Airs, Waters, Places

Notes, Summaries & Reviews

W. F. Bynum in Science and the Practice of Medicine in the Nineteenth Century traces early ideas about the social ecology of diseases to this important piece within the Hippocratic corpus. Of its importance to the history of community health, he says: “…the Hippocratic authors of this work (there were undoubtedly at least two) yoked together medicine, physical geography, and ethnology so persuasively that subsequent medical speculations on why epidemics occurred, and why certain diseases were prevalent in particular regions, made frequent reference to features such as wind, climate, temperature, soil, and humidity.” (59) Reading it today in preparation for Aparna’s History of Public Health class, I’m inclined to agree with this assessment.

I can see a basic proto-epidemiological approach; the authors are trying to understand the prevalence of certain kinds of diseases among particular populations in distinct locations. They take into account many potential “determinants”: climate, winds, water source and quality, habits, and base constitutions. Sudden changes in anything — temperature, humidity, air flow, etc. — are understood as unhealthful. Climates that vary tend to breed ecologies that are also varied, which in turn breeds unbalanced flora, fauna, and humans. In this sense, the theories in Airs, Waters, Places are incredibly ecologically deterministic.

The authors also discuss “distribution.” An example will clarify this assertion. Part 22 deals with Scythians and attempts to explain the high number of eunuchs in their ranks. They are a nomadic tribe in which horse-riding is the primary method of movement, and wealthier citizens are more likely to be able to afford a horse. A higher proportion of eunuchs are wealthy. From this information, the authors deduce that it is the frequent horse-riding that is the root determinant; it causes inflammation of the joints, which is treated via bloodletting behind the ears, which, according the authors, causes impotence. Realizing that they can no longer perform sexually, these men don the clothes and social roles of women, becoming eunuchs. After establishing an abnormal incidence rate in a population and subsequently combining culture-specific behaviors with the physiological effects they have, the authors come up with an environmental explanation for a disease.

This does feel a bit whiggish — looking to the past and cherry-picking methods that look familiar to modern-day epidemiology — but if we are looking for the history of basic public health strategies, I can see why historians have understood this work to be of importance. I’m hoping we discuss how its ideas were or were not used contemporaneously and whether or not it was read and followed by later individuals concerned with community health.

Another interesting bit — the authors’ thoughts on the supernatural character of diseases are of note. Though not ready to throw the possibility of divine will completely out, they were certainly sure that the cause of illness was natural and knowable;

"...no one disease is either more divine or more human than another,
but that all are alike divine, for that each has its own nature, and
that no one arises without a natural cause." (Part 22)

A Science of Impurity

Notes, Summaries & Reviews, Thesis Research

Christopher Hamlin, A Science of Impurity: Water Analysis in Nineteenth Century Britain (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1990).

In a case study of the political, social, cultural, and newly scientific conversation surrounding concerns about water quality in 19th century England, Christopher Hamlin shows that through the powerful claim at absolute, unbiased, and natural knowledge, science (especially chemistry) was used as a way of arguing for different standards and policies.

Hamlin points out something very interesting in his introduction. The 19th century is often seen as home to “the great watershed in environmental medicine, separating a pre-scientific period in which medicine could offer little more than a false cultural authority from the contemporary period of scientific precision where the authority is real,” an idea he takes as “unsatisfactory.” (3)

His first argument against the above narrative was the precarious financial situation of scientists, who often couldn’t count on their professorships to pay the bills if they weren’t already independently wealthy (a situation probably even more common in the US than in Britain). He cites chemists specifically, who often felt the need to accumulate side acts; “as consultants, witnesses, authors, entrepreneurs, as well as teachers.” This may help explain the historical record I’ve uncovered of Dr. Juan H. Wright, who seemed to have made a career (or at least part of one) by providing chemical analyses of springs around the midwest.

Chapter one deals with the chemistry behind mineral water analysis, breaking early- to mid-19th century strategies down into three contemporaneously recognized categories; physical examination (smell, taste, color, observed medicinal properties), “qualitative examination through the use of reagents, and a quantitative analysis of the evaporative residue.” (24-27) All were generally employed, although the last two were considered more scientifically telling. Hamlin makes clear that there was much debate within chemistry itself as to which tests were the most useful, when they should be employed, and how accurate they were. There seems to have been a lot of concern about how the tests themselves might alter the water and about whether certain combinations of chemicals in the water could affect a test’s outcome.

Interestingly, due to the way chemical reactions were understood before the late 19th century, when discussing medicinal benefits of waters chemists did not often take into account how the water’s contents may interact chemically within the human body. Physicians (and by extension spa proprietors and customers/patients) were used to working under the assumption that it was the salts, not ions, contained within mineral waters that were responsible for their medicinal value. The uncertainty-driven debates within the community of analytical chemists were not comfortable or economically valuable for those seeking water analyses, so they were generally glossed over and older conventions (tables of salts instead of ions) used. (36-37)

Chapter two, “Water Analysis and the Hegemony of Chemistry, 1800-40,” contains a lot of work that helps to clear up some of the stuff I’ve been seeing in my primary sources. Hamlin begins by briefly describing the rise of “trained ‘practical’ chemists” who did not limit their work to exploration and discovery but applied chemical techniques to “industry, commerce, government, law, and education.” (47) A more prominent role in society meant that these men were gaining authority, but how? Hamlin argues it was not because of “the progress of pure chemistry,” but rather due to “a combination of social needs and aggressive marketing…” (48)

Hamlin contends that a new kind of chemist — embodied by his two examples, William Thomas Brande and Alfred Swaine Taylor — emerged at the beginning of the 19th century whose contributions to original research were scanty but whose public presence and ability to sell chemistry as the answer to many of society’s most pressing problems was impressive. “…with decent laboratory skills, passing familiarity with the contents of the journals, tolerable lecturing talents, good connections, and untouchable confidence, one could make a decent living in London as a practical chemist.” (50) Oftentimes these men were hired by people with a vested interest in the medicinal benefits of the spa, and they would publish their results in both scientific journals and pamphlets for the springs. Many “pure” chemists (i.e., Humphry Davy) found these men problematic and quackish, but Hamlin is careful to state that the modern distinction between pure and applied science was in its infancy. Not every chemist and certainly not every layperson would have recognized this as bad chemistry, which helps to explain why the conflicts of interest were not seen as horrendously problematic. Another consideration is the kind of science these men thought they were doing; if they could gather enough analyses, payed for by whomever and for whatever reason, they may be able to draw larger conclusions from the data. Hamlin terms this “Baconian” science and argues that it helps to explain the willingness for chemists and doctors to accept what we would consider biased information as probable fact.

Though he does not explain in detail how these men made themselves visible to spa proprietors or physicians, Hamlin does argue that chemists became an important vehicle for providing scientific legitimization to the medical claims being made about mineral waters. It allowed comparisons to be made between mineral waters (OUR springs contain similar elements to Baden-Baden, and they’re found in your backyard!) and “symbolized that someone knew what was going on, that the medicinal environment one was to encounter was comprehended and would be applied in a precise and rational way.” (54) Chemists would often provide an analysis, then immediately below state possible medicinal benefits of the waters without explaining how the two connected; Hamlin argues that this is because it would have been understood by wealthy client or physician, and for the rest, that “it was the appearance of thoroughness that was to impress the reader.” (54)

The next section deals with attempts at synthesizing mineral waters, which is interesting but not immediately relevant. Maybe come back to this later?

Another facet of the relationship between chemists and doctors in the testing of mineral waters was which set of knowledge to begin from. Doctors and some chemists believed that it was the chemist’s job to take the observed medicinal effects of the water and explain them with an analysis. If the analysis yielded results that didn’t make sense, it must be a problem with the chemist’s method. Some, however, thought that “chemical composition was the only thing that could be empirically determined.” (60) Claims about medical benefits were unfounded assertions based on testimonial, and so it must be that medical benefits should be deduced from the chemical composition of the waters. We see again that the patient’s narrative is taken out of the equation in an attempt at an objective, scientific truth.

This context helps to explain some of the analyses in pamphlets and government documents alike that read like advertisements at times and situates the chemistry these men were doing in the context of practical and analytical chemistry. I wonder to what extent Hamlin’s conclusions carry over to the American situation and plan on supplementing this book with one about American chemistry. In reading the quotes he provides from his primary sources and seeing the format of the tables, however, it seems to me that the situation I’m working with is very similar to 19th century England.

Mineral springs survey texts, USGS

Notes, Thesis Research

Albert C. Peale, “Mineral Waters,” in Department of the Interior, United States Geological Survey, Mineral Resources of the United States Calendar Year 1885 (Washington: Government Printing Office, 1886).

Mentions ES in AR section

Albert C. Peale, List and Analyses of the Mineral Springs of the United States,” in Department of the Interior, Bulletin of the United States Geological Survey no. 32 (Washington, Government Printing Office, 1886).

Arkansas’ Entry (1, 2)

Basin Spring Analysis

Albert C. Peale, “Natural Mineral Waters of the United States in Part II. Accompanying Papers, of The Fourteenth Annual Report of the Director of the United States Geological Survey in J. W. Powell, dir., The Fourtheenth Annual Report of the United States Geological Survey, 1892-’93 (Washington: Government Printing Office, 1894).

List of American Mineral Spring Resorts, under Arkansas

David T. Day, “Part IV. Mineral Resources of the United States, 1894, Non-Metallic Products,” Sixteenth Annual Report of the United States Geological Survey, 1894-95 (Washington: Government Printing Office, 1895).

Mineral waters, List of Commercial Springs, under Arkansas

James K. Crook, The Mineral Waters of the United States and their Therapeutic Uses with an Account of the Various Mineral Spring Localities, their Advantages as Health Resorts, Means of Access, Etc. (New York & Philadelphia: Lea & Brothers Co., 1899).

Eureka Springs’s Entry (1, 2)

Analysis of Crescent, Dairy, Basin, Magnetic Springs & climactic chart by Dr. John D. Jordan

 

 

 

 

 

The Great American Water-Cure Craze

Notes, Summaries & Reviews, Thesis Research

Harry B. Weiss, The Great American Water-Cure Craze: A History of Hydropathy in the United States, (Trenton: The Past Times Press, 1967).

Harry Weiss’s work provides an excellent starting point for anyone trying to grasp what hydrotherapy was, when it was prominent, and who practiced and promoted it. The book is full of facts, images, dates, publications, and names that prove very useful for expanding on Weiss’s work. It was a bit strange to read a work of history that did not put forth a clear argument, but frankly, I sometimes wish more books were written this way. I suppose once the conversation has been started, however, it’s difficult to continue to produce more meaningful scholarship in this format.

Weiss makes an interesting and useful distinction between “hydropathy” and “hydrotherapy.” The former he associates with the earlier movement, commonly thought to be initiated by Austrian Vincent Priessnitz and characterized by strict adherence to routines (often involving a lot of exercise and various kinds of baths at strange hours), abstinence from stimulating food/drink, the exclusion of therapeutic drug use, and a vehement opposition to mainstream medicine. The latter, which emerged in the last decades of the 19th century, was less radical; most proponents were not only hydrotherapists, and they did not espouse a therapeutic strategy that relied exclusively on water. There was also more of an effort put forth by its main practitioners to provide a scientific foundation for the water’s efficacy and less of a tendency to denounce allopathic medicine. Instead, many of these men (and most of them were men — it seems the closer a sect associated with mainstream medicine, the less women were allowed in their midst) published in standard medical journals and associated with regular physicians.

Simon Baruch, M.D., provides an excellent example of this new kind of scientific hydrotherapist. He studied in Vienna under W. W. Winternitz, which is telling; I have seen in a couple of other places (Valenza, Taking the Waters in Texas and Weisz, “Spas, Mineral Waters, and Hydrological Science in Twentieth-Century France”) the contention that the effort to “scientize” hydrotherapy was far more prevalent in Europe than in the United States. In 1898, Baruch published The Principles and Practice of Hydrotherapy, A Guide to the Application of Water in Disease in New York.

“[It]…was written for students and practitioners of medicine, and represented the observations of Baruch who had gathered material for a third of a century from his private and hospital practice, together with the observations of other investigators. It includes a discussion of the application of water in its various forms, both internally and externally, and its mechanical and thermic action in disease. He thought ‘the nerve fibers and endings furnished a clue to that remarkable sensitiveness of the epidermic layer which opened to hydrotherapy a free gateway to the central nervous system,’ and believed in the ‘existence of active contrastibility upon the part of the muscular walls of the arteries and arterioles, and in a less degree of the veins and lymphatics, and of the capillary epithelium.’

“…Baruch studied the effects of hydriatic applications upon the distribution of the blood, upon blood pressures, upon changes in corpuscular elements, upon respiration and muscular systems, both in man and animals. Many case histories of cures by hydrotherapy are described. He deplored the neglect of the application of water in disease in America, characterizing it as ‘vague and timid until recent times.'” (66)

He evidently succeeded in his goal of bringing medical acknowledgement to hydrotherapy, as he served as professor of hydrotherapy at the College of Physicians and Surgeons at Columbia University. (See if I can find the years of this, as Weiss does not give them?)

Dr. John Harvey Kellogg also conducted extensive research into water’s use as a therapeutic agent, publishing a book on the subject — Rational Hydrotherapy. A Manual of the Physiological and Therapeutic Effects of Hydriatic Procedure, and the Technique of Their Application in the Treatment of Disease — in 1901. Kellogg operated a laboratory beginning in 1883, where he “began to make hundreds of observations with the aid of the calorimeter plethysmograph (for measuring variations in size of an organ or limb), ergograph (for recording work done by muscles), and other devices.” He classified the effects of water extensively — “excitant and sedative,” which were then “subdivided into primary and secondary, and then into general and local effects. The general effects he labeled as restorative, tonic and caloric, and the local effects as sudorific, diuretic, cholagogic, peptogenic, emmenagogic, revulsive, derivative, resolutive, alterative, and caloric.” (66-67) Kellogg also did not believe that water should be used exclusively in medical treatment, and he held that each disease required experience and knowledge on the part of the practitioner before a therapeutic strategy (water-based or otherwise) should be attempted.  (I have read elsewhere that Dr. Kellogg had a bit of an odd reputation toward the end of his life. Could this have affected the reception of his hydriatic studies?)

As hinted at earlier, Weiss provides a very helpful summary of water-cure journals, some of which I was pleased to find were published on into the late 1890s. I need to check out the “Herald of Health,” which ran from 1863-1892, and the same journal under a different title, “Journal of Hygiene and Herald of Health,” which ran from 1893-1897. It’s unlikely I’ll find anything related to Arkansas in the journal, seeing as the state is completely excluded from Weiss’s book, but maybe I can get a feel for the periodical’s  relationship with mainstream medicine.

I do want to talk about how Arkansas was absent. I’m used to seeing only Hot Springs mentioned, but for the entire state to be absent is a bit strange. The entire last half of the book (the “Appendix”) is a state-by-state breakdown of what was going on with the water-cure. States covered include: Alabama, California, Connecticut, Delaware, Georgia, Illinois, Indiana, Iowa, Kansas Territory (really?), Kentucky, Louisiana, Maine, Maryland, Massachusetts, Michigan, Minnesota Territory, Mississippi, New Hampshire, New Jersey, New York City and vicinity, New York State, Ohio, Pennsylvania, Rhode Island, Tennessee, Utah, Vermont, Wisconsin, and Canada. This is an old book — published in 1967 — but Weiss read a lot of primary source material, and it worries me that he didn’t run across Arkansas once. Either my subject area is more isolated than I thought or I’ve found an oversight… I guess either way, it’s an interesting little lacuna I’ve stumbled across.

 

The patient’s narrative & hospital medicine

Notes, Summaries & Reviews, Thesis Research

Mary Fissell, “The disappearance of the patient’s narrative and the invention of hospital medicine,” in British medicine in an age of reform, eds. Roger French and Andrew Wear (London: Routledge, 1991).

In this piece, author Mary Fissell traces the changing nature of the doctor-patient relationship in the 18th century through the narratives doctors and patients used to understand illnesses. As the century wore on, physicians’ notebooks contained fewer patient voices. Where once lay vocabulary, only slightly filtered through the doctor, had been the source for both parties’ understanding of an ailment, a new, professional language emerged and began to eclipse that of the patient. The hospital facilitated this development, changing the landscape in which the patient and doctor interacted from one where the patient retained interpretive authority to one where he or she came to be examined. In this new setting, his or her physical characteristics spoke to the authoritative doctor trained to interpret them. “The body, the disease,” Fissell argues, “became the focus of the medical gaze, not the patient’s version of illness.” (100)

The testimonial is a difficult source to include for the historian because of its proclivity for exaggeration and potential issues with its authenticity. Fissell uses testimonials to discuss patient narratives, and her strategy for mitigating these issues is, I think, both elucidative and adequately tempered. “The veracity of some of these puffs is open to question; but whether ‘genuine’ lived experience or not, these tales followed similar narrative conventions about illness.” (97) She traces the commonalities between the content of the testimonials, concluding that all used a hot/cold, wet/dry framework for understanding the cause and cure of ailments. This gave patients some command over the what would otherwise seem to be random and uncontrollable health problems they encountered.

Next time I read through a set of testimonials, I plan on looking for narrative patterns — similarities and differences between what patients and doctors understood to be the reason for the springs’ efficacy. Did this change over time, as the claims in other parts of the ads become more scientifically oriented?

Fissell also discusses the use of what I have seen termed as “heroic therapies” — “an anti-phlogistic regimen that featured bleeding, purging, blisters, and a bland diet” — in silencing the patient’s narrative. In these regimens, it was the body’s response to treatment that aided in diagnosis and the evaluation of therapeutic efficacy. A fast pulse and red complexion called for bleeding, while a “languid” one indicated that the patient was “contraindicated.” (105)

I have seen in many of the works I have read on hydrotherapy that a major reason it became so popular was due to the fact that people were becoming increasingly skeptical about and weary of allopathic therapeutics. Obviously patients were growing tired of draining (literally) and ineffective treatments; I think, after reading this, they were probably also exasperated by the lack of agency they had in their relationships with their doctors. If their bodies always spoke for them, what control did they have over their health? Add to that the evidence (and it was piling up) that these kinds of treatments were ineffectual, and you have a scientifically-informed populace that is looking for an understandable health system in which they have a voice. A big part of the hydrotherapeutic movement was its emphasis on the importance of the doctor-patient relationship, the sharing of experiences between patients, the social outings, dances, clubs… You went to resorts to heal, but it was a communicative, socially stimulating practice as well. Where an allopathic physician had little interest in communication with his patient, hydrotherapeutic regimens and resorts were constructed with the importance of communication in mind.

Taking the Waters in Texas

Notes, Summaries & Reviews, Thesis Research

Janet Mace Valenza. Taking the Waters in Texas: Springs, Spas, and Fountains of Youth. Austin: University of Texas Press, 2000.

In her survey of Texas health spas centered around mineral springs, Valenza traces the rise, experience, and demise of the many resort-towns that played a role in the settling and development of the Lone Star State. She covers a large swath of time, from the beginning of the nineteenth century up until modern-day, and her narrative style is captivating. Valenza opens up chapters and brings home a few larger themes through her own experiences traveling around Texas and Europe during her research, where she got stuck in terrifying thunderstorms and chatted with a few experienced bathers before whimping out after just a few minutes in the hot, steamy waters.

Valenza comes from a background in geology, and Taking the Waters is a reworking of her dissertation. The difference in methodology was evident from the beginning, and I found it both annoying and refreshing. She went into a lot of depth in a few areas I previously hadn’t put much thought into, a very pleasant surprise. At one point, she discusses how the makeup of the rocks the waters travel through affects their mineral content and thus their taste, color, and effects on the body. Also discussed extensively is the relationship between humans, health, and the environment. What gives a place value to people? Why are particular values attached to certain kinds of places? How do these relationships change, and what sorts of factors facilitate these changes? Such questions lend themselves well to an analysis of why ill people may have trusted spring water and the resorts built around them to improve their health and why that trust may have dissipated.

I was frustrated at times with the cursory coverage of what I took to be pretty important elements in Valenza’s story, particularly when she was dealing with differences in American scientists’ interest in the sciences of balneology (“Because of the imprecise nature of balneotherapy, American scientists generally neglected it…” [10]) and hydrotherapy (“…American medicine disregarded water therapies, as the effects of from mineral water bathing were difficult to attribute to any one factor in a complicated mineral melange.” [146]). Though she gives due credit to physicians’ importance in encouraging their patients to seek health at springs, she does not connect their therapeutic recommendations to discussions in the scientific community. From what I have seen, it is not accurate to say that American scientists were not interested in the science — specifically the chemistry and climatology — behind mineral waters’ and their locations’ effects on the body. I think the role that science played in declining interest in hydrotherapy and balneology is a lot more complex than Valenza attests.

To Read from the Bibliography:

Primary:

Bell, A. N. Climatology and Mineral Waters of the U. S. New York: William Wood, 1885.

Crook, J. K. The Mineral Waters of the United States and Their Therapeutic Uses. New York: Lea, 1899.

Kisch, E. Heinrich. Balneology and Crounotherapy. Vol. 9. Translated by A. Eshner. Philadelphia: P. Blakiston’s Son, 1902.

Pepper, W., and H. Bowditch. “Report of the Committee on Sanitaria and on Mineral Springs.” In American Medical Association, ed., Transactions 31 (1880): 537-565.

Walton, George E. The Mineral Springs of the United States and Canada. New York: D. Appleton, 1883, 1892.

Weber, F. Parkes, and Guy Hinsdale. Climatology: Health Resorts — Mineral Springs. Philadelphia: P. Blakiston, 1901.

Secondary:

Albanese, Catherine L. Nature Religion in America. Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1990.

Fuller, Robert C. Alternative Medicine and American Religious Life. New York: Oxford University Press, 1989.

Billy M. Jones. Health-Seekers in the Southwest, 1817-1900. Norman: University of Oklahoma Press, 1967.

Lawrence, Henry W. “Southern Spas: Source of the American Resort Tradition.” Landscape 27, no. 2 (1983): 1-12.

Levin, Alexandra. “Taking the Waters.” Early American Life (August 1988): 10-13, 79.

Valenza uses a lot of U. S. Geological surveys, something I haven’t looked into. Should probably see if geologists were talking about the waters, too, and whether their use for human health was a part of that conversation.

 

 

Orientalism

Notes

Foundation of post-colonial studies; methodology is post-structuralist.

Discussion Questions:

Let’s start where we left off last week — would you say that what Said has written is a cultural history?

What sorts of sources does he use to get at the culture of Orientalism, and how does he link the culture to the psychological, ideological, and tangible effects he’s arguing it resulted in?

Science (geographical surveys, linguistic treatises), politics (Napoleon’s correspondence), popular culture (literature [travel, novels], art [paintings],

There’s one aspect of this book that I find particularly important for historians of science to pay attention to, and it’s something Aparna asked us to look out for this week. Said raises a very pertinent question about how we should be writing history; in this case, he’s talking in particular about histories of “the Other.”

Have you seen the kind of discourse Said describes in the primary or secondary sources you consult when your actors or authors are writing about “the Other?”

How can one study other cultures and people from a libertarian, or a nonrepressive and nonmanipulative, perspective? (24)

“Academic mindfulness”

Interdisciplinarianism

How would you answer this question in the context of the history of science, or even more importantly, within the context of your own research?

It seems incredibly important who is assigned the role of “actor” and who is viewed in terms of their “reactions.” Who is changing and who is changed.

Another issue, and one that we’ve discussed at length in other courses but something I think Said deals with well, is the pitfalls of specialized disciplinarity. As historians, in our training, we are expected to read all the “great works” our forebears have composed in order to understand the acceptable methodologies and limits of our field. In a way, this distances us from the reality of the history we’re trying to comment upon, like it did for many intellectuals within the Orientalist community. Instead of looking at the Orient as it was, letting it speak for itself, these actors read what other men in their discipline had written about the Orient and took this as truth. (67)

As historians, should we be trained with such an emphasis on secondary source material? We’re joining a conversation, but we also are responsible for representing people of the past. How can we do so with so very little of their voices being heard? Where is the line between being a part of an intellectual community and making sure the subject of study for which the community has been founded is the centerpiece of the conversation?

What is science’s role in the construction of cultural domination of the West over the East? In the formation of the “Orient”?

What is the relationship between knowledge and power in Said’s narrative?

Does knowledge have to be based in reality for it to be powerful?

Is essentialist knowledge, taking something specific and applying it in a general manner, especially prone to produce problems of difference and inequality?

Criticism:

Why not focus on more European-dominated colonial examples, like the British in India or the Russians in Asia?

DON’T LEAVE OUT THE GERMANS

This is anti-western

Made “Orientalism” into a bad word, condemning all those who would have proudly identified as such before the book was written.

“Said had constructed a binary-opposite representation, a fictional European stereotype that would counter-weigh the Oriental stereotype. Being European is the only common trait among such a temporally and stylistically disparate group of literary Orientalists.” Ibn Warraq, O.P. Kejariwal

Notes from Class:

Reproducing Empire, Laura Briggs

Early 20th century history of eugenics in Puerto Rico

Decolonizing Methodologies

The scholarship that we read is so heavily inundated with empire we don’t even see it.

You need to read Marx to understand this stuff (especially the violence aspects).

Oklahoma as a postcolonial space

Learning how to inhabit the space of the people we study

Any action in a colonized space is viewed as a reaction to the colonizers (by the colonized and the colonizers).

It’s not taking away colonial agency, it’s taking away their individuality.

Colonized cannot go back.

Culture must change to accommodate colonizers. It must change again to unify against colonizers. And it changes again after the colonizers are gone.

French Paracelsianism on Trial

Papers

 

This was my final project for Dr. Rienk Vermij’s 5523 class — Renaissance and Early Modern Science, Fall 2017. I found out in the final stretch of the semester that Hervé Baudry, a French academic, has made a similar argument to the one I attempt, although he uses Roch le Baillif’s more well-known book, Le Demosterion, to do so, and he does it far more thoroughly. It was a wonderful exercise and introduction to historical research in the early modern period, though, and I’ll definitely be careful to consult more recent scholarship and that written in other languages more thoroughly in the future.


 

French Paracelsianism on Trial: Roche Le Baillif’s Astrology and the Comet of 1577

Roch Le Baillif, Sieur de la Rivière (1540-1598) was an early promulgator of Paracelsianism in France whose trial and conviction between 1578 and 1580 has received far more attention than the man himself or his work. This is due to his longstanding designation within the scholarship of Paracelsianism as “le premier martyr du Paracelsisme en France,”[1] the first casualty in the epic battle between the University of Paris’s Galenist medical faculty and the rising tide of Paracelsian chemical medicine. Le Baillif is portrayed as a “fanatical”[2] Paracelsian physician intent on blaspheming his way to the very top of the ladder of aristocratic patronage. His defeat in the trial is attributed to his “vulgar” brand of Paracelsianism, inundated as it was with the less sophisticated, astrological aspects of Paracelsus’s beliefs. I will argue that this interpretation is colored by presentist tendencies to privilege the alchemical aspects of Paracelsus’s philosophy, which is understood as a precursor to modern bio- and physio-chemistry.[3] The emphasis Le Baillif places on the astrological components of Paracelsus’s worldview were, when placed in the context of the early phases of Paracelsus’s quickly accelerating absorption into mainstream natural philosophy and medicine, neither vulgar nor contemporaneously unpalatable. Roch Le Baillif’s work on the comet of 1577 proves that Paracelsus’s writings on and understandings of the relationship between the heavens and the earth were just as if not more important to early French proponents of Paracelsus as his alchemical ones — especially during a time of heightened concern about disconcerting and penetrating cosmological questions, exacerbated by an especially active cometary record.