The General and the Particular

There are, speaking broadly (the irony of which will shortly be evident), two different ways of looking at and systematizing the world. The first — favored by theoreticians ranging from Newton to Marx to Freud to Joseph Campbell — involves the attempted deciphering of fundamental underlying codes that explain a broad range of phenomena. The second, in contrast, while it may accept the existence of underlying patterns, focuses on differences: particular instances, local circumstances, and the like.

I admit it. I’m drawn to the general theories. But as I’ve gotten older, I find myself increasingly skeptical about them.

Interestingly, the same thing seems to have happened in many different areas of study. Take biology, for example. The notion of evolution is fundamental, and fundamentally accepted, by biologists everywhere. However, given the variety of successful adaptations in the natural world, evolution starts to seem less like an answer and more like a question, the nature of which is something like the following: What possible evolutionary advantage is granted by this particular adaptation?

Or medieval history. Pioneering historians of the 19th and early 20th centuries focused on broad sweeping patterns: the evolution of the rights of boroughs, the change from feudalism to a market economy, elements that distinguish the medieval from the modern worldview, etc. But a closer look at the data reveals flaws in their methodology. The middle ages — like pretty much every period of history and every group of any meaningful size — was a patchwork, astonishing in its diversity. Offhand, I can’t think of any generalization that has been (or could be) made about the middle ages that doesn’t have possible exceptions.

How many different practices can fit within one broad historical period? How many different successful strategies can there be in response to similar fundamental environmental challenges? The answer, it seems, is: more than we used to think.

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Which brings me to the reseach for my various creative writing projects.

At this point, I’ve largely abandoned any kind of systematic approach to writing research. Instead, I browse through books that catch my interest, on whatever topic. Often, I find that the most interesting things come from the most surprising places.

One thing I’ve found to be generally true, however (and again, note the irony of that phrase), is that I find more value in sources that describe particular cases as opposed to general principles. Thus, for example, in my attempt to teach myself about geology, I’ve found less value in Introduction to Geology textbooks and more value in the Roadside Geology of [fill in the state] series. Similarly, one of the best sources on medieval history that I’ve run across recently is a book based on a specific set of documents from an old storage room in a Cairo synagogue.

Part of this, of course, is because as a writer, what I’m looking for is the particular: those weird little details that I might steal — I mean, borrow — to make my own work seem more lifelike. Specifics are the shiny decorative baubles of research, and the writer — I’m sorry to say — is something of a magpie at heart.

But it’s also more than that. And this is where I have to give the generalizers their due. Part of the value of these more particular works is the way they illustrate and explain the underlying principles of their field through particular cases. I never really understood plate tectonics as well until I read about how the collisions of plates helped form the Cascades, or how a long-past continental plate collision (and subsequent relaxation) were responsible first for the Rockies and then for the instances of vulcanism that surprisingly bubble up through them in various places. (Though not Yellowstone; that’s the result of a “hot spot,” whatever that is.)

I’ll conclude with a quote from another of my favorite recently found sources of well-researched historical particulars, a book titled Cooking and Dining in Medieval England by Peter Brears:

The identical mixture was also one of those used to make a much more exotic dish, the cockatrice. This mythical creature, believed to hatch from a cock’s egg incubated by a venomous snake, had the reputed ability to kill by its mere glance. To make one, a rooster was plucked and skinned, leaving the head and legs attached. The skin of the back end of a sucking pig was then sewn on to it, the whole being stuffed with ground pork flavoured with spices, saffron, currants and salt. After parboiling to set it in shape and cook the stuffing, it was spitted and endored a bright yellow using egg yolks and more saffron. Finally decorated with gold and silver leaf, it was served, complete with its beaked, combed and wattled head, sharp claws, trotters and curly tail. In an alternative version, the front end of the pig was sewn onto the back end of the cock, to produce a similarly startling beast. (p. 318)

And with a presumably renewed appreciation of modern as opposed to medieval cooking, I leave you…