1. History: Forgetting, Selecting, Presenting
¶ 1 Leave a comment on paragraph 1 0 Most of history is forgetting. In fact, as Paul Ricoeur reminds us: “There is forgetting wherever there had been a trace. […] Forgetting is the emblem of the vulnerability of the historical condition taken as a whole” (Ricoeur 2006, 284). One reason why human individuals and cultures forget is the sheer fact that there is too much to remember, and that we have learned to perceive pragmatically and selectively. Our brain is geared to delete and destroy information; otherwise we would be lost in an avalanche of data that needs to be processed. Likewise, the lives of humans and nonhumans produce a huge amount of traces that subsequent generations may or may not find, read, and engage with. Most of those traces go unnoticed. Those traces that later generations actually notice change their status from traces to sources. They become data and carriers of meaning for people who look back to the past. Most commonly, they read the sources as meaningful indicators of a coherent line of events that ultimately would lead to their own present time. History provides meaning for the present.
¶ 2 Leave a comment on paragraph 2 0 Historiography—literally the writing down of history—is a process of selection and prioritization of data that subsequently is written into a meaningful plot. As we know from feminist narrative critique, what constitutes a meaningful plot is also socio-culturally constituted. Historians tell their stories to their contemporaries, not to the people of the past. That is why Hayden White famously compared the writing of academic historians to the writing of fiction. The ‘emplotment’ of history is a creative process, and the tools of classical rhetoric apply to historiography, as well, if authors want to convince their audiences. For White, the historical work is
¶ 3 Leave a comment on paragraph 3 0 a verbal structure in the form of a narrative prose discourse. Histories (and philosophies of history as well) combine a certain amount of “data,” theoretical concepts for “explaining” these data, and a narrative structure for their presentation as an icon of sets of events presumed to have occurred in times past. In addition, I maintain, they contain a deep structural content which is generally poetic, and specifically linguistic, in nature, and which serves as the precritically accepted paradigm of what a distinctively “historical” explanation should be. This paradigm functions as the “metahistorical” element in all historical works that are more comprehensive in scope than the monograph or archival report. (White 1973, ix)
¶ 4 Leave a comment on paragraph 4 0 From this insight we can derive that much of what historians write is inspired by questions of their own times. History is a tool to provide answers to present-day questions, rather than a field of information studied for its own sake only.
¶ 5 Leave a comment on paragraph 5 0 Let us consider an example that illustrates this mechanism. All readers of this chapter know Sir Isaac Newton (1642–1727), who, as Wikipedia tells us, “is widely recognised as one of the most influential scientists of all time and a key figure in the scientific revolution” (Wikipedia 2018). His major work, the Philosophiae Naturalis Principia Mathematica (1687) has been remembered as a cornerstone of modern ‘science,’ even though its title and content addresses the mathematical principles of natural philosophy, rather than science. What is more, the term “scientific revolution” was introduced many years later, and was popularized by Alexandre Koyré only in the twentieth century (see Hall 1987). “Although many seventeenth-century practitioners expressed their intention of bringing about radical intellectual change,” Steven Shapin reminds us, “the people who are said to have made the revolution used no such term to refer to what they were doing” (Shapin 1996, 2). Shapin maintains that “[h]istorians have in recent years become dissatisfied with the traditional manner of treating ideas as if they floated freely in conceptual space” (ibid., 4), and he suggests to look at the historians’ own social and cultural background to find the origins of historical theories and narratives.
¶ 6 Leave a comment on paragraph 6 0 This also explains the remarkable amount of forgetting when it comes to Isaac Newton. While his ‘scientific’ work is venerated in museums and libraries, a large part of his writings, consisting of theological and alchemical publications, had been regarded as unimportant and non-representative of Newton’s work for centuries. Sotheby auctioned some of Newton’s unpublished works in 1936, on behalf of Gerard Wallop, 9th Earl of Portsmouth, who had inherited them from Newton’s great-niece. At the beginning of the twenty-first century, we see a change in public and scholarly interest that goes along with a re-evaluation of the history of ‘science,’ ‘Enlightenment,’ and ‘modernity,’ as well as its relevance for the constitution of contemporary culture. The resulting interest in ‘the alchemical Newton,’ of course, does not mean that we now get to know the whole truth about this complex figure; but it means that we add a dimension to the picture, highlighting a feature that is meaningful for understanding our own place in the larger scheme of things and events.
¶ 7 Leave a comment on paragraph 7 0 What, then, are the parameters and mechanisms that determine which traces are forgotten and which traces are turned into sources? Historians have discussed this question for a long time and developed theories that are relevant for other disciplines as well. An important contribution to this methodological discussion comes from Reinhart Koselleck who introduced the distinction between “space of experience” (Erfahrungsraum) and “horizon of expectation” (Erwartungshorizont).
¶ 8 Leave a comment on paragraph 8 0 Experience and expectation, because they interlace past and future, are two appropriate categories for thematizing historical time. The categories are suitable to find historical time also in the area of empirical research because they are determining, aggregated with content, the concrete units of action in the execution of social and political movement.
¶ 9 Leave a comment on paragraph 9 0 Historiography distills historical meaning from the tension between past, present, and future. Historical meaning is always ascribed and generated meaning, a process that German historians refer to as historische Sinnbildung. Jörn Rüsen, for instance, distinguishes three elements that together constitute historical meaning: the levels of contents, of formal construction, and of function. With regard to contents, historiography has to make sure that the (re)presented past really has empirical grounding, that is, the story told must be recognized as factitious by the recipients. The formal element simply calls for the logical plausibility of the story, for instance, in its details’ temporal relations. The functional level, finally, points to the high significance for contemporary discourse because the practical application of the presented past is always an inherent part of the narration. In Rüsen’s words:
¶ 10 Leave a comment on paragraph 10 0 Historical meaning [Sinn], hence, is divided in the three components of the empirical, of interpretation, and of orientation. All three refer to the past in a communicated temporal distance to the present. […] “Meaning” [appears] as an adequate term for the coherence that is crucial in this relationship [between past and present]. Meaning is the integration of all three components. They have to refer to one another, converge in one another, and enhance one another. […] The integration is practically realized and applied in narrative operations. Meaning in narrative is the red thread the story follows: it is generated by the respective cultural pattern of interpretation. (Rüsen 1997, 36; my translation)
¶ 11 Leave a comment on paragraph 11 0 Rüsen’s approach is an example of the possibility of arriving at a theory of history that does not hide its constructive elements and nonetheless is able to correlate facts of the past with their (re)presentation in the present under a broad concept of history. History, in this perspective, is an analytical term that does not explain anything in itself. It is located on a different level of argument. It is a metaterm needed for interpretation at the interface of past and present. It should not be mixed up with the “facts” themselves—which would lead to essentialism—but, rather, should be regarded as a reminder that there are facts “out there” that influence our positions or even determine our concepts, even though our representations of history are not a mirror of actual facts.
¶ 12 Leave a comment on paragraph 12 0 Applying “history” in such a way throws some interesting light on a notorious discussion within the academic study of religion. It has become a scholarly fashion to quote Jonathan Z. Smith’s dictum that “there is no data for religion. Religion is solely the creation of the scholar’s study” (Smith 1982, xi; italics original). However, most scholars of religion do not seem to read the first part of the italicized sentence, which says that “there is a staggering amount of data, of phenomena, of human experiences and expressions that might be characterized in one culture or another, by one criterion or another, as religious.” This renders a much more nuanced impression of what Smith is actually arguing. It can be linked to my distinction between ‘traces’ and ‘sources,’ which sees history as a set of events that happen and that we subsequently interpret with historical imagination. Our interpretations, contingent and relative as they are, therefore respond to reality. They live up to Sam D. Gill’s claim that “writings of the academic study of religion must also be demonstrably grounded in the reality of the subject. Without this grounding, what we do is finally not academic at all” (Gill 2000, 460).
¶ 13 Leave a comment on paragraph 13 0 The discussion between constructivism and materialism is a major debate in the humanities today, and I will come back to it after having addressed the discursive framing of historiography. Much of it has to do with notions of truth and (representations of) reality, a topic that philosophers have a lot to say about, too. If we consider, for instance, Richard Rorty’s post-analytical pragmatism, we can see a parallel development in historiography, sociology of science, philosophy, and cultural studies. Against the realist position Rorty suggests that we should leave behind our attempt to find an objectivity that would mirror the reality of the world. Rather, what we should strive for is establishing solidarity among peer-groups. It is not the truth of our models that is at stake but their power of conviction.
¶ 14 Leave a comment on paragraph 14 0 For the pragmatist […], “knowledge” is, like “truth,” simply a compliment paid to the beliefs which we think so well justified that, for the moment, further justification is not needed. An inquiry into the nature of knowledge can, on his view, only be a sociohistorical account of how various people have tried to reach agreement on what to believe. (Rorty 1989, 7)
¶ 15 Leave a comment on paragraph 15 0 Even our understanding of “objectivity” as a method entirely independent from the observer can be historicized. Lorraine Daston and Peter Galison emphasize in their superb study of objectivity that this understanding
¶ 16 Leave a comment on paragraph 16 0 first emerged in the mid-nineteenth century and in a matter of decades became established not only as a scientific norm but also as a set of practices […]. However dominant objectivity may have become in the sciences since circa 1860, it never had, and still does not have, the epistemological field to itself. Before objectivity, there was truth-to-nature; after the advent of objectivity came trained judgment. (Daston and Galison 2007, 28–29)
¶ 17 Leave a comment on paragraph 17 0 The mechanisms of “how various people have tried to reach agreement on what to believe,” as well as the question of how much of this mechanism is based on reality, have been engaged in discourse research for quite some time. I will discuss this with reference to the discursive understanding of history.
2. Historical Discourse Analysis
¶ 18 Leave a comment on paragraph 18 0 Discourse research has a lot to offer when it comes to understanding the past. Sometimes, the use of discourse theory in historical analysis is much more limited, though. This is the case if scholars stick to the linguistic dimension of their research, like the approach Laurel J. Brinton advocates when he says that “[it] is the study of discourse forms, functions, or structures—that is, whatever is encompassed by discourse analysis […]—in earlier periods of a language. The attention of the discourse analyst is focused on historical stages of a language, yet the emphasis remains on discourse structure. This approach may be termed historical discourse analysis proper” (Brinton 2001, 139; emphasis original). More relevant for us are approaches that apply methods of discourse analysis to historical phenomena and investigate how meaning and knowledge is produced in clearly defined historical settings; the only difference would be that our sources are less varied (and mostly limited to textual, visual, and archaeological data) than in an analysis of contemporary discourses. It should be noted, however, that we always need a communicative situation because otherwise there cannot be any discourse (Landwehr 2009, 128). Examples of such an application are Yoosun Park’s analysis of the construction of the ‘refugee’ in US social work from 1900–1957 (Park 2008) and Jessie Sun’s study of ‘mindfulness’ movements (Sun 2014).
¶ 19 Leave a comment on paragraph 19 0 To use the full potential of historical discourse analysis, however, we will have to cut deeper. This is where Michel Foucault comes into play. Throughout his work, the historian Foucault was interested in the genealogy and ‘archaeology’ of discursive structures, which naturally implies a historical dimension in his analysis of discourse (see Bieder 1998; Bublitz 1999). But Foucault was skeptical of our ability to render a true and neutral image of the past, which created a conflict with historians who argued for a realist approach to historical representation. Only few historians have seriously explored the implications of discourse research. Even today, “sources are still read as ‘documents’ of a past reality—perhaps they are read better, more diligently and critically, but nevertheless as medium with sufficient transparency” (Sarasin 2003, 32; my translation). Most historians would deny that historical meaning is discursively generated, rather than neutrally reconstructed from the facts in a hermeneutical process of understanding. But this is exactly what Michel Foucault wanted to show in his critical reflection on our presupposition that historical truth is attainable in our accounts of it. Since Foucault, “discourse analysis can be understood as the attempt of scrutinizing the formal conditions that steer the production of meaning” (Sarasin 2003, 33). Sarasin explains:
¶ 20 Leave a comment on paragraph 20 0 The thing that is meant, the referent, is as referent of a certain linguistic sign not prior to language; rather, it is the system of signs that ultimately creates it as social reality from the “chaotic variety” [chaotische Mannigfaltigkeit] (Kant) of all possible things in the world: “It is the world of words that generates the world of things” [Jacques Lacan]. Something else is fundamental for discourse analysis: This is not about the abstruse question whether there is more than texts; it is about how the non-linguistic things gain their meaning. No discourse, no grid of classification, however familiar it may appear, has ever been derived ‘from the things themselves’; it is the other way round and discourse and classification generate the order of things. […] Even though practices, gestures, and objects are themselves no longer constituted in language, they are relevant in the social world only because meaning has been discursively attributed to them (Sarasin 2003, 36; see also Busse 1987, 23).
¶ 21 Leave a comment on paragraph 21 0 We will see later that some scholars today would argue, against Lacan and Sarasin, that the world of things generates the world of words—a materialist argument that discourse theory has to respond to. But that does not contradict Foucault’s claim that we can understand the working of discursive structures only if we know their genealogy and formation. Achim Landwehr goes as far as to say that “discourses do not have any other ‘basis’ than their own history” (Landwehr 2009, 97; my translation). What is more, only through comparison—in diachronic or synchronic perspective—we can see the historicity and even singularity of discourses (see also Scott 2007, 8). There are no discourses that emerge ‘naturally.’ Historical and comparative analysis of how social communicational structures attribute meaning to the world and organize explicit and implicit knowledge is the basis of any analysis of discourse. This is also the approach that many historians who are open to discourse theory share today. See, for example, the broad and yet workable definition Franz X. Eder gives for his volume on historical discourse analyses:
¶ 22 Leave a comment on paragraph 22 0 In this volume, discourses are defined as practices that systematically organize and regulate statements on a certain topic, thereby also determining the conditions of what (in a social group at a certain time) can be thought and said. Which of the three relevant levels—textual, discursive, and social practices—historical discourse research focuses on and how they are related to one another depends on the respective research questions and theoretical positions. In any case, (historical) discourse analysis is by no means a specific method; rather, it is a research program or research perspective: Doing discourse analysis today means to apply quite different methods and procedures, all of them scientifically elaborated and explicit. (Eder 2006, 13; my translation)
¶ 23 Leave a comment on paragraph 23 0 Even in the context of the social-scientific study of culture, historical discourse analysis adds the reflection on its own research agenda and politics. Put differently, “historical discourse analysis is a research approach suited to contextualize its own research stories and practices” (Jóhannesson 2010, 252). Jóhannesson continues:
¶ 24 Leave a comment on paragraph 24 0 I must acknowledge my resistance against seeing my ways of working as ‘a method’; I see my research, most of the time, as what can be called a Foucauldian-feminist quest to identify contradictions in the discourses surrounding us, hopefully to be able to exploit these contradictions to interrupt current discourse. This means that I wish to focus more on why research is conducted and under which circumstances, rather than on its methods. Thus, what sparked the researcher’s interest becomes an important part of the story, but what happened to the research findings is also important and will become part of the story. (Ibid.)
¶ 25 Leave a comment on paragraph 25 0 If indeed, following Foucault, we regard discourses as practices that (co)create the realities they describe, it is important to include the researcher’s cultural location in the research itself. In this way, “discourse analysis (also) produces discourses on discourses” (Landwehr 2009, 98), which is not to be regarded as a disadvantage but as the researcher’s acknowledgment of being involved in what I have called the “double-bind of discourse research” (see von Stuckrad 2015, 435).
3. The Materiality of the Past and the Limits of Construction
¶ 26 Leave a comment on paragraph 26 0 Including the researcher’s contemporary context in our analysis of how historical knowledge is produced, legitimized, sanctioned, and stabilized is a major advantage of discursive approaches. It also means that the analytical focus is on the way knowledge is constructed in social communication. While constructionist approaches in the humanities and the social sciences have been very influential in the second half of the twentieth century—most of them being persuaded by Peter L. Berger, Thomas Luckmann, and Alfred Schütz (see Berger and Luckmann 1966; Schütz and Luckmann 1979–1984)—the last ten years have seen a strong critique of constructionism, particularly in its radical form. New attributions of materialist thinking, along with object-oriented ontologies and theories in philosophy and cultural studies, have challenged what is described as an anthropocentric bias of constructionist arguments. In the introduction to their volume on New Materialisms, Diana Coole and Samantha Frost point out that
¶ 27 Leave a comment on paragraph 27 0 materialism’s demise since the 1970s has been an effect of the dominance of analytical and normative political theory on the one hand and of radical constructivism on the other. These respective Anglophone and continental approaches have both been associated with a cultural turn that privileges language, discourse, culture, and values. While this turn has encouraged a de facto neglect of more obviously material phenomena and processes, it has also problematized any straightforward overture toward matter or material experience as naively representational or naturalistic. (Coole and Frost 2010, 3)
¶ 29 Leave a comment on paragraph 29 0 One way out of this predicament is to make clear—as in fact many discourse theorists would emphasize—that discursive approaches do not neglect the reality of the world; it is only that they are more interested in the ‘discursivization’ of those realities and their transformation into human knowledge. But for them the world an sich will never be accessible for us without the filtering processes of discursivization. Knowledge, in this perspective, is always precarious and depending on dynamics of power and perception that humans can only partly control or even understand. The more-than-human world is part of this dynamic and can cause the discursivization of things and events. This leads to the question if the more-than-human world—which includes nonhuman animals and objects that are deemed inanimate—can be part of a discourse or even get actively involved in a discourse community.
¶ 30 Leave a comment on paragraph 30 0 To address this issue, it is helpful to take into account recent discussions about agency, relationality, and object-oriented ontologies. For questions of historical research, archaeologist Ian Hodder’s theory of entanglement is particularly interesting. “The term ‘entanglement,’” Hodder explains, “joins the many others that try to bridge the divide between materialism and social construction” (Hodder 2012, 95). Objects and things in history have a natural life that influences what we can know about them; “in many ways things make us. There is an objectness, a stand-in-the-wayness to things that resists, that forms, that entraps and entangles” (ibid., 13). And with reference to Alfred Gell and Bruno Latour Hodder argues that “[t]hings do have a primary agency, not because they have intentionality but because they are vibrant and have lives and interactions of their own. As they grow, transform or fall apart they have a direct impact on human lives. This is not a secondary agency delegated to things by humans” (ibid., 68). In Hodder’s argument agency emerges from the encounter with humans: “The dependencies are not inherent in the things themselves but in the interactions between humans and things” (ibid., 18).
¶ 31 Leave a comment on paragraph 31 0 Similar to entanglement studies, the study of relationality looks at the dynamic interaction of various communication partners, including nonhuman animals and things. The agency of things, again, emerges from their relation with one another and with human beings (Ingman et al. 2016 gauges this concept in detail). In his most recent work, Bruno Latour introduced the concept of “metamorphic zone” that refers to the messy area of agency and encounter between humans and the more-than-human world. Building on this, he argues:
¶ 32 Leave a comment on paragraph 32 0 It is the material world that we have rendered mute in order to avoid answering the questions “Who or what is speaking? Who or what is acting?” It is in order to understand this strange situation that I must introduce, in addition to the one of transactions that I have called metamorphic, an entirely different operation through which, in language and by means of language, some characters are deprived of any form of agency. This operation is going to deanimate some of the actors and give the impression that there is a gulf between inanimate material actors and human subjects endowed with soul—or at least with consciousness. (Latour 2017, 67; italics original)
¶ 33 Leave a comment on paragraph 33 0 This operation ultimately brings Latour to the concept of “Gaia,” which he takes from James Lovelock. Gaia refers to the “world” as a messy and vibrant area of exchange, not a “system” (as many interpreters of Lovelock mistakenly assume). Instead,
¶ 34 Leave a comment on paragraph 34 0 I should like to insist on two particularly surprising characteristics of Gaia: first, that it is composed of agents that are neither deanimated nor overanimated; then, contrary to what Lovelock’s detractors claim, that it is made up of agents that are not prematurely unified in a single acting totality. Gaia, the outlaw, is the anti-system. (Ibid., 87; italics original)
¶ 35 Leave a comment on paragraph 35 0 There is a close relationship between this thinking and the innovative work of Donna J. Haraway. What Latour calls the metamorphic zones of Gaia, Haraway conceptualizes as a zone of entanglement, “worlding,” and “co-becoming” of various species and critters. “It is no longer news that corporations, farms, clinics, labs, homes, sciences, technologies, and multispecies lives are entangled in multiscalar, multitemporal, multimaterial worlding; but the details matter. The details link actual beings to actual response-abilities” (Haraway 2016, loc. 2393–2395). Such an understanding of the close encounters and entanglements of acting co-companions naturally leads to the idea of a discourse community consisting of humans, other critters, and things. What I translate into discursive language, Haraway describes in her own way:
¶ 36 Leave a comment on paragraph 36 0 What scientists actually do in the field affects the ways “animals see their scientists seeing them” and therefore how the animals respond. In a strong sense, observers and birds rendered each other capable in ways not written into preexisting scripts, but invented or provoked, more than simply shown, in practical research. Birds and scientists were in dynamic, moving relations of attunement. The behavior of birds and their observers were made, but not made up. (Haraway 2016, loc. 2624–2627)
¶ 37 Leave a comment on paragraph 37 0 Both Latour and Haraway find an excellent way to acknowledge the factuality of the world—as “worlding” and “becoming with,” as a zone that is neither deanimated nor overanimated—and at the same time retain the element of construction that is necessary to understand the production of knowledge. Both of them resist the temptation to set the human activities apart from the activities of others, or “the world,” a separation that renders most traditional arguments in philosophy, anthropology, and historiography problematic in their anthropocentrism. In contrast to those approaches, Haraway explains: “I am not a posthumanist; I am who I become with companion species, who and which make a mess out of categories in the making of kin and kind. Queer messmates in mortal play, indeed” (Haraway 2008, 19).
¶ 38 Leave a comment on paragraph 38 0 Where does all this leave us regarding discourse research? Paraphrasing Haraway’s apt formulation, we can say that our historical arguments are made, but not made up. The discursivization of things that happen into events that become elements of historical orders of knowledge—the transformation of traces into sources into narratives—shows certain mechanisms that discourse research investigates. Human communication is crucial to these mechanisms, but the mechanisms also include the active involvement of the more-than-human world. Historical discourse analysis therefore acknowledges two seemingly paradoxical dependencies: First, it accepts the fragility of historical knowledge, in which the past is a moving target that is in constant change. Understanding the past depends on the present as much as on the past; the past—or, rather, the past as past and explicit part of historical emplotment—is co-created by the present. Second, it recognizes the agency of the more-than-human world, including the power of things that have lives and multiple entanglements with the human world. If we frame it as I have done here, historical discourse analysis offers a bridge between constructionism and materialism; it provides a theoretical and methodological tool that acknowledges the contingency of human knowledge without giving up the differentiation between fact and fiction.
¶ 41 Leave a comment on paragraph 41 0 Brinton, Laurel J. 2001. “Historical Discourse Analysis.” In The Handbook of Discourse Analysis, ed. by Deborah Schiffrin, Deborah Tannen, and Heidi E. Hamilton, 138–160. Malden and Oxford: Blackwell.
¶ 42 Leave a comment on paragraph 42 0 Bublitz, Hannelore. 1999. Foucaults Archäologie des kulturellen Unbewußten: Zum Wissensarchiv und Wissensbegehren moderner Gesellschaften. Frankfurt/M. and New York: Campus.
¶ 45 Leave a comment on paragraph 45 0 Eder, Franz X. 2006. “Historische Diskurse und ihre Analyse – eine Einleitung.” In Historische Diskursanalysen: Genealogie, Theorien, Anwendungen, ed. by Franz X. Eder, 9–23. Wiesbaden: VS Verlag für Sozialwissenschaft.
¶ 49 Leave a comment on paragraph 49 0 Haraway, Donna J. 2016. Staying with the Trouble: Making Kin in the Chthulucene. Durham and London: Duke University Press. Locations quoted from the Kindle edition.
¶ 52 Leave a comment on paragraph 52 0 Jóhannesson, Ingólfur Ásgeir. 2010. “The Politics of Historical Discourse Analysis: A Qualitative Research Method?” Discourse: Studies in the Cultural Politics of Education 31: 251–264.
¶ 56 Leave a comment on paragraph 56 0 Koselleck, Reinhart. 1995. Vergangene Zukunft: Zur Semantik historischer Zeiten. 3rd ed., Frankfurt/M.: Suhrkamp. English as Futures Past: On the Semantics of Historical Time. New York: Columbia University Press 2004.
¶ 59 Leave a comment on paragraph 59 0 Park, Yoosun. 2008. “Making Refugees: A Historical Discourse Analysis of the Construction of the ‘Refugee’ in US Social Work, 1900–1957.” The British Journal of Social Work 38: 771–787.
¶ 60 Leave a comment on paragraph 60 0 Reisigl, Martin and Ruth Wodak. 2010. “The Discourse-Historical Approach.” In Methods of Critical Discourse Analysis, edited by Ruth Wodak and Michael Meyer, 2nd ed., 87–121. London: Sage.
¶ 63 Leave a comment on paragraph 63 0 Rüsen, Jörn. 1997. “Was heißt: Sinn der Geschichte? (Mit einem Ausblick auf Vernunft und Widersinn).” In Historische Sinnbildung: Problemstellungen, Zeitkonzepte, Wahrnehmungshorizonte, Darstellungsstrategien, ed. by Klaus E. Müller and Jörn Rüsen, 17–47. Reinbek: Rowohlt.
¶ 70 Leave a comment on paragraph 70 0 Stuckrad, Kocku von. 2015. “Discourse.” In Vocabulary for the Study of Religion (3 vols.), ed. by Robert A. Segal and Kocku von Stuckrad, vol. 1, 429–438. Leiden and Boston: Brill.
¶ 75 Leave a comment on paragraph 75 0  See, for instance, “The Chymistry of Isaac Newton” project, run at Indiana University by William R. Newman and colleagues; http://webapp1.dlib.indiana.edu/newton/ (accessed 22 January 2018).
¶ 76 Leave a comment on paragraph 76 0  Koselleck 1995, 353 (my translation). On Koselleck, Paul Ricoeur, and Hayden White see Kippenberg 2002, 187–195. Compare also Ricoeur’s response to Koselleck in Ricoeur 2006, 296–305.