive rather than intrusive component of the research process.[15] This might include the ‘emotional imperatives that often drive research’, the range of feelings caused by research, as well as the emotional connectedness and power structure of the researcher-researched dyad.[16] One of the ways in which the latter is framed is through empathy. Rob Boddice points out that historians need to be cautious when they empathise with historical actors. They cannot, he points out, know what their historical actors’ feelings were, and since emotions have different meanings over time, scholars need to learn to ‘see’ in the way past actors saw – presumably advocating that we adopt a period feel as much as a ‘period eye’.[17] This still supposes the scholars’ capacity to achieve some kind of intellectual objectivity over their historical subjects.

Others try to go further and consider the relationship between the academic and past actor. Drawing on existing reflexive work on archival fever, subjectivity, ethical engagement, and affective memory, among other things, Katie Barclay investigates the capacity of ‘an emotional entanglement … to bring the past into the present’  in her 2018 article.[18] In order to subject her own critical practice to scrutiny, she explores the layers of her emotional response, from dislike to a kind of love, to Gilbert Innes, a somewhat unlikeable Scottish banker who died in 1832. For her, emotional reactions are not distractions, but ways to connect past and present and she advocates that we all should examine the ‘dialogic relationship’ between our emotions and the object of our empathy.[19]   

So, I need to ask, do these emotions assist in recovering agency or do they get in the way? Megan Webber worries that scholars’ empathic investment in their subjects can lead them to identify with and project onto historical actors their own values and hopes – and, thereby, preferred types of agency.[20] I suspect this may well be true. I’ve come to realise over my career just how much my own personal experiences and emotional connections have shaped my interests, and my identification with specific historical actors. In turn, this influences what I find, analyse, and prioritise, and, I suggest, where I tend to locate agency. Let me give you a couple of examples. Perusing my publications as a body of work, I realise I have strong emotional responses to certain ‘types’ of women and men in my records. I respect the wives and mothers who are described, or define themselves, as hard-working, stoical in the face of adversity, self-sacrificing, enduring. I espy agency in such women’s attempts to defy and outwit patriarchy, to circumvent sexist economic limitations in order to secure their families, and to seek autonomy. On the other hand, I am utterly beguiled by men who were self-proclaimed tender fathers, who spent time with their children, nursed babies, played with infants, and became their adult offsprings’ friends. Powerful cultural emotions, such as sensibility and domesticity, were agents here, creating self-aware men who, in turn, harnessed them in their self-fashioning. I was sort of aware that my delight in such loving fathers might be a problem when, around 2010, I had an article on the relationship between fatherhood and masculinities rejected because reviewer #2 pointed out that I was outright ignoring other types of late Georgian fathers and fathering. It may only have been at that point that I began to consciously scrutinise my obsession with particular historical actors. For those of you who are interested, I redesigned my research to take account of bad dads thereafter. And, you will not be surprised at my inclinations, perhaps, when I explain that my handsome, glamorous father died when I was twelve leaving me, an only child, to be brought up by my mother who devoted her life to providing a secure and financially stable home for me as a child, and, even, adulthood when I was myself a mother.

A second example. By the time I was working on manliness, from about 2015, I was far more reflexive and prepared to work with and through my emotional response to my subjects. By now, I avoided working on areas that distress me, such as unhappy relationships and intimate partner violence. While I think I am able to work with the feelings that such challenging material elicits in me and, even, use my empathy to productive ends, I realised that it causes me too much personal strain. I elected, instead, to work on areas that are less emotionally demanding: the power of manliness as a concept and identity, focusing on its transmission through handsome bodies and appealing material culture. This is because I am perfectly aware of my own emotional response to ideals of heroic men, conveyed through aesthetically pleasing faces, bodies, and objects. I am drawn to these representations and their deployment by men and society, and the work they do to make masculinity appealing, even while deeply conscious of their role in sustaining unequal power structures. I wanted, perhaps, to explore how I simultaneously acknowledge their seductive qualities and resist them. This, I think, is at the root of my insistence on the power, indeed agency, of emotionalised bodies and objects in fixing gender. No doubt my conception of the ambivalent role of the desirous gaze in all this is rooted in my own subjectivity too. Recognising my subjectivity and my emotional triggers in my research has thus been productive in exploring how I encounter and locate agency in my work.

Emotional intersubjectivity

All this self-reflection is good, up to a point, but it can leave me, the researcher front and foremost, and I suspect, for some, look a little like self-indulgence. Where are the historical actors in this reflexivity? Because, let’s be honest, whatever our personal experience and emotions about research, it’s still them we’re interested in. So, next I want to propose some ways to build in authorial subjectivity and feelings without losing sight of the subject of enquiry. This builds on Katie Barclay’s example of the benefits of ‘using emotion to think with’. By attending to one’s own feelings towards one’s subject, she argues, we can incorporate the historical subject without ‘overwriting past subjectivities’ with that of the historian’s.[21] Scholars can similarly use emotions to think with to analyse their historical subjects’ agency and their own role in identifying it. Perhaps emotional intersubjectivity is a helpful concept – where we as authors are self-aware of the mutual construction of our past subjects’ agency through a sense of shared subjectivity. This would help us avoid foregrounding our own subjectivity and preferences for types of agency. I would also hope that intersubjectivity could assist here as a way to counter the power of our emotional historical gaze in identifying and bestowing agency on our subjects. For – to return to Webber, there is a risk that an emotional connection with our historical subject can lead us to confer agency on those types of acts that we have a preference for – whether that be the rebellious rather than the complicit, the unconventional rather than conventional. I am proposing intersubjectivity here as a process of metaphorical co-constitution between the researcher and the historical actor rooted in both sensitivity towards one’s own emotions and subjectivity and a fully historicised understanding of theirs.

Katie Barclay is advocating something along these lines when she proposes that our affective responses to our subjects are products of engagements between people over time, not just between the reader and the text. In her case, this has provided ‘a reading of Innes that was both of the past and the present’.[22] Her proposal that acknowledging emotional entanglement helps bring the past into the present brings me to my final reflections on agency and emotion. It leads me to reflect on another aspect of the researchers’ emotions that emerges in analysing agency in the past, a more disruptive aspect. The most powerful of my emotional responses to the past has always been difficult for me to articulate. The best example of it is through my responses to old photographs and film. Since childhood, I’ve been unable to look at old photographs without some degree of distress, for I am constantly acutely, even agonisingly, aware that the people I look at, full of life, solid presences, engaging with the lens and the viewer on the other side of it, are now dead. Everything I see in these artefacts is dead or gone in some way, the pets they play with, the clothes they wear, even the buildings and landscapes they stand in are profoundly different. I feel the same when I encounter the traces of people in the manuscript and published sources that I read. Remember that I am a historian of relationships and bodies, and the spaces they inhabited, so I encounter people writing about emotional moments in their lives, when they feel sorrow, grief, despair, pain, fear, anger, and, sometimes, joy, excitement, and desire. They describe things they have done, seen and felt – all of which, I am constantly aware – are no longer in existence – and that they had no idea of their own futures at the time of writing.

Wikimedia Commons
Robert Adamson, David Octavius Hill Probably 1843 Accession no. PGP EPS 90 Medium Calotype print Size 16.60 x 12.60 cm Credit Edinburgh Photographic Society Collection, gifted 1987

Hauntology

My response to manifestations of the past is profoundly unsettling and, even, disorientating at times. The nearest I have come to defining my emotional response is through the concept of hauntology. Hauntology has been defined in several ways, since the term was coined by Jacques Derrida. In its broadest sense, it evokes the way the past returns to haunt the present. One manifestation of hauntology that especially appeals to me, is in its reflection on the way the present is haunted at once by its own past and its unfulfilled or lost futures. Indeed, it is theorised that hauntology is a response to new technologies which enable us to record, replay and store the past – a phenomenon that can be seen both in the nineteenth century following the invention of telegraphy, photography and cinema, and in the early twenty-first century where the internet has created an ‘ever-growing archive of the recorded past … instantaneously accessible.[23] Mark Fisher calls this the ‘technological uncanny’ – an atemporality of a present in which the past no longer dies.[24] I experience something akin to hauntology with my historical subjects, which is a recognition of time out of joint and potential of unrealised futures. It is neither a form of nostalgia, nor an attempt at recovery, both politically problematic positions. For me, when I work with historical records and individuals, time is out of joint because I am intervening in it. I am there doing something to re-assemble those people’s present [in the past] and, sometimes, imagine their future which they had not yet encountered. In effect, hauntology is a contracting of space and time and produces dyschronia, a confusion of time.

Ethan Kleinberg, explores a hauntological historical methodology in his Haunting History: For a Deconstructive Approach to the Past (2017). He describes ‘a past that is absent but haunts us and can return in ways that disturb our conventional historical narratives and understanding of what the past and history is’.[25] For him, hauntology is a way to escape ‘ontological realist dreams’ of a real and correct past.[26] The reason hauntology is a concept meaningful to my practice as a historian is that it captures my place in the contraction and confusion of time, which the archive and the past manifests. And it this position of the authorial self, if you bear with me, that I shall suggest has some impact on exploring agency. For, as the cultural theorist, Mark Fisher, reflected, the works he was analysing were ‘hauntological in the sense that … they were about the virtual agency of the no longer’.[27]

For me, the ghosts of the people and their materiality shape their potential re-inscription in my work; they are simultaneously gone and eternal. I don’t think this is just me. Katie Barclay cites Arlette Farge’s encounter with the ‘surplus of life’ that she felt in the archive and ruminated on in her wonderful, sensual account of historical research, The Allure of the Archives. Barclay notes that it is a type of ‘haunting that demands the acknowledgement of past subjects as ‘real’.[28] I think it does more than this. It also reminds us that what once was a surplus of life is now an absence.[29] Indeed, Barclay herself, turns to mourning as an intellectual process to unpick her responses to the archive and those she finds in it. She proposes that we recognise the ‘”excess of life” that continues beyond death and which brings the past to the present through us’.[30] This positioning of ‘us’ as the conduit is crucial, in my view. We have set up this relationship with our historical subjects and we are the means by which them, their actions, and their potential are realised. How does this impact agency? Well, I think we can use hauntology to understand and make explicit our emotional connections with our historical actors – and their haunting of us in the present. It also helps us to acknowledge our role in identifying their agency – both in terms of moving us (and thus shaping what we think about them) and in detailing what we determine as their acts of agency. Finally, a hauntological mindset reminds us that their futures, as realised or unrealised potential, shape what we construct out of their remains.  

Conclusion

I hope that my journey through the matrix of emotions, agency, and time has been thought provoking. What I aim to have suggested is that we should try to recognise our place in the construction of our historical actors’ agency and that we realise that this relationship is not entirely uni-directional, whether emotionally or temporally. The concept of emotional intersubjectivity approaches the co-constitutive creation of historical agency that I envisage. And the concept of hauntology acknowledges the disruptive force of time in the academics’ place in that relationship. Kleinberg advocates a ‘narrative [that] accommodates an understanding of …the past as something that is, as present and absent at the same time, as something and nothing entangled in a seemingly impossible way where the iterative position of the historian is woven into the past and the present such that it also presses upon the future’.[31] I like the way that the scholars’ dyschronic intervention in the telling of the past is acknowledged here, though I think we should also recognise the force of the historical actor in this process. I shall end with Keith Douglas’s evocative phrase, ‘Time’s wrong-way telescope’, as a metaphor for what we are doing where our subjects’ agency is concerned – self-consciously attempting to understand how people interacted with their world, ‘by distance simplified’.

Paper delivered to The Centre for Nineteenth Studies Second Annual Conference 27 Nov 2020, on the theme of Agency and Emotions. I am very grateful to them for organising this conference and inviting me to close it with this keynote address.


[1] Megan Webber, ‘Troubling agency: agency and charity in early nineteenth-century London’, Historical Research, 91:251 (2018), 128,134-5

[2] Sara Ahmed, The Cultural Politics of Emotion (New York and London: Routledge Taylor & Francis Group, 2004), pp. 89-92

[3] Bailey, Unquiet Lives: Marriage and Marriage Breakdown in England, 1660-1800 (Cambridge, CUP, 2003) p. 204

[4] Joanne Begiato, ‘Beyond the Rule of Thumb: The Materiality of Marital Violence in England c. 1700–1857’, Cultural and Social History, 15:1 (2018), 46

[5] Bailey, Parenting in England 1760-1830. Emotion, Identity, and Generation (Oxford 2012), p. 14

[6] Bailey, Parenting in England, p. 224

[7] Bailey, Parenting in England, p. 227

[8] Walter Johnson W. “On Agency“, Journal of Social History (2003; Fall),113-124

[9] Cornelia Dayton, ‘Rethinking Agency, Recovering Voices’, The American Historical Review, 109: 3 (June 2004), 827-843

[10] Lynn Thomas, ‘Historicising Agency’, Gender & History, 28:2 (August 2016), 327

[11] Thomas, ‘Historicising Agency’, 330, 332

[12] Chris Pearson, ‘Beyond ‘resistance’: rethinking nonhuman agency for

a ‘more-than-human’ world’, European Review of History: Revue européenne d’histoire, (2015) 22:5, 710

[13] Katie Barclay, ‘Falling in love with the dead’, Rethinking History, 22:4, (2018) 465

[14] Megan Webber, ‘Troubling agency: agency and charity in early nineteenth-century London’, Historical Research, 91: 251 (2018), 135

[15] Tracey Loughran and Dawn Mannay (eds), Emotion and the Researcher: Sites, Subjectivities, and Relationships, (Emerald Insights, 2018) pp. 1-2. For the role of personal experience, see Chris Millard, ‘Using personal experience in the academic medical humanities: a genealogy’, Social Theory & Health 18 (2020),184–198.

[16] Loughran and Mannay, Emotions and the Researcher, pp. 6-13.

[17] Rob Boddice, The history of emotions (Historical Approaches) (Manchester, 2018) pp. 126-131

[18] Barclay, ‘Falling in love with the dead’, 460

[19] Barclay, ‘Falling in love with the dead’, 464

[20] Webber, ‘Troubling agency’, 134-5

[21] Barclay, ‘Falling in love with the dead’, 468, 469

[22] Barclay, ‘Falling in love with the dead’,  468, 469

[23] Merlin Coverley, Hauntology: Ghosts of Futures Past (Harpenden, UK, Oldcastle Books, 2020) pp. 10-13.

[24] Cited by Coverley, Hauntology, p. 12.

[25] Kleinberg: Theory of History as Hauntology, 217

[26] Kleinberg: Theory of History as Hauntology, 218

[27] Mark Fisher, ‘What is Hauntology?’ Film Quarterly, Vol. 66, No. 1, 2012, 21

[28] Barclay, p. 466

[29] Ethan Kleinberg: Theory of History as Hauntology, 2017 discusses presence and absence.

[30] Barclay, ‘Falling in love with the dead’, 467

[31] Kleinberg: Theory of History as Hauntology, 220-1

History, Emotions and Memories

In this post I want to talk about the power of literature in helping people express their emotions. Scholars working on memory show that people usually remember events that were linked with very strong emotions. It is as if the emotion – whatever it might be – love, grief, joy, fear – pins the event into the brain. You can read about this here.

This really struck me when I was reading autobiographies written by people in the middle to gentry social ranks, from the 1750s to 1840s, seeking out how writers discussed their parents.

When people were talking about their fathers in their autobiographies, or talking about themselves as fathers, I noticed that quite a few used the image of a rural labouring father.

burns, cotter's returnhome

Verse 2 of The Cotter’s Saturday Night, Image deposited on Future Museum co.uk.

This was a fairly common pastoral motif in poetry, paintings, engravings, and fiction in the eighteenth century.[1] Central to this image was small children’s joy at their father’s return, running to kiss him and sitting on his knee. It was a scene in several cottage genre paintings, like William Redmore Bigg’s Saturday Evening: Return from Labour, which is the cover of my book Parenting in England, and on the Home page of my blog. Etienne Aubry’s l’Amour Paternel (1775) is another lovely example, demonstrating the father’s eagerness to meet his child on his return, not only through their embrace but his abandoned work bag.

Perhaps the most well-known examples are in the popular Elegy Written in a Country Churchyard (1751) by Thomas Gray:

For them no more the blazing hearth shall burn,

Or busy housewife ply her evening care:

No children run to lisp their sire’s return,

Or climb his knees the envied kiss to share.

William_Blake_-_The_Poems_of_Thomas_Gray,_Design_109,_-Elegy_Written_in_a_Country_Church-Yard.-_-_Google_Art_Project

and Robert Burns, The Cotter’s Saturday Night, 1784-5:

At length his lonely cot appears in view,

Beneath the shelter of an aged tree;

Th’ expectant wee-things, toddlin, stacher through

To meet their dad, wi flichterin noise and glee.

His wee bit ingle, blinkin bonilie,

His clean hearth-stane, his thrifty wifie’s smile,

The lisping infant, prattling on his knee,

Does a’ his weary kiaugh and care beguile,

An makes him quite forget his labor and his toil.[3]

This cultural motif had long Classical roots, but it filtered through to a plebeian readership by the end of the eighteenth century. For example, D Eaton portrayed an idyll [soon to be lost thanks to the effects of the war] in 1795 where the poor labourer returned home a welcoming wife and ‘little prattlers’ who sat on his knee.[4] The rural labouring man embodied the ideal of the father in a period of sensibility: tender and emotionally bound to his infants, as well as a hard-working provider. It conveyed the sense that to have a family to support was somehow ennobling for a man – it gave the labourer a reason to labour – thereby making labour have a value rather than being an end in itself.

What amazed me was how this rather sweet, moving image was used by writers to evoke their personal emotional experience. Dorothea Herbert quoted the stanza from Gray at the start of the chapter in which she described the ‘black chaos’ following her father’s death in 1803.[5] Actually, several parts of Gray’s poem were mentioned by memoirists, as if its intensely melancholic tone helped them talk through their feelings.

Thomas Wright (1736-1797), a relatively humble West Yorkshire man, used the verse from Gray to talk about his sense of loss as a father, when discussing the death of his favourite son John in July 1783. Eight and a half years old, the boy became ill very quickly and died in his father’s arms a day or so later . Thomas referred to the ‘killing image’ of his ‘darling child’s passing’, which was seared in his mind. It seems as if this dreadful memory was verbalised through Gray’s words. For, writing a decade or more later, Thomas moved into the first person when describing the traumatic event, suddenly and literally talking to his son to tell him how much he missed him:

I shall no more hear thy sweet voice eagerly blessing me, and when returning home, thou “No more shalt run to lisp thy sires return,/Or climb his knees the envied kiss to share”’ [5]

Thomas subtly became the rural labouring father in writing through his grief. Clearly, this binding together of provision and emotion seems to have powerfully impacted on some fathers and children.

For more on this, do have a look at my book Parenting in England.


[1] For popularity of such prints see B. E. Maidment, Reading Popular Prints 1790-1870, Manchester, 1996 and Christiana Payne, Rustic simplicity: scenes of cottage life in nineteenth-century British Art (1998), passim.

[2] Robert Burns, ‘The Cotter’s Saturday Night’, in Poems, chiefly in the Scottish dialect, Kilmarnock, 1786 , pp. 124-137.  This was accompanied by illustrations of the moment of return. For example, Thomas Bewick’s wood engraving, copied in Maidment, Popular Prints, p. 114.

[3] John Barrell, Spirit of Despotism, chapter 5.

[4] Dorothea Herbert, Retrospections of Dorothea Herbert, 1770-1789, London, 1929, p. 406.

[5] Wright, Thomas (ed.), Autobiography of Thomas Wright of Birkenshaw in the county of York, 1736-1797 (London, 1864).

Embedding and embodying gender in history

This post is based on a paper I gave in 2010 when I was asked to think about gender history. I’d been thinking hard about gender while writing my book and at the centre of this musing is the question: why did I change my book’s title over the three years I was working on it from: Parents in England c. 1760-1830: gender, identities, and generations to Parents in England c. 1760-1830: emotions, identities, and generations?

I began by collecting all my accounts of parenting from 1760 to 1830. I soon found that where parental identities are concerned the historian faces two assumptions; that parenting is a natural instinct and that motherhood and fatherhood are profoundly gendered, distinct, identities. The first assumption presupposes stasis, the second allows for change in parental identities. If becoming a mother or a father is engendering – that is, a process that is understood to produce a woman or a man, then it provides a specific female or male identity. Outside influences that shape the way femininity and masculinity are seen will therefore influence the way maternal and paternal identities are constructed. Scholarship offers varied accounts of both continuity and change. Social histories identify considerable continuities in the elements of parenthood for both sexes. More culturally attuned studies [histories of art and literature], on the other hand, posit transformations in motherhood – with a cult of maternity, for example, notable in the eighteenth century. A cursory look at recent work in the social sciences suggests that maternal and paternal identities are seen to have undergone rapid shifts and concomitant tensions in the second half of the twentieth century.

Image

The Husbandman’s Return from Labour: Saturday Evening (1795) (colour engraving) after William Redmore Bigg (1755-1828) / Private Collection / The Bridgeman Art Library.

I decided that one way forward was to take an embodied approach to investigating gender identities. How was parenting imagined and experienced in terms of bodies and materiality? How did emotions shape gender identities? I found that thinking about bodies and emotions complicated my assumptions about gender difference and opened up the question of gender identities beyond binary oppositions. Parental embodiment in the eighteenth century, for example, need not be restricted to the well-researched concerns about maternal breastfeeding. An embodied approach opens up distinctions between gender-specific and gender-related parenthood and parenting, for the gendered stereotypes of mothers providing physical care and fathers offering material care and government becomes far more multi-layered and complex.

Loving arms and nurturing bosoms were also paternal, and the labouring bodies praised for providing for children were maternal as well as paternal. The culture of sensibility and Christian ideals of manhood celebrated sensitivity, physical care, and tenderness in men – all encompassed within the role of father and these were expressed through the body as tears, hugs, and kisses. Of course, the relationship between bodies and social conventions about gender remain open to investigation. For example, historians find it fruitful to scrutinise how paternity, grounded in biology, could be different to fatherhood, a social, male gendered identity – though both defined a man as a father.

Emotions history also lets me consider the ways in which the emotions associated with gendered identities were reconfigured in different ways at different times. Emotions are, after all, human and let us explore gender identities within a different framework. My research on parents in England therefore also encompasses anger, anxiety and sympathy and such historically specific forms of ‘feeling’ as tenderness, distress, and benevolence – and in some cases uncovers how these were not always mapped onto sexed bodies.

So why did I omit the word ‘gender’ from my book title? I think that my replacing ‘gender’ with ‘emotion’ signifies how much more embedded my understanding of gender has become. If it is any indication of wider developments, then it is that gender is being integrated more fully into a variety of topics, that we are more willing to think about the construction of feminine and masculine identities through different perspectives and lenses, and that new research agendas are being applied to the study of gender identities.