I've written on this blog before about the fine line between academic and popular history. On the one hand, there are books like those by
Miranda Carter charting the road to the First World War. Carter's
George, Nicholas, and Wilhelm is a sprawling, tangential book written with an eye toward "engaging the reader." The result is a history in search of itself: there's no thesis, nothing serious said. Instead, it's a misguided attempt to be readable: as if academic histories can't do the same. Carter writes about everything, and ends up saying very little.
As popular histories go, Patrick Collinson's
The Reformation is a shining example of success.
Collinson, of course, was an exceptional academic, and wrote a range of works intended for a specialized audience. But
The Reformation is different: it's intended to be readable, but it doesn't shy away from making a point, nor does it go searching for too much, as an amateur historian like Carter might. Collinson is in command of his subject matter (I can attest to that), and distills it for his reader in away that gives it shape and meaning. Like other historians of the early modern past, Collinson sees the Reformation as bridge between a largely stable medieval world and the state building (and violence) that followed. Collinson is also big on personality: to Luther, Zwingli, and Calvin, in particular, he attributes something approaching magnetism.
It's not to be too hard on writers like Carter or
Danny Danziger (whose
The Year 1000 suffers the same fate as
George, Nicholas, and Wilhelm). Instead, it's to say that academic historians can write for a popular audience, and they can say something (really say something), too.
The Reformation is a wonderful example of this: a book that's thorough and erudite, while remaining true to the events and their meaning.
