All one really needs to know about Niall Ferguson, I suspect, may be found in The Pity of War. I read this shortly after finishing Martin Gilbert’s First World War, a visceral depiction of the war and its effects on the very literate men who fought in it. Any history filled with the battlefield poetry of Winfield Owen, Sassoon, et.al., is, wrenching.
The Pity of War was puzzlingly (troublesomely?) clinical for most of its length.. . . . until I got to the later chapters where Ferguson tried to use statistics to show that the war in terms of lives taken just was not all that bad.
Astounding. And it made me instantly doubt everything that came before it. Because, really, if one does not have the modicum of empathy needed to be affected by the, insane, waste of life, one should be given as much credibility as General Haig and company.