Tacitus, Gibbon, Carlyle, Trevelyan, Sellar and Yeatman — these were the mighty names whose histories were recited by my bald Nanny Williams. She read me the whole lot, night after night, in her taut, Taffy tones, and I listened lovingly, thumb in mouth, kerchief pressed to cheek, interrupting only to signal certain errors and inconsistencies. But my intrusions made her mad. ‘Look ’ere, boyo!’ she shrieked, ‘we must accept history as whatever tradition has accepted — history is tradition. It can be altered, but the label of truth attaches to it only by virtue of our choice, not by virtue of any property it possesses in its own right.’

Blackwell Bookshop

Purchase your copy here, 10% off RRP