In ancient Greek and many other languages, the use of present tense forms to convey past events (the so-called ‘historic present’) is often thought to convey additional vividness, compared to the use of a past tense form in the same context. But what exactly does ‘vividness’ mean here? Are hearers or readers being invited to imagine themselves transported back in time, so that they are now eyewitnesses to a past scene? Or is a past scene being conjured up in front of the audience, who remain (as it were) in their seats? Or are both ideas wrong? Is the so-called present tense actually unspecified for time, and hence usable to convey situations belonging to the past (and future) as well as the present?
Nijk’s book offers a new account of the semantics, pragmatics, and observable usage patterns of the historic present—or to use Nijk’s preferred terminology, the present for preterite. As the title of the book suggests, Nijk is particularly interested in switches between present and past tense forms: at what points do these happen, and why? The focus is on classical Greek, but Nijk contextualises his investigation of classical Greek against a cross-linguistic background, and ultimately aims to improve our understanding of presents for preterites both in and beyond Greek. After an introduction, chapter 1 delves into—among other things—nineteenth-century fiction in English and French, Dutch news narrative supported by video footage, a narrative from the American comedy series Seinfeld, and the beginning of Thucydides Book 2.
Briefly but persuasively rejecting the idea that so-called present tenses are actually unspecified for time, Nijk argues that present time is an essential component of the semantics of present tense forms. When such forms are used to convey events that in fact belong to the past, this semantic value prompts the audience to imagine themselves currently witnessing the events, via one of the two conceptual scenarios already alluded to: the ‘displacement scenario’, in which hearers or readers are invited to imagine themselves transported back into the past, and the ‘representation scenario’, in which hearers or readers are invited to imagine past events being conjured up in front of them. Nijk shows that cross-linguistically, both scenarios should be recognised. Writers of English and French nineteenth-century fiction allude at times to readers being transported back in time, and at times to the story as a play being enacted on an imaginary stage. The two conceptual scenarios are not always distinguished clearly, and they can also be blended in interesting ways—but Nijk argues that there is nevertheless a fundamental difference between them. The displacement scenario lends itself to narration at the pace of the events described, with little authorial editing or packaging: here the author is like a football commentator, keeping up with events in real time. While the representation scenario may also lend itself to narration at the pace of events, it allows for more authorial intervention: this time the author is like a playwright or film director, in control of the whole story and at liberty to pause the narrative, cut from one scene to another, and so on. Nijk also makes clear that different kinds of representation may be envisaged (films and videos presumably not among them in ancient cultures), and that different degrees of narrative editing are possible.
Interestingly, Nijk suggests that his investigations of classical Greek texts have turned up no convincing evidence for presents for preterites in association with the displacement scenario. On the other hand, he argues that under the umbrella of the representation scenario, we find three different usages of the present for preterite in Greek. The first or ‘mimetic present’ is associated with a mimetic style of narrative, in which the story is to one degree or another being acted out in the telling. The second or ‘diegetic present’ is associated with a construal of the discourse or text itself as a representation of events: the diegetic present depends on—and draws attention to—the accessibility of an event via the text, and alerts readers to update their mental model of the discourse at significant points (e.g. when the discourse changes direction, a new participant is introduced, or a climax is reached). In the third usage or ‘registering present’, the present conveys an event that is so well-known in shared cultural memory that it can be considered presently accessible to the audience because it is ‘on record’. These claims are developed in detail in the book’s core chapters 2, 3, and 4, each devoted to one of these usages.
Nijk’s investigations of presents for preterites in classical Greek are based on a substantial corpus of fifth- and fourth-century historiography, oratory, and drama, with some examples also drawn from Plato. As well as providing qualitative discussion of key passages, in chapters 2 and 3 (on mimetic and diegetic presents respectively) Nijk also tests some quantitative predictions against specific sub-corpora. Since he finds the mimetic present at home in drama, and the diegetic present in historiography, the sub-corpus for chapter 2 comprises narrative passages of drama in which the narrator is an eyewitness, while that for chapter 3 comprises Thucydides’ Histories (excluding 1.1–23 and 6.1–5) and Xenophon’s Hellenica and Anabasis. With admirable candour, Nijk lays out the challenges which this quantitative work presents, and the limitations to which it is subject (pp. 72–8). Some of the challenges and limitations arise from the multiple comparisons problem (the more hypotheses are tested, the higher the probability that some tests return a significant result by simple chance), and from the fact that hypotheses have inevitably been developed in the course of reading the same texts against which they are then to be tested (and in reading previous scholars who have also been reading the same texts). While such situations are often unavoidable in linguistic work on ancient languages, they are mitigated to an exceptional degree by the clarity with which Nijk lays out what he has done, and by the rigour with which he reports his results even when he finds no effect of the type predicted, and when any effect is not statistically significant. For instance, against his sub-corpus of eyewitness narratives in drama, Nijk tests a hypothesis that verbs introducing direct speech have higher odds of being marked with the present than other verbs, but finds no support for this hypothesis (pp. 93–4) (this result took me by surprise, since direct speech is such a readily recognisable kind of mimesis). While readers may not always appreciate being treated to a run-down of experiments that did not work out, the gain in transparency is very welcome.
Chapters 2 and 3 conclude with some case studies of particular passages, and particularly of passages which convey apparently similar content and yet contrast in their uses of the present for preterite. These fine case studies show in detail how Nijk’s results can help inform our interpretations of texts.
Chapter 4, on the ‘registering present’, follows a different plan from chapters 2 and 3, because the registering present is a much more marginal phenomenon in Nijk’s corpus. For this reason, there is no testing of quantitative hypotheses, and no extended case studies. Instead, there is an insightful and well-organised discussion of passages in which Nijk sees an instance of the ‘registering present’—a present drawing attention to an event of the sort that might be known from iconography, mythography, chronographical records, records of transactions, or from something akin to our concept of a family tree diagram. Nijk shows that on occasion a specific visual or written record is alluded to, but his claim crucially encompasses a more abstract concept of something being ‘on record’. This chapter (while inspired by an earlier suggestion of Rutger Allan’s) is among the most innovative portions of the book, and offers a promising solution to the long-standing problem of presents for preterites appearing in non-narrative contexts, or conveying events standing outside the narrative in which they are mentioned.
Throughout the book, where subjective judgements on individual passages play a role in the argument, readers will inevitably find details to query or engage with. In connection with Thomas Hughes’ sentence ‘The second act of Tom’s life may now be said to have begun’ (Tom Brown’s Schooldays, chapter 3), I wondered whether Nijk’s analysis ‘the experience of reading is construed as watching a play’ (p. 46) is the only possible one. Could it be Tom’s subjective experience of living his life which is construed here as watching a play, or perhaps acting in one? Does the deictic ‘now’ take the reader’s perspective or Tom’s? Or are the two perspectives blended together? But although this particular point raised a question in my mind (and no more than that), the overarching quality that runs through Nijk’s discussions of ancient and modern works is that of very careful reading in context.
To sum up, this is a well-conceived and persuasive book, which will repay attention not only by scholars of ancient Greek language and literature, but also by linguists and literary scholars interested in presents for preterites beyond ancient Greek. The book is accessibly written, with technical terms explained and all passages in languages other than English given in translation as well as in the original. A system of bold and underlining draws attention to present and preterite verb forms in the original passages, and to their translations. Throughout the book, Nijk helps the reader to keep track of the argument with clear summaries at the ends of major sections and of each chapter, as well as a brief concluding chapter which recapitulates all the main threads.