History, by virtue of being unalterable (or so we think), is in general treated more seriously than literature, despite the fact that at a basic level both are informed by preconception and thematic interest. A writer of anything, whether you call it fact or fiction, focuses upon one or several things, to the exclusion of all else. For this reason history is always, to a certain extent, alterable; for particularly controversial areas of history multiple equally plausible scenarios co-exist in the academic mind, with no hope of an answer in sight. For this reason history is, perhaps, closer to fiction than is usually admitted.

The past is gone: despite the fact that we can walk in its ruins, read its extant texts, touch its relics, our knowledge of it, informed by the lottery of survival, is ultimately tempered by a nostalgia for a time in which we have never lived. (photo: Hannah Culik, 2010)

In many ways this cannot be said more truly of any particular branch of history than that which is interested in the ancient world, a realm so highly idealised and mysticised by the workings of popular culture over two thousand and more years that stuffed-out, romantic lay figures are what populate our educations. So convinced are some, for example, that the orator Cicero was the true champion of republicanism that they reject the authenticity of the Pro Marcello, a speech which (in some interpretations!) apparently praises Caesar in his capacity as autocrat. It is a habit of those who study the works of an individual to attribute a certain personality to that individual, and thereafter to judge his literary output through that lens. The past is gone: despite the fact that we can walk in its ruins, read its extant texts, touch its relics, our knowledge of it, informed by the lottery of survival, is ultimately tempered by a nostalgia for a time in which we have never lived.

And our ability to empathise and use our imaginations to recreate worlds lost to us is founded on a basis which is inherently attractive but ultimately impossible to prove: the assertion that human nature does not change, and that it has not changed between now and the time which we seek to recreate. Certain ideas about ancient culture in particular are alien and hard to access. Emotions are fleeting, and if immortalised in literature, open to cynicism. In the ancient world the majority of literature is written by aristocrats. Ancient women, and the social mores that constrained or liberated them, is a notoriously vexed area.

For anyone who is enthusiastic to learn about any particular slice of history, such barriers can be discouraging. Sources can be misleading simply by virtue of the inherent duplicity of human nature. Add to this the fact that we ourselves as adult individuals already weighed down by cultural variations caused by traditions, technologies, and social movements that did not exist in the time which we are examining, must also realise that we ourselves are not necessarily the objective judges we hope to be. It is true that we cannot hope both to remain neutral and to be good empathisers with mankind separated from us by space and time. Yet these are the basic issues that face us.

As to the idea of history as fiction: a dispassionate list of facts and figures is not what anyone would venture to call satisfying history, nor, however, is an over-romanticised, technicolour fantasy satisfying beyond the initial titillation. Where fiction ends and “history” begins is of course an important issue: works of fiction are almost always invaluably useful in reconstructing at least something of the time which led to its existence, but no poem or play or speech ever set out specifically to record its own time, or at least none of them ever did so with only that agenda. Historical accounts do set out to record something, but what exactly they do record, and with what bias, is what really blurs the line between fiction and fact.

Thucydides famously drew attention to the methodological problems of history by the following comment:

…my habit has been to make the speakers say what was in my opinion demanded of them by the various occasions, of course adhering as closely as possible to the general sense of what they really did say. (I.22)

Thucydides then, whose narrative is greatly enhanced by many nuanced speeches, explains how these speeches came to be with the following paradox: they were written according to what Thucydides’ thought was pertinent and according to what they actually said. The problem lies in distinguishing between the author’s thematic interest and his recording of “true” events. Thucydides’ speeches betray themselves as suspicious by virtue of the similarity of their style both to each other and to Thucydides’ intervening narrative sections, and more importantly they betray themselves because the speeches together justify the programmatic statement with which Thucydides has approached his subject matter. Thucydides has chosen what he believes to be the cause of the events he describes (the fear that the Spartans feel at Athenian imperialism, I.23), and then presents his work through this lens. As a result historical events which may have taken place due to other motivations or even simply by chance are coloured with a pre-existing bias.

Such a process is not very different from how a writer of fiction operates: most good writers, though I suppose not all, choose one or many themes which underlie the plot of their work; the themes themselves may help the writer to generate a moment in plot, or certain characterisations. For Thucydides his methodological approach, which focused on a programmatic statement, showed the way in which he believed mankind operates: his focus is on psychological reactions rather than the physical and the practical; perception, rather than action. This “theme” for Thucydides reassures him that the broad strokes of human experience can be brought under a certain scheme of predictable behaviour. But ultimately his scheme is artificial; writers and scholars alike when searching for a particular meaning find what they are looking for simply because they have gone looking for it.

So in Thucydides we can see a methodology which is similar, at least, to that which ancient and modern writers alike use for the creation of fiction; however, I suppose I ought to stress that for Thucydides in particular the concept of ‘history’ was one which he, after the influence of Herodotus, was actually pioneering, and therefore previous approaches to writing fiction were the starting points, in many ways, for his own work. Despite this I feel that the issues which Thucydides raises are still valid for the comparison between history and what I have more broadly termed “fiction”. Both seek to quantify certain behaviours of mankind, and both often seek to go further, to explain them. We must also ask ourselves to what extent it matters that history and fiction can appear to have many points of contact; whether our conception – in this case my conception – of history is too formal. I believe, due to the ideas which I have sketched out in this brief article, that history cannot ever be entirely objective, but nor am I entirely convinced that it actually needs to be. History is still focused on the endeavour of human beings, and for that reason perfect objectivity is a difficult thing to achieve.

When dealing with the classical world in particular conclusive answers are rarely arrived at, and in most cases the questions themselves, and what they make us think about, are the important part. It seems to me, though, that “history” and “fiction”, from this admittedly brief survey, have many points of contact, and that realising this can be useful for the writer and the historian alike.