by Andrew Piper
ANDREW PIPER teaches German and European literature at McGill University and is the author of Dreaming in Books, also published by the University of Chicago Press.
The University of Chicago Press, Chicago 60637
The University of Chicago Press, Ltd., London
© 2012 by The University of Chicago
All rights reserved. Published 2012.
Printed in the United States of America
21 20 19 18 17 16 15 14 13 12 1 2 3 4 5
ISBN-13: 978-0-226-66978-6 (cloth)
ISBN-13: 978-0-226-92289-8 (e-book)
ISBN-10: 0-226-66978-5 (cloth)
ISBN-10: 0-226-92289-8 (e-book)
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Piper, Andrew, 1973–author.
Book was there : reading in electronic times / Andrew Piper.
pages cm
Includes bibliographical references.
ISBN-13: 978-0-226-66978-6 (cloth: alkaline paper)
ISBN-10: 0-226-66978-5 (cloth: alkaline paper)
ISBN-13: 978-0-226-92289-8 (e-book)
ISBN-10: 0-226-92289-8 (e-book)
1. Books and reading. 2. Reading—Technological innovations. I. Title.
Z1003.P576 2012
028.9—dc23
2012004868
This paper meets the requirements of ANSI/NISO Z39.48-1992 (Permanence of Paper).
BOOK WAS THERE
Reading in Electronic Times
Andrew Piper
The University of Chicago Press CHICAGO + LONDON
CONTENTS
[PROLOGUE] Nothing Is Ever New
[ONE] Take It and Read
[TWO] Face, Book
[THREE ] Turning the Page (Roaming, Zooming, Streaming)
[FOUR] Of Note
[FIVE] Sharing
[SIX] Among the Trees
[SEVEN] By the Numbers
[EPILOGUE] Letting Go of the Book
Notes
PROLOGUE
Nothing Is Ever New
Book was there, it was there.
GERTRUDE STEIN
When I was punished as a child, I was sent to my room to read. You won’t find this in many parenting handbooks today. From this I learned that reading was an activity that allowed me to calm down, to locate a sense of repose, which was not that easy for an eight-year-old boy with an older brother. It was the first intimation I had, unconscious at the time, that reading was a discipline. It takes work to learn, to advance, to maintain. Reading isn’t just an escape, it also disciplines us, it molds us into who we are. I am now, thanks to my disciplinary past, a professor of literature.
I was not just a reader as a child, but also a computer user. I belong to the first generation of children who grew up using personal computers. We had a Radio Shack TRS-80 at home (and Pong), a Commodore 64 at school, and later an Apple IIe on which I wrote my college applications. I was programming my TRS-80 when I was nine. I went to computer camp. Computers and video games were as much a part of my life as books.
Personal tales of readers are often shaded by a touch of hyperbole: Goethe tells us he had read all of Racine and Molière by the age of nine, Sartre tells us he had finished the encyclopedia before most children had begun reading, that sort of thing. Great readers have always read all of the books. By this definition, I was never a great reader. Maybe that’s why I had to be sent to my room. Or maybe it was all those electronic gadgets vying for my attention, or maybe it was too many reruns of Three’s Company. It is too hard to say now. For me, the book was never the superhero of most readers’ personal histories. But it was at least still there.
Today, my children, who are now four and seven, are growing up in a world where this balance seems to many to be coming unhinged. We worry that these new “digital natives” will never know what it is like to sit in a room of their own and read a book. They won’t share my memories of the punctuated stillness and the contoured sensuality of turning the pages of Shel Silverstein, The Wind in the Willows, or the mind-bending work of Madeleine L’Engle. All they will know is the frenetic, problem-solving interactivity of the electronic screen. As a last ditch effort to instill in them an attachment to the book, my wife and I now take away story time when our children are punished (this too you will likely not find in today’s parenting handbooks). But for how much longer can the book seem like a forbidden fruit?
For some, however, we are not doing enough interacting with our digital devices. We know how to play with them, but few understand anymore how they work. Knowledge of our reading tools is lagging behind our use of them. They have become the ultimate black boxes, functional (mostly) and sealed off from human understanding. We are becoming the tools of our machines and not the other way around. In this sense, we are becoming less and less literate.
As both a parent and a professor, my job is to teach young people how to read. However far apart these two audiences may seem—one group is learning to decode narrative structure, the other the shape of letters—they are connected by belonging to the same trajectory of how reading informs who we are and how we think. And never before has this trajectory, for children and adults alike, seemed more unsettled due to changes in the material, not content, of what we read. Trying to understand how technologies, both new and old, shape how we read has emerged as one of the more urgent concerns of my personal and professional life. Judging by the amount of material written on the subject of late, it clearly has for many others, too. Answers are both too plentiful and too premature right now. What we really need is a better road map.
. . .
This book is not a case for or against books. It is not about old media or new media (or even new new media). Instead, it is an attempt to understand the relationship between books and screens, to identify some of their fundamental differences and to chart out the continuities that might run between them. Much like my own personal history in which computers and books were interwoven into the fabric of my life from the very start, electronic reading has a very deep bibliographic history. In Gertrude Stein’s words, books were there. It is this thereness that is both essential for understanding the medium of the book (that books exist as finite objects in the world) and also for reminding us that we cannot think about our electronic future without contending with its antecedent, the bookish past. Books got there first. Books and screens are now bound up with one another whether we like it or not. Only in patiently working through this entanglement will we be able to understand how new technologies will, or will not, change how we read. I can imagine a world without books. I cannot imagine one without reading.
There is by now a vast field of research that falls under the heading of reading.1 But in truth we have no idea what happens when people read. People have read out loud, silently, linearly, haphazardly, attentively, distractedly, purposefully, together or alone, with or without pens or pencils, with one hand or two, while sitting, reclining, standing, or walking, by candlelight, sunlight, or even moonlight. People have slept while appearing to read, read while appearing to sleep (children and flashlights!), and left books lying around as though they might be read soon or someday or never. Reading is a way of disciplining our minds, and it is also one of the most efficient means of mental escape. More recently, thanks to the wonders of new imaging technologies, we have learned how the mind and the eye work together to process words on the page (by making four to five jumps every second) and whether we decode words phonetically or graphically (the answer is both). We now have scholarly databases to record our reading experiences—if reading’s soporific rhythms can indeed be called an “experience”—and courtesy of electronic readers, organizations
can aggregate users’ page views and note taking so that we, or some of us, can see the sum total of readers’ habits.
Despite all of this we really have no idea what it is people do when they read. That is one of reading’s great gifts to ourselves—the creation of a practice that is fundamentally opaque. To think of doing something that could be impossible to define or to know—the ultimate human daring. First came fire, then text.
And yet. Things ask us to do certain things with them. Things are not unconditional. We may do what we please with books or screens (use them as doorstops, drop them in sinks), but they still shape our access to what we read and how we construct our mental universes through them. Whether it is the soft graininess of the page or the resistant slickness of the screen, the kinetic activities of swiping instead of turning, the postural differences of sitting back versus up, tilting our heads down or forward, grasping with our hands or resting our hands on, the shape of folded sheets versus the roamable, zoomable, or clickable surfaces of the electronic screen—all of these features (and many more) contribute to a different relationship to reading, and thus thinking. Things help us think and thereby contribute to the shape of our thoughts. The shape of reading, what it has been and what it might be, is what this book is about.
Much ink has been spilled (whether electronic or the oily kind) on the topic of the future of the book. Every day someone somewhere says that the end of the book is nigh, that young people only read online (like Gautier said of the Romantics and the Italian Army: they are always young), that we’re killing too many trees, that, really, what’s the difference?2 And then right after that someone will say the Internet is making us stupider, twitchier, addicted, and perhaps worst of all, bad spellers.3 We take little notice that we have said all this before. Four hundred years ago in Spain people read too many romances (Don Quixote), three hundred years ago in London too many people wrote crap (Grub Street), two hundred years ago in Germany reading had turned into a madness (the so-called Lesewut), and one hundred years ago there was the telephone. We have worried that one day there would be more authors than readers (in 1788), that self-publishing would save, and then kill, reading (in 1773), and that no one would have time to read books anymore (in 1855).4 Everything that has been said about life in an online world has already been said about books.
Books will always be there. That is what they are by definition: there. Whether in the classroom, the library, the archive, the bookstore, the warehouse, or online, it is our choice, however, where books will be. It is time to stop worrying and start thinking. It is time to put an end to the digital utopias and print eulogies, bookish venerations and network gothic, and tired binaries like deep versus shallow, distributed versus linear, or slow versus fast. Now is the time to understand the rich history of what we have thought books have done for us and what we think digital texts might do differently. We need to remember the diversity that surrounds reading and the manifold, and sometimes strange, tools upon which it has historically been based. The question is not one of “versus,” of two single antagonists squaring off in a ring; rather, the question is far more ecological in nature.5 How will these two very different species and their many varieties coexist within the greater ecosystem known as reading?
The study of the book’s past has thankfully, and perhaps not unsurprisingly, undergone a renaissance of late. Once relegated to the academic backwaters known as “publishing history,” it is now at the forefront of numerous different disciplines. There are multivolume handbooks on the history of the book in the West, in the world, in general, and individually by country.6 There are centers for the study of the book in Edinburgh, Princeton, Toronto, and Hong Kong, and “book arts” has become a popular new graduate degree. There is nothing like a sense of demise to spur our attention.
At the same time of course, there is a booming industry in the study of new media. Once the domain of intellectuals who seemingly never grew up, universities are now tripping over themselves to establish the institutional infrastructure for the study of digital life. And yet seldom are these two worlds in conversation with one another in any meaningful sense. Historians of the book who stray into the fields of digital media are disciplined by accusations of anachronism. Media historians who stray into the world of books are threatened with irrelevance.7 This book attempts to bridge that divide. In the spirit of my own past, it is decidedly stereoscopic.
Unlike the jeremiad, the manifesto, or the multivolume handbook, however, what you have in your hands is something far more personal as well as diminutive (though I have tried in the notes to give readers an introduction into the various fields of research that the book covers). Book Was There is more akin to an essay in the classical sense, an “attempt” to understand how reading is beginning to change—for myself, for my students, and of course for my children. It’s this latter group whom I was thinking of most while I wrote this book: my son’s strange love of catalogs; my daughter’s swift intimation that Charlotte (the spider) was doomed from the moment she appeared on the page; the rapt attention that any screen can command for both of them; and the mysterious difficulty that is the punctuation mark. Along with more famous readers of the past and present, my children too will be making an appearance here. If there is something sentimental about this, it is at least partially because this is the way we’ve come to understand reading. Ever since the eighteenth century, which after all invented the idea of sentimentality, reading has been integral to our sense of both personal and political development. Getting reading wrong is framed as a threat to who we can become, whether as individuals or a society. To talk about reading is always implicitly to talk about the future and the past simultaneously. This is one of the primary reasons why debates about reading become so heated, and why they ultimately, always, come back to “the kids,” whether real or our imagined inner child. Wrestling with reading is a way of reflecting on who we once were and who we want to be.
This book is personal in another sense though, one that I think has largely been missing in the many books on the topic of reading’s past and future. Each of the chapters is organized around something that we do when we read: how we touch books and screens, how we look at them, how we share them with each other, how we take notes with them or navigate our way through them, where we use them, or even how we play with them. In this, I am interested in understanding how we relate to reading in a deeply embodied way.8 Reading is not only a matter of our brains. It is an integral part of our lived experience, our sense of being in the world, even if at times this can mean feeling intensely apart from the world. We do not as yet have a survey of reading that takes reading quite so experientially seriously as this one.
These are the categories through which I hope we will continue to debate the future of reading. Only when we understand the differences between books and screens at these most elementary of levels—at the level of person, habit, and gesture—can we make informed choices about the values associated with the kind of reading we care about and the technological (and pedagogical) infrastructures that should support such values. Technologies don’t just happen. At least not yet. We are still agents in this story, and we have some choices to make. This book is aimed at helping us make an informed choice. It is about moving away from questions of futurology to ones of meaning. Book was there, yes, but what did it mean? And what does it mean still?
ONE
Take It and Read
What I must chiefly remember are the hands.
DELACROIX [diary, april 11, 1824]
. . .we were / hands, / we bailed the darkness out . . .
PAUL CELAN [“flower”]
The meaning of the book could begin with St. Augustine. In the eighth book of his Confessions, Augustine describes the moment of his conversion to becoming a Christian:
In my misery I kept crying, “How long shall I go on saying, ‘tomorrow, tomorrow?’” Why not now? Why not make an end of my ugly sins at this very moment? I was asking myself these questions when all a
t once I heard the singing voice of a child in a nearby house. Whether it was the voice of a boy or girl I cannot say, but again and again it repeated the refrain, “Take it and read, take it and read.”
Augustine is sitting beneath a fig tree in his garden, and upon hearing the voice he takes up the Bible lying near him and opens a passage at random and begins reading (Romans 13:13–14). At this moment, he tells us, “I had no wish to read more and no need to do so. For in an instant, as I came to the end of the sentence, it was as though the light of confidence flooded into my heart and all the darkness of doubt was dispelled.”1 Augustine closes the book, marking his place with his finger, and goes to tell his friend Alypius about his experience. His conversion is complete.
No other passage has more profoundly captured the meaning of the book than this one. Not just reading but reading books was aligned in Augustine with the act of personal conversion. Augustine was writing at the end of the fourth century, when the codex had largely superseded the scroll as the most prevalent form of reading material.2 We know Augustine was reading a book from the way he randomly accesses a page and uses his finger to mark his place. The conversion at the heart of The Confessions was an affirmation of the new technology of the book within the lives of individuals, indeed, as the technology that helped turn readers into individuals. Turning the page, not turning the handle of the scroll, was the new technical prelude to undergoing a major turn in one’s own life.
In aligning the practice of book reading with that of personal conversion, Augustine established a paradigm of reading that would far exceed its theological framework, one that would go on to become a foundation of Western humanistic learning for the next fifteen hundred years. It was above all else the graspability of the book, its being “at hand,” that allowed it to play such a pivotal role in shaping one’s life. “Take it and read, take it and read” (tolle lege, tolle lege), repeats the divine refrain. The book’s graspability, in a material as well as a spiritual sense, is what endowed it with such immense power to radically alter our lives. In taking hold of the book, according to Augustine, we are taken hold of by books.
