"I'm not an historian but I can get interested - obsessively interested - with any aspect of the past, whether it's palaeontology or archaeology or the very recent past"
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Curiosity is doing double duty here: it’s a modesty pose and a manifesto. Penelope Lively opens with the disarming disclaimer, “I’m not an historian,” a small act of boundary-setting that also clears space for a more intimate authority. She’s not claiming the credential; she’s claiming the appetite. That distinction matters because it reframes the past not as a professional territory guarded by footnotes, but as a lived, sticky substance you can’t help touching if you’re paying attention.
The hinge is the phrase “obsessively interested,” a confession with teeth. Lively isn’t describing polite cultural consumption; she’s describing compulsion, the kind of fixation that powers both novelists and historians, but without the historian’s obligation to settle arguments. For a writer, obsession is method: you circle a detail until it starts radiating meaning. The dashes perform that obsession on the page, interrupting the sentence the way an intrusive thought interrupts a day.
Her range is also a quiet provocation. By placing palaeontology and archaeology alongside “the very recent past,” Lively collapses the hierarchy that treats deep time as noble and yesterday as trivial. She’s pointing to a continuum: sediment, ruins, memory, paperwork, gossip. All are evidence; all are stories waiting to be arranged.
Contextually, this tracks with Lively’s lifelong preoccupation with how places store time and how individuals misread their own histories. The subtext is democratic but not naive: the past is available to anyone, yet it demands a certain temperament - the willingness to be haunted, to dig, to keep digging.
The hinge is the phrase “obsessively interested,” a confession with teeth. Lively isn’t describing polite cultural consumption; she’s describing compulsion, the kind of fixation that powers both novelists and historians, but without the historian’s obligation to settle arguments. For a writer, obsession is method: you circle a detail until it starts radiating meaning. The dashes perform that obsession on the page, interrupting the sentence the way an intrusive thought interrupts a day.
Her range is also a quiet provocation. By placing palaeontology and archaeology alongside “the very recent past,” Lively collapses the hierarchy that treats deep time as noble and yesterday as trivial. She’s pointing to a continuum: sediment, ruins, memory, paperwork, gossip. All are evidence; all are stories waiting to be arranged.
Contextually, this tracks with Lively’s lifelong preoccupation with how places store time and how individuals misread their own histories. The subtext is democratic but not naive: the past is available to anyone, yet it demands a certain temperament - the willingness to be haunted, to dig, to keep digging.
Quote Details
| Topic | Knowledge |
|---|---|
| Source | Help us find the source |
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