Notes on Reading On Accident by Edward Eigen
FORWARD
Accidents that Shape Narratives
The foreword of On Accident opens with an exploration of how accidents shape the narrative of architectural and landscape history. The central idea is that history, particularly in architecture, must often be rewritten when the “script does not fit the evidence,” with the suggestion that unexpected events—accidents—disrupt conventional narratives and force a reevaluation of the past.
The Role of Architect Slack
Early in the foreword, Architect Slack is introduced as a mysterious, missing figure. The title “Slack Is Missing” comes from a subheading borrowed from the Trenton Evening Times, and while Slack’s absence is not the primary focus of the entire collection, his disappearance is significant in the foreword as a way of introducing the broader theme of disappearance. However, as the foreword suggests, the possibility of Slack’s permanent disappearance is uncertain—his return is described as just as mysterious as his vanishing, and the idea is presented that he may remain vanished, unaccounted for in the histories of architecture and landscape. The foreword hints that his absence—or the idea of his absence—might be as important as any attempt to locate him or explain his disappearance.
Rewriting History
The foreword emphasizes the notion that historical narratives are never fixed. The "script" of history is often rewritten, piece by piece, when the evidence contradicts or challenges accepted understanding. This process of reevaluating history, particularly when accidents or discrepancies arise, speaks to the fluid nature of how we record and interpret the past. In the context of architecture and landscape, this might refer to how certain figures, events, or design ideas are overlooked or erased, and how their histories must be reconstructed, often through the lens of accident or chance.
Accidents and the Underlying Plot
Despite the seemingly chaotic nature of accidents, the foreword suggests that a coherent plot or theme ultimately emerges. Accidents and unexpected disruptions to history may seem to scatter the narrative, but over time, patterns reveal themselves. The foreword asserts that even in the randomness of these "accidents," there is an underlying order that can be discerned. This theme reflects the tension between chaos and structure, where the accidents that seem to disrupt architectural and landscape history might actually be shaping a larger, more cohesive narrative.
Ghosts of History
A powerful metaphor used in the foreword is the comparison of capturing lost or vanishing figures to early photographers who allegedly captured images of ghosts. These “ghosts” represent the forgotten or missing elements of architectural history—figures like Slack who have disappeared or remain shrouded in mystery. Just as early photographers used plates to capture ghostly images, the essays in this collection aim to "capture" and preserve the memories of figures, places, and events that have vanished from history.
The metaphor of ghosts suggests that even in absence, something of the past remains. These figures and events leave traces behind, whether in photographs, writings, or the built environment itself. In this way, the essays don't just seek to recover lost histories but to reflect on their absence, preserving what remains and giving it new meaning.
The Tension Between "Migratory Impulse" and "Love of Home"
The foreword also introduces a psychological concept: the tension between the "migratory impulse" and the "love of home." This duality captures the desire to move, explore, and change (the migratory impulse), versus the desire to remain rooted, stable, and connected to one's origins (the love of home). This tension is explored not only in personal experiences but also in architecture and landscape—where buildings and places are constantly in flux, torn between stability and the drive for change.
This theme suggests that architecture, like people, must navigate this tension. Buildings and landscapes are shaped by forces of movement and stasis, and the histories associated with them reflect these ongoing negotiations between change and permanence.
Vanishing, Memory, and History
A recurring theme in the foreword is the idea of vanishing—not just in the sense of what is lost, but in how history itself is never fully present. The essays in On Accident embrace the idea that history is always partial, shaped by both what is remembered and what is forgotten. The concept of vanishing is central to the collection, as it provides a framework for examining how architectural and landscape histories are recorded, lost, and then reconstructed.
By documenting what has vanished, the essays create a space for memory and history to be reimagined. The ghosts of the past—whether figures like Slack or other lost elements—are not gone without a trace. Instead, they remain present in the form of memories, structures, and the traces they left behind. These "ghosts" guide readers back to their origins and remind us that absence, just like presence, has a powerful role in shaping history.
BY WAY OF A PREFACE
The preface of On Accident, titled "By Way of a Preface," is a richly woven, meditative exploration of the interplay between history, accident, and interpretation. It opens with a quote about prefaces from John Roby, which introduces his work as a "topographical history." Roby’s contribution is presented as an invaluable guide for navigating the landscape of a collection of essays—a collection that could be seen as a bouquet (an anthologia) or a woodland (a sylva), suggesting the potential for a work both organized and meandering.
Roby, a self-taught man, was drawn to an eclectic range of studies, from botany and antiquities to folklore and fine arts. Though he worked as a banker, his passions lay elsewhere. His widow, Elizabeth Ryland, reflected that Roby might have benefited from a more disciplined approach to his intellectual pursuits, particularly in mathematics. Yet, Roby’s creative curiosity, nurtured by his own imagination, steered him along an unconstrained path of discovery.
The preface recounts Roby’s anxieties about how his readers might perceive the meandering nature of his work. He anticipated that his indulgence in curiosity—often leading him off the straight and narrow—might be considered problematic by those accustomed to a more direct, linear style. This concern is articulated through an anecdote about his study of the signs of inns, which he submitted in installments to The Gentleman’s Magazine. Roby, aware that the author-reader relationship mirrors the journey of two people traveling together, knew that digressions into unfamiliar territory could risk alienating his audience. He reflects on how the "scenery remarkable for sublimity or beauty" could derail the straightforward journey, taking both author and reader "a few miles out of the straight highway."
Roby’s admiration for Laurence Sterne is evident here. Sterne’s Tristram Shandy is known for its narrative digressions, and Roby, like Sterne, appears to reject the straight line in favor of a more expansive, imaginative path. This strategy allowed him to record picturesque lore and legends, such as those in Traditions of Lancashire, without relying on familiar tropes. However, this wandering approach came with its risks. In choosing to share information that might be considered obvious to his readers, Roby was aware he might risk being accused of repeating what had already been said, a charge reminiscent of crambe bis repetita—the tedious repetition of a well-known subject.
Roby’s discussion of inns and their signs, which are a recurring motif in his work, underscores his understanding of the relationship between the reader and the text. He notes that these signs were both welcoming and guiding, but their deeper, often symbolic meanings were seldom recognized by the casual traveler. Acknowledging that inns were meant to provide rest for weary travelers, Roby reflects on how the inns’ heraldic, allegorical, or semiotic meanings could distract from their primary function. His ability to trace the subtle, often neglected, meanings in everyday signs exemplifies his belief in the interpretive power of wandering—both physically and intellectually.
One striking moment in the preface occurs when Roby justifies his "aberrations" by referring to the example set by Jonathan Swift and Robert Harley. The two men, when traveling together, amused themselves by reading the lines beneath country signs, a playful exercise that, much like Roby’s own approach, mixes the serious with the lighthearted. Roby likens himself to these literary figures, suggesting that his excursions off the main path, whether on paper or in real life, are legitimate as long as they yield meaningful results. His playful engagement with Swift’s lines (a quote from Horace’s sixth satire) and his reference to The Country and City Mouse story (and its inversion of the rural-urban dichotomy) speak to his belief in the legitimacy of wandering, both as a writer and as a traveler.
In his musings on the magazine The Gentleman’s Magazine, edited by Edward Cave (Sylvanus Urban), Roby connects his own literary wanderings to those of the magazine, which had been a space for diverse and scattered ideas. Johnson’s definition of “magazine” as a miscellany is particularly apt here, as Roby, too, navigates a variety of subjects, creating a kind of literary sylva—a forest where meaning can be found amidst the undergrowth. However, there is a cautionary note: as the magazine and Roby’s works suggest, an excessive proliferation of ideas without sufficient structure may obscure the path forward. This is the tension between variety and discipline that runs throughout Roby’s writings.
The preface hints at Roby’s eventual editorial downfall. Laurence Gomme, an editor who continued Roby’s work, criticized Roby’s digressions as “entertaining themselves” but ultimately detracting from the real value of the historical subject matter. Gomme’s critique brings the question of discipline back into focus: while Roby’s wandering spirit is admirable, it sometimes lacked the structure necessary to present his material in a way that fully respected the reader’s expectations.
The preface reflects on this balance—between wandering and discipline—as it relates to Roby’s final work and his tragic death at sea. Roby perished in the wreck of the Orion, a maritime catastrophe that claimed his life along with nearly 150 others. This event, discussed in a parliamentary report by Captain Henry Denham, serves as an allegory for the work of history itself. Just as the wreck was investigated and categorized by the authorities, history attempts to make sense of accidents and losses, piecing together fragments of the past to form coherent narratives. Yet, as the preface suggests, accidents—like Roby’s own death or the wrecking of a ship—are events that disrupt order, challenging the writer to fabricate the norms and forms of historical continuity from debris.
The metaphor of buoyancy is developed further, particularly in Roby’s observations of a floating island in Derwent Water. Roby’s visit to this island, a phenomenon that emerges and submerges with the changing conditions of the lake, serves as a poignant image for the shifting and elusive nature of historical knowledge. Like the island, history cannot be fully fixed or stable; it floats, temporarily emerging and then sinking into obscurity. Roby’s brief engagement with the floating island, which he observed and cataloged in his final days, serves as a symbol of the elusive nature of both history and knowledge.
As the preface draws to a close, it suggests that the essays in this collection reflect a similar kind of wandering. The writers engage with their subjects in a manner that privileges the particular and the contingent—events that may seem insignificant at first, but which reveal something larger and more intricate when viewed through a lens of curiosity and openness. The essays are a record of what happens when researchers wander off the beaten path, seeking out the unexpected and the overlooked.
Finally, the preface alludes to the broader implications of accident, particularly in the way history is constructed. The concept of accident, as explored through the essays, is not a rupture in the order of things, but rather a catalyst for creating new forms of understanding. In this sense, the essays themselves represent a form of historical criticism—one that acknowledges the importance of accidents, of the unplanned and the unexpected, in shaping both our present and our past.
Thus, the preface sets the stage for a collection that is not bound by rigid rules, but rather embraces the uncertainty and unpredictability of life, history, and writing.
The text is a "sylva," where meaning is not fixed, but grows and changes in response to the wandering paths of its authors.