The Geography of Geography

January 31, 2025

- Peter Burke, A Social History of Knowledge

In order to discuss the geography of geography, we must begin by defining two terms: first, what do we mean by “geography”? And second, what do we mean by “geography?”

By geography, we of course mean the study of things on Earth. However, in a more colloquial sense, we mean by geography the location of things on Earth. When I say geography, you think of maps, atlases, and globes. You think of knowing where a country is, and the name of its capital city. You might also think of mountain ranges, lakes, and rivers.

Thus, when we speak of “the knowledge of geography”, we are referring to this kind of information. Not only knowledge of the physical terrain of a certain area, but also political and cultural information about the people who live there. We can call these two aspects “physical geography” and “human geography.”

The “geography of knowledge” is the study of the physical location of various types of knowledge: such as which city or country was the home of certain scientific, mathematical, or cultural knowledge. For example, during the early modern period in Europe, libraries in different cities would have contained different books. These books contained different knowledge. By understanding the geography of knowledge, we might be able to understand, for example, why a certain scholar in one country might not have had access to a certain source material when writing about a topic.

The geography of geography, then, is the study of the physical location of geographical knowledge in particular. What did French scholars in the 18th century know of the Ottoman Empire, and how? What does a map from the Song Dynasty look like, and why?

The “geography of geography” is a very funny name to call such study. It sounds utterly frivolous, almost like a parody of academic specialization. I suppose, if we wanted to, we could instead call it the “history of geography,” but that implies a chronological account, and also hides the fact that the “geography of geography” can pertain to the present day.

The geography of geography is, in fact, far from a frivolous topic. I find it quite an interesting thing to think about. When looking at the past, its important to try to immerse yourself as much as possible in the period you are researching, and part of this is understanding what people knew. The limitations of geographical knowledge are what lead to such legends as Atlantis, the Pillars of Hercules, and the Gates of Alexander. They also lead to comical misunderstandings, such as the inaccurate depictions of foreign lands in a Jules Verne novel. And of course, the incredible expansion of Europe’s geographical knowledge during the so-called Age of Discovery is what makes that time period so fascinating.

The “geography of geography” is a subset of the “history of ideas,” also known as “intellectual history.” Instead of focusing on the material actions that make up history, it instead tries to reconstruct the development of the ideas that caused people to take such actions. Instead of asking for the events that brought about the First World War (the creation of the Triple Entente, the assassination of Franz Ferdinand, etc) we might instead explore the sentiments among European intellectuals and politicians — as well as the “popular zeitgeist” — and how they facilitated the creation of the Triple Entente, the assassination of Franz Ferdinand, and in the end, a total war between nations.

What a history of ideas allows us to do is investigate certain “truths” or facets of “common sense” in a much more rigorous fashion. Much like tracing a certain fact back to its primary source in order to determine its validity, we can trace an idea back to its origin and thereby recognize it as what is is: an idea. Ideas pop into people’s heads all the time, and often what makes them appear valid or not depends entirely on whether they fit (or can be made to fit) into the intellectual framework of those around them. Ideas that were once popular often seem nonsensical when divorced from their context.

New technologies allow us to categorize, organize, share, and access information in a way never before possible. The most important aspect of this — at least, as regards the topic at hand — is the massive expansion of our ability to cross-reference. When all the information is available at your fingertips, without having to travel halfway around the world to get it, connections can be made and whole intellectual worlds can be created. I recently read a book, Political Descent: Malthus, Mutualism, and the Politics of Evolution. This book’s goal was to recreate the Victorian context surrounding the development of “evolution” as both a social and a biological theory. This meant placing the writings and thinkings of a wide variety of authors in chronological order, as well as determining their relationships — i.e. who was reading whom, who was discussing ideas with whom, etc. This type of study requires an entire library of reference material, from published books to contemporary book reviews to personal notebooks. For these reasons, such a book would only be possible to write today.

By recreating the social milieu surrounding evolution, we are able to see that Charles Darwin, who we most famously associate with the concept of “evolution,” did not emerge out of nowhere. Evolution didn’t pop into his head as a gift from above. Even the idea of calling such mutations “evolution” implies a certain belief in a progression towards betterness (sorry, more-goodness) that is characteristic of rationalist thought. Darwin was raised surrounded by social radicals, but at the same time, he delayed publishing his theories for fear of being too closely associated with those same radicals. The conflict between science and Church that so firmly holds a grasp on our imagination nowadays was only a small part of the controversy surround evolution; and we find that even prior to Darwin, there were Christian social evolutionists.

All this to say that studying evolution in this way, rather than as a pure scientific discovery, reveals the implicit biases that go into making “evolution” as a concept socially feasible. Evolution wouldn’t have mattered at all to anyone if it was actually so revolutionary that they couldn’t even comprehend it. It’s because the general (reading) public were in some ways already primed for it, because it emerged within the context of its time and place, that it was able to take hold as a reputable theory.

By using our new technologies to build a foundation of context, we are able to gain a deeper understanding of this particular idea. However, we must keep in mind this: that we are, ourselves, part of the history of knowledge, and that the technologies we employ are products of our own contemporary biases, and even create biases of their own. To our mind, the above method results in a “deeper” understanding of the idea, but is this actually true? Or are we instead looking at the idea only as a social phenomenon, and missing some other essential component?

When we realize — or come to believe — that knowledge is socially constructed and therefore malleable, we lose a certain faith in knowledge itself. The grand narratives of history no longer make sense. The history of philosophy no longer appears as a progression toward Absolute Truth, but instead an eclectic mix of ideas that only seem to hold value (or truth) within their own social and historical context. Truths that were once eternal now have a shelf date.

In vain we reach back and try to latch onto a certain individual or even a group that possessed all the answers: whether it’s Buddha and his Sangha, Christ and his apostles, or even Plato and his philosophical followers. Perhaps saying “in vain” is a bit far — I have too much respect for those with the virtue of faith to say this so concretely. I will merely say that in my particular case, this search has been in vain. I am suspicious and I am dubious, and I can not take anything at face value. I can’t listen to a story without wondering why you’ve decided to tell it. When I hear someone espouse their philosophical (or political) views, so often I immediately begin to contemplate, “Well, what are you getting out of all this?”

This cynicism often feels like a curse, and I try to isolate it within the field of politics and philosophy. In my everyday life, I trust people almost to a fault. I believe what people tell me and take what they say in good faith, if only because it makes life a lot easier than trying to be cunning all the time. But when it comes to what I read, I am extremely distrustful.

However, this mindset is also extremely valuable to me. Because so much of what is written down and argued in this world is done so in bad faith, cynically, with unprincipled or lazy reasoning derived from poor principles, or a lack of principles altogether. People rely on a “common sense” that is filled with contradiction and bias, built on the foundations of illogical theories from time immemorial.

Now, I’m not demanding logical rigour from everyone all the time. I don’t even demand it of myself. In fact, far more important than logical rigour, I believe, is a rigour more associated with “virtue.” And the virtues I hold dear include diligence as well as sympathy and kindness. For the most part, I am happy if people actually try — try not only to use reason but also to maintain a certain level of respect for their fellow man. But I will also admit that these are merely my biases, stemming from a series of unproven theories of ethics and virtues…

This ethical system is the closest thing to an eternal truth that I believe in, and it was, in the modern way, derived in aggregate — that is, by realizing that many people I consider truthful and knowledgeable were, in their own way, gesturing toward the same thing. My favourite philosophers — Jesus, Kant, Plato, and Lao Tze — each spoke using the words and the methods of their time, whether that was folksy parable, scientific rigour, Socratic dialogue, or paradoxical mystery. But they all — to my mind, at least — seem to be gesturing toward something eternal, something which perhaps none of them fully grasped. And I, in turn, fail to grasp this thing, even after attempting to describe it using my own words and my own methods.

For a dubious man, such syncretism is my only refuge. And I can not help but look at myself and recognize in me all that is modern — a product of my modern times! And I can not help but view my own self with suspicion, to attempt to trace my own position in this grand history of ideas — my very own geography of knowledge! And like a cartographer who draws himself within his own map — draws himself drawing a map that contains himself drawing a map, I swim in these endless spirals searching for that which should be so obvious and so clear, and finding little but my own tail.

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