The
late D.F. McKenzie, in his Panizzi Lecture at the British Library
in 1985, defined bibliography as "the discipline that studies
texts as recorded forms, and the processes of their transmission,
including their production and reception." He went on to define
texts to include "verbal, visual, oral, and numeric data, in
the form of maps, prints, and music, of archives of recorded
sound, of films, videos, and any computer-stored information,
everything in fact from epigraphy to the latest forms of discography.
There is no evading the challenge which those new forms have
created."[1] In this paper, I hope to discuss the ways in which bibliography
and its sibling discipline, the history of the book-the study
of the physical, technological, economic, and cultural conditions
of reading, authorship, and publishing-have in many respect
evaded the very challenges that McKenzie attempted to point
the discipline towards 14 years ago. Despite McKenzie's call
for a broadening of the field of inquiry of the history of the
book to constitute a "sociology of texts," I argue that the
discipline, at least as it is practiced in the United States,
is, for several reasons, ill-suited to address the challenges
posed to the study of texts by new electronic media. The history
of the book is, according to various sources, one of the up-and-coming
fields of inquiry in the humanities. Within the field, as in
almost all others, much discussion has taken place in recent
years about the impact of new media on the status of the book,
reading, and authorship. The embrace has not been entirely unilateral-the
call for papers for this conference appeared in the newsletter
of SHARP, the Society for the History of Authorship, Reading,
and Publishing, the main international professional association
in book history. Certainly, the history of the book, with its
emphasis on the materiality of texts and the impact this has
on their meaning, has many valuable contributions to make to
our understanding of the role new electronic media will play
in our society. But this paper will argue that, at least in
the limited instance of the history of the book as done in America,
with its tendency to focus on certain aspects of 19th century
print culture and its reliance on two major models of the "circuit
of print," the lessons the discipline has to offer may be more
instructive for what they cannot teach us about new electronic
media than what they can. Using a brief example from my own
work on the dime novel, one of many "print revolutions" to have
taken place in nineteenth-century America, I hope to illuminate
both some of the shortcomings of the history of the book in
analyzing the role of new electronic media, and some of its
potential strengths.
A
1993 article in the Chronicle of Higher Education about
the rise of book history was entitled, "In Electronic Age, Scholars
are Drawn to the Study of Print." The author posited that, "To
some extent, the ferment is related to the rise of electronic
media, whose growing strength is casting print culture in sharp
relief."[2] While it may be the case that
the rise of electronic media has begun to force historians of
print into a more comparative perspective, this perspective
has all too rarely been employed in the other direction. Part
of this is no doubt due to the difficulty, both intellectual
and professional, of doing truly interdisciplinary work; save
for rare exceptions like this conference, book historians do
not mix terribly often with historians of other media forms.
But it may also be due to the reliance of print historians on
models for media culture that, while very well-suited to book
history, are of limited utility in analyzing other media. The
two main models for print culture employed by historians of
the book in America are those of William Charvat
and Robert Darnton. Charvat, in his pioneering work The Profession
of Authorship in America, posited a triangular model for
print culture, with the author, the book trade, and the reader
making up the three corners. This model was an attempt to give
all three players, not just the author, a dynamic role in the
production of the meanings derived from texts.[3] Given his background as a literary scholar, however, it is
not surprising that for Charvat the author remained the focus
of attention. As he wrote, this triangular model can offer a
"better understanding of the ways in which writers have
produced and communicated."[4] Darnton's
model, which is more recent and more widely known, given the
widespread popularity of his works, is essentially identical
to Charvat's, except it is envisioned as a circuit rather than
as a triangle. As Darnton describes it, this communication circuit
can be understood as beginning with authors and publishers,
filtering through printers, shippers, reviewers and booksellers,
to the reader, and from there back to the authors.[5]
Darnton's model, like Charvat's, has the virtue of allowing
intervention at every stage of the circuit, by all actors, instead
of employing a linear, top-down model of cultural diffusion.
But given Darnton's background as a social historian, and the
difficulty of studying the responses of readers, his work and
that of many other scholars in the field tends to focus on the
book trade elements of the circuit - how publishers interacted
with authors, with their printers, suppliers, and shippers;
how books were produced, marketed, and distributed. What has
only recently begun to draw equal attention, due to the entrance
into the field of large numbers of scholars with backgrounds
in literary criticism, is the third corner of the triangle -
the reader.
These models
raise many of the right questions when trying to understand
the explosion of print in nineteenth-century America. The expansion
of cheap popular reading material in this period, especially
beginning in the 1830s with the penny newspaper, has been the
subject of a great deal of scholarly attention. Books and newspapers,
however, were by no means "new media" in this period, when various
technological innovations, most importantly stereotyping and
the advent of the steam press, so drastically changed the face
of American print culture. These innovations were critical to
achieving the closest thing the period can offer to universal
media saturation-the cheap newspaper-but the key element in
saturation is distribution, a field of technology
which, in nineteenth-century America, lagged far behind the
rate of advance in printing technology. In a country characterized
by a sparsely distributed rural population, the difficulty of
distributing printed matter blunted to a certain extent the
impact of the revolutions in printing. Additionally, in a country
with no established tradition of artistic patronage, undergoing
economic shifts lumped under the term "market revolution," authors
in America had to make their way in a cultural marketplace that
held no models for how to make a living as a professional writer.
The elements that we think of today as constituting "authorship"
- some system of copyright protection, a cultural system that
is able to create name recognition for authors, the prestige
attached to being a writer - for the most part did not exist
in antebellum America. Given these conditions, Charvat's attention
to the economic position of authors in the marketplace of culture
and Darnton's emphasis on the modalities of publishing and distribution
as businesses, and the stress both place on the impact of the
materiality of texts on the meanings they create, seem to pose
the right questions for gaining a fuller understanding of print
culture in the period.
One example
which I will discuss briefly to illustrate these points is that
of the dime novel, the signature cheap fiction phenomenon of
nineteenth-century America. The firm of Beadle and Adams published
the first dime novel, Malaeska; the Indian Wife of the White
Hunter in June of 1860,
and by October were already being copied by competing firms.
This story had first been published in a magazine in 1839, illustrating
Russel Nye's observation that, "Beadle and Adams' contribution
to publishing was one of merchandising, not content. They organized
production, standardized the product, and did some shrewd guessing
about the nature and extent of the market."[6] The extent of the market proved to be huge; by 1864, Beadle
and Adams had a standing order from the newly-formed American
News Company for 60,000 copies of each number, and their books,
along with those of the competition, flooded the market. Dime
novel publishers soon figured out that different types of textual
presentation, such as different sizes and styles of binding
and illustration could be applied to the same texts in order
to reach different segments of the market, and began issuing
their works in endless numbers of different "series," each with
a different look and feel. These changes in format, and the
accompanying shifts in distribution, helped to construct a readership
for the genre and carried a complex set of cultural messages
about its influence and content, messages that ironically may
have hastened the genre's demise. These texts illustrate quite
clearly McKenzie's emphasis on the importance of the physical
reality of books in creating their meaning, at times quite independently
of the words their pages bear.
The standard
dime novel format at its inception was a paper-covered (usually
yellow, orange, or salmon), stab-sewn book of around 100 pages,
roughly four by seven inches in size. In efforts to stay ahead
of postal regulations that charged much higher rates for letters
and books than for newspapers
or "periodical literature," dime novel publishers started a
cat-and-mouse game with the postal system to package their works
as some form of periodical, appearing at regular intervals,
rather than as books, especially after 1852, when the postal
rate for periodicals (a different category) was made the same
as that for newspapers.[7] The end result
was to make "book material," as Richard Kielbowicz has described
it, look more like newspapers, which tended to be purchased
at newsstands instead of delivered to the home. Thus the crucial
consumption act of acquiring dime novel texts was removed from
under the watchful eye of parents, and situated instead in the
liminal, dangerous world of the street, a world that in Gilded
Age America was associated with nothing so much as hordes of
unruly, potentially criminal boys. This shift is also made apparent
by the rise of "illuminated covers," bearing colored illustrations,
which began to appear in the mid-1870s, an innovation which
only makes sense if the product with the colored cover can be
seen at the point of purchase and compared to other products
without colored covers, i.e., at a newsstand or bookstore. Such
changes in format and distribution were not viewed as morally
neutral by many cultural critics. Increasing concerns about
city streets made newsstands suspect, and the popularity of
publications such as the Police Gazette heightened the
attention paid by at least some concerned citizens to the physical
appearance of reading materials, just as the signature bindings
of "quality" fiction houses such as Ticknor and Fields became
automatic signifiers of acceptability. As the tireless reformer
Anthony Comstock noted, "We assimilate what we read. The pages
of printed matter become our companions" (ix). This vision of
the connection between books as material objects and their moral
impact fed logically into Comstock's attacks in the 1880s on
dime novels.
An
examination of the covers of several dime novel titles illustrates
the extent to which dime novel publishers recycled the same
texts, often using the same stereotype plates, while trying
to conceal the fact of their recycling by issuing them in different
formats in different series. I will briefly mention only two
examples of what is a much larger and more general phenomenon.
Beadle published Ned Buntline's dime novel Stella Delorme
five times between 1869 and 1900, and their competitor, George
Munro, published Buntline's Old Nick of the Swamp at
least twice, although probably more often. Over the years, the
stories were not changed at all - they did not become more sensational,
or more violent, or less puritanical over the years, as the
standard narrative of the dime novel genre would have it. What
did change was the format in which they were published, how
much they cost, and where they were purchased. The early incarnations
of both stories were in the traditional, pocket-sized format.
Over time, however, with their appearances in different series
(most notably Stella Delorme's appearances in Beadle's
Half-Dime Library) the format of the texts was altered in ways
that make it clear that they were being distributed and purchased
in different ways; the Half-Dime Library numbers were in 8-page
tabloid format, roughly the same size as a modern magazine,
clearly purchased at a newsstand. Tellingly, the price had also
gone down to a nickel, placing the text within the financial
reach of even more readers. The final edition of Old Nick
of the Swamp, published in 1908 shortly before the demise
of the M.J. Ivers firm, has a cover with garish colors and a
lurid image of an Indian being shot clearly meant to attract
the eye at the point of purchase, and ads that clearly construct
a readership for the novel as young and male.
Without
going into excessive detail, it is clear from the material appearance
of these texts, along with a reading of the ads that various
editions contain, that the readership constructed by the various
incarnations of these stories changed over time. This fact is
borne out by the reminiscences of dime novel readers collected
in Edmund Lester Pearson's history of the genre Dime Novels;
or Following an Old Trail in Popular Literature, published
in 1929, only 17 years after the last dime novel series stopped
publication. It is also borne out by the things cultural critics
had to say about the genre and their readership. In 1864, William
Everett was able to describe the early dime novels, which were
still appearing in the standard format, as "unexceptionable
morally. ... They do not even obscurely pander to vice or excite
the passions."[8] The change in perception,
based on changes in format and distribution, was evident in
the next decade, however. W.H. Bishop, writing in the Atlantic
in 1879, expressed the predominant view of dime novels at the
time, saying that dime novels were "written almost exclusively
for the use of the lower classes of society." He described the
traffic at an urban newsstand on publication day, saying that
"a middle-aged woman... a shop girl... [and] a servant" stopped
by to buy dime novels, "but with them, before them, and after
them come boys. ... The most ardent class of patron ... are
boys."[9]
It is no
coincidence that the 1870s, when the bulk of the readership
of dime novels was considered to consist of boys, and when advertising
for dime novels became more directly focused on attracting boys
as consumers, was when dime novels began to be seen as dangerous
influences on young people. As soon as they came to be seen
as age-specific reading material, instead of shared family pleasures,
these books could be used to explain the perennially awful behavior
of children. Brander Matthews wrote in 1883 that, "The dreadful
damage
wrought to-day in every city, town, and village ... by the horrible
and hideous stuff set before the boys and girls of America by
the villainous sheets which pander greedily and viciously to
the natural taste of young readers for excitement, the irreparable
wrong done by these vile publications, is hidden from no one."[10]
Yet, forty years later, it would be hidden from Mr. Matthews
himself, as he reminisced, "The saffron-backed Dime Novels of
the late Mr. Beadle, ill-famed among the ignorant who are unaware
of their ultra-Puritan purity ... began to appear in the early
years of the Civil War; and when I was a boy in a dismal boarding
school at Sing Sing, ... I reveled
in their thrilling and innocuous record of innocent and imminent
danger."[11] These widely varying responses
over time to what were, in many cases, the same texts,
but very different books, underlines the importance of
issues of format and distribution in the meanings made from
texts, crucial links in the communications circuits outlined
by both Darnton and Charvat. Equally fruitful information could
be gleaned from the study of the dime novel about the rise of
authorship as a viable profession in America, filling in another
link in the chain, but that is another story. The point remains
that the format, distribution, and price of dime novels helped
to construct (and, I would argue, engender) an audience, while
at the same time offering a narrative of generic degeneration
to non-readers.
Fine. But
as my dissertation adviser would ask me at this point, "So what?"
What does this have to tell us about electronic media? I would
argue that comparing the evolution of popular print media such
as the dime novel with the mechanisms of electronic media can
offer insights into both the ways that book history has failed
to address this cultural shift in meaningful ways, and potentially
fruitful avenues for future work. One critical difference between
print media and electronic media, which most models of book
history are structurally ill-prepared to address, is that, whereas
print culture was for most of its history a known medium in
search of a distribution system, modern electronic media, especially
those involving the Web, tend to be distribution systems in
search of content, of a commodity to distribute (television
and radio were, at their inception, similar examples, as the
stories of early television owners watching test patterns indicate).
This is not to say that there is any shortage of content on
the Web, but that organizing it in such a way that it can be
made comprehensible to consumers/readers is a problem. Thus
Robert Darnton, current president of the American Historical
Association, has recently announced a new initiative to publish
prize-winning dissertations electronically through the Gutenberg-E
project with Columbia University Press. It would be the easiest
thing in the world to simply post the full text of one's dissertation
on the Web, but obtaining the imprimatur of a major scholarly
organization and a prestigious university press is a way of
"branding" the content in a comprehensible way, since all web
sites look pretty much the same and there are fewer extratextual
signifiers such as format, binding, or paper stock to provide
clues to readers as to the text's reliability. A distribution
network like the Web, essentially going wherever there are telephone
lines, is a wonderful thing, but as Sumner Redstone said when
Viacom bought Paramount in 1994, "Software is king, was king
and always will be king." In other words, content matters, and
part of successful content is its "legibility," which is aided
by linking electronic texts with the names of prestigious organizations
from the academic and print worlds. Such attempts
are crucial for the future of scholarly publishing, but they
also represent a certain kind of "editorial fantasy," a desire
to control content and erect boundaries between good and bad
in a medium that is most notable for its boundarylessness, its
linked, intertextual nature - it is, after all, called
the "Web."[12] As Darnton has written elsewhere,
"Instead of turning our backs on cyberspace, we need to take
control of it - to set standards, develop quality controls and
direct traffic. Our students will learn to navigate the Internet
successfully if we set up warning signals and teach them to
obey."[13] Such desires for clarity and control are perhaps grounded,
not in the world of texts, which is unruly and infinite,
but in the regimented world of academic and elite trade publishing,
which is both the main focus of book history and the world in
which most academics live. Book historians need to come up with
new models of textual circulation and consumption in which distribution
and the market are understood very differently than in the traditional
print model, since the whole system of compensation for text
produced, copyright and textual ownership, and authorial control
operates very differently in electronic media. Very often with
electronic texts, there is no "market," no "publisher," since
many writers of electronic texts are not paid for their work
and publish it on the Web themselves. Thus, the communications
circuit is often a direct link between the writer (who is also
the publisher and bookseller) and the reader. The medium is
itself the distribution system, so the many individuals
who are allowed agency in the models provided by Charvat and
Darnton simply do not appear in the circuit. The ways in which
electronic texts are "distributed" on the Web, if distribution
can be understood to be the mechanism by which reader and text
are brought together, is often through the random, impersonal
agency of the search engine. Certainly such a drastic shift
in the way in which readers meet texts must have some implications
for our understanding of electronic texts, given the importance
of distribution in the Charvat triangle and the Darnton circuit.
These models can be said to be "flexible" enough to still work
for many electronic texts, and certainly this is true for media
such as film and television. But if such flexibility is bought
at the price of disregarding the very
stages of the models that makes them so powerful for understanding
the world of print, then perhaps the time for new models more
specifically tailored to current conditions has come.
Perhaps
a more fundamental failure on the part of book historians is
the tendency to view all texts, especially electronic texts,
in the terms of the book.[14] The nomenclature
of the Web has not helped in this regard - we speak of Web "pages,"
which we can "bookmark," Sony has plans to introduce an "electronic
book," etc. This tendency to view electronic media not on their
own terms, but as "bad books," is especially pronounced in the
alarmists who are forever wringing their
hands about the "death of books," goaded on by technological
visionaries who gleefully predict print's demise such as Barry
Richman, who wrote in PC Magazine in 1984, "Surprising,
isn't it, how hard it is to kill off a nice little technology
like print."[15] Sven Birkerts, the best-known
spokesman for the "sky is falling" view of electronic media,
is exemplary for his assumption that the intense, emotionally
involved way that we read contemporary fiction is the normative
model for reading texts, by which standards, of course, electronic
media fail miserably. He writes, in The Gutenberg Elegies:
"I will confine myself to the literary novel because that, for
me, represents reading in its purest form."[16] Almost inevitably, he later compares reading text on the
Web to reading The Catcher in the Rye, the archetypal
emotionally-charged reading experience for Americans of a certain
age that confirms in flattering ways the reader's suspicions
of his own ineffable individuality and uniqueness. I am somewhat
confident that nobody in the room today has ever read a novel
in its entirety off of a computer screen (literary historians
such as myself, who are often forced to read whole novels off
of microfilm readers, can attest that the experience is not
the same). But I am even more confident that everybody here
has looked up something - plane fares, addresses of old
friends, parts numbers for food processor blades, books in libraries
- on a computer. Many writers have noted that
the world of print does not consist solely of literary novels,
and that vast numbers of texts exist, such as encyclopedias,
directories, manuals, that will be better served by being converted
to electronic formats, but the point bears repeating. As Umberto
Eco has written, "There are too many books. ... If the computer
network succeeds in reducing the quantity of published books,
this would be a paramount cultural improvement."[17]
Writing elegies about the "death of the heavy reference book"
is not very sexy, and not likely to get one Guggenheim Fellowships.
Such books are likely to disappear, however slowly, although
it is likely that Nicholson Baker will find someone to sue over
it. But other forms of print reading will persist, and it is
likely that new ones will emerge. The Buggles told us, in 1981,
on MTV's first broadcast, that "Video Killed the Radio Star,"
but since then Rush Limbaugh, Don Imus, Howard Stern, and Dr.
Laura, to name a few, have, at least temporarily, disproven
their prediction by changing our definition of what "radio star"
means. Book history, not just in the instance of electronic
media but in general, needs to broaden its definition of what
a "text" is that makes it deserving of study, and what "reading"
is, if it is to have useful things to say about the ways in
which electronic texts are used.
If
book historians tend to view electronic media too much in the
terms of the book, at least from the perspective of reading,
in another instance, that of the materiality of the reading
experience, it takes too much for granted. As Geoffrey Nunberg
has written, the challenge facing those studying new electronic
media is "to find modes of being that allow them to be true
to their natures while preserving their cultural connectedness."[18] Book historians, in failing to reach out to scholars of
other media, have largely failed in the mission of finding "modes
of being" for electronic media that would aid in understanding
their use and impact. If I could have fit the screens of the
three computers I currently own onto a photocopier, most book
historians would say that they are just screens, whereas the
differences between the dime novels I discussed earlier would
be readily apparent. But why neglect the materiality and variability
of the encounter with electronic texts? All three of my screens
are Mac screens, which in itself delivers a whole complex set
of signals about their use and the conditions under which texts
are likely to be consumed. Much has been made of the commodity
fetishism of the opposing sides in the books vs.
computers debate - the dean of MIT's school of architecture
wrote in 1995 that books will only matter to those "addicted
to the look and feel of tree flakes encased in dead cow," while
bibliophiles continually rail against the impassivity of the
screen, the coldness of the computer, the clumsiness of the
mouse.[19] Book history is perhaps most notable for the insights it
has gained by, in I.A. Richards' terms, thinking of a book as
"a machine to think with," yet the tendency to either think
of computers as just machines or as invisible carriers of text
plagues the discipline. More attention needs to be paid to the
material encounter with electronic texts - what are the differences
between reading a text at a public terminal in a library, standing
up, as opposed to sitting down at home? What happens, for readers,
in the interaction between words and images on a Web page? What
does it do to the textual encounter if, like me, you always
have to sit near a wall, close to an outlet, because your laptop
battery is dead, instead of anywhere
you like, as one can with a book? Alberto Manguel has written
of the materiality of his computer, aligning it more with the
Greek tradition that required textual monuments in stone than
with the book-centered Hebrew tradition, stressing how the physicality
and locatedness of his computer influences his readings of texts
from its screen.[20] Further attention needs to be paid to such issues, but book
historians cannot do it alone.
There is
no question that consuming electronic media texts is a very
different experience from reading a book; on this technophiles
and bibliophiles agree. There may be some question as to whether
or not many of such media experiences should be called "reading"
in the traditional sense,
or if some new category is required. As Manguel notes, "The
CD-ROM (and whatever else will take its place in the imminent
future) is like Wagner's Gesamtkunstwerk, a sort of mini-opera
in which all the senses must come into play in order to re-create
a text."[21] This comparison is apt, but
also daunting, because we have no theory and no history of how
the consumption of Gesamtkunstwerke works. But perhaps
"reading" is no longer the most useful phylum in which to place
such textual encounters. Book historians must work with historians
of other media to come up with such a synthesis: with scholars
of film and television, to gain a clearer sense of what happens
in the experience of receiving texts from a screen instead of
a page; with students of radio and the phonograph, to gain insights
into the impact of the presence of a strange new machine, a
material presence that dispenses texts, in the home; with theorists
of channel surfing, which bears relevance to the jumping from
text to text made possible by hyperlinks; with cognitive theorists,
to better understand the interaction between word and image
so characteristic of electronic media, where words often become
images, and vice versa; and with scholars of everyday life,
such as Michel de Certeau and David Henkin, whose work on the
textualizing of the urban experience in antebellum America bears
directly on the almost omnipresent
injection of new forms of textuality into the texture of life
in the home and workplace represented by electronic media. Perhaps
such collaborations will lead us to Walter Ong's conclusion,
that we are becoming simultaneously more textual and more oral:
"The electronic transformation of verbal expression has both
deepened the commitment of the word to space initiated by writing
and intensified by print and has brought consciousness to a
new age of secondary orality."[22]
To conclude,
then, will the history of the book be a help or a hindrance
in understanding the impact of new electronic media? I have
only very briefly sketched out some ways in which the discipline
has perhaps hindered an understanding of how electronic media
really work, as well as some potential contributions book historians
can make to the debate. Robert Darnton was quoted in 1993 as
saying that the history of the book "has the potential to take
its place beside the history of art and the history of science."[23] But many book historians, in their insistence on viewing
electronic media, especially the Web, as a large book, rather
than something else entirely (a library? a conversation? a gigantic
movie with lots of subtitles? a poorly-organized warehouse?)
run the risk instead of placing the history of the book alongside
the history of sculpture or the history of chemistry - that
is, an interesting but marginal field subsumed under a much
larger discipline, the history of media. The failure of book
historians to live up to D.F. McKenzie's clarion call for a
comprehensive "sociology of texts" is understandable; the field
of book history itself is new, and electronic media change so
fast that it is impossible to keep up. Perhaps the most important
contribution book historians can make, however, is to reinforce
an awareness of the mutability, contingency, and the relative
historical youth of printed forms, so that
the rise of electronic media can be seen perhaps less as a frightening
epochal shift and more as what it is - just another change,
albeit a big one, in how we communicate.. Self-appointed defenders
of the book, such as Birkerts, who wish to naturalize the culture
of print with such phrases as "the stable hierarchies of the
printed page," "age-old ways of being," and the incredible assertion
that our "neural systems" have "evolved through millennia" to
accommodate print both do the book a grave disservice and hinder
our understanding of how the book can shape our understanding
of, instead of fear of, electronic media.[24] As McKenzie noted, "... print is only a phase in the history
of textual transmission, and ... we may be at risk of overstating
its importance. ... Even in our own society, oral text and visual
image have not only enjoyed a continuity (albeit, enhanced by
print), but they have now resumed their status as among the
principal modes of discourse with an even greater power of projection."[25]
There is no medium of commuication about whose production and
consumption we know more than books; book historians are poised
to make tremendous contributions to our understanding of new
electronic media. But book historians must also remain aware
of the fact that a very small percentage of all the textual
encounters, the interactions of people and printed words, that
happen in the world every day involve books. The history of
the book and the history of reading and writing are thus very
different things, and an awareness of the fact that reading
books is not the same as reading other texts is crucial to the
approach to new textual forms. McKenzie admonished us to remember
how marginal, in historical terms, the book is to the history
of textual communication, and how mutable the physical form
of the text can be. A continued attention to the materiality,
and therefore the contingency, of the interaction with print,
combined with new attention to the materiality of the experience
of electronic text is one direction in which book historians
can both continue to expand our knowledge of print culture and
contribute to our understanding of electronic culture.
Footnotes
[1]
McKenzie, D.F., Bibliography and the sociology of texts,
London: The British Library, 1986, p. 4. return
[2]
Winkler, Karen, "In Electronic Age, Scholars are Drawn to the
Study of Print," Chronicle of Higher Education, July
14, 1993. return
[3]
Charvat, William, The Profession of Authorship in America,
1800-1870, New York: Columbia University Press, 1992, p.
284. return
[4]
Ibid., p. 285, emphasis added. return
[5]
Darnton, The Forbidden Best-Sellers of Pre-Revolutionary
France, New York: W.W. Norton, 1996, pp. 181-89.
return
[6]
Nye, Russel, The Unembarassed Muse: The Popular Arts in America,
New York: Dial Press, 1970, p. 201. return
[7]
For more specific discussion of these issues, see John, Richard,
Spreading the News: The American Postal System from Franklin
to Morse, Cambridge: Harvard University Press, 1995, and
Kielbowicz, Richard, News in the Mail: The Press, Post Office,
and Public Information, 1700-1860s, Westport: Greenwood
Press, 1989. return
[8]
Quoted in Nye, p. 203. return
[9]
Quoted in Michael Denning, Mechanic Accents: Dime Novels
and Working Class Culture in America, New York: Verso, 1987,
p. 29-30. return
[10]
Quoted in Denning, p. 9. return
[11]
Ibid., p. 9. return
[12]
It is arguable that the current crisis in scholarly publishing,
frequently attributed to a diminished audience for academic
books, which in turn forces presses to raise prices, is not
a demand problem at all, but rather one of supply. Given the
vast numbers of embattled adjunct professors, temporary instructors,
not to mention tenure-track junior faculty, all of whom need
to find publishers for their books in order to keep their jobs,
there is no way that the allegedly larger, more attentive audience
for academic books that previously existed could provide sufficient
demand to justify university presses in publishing all the books
that academics need to get published. return
[13]
Darnton, Robert, "No Computer Can Hold the Past," New York
Times, June 12, 1999. return
[14]
Certain book historians have made notable efforts in correcting
this and other problems in the field that I address here, and
I do not wish to ignore the significance of their work - John
O'Donnell, Carla Hesse, Geoffrey Nunberg, John Feather would
head what I am sure should be a much longer list. return
[15]
Richman, Barry, "The death of print?" PC Magazine, May
1, 1984. return
[16]
Birkerts, Sven, The Gutenberg Elegies: The Fate of Reading
in an Electronic Age, Boston: Faber & Faber, 1994, p.
79. return
[17]
Nunberg, Geoffrey, ed., The Future of the Book Berkeley:
University of California Press, 1996, p. 301. return
[18]
Ibid., p. 16. return
[19]
Quoted in Nunberg, p. 65. return
[20]
Manguel, Alberto, "How those plastic stones speak," Times
Literary Supplement, July 4, 1997. return
[21]
Manguel, Alberto, "How those plastic stones speak," Times
Literary Supplement, July 4, 1997. return
[22]
Ong, Walter, Orality & Literacy: The Technologizing of
the Word, New York: Routledge, 1982. return
[23]
In Winkler, July 14, 1993. return
[24]
Birkerts, pp. 3, 15, 139. Such critics are most often embattled
professional writers more fearful of losing the prerogatives
of their profession in a world where the modalities of remunerative
authorship on the Web is not yet clear than impassioned defenders
of the print experience. As ever, Birkerts is exemplary for
demonstrating the extent to which anxiety over "the death of
the book" is so often misplaced anxiety over "the death of how
I want to make a living": "These large-scale changes bode ill
for authorship, at least of the kind I would pursue. There are,
we know this, fewer and fewer readers for serious works. Publishers
are increasingly reluctant to underwrite the publication of
a book that will sell only a few thousand copies. But very few
works of any artistic importance sell more than that" (28).
return
[25]
McKenzie, p. 52. return