The Treasury of the Athenians at Delphi. Nothing to see here.
I’ve been kicking around an idea for a paper for a couple of years. Every so often Stephen Hawking will announce that contact with an extra-terrestrial civilisation would be a Very Bad Thing. Therefore silence, or as close to it as possible is a good idea. It’s not just Stephen Hawking, many other people agree. Hawking makes the point that contact from Europe to other regions hasn’t gone well for the natives since 1492. I think this is a better argument than “Aliens are scary”, but I think he’s using the wrong analogy. There is room for a paper that takes another view. There’s a couple of reasons I haven’t pushed on with it.
The main reason is that I’ve not been clear about where the paper could be published. Ok, Hawking hasn’t published his belief as a paper either, but he’s a famous physicist. Famous physicists are presumed not only to be experts on Physics, but all sciences, pseudosciences, etc. I can’t claim this expertise. If I’m going to say anything meaningful I should at least have it scrutinised. This is the second problem. It would be weird if my position were unequivocally correct, particularly as we have no data at all on extra-terrestrial contact — unless you consider the Mars nano-bacteria that were announced and then dismissed as a trial run. I could rely on reviewers to pick up obvious errors or blind spots, but there’s surely a better way to fix problems before submitting to a journal with some collaboration.
I am part of a group of people who were applying to have a blog hosted somewhere. I think that’s very likely to not happen. I’ve been quiet here, partly because of a broken arm and partly with a pile up of work that I need to sort through because it’s been delayed by my arm. It’s a shame because the site has a big audience, but maybe not too big a shame as this site has a quality audience. What I’m interested in now is if a collaborative or even massively collaborative paper could be written and how could it work.
Before even discussing tools there’s an issue over direction. As I said at the start, I think Stephen Hawking is wrong. You might think he’s right. He may even be right even if the method he got there was wrong. One of the inspirations for this approach is Timothy Gowers’ collaborative approach to solving mathematical problems. He pulled together a group of people to tackle a problem for a couple of years that he alone could not solve. The problem was solved in seven weeks by a method that came as a surprise to him. I can see how that can demonstrably work. In the case of this paper, the sample is zero, and the result is (expected to be) a counter-opinion. Without a reality check is it possible to write such a paper with open collaboration?
Alan Cann has used another method. He put up a paper for open peer review. I think it was a clever idea and I could do the same. My worry here is that some of the analogies will be outside my period and I think there could be very good and insightful comments from people who say, “No, you’ve got this wrong. You should be looking at…” In my opinion this makes the paper better and it’s worth author credit. If you give the person credit then to an extent you torpedo the claim that the paper is pre-reviewed because to some extent it’s self-reviewed.
I’m trying to think of a workable solution, and you’re welcome to tell me I’m wrong about this too.
I think I should put up the first draft of the paper, probably on Google Docs. I prefer DokuWiki, but leaving it open for comments and editing could leave it wrecked. For the people who leave substantial comments which can be positive or negative, but also indicate a direction to go forward with the paper, I offer co-authorship. I close the paper from public view and we write and re-write until it’s ready to go to a journal that’s either OA or happy to have an arXiv pre-print up. The gamble here is that enough people will see the call to review the first draft that it generates a sensible amount of feedback to improve it.
Ideally, I’d like to have a system that can re-used so that I can use it for general history or archaeology papers as well as odd ones like this. The reason for choosing this topic as the test subject is that it’s doesn’t matter that much to me if it gets massively delayed and it will very neatly highlight some areas where I am emphatically not an expert and that collaboration could be useful.
If you have any interest in the history of astronomy you should be following The Renaissance Mathematicus blog and this post, The last great naked eye astronomer, is a perfect example of why. This is a post about Johannes Hevelius who has to be one of the most famous unheard of astronomers ever.
That doesn’t make sense I know. There are a lot of people who haven’t heard of Hevelius, but if you have heard of Hevelius, then the idea that people haven’t heard of him seems nonsense because his work is everywhere in astronomy.
Scutum in the Uranographia by Hevelius. Source: Wikipedia.
Everyone’s happy that most constellations are ancient, but what is less well-known is that not every star was in a constellation. There were gaps between constellations filled with faint and boring stars. These were called αμορφοι amorphoi or unformed stars by the Greeks. This is no good if you want to do science, because things like comets don’t stick to the interesting parts of the sky. That’s why mapping was so important in the Renaissance. In the case of Hevelius, his maps were so useful that he formed seven constellations that stay with us to this day.
I’ll admit constellations like Lacerta or Vulpecula aren’t famous constellations, but he was working with the haps between constellations. The fact that his charts were made of constellations visible in Europe shows he was working in a highly competitive space.
It’s easy to take this kind of work for granted. The output can be seen as an uncontested fact, but Thony’s post put’s Hevelius’s work into the context of its time including the often intense scientific rivalry between astronomer defending personal and national status.
The also shows that while with hindsight it seems obvious that telescopes would bring more accurate measurements, at any given time in history it’s not always obvious that new technology is The Next Big Thing, it could be a distraction or Expensive Dead End.
As a follow-up to yesterday’s post, I was wondering if Copernicus would have been more convincing if he’d used ellipses in his model instead of circles. By using circles Copernicus had to use epicycles like Ptolemy, though not so many. Still, it gave the impression that epicycles were necessary. If that’s the case then why not have a stationary Earth as well? The discovery that planetary motion would be better described by ellipses didn’t come about till Kepler’s work almost a century later. As far as the post title goes, I think Dr* T’s Theory #1 applies here: Any tabloid heading that starts ‘Is this.…’, ‘Could this be…’ etc. can be safely answered ‘No’
So my post title is a bit of a cliché, but the reason I’ve used it is that if the answer is no, then something strange is happening. More accurate is less convincing?
The reason I think that is that Copernicus’ model wasn’t isolated from the rest of thought for that period. It used and built on a number of assumptions of the time. One of those ideas was the creation of the universe by a perfect being. Another was the idea that a circle was a perfect shape, derived from classical geometry. By telling people the Sun was at the centre of the universe and not the Earth, Copernicus was asking people to make a big shift in their thinking. A lot of people thought it nonsense. If he’d made the orbits elliptical as well then many people who would have been willing to listen to Copernicus’ ideas would have balked at that, reducing his potential audience further. In terms of numbers, the population of mathematically minded people who could examine his work was small enough already.
If he’d reduced the number of initial readers further, would his ideas have spread enough for others to pick them 50 years later? It’s impossible to say, but if Copernicus hadn’t given Kepler the idea of a putting the Sun at the centre of universe, could Kepler have discovered it independently? It’s hard to say but, given how Kepler struggled with letting go of circles and using ellipses, I think it’s unlikely.
This is why I’m wary of histories of science that are purely about who got it right and who got it wrong. Copernicus’ use of circles isn’t ‘right’, but it was necessary at the time.
I’ve «cough» borrowed the portrait of Copernicus from Prof Reike’s page on Copernicus. It’s well worth visiting if you want to find out more about the astronomer.
I’ve been trying to watch Cosmos by Carl Sagan. I’ve never seen it and it’s proving to be a bit of a struggle. He definitely can write. Some of the sequences are fantastic, but some of it is badly dated. The thing that really grates to me is his dismissal of Ptolemy and his geocentric universe. For Sagan at best Ptolemy’s system held back astronomy by 1,500 years. At worst he’s only worth mentioning to say he’s dead wrong, like in the first episode.
It’s not really fair to lay into Sagan for his attitude to Ptolemy. His work is a product of its time and it was written over thirty years ago. But the idea that Ptolemy was clearly wrong seems to the popular understanding of Renaissance astronomy. The question here is Why did some people oppose the heliocentric theory of the universe? not Who in their right mind would accept it? It overlooks the power of the Ptolemaic system. If you followed Ptolemy’s work you could predict where the planets would be with enough accuracy for naked-eye astronomy. If Copernicus had only used simple circles, then his model might have seemed better, but he too needed to add epicycles and fudges to make his system match the observable sky. It needed fewer epicycles, but it was hardly perfect.
Astrolabes at the Museum for the History of Science at Oxford.
If you ever want to embarrass me, try to get me to enthuse about a display of astrolabes. They’re the kind of thing I should love. They’re devices for showing what is visible in the sky at any given time. They’re very similar to the planispheres that people use today. The mathematics behind them is elegant. The best also tend to have extraordinarily ornate metalwork to complement the sophistication of the devices. Yet, when they’re hanging up like this, they leave me cold.
I think the reason is that an astrolabe on display is a dead astrolabe. There are better ways to show a static night sky. What you need is an astrolabe in motion to appreciate them. That’s what makes this talk by Tom Wujec so good. He demonstrates how you could use an astrolabe to tell the time. In his hands, an astrolabe becomes a lot more interesting.
It’s easy to underestimate how much you can do if you’re willing to observe intently. What I also like about this talk is that Tom Wujec emphasises the importance of connecting with the night sky. You could claim accurate clocks have broken this connection, but I’m not sure that’s the case. Where I live light pollution is often so bad that I could not use an astrolabe. He’s right to point out that you can lose things with progress. Ironically Global Astronomy Month with try to show how immense the universe is, while artefacts like this show that on a day-to-day basis for urban dwellers the visible world is much smaller than the cosmos of the past.
The slide on the 1980s probes is intentionally blank, because there were hardly any probes sent in the 1980s to Mars. The reason is that the competition between the major powers has moved to Earth Orbit, with the USA building the Shuttle and the USSR building long-term space stations. Recent events have highlighted a couple of reasons why it’s worth looking at this again. One is the registration of lunar heritage by California, which is grabbing headlines for something that Alice Gorman and Beth O’Leary have been saying for a while. The other is Obama’s cancellation of the return to the Moon.
It could be a scientific re-prioritisation, but like the Mars gap in the 1980s, it could also be due to politics. The Nobel laureate already has wars in Iraq and Afghanistan to manage, and he wants to keep his options open for a war with Iran. That could turn very nasty as Iran is next door to his two other problems. It’s possible that there simply isn’t a threat on the Moon, but there is in the Middle East. Unless China develops lunar ambitions, the discovery of water on the Moon could be a scientific curiosity rather than a stepping stone to colonisation.
There’s a few reasons why I don’t like this presentation as it stands. I think the biggest problem is that one of the big factors for making it was that I needed a presentation. It wasn’t an idea that was ready, and to some extent the problem was “there’s something archaeology could say about this, but what?” Now I’m thinking about the social, political and economic effects of Mars exploration. This time around I see archaeology as a tool to finding out about these factors, rather than ‘being archaeological’ as the purpose of project.
Some posts take quite a while to write. This is a response to Candy Minx and Martin Rundkvist who were discussing the Antikythera Mechanism back in 2006 (Antikythera, Time, A Reply to the Minx). Candy Minx thought that the Antikythera Mechanism was an expression of what was already known and embedded in a society through things like myth and ritual. Martin thought that the mechanism was far more complex, indeed needlessly complex, for an ancient society and so was something quite different to the folk astronomy of the time. Originally I planned to write a fence-sitting compromise. I thought that Candy Minx was right to an extent, there was no need for a device like this because rituals and folk observation could allow people to time the year as well as they needed. At the same time I thought that Martin was right to point out that the mechanism gave results with far more accuracy than folk astronomy needed, or would even recognise. A different sort of astronomy is visible in the Antikythera Mechanism. I didn’t blog too much about the 2006 paper because I attended a few of Mike Edmunds’ talks on the topic and heard that more would be published, which happened in 2008. Anyhow in my own fluffy and fence-sitting way I’ll now offer my compromise.
Someone with an extraordinary imagination built the Antikythera Mechanism and, if he were alive today, we wouldn’t hesitate to call him a scientist. I don’t know if the designer was in the same league as Newton or Galileo, but he was certainly the equal of Kepler, Copernicus or Brahe. It’s hard to overstate how extraordinary the device described in the 2006 paper is, but I’m going to give it a go.
If you’re the one person who hasn’t heard of the Antikythera Mechanism then Nature have a handy video introduction.
All that remains now is a collection of corroded lumps found off the island of Antikythera. The 2006 paper described what the team discovered after x-raying the lumps to read the hidden inscriptions without prizing apart the device and damaging it. Prior to this paper it was thought that the device could keep track of the Sun and the Moon. This is no small feat.
Epicycle et deferent. Image by
The Sun would be moving slowly against the background stars, so over the course of a year it would pass through all the signs of the zodiac. The Moon however is more complex. The Moon also moves in front of the background stars, but it only takes about 27 days to do this. It’s called the sidereal period. So you need a couple of gears to drive those two motions. But you wouldn’t really think of the sidereal period as a month. For most people the synodic period, the time between one New Moon and the next or the time between one Full Moon and the next, is a month. This is around 29½ days. Throw in extra gears for driving other displays showing eclipse cycles and it’s clearly a complex device. The original studies found evidence of epicycles, gears mounted on other gears. Add other features like displays for eclipse and lunar cycles on the back and it’s obvious you have a complicated device. The 2006 research showed that in fact it was all a bit more complicated than that.
The Moon’s movement isn’t constant. It speeds up and slows down. This is because its orbit isn’t exactly circular. Instead it’s slightly egg-shaped. The point furthest from the earth is the apogee and the point closest to the Earth is the perigee. When it’s near the apogee it travels slowly, but when it moves closer to the Earth it picks up speed until it passes perigee and then it slows down again. This is called the first lunar anomaly. The difference is noticeable by the naked eye, if you’re willing to make systematic observations. This is all simply explained by Kepler’s Laws of Planetary Motion. There’s small problem. Kepler used ellipses.
You can’t use elliptical gears. The point of gears is that they must have intermeshing teeth. An elliptical gear would lose contact with the driving gear as its axis changed. Instead it seems that the mechanism used two gears, one slightly off-axis from the other. The rotation was connected by a pin-and-slot arrangement, so that the one gear wouldn’t turn at quite the same rate as the other gear. The on-axis gear can then be turned reliably by the drive gears, while the motion of the moon can driven by the off-axis gear. So you have a device that can track the sidereal, synodic and anomalistic months, all while the Earth is spinning round the Sun. If that’s causing your head to spin you might want to skip the next paragraph.
There’s another problem. The lunar anomaly describes the Moon’s travel from one apogee to the next. This apogee is also rotating around the earth. If the apogee is in Aries then two and a bit years later it will be in Cancer, and another two and a bit years to move into Libra until it too has travelled through the zodiac over about nine years. So now we have a device which tracks the Moon around the Earth, and its phases and it’s variable speed and variations in that variability, while also keeping track of the Sun’s position, potential lunar and solar eclipses and intercalation cycles so you know when to stick an extra month in to keep the lunar months in step with the solar year round gears, some mounted slightly off axis to create a pseudo-sinusoidal variation using circular gears to replace ellipses. If you have funny feeling near the back of your head right now, that’s probably your brain trying to crawl out of your ears. The Antikythera Mechanism is insanely complex. Still just because it’s insanely complex, that doesn’t make it scientific.
In fact you can argue about whether or not Science existed in the ancient world. Certainly a lot of elements like testing ideas with experiments didn’t really become popular till after Galileo. On the other hand some natural philosophy of the time was based on observation. There was certainly technology which was the result of applied knowledge. With those kind of provisos a lot of ancient historians would be happy with the idea of ancient science, albeit a science different to post-Renaissance science. In this case, the sheer intense observation and calculation involved in making the Antikythera Mechanism marks it out as a work of ancient science. There’s also another factor which might make it more scientific than artistic.
To some extent the Antikythera Mechanism Research Project have been interested in hanging a name on the device. It was thought to have originated in Rhodes and sunk on its way to Rome, which would have connected it to the home city of Hipparchus, one of the great astronomers of antiquity. The 2008 paper has examined the parapegma on the mechanism and discovered it may be connected to Syracuse, home of Archimedes.
A parapegma is a calendar, usually with holes for sticking a peg into for marking the days. In the case of ancient Greece they’re interesting when they tell you what day of the month it is, because each Greek city had its own set of months. The months were usually named after religious festivals, and this was tied into local politics. That meant having your own calendar was a good way of showing your independence. The best match for the months mentioned on the mechanism is Tauromenion, modern Taormina, in Sicily. This is likely to have shared some months with Syracuse as it was re-settled from there in the fourth-century BC, so Syracuse is a strong possibility for the home of this device. Archimedes is said to have invented a planetarium according to Cicero and is thought to have written a lost book on astronomical devices. However he could not have made this device. Archimedes died in 212 BC. The Antikythera Mechanism is currently thought to date to the second half of the second century BC, but that might change. But it was very likely to have been made after Archimedes death and that’s what makes it scientific.
Art can be collaborative, or it can be personal. Science in contrast is built on cumulative knowledge. The person who invented the gearing did not have to be the person who made the astronomical observations. He didn’t even need to live in the same century as the astronomer. In fact the maker of this device might not have done either. He could have followed a kit and added his own personal touches on the casing. There’s a core to this device which, once expressed, is independent of personal vision. Archimedes didn’t have his own personal Moon which moved in a different way to everyone else’s, while an artist can have a personal interpretation of the Moon.
A reason people might think the Antikythera Mechanism is a work of art is that it’s clearly the result of a lot of imagination. Great art requires imagination, but so too does great science. It requires the kind of imagination that can look at a toolbox full of circles and see ellipses. The kind of imagination that can watch wheels turn within wheels as bodies waltz to the music of the celestial spheres. Another common factor between art and science is that great art can show a new way of looking at the world, and great science does this too. That’s why I disagree with Candy Minx when she says “Science is always playing catch up with the poets.” Science can reveal beauty too, as a visit to the Antikythera Mechanism Research Group’s homepage would show.
Freeth, T., Bitsakis, Y., Moussas, X., Seiradakis, J., Tselikas, A., Mangou, H., Zafeiropoulou, M., Hadland, R., Bate, D., Ramsey, A., Allen, M., Crawley, A., Hockley, P., Malzbender, T., Gelb, D., Ambrisco, W., & Edmunds, M. (2006). Decoding the ancient Greek astronomical calculator known as the Antikythera Mechanism Nature, 444 (7119), 587–591 DOI: 10.1038/nature05357
Freeth, T., Jones, A., Steele, J., & Bitsakis, Y. (2008). Calendars with Olympiad display and eclipse prediction on the Antikythera Mechanism Nature, 454 (7204), 614–617 DOI: 10.1038/nature07130
I could draw up quite a list of people who won’t like this book. Adam Stout purports to be an unapologetic relativist (more of that later). His history of archaeology in Britain, mainly in the inter-war period, comes from this position and is allied to his interest in alternative pasts such as druidry and earth mysteries. If you think the history of archaeology is primarily a story of how our knowledge of the past came to be more accurate, you’ll struggle with this. If you think the success of people such as OGS Crawford and Mortimer Wheeler was down to employing scientific methodology you’ll struggle with this. If you think the only sane response to modern druids is mockery you may struggle with this. I certainly disagree with a few of the author’s characterisations of archaeology. Despite (or even because?) of this it’s a challenging and engaging view of the development of archaeology.
The first point of difference between myself and Stout is a matter of how Political with a capital P archaeology is. I accept that archaeology is a political action, but so is going down to the shops to buy a loaf of bread. I might be reifying abstract ideologies and reinforcing economic roles in society, but if I want to critique those ideologies and roles, I don’t think I’d start by analysing my shopping list. Adam Stout starts with an account of writing against the backdrop of the Occupation of Iraq. He states that the cover story for May 2003 ‘PREHISTORICWAR’ was cashing in on the war fever in the USA. It might, but as a counter-example I’ll offer a quote from the introduction to Whiteley and Hays-Gilpin’s new book:
A war is raging in the Middle East as you read this introduction or, at least, one is imminent and the world is on high alert. We can assert this with some certainty, regardless of the shelf life of this volume, because this condition has characterised the region for most of the last 1000 years.
Whiteley and Hays-Gilpin 2008:11
I can’t say Archaeology magazine wasn’t using the war to boost sales. I suspect it wasn’t an openly cynical ploy to use the deaths of thousands of people as a sales drive. Equally I wouldn’t be surprised if someone wanted to put war in a historical perspective but didn’t think about what the upcoming event would mean for many people’s lives. It’s hard to say because if you want to publish on war when the USA isn’t either contemplating invading somewhere or else actually invading somewhere you have a very small window to aim for. One difference between us then is that I think the interest in war reflected public opinion rather than led it. This matters because it shows how Stout works from the position that archaeologists are largely working in the service of the state. This is point of departure for most of the book, the creation of archaeological authority.
The first part is most explicitly about the creation of archaeological authority. It’s fertile ground for anyone who wants to find evidence of self-congratulation amongst academics. It’s the strongest section of the book because it’s most clearly here that Stout marshalls the evidence to demonstrate his point. He’s able to draw on letters from various protagonists to show that political machinations were a major part of the academic archaeological programme of the the 1920s and 1930s. I was fascinated to see how a group of motivated people effectively collaborated to take the Prehistoric Society of East Anglia and take it for their own use as a national society. Yet while Stout is making a point, it doesn’t come across as axe-grinding.
The second part is, for me the least satisfying of the four. It tackles a fight against diffusionism as propsed by anthropologists. Again the handling of the politics is very good, but I’m not sure how well it squares with the content. Stout’s argument is that archaeologists were eager to show inexorable progress to the modern era, and that diffusionism was a threat to this. In the case of someone like Childe, I’d argue that diffusion was the means by which progress occured.
The third section is a case study of Stonehenge. If you’ve wondered where the modern Druids came from and how they decided to claim Stonehenge, then this is essential reading. Once again the politics are covered well, as are some of the beliefs of the 20th century Druids.
The fourth section is about The Old Straight Track and the challenge from other interpretations of the past and the challenge to archaeology. It provides some interesting examples of how unwanted interpretations could be neutered and the emphasis of archaeology as something vocational. Stout hints at the challenge being in part that ley-hunters were contextualising sites into their place within the wider landscape and fact-obsessed archaeology was less theorised at this time. It is fair comment, though I doubt it would be popular amongst many archaeologists.
My biggest concern with most of the sections is that the conflict is seen as political rather than factual. Possibly for reasons of space there’s little examination of the archaeological content. In the case of ley-hunting, to what extent was the statistical likelihood of leys occurring known at the time The Old Straight Track was published? What were the archaeological objections? The second section in particular would have benefitted more from a discussion of the content as well as the context.
Another concern is that Stout never goes beyond prehistory. To some extent this is criticising him for not writing a book which he didn’t intend to write, after all the title is Creating Prehistory. At the same time the reader could come away with the impression that archaeology in Britain was almost entirely the archaeology of prehistoric Britain. Romans are occasionally mentioned, but the effects of Roman or Medieval archaeology on the development of prehistoric archaeology aren’t really tackled.
This may be where the difference between his relativist position and my own matters. He sees history and archaeology as a matter of telling stories. Even if this is the case, stories have forms. The Iliad is not going to be rendered into a limerick. Similarly scientific explanations have forms, and there is no real tackling of methodology or theory in Stout’s book. If you think coherence to reality played a part, even if it not the sole part, then there’s a big hole in the history. It cannot be dismissed simply as a matter of incommensurable epistemologies as Stout himself shows.
Stout argues that better is not necessarily more accurate, using the example of Maiden Castle. On page 235 he uses Niall Sharples’ account of Maiden castle to show how Wheeler was capable of spinning his own tales based on his own prejudices. This I agree with, but I would also ask how we can accept Sharples’ explanation as more correct. The answer lies in the methodology of archaeology which has developed, in part from Wheeler’s own work. The method Wheeler used gave some of the tools to undermine his work. In contrast I don’t see that possibility from Iolo Morgawg’s work. Even if science were only story, it’s clearly a different sort of story.
Another matter I’d like to see Stout explore would be the development of archaeology as an anti-religious science. Archaeology as Whiteley and Hays-Gilpin (2008:20n1) say tends to shy away from religion. Certainly archaeologists are happy to diagnose anything they can’t understand as being ‘ritual’, but once it’s in that box study is often closed. They put this down to science and religion being competitors in claims for discerning truth in the first half of the 20th century. In chapter nine The Esoteric Revival Stout attributes the negative view many of the inter-war archaeologists had towards early religion as being due to their atheism. Perhaps more could be made of the conflict between science and religion at the time, and hence the antagonism to the religious claims of contemporary druids, which then fed back into views about the past.
Nonetheless while it’s clear that I don’t agree with some of Stout’s conclusions I still think there’s much to like about the book. For a start it’s readable. It’s clear that he’s written the book because he wants to be understood and make a difference rather than pad out a CV. It’s also well-argued. I might not agree with the arguments, but it’s not a matter of plucking ideas from the air. Stout clearly has done the reading, got the references and uses them to back up his claims. Hence while it is possible to disagree with him, it’s not a good idea to simply dismiss his work. It’s also a genuinely novel piece of work. There are many books which take to a greater or less extent the whole of the history of archaeology as their subject. Quite a few a clearly attempts to produce theory textbooks in a very dull way. In contrast the more focussed approach Stout takes enables him to look more closely the processes that created academic archaeology. If anything I’d like to see an tighter focus still. There are the seeds of four interesting books on the development of archaeology. Most importantly it’s the least telelogical history of archaeology I’ve read. Many histories of archaeology could be subtitled How did we get to the wonderful state we’re in today?. This book in contrast is focussed on the inter-war years rather than the eventual outcome. This puts him smartly out of step with anyone who mistakenly believes history of archaeology is a branch of archaeology rather than history of science.
It’s not the one book you need if you’re studying the history of archaeology in the UK, but it is perhaps the one book you need to read as a companion to a history of archaeology.
Whiteley, D.S. and Hays-Gilpin, K. 2008 ‘Religions beyond Icon, Burial and Monument: An Introduction’, Belief in the Past: Theoretical Approaches to the Archaeology of Religion. eds. D.S.Whiteley and K.Hays-Gilpin, Left Coast Press:California, 11–22.
Find it at WorldCat or LibraryThing.
Scientifically speaking a negative result is as important as a positive result. Nonetheless while positive results which no-one expected are publishable, negative results — which people would have expected if they’d thought about it a bit — are difficult to get published.
As an example, I’m looking at connections between ancient Greek constellations and the Greek calendar. One nice correlation is that the dove migration season in Greece starts about the same time that the constellation Columba, the Dove, rises in the morning sky for the first time. It’s particularly neat because doves tend to fly at night, so as Columba took to the skies, so did the doves. It would have slotted nicely into my model. There’s a small problem.
Columba is Noah’s Dove and wasn’t invented till AD 1679. Not only that, but if you read Aratus’s Phaenomena, which is a description of the sky dating from the 3rd century BC, he goes on at great length how there’s no constellation in that region. Unlike modern constellations, the Greek constellations were figures not regions and not all stars were thought to be in constellations. Some were considered amorphoi or unformed. If I’d really been awake I wouldn’t have needed to look up the constellation, as there are already doves in the ancient Greek sky. The Pleiades are, among other things, doves. That’s what the name means.
It’s surprising how specific the ancient sources are about which stars are in constellations or not. It raises the question of whether constellations named in ancient texts existed in more archaic times, because stars don’t have to be in a constellation.