R.G. Collingwood's Autobiography: One Reader's Response

Abstract

Once upon a time a workshop on legal and political theory was held at a famous hotel in Scotland. I was among those who allowed curiosity to trump potential political scruples about the provenance of the funding. Perhaps academics have a right to stay at Gleneagles once in a lifetime. And maybe such workshops need some ideological balance. Forget the dubious rationalizations. I was there. The oldest and most eminent presence was Michael Oakeshott. In an interval before lunch he courteously invited two younger persons, both jurists, to join him. He started the conversation by turning to my colleague and asking: 'What work was seminal in your intellectual development?' John Finnis' response was immediate: 'R.G. Collingwood's autobiography. I read it when I was about twelve'.1 Oakeshott turned to me with the same question. Resisting the urge to say 'snap', I replied almost as crisply: 'Collingwood's autobiography. I read it when I was almost twenty-one.'2 This series is an invitation to autobiography in this instance, an unreliable memoir about reading the autobiography of a philosopher who warned of the dangers of relying on memory. Your importunate editor has made me reflect on this exchange. Why from many possibilities choose Collingwood? One thing is clear: I had been making the same claim for years, so this was not imitation nor was it necessarily a complete coincidence.3