The meaning of historical knowledge is clearly determined by whether this knowledge can be utilized in the present and, of course, in the future. I did not reveal any secret with this statement, but observing today’s public life, I see that we do not want to utilize this knowledge, and thereby deprive it of what gives it meaning.

The recipe book image

Of course, even in today’s public discourse, we can often encounter historical parallels, the purpose of which corresponds exactly to what has just been described. One politician (let’s name him Taylor) wants to convince his audience that the other politician (Smith) is making a mistake, and to this end he tells a story from the past. Someone else previously acted similarly to Smith and caused damage. So far so good. The trouble starts when Smith tells another story from the past, according to which Taylor makes a mistake and needs to be stopped. Moreover, sometimes there is a ridiculous case where both sides are pulling the exact same story and putting each other in the role of the villain. How do we decide whose parallel is correct?

The question in this form is naïve. The success of the parallels presented by such politicians does not depend at all on whether they are correct, but rather on whether the public wants to hear them in the given situation or not. In Hungary, on the occasion of national holidays, it is regularly observed that any common memory can be immediately connected in a skillful speech to the political message of the day. I have no doubt that this is the case everywhere else, too. The historical parallel is only a decorative garnish to what is otherwise dictated by the interests of the moment. This approach to history could be called the “recipe book” method. It selects from memories, events and interpretations in a way to make them favorable, as if we were looking for a recipe for dinner from the given ingredients. Following this approach, historical knowledge does not perform its useful function: it does not warn that we can make mistakes.

My aim is not to lament the standard of public life and the morality of politicians. It would be a cheap topic and not very interesting. My point is that their actions clearly reflect the way their voters speak and think. Their attitude about history holds up a mirror to us, and what we see in this mirror makes little sense. We pretend to heed the lessons of history, but we don’t really take them seriously.

The linear image

Sometimes it seems that instead of turning the pages of the recipe book, it would be more honest to express the opinion that history is not important to us, that it no longer has any relevance to the world today. In fact, many people have made this statement many times. Perhaps the most famous – or even the most infamous – example of the last decades is when the American thinker Francis Fukuyama directly proclaimed the end of history in his 1989 essay.¹ His vision was inspired by the premonition of the Western victory at the end of the Cold War, from which he drew the conclusion that the essential questions of history had already been decided, and the answers were the ideas and institutions of liberalism and democracy that existed at that time. What is still ahead of us (says Fukuyama in 1989) is only the playing of the echoes, and the arrival of the “slower progressing” countries and peoples to the same position, to the same state. To the state of liberal democracy. In the last paragraph of the essay, we even find some nostalgia for an age when the excitement of history had not yet turned into boredom after history.

Although today it is easy to smile at this formulation of history’s end, there is no doubt that in the decade or two after the Cold War, this was a description of a mood felt by many. There is also no doubt that this mood has been worn out during the crises of the 2000s, especially the global financial crisis, and since then successive upsetting events have eroded it for the vast majority. Waves of migration, a series of terrorist attacks, COVID-19, the Russo-Ukrainian war… Today, only a few people are nostalgic for a more exciting time.

The proclamation of the irrelevance of history has therefore failed in its most recent iteration. Nevertheless, it is worth considering that Fukuyama’s thought process is ultimately based on an interpretation of history that Western thinkers have been passing around for centuries. This interpretation is based on the myth of progress. According to the myth, human history moves in a certain direction, and this progress – regardless of temporary setbacks – always creates an ever better world. For the modern, civilized person, the idea of ​​progress – or rather Progress – provides a kind of religious supplement. From this point of view, Fukuyama’s mistake can also be considered as a hasty prediction. We’re not there yet, that was a mistake. But we go on.

I call the interpretation built on the idea of ​​Progress a “linear” image of history. Of course, this attitude also prevents us from learning valuable and useful lessons from history. After all, what lessons can the past offer if humanity has already solved its previous tasks and moved to a higher, better, more advanced level? Obviously nothing. By definition, our challenges today can only arise from previously unknown problems, and only new solutions can be counted on to overcome them. Mentioning the past is for the cemetery and the entertainment industry, it cannot add anything to serious decisions.

The lack of middle ground

At first glance, the linear image of history and the recipe book approach may seem opposite, but in practice they perfectly complement each other. At least from the point of view of the utilization of history, it seems very much so. Even if we wanted to deliberately thwart the drawing of historical lessons, we could not find more expedient patterns of behavior than these two. People are not the same. The linear view is perfectly suited to those who, by nature or upbringing, hate dealing with the past because it shows the activity in question as unnecessary. And for those who, for any reason, like to fiddle with historical analogies and parallels, there is the recipe book image, which enables the free exercise of this urge without any consequences.

It is worth going a little deeper into the details regarding these two images. In what form do they perceive the past? How do they put together the huge, diverse and in many respects difficult to interpret dataset that we call human history?

The linear approach embeds all data into a single, all-inclusive story. This single story is the myth of Progress which does not allow any return to previous situations. “We can’t turn back.” There are no episodes that can be separated and interpreted independently, and there is no room for any kind of parallel vision. What promotes Progress is good and successful, and vice versa: what is good and successful promotes Progress.

On the other hand, in the recipe book approach, we can find any number, even an infinite amount of small stories and anecdotes without any interference. This image basically ignores the connection between historical facts. It lacks the context, the fabric of understanding that would make it possible to filter out contradictions. This recipe book does not come together as one big recipe, or as a style of cooking, and especially not as a culinary art. As a result, there is no real consequence, and it cannot be. If a phenomenon is repeated a thousand times, in the absence of connections, it can seem strange at most, if we notice it at all.

The linear and recipe book images represent two extremes. In terms of the number of elementary narratives taken into account, the coherence of the approach and the lessons that can be learned, we are talking about two opposite poles. The table presented here summarizes these aspects, supplemented by the previously mentioned target groups. As I mentioned earlier, the lessons that can be learned is what ultimately makes the two extremes equally unacceptable from the point of view of utilizing the past. When we are looking for a clue in our decisions, neither the linear history that refuses any advice nor the recipe book that shows examples of anything – and its opposite – will help us.

name of the image	linear	recipe book	middle ground
number of elementary narratives	one	arbitrary, even infinite	from three to a few dozen
structure of the image	all-inclusive monolith	disjoint, incoherent	collection of similar elements
lessons to be learned	nothing	anything	what the elements’ similarity dictates
target group	who hate the past for any reason	who like the past for any reason	everyone

Aristotle has written that true virtues come from being able to find a middle way free from extremes. Courage lies between reckless audacity and helpless cowardice, just as generosity lies between extravagance and avarice. We should strive for something similar in our case: a middle way that allows us to learn from the mistakes and successes of the past. The corresponding properties are shown in the right-most column of the table.

What do we need?

As the table shows, the image of the middle way is polyphonic in the sense that it allows the parallel existence of several different stories. However, these independent narratives are not isolated from each other, but are connected, and in fact, they resemble each other in many of their essential features and the nature of their course. This approach is therefore based on the search for repeating patterns in the recorded phenomena of history. It is customary to call this a cyclical view of history. This “cyclical” indicator emphasizes the process of going around and the moment of return. During repetition it is unavoidable that sooner or later we end up in a situation that we already know, where we have been before. This point of view was traditionally widespread in China, because the path of Chinese imperial dynasties followed a similar curve over and over again in many respects, and the repetition remained a defining experience for several millennia – form approx. the 2nd century BCE until the 20th century CE.

Why should we examine history this way? It is advantageous because, after getting to know a few elementary stories, we can already have an idea of ​​where our own story is going. We have ready-made parallels, something to adjust our decisions to. At the same time – and as we have seen, this is also very important – we cannot choose any parallel from anywhere at will. The number of possibilities is fixed and very finite, and not only because of the number of stories. If, for example, we are in the middle of our own story, but we want to compare it to the beginning of another story, then the alarm bells go off because we have contradicted our own image of history.

According to the table, the number of elementary stories of the middle-of-the-road approach can range “from three to a few dozen”. At first glance, this definition may seem very strange, and it is obviously not quite exact. Why from three to a few dozen? The short answer is that by the process of elimination. Excessively large numbers of elementary stories can only be handled by the human mind in an incoherent and contingent way – similarly to the recipe book image. The maximal amount that can still be combined into a more or less viable and unified picture is around a few dozen elements. It is also clear that with a single story – no matter what it is – we will definitely arrive at a linear model. So far, this would leave “from two to a few dozen”.

I left the number two out of the table because, again, due to the properties of the human mind, double, binary or dual thinking is a privileged special case. When, for example, the human psyche defines the self-image, the definition always has a pronounced negative part, which is about what we do not think about ourselves. Carl Jung called these denied qualities and abilities the “shadow”. Living with the shadow of the psyche and managing these traits and abilities is crucial to maintaining a healthy mind. If I can simplify it very crudely simplified: a person who does not accept that he is imperfect, that the shadow – or at least a part – may still belong to him, often ends up with some kind of mental disorder.

A parallel process takes place when it comes to the self-image of a community. It seems indispensable to designate who is not a member of the given community. Another Carl, the political scientist Carl Schmitt, expressed this perhaps most clearly by stating that one of the decisive steps in practical politics is the designation of the enemy. The presence of strangers, heretics and deviance in general is a condition for the existence of self-determination in a community. But this also means that the enemy cannot be destroyed because its existence is necessary. Any community, society, or nation that tries to remove it permanently – and there have been attempts – risks the greatest harm to itself.

This kind of “either-or” contrast and the associated thought pattern very often leaves its mark on our judgment, even in cases where it is not about self-determination at all. If we wanted to build our picture of history on two elementary stories, we could easily find ourselves in a situation where we see one as “good” and the other as “bad”. And from there, partisanship is only a step away with all its eternal dilemmas and dangers. That’s why you need at least three stories.²

I have to add that this caution is not out of thin air, because the myth of Progress certainly has its own “shadow”: the myth of the End of the World. Apocalypse is very much alive in today’s modern world, and we can all face it when someone on television predicts annihilation and destruction, be it financial collapse, climate change or the death of our nation. The mass fad associated with the years 2000 and 2012 can also be mentioned here. Progress and the End of the World can be paired so much that they make it difficult to criticize each other. When someone objects a single achievement of Progress, he can expect to be accused of wanting the destruction of the entire world. The situation is similar in the opposite direction. There are, for example, climate activists who, together with their followers, react to even the smallest comforting gesture as if we were provoking them with the propaganda of the largest industrial companies. The two stories are intertwined as deeply as if they were one.

The middle way may seem more attractive to those who like the memories of the past than to those who abhor old things. I think this appearance is deceiving. The hands of those who courageously juggle words and ideas are tied, and this restriction lowers the bar for the less enthusiastic and more timid. According to this image of history, humanists, historians and politicians cannot do anything, they cannot evaluate and interpret historical events as they please. I think this is enough to compromise the popularity of the middle-of-the-road approach among them.

As for those who are not familiar with the events of the past, or those who hate them, I think that the rejection of historical knowledge can be alleviated by a middle ground image. In many cases, the rejection stems from the fact that historical knowledge is identified with irrelevant, ancient and inconsequential data (e.g. years, names, outdated concepts). If we present the same data as part of a clear, coherent and interesting picture, the knowledge is likely to come to life. It is certainly not possible to get these people to study small details, but the large connections – such as outlining the internal structure of elementary stories – together with the promise of usability, may even entice some of the supporters of linear marching.

1.  Francis Fukuyama: The End of History?, The National Interest, Summer 1989, online: https://pages.ucsd.edu/~bslantchev/courses/pdf/Fukuyama%20-%20End%20of%20History.pdf, access on 10 Nov 2024. ↩︎
2. This is probably at least part of the reason why the number three has been considered magical or sacred in many human cultures. Three is the first “ordinary” number, which is not associated with unconscious instincts and allows for a more or less unbiased understanding. ↩︎