Over the last few monsoons I lived with the dread that the rain would
eventually find its ways through my leaky terrace roof and destroy my books.
Last August my fears came true when I woke up in the middle of the night to
see my room flooded and water leaking from the roof and through the walls.
Much of the night was spent rescuing the books and shifting them to a dry
room. While timing and speed were essential to the task at hand they were also
the key hazards navigating a slippery floor with books perched till one’s
neck. At the end of the rescue mission, I sat alone, exhausted amongst a
mountain of books assessing the damage that had been done, but also having
found books I had forgotten or had not seen in years; books which I had
thought had been permanently borrowed by others or misplaced found their way
back as I set many aside in a kind of ritual of renewed commitment.
Sorting the badly damaged from the mildly wet, I could not help but think
about the fragile histories of books from the library of Alexandria to the
great Florence flood of 1966. It may have seemed presumptuous to move from the
precarity of one’s small library and collection to these larger events, but is
there any other way in which one experiences earth-shattering events if not
via a microcosmic filtering through one’s own experiences? I sent a distressed
email to a friend Sandeep a committed bibliophile and book collector with a
fantastic personal library, who had also been responsible for many of my new
acquisitions. He wrote back on August 17, and I quote an extract of the email:
> Dear Lawrence
>
> I hope your books are fine. I feel for you very deeply, since my nightmares
about the future all contain as a key image my books rotting away under a
steady drip of grey water. Where was this leak, in the old house or in the
new? I spent some time looking at the books themselves: many of them I greeted
like old friends. I see you have Lewis Hyde’s _Trickster Makes the World_ and
Edward Rice’s _Captain Sir Richard Francis Burton_ in the pile: both top-class
books. (Burton is a bit of an obsession with me. The man did and saw
everything there was to do and see, and thought about it all, and wrote it all
down in a massive pile of notes and manuscripts. He squirrelled a fraction of
his scholarship into the tremendous footnotes to the Thousand and One Nights,
but most of it he could not publish without scandalising the Victorians, and
then he died, and his widow made a bonfire in the backyard, and burnt
everything because she disapproved of these products of a lifetime’s labors,
and of a lifetime such as few have ever had, and no one can ever have again. I
almost hope there is a special hell for Isabel Burton to burn in.)
Moving from one’s personal pile to the burning of the work of one of the
greatest autodidacts of the nineteenth century and back it was strangely
comforting to be reminded that libraries—the greatest of time machines
invented—were testimonies to both the grandeur and the fragility of
civilizations. Whenever I enter huge libraries it is with a tingling sense of
excitement normally reserved for horror movies, but at the same time this same
sense of awe is often accompanied by an almost debilitating sense of what it
means to encounter finitude as it is dwarfed by centuries of words and
scholarship. Yet strangely when I think of libraries it is rarely the New York
public library that comes to mind even as I wish that we could have similar
institutions in India. I think instead of much smaller collections—sometimes
of institutions but often just those of friends and acquaintances. I enjoy
browsing through people’s bookshelves, not just to discern their reading
preferences or to discover for myself unknown treasures, but also to take
delight in the local logic of their library, their spatial preferences and to
understand the order of things not as a global knowledge project but as a
personal, often quirky rationale.
[ ](//images.e-flux-systems.com/2012_09_library-of-congress.jpg,2000 "Machine
room for book transportation at the Library of Congress, early 20th century.")
Machine room for book transportation at the Library of Congress, early 20th
century.
Like romantic love, bibliophilia is perhaps shaped by one’s first love. The
first library that I knew intimately was a little six by eight foot shop
hidden in a by-lane off one of the busiest roads in Bangalore, Commercial
street. From its name to what it contained, Mecca stores could well have been
transported out of an Arabian nights tale. One side of the store was lined
with plastic ware and kitchen utensils of every shape and size while the other
wall was piled with books, comics, and magazines. From my eight-year-old
perspective it seemed large enough to contain all the knowledge of the world.
I earned a weekly stipend packing noodles for an hour every day after school
in the home shop that my parents ran, which I used to either borrow or buy
second hand books from the store. I was usually done with them by Sunday and
would have them reread by Wednesday. The real anguish came in waiting from
Wednesday to Friday for the next set. After finally acquiring a small
collection of books and comics myself I decided—spurred on by a fatal
combination of entrepreneurial enthusiasm and a pedantic desire to educate
others—to start a small library myself. Packing my books into a small aluminum
case and armed with a makeshift ledger, I went from house to house convincing
children in the neighborhood to forgo twenty-five paisa in exchange for a book
or comic with an additional caveat that they were not to share them with any
of their friends. While the enterprise got off to a reasonable start it soon
met its end when I realized that despite my instructions, my friends were
generously sharing the comics after they were done with them, which thereby
ended my biblioempire ambitions.
Over the past few years the explosion of ebook readers and consequent rise in
the availability of pirated books have opened new worlds to my booklust.
[Library.nu](library.nu), which began as gigapedia, suddenly made the idea of
the universal library seem like reality. By the time it shut down in February
2012 the library had close to a million books and over half a million active
users. Bibliophiles across the world were distraught when the site was shut
down and if it were ever possible to experience what the burning of the
library of Alexandria must have felt it was that collective ache of seeing the
closure of [library.nu.](library.nu)
What brings together something as monumental as the New York public library, a
collective enterprise like [library.nu](library.nu) and Mecca stores if not
the word library? As spaces they may have little in common but as virtual
spaces they speak as equals even if the scale of their imagination may differ.
All of them partake of their share in the world of logotopias. In an
exhibition designed to celebrate the place of the library in art, architecture
and imagination the curator Sascha Hastings coined the term logotopia to
designate “word places”—a happy coincidence of architecture and language.
There is however a risk of flattening the differences between these spaces by
classifying them all under a single utopian ideal of the library. Imagination
after all has a geography and physiology and requires our alertness to these
distinctions. Lets think instead of an entire pantheon (both of spaces as well
as practices) that we can designate as shadow libraries (or shadow logotopias
if you like) which exist in the shadows cast by the long history of monumental
libraries. While they are often dwarfed by the idea of the library, like the
shadows cast by our bodies, sometimes these shadows surge ahead of the body.
[ ](//images.e-flux-systems.com/2012_09_london-blitz-WEB.jpg,2000 "The London
Library after the Blitz, c. 1940.")
The London Library after the Blitz, c. 1940.
At the heart of all libraries lies a myth—that of the burning of the library
of Alexandria. No one knows what the library of Alexandria looked like or
possesses an accurate list of its contents. What we have long known though is
a sense of loss. But a loss of what? Of all the forms of knowledge in the
world in a particular time. Because that was precisely what the library of
Alexandria sought to collect under its roofs. It is believed that in order to
succeed in assembling a universal library, King Ptolemy I wrote “to all the
sovereigns and governors on earth” begging them to send to him every kind of
book by every kind of author, “poets and prose-writers, rhetoricians and
sophists, doctors and soothsayers, historians, and all others too.” The king’s
scholars had calculated that five hundred thousand scrolls would be required
if they were to collect in Alexandria “all the books of all the peoples of the
world.”1
What was special about the Library of Alexandria was the fact that until then
the libraries of the ancient world were either private collections of an
individual or government storehouses where legal and literary documents were
kept for official reference. By imagining a space where the public could have
access to all the knowledge of the world, the library also expressed a new
idea of the human itself. While the library of Alexandria is rightfully
celebrated, what is often forgotten in the mourning of its demise is another
library—one that existed in the shadows of the grand library but whose
whereabouts ensured that it survived Caesar’s papyrus destroying flames.
According to the Sicilian historian Diodorus Siculus, writing in the first
century BC, Alexandria boasted a second library, the so-called daughter
library, intended for the use of scholars not affiliated with the Museion. It
was situated in the south-western neighborhood of Alexandria, close to the
temple of Serapis, and was stocked with duplicate copies of the Museion
library’s holdings. This shadow library survived the fire that destroyed the
primary library of Alexandria but has since been eclipsed by the latter’s
myth.
Alberto Manguel says that if the library of Alexandria stood tall as an
expression of universal ambitions, there is another structure that haunts our
imagination: the tower of Babel. If the library attempted to conquer time, the
tower sought to vanquish space. He says “The Tower of Babel in space and the
Library of Alexandria in time are the twin symbols of these ambitions. In
their shadow, my small library is a reminder of both impossible yearnings—the
desire to contain all the tongues of Babel and the longing to possess all the
volumes of Alexandria.”2 Writing about the two failed projects Manguel adds
that when seen within the limiting frame of the real, the one exists only as
nebulous reality and the other as an unsuccessful if ambitious real estate
enterprise. But seen as myths, and in the imagination at night, the solidity
of both buildings for him is unimpeachable.3
The utopian ideal of the universal library was more than a question of built
up form or space or even the possibility of storing all of the knowledge of
the world; its real aspiration was in the illusion of order that it could
impose on a chaotic world where the lines drawn by a fine hairbrush
distinguished the world of animals from men, fairies from ghosts, science from
magic, and Europe from Japan. In some cases even after the physical structure
that housed the books had crumbled and the books had been reduced to dust the
ideal remained in the form of the order imagined for the library. One such
residual evidence comes to us by way of the _Pandectae_ —a comprehensive
bibliography created by Conrad Gesner in 1545 when he feared that the Ottoman
conquerors would destroy all the books in Europe. He created a bibliography
from which the library could be built again—an all embracing index which
contained a systematic organization of twenty principal groups with a matrix
like structure that contained 30,000 concepts.4
It is not surprising that Alberto Manguel would attempt write a literary,
historical and personal history of the library. As a seventeen-year-old man in
Buenos Aries, Manguel read for the blind seer Jorge Luis Borges who once
imagined in his appropriately named story—The Tower of Babel—paradise as a
kind of library. Modifying his mentor’s statement in what can be understood as
a gesture to the inevitable demands of the real and yet acknowledging the
possible pleasures of living in shadows, Manguel asserts that sometimes
paradise must adapt itself to suit circumstantial requirements. Similarly
Jacques Rancière writing about the libraries of the working class in the
eighteenth century tells us about Gauny a joiner and a boy in love with
vagrancy and botany who decides to build a library for himself. For the sons
of the poor proletarians living in Saint Marcel district, libraries were built
only a page at a time. He learnt to read by tracing the pages on which his
mother bought her lentils and would be disappointed whenever he came to the
end of a page and the next page was not available, even though he urged his
mother to buy her lentils from the same grocer. 5
[ ](//images.e-flux-systems.com/2012_09_DGF-D-Tropics-detail-hi-res-
WEB.jpg,2000 "Dominique Gonzalez-Foerster, Chronotopes & Dioramas , 2009.
Diorama installation at The Hispanic Society of America, New York.")
Dominique Gonzalez-Foerster, _Chronotopes & Dioramas_, 2009. Diorama
installation at The Hispanic Society of America, New York.
Is the utopian ideal of the universal library as exemplified by the library of
Alexandria or modernist pedagogic institutions of the twentieth century
adequate to the task of describing the space of the shadow library, or do we
need a different account of these other spaces? In an era of the ebook reader
where the line between a book and a library is blurred, the very idea of a
library is up for grabs. It has taken me well over two decades to build a
collection of a few thousand books while around two hundred thousand books
exist as bits and bytes on my computer. Admittedly hard drives crash and data
is lost, but is that the same threat as those of rain or fire? Which then is
my library and which its shadow? Or in the spirit of logotopias would it be
more appropriate to ask the spatial question: where is the library?
If the possibility of having 200,000 books on one’s computer feels staggering
here is an even more startling statistic. The Library of Congress which is the
largest library in the world with holdings of approximately thirty million
books, which would—if they were piled on the floor—cover 364 kilometers could
potentially fit into an SD card. It is estimated that by 2030 an ordinary SD
card will have the capacity of storing up to 64 TB and assuming each book were
digitized at an average size of 1MB it would technically be possible to fit
two Libraries of Congress in one’s pocket.
It sounds like science fiction, but isn’t it the case that much of the science
fiction of a decade ago finds itself comfortably within the weaves of everyday
life. How do we make sense of the future of the library? While it may be
tempting to throw our hands up in boggled perplexity about what it means to be
able to have thirty million books lets face it: the point of libraries have
never been that you will finish what’s there. Anyone with even a modest book
collection will testify to the impossibility of ever finishing their library
and if anything at all the library stands precisely at the cusp of our
finitude and our infinity. Perhaps that is what Borges—the consummate mixer of
time and space—meant when he described paradise as a library, not as a spatial
idea but a temporal one: that it was only within the confines of infinity that
one imagine finishing reading one’s library. It would therefore be more
interesting to think of the shadow library as a way of thinking about what it
means to dwell in knowledge. While all our aspirations for a habitat should
have a utopian element to them, lets face it, utopias have always been
difficult spaces to live in.
In contrast to the idea of utopia is heterotopia—a term with its origins in
medicine (referring to an organ of the body that had been dislodged from its
usual space) and popularized by Michel Foucault both in terms of language as
well as a spatial metaphor. If utopia exists as a nowhere or imaginary space
with no connection to any existing social spaces, then heterotopias in
contrast are realities that exist and are even foundational, but in which all
other spaces are potentially inverted and contested. A mirror for instance is
simultaneously a utopia (placeless place) even as it exists in reality. But
from the standpoint of the mirror you discover your absence as well. Foucault
remarks, “The mirror functions as a heterotopia in this respect: it makes this
place that I occupy at the moment when I look at myself in the glass at once
absolutely real, connected with all the space that surrounds it, and
absolutely unreal, since in order to be perceived it has to pass through this
virtual point which is over there.”6
In _The Order of Things_ Foucault sought to investigate the conceptual space
which makes the order of knowledge possible; in his famed reading of Borges’s
Chinese encyclopedia he argues that the impossibility involved in the
encyclopedia consists less in the fantastical status of the animals and their
coexistence with real animals such as (d) sucking pigs and (e) sirens, but in
where they coexist and what “transgresses the boundaries of all imagination,
of all possible thought, is simply that alphabetical series (a, b, c, d) which
links each of those categories to all the others.” 7 Heterotopias destabilize
the ground from which we build order and in doing so reframe the very
epistemic basis of how we know.
Foucault later developed a greater spatial understanding of heterotopias in
which he uses specific examples such as the cemetery (at once the space of the
familiar since everyone has someone in the cemetery and at the heart of the
city but also over a period of time the other city, where each family
possesses its dark resting place).8 Indeed, the paradox of heterotopias is
that they are both separate from yet connected to all other spaces. This
connectedness is precisely what builds contestation into heterotopias.
Imaginary spaces such as utopias exist completely outside of order.
Heteretopias by virtue of their connectedness become sites in which epistemes
collide and overlap. They bring together heterogeneous collections of unusual
things without allowing them a unity or order established through resemblance.
Instead, their ordering is derived from a process of similitude that produces,
in an almost magical, uncertain space, monstrous combinations that unsettle
the flow of discourse.
If the utopian ideal of the library was to bring together everything that we
know of the world then the length of its bookshelves was coterminous with the
breadth of the world. But like its predecessors in Alexandria and Babel the
project is destined to be incomplete haunted by what it necessarily leaves out
and misses. The library as heterotopia reveals itself only through the
interstices and lays bare the fiction of any possibility of a coherent ground
on which a knowledge project can be built. Finally there is the question of
where we stand once the grounds that we stand on itself has been dislodged.
The answer from my first foray into the tiny six by eight foot Mecca store to
the innumerable hours spent on [ library.nu]( library.nu) remains the same:
the heterotopic pleasure of our finite selves in infinity.
×
This essay is a part of a work I am doing for an exhibition curated by Raqs
Media Collective, Sarai Reader 09. The show began on August 19, 2012, with a
deceptively empty space containing only the proposal, with ideas for the
artworks to come over a period of nine months. See .
**Lawrence Liang** is a researcher and writer based at the Alternative Law
Forum, Bangalore. His work lies at the intersection of law and cultural
politics, and has in recent years been looking at question of media piracy. He
is currently finish a book on law and justice in Hindi cinema.
It is hard to avoid the feeling these days that the future is behind us. It’s
not so much that time has stopped, but rather that the sense of promise and
purpose that once drove historical progress has become impossible to sustain.
On the one hand, the faith in modernist, nationalist, or universalist utopias
continues to retreat, while on the other, a more immediate crisis of faith has
accompanied the widespread sense of diminishing economic prospects felt in so
many places. Not to mention...
Over the last few monsoons I lived with the dread that the rain would
eventually find its ways through my leaky terrace roof and destroy my books.
Last August my fears came true when I woke up in the middle of the night to
see my room flooded and water leaking from the roof and through the walls.
Much of the night was spent rescuing the books and shifting them to a dry
room. While timing and speed were essential to the task at hand they were also
the key hazards navigating a slippery floor...
Metahaven
## [Captives of the Cloud: Part I](/journal/37/61232/captives-of-the-cloud-
part-i/)
We are the voluntary prisoners of the cloud; we are being watched over by
governments we did not elect. Wael Ghonim, Google's Egyptian executive, said:
“If you want to liberate a society just give them the internet.” 1 But how
does one liberate a society that already has the internet? In a society
permanently connected through pervasive broadband networks, the shared
internet is, bit by bit and piece by piece, overshadowed by the “cloud.” The
Coming of the Cloud The cloud,...
Amelia Groom
## [There’s Nothing to See Here: Erasing the
Monochrome](/journal/37/61233/there-s-nothing-to-see-here-erasing-the-
monochrome/)
There was once a typist from Texas named Bette Nesmith Graham, who wasn’t very
good at her job. In 1951 she started erasing her typing mistakes with a white
tempera paint solution she mixed in her kitchen blender. She called her
invention Mistake Out and began distributing small green bottles of it to her
coworkers. In 1956 she founded the delectably named Mistake Out Company.
Shortly after, she was apparently fired from her typist job because she made a
“mistake” that she failed to cover...
Nato Thompson
## [The Last Pictures: Interview with Trevor Paglen](/journal/37/61238/the-
last-pictures-interview-with-trevor-paglen/)
In 1963 NASA launched the first communications satellite, Syncom 2, into a
geosynchronous orbit over the Atlantic Ocean. Since then, humans have slowly
and methodically added to this space-based communications infrastructure.
Currently, more than 800 spacecraft in geosynchronous orbit form a man-made
ring of satellites around Earth at an altitude of 36,000 kilometers. Most of
these spacecraft powered down long ago, yet continue to float aimlessly around
the planet. Geostationary satellites...
Claire Tancons
## [Carnival to Commons: Pussy Riot, Punk Protest, and the Exercise of
Democratic Culture](/journal/37/61239/carnival-to-commons-pussy-riot-punk-
protest-and-the-exercise-of-democratic-culture/)
Once again, the press has dismissed a popular movement as carnival—this time
not Occupy Wall Street, but the anti-Putin protests. On March 1, 2012, in a
Financial Times article titled “Carnival spirit is not enough to change
Russia,” Konstantin von Eggert wrote, “One cannot sustain [the movement] on
carnival spirit alone.” 1 A little over a week later, Reuters sought to close
the debate with an article by Alissa de Carbonnel, in which she announced,
“The carnival is over for Russia’s...
Anton Vidokle and Brian Kuan Wood
## [Breaking the Contract](/journal/37/61241/breaking-the-contract/)
1\. The Contract The Duchampian revolution leads not to the liberation of the
artist from work, but to his or her proletarization via alienated construction
and transportation work. In fact, contemporary art institutions no longer need
an artist as a traditional producer. Rather, today the artist is more often
hired for a certain period of time as a worker to realize this or that
institutional project. — Boris Groys 1 When his readymades entered the space
of art, Duchamp...
Shadow Libraries
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Notes - Shadow Libraries
1
Esther Shipman and Sascha Hastings eds., _Logotopia: The Library in
Architecture Art and the Imagination,_ (Cambridge Galleries: Abc Art Books
Canada, 2008).
Go to Text
2
Alberto Manguel, “My Library” in Hastings and Shipman eds. _Logotopia, The
Library in Art and Architecture and the Imagination, (Cambridge Galleries: ABC
Art Books Canada, 2008)._
Go to Text
3
Alberto Manguel, _The Library at Night_ , (Yale University Press 2009).
Go to Text
4
Ray Hastings and Esther Shipman, eds. _Logotopia: The Library in Architecture
Art and the Imagination_. Cambridge Galleries / ABC Art Books Canada, 2008.
Go to Text
5
Jacques Rancière, _The Nights of Labour: The Workers’ Dream in Nineteenth
Century France,_ (Philadelphia: Temple University Press, 1991).
Go to Text
6
Michel Foucault, “Different Spaces,” in _Aesthetics, Method, Epistemology_ ,
ed. James D. Faubion (New York: The New Press, 1998), 179; For Foucault on
language and heterotopias see _The Order of Things: An Archaeology of the
Human Sciences,_ (New York: Pantheon, 1970).
Go to Text
7
Ibid, xv.
Go to Text
8
In Foucault, “Different Spaces,” which was presented as a lecture to the
_Architecture Studies Circle_ in 1967, a few years after the writing of _The
Order of Things_.
Go to Text
Esther Shipman and Sascha Hastings eds., _Logotopia: The Library in
Architecture Art and the Imagination,_ (Cambridge Galleries: Abc Art Books
Canada, 2008).
Alberto Manguel, “My Library” in Hastings and Shipman eds. _Logotopia, The
Library in Art and Architecture and the Imagination, (Cambridge Galleries: ABC
Art Books Canada, 2008)._
Alberto Manguel, _The Library at Night_ , (Yale University Press 2009).
Ray Hastings and Esther Shipman, eds. _Logotopia: The Library in Architecture
Art and the Imagination_. Cambridge Galleries / ABC Art Books Canada, 2008.
Jacques Rancière, _The Nights of Labour: The Workers’ Dream in Nineteenth
Century France,_ (Philadelphia: Temple University Press, 1991).
Michel Foucault, “Different Spaces,” in _Aesthetics, Method, Epistemology_ ,
ed. James D. Faubion (New York: The New Press, 1998), 179; For Foucault on
language and heterotopias see _The Order of Things: An Archaeology of the
Human Sciences,_ (New York: Pantheon, 1970).
Ibid, xv.
In Foucault, “Different Spaces,” which was presented as a lecture to the
_Architecture Studies Circle_ in 1967, a few years after the writing of _The
Order of Things_.
Barok
Communing Texts
2014
Communing Texts
_A talk given on the second day of the conference_ [Off the
Press](http://digitalpublishingtoolkit.org/22-23-may-2014/program/) _held at
WORM, Rotterdam, on May 23, 2014. Also available
in[PDF](/images/2/28/Barok_2014_Communing_Texts.pdf "Barok 2014 Communing
Texts.pdf")._
I am going to talk about publishing in the humanities, including scanning
culture, and its unrealised potentials online. For this I will treat the
internet not only as a platform for storage and distribution but also as a
medium with its own specific means for reading and writing, and consider the
relevance of plain text and its various rendering formats, such as HTML, XML,
markdown, wikitext and TeX.
One of the main reasons why books today are downloaded and bookmarked but
hardly read is the fact that they may contain something relevant but they
begin at the beginning and end at the end; or at least we are used to treat
them in this way. E-book readers and browsers are equipped with fulltext
search functionality but the search for "how does the internet change the way
we read" doesn't yield anything interesting but the diversion of attention.
Whilst there are dozens of books written on this issue. When being insistent,
one easily ends up with a folder with dozens of other books, stucked with how
to read them. There is a plethora of books online, yet there are indeed mostly
machines reading them.
It is surely tempting to celebrate or to despise the age of artificial
intelligence, flat ontology and narrowing down the differences between humans
and machines, and to write books as if only for machines or return to the
analogue, but we may as well look back and reconsider the beauty of simple
linear reading of the age of print, not for nostalgia but for what we can
learn from it.
This perspective implies treating texts in their context, and particularly in
the way they commute, how they are brought in relations with one another, into
a community, by the mere act of writing, through a technique that have
developed over time into what we have came to call _referencing_. While in the
early days referring to texts was practised simply as verbal description of a
referred writing, over millenia it evolved into a technique with standardised
practices and styles, and accordingly: it gained _precision_. This precision
is however nothing machinic, since referring to particular passages in other
texts instead of texts as wholes is an act of comradeship because it spares
the reader time when locating the passage. It also makes apparent that it is
through contexts that the web of printed books has been woven. But even though
referencing in its precision has been meant to be very concrete, particularly
the advent of the web made apparent that it is instead _virtual_. And for the
reader, laborous to follow. The web has shown and taught us that a reference
from one document to another can be plastic. To follow a reference from a
printed book the reader has to stand up, walk down the street to a library,
pick up the referred volume, flip through its pages until the referred one is
found and then follow the text until the passage most probably implied in the
text is identified, while on the web the reader, _ideally_ , merely moves her
finger a few milimeters. To click or tap; the difference between the long way
and the short way is obviously the hyperlink. Of course, in the absence of the
short way, even scholars are used to follow the reference the long way only as
an exception: there was established an unwritten rule to write for readers who
are familiar with literature in the respective field (what in turn reproduces
disciplinarity of the reader and writer), while in the case of unfamiliarity
with referred passage the reader inducts its content by interpreting its
interpretation of the writer. The beauty of reading across references was
never fully realised. But now our question is, can we be so certain that this
practice is still necessary today?
The web silently brought about a way to _implement_ the plasticity of this
pointing although it has not been realised as the legacy of referencing as we
know it from print. Today, when linking a text and having a particular passage
in mind, and even describing it in detail, the majority of links physically
point merely to the beginning of the text. Hyperlinks are linking documents as
wholes by default and the use of anchors in texts has been hardly thought of
as a _requirement_ to enable precise linking.
If we look at popular online journalism and its use of hyperlinks within the
text body we may claim that rarely someone can afford to read all those linked
articles, not even talking about hundreds of pages long reports and the like
and if something is wrong, it would get corrected via comments anyway. On the
internet, the writer is meant to be in more immediate feedback with the
reader. But not always readers are keen to comment and not always they are
allowed to. We may be easily driven to forget that quoting half of the
sentence is never quoting a full sentence, and if there ought to be the entire
quote, its source text in its whole length would need to be quoted. Think of
the quote _information wants to be free_ , which is rarely quoted with its
wider context taken into account. Even factoids, numbers, can be carbon-quoted
but if taken out of the context their meaning can be shaped significantly. The
reason for aversion to follow a reference may well be that we are usually
pointed to begin reading another text from its beginning.
While this is exactly where the practices of linking as on the web and
referencing as in scholarly work may benefit from one another. The question is
_how_ to bring them closer together.
An approach I am going to propose requires a conceptual leap to something we
have not been taught.
For centuries, the primary format of the text has been the page, a vessel, a
medium, a frame containing text embedded between straight, less or more
explicit, horizontal and vertical borders. Even before the material of the
page such as papyrus and paper appeared, the text was already contained in
lines and columns, a structure which we have learnt to perceive as a grid. The
idea of the grid allows us to view text as being structured in lines and
pages, that are in turn in hand if something is to be referred to. Pages are
counted as the distance from the beginning of the book, and lines as the
distance from the beginning of the page. It is not surprising because it is in
accord with inherent quality of its material medium -- a sheet of paper has a
shape which in turn shapes a body of a text. This tradition goes as far as to
the Ancient times and the bookroll in which we indeed find textual grids.
[](/File:Papyrus_of_Plato_Phaedrus.jpg)
A crucial difference between print and digital is that text files such as HTML
documents nor markdown documents nor database-driven texts did inherit this
quality. Their containers are simply not structured into pages, precisely
because of the nature of their materiality as media. Files are written on
memory drives in scattered chunks, beginning at point A and ending at point B
of a drive, continuing from C until D, and so on. Where does each of these
chunks start is ultimately independent from what it contains.
Forensic archaeologists would confirm that when a portion of a text survives,
in the case of ASCII documents it is not a page here and page there, or the
first half of the book, but textual blocks from completely arbitrary places of
the document.
This may sound unrelated to how we, humans, structure our writing in HTML
documents, emails, Office documents, even computer code, but it is a reminder
that we structure them for habitual (interfaces are rectangular) and cultural
(human-readability) reasons rather then for a technical necessity that would
stem from material properties of the medium. This distinction is apparent for
example in HTML, XML, wikitext and TeX documents with their content being both
stored on the physical drive and treated when rendered for reading interfaces
as single flow of text, and the same goes for other texts when treated with
automatic line-break setting turned off. Because line-breaks and spaces and
everything else is merely a number corresponding to a symbol in character set.
So how to address a section in this kind of document? An option offers itself
-- how computers do, or rather how we made them do it -- as a position of the
beginning of the section in the array, in one long line. It would mean to
treat the text document not in its grid-like format but as line, which merely
adapts to properties of its display when rendered. As it is nicely implied in
the animated logo of this event and as we know it from EPUBs for example.
In the case of 'reference-linking' we can refer to a passage by including the
information about its beginning and length determined by the character
position within the text (in analogy to _pp._ operator used for printed
publications) as well as the text version information (in printed texts served
by edition and date of publication). So what is common in printed text as the
page information is here replaced by the character position range and version.
Such a reference-link is more precise while addressing particular section of a
particular version of a document regardless of how it is rendered on an
interface.
It is a relatively simple idea and its implementation does not be seem to be
very hard, although I wonder why it has not been implemented already. I
discussed it with several people yesterday to find out there were indeed
already attempts in this direction. Adam Hyde pointed me to a proposal for
_fuzzy anchors_ presented on the blog of the Hypothes.is initiative last year,
which in order to overcome the need for versioning employs diff algorithms to
locate the referred section, although it is too complicated to be explained in
this setting.[1] Aaaarg has recently implemented in its PDF reader an option
to generate URLs for a particular point in the scanned document which itself
is a great improvement although it treats texts as images, thus being specific
to a particular scan of a book, and generated links are not public URLs.
Using the character position in references requires an agreement on how to
count. There are at least two options. One is to include all source code in
positioning, which means measuring the distance from the anchor such as the
beginning of the text, the beginning of the chapter, or the beginning of the
paragraph. The second option is to make a distinction between operators and
operands, and count only in operands. Here there are further options where to
make the line between them. We can consider as operands only characters with
phonetic properties -- letters, numbers and symbols, stripping the text from
operators that are there to shape sonic and visual rendering of the text such
as whitespaces, commas, periods, HTML and markdown and other tags so that we
are left with the body of the text to count in. This would mean to render
operators unreferrable and count as in _scriptio continua_.
_Scriptio continua_ is a very old example of the linear onedimensional
treatment of the text. Let's look again at the bookroll with Plato's writing.
Even though it is 'designed' into grids on a closer look it reveals the lack
of any other structural elements -- there are no spaces, commas, periods or
line-breaks, the text is merely one flow, one long line.
_Phaedrus_ was written in the fourth century BC (this copy comes from the
second century AD). Word and paragraph separators were reintroduced much
later, between the second and sixth century AD when rolls were gradually
transcribed into codices that were bound as pages and numbered (a dramatic
change in publishing comparable to digital changes today).[2]
'Reference-linking' has not been prominent in discussions about sharing books
online and I only came to realise its significance during my preparations for
this event. There is a tremendous amount of very old, recent and new texts
online but we haven't done much in opening them up to contextual reading. In
this there are publishers of all 'grounds' together.
We are equipped to treat the internet not only as repository and library but
to take into account its potentials of reading that have been hiding in front
of our very eyes. To expand the notion of hyperlink by taking into account
techniques of referencing and to expand the notion of referencing by realising
its plasticity which has always been imagined as if it is there. To mesh texts
with public URLs to enable entaglement of referencing and hyperlinks. Here,
open access gains its further relevance and importance.
Dušan Barok
_Written May 21-23, 2014, in Vienna and Rotterdam. Revised May 28, 2014._
Notes
1. ↑ Proposals for paragraph-based hyperlinking can be traced back to the work of Douglas Engelbart, and today there is a number of related ideas, some of which were implemented on a small scale: fuzzy anchoring, 1(http://hypothes.is/blog/fuzzy-anchoring/); purple numbers, 2(http://project.cim3.net/wiki/PMWX_White_Paper_2008); robust anchors, 3(http://github.com/hypothesis/h/wiki/robust-anchors); _Emphasis_ , 4(http://open.blogs.nytimes.com/2011/01/11/emphasis-update-and-source); and others 5(http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Fragment_identifier#Proposals). The dependence on structural elements such as paragraphs is one of their shortcoming making them not suitable for texts with longer paragraphs (e.g. Adorno's _Aesthetic Theory_ ), visual poetry or computer code; another is the requirement to store anchors along the text.
2. ↑ Works which happened not to be of interest at the time ceased to be copied and mostly disappeared. On the book roll and its gradual replacement by the codex see William A. Johnson, "The Ancient Book", in _The Oxford Handbook of Papyrology_ , ed. Roger S. Bagnall, Oxford, 2009, pp 256-281, 6(http://google.com/books?id=6GRcLuc124oC&pg=PA256).
Addendum (June 9)
Arie Altena wrote a [report from the
panel](http://digitalpublishingtoolkit.org/2014/05/off-the-press-report-day-
ii/) published on the website of Digital Publishing Toolkit initiative,
followed by another [summary of the
talk](http://digitalpublishingtoolkit.org/2014/05/dusan-barok-digital-imprint-
the-motion-of-publishing/) by Irina Enache.
The online repository Aaaaarg [has
introduced](http://twitter.com/aaaarg/status/474717492808413184) the
reference-link function in its document viewer, see [an
example](http://aaaaarg.fail/ref/60090008362c07ed5a312cda7d26ecb8#0.102).