Simon Schama

This monumental study of Rembrandt, the product of what the author describes as “the attentiveness of an engaged beholder,” uses the recoverable facts of the artist’s life and close readings of his rich body of work in an act of mutual illumination. Both are set against a detailed description of the turbulent times: the war of independence from Spain and the decades of Amsterdam’s sway as the Venice of the North. By the time I finished, I was convinced that Rembrandt was indeed, as I show more suspected, the premier artist of the 17th century.
Rembrandt’s life followed an arc appropriate for such a towering artist: talent recognized early, spotted by an advisor to the Dutch court, the years of fame and lucrative commissions, the death of his wife, years of bankruptcy and scandal, and the masterpieces of the late years, scorned at the time since they were out of step with changing fashion.
He didn’t arise in a vacuum, any more than any artist does. In particular, he was inspired (and to a certain degree oppressed) by the example of his older contemporary on the other side of the new divide in the Spanish Netherlands, Rubens in Antwerp. Schama terms Rubens Rembrandt’s “paragon” in the full sense of the word, including both emulation and competition. To document this, Schama even includes a book within a book: a roughly two-hundred-page biography of Rubens.
Recurrent themes—physical blindness and spiritual insight, for instance—run through Rembrandt’s lifelong output. One feels his quest was not only artistic but also spiritual. In a time and place torn by confessional strife, Rembrandt remained the outsider. No record of his baptism has been found. He numbered among friends and clients Catholics, Mennonites, and Jews, as well as representatives of both sides of the quarrel over predestination and free will among the Protestants in the land. Schama calls him one of nature’s ecumenicals. Although not a church member, many of his best works have biblical themes. Among the thirteen canvases found in his studio in various stages of completion when he died are a pair, “The Return of the Prodigal Son” and “Simeon in the Temple with the Christ Child,” that, taken together, seems a final confession and absolution.
Rembrandt’s entire life and career took place after the Dutch, inspired by the Reformation, banished all images from their churches, influenced by the command to make no graven images. Yet Rembrandt created what Schama calls Protestant icons. I think he is correct. When I first visited the Rijksmuseum, fifty-five years ago, one of the reproductions I bought, mounted on beaverboard, was “Peter’s Denial of Christ,” despite my Puritan fervor at the time that convinced me it was wrong to have depictions of God or Christ. Nevertheless, that print has traveled with me through every move and has hung in every one of a succession of home offices.
Be careful when you read this book: it is large and heavy. You might avoid aching wrists if you place it on a stand when you read it. Other than that, the only quibble I have is that sometimes the writing is too fine. In particular, Scham enjoys opening a new section circuitously, novelistically. This was disorienting at times. Aside from that, this book is a remarkable achievement, worthy of its subject. show less

'...they were given neither shelter nor quarter. Hunted down, they were mercilessly butchered: sabbered, stabbed, stoned and clubbed. Women stripped the bodies of clothes and whatever possessions they could find. Mutilators hacked off limbs and scissored out genitals and stuffed them in gaping mouths or fed them to the dogs. What was left was thrown on bonfires, one of which spread to the palace itself. Other bits and pieces of the six hundred soldiers who perished in the massacre were show more loaded haphazardly onto carts and taken to common lime pits. It was, thought Robespierre, "the most beautiful revolution that has honoured humanity."'

Here's a massive opus, starting from the coronation of Louis XVI up to the death of Robespierre. Clocking at about 900 pages, 'Citizens' is obviously a huge and vast chronicle of the French Revolution! The flow is alright. The problem is that the author may have tried to chew way more than he could, and, so, might be a bit dull at times despite unfolding it all like a dramatic action movie for the most part. The issue is, he focuses so much on violence that he tends to downplay its heritage.

It starts fine. Describing the financially exhausted France before the revolutionary earthquake that would shatter it, he reminds us of the impact of feudalism. Yet, he counterbalances it by showing such a system might have been on its way out anyway, not least because of the shy nascent of capitalism. It's a fine start, echoing Tocqueville in its conclusion:

'...elite were not a creation of the Revolution and the Empire but of the last decades of the Bourbon monarchy, and... it marched into the nineteenth century not as a consequence of the French Revolution, but in spite of it.'

He then goes on into narrating the Revolution itself, intricate events after intricate events. No matter how detailed and in length, though, this is where things go a tat off track. Simon Schama is of the opinion indeed that 'violence was the Revolution itself', not a by-product of it:

'violence was not just an unfortunate side effect from which enlightened Patriots could selectively avert their eyes; it was the Revolution's source of collective energy. It was what made the Revolution revolutionary.'

Now, don't get me wrong! Of course, the violence underpinning such events should not be under-estimated, and, as he rightly insist, it has been unjustly downplayed by other historians whereas it should be fully part of its historiography. But the problem with Schama is that he doesn't critically analyse it. He just displays it, in all its gruesomeness (my opening quote about the storming of the Tuilerie palace is one of his typical retelling...). As a result, here's a tale of gore, blood, lust, and pride, where violence is seen as a tool for fanatics groups after fanatics groups to topple each others in a self-interested power struggle. Revolutionary leaders don't care about the people but themselves, and the Revolution was nothing but a brutal bloodbath not even that necessary (again, his argument that French society didn't change that much after it all...). Is Simon Schama a modern-day Edmund Burke? It's far-fetched, but his portrayal of bloodthirsty mobs going berserk stands in sharp contrast to his depiction of a dignified royal family, whose fate especially in the prison Temple and at their trial visibly moved him more than the fate of the people under an absolutist regime... I have nothing against a revisionist approach, far from that! But, being French, I found his English cynicism quite over the top. In fact, he can't restreint himself, even when dealing with overlooked topic deserving more attention, like the civil war that had engulfed the Vendée. One third of the entire population of the region was indeed put to death, and, if a raging debate still goes on about the fate of such a turn of events in there (was it a genocide?) Schama just dumps his simple view:

'[Vendée was] the logical outcome of an ideology that progressively dehumanised its adversaries and that had become incapable of seeing any middle ground between total triumph and utter eclipse.'

He is referring to the Jacobins of the Terror, but, in light of the whole book, he might as well be referring to the whole Revolution itself; to him no doubt more of an 'utter eclipse' than a triumph. The fact he ends it all with the death of Robespierre is itself telling of his views. What about the more peaceful Directory? What about the rise to power of Bonaparte - maybe where the Revolution actually ends? Ha! But, again, as a Frenchman I don't see Bonaparte merely as an evil and bloodthirsty tyrant, whereas him, as an Englishman... But I digress!

'Citizen' is a massive opus, so big in fact that it at times lose itself into painful details and boring asides. That's its own downfall. The focus on violence is an angle that deserves to be analysed, but this book doesn't do that. It just thrusts violence at your face for the sake of thrusting violence at your face. Entertaining perhaps, but not that much serious. If you want a clear overview of the French Revolution, well, I am sure there are other books out there way shorter and more critical! For a revisionist approach, William Doyle is another English historian coming to mind... Personally, I would recommend this one only if you are well-interested in the topic to start with. show less

Covers the French Revolution from preconditions to the death of Robespierre. The subject is practically custom-made for this reader-friendly narrative format: a series of key plot points with spectacular imagery including the Tennis Court Oath, the Bastille, various marches and riots, the guillotine, the fate of the royal family, Marat in his bath, etc. Schama layers in several asides that add flavour and a strong sense of the period such as Jean Jacob, a spectacularly old man being hailed show more as the spirit of the nation, and Theroigne de Mericourt dressed in flamboyant red, marshalling the women's march. Eight hundred pages makes for a long saga but it is never stale, and the many inserted images (paintings, portraits, propaganda) help break things up.

In high school I'd imagined the Revolution as the act of a united people claiming their rights and freedoms, a designed and concerted effort to establish something new and modern - a mirror image of the American Revolution from a decade earlier. Now I see a monarchy overthrown almost haphazardly when it didn't deliver on promises that it didn't realize it was making; first by a nobility grown heady on Rousseau with visions of a utopian society, and second by population that perceived themselves the victims of royalist conspiracy - a designed-to-be-poor economy that starved them, backed with inconsistent taxation policies inconsistently applied.

When the new government - almost entirely composed of the upper classes - tried to right these wrongs, only then did they perceive the difficulties involved. Their solutions were more drastic than anything the king had tried, leading to finger pointing and recriminations among themselves as foreign powers threatened and the economy only worsened. The population remained restless, swayed by whoever accused loudest. One at a time weaker opponents were eliminated in the Revolution's name - royalists first, then moderates - until only those extremists were left who were willing to create a police state that at last harnessed violence. Eventually the monster ate itself, and it only remained for a man like Napoleon Bonaparte to pick up the pieces.

Schama wears his opinions on his sleeve, sometimes in flat assertions that he boldly states run counter to prevailing views, sometimes in amusing sarcasm when noting strategic errors: "If [the king] had wanted to invent reasons for journalists to accuse him of considering the rights of foreign dynasts over French patriots, he could hardly have done a better job." Being a bit too demanding for an introduction to the subject, my highschool memories provided just enough background. Where those lessons offered the bare bones, this book is the muscle. show less

Many of us were raised with a rather triumphalist account detailing the rise of modern vaccines: for untold generations, people suffered terribly from various illnesses, and over time scientists and doctors figured out how to vaccinate people to reduce disease intensity and mortality. This has been hailed as an unalloyed good, and we invest a lot of time and resources into attempting to develop even more vaccines to address even more illnesses.

For those maintaining such a perspective, the show more recent anti-vax movement seems as if it came from left field. The resistance to the COVID-19 vaccine seems baffling.

Yet, as Simon Schama well documents in Foreign Bodies: Pandemics, Vaccines, and the Health of Nations (galley received as part of early review program, but full book read), there has been resistance and challenges as long as the concept of inoculation/vaccination has been around. Most of that resistance and challenge said more about the resisters than anything about the advancement of science and the welfare of mankind.

The author first explored the promotion of “inoculation” for smallpox in the early eighteenth century. He well demonstrated how many had died and been permanently scarred by smallpox. He detailed how on the periphery of “civilization,” west and east, some women had come to realize the power and value of inoculation, and would inoculate their children. Some came across it, saw its effectiveness, and promoted it themselves. It eventually reached the royal household.

And then there were those who resisted it. It was asked how giving the plague could save from the plague. Theological arguments were marshaled: who were these inoculators to stand in God’s place and render His power of judging by smallpox moot? And, of course, the sheer bigotry: it was done in poorer and “less civilized” regions, and so how could it have value in a later time?

Then the author explored the life and career of Waldemar Haffkine, a Jewish man from Odessa who would play a major role in developing inoculation for both cholera and bubonic plague at the end of the 19th and into the 20th centuries. The author profiles his origin and development, how he ended up in India, and the constant resistance Haffkine would experience at the hands of the medical establishment which was very much ensconced in the mentality sanitation would work better than inoculation. Even as the evidence multiplied, the establishment would find reasons to cast aspersions. When they could make a case against the vaccines, they would, and sunk Haffkine’s reputation for a season. The establishment worked hard to break him.

In the end, we celebrate the development of inoculation against smallpox, and the vaccines against cholera and bubonic plague, finally ending all of their reigns of terror over humanity. And it is right we do so, and understandable why we don’t learn as much about all those who worked against them. One of history’s judgments involves being forgotten, after all.

But when we forget, we become surprised when we see the same kinds of resistance rise up again in later times. Books like these are important to tell the story of how inoculations and vaccines developed. Those who worked to do so should be celebrated. But it is also good to see how much resistance they experienced, from whom, and why, and thus be prepared to see such kinds of resistance continue to manifest themselves even in our own day. show less