books

Andrew November 25, 2012

Revisiting Umberto Eco’s Future of the Book

In 2003 Umberto Eco gave a talk at the opening of the Bibliotheca Alexandrina titled, “Vegetal and mineral memory: The future of books” that is interesting to read again now, nine years later.

His goal in the talk was to break apart the fear people had about “the future of books.” He split this fear into two parts: anxiety about the future of the physical artifact — the bound book — and a concern that what people usually read in them was changing.

“Good news: books will remain indispensable,” Eco wrote in 2003, and I agreed with him. The idea that anything could replace paper seemed ridiculous. Yet now, reading an ebook is enjoyable, convenient and becoming more and more affordable every fiscal quarter. I see them at coffee shops, on the bus and in my home all the time — and that doesn’t address the use of phones to read, either. No, the experience is not the same as with physical books. There are no “used” ebooks for purchase; we cannot easily give them to friends after reading; we never own them in the same sense. Still, just as CDs and tapes have fallen away because of the utility of digital copies, there are many benefits to ebooks, enough that I may prefer them over physical books — something I thought impossible in 2003. (Every time I pick up an actual paper book, though, I’m reminded of what I miss about them, so the jury is still out on whether digital can truly replace paper books for me.)

The novel as an art form would stick around, he claimed. Preposterous, I thought! How quaint! Of course hypertext would somehow replace the novel — that, or story-based video games. Linking and forking paths seemed more appropriate to the future than the old frozen novel. However, I’ve come to think the opposite. Truly, nothing can replace the novel, or at least the central aspect of the novel, which is our inability as readers to change the story. This in short the reason he gave in his talk: the novel mirrors human reality. Our past is frozen, and that is the source of all tragedy, isn’t it? We can’t change what happened. Novels communicate with our experience as humans on this deep and penetrating level of reality. In video games and in the theoretical “hypertext” novel (theoretical because none have been done well, right?), the reader may choose what happens, and more importantly the reader is always free to do things over. That isn’t what life is like. You may be able to try again, but maybe not. Much like a novel, we can only analyze and learn from the past.

So I look forward to reading Eco’s talk again in 2022 or 2023 (maybe let’s make it a round 10 year check-in). Human beings are remarkably effective at creating art forms that speak to our current reality, so I’m excited to see what we dream up to reflect our new highly-connected, internetworked selves.

Filed Under: books, technology

Andrew January 7, 2012

Sharp Edges: Protecting Ourselves from Digital Publishing

Nicholas Carr wrote in a recent article that he considered the ability of publishers to change text after they had released it “insidious” and a “bane” of digital publishing — specifically, if such changes are made in response to market research.

I agree that there is a challenge inherent in the new ease with which publishers may release versions of a text, but the challenge I see is different than the one Carr suggested. Data about the chapters that readers skip and areas that cause people to abandon their reading will only help publishers create better, more relevant content, just as this data has helped web site authors do the same. It is our response, as readers, to the possibility of frequent (and silent) revisions to text that I worry about.

Movable Text

As a summary of the key difference between print and electronic publishing, Carr described electronic publishing as having replaced Gutenberg’s movable type with “movable text.” For centuries, once set and printed, the text of a book remained the same. Today, with web sites and now ebooks, publishers may change the text at any time, introducing multiple divergent copies or, if the distribution method supports it, even changing the copy you are reading as you read it.

Carr wrote about the downside of this change that,

The promise of stronger sales and profits will make it hard to resist tinkering with a book … adding a few choice words here, trimming a chapter there, maybe giving a key character a quick makeover.

– Books That Are Never Done Being Written

What is wrong with this? While some readers may finish every book they start, I have dismissed dozens of books in my life, at various points in their stories, after having read one too many missteps of voice or plot, or simply because I was bored. Life is short. There are more books to read than I have time for. So why should I read a poorly written book, and what do I care for the “shape” of a book (to quote Carr quoting Updike) if I can’t connect with it?

Creators and publishers who release work on the internet can get faster and more in-depth feedback from consumers than in traditional publishing — not just through comments but through analytics about a reader’s behavior. Analytics can show what people look for in a text and different ways they respond (e.g., most people stopped reading on page two). As anyone who has written a blog or maintained a web site will know, this information is extremely valuable as way of testing what people want to read and what they don’t.

The same will now be true for books. As readers, our reactions to books, not just the fact that we purchased them but more intimate details like how long we lingered on a page and where we stopped reading (if it wasn’t the end), will place us in tighter feedback loops with authors. How is this a “bane”?

Authentic Text

What is wrong with this model is that we must change our idea of the persistence and security of human knowledge to fit it. We have to create new mechanisms to ensure the authenticity of texts. There are measures we can take to accomplish this:

Creators should have control over changes made to their works, to protect themselves from publishers introducing alterations based on sales data.
Readers should have access to all released versions of a text. Each authorized edition of a text should have its own ID that is registered with a trusted authority. And if the publisher releases a new version of a book that is already on our ebook readers, we ought to have the right to approve whether or not we update to it.
A trusted organization of the public good should house a copy of each version of released texts, to reduce the chance that individuals, companies and governments can alter or destroy the source files.

In the traditional publishing model, a printed edition of a work with an ISBN is a “known good” source copy. It is authorized by someone. Multiple editions of a book may exist, but as readers and historians we can examine our authorized copies of these editions. We can protect them.

As we move toward using and relying on digital text, we must develop new means of protecting the authenticity of this information. The bane — the sharp edge — of “movable text” is not the ease with which we may change our books after we publish them. It is that our mechanisms for protecting ourselves from such change are outdated.

Filed Under: books, technology

Andrew June 27, 2011

Self-Reliant Veganism

“Trust thyself: every heart vibrates to that iron string.”

When I first read “Self-Reliance,” these words sunk into me, but I must have skimmed the rest of the essay. Emerson’s style and vocabulary put me off, an experience which I attributed to 150 years of drift in the English language. The problem only got worse as I read his other essays: I kept wondering when he would get to the point, or worse, if he had a point worth getting to (see: “English Traits”).

Recently I pulled down from the shelf a used, still-beautiful American Library hardcover collection of Emerson’s works I’d been lugging around, and decided to give him a second chance, starting with “Self-Reliance.” This time, the essay had a more powerful effect. Themes that were obscure before — the challenge to find original thought, Emerson’s pleas for the reader (or perhaps the writer) to avoid conformity — now seemed to apply to my life in unexpected ways.

If I want to be fully human, I need to create my own ideas — I can’t merely adopt ones I find lying around. Coming from Emerson, this otherwise bland message is a sharp reminder that even when I think I’ve worked something out, I still need to maintain the “integrity” of my mind, through the proper care and feeding of my ideas. Take veganism, for example: I can decide, given some evidence and critical thought, to eat a vegan diet, but pretty soon I may start calling myself a vegan, which means opting in to the vegan community. And that is quite a mixed bag, in Emerson’s view. Claiming membership for oneself in such a group poses a problem: what if I act not because I still believe in the shared values of the group, but because I want to continue to belong, to be known as, a vegan? The question evokes Foucault’s analysis of the Panopticon, a prison in which the prisoners know they are being watched, but do not know when. A human being living a busy, highly-connected life can find him or herself in this role far too often, I think, and the result is that our actions mean different things than we pretend they do. If we act with the warden on our back, then the meaning and our ultimate experience of our act changes; ideals may become prisons.

All that aside, I can’t claim to be a perfect vegan. After a year or so of trying to eat a vegan diet, I’m enthused and especially happy to live closer to an ideal that Peter Singer originally drove home for me. On some occasions I’ve called myself a vegan and have been called one. But have I been 100% consistent? No. Every once and a while I eat something that I know or suspect has dairy in it. Usually this happens when someone offers me food as a gift, or when I’m at a restaurant and I forget to ask. At these times I have competing values. Sometimes I value generosity from another human being more than I value my decision not to eat animal products. Likewise with waste: I can’t ever send food back; I hate wasting food.

I suspect that the desire to remain consistent in action, despite feeling conflicted, is a problem other vegans face. The world is complex, and we respond to it with principles that sometimes compete. Emerson would probably find that acceptable. The integrity of my mind is more important than achieving 100% consistency. After all, if the primary reason I eat tofu instead of cheese on any given day is that I wish to identify as a vegan, and not because I consider tofu healthier for the planet, then I will have lost my integrity, even if I remained consistent in action. As Emerson wrote, “I ask primary evidence that you are a man, and refuse this appeal from the man to his actions.” Not only my actions, but also my intentions, create the evidence that I am truly human.

Of course, what occurs to me as examples of “foolish consistency” may not occur to you. In my day-to-day life I think most about my family, technology, and food politics. A healthy critique of IT industry wisdom would do me good, but not you, perhaps. Instead, I will only encourage you to read “Self-Reliance.” And then, join me in re-reading it, some years from now, after the dust has settled, so that we can snap to attention once again.

Filed Under: books, food, life

Andrew November 22, 2009

Coastal Bookstores

Kim and I are heading to Coos Bay this week to celebrate Thanksgiving with the Davidson clan. I am already thinking of books — is that wrong?

My favorite thing to do on the Oregon coast, other than spend time with the in-laws and all of our super-adorable nieces, is trawl a couple of my favorite book stores. These places are a different breed than what you find in Portland, with often random and surprising titles — probably because there isn’t so fierce a competitor as Powell’s. The coast is where I discovered Jonathan Lethem, Ryūnosuke Akutagawa, and many others. I am also pretty sure I first read Yukio Mishima somewhere on that foggy stretch.

I first read Yukio Mishima on the Oregon coast

Yukio Mishima was a pretty interesting guy...

If I am honest I know that there are probably less deals to be had now than when I was a teenager. The rise of Internet shopping has changed the book landscape, and every bookseller feels it — though I know it’s been especially hard for smaller, independent shops over the past decade. From a consumer’s perspective, since many books are now priced using Internet comparisons, books that should be expensive for the coast are sometimes cheap, and vice-versa.

But there is still something magical about these stores — two in particular that I really love. You walk through the aisles and find yourself caught, dizzily browsing the foreign and familiar names. If, like now, it is winter, then rain often lashes the small, old brick buildings. The town’s lonely boulevard is empty of tourists, and perhaps when the front door opens you hear the crash of waves nearby, through the mist.

Then — pay dirt! A $5.50 copy of that amazing Japanese or Italian novel you’ve been waiting to read, the one published a few years ago that you never bought.

So, check ‘em out:

Robert’s Bookshop
3412 S.E. Hwy 101
Lincoln City, Oregon 97367
541-994-4453

Yesterday’s Books‎
2051 Sherman Ave
North Bend, OR 97459-3306
(541) 756-7214

Books ‘N’ Bears
P. O. Box 2326
1255 Bay Street
Florence, Oregon 97439
541-997-5979

Filed Under: books, life

Andrew November 20, 2009

Reading Murakami Five Years Later

Kim and I have been reading The Wind-up Bird Chronice, one of Haruki Murakami’s best-known novels, for the past couple of months. It has taken us a long time to get half-way through the book. This is my second reading, and I am surprised to find that the author’s style, themes and approach leave me feeling a sense of distance that verges on yawning boredom.

I was the one who pushed for this book on our reading list, so I am a little shocked at my response. Murakami has meant and continues to mean a great deal to me as a writer. The first stories I wrote as a young adult were little more than imitations of Murakami (and, to a lesser extent, Raymond Carver). I doubt I am alone in my generation in saying that those two authors were my greatest early inspirations.

I know the exact month and year I first read Wind-up Bird. It was between March and April of 2003, during the US “Shock and Awe” military campaign in Iraq. That was back when Portland’s anti-war marches drew thousands of people, and I was one of those young men who never missed a demonstration, partly out of ill will and of course partly from a desire to witness conflict.

Sometime after the initial US bombing of Baghdad, I read one of the long chapters in Wind-up Bird that describes Japan’s invasion of Manchuria. The chapter was horrifying. Soviet soldiers take the Japanese narrator and his party hostage, then torture and kill one of them by skinning the man alive. Murakami’s own apparent self-searching over Japan’s responsibility for the atrocities of the Manchurian War struck home with me.

Now, though, I am bored by them. And when I am not bored I am simply irritated: “Why are you repeating yourself, Murakami? Do you care about May Kasahara and Kumiko, or are they just puppets?”

Why is that? It could be me — purely. I tend to read novels once, against Navokov’s advice, so it is possible that reading the book a second time brings the old boredom out. Perhaps I am not mature enough to return over and over to the same favorites.

Yet it seems that the opposite is true, and I have grown up. After reading Wind-up Bird in 2003, I set off driving down the West Coast to visit family in southern California. I was unemployed, having been laid off from my tech job due to outsourcing, and I blubbered to my California family over all the common ills of young adulthood, most of which came down to no money and lack of purpose.

Since then, I have witnessed the death of my father, traveled to Ghana, met my loving wife, watched in horror as the dollar declined. And I saw — for the first time in my life — the man I voted for as President elected.

In the aftermath of all these big, serious life events I seem to be left wondering, why is this book so remote? It can’t just be the translation: I read all his other stuff through that gauze; even this book. No, I think it’s Murakami’s style. His chained-together dreams, the way he always seems to grope in the dark for the next invented metaphor — these tics rub against me in the sentences and pages as Kim and I read them.

What I want now is something real, something concrete, as Toru Okada, the protagonist of Wind-up Bird might say. I suppose that means it is time to buy Murakami’s latest book, which in a strange contrast to most of his work is a non-fiction title on running (with a name that puns Raymond Carver’s famous short story, “What We Talk About When We Talk About Love”).

A book on running? No supernatural underworld, unexplained phenomena, one-armed men or disappearing shadows? Oddly enough, that sounds exactly like what I want at this moment in my life.