Paul Carter's "The Road to Botany Bay"

 

"The Road to Botany Bay" is a profoundly stimulating work, brimming with insightful observations that ignite a desire to embark on intellectual quests akin to Don Quixote, tilting at various windmills and dreaming audacious dreams.

Every historian, particularly those focused on Australian history, ought to engage with this book as a masterclass in historiography. It starkly underscores, often with unapologetic critique even towards contemporary figures like Henry Reynolds, that there can be no naive interpretation of facts presented as history. Carter asserts, in a forceful critique commencing with Joseph Banks' approach, that Enlightenment historiography, which appears to establish indisputable historical facts and then constructs a causal link between them to establish a universal rationale or meaning, falls short. It is nothing more than an ideology resting on the deceptive simplicity of cause and effect.

 

Carter's rejection of this historical tradition carries profound implications for the subjects historians should explore. In lieu of an ardent pursuit of the ostensibly pivotal document, viewed as the ultimate truth among many, Carter places heavy emphasis not on depth, but on breadth of research. He seamlessly incorporates material from non-historical domains such as geography and literature with elements familiar to most historians. This amalgamation contributes to his comprehensive understanding of the "spatial history" of this continent.

 

Unless the mindset of historians has evolved since John Lechte's influential work "Repressed Politics and the Writing of Australian History" nearly a decade ago, which articulated similar points, I suspect the established historical community may remain unswayed in their empiricist convictions. Nevertheless, what I will term the 'avant-garde minority', well-versed in Anglo-Saxon interpretations of poststructuralist and postmodernist thinkers (even if Ricoeur's hermeneutic tradition is somewhat hazily present in their theoretical repertoire), will likely embrace this book as a beacon for future historiographical endeavors in this region. However, they must approach it with discernment, avoiding any undue naivety. They should not succumb to the allure of the eloquent prose and the incisive critique of national self-deception. As Carter aptly notes, "The famous Australian taciturnity would seem to embody a profound scepticism about generalised explanations of any kind. 'Bullshit,' they say in response to any kind of intellectualizing - as if ideas were not ubiquitous; and indeed, in Australia, one cannot escape theories, lives reimagined as endless narratives. Bullshit is the byproduct of ruminating, the repetitive residue of striving too earnestly to conjure one's essence from the earth."

 

Paul Carter's thesis contends that Australian space isn't inherently given, but rather it's shaped by human beings who, when confronted with its unfamiliarity, interpret it through naming. In doing so, they establish a sense of place and belonging. At times, these names may seem odd or even contradictory, as there might not be an existing vocabulary to domesticate the unfamiliarity of a place. Nevertheless, individuals forge ahead in their explorations, guided by their pre-existing mental landmarks, or what the French term "points de repère."

 

For instance, Botany Bay is named, and subsequently, the first road leads back to it as the sole humanized space in an otherwise chaotic expanse. Central to Carter's theoretical framework is the concept of language as the primary formative force between created facts. Language, much like travel, imparts meaning to space rather than merely reporting it. Those familiar with contemporary French linguistic theory will recognize that Carter draws from the poststructuralist school, diverging from the structuralist or Saussurean emphasis on grammar (langue) in favor of names or words (langage). By highlighting the latter, Carter underscores the deliberate agency of his actors in naming places and physically embedding them in space.

 

This perspective renders language metaphorical. Consequently, Carter concludes that a spatial history doesn't progress in a linear, self-assured manner. It eschews the organization of its subject matter into a nationalist endeavor. Instead, it ventures forth exploratively, even metaphorically, acknowledging that the future is a construct. It also calls into question the assumption that the past is definitively settled. This approach undermines the empirical stability of roads and buildings, potentially veering into a realm as elusive as distant vistas. Its subjects are intentions, and in suggesting the multiplicity of historical trajectories, it continually flirts with transcending into poetry, biography, or a form of immaterialism that positivists might perceive as nihilistic. In essence, what can one practically do with a horizon?

 

Carter reminds us that the viewpoints we accept as factual originated in someone else's imagination. It's not merely that the travelers and settlers belong to our past; rather, we are tethered to their future. Yet, even their fantasies were historically grounded. Just as these voyaging writers didn't invent the language they employed, they didn't mold the world in their own likeness. They entered a historical space much like they entered life, finding purpose where they dwelled. Their intent was to carve out a place for themselves, connecting us to them as much through their intentions as through any marks they managed to leave behind. By delving into their motivations, by grasping what lies beyond the finished map, the refined journal, or the picturesque view, we resurrect the potential for an alternative history - our future.

Carter's historical approach, particularly in his nuanced exploration of recovering another Aboriginal history, is profoundly radical and emancipatory. It endeavors to revive a suppressed language, a pursuit that raises a critical question: do existing frameworks of imagination already impose limits on choice? This concern, which outweighs my other minor reservations (such as my preference for a less metalinguistic style, where the theoretical underpinnings are explained after the performance), is central.

In other words, who or what bestowed upon us our language(s)? While Carter hints at the Enlightenment or the modern state, he doesn't explicitly emphasize this point, leaving it somewhat open-ended. He doesn't seem to approach language in a political or power-oriented manner, except when categorically referencing marginalized voices like convicts and Aborigines. I find myself speculating whether he would reconsider his attachment to phenomenology, following Husserl, and his emphasis on intentionality if he were to thoroughly scrutinize his concepts through a political lens, asking of each new category: who does it serve? Such an inquiry might compel him to engage with thinkers conspicuously absent from a book about space, like Lefebvre and his intellectual descendants such as Castells. Their insights on the production of space, especially in the context of imperial urban environments, could have enriched Carter's work on cities, and even maintained a foundational principle underlying all materialisms, including the immaterial materialism of figures like Foucault: that suffering precedes thought.