historian of the Persian empire, the Greek city-states, and the conflict between the two. “Of Herodotus of Halicarnassus, this is the presentation of his inquiry [historiē], so that human events may not be effaced by time, and the great and marvelous deeds/accomplishments, both those displayed by the Greeks and by the barbarians, may not be without glory, including other things and especially the cause for which they went to war with one another.” With this sentence, beginning with his own name and claiming authorship, Herodotus opens his monumental prose narrative about the rise of the Persian empire and the resistance of Greeks and others to its impressive military power and cultural traditions. And with this statement of purpose and subject Herodotus also inaugurates, although without claiming to do so, the genre of history: the chronological and critical analysis of noteworthy human actions and achievements of the past
The word historia (historiē in Herodotus’ Ionic Greek dialect) or “inquiry” articulates the key concept of critical investigation, but in itself the word does not capture the distinctiveness of Herodotus’ project. The intellectual world of the fifth century bce was alive with inquiry of many sorts—for instance, the inquiries of the natural philosophers or the medical writers—and the word did not come to mean inquiry specifically into past human events until roughly a century later. Rather, Herodotus’ opening sentence as a whole—beginning with the emphasis on presentation or performance, ending with a concern for causation, and including a quite traditional if reconfigured interest in great and wondrous deeds—sets Herodotus apart from other writers and establishes a new kind of writing that came to be called “history.”
Life and Relationship to Other Authors.
Reliable biographical details about Herodotus are few; his text itself suggests that although a native of Halicarnassus (modern Bodrum on the Aegean coast of Turkey), he traveled widely throughout the Mediterranean world. A tenth century ce Byzantine Life adds details such as the names of his parents, Lyxes and Dryo, and of his uncle Panyassis, an epic poet, along with the story that he left Halicarnassus in opposition to the tyrant Lygdamis. In addition to his wider travels, he clearly spent time in Athens—where we are told that he received the enormous fee of ten talents for a live performance of his History—and came to know its politics and political families well. But most likely he ended his life in the Italian city of Thurii, probably in the 420s, after migrating there when the city was founded by Athens in 444. Thus although the author of the Life may be guessing (or using the traditional method of dating by “floruit” at age forty), a life span of about 485–425 fits the evidence of the History itself, in which the latest datable event is the execution of the Corinthian Aristeas by the Athenians, mentioned also by Thucydides in his account of the first year of the Peloponnesian War (Herodotus 7.137; Thucydides 2.67). The dovetailing of the two careers is a useful reminder that although Herodotus tells the story of the Persian empire that rose in the time of his grandparents (later sixth century) and threatened the larger Greek world in the time of his parents (early fifth century), he himself came of age and composed his History in the era of the “Greek enlightenment” and the Athenian Empire (mid-fifth century), and he witnessed the beginnings of the war about which Thucydides wrote.
Although Herodotus has no true predecessors, his History engages and reflects familiarity with a variety of Greek literary traditions. Of these, Homer is the most important and the most immediately apparent: note the concern that great deeds not be “without glory” and in general the “epic” scope of the narrative. Not without reason did the citizens of Halicarnassus celebrate their compatriot as “the Homer of Prose” (Supplementum Epigraphicum Graecum 48.1330 line 43). But the Homeric language and themes clearly audible at times should not mislead us into thinking that Herodotus is old-fashioned or archaic in his understanding of events. The important question of Herodotus’ religious views illustrates the point well. Throughout his History Herodotus is fascinated by the religious rites and practices he encounters; dreams, prophecies, and omens are as central to Herodotus’ story as to Homer's epics. Yet unlike Homer, the historian allows for doubt and discussion about the specific role of gods in human events; see, for example, the rationalist explanation of dreams put forth by Artabanus in book 7. Although he uses the language of popular piety—asserting, for example, that “Homer and Hesiod gave the gods their names” (2.53)—when speaking in his own voice Herodotus usually talks simply of “god” or “the gods” (e.g., 1.34, 7.139), and at times he speaks with some reticence about religious matters best left unspoken (e.g., 2.55).
Tragedy is another genre with which Herodotus shows familiarity and affinity. He mentions specifically Phrynichus’ lost Fall of Miletus, which moved the Athenian audience to tears—and to sentence the author to pay a fine for reminding them of misfortunes (6.21). Also, some of Herodotus’ stories have a definite kinship with tragic plotlines; see, for example, the story of Croesus and Adrastus in book 1. A friendship between Herodotus and Sophocles is part of the biographical tradition; support may be found in the description of the “backward” customs of the Egyptians in Oedipus at Colonus (337–340), suggesting that Sophocles had read (or heard) Herodotus’ account of Egypt. Herodotus’ presentation of human decisions and actions, however, has more in common with the intellectual world of the Sophists and early prose writers than with the religious theater of Athens.
Before turning to that contemporary world, one final predecessor requires attention: Hecataeus of Miletus (c.555–485), who also traveled the Mediterranean and wrote of his experiences in prose accounts of peoples and places, and to whom Herodotus explicitly refers. Although only fragments of Hecataeus’ once substantial writing survive—traditional titles of his works include the Genealogies and the Gēs periodos or Periēgēsis (Guide to the World)—the comparison with Herodotus is instructive. In his introduction to one of his works, Hecataeus begins, “Hecataeus of Miletus says the following: I write up these matters as they seem to be true to me; for the accounts of the Greeks are both many and laughable, as they seem to me” (Fragmente der griechischen Historiker 1 F1). Hecataeus announces a confident authorship, as did Herodotus after him, but Heacataeus’ purpose is more akin to that of the early natural philosophers, that is, to write up a true account of “things.” Herodotus, in contrast, has developed a more complex project, less concerned with a singular “truth” per se than with the presentation of the memories of human deeds, which are both multiple and pliable. Although he in turn can laugh at Hecataeus’ errors (e.g., 2.143 and, most likely, 5.36), Herodotus was not in fact sparring with Hecataeus at all.
On the other hand, Herodotus’ engagement with his own fifth-century contemporaries is striking. The evidence for Herodotus’ familiarity with early Hippocratic writings is particularly persuasive, and a common interest in the interconnections of climate, geography, and culture links Herodotus with contemporary science and medicine even where a specific textual connection is unavailable or uncertain. Herodotus’ concern with custom (nomos) ties him to the Sophistic discussions of the fifth century, and his comments on religion as something that “all men have equal knowledge about” (2.3) might recall the agnosticism and relativism of Protagoras of Abdera. Finally, Herodotus’ political interests—his fascination with tyranny and empire and his insistence on the value of freedom—certainly drew him into discussions of the rise of Athenian democracy and empire following the end of the Persian Wars whose historian he was. Thus we should see Herodotus as a writer who moves within and responds to a rich variety of literary and intellectual currents. His text, however, is a prose narrative like no other.
The History: Structure, Themes, and Historical Method.
At some point in antiquity Herodotus’ History was divided into nine books, named for the nine Muses. By and large the divisions make sense and are a convenient aid to the modern reader. In the pages that follow, the text is moved through book by book, using details of the narrative not to summarize (which would be impossible here) but to illustrate the structure, themes, and historical methods of the History as a whole.
Book 1 (Clio).
After his opening sentence, Herodotus quickly reveals his distinctive narrative style in an entertaining and even silly story that yet makes a serious and substantial point. “The Persians say,” he begins (although we can be quite sure that this is his own story), that the conflict between the Greeks and the “barbarians”—meaning the multiethnic Persian empire in general—began with a series of acts of theft: first the Phoenicians stole the Argive princess Io from her own port; then in return the Greeks (perhaps Cretans) carried off Europa from Tyre and also Medea from Colchis; and next, this prompted Paris to think that he would not have to give compensation for taking Helen, whom he then took. So far, the “Persian account” goes, there had been only “woman stealing,” unlawful certainly but hardly serious; the Greeks, however, “raised a full army, and sailing across to Asia destroyed the might of Priam,” resulting in the perpetual enmity of Greek and barbarian, Europe and Asia. “Be that as it may,” says Herodotus, “I myself know who it was in actual fact that first injured the Greeks,” and from that point he proceeds with his chronologically ordered narrative, “telling of great and small alike” (5). The reader/audience should be clear: Herodotus’ narrative may often entertain, but it will also distinguish between stories that lack grounding in evidence and chronology and those whose Herodotus’ inquiry provides with that grounding.
The real story then begins with Croesus, king of Lydia, who first brought the Greeks of Asia under his rule. Understanding Croesus, however, requires knowing the story of his family, his ancestor Gyges and the kings who followed, with their memorable exploits. So the narrative circles back to establish a chronology for the Lydian kings (twenty-two generations and five hundred and five years)—one of the first things a reader learns is that chronological history need not be linear. Herodotus’ opening account of the Lydian kings also introduces the important role of the Delphic oracle as a place of interaction between Greeks and barbarians and as the repository of notable objects that give physical proof to the narrative. For example, Herodotus reports that Gyges dedicated, among other things, six golden mixing bowls that currently stand in the treasure of the Corinthians at Delphi (14); Croesus’ own gifts five generations later were “documents” of his extravagant wealth and ambition. Yet even this physical evidence can turn out to be deceptive: Herodotus reports that two vessels dedicated by Croesus carried instead the inscription “dedicated by the Lacedaemonians.” But this is false, says Herodotus; “the inscription was made by a certain Delphian who wanted to please the Lacedaemonians” (51). So even a written document must be subjected to the inquiry of the historian.
Although Herodotus knows the value of documents, he also knows the art of the story, particularly a story brought to life with direct speech. Herodotus’ stories are the soul of his History—and the center of debate over how to read it. The story of Solon and Croesus early in book 1 (30–32) is a particularly important example, both because of its placement and because Solon seems to speak here in Herodotus’ authorial voice. When Croesus asks Solon, who has a reputation for wisdom and has just been shown the splendor of Croesus’ wealth, “who is the happiest man in the world” the Athenian gives the first prize to a compatriot who died honorably in battle after having seen both his city and his family flourish, and the second to two young men who greatly honored their mother and the goddess Hera—and then were rewarded with a peaceful death (and with statues at Delphi). To Croesus’ angry objections, Solon carefully explains that human life is uncertain and that wealth is no guarantee of happiness, but if a man is lucky enough to escape sickness and all evil and is happy in his children and his own “good looks,” and if he ends his life well, then we can call him happy. So speaks the Greek sage—and the historian.
Croesus comes late to an understanding of Solon's wisdom, after being defeated and captured in battle by Cyrus the Great of Persia. And now the Greeks, both those whom Croesus had enslaved and those on the mainland about whom he had inquired as potential allies, find themselves face to face with the Persian empire, so requiring Herodotus to circle back once again to explain just who these Persians are, including a fine tale embedded within the chronological narrative about Cyrus as archetypal hero. With Cyrus’ death while campaigning against the Massagetai (whose customs are briefly described) the first book ends. We the audience have traveled the Mediterranean, and times and places past, in order to understand the emerging conflict. The story is underway.
Book 2 (Euterpe).
Or so we thought. When Cambyses, Cyrus’ son and successor, undertakes to invade Egypt, Herodotus takes the opportunity to describe in detail this most marvelous land and its culture. He begins with geography, offering reflections based on both his inquiry and his own observation, most notably about the behavior of the Nile and its importance for Egypt. Some of his conclusions are flawed, but the investigation is self-consciously empirical and scientific, and together with the descriptions of the wondrous flora and fauna of Egypt (e.g., the crocodile, the hippopotamus, the phoenix[!]) he produces a narrative that is at the same time wildly entertaining and cutting-edge scholarship. The book, which does eventually get to the discussion of Egyptian society and its kings, is particularly instructive on the way in which Herodotus navigates his different sorts of sources—written sources, oral sources, and personal observation or inquiry. His comment that “the Egyptians who live in the cultivated parts of the country, by their practice of keeping records of the past, have made themselves much the most learned of any nation of which I have had experience” (2.77) reveals his appreciation of the importance of written records, but his inquiry “by eye and ear” goes beyond records to create a historical narrative open to an astounding variety of topics and questions.
Book 3 (Thalia).
Now Herodotus reengages the narrative of the expansion of Persia, with accounts of Cambyses’ campaigns against the Egyptians, Ammonians, and Ethiopians interspersed with accounts of those peoples’ customs. An emerging theme is the variability yet sanctity of custom (nomos), particularly religious custom, as we see Cambyses mock and then attack the sacred Apis bull. There follows a discussion of Cambyses’ tyrannical character and “madness” that revealed itself in the murders of his own brother and his sister/wife, told in dramatic detail and multiple versions. Was the madness a divine punishment for his treatment of Apis, as “the Egyptians” believed? Showing his familiarity with contemporary medicine, Herodotus allows that Cambyses was certainly mad, but suggests that this “may, indeed, have been the result of any one of the many maladies which afflict mankind, and there is, in fact, a story that he had suffered from birth from the serious complaint which some call ‘the sacred disease.’ There would then be nothing strange in the fact that a serious physical malady should have affected his brain” (3.33).
The theme of tyranny continues as we see Cambyses overthrown and eventually replaced by Darius, the high point of the final portion of the book being the debate among the successful Persian conspirators on the best form of government (rule by many, by few, or by one). “Some Greeks refuse to believe,” says Herodotus, “that the speeches were actually made, but they were!” This is another excellent example of Herodotus’ apparent playfulness as he engages his audience with “believe it or not” stories that yet establish important historical points—here, ironically, one of the earliest arguments for democracy, or “the many ruling” (80). After establishing Darius on the Persian throne, Herodotus undertakes a substantial survey of the organization of the empire, by province and tribute amount, from the Hellespont to Ethiopia to India, using documentary data to anchor his dramatic story of Darius’ rise.
Book 4 (Melpomene).
In book 4, Herodotus focuses on the peoples at the extremities of the empire, the Scythians in the north and the Libyans in the south. The book displays the now familiar discussion of customs, diets, marriage practice, and the like, and these tend to become stranger or more “marvelous” the farther out he moves. The Scythian section, for example, includes an account of the flesh-eating Androphagoi (“man eaters”) and the Budini who eat lice, as well as the Amazons, who appear not in person (Herodotus makes no claim for their historical reality) but as explanatory ancestors for certain practices of the Scythian Sauromatae, whose women ride and hunt and take part in war.
With the large geographical scope of the book, Herodotus is moved to consider the larger issue of the shape of the world as a whole, and what follows is his most extensive discussion of maps, mapmakers, and the number, shape, and names of the continents. He is aware that Libya (Africa) is surrounded by water except where it joins Asia, and he tells the remarkable story of a Phoenician circumnavigation of the continent ordered by the Egyptian king Neco. About Europe, and whether there is also a sea to the north and east, he is uncertain. What interests him most here is Europe's rivers: still tempted like his contemporaries by a symmetrical view of the world, he imagines the Danube flowing through Europe in a manner analogous to the Nile's route through Egypt. After this extensive periplous (record of circumnavigation or sailing around) of its own, Herodotus’ narrative returns to the story of Persian expansion, calling attention now to the spirit of resistance of the Scythians who hand Darius his first defeat, a notable anticipation by barbarians of later Greek success. Although Herodotus employs the dichotomy of Greek versus barbarian, his portrait of neither side is one-dimensional.
Book 5 (Terpsichore).
Book 5, the middle and pivotal book of the History, is for the first time properly Greek history, providing background to mainland events and culminating in the fateful revolt of the Ionian Greeks from Darius’ imperial rule. The instigator of revolt was a certain Aristagoras, a citizen of Miletus who in the midst of some tricky maneuvers had emerged on the wrong side of the Persian governor. Like Croesus half a century earlier, Aristagoras looked to mainland Greece for support against Persia. And as with Croesus’ inquiry into Greek history in book 1, Herodotus uses the occasion to bring his audience up to date on what has been happening in the meantime, particularly in Athens and Sparta. To cut a long (and vintage Herodotean) story short, the Spartans turned Aristagoras down, but the Athenians, who had only recently emerged from under the yoke of tyranny and were now showing what freedom could do, said “yes” and agreed to send twenty ships to help the revolt. Herodotus’ next words, “These ships were the beginning of evils for Greeks and barbarians,” have an epic ring (cf. Iliad 5.62, 1.604) and, in what amounts to a second preface, announce the coming conflict.
Book 6 (Erato).
The Ionian revolt was an ignominious failure—and the death of Aristagoras, who turned out to be a “poor-spirited” character, is the opening event of book 6. The Ionians fought on, but without unity or, for the most part, vigor, and were “for a third time enslaved” (once to Croesus and now a second time to Persia). Darius then took aim at Athens. The Athenians had participated in the Greek sack and burning of Sardis, after which they had had enough and left for home—but Darius remembers. In a memorable scene that evokes Persian royal images while remaining completely Herodotean, Darius calls for his bow and, shooting an arrow into the sky, prays, “Oh, Zeus, grant me vengeance against the Athenians” (5.105). Herodotus continues the theme of retribution that has seemed to drive the conflict from the mock-epic introduction onward. But it is significant that he does not exclude other causative factors such as the force of character and culture, see especially the threefold “cause” of Croesus’ campaign against Cyrus in book 1 and the suggestion in book 7 that Persian traditions require Xerxes to expand Persian power.
As the seemingly unstoppable Persian force crosses the Aegean, intrigue and treachery plague the Greek cities, making the Athenian march to Marathon and victory over the Persian force there even more impressive, both to the Greek world and to the historian. The Spartans, whose leadership earlier books had highlighted, now seem hampered by their internal disputes over their dual kingship (treated by Herodotus as an oddity worthy of an ethnographic digression, 56–59), and a religious prohibition against marching before the full moon prevents their coming to Athens’ aid. Herodotus thus adds to his portraits of the two cities. Concerning the battle itself, Herodotus’ narrative shows his reliance on eyewitnesses, veterans no doubt. Thus, for example, the Athenian delay in the days leading up to the battle is described from the perspective of the man in the field rather than that of the generals making the decisions. Finally, as so often, Herodotus ends on an ambiguous note, here with the story of the possible treachery of the family of the Alcmaeonids, the family of Pericles.
Book 7 (Polymnia).
Books 7 through 9 move slowly and grandly through Xerxes’ invasion of Greece and its aftermath. The portrait of Xerxes is the centerpiece and masterpiece of book 7, although the magnificent catalog of the Persian army in all its multiethnic color is worthy of Homer himself (cf. Catalog of Ships in Iliad 2). Xerxes I rules as a master over slaves and is given to extravagant acts of both generosity and cruelty: he rewards the hospitality of a Lydian man by “topping up” his fortune to a round 4 million gold Darics, but then he punishes the same man for his request that one of five sons be left behind by indeed leaving that son behind—sliced in two and placed on either side of the road through which the Persian army marches. Xerxes curses the waters of the Hellespont when a storm destroys his bridge, words that Herodotus calls barbara (barbarian), a rare use of the term in a moral sense. Yet this is a king who can also weep “for the brevity of human life” as he looks out over the assembled masses of his army. Meanwhile, across the Aegean, the story of the Greek preparations for resistance are also high drama and span the full Greek world from Sicily to Crete, Delphi to Thrace, full of conflict and characters. Can the Greeks unite? The first battle at Thermopylae ends in Xerxes’ victory, but only with the help of treachery. Now at last comes the great battle for Greece.
Book 8 (Urania).
The story turns from the heroism of King Leonidas I and his Spartans (and some others) in opposing Xerxes’ army and “immortals” at Thermopylae, to the cleverness of the Athenian Themistocles, who had in book 7 convinced the Athenians to put their trust in sea power and who now emerges as the central character of book 8. His strategy for battle in the narrows of the Salamis channel—tricking Xerxes into splitting his forces and entering the channel, thereby forcing the Greek fleet to stay and fight—reveals both his brilliance and his lack of scruples. In telling the story of the Greek victory at Salamis and Xerxes’ subsequent flight back across the Dardanelles (Hellespont), Herodotus brings to life the epic contest—complete with the heroic feats of Artemisia, queen of Halicarnassus, fighting on the Persian side—while simultaneously drawing the darker side of its mastermind Themistocles, whose loyalty to Greece or even Athens is not necessarily secure and whose behavior after the victory, extorting money from islanders, is a sign of things to come. Herodotus’ inquiry produces a complex tale, praising the Athenians as the “saviors of Greece” (7.139) and at the same time revealing the danger to Greek freedom that those saviors later came to present.
Book 9 (Calliope).
Finally, book 9 narrates the decisive Greek victory at Plataea over the Persian army that had wintered in Thessaly and marched back into central Greece in the spring. The book features a high point of leadership and cooperation; an impressive total of 110,000 men—Herodotus uses numbers to good purpose—fight under the generalship of the Spartan Pausanias on the Boeotian plain. After the victory at Plataea, Pausanias shows himself a man of principle, refusing to impale the head of Mardonius for public display and laughing at the luxury of the Persian general. Collecting the spoils of victory, the Greeks dedicate a tenth of them to Delphi in a memorial that Herodotus has apparently seen.
For the moment all is well, but Herodotus does not allow us to bask in the glory of the defense of freedom; instead we follow the Athenians as they pursue the Persians to the Hellespont and then apprehend and punish a Persian governor by crucifying him and stoning his son before his eyes. And finally, in a conclusion that comes full circle but remains open-ended, an ancestor of that unfortunate Persian governor receives from King Cyrus the warning that “soft countries breed soft men” and that indeed empire may be a dangerous thing.
Herodotus’ Reputation Then and Now.
The popularity of the History was legendary, and its influence is evident from the time of its completion in the 420s onward. An early example is Aristophanes’ apparent comic echo in the Acharnians (produced 425) of Herodotus’ prologue. Most significant is the response of Thucydides, who despite not mentioning his predecessor by name clearly wrote in his wake. Thucydides proposed to write up the war between the Athenians and the Peloponnesians, to tell about the “greatest disturbance” in Hellenic history; he does not use the term historia, and his account, he asserts, will not be “mythlike” or necessarily pleasant to hear (as, he implies, some others are—read “Herodotus”), but it will be a “possession for all time.” From the start Thucydides is engaged with the Herodotean legacy, a competition that continues throughout his text—and has continued to provoke discussion and debate ever since.
Herodotus’ stories, his mythoi, are his trademark, and it is not surprising that the term sticks—for example, Aristotle in the Generation of Animals calls him a mythologos, implying that Herodotus’ information may not be always reliable. One successor simply called him a liar (Ctesias in Fragmente der griechischen Historiker 688 T8). Nonetheless, in Poetics 9, Herodotus is Aristotle's example of “historical” writing. The interesting problem that emerged already in the fourth century, as the genre of history separated itself from other sorts of prose inquiry, was the larger purpose to which historical narrative might be put—education, persuasion, and even entertainment. And what kind of “truth” could history offer and on what basis? Similar questions have resurfaced in the last decades, as the nineteenth-century “scientific” view of history has seemed less tenable. Herodotus, with Thucydides, belongs in the middle of the debate.
In addition to those ancient readers who doubted the truth of Herodotus’ stories, there were those who thought him unfair. To Plutarch, he was a “barbarian lover” whose depiction of the Boeotians was “spiteful” (On the Malice of Herodotus). Herodotus himself knew that many Greeks would not like his judgment on the Athenians as saviors of Greece. The important point is that Herodotus made judgments; he was a critical historian of the past, not a simple collector of data. Offering judgment on the basis of evidence is what the historian did—and does. Here again, through his text and the discussion that his text provokes, then and now, Herodotus shows himself a historian worth reading.
Works of Herodotus
Herodotus. Translated by A. D. Godley. 4 vols. Loeb Classical Library. London: W. Heinemann; New York: G. P. Putnam's Sons, 1921–1924.Find this resource:
Historiae. Edited by Karl Hude. 3rd ed. 2 vols. Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1927.Find this resource:
Herodoti historiae. Edited by Haiim B. Rosén. 2 vols. Leipzig, Germany: Teubner, 1987–1997.Find this resource:
The Histories. Translated by Aubrey De Sélincourt. Penguin Classics. London and New York: Penguin, 1996.Find this resource:
The Histories. Translated by Robin Waterfield, with an introduction and notes by Carolyn Dewald. Oxford World's Classics. New York: Oxford University Press, 1998.Find this resource:
The Landmark Herodotus: The Histories. Translated by Andrea L. Purvis, edited by Robert B. Strassler, with an introduction by Rosalind Thomas. New York: Pantheon, 2007.Find this resource:
Bakker, Egbert J., Irene J. F. de Jong, and Hans van Wees, eds. Brill's Companion to Herodotus. Boston: Brill, 2002.Find this resource:
Harrison, Thomas. Divinity and History: The Religion of Herodotus. Oxford: Clarendon Press, 2000.Find this resource:
Lateiner, Donald. The Historical Method of Herodotus. Toronto: University of Toronto Press, 1989.Find this resource:
Marincola, John, and Carolyn Dewald, eds. The Cambridge Companion to Herodotus. Cambridge, U.K.: Cambridge University Press, 2006.Find this resource:
Thomas, Rosalind. Herodotus in Context: Ethnography, Science, and the Art of Persuasion. Cambridge, U.K.: Cambridge University Press, 2000.Find this resource: