NEW YORK, NY.- Ever wonder why railroad tracks in America meander but English tracks ordinarily run straight? What was the traditional breakfast drink in Europe before coffee came along? How did the introduction of gas mains transform family life? Why did the Confederate battle flag become so enduring a symbol? Who was missing when the U.S. military ceremonially declared victory in Iraq?

For four decades, Wolfgang Schivelbusch, a polymathic cultural historian, feasted on those and other brainteasers as he explored mass transportation, spices and stimulants, commercial lighting and the legacy of defeat on society in about a dozen groundbreaking books.

He wrote them in his native German (most were translated into English) from his New York City apartment, where he spent winters, and his home in Berlin, where he died in a hospital March 26 at 81. His death was not widely reported outside Europe.

His wife, Helma von Kieseritzky, said the cause was bacterial meningitis complicated by sepsis, COVID-19 and pneumonia.

“He was an extraordinary public intellectual, an independent largely unaffiliated wildly poly-curious and extravagantly gifted seeker after the patterns and idiosyncrasies of history,” author Lawrence Wechsler wrote after Schivelbusch’s death to members of the New York Institute for the Humanities, where Wechsler was a director and Schivelbusch a fellow.

Die Zeit, the German national weekly, called Schivelbusch a “master of cultural-historical research.”

Among his books are “The Railway Journey: The Industrialization of Time and Space in the Nineteenth Century” (1977), “Tastes of Paradise: A Social History of Spices, Stimulants, and Intoxicants” (1980), “Disenchanted Night: The Industrialization of Light in the Nineteenth Century” (1983), “The Culture of Defeat: On National Trauma, Mourning, and Recovery” (2001) and “Three New Deals: Reflections on Roosevelt’s America, Mussolini’s Italy, and Hitler’s Germany, 1933-1939” (2005).

His conversational memoir of commuting between two continents, “The Other Side: Living and Researching Between New York and Berlin,” was published in 2021.

Schivelbusch’s pithy and provocative books won praise from academics for microscopically connecting history with quotidian life. But, unusual for a public (if unpretentious) intellectual, he also attracted a wider audience that, captivated by his quirky curiosity, joined him on his exploits — even if, unlike Indiana Jones’, those exploits were largely confined to libraries.

New York Times food writer Molly O’Neill called “Tastes of Paradise” “a small dose of mind-sharpening brain candy.”

His book about railways won the German Non-Fiction Prize in 1978. In 2003, the Academy of Arts in Berlin awarded him the Heinrich Mann Prize. In 2013, he won the Lessing Prize of the City of Hamburg for achievements in German culture.

Wolfgang Walter Schivelbusch was born Nov. 26, 1941, to Helmet Ludolf and Waldtraut Erika Schivelbusch in the Wilmersdorf borough of Berlin. His father was a businessman, his mother a homemaker.

He studied literature, philosophy and sociology in Berlin and Frankfurt, Germany, under Theodor Adorno and Peter Szondi in the late 1960s. He received his higher education during a period of turbulent student protests against the constraints of post-World War II society and U.S. involvement in the Vietnam War.

He earned his doctorate under Hans Mayer from the Free University of Berlin in the early 1970s; his thesis was on the socialist drama of Berthold Brecht. His intellectual fathers also included Walter Benjamin, Norbert Elias and Siegfried Kracauer.

Schivelbusch operated for most of his career as a private scholar, free from academic constraints but dependent on grants and book advances. He conducted research for his memoir at the Max Planck Institute for History in Gottingen from 1995 to 2000. He was a senior fellow at the Leibniz Center for Literary and Cultural Research after he returned permanently to Germany in 2014.




He visited the United States shortly after Richard Nixon was elected president in 1968, seeking to determine whether the nation was on the verge of a dangerous swing to the right. He returned in 1973 to research his book on railroads, beginning his annual winter residency in New York.

Attracted by, among other things, the freedom of roaming through the stacks at New York University and New York’s public libraries, Schivelbusch would work in New York from November to May, then spend the other five months in an apartment in Berlin’s Westend or at a country retreat in a converted smithy in Blankenberg, a village of about 60 residents 55 miles northwest of Berlin, with his wife, von Kieseritzky, a prominent bookseller.

In addition to her, he is survived by a brother, Klaus.

For several decades Schivelbusch plumbed mysteries that most people would never have even noticed. Among his findings:

Railroad tracks run straighter in England because labor in America was more expensive, so it was cheaper just to lay tracks around natural obstacles like hills and rivers.

In Europe, beer soup (heat eggs, butter and salt, then add them to beer and pour over pieces of a roll or white bread) was the breakfast drink of choice before it was replaced by coffee in the 18th century.

Gas mains changed family life because they eliminated the hearth as the focus of family life by giving individuals personal light. They also helped replace private enterprise through the granting of municipal or regional gas monopolies.

Immigrant laborers and farmers introduced the St. Andrew’s Cross to the Confederate flag, and the Highlanders’ burning cross was adopted as a symbol by the Ku Klux Klan. Speaking of the post-Civil War American South, Schivelbusch told Cabinet magazine in 2006 that “romanticizing of defeat can become much more powerful than any romanticizing of victory,” in part because “after any victory, the victorious party does not know what to do, other than to distribute the spoils.”

“The South,” he wrote, “transformed the distinction between failure on the battlefield and moral superiority into the central dogma of its new identity.”

As for the Iraq War, Schivelbusch marveled that the ceremonial surrender took place without a key participant: the losers.

“Clearly that scene was, consciously or not, a scene of ersatz surrender, for the simple reason that the defeated regime had vanished without a trace,” he wrote in a New York Times opinion essay in 2003. “The victors, deprived of their surrender-trophy, were left empty-handed.

“You cannot eat your enemy,” he concluded, “and have him, too.”

Schivelbusch’s capacious curiosity sometimes prompted questions that he felt compelled to answer, and at other times suggested answers to questions that he hadn’t yet asked.

His objective, German scholar Eva Geulen wrote recently on the Leibniz Center’s blog, was “not to repeat what was already known, but to make the little-known or unknown better known.”

“His feeling for the neglected detail,” Geulen wrote, “was due to an individual sensitivity for the concrete, from which no rules were to be followed.”

“His subjects found him,” she added, “not the other way around.”

This article originally appeared in The New York Times.