It may seem unfashionable to say so, but historians should seize

The words of Peter Ackroyd — “It may seem unfashionable to say so, but historians should seize the imagination as well as the intellect. History is, in a sense, a story, a narrative of adventure and of vision, of character and of incident. It is also a portrait of the great general drama of the human spirit.” — speak like a clarion call to all who study the past. In them we hear the voice of a man who refuses to see history as mere numbers, dates, or the cold bones of time. Instead, Ackroyd reminds us that history is alive — a living story, a grand symphony of human striving and sorrow, triumph and loss. To understand it fully, one must not only think, but imagine; one must not only analyze, but feel.

In the age of modern scholarship, the historian has often been taught to value the intellect above all else — to measure, to categorize, to remain detached. But Ackroyd, the great chronicler of England’s soul, urges us to remember that the past is not a ledger; it is a tapestry woven from human hearts. He calls upon historians to “seize the imagination,” for without imagination, history becomes lifeless, stripped of the very humanity it seeks to preserve. For every event that lies upon the page — a battle, a law, a discovery — there beats within it the pulse of the human spirit, daring to make meaning in a world of uncertainty.

The origin of this wisdom lies in Ackroyd’s lifelong work as both historian and storyteller. His books — whether retelling the life of London or resurrecting the souls of artists and kings — are filled with a deep reverence for the past as a living entity. He stands in the lineage of those who saw history not as a record, but as a drama, a sacred theater of destiny and will. This view echoes back to the ancients themselves. The Greek historian Herodotus, often called “the father of history,” began his Histories not with statistics but with stories — with the dreams of men, the pride of nations, the whims of the gods. To him, the historian was not a clerk of facts but a keeper of memory, a poet in service of truth.

So too does Ackroyd remind us that imagination is not the enemy of truth — it is its companion. To imagine is not to invent, but to re-create, to enter the minds of those who once lived, to see the world through their eyes. When we imagine the loneliness of an emperor, the terror of a soldier, the faith of a reformer, or the vision of an artist, we do not distort history — we give it life. For truth without imagination is a skeleton without flesh; it stands, but it does not breathe. The historian, therefore, must walk the sacred path between fact and feeling, allowing reason to guide the way while imagination lights the soul.

Consider, for instance, the work of Barbara Tuchman, who wrote The Guns of August. She did not merely describe the opening of the First World War; she painted it, transforming strategy and policy into a vivid tale of human folly and grandeur. Her history read like an epic — yet it was true in every detail. It seized both the intellect and the imagination, allowing readers to understand not only what happened, but why it mattered. In that, she fulfilled Ackroyd’s command: she revealed history as “a portrait of the great general drama of the human spirit.”

For every moment in history is indeed a drama, and the stage is the world itself. The fall of Rome, the voyage of Columbus, the storming of the Bastille — each is not merely a series of events, but a reflection of humanity’s eternal struggle between light and shadow, ignorance and wisdom, ambition and humility. To study history without imagination is to miss its poetry — to gaze upon the ruins of a temple and fail to see the worship that once filled it with song. Only by awakening the imagination can we hear the voices of the past calling through the centuries, reminding us of who we were, and who we might yet become.

Let this be the lesson: to truly know the past, you must feel its heartbeat. When you read of history, do not see only battles and treaties; see the faces, the fears, the dreams of those who walked before you. Allow your intellect to seek truth, but let your imagination reveal meaning. For every historian must also be a storyteller, every scholar also a dreamer. The purpose of history is not only to inform, but to inspire — to remind us that the human journey is a grand and perilous adventure, still unfolding with each breath we take.

And so, as the ancients might have said: To know the past is to know the soul of mankind. Therefore, let us honor the past not as dust, but as flame — a fire that still burns in every human story. Peter Ackroyd’s words are a call to keep that flame alive: to study with mind and heart, to think and to dream, to remember that history is not dead — it is us, forever striving, forever imagining, forever becoming.