Micro-history Monday: The Professor and the Madman

With The Professor and the Madman, Simon Winchester presents a strange, personal and oddly upbeat history of the relationship between two men that ought never to have met. The first is Professor James Murray, the Scottish-born lexicographer behind what is now known as the Oxford English Dictionary. The second is Dr. W.C. Minor, a brilliant but insane American surgeon who murdered a London man in cold blood in the years after the American Civil War. Minor was consigned to the Broadmoor asylum after he was found not guilty of the crime because of insanity, and ultimately became one of the most significant contributors to the OED’s volunteer efforts. It was only after the first edition of the OED was published, when Murray traveled to Minor’s address to thank him personally for his tireless work, that Murray found out the doctor’s true identity and situation.

The story was bizarre enough to be fodder for the tabloid press on both sides of the Atlantic more than once during the early part of the 20th century, so it’s not surprising that Winchester resurrected the story again at the end of that century for further investigation. But I would argue that the tale of the two men merely provides a “hook” for the book that Winchester actually wanted to write (but which publishers no doubt told him wouldn’t sell), a history of English dictionaries, including his obviously beloved OED. And this is one of my main problems with the book. Winchester’s voice is so effusive in its praise of Samuel Johnson’s dictionary, and then the OED, he waxes so poetic on their developments and uses, that he loses the battle for objectivity. My expectation of historians is when they re-approach a subject they will take many perspectives into account. But Winchester sweeps aside any criticisms of the OED – and there are many – in favor of devoted fandom:

There is some occasional carping that the work reflects an elitist, male, British, Victorian tone. Yet even in the admission that, like so many achievements of the era, it did reflect a set of attitudes not wholly harmonic with those prevalent at the end of the twentieth century, none seem to suggest that any other dictionary has ever come close, or will ever come close, to the achievement that it offers.(p. 221)

Winchester constructs the English language as the last vestige of the British Empire. But if it is, it’s worth remembering that it no longer belongs to the Victorian era. For me, the quaint spellings and definitions that make up the OED are an interesting historical artifact, but they give little sense of the dynamism of English in the internet age – for that, you’re better off with Urban Dictionary. So while I understand the importance of the original achievement, I am not as convinced as Winchester that the lexicographical achievement will stand alone in history -- I have more faith in English-speaking humanity than that. And humanity in general.

My second major problem with the book was the “pop psychology” angle on which some of the book's chapters depended. There is endless speculation about the causes of Dr. Minor’s madness (schizophrenia, post-traumatic stress disorder, and separation anxiety are all proffered as possible explanations), as well as a prurient suggestion that some of the doctor’s later problems might have been caused by an unnatural attraction to the wife of the man Minor murdered – even though there is absolutely no shred of evidence that such an attraction existed. “Why go there?” I kept wondering.

This is a good book, however. The writing style was too flowery for my taste, but the story is told in a compelling way, moving between the two main characters - three if you count the OED - at a lively pace. Winchester did do primary research, and uncovered some letters that expand and enhance the story over previous tabloid versions. The word sleuths out there will definitely find it a treat. Recommended to those who can't start the week without finishing the NYT crossword puzzle, word historians, and anyone else who truly loves language.

That finishes the "What's in a Name 3" challenge - finally. I'm looking forward to next year's categories!

Micro-history Monday: There’s nothing “vanilla” about the ice cream orchid

I like reading about food almost as much as I like cooking food. Food micro-histories aren’t usually page turners, but I love the idea of someone learning everything there is to know about an ingredient or a cuisine –anything, really – and then sharing the information with me. That’s what happens when a micro-history is written well, anyway. And Tim Ecott’s Vanilla: Travels in Search of the Ice Cream Orchid is actually written well.

Ecott traces vanilla’s story from the jungles of the Yucatan to the tiny islands of Reunion and Tahiti –excellent work, if you can get it. Along the way, he focuses on many aspects of the plant’s development and usage, including social justice issues, economics and agriculture. The historiography is well done, shifting seamlessly from Mexico and Central America to England to Madagascar to the Marquesas. It’s clear that Ecott has done a great deal of legwork.

A particularly interesting part of the book revolves around Edmond, the slave who discovered the trick to fertilizing orchid plants with a trick known as le geste d’Edmond. Figuring out the trick was crucial, as the insects that naturally fertilize the vanilla orchids in Mexico and Central America are not found on the Indian Ocean islands from which today’s Bourbon vanilla is largely exported. Ecott uses this section of the book to explore the social history of the French colonial islands, and the lingering racism faced by the Afro-French to this day:

In Tahiti, another former French possession, I met a vanilla grower who laughed when I told him what I knew of the story of Edmond. “Rubbish!” he said with a scowl. “In fact, the boy was just a slave – and it is well known that he hated his owner. If he did fertilize the vanilla flower – it was an accident, not any kind of discovery!”

This despite the fact the slave’s owner documented the discovery at the time, and freely shared the information with other plantation owners. The social history of the islands, as well as the current social aspects of the farmer/curer/importer relationships, are what set this book apart from other micro-histories which shy away from the politics of their subject.

I find it particularly satisfying when a micro-history leaves me with information I would never have had or that I can use in my daily life. Here’s one (among many) to whip out at cocktail parties from Ecott: those little black grains in your “Vanilla Bean” ice cream have NO flavor. That’s right, NONE. According to Ecott, the flavor in your commercially made ice cream comes entirely from extracts, not the beans extracted from the pods as you would do in home ice cream making. What you think are beans are actually the flavorless “dust” left from the extraction process. So why include them? It’s a heuristic, indicating “home-made” and “flavorful,” since in the rest of our life that’s exactly what the pods signify.

I definitely recommend this book to foodies, micro-history lovers and travel readers. At the very least, it will provide some chit-chat at the next ice cream social!

Curry: A bit too dry and bland for my taste

Curry: A Tale of Cooks and Conquerors by Lizzie Collingham uses the term “curry” in the British sense, in that the real topic of the book turns out to be a food history of the Indian subcontinent – in much the same way that the British describe every dish cooked with sauce and a combination of exotic spices a curry, even though the term reduces an entire cuisine (in fact, multiple cuisines) to an Anglo-ism. The British perspective infuses the book, as Collingham gives the Raj credit for the development of what the world knows as “Indian” food, even while admitting the pale imitation of the real thing that global Indian has become – and somehow missing the point that it was only the British usurpation of the sub-continent that allowed England to borrow the closest thing it has to its own cuisine.

In fairness, Collingham has done her homework, and the beginning sections of the book, which are built around popular “Indian” menu items and the cultures and time periods to which they are related, are very interesting. The influence of Mughal rulers and the Portuguese on the cuisine is detailed along with the complex history surrounding the wax and wane of their influences on the culture. Collingham uses a variety of primary sources, and uses quotes from letters of those traveling through India to great effect.

Collingham loses her historicity, and to some extent her perspective, when she comes to the British Raj. She is just too enamored of the British occupation of what are now India, Pakistan and Bangladesh to analyze the facts and effects. Hers is a kinder, gentler Raj than one might expect, and the outcomes of occupation and globalization – terrible things like indentured servitude and diaspora – are spun in Pollyanna fashion into the elevation of the cuisine of not only the British Isles, but Fiji, Trinidad and South Africa. Gee willikers, wasn’t it great of those affable Brits to make life so unlivable for folks in their own country that they had to skedaddle away, and take their food preferences with them? (This is the same kind of thinking that no doubt has the British taking credit for John F. Kennedy’s presidency – if we hadn’t starved the poor Irish out of their own country, they wouldn’t have gone to Boston and voted for that Irish Catholic fellow. Well done us.)

Sub-continentals are not the only ones who have a right to be aggrieved. Her knowledge of the United States seems to be limited to her belief that inhabitants take all their cues – culinary and otherwise – from the UK. As she tries to explain why the US does not share the British mania for curry, she seems stumped. One look at her sources, however, and it’s clear that she is clueless of the US beyond a few Manhattan and Chicago eateries and restaurant reviews. At one point, she even seems to imply that the British appropriation of food from the sub-continent actually led to the acceptance of ethnic cuisine. Here’s the thing – I don’t think it was the British who gave us Italian food. I think it was – wait for it – the Italians!

The book isn’t awful, just Anglo-centric, and way too long. She should have stopped while she was ahead – in Goa. I did learn a lot about the history of a fascinating cuisine, and I appreciate the author’s painstaking research in some areas. So that’s my food book, and third book in the What’s in a Name 3 Challenge complete. Next, I’m taking on a more personal history with my body of water title: The Motion of the Ocean: 1 Small Boat, 2 Average Lovers, and a Woman's Search for the Meaning of Wife, by Janna Cawrse Esarey.