[supplied title]

what Silicon Valley could have looked like

A few days ago, The Atlantic Cities ran a piece featuring designer Alfred Twu's visualizations of "What Silicon Valley Might Look Like If All of Its Employees Actually Lived There". These are imaginary designs, of course, but they show how dense the region could be if future development were aimed at bringing in more residents and reducing the number of people who commute from San Francisco and elsewhere.

What people might not know is that there was a brief moment when the southern Bay Area could have been developed more densely in the first place. During the 1950s, the Bay Area Rapid Transit Commission investigated the possibilities for building rapid transit in the Bay Area (as one might guess from the title of the commission). Their work ultimately led to the construction of the Bay Area Rapid Transit (BART) system in place today.

Back when I was a grad student in history, I did some research into the early BART planning process and ended up writing a paper on how the West Bay counties - Santa Clara, San Mateo, and Marin - ended up dropping out before any BART development got started. I don't have time to get into all the details here, but briefly: the BART Commission asked the firm Parsons, Brinckerhoff, Hall, and MacDonald (PBHM) to produce a report examining the possibilities of rapid transit for the nine Bay Area counties.

This report came out in 1956 and recommended a multi-stage development schedule.1 The first stage would have covered the urban core (SF-Oakland-Alameda-Berkeley) and stretched into Contra Costa, Alameda, Marin, and San Mateo counties. The Peninsula endpoint would have been Palo Alto. The second stage of development would have brought BART to Santa Clara County and San Jose. Obviously, only some of these plans were implemented and even now BART barely touches San Mateo county.

One of the guiding ideas behind the 1956 PBHM report and the whole early BART planning process was that rapid transit would be used principally to relieve highway congestion rather than shape new development. That might seem like an odd way to look at things, but as far as I could tell from my research, the majority of people involved in planning BART didn't think that (suburban) people would ride rapid transit without the external motivation of congested highways.

So the justification for leaving out the South Bay in the first stage of BART construction was that the area still lacked the population needed to generate the kind of car traffic that BART would then relieve. At the time, Santa Clara County was still fairly agricultural: population growth in San Jose and what would become known as Silicon Valley was just starting to take off. The PBHM report actually considered highway construction to be preferable to rapid transit in Santa Clara County in the near-term.

Karl Belser, the Santa Clara County Planning Director, saw things differently. I'm just going to quote from my paper here:

Presenting a view of rapid transit at odds with PBHM's assumptions, Belser stated that the county had already exhausted its most logical alignments for highway building and was “scraping the bottom of the barrel for added freeway lanes.”2 Instead, the county’s future growth and prosperity depended on the immediate construction of both rapid transit and highways. Belser anticipated a county population of 750,000 by 1965 and one million by 1975; PBHM’s figures projected a high of around 1.1 million only in 1990. Belser called for the “three way linkage of the San Francisco, San Jose, and Oakland area by rapid transit as the means of welding these three major population concentrations together into one great metropolitan complex.” Advocating a realistic approach to planning, he pointed out that even the first stage of construction could take over ten years to complete. By that time Santa Clara clearly would need rapid transit. Furthermore, if constructed at present the line would pass through “relatively open country” without having to deal with existing development and high land costs. Now Belser came to the core of his disagreement with PBHM: freeway and rapid transit

are dynamically competitive and it is difficult enough to overcome tradition and habit without having such bents built into the physical pattern. In northern Santa Clara County and southern Alameda County the possibility of changing the direction of development and orienting it specifically to the transit system is still open. It would be possible to provide a type of urban living facility which would be primarily based on the transit system for mobility. This would…be a sort of assured patronage for the long range use of the facility…Such a new direction needs to be understood and planned for at the earliest possible time in a rapidly developing area such as ours.

Drawing comparisons with Europe – especially Paris – he thought that his county still had the chance to use transit to help build multiple-unit housing for people with lower incomes who could not afford cars – the very people many BART advocates simply ignored. Projecting future growth heavily oriented towards manufacturing, Belser worried that, “if industry locates itself hit of miss without regard to rapid transit, it becomes impossible, as it is today in Los Angeles, to locate effective desire lines on which to locate the line…Thus if the lines of the system were defined now it would be possible through proper parallel planning to connect areas of residence with areas of employment.” [end quotation from my paper]

Pretty much none of what Belser envisioned actually came to pass and in 1970, with Santa Clara County's car-oriented pattern well in place, Belser published an article called "The Making of Slurban America" lamenting what happened to the county.3

  1. Parsons, Brinckerhoff, Hall, and MacDonald, Regional Rapid Transit: A Report to the Bay Area Rapid Transit Commission 1953-1955, 1956. 

  2. Karl Belser, “Rapid Transit Extension to San Jose An Address Made By Karl J. Belser,” 11 Sep 1956, BART Commission Progress Reports, A18-1.1, California State Archives. All of the Belser quotes in this post are from this same document. 

  3. Karl J. Belser, "The Making of Slurban America," Cry California, 5 (Fall 1970): 1-21. 


I guess I could sit here and mess with the color scheme for this blog indefinitely, or I could just start writing blog posts again. I only wrote three posts in 2013, and by the end of the year I was down to just checking my site every now and then to make sure it was still online.1 I'm making a few changes that I hope will get me blogging regularly again:

1. New URL

Back in 2012, after reading a bunch of advice on choosing domain names, I decided to use my own name for my other site. Much of the advice I read boiled down to consistency and identifiability. People change blog titles all the time but personal names, while not necessarily stable, tend to have more persistence. So if you've decided to use your "real" name online and are creating a website to go with that identity, it makes sense to go with an eponymous domain. I still think that's a good idea and I still have plans to use that domain as a personal website. It might just link out to writings and projects, but that's ok.

For the blog itself, however, I found myself surprisingly uncomfortable seeing my own name out there every time I wanted to post a link. It got to the point that I didn't want to post links to my own writing, or write things that would end up with my name in the URL.2 Hence the new domain, which makes the URL match the blog title. Will I always have a blog with this title? Maybe not, but I've moved on from blog to blog before.

2. Octopress instead of Wordpress

The bigger change, which might not be that visible beyond the difference in layout/theme, is the move from Wordpress to Octopress. I'll probably put up a separate post about the differences, so I won't get into too much detail here, but essentially Wordpress is a dynamic content management system while Octopress - which I had not heard of before some friends mentioned it on twitter - is a type of static site generator. What this boils down to is that Wordpress is built on various technologies that make it possible to interact with a website on and through the web, while Octopress does a bunch of stuff on my computer that generates static files (html and css, obviously, but you can include lots of things) which are then placed on the web.

There are advantages and disadvantages to this move, most of which I'll gloss over here, but the most noticeable difference from a reading point of view is the lack of comments. Since the site is static and not backed by a database or anything like that, there's no place to save user input without using a third-party add-on. Octopress is built to work out-of-the box with the Disqus comment system, which embeds the comments interface as a third-party application at the bottom of each post, but I don't have a Disqus account and won't set one up until I've looked into their policies more closely. I have added a contact page and I welcome feedback, although I can't promise I'll be able to respond to every email.

From my point of view as someone who wants to learn some new skills, there are advantages in moving to Octopress that outweigh the loss of things like built-in comments. Octopress relies on a bunch of things that I've either never used before or used only occasionally: git, ruby, markdown, css processing with Sass, SSH and Rsync.3 I can also maintain my site entirely from the terminal if I want to, which gives me an excuse to use in-terminal text editors and shell commands more often. That all might sound like a lot of work, but this is stuff I want to learn anyway and having an ongoing project makes me more likely to stick with it. And writing simple posts like this is easy.

3. Shorter posts, if not in length, then in time spent writing

When I get started, I can write a lot fairly quickly, but all too often I end up writing long posts infrequently. I don't think the occasional longer post is a bad thing, but waiting until I have something essay-like to write has been bad for my blogging. Those posts take a long time and this has generated a feedback loop where I really want to write something but then I think I should get more background before writing and then I think about how long it will take to write and then I keep putting it off. I usually do a fair bit of the gathering background part, so I end up learning a fair amount, but then everything just stays with me and I never write it down. There are still a few longer things I want to write, but I'm going to try not to let them get in the way of other stuff. I didn't have to move to a new website to change how I approach blogging, but I figure this is a good time to start.

So that's it. In the past I'd try to think of some neat wrap-up paragraph for this post, but I think it's enough that I'm actually writing again.

  1. Meanwhile, I kept getting notices from my web host that my installation of Wordpress needed to be upgraded. I did the upgrades, at least. I also renewed my domain. So I never gave up on the site completely. 

  2. This is probably something I should have gotten over, but whatever. It's easy enough, if not free, to get a new domain for the blog and blog-related activities. 

  3. Technically, you don't have to use Rsync to publish a site with Octopress. But it's the method I'm currently using to communicate with my hosting provider. 

what would it take for historians to be able to share archival material?

Recently, a friend of mine asked if I had any thoughts on why historians tend not to do much sharing of archival materials - that is, of materials that they've collected in the course of their research. I said I didn't really know why, but I could speculate, and since speculation is one of the reasons blogs exist, I thought it would be worth writing up a post about it. The conversation also got me thinking in a more positive direction: let's say historians do start sharing more archival material, what forms could that sharing take? What kind of infrastructure would they need? Is it something we could start building now?

But first, what do we mean by sharing archival material? Let's say you're a historian and you're on a research trip. You request material and some of it turns out to be relevant to your research, some not so much. (And some of it is just too interesting to pass up.) You take notes, maybe even make some full transcriptions, but there are almost always going to be some materials that you decide you want to copy. Maybe you want to be able to see just how the document was laid out, maybe you want exact wording but don't have time to transcribe it, or maybe you simply don't have enough time to read the documents during your visit, but you can take lots of photographs quickly. Whatever the reason, odds are you're going to come home and find yourself with lots of copies of archival material from the trip. This is the kind of material we were talking about sharing.

A second preliminary point: historians do share. Maybe not everyone, maybe not all the time, and almost certainly not everything, but I don't want to give the impression that historians solely collect and hoard documents and then guard their hoards. However, I think much of the sharing that goes on stops short of sharing actual (copies of) material. You'll see historians talk to each other about what they've found; give each other advice about what to expect when working at a particular place or on a particular collection; or even publish articles in historical journals discussing where to find sources for various topics or, conversely, what kind of topics could be researched using  particular collections. All of this certainly counts as sharing, but it may not extend to the sharing of archival material to go along with information about archival material. That said, there is still a tradition of formally publishing selected primary sources, whether in journals or as edited book collections. This may consist of archival material (in the sense that archivists understand by the word "archives") and previously published material.

I am deep in the realms of speculation here, but I suspect that when historians do share archival material - outside of formal publication - it tends to be stuff they are not actively using. This could be stuff they're done with, or it could be "incidental finds": stuff they've collected that turns out not to fit in with their research, but which they know may be relevant to another researcher ("I was looking through the papers of so-and-so and came across these letters, thought you'd be interested so I'm passing them along"). Sharing those kinds of finds is, not so incidentally, one of the reasons I went into the archives/library fields: I love playing matchmaker between sources and researchers.

These kinds of sharing - whether of information, materials, published research - shows the scholarly community at its best, so why don't more historians do more sharing of archival materials (assuming that it is accurate to say that many don't)?

Here are my guesses:

1. It hasn't become standard practice, so it's not something that occurs to everyone while they're doing research. That may be a tautological explanation, but I really think this is something that could be self-reinforcing: if more historians were already sharing material, then you'd probably see more sharing. There'd be more models for it.

2. Worries about being "scooped." Releasing their raw materials, so to speak, might make it possible for someone else to use the material they collected and then publish first. Depending on context, this might be a real concern, but in other cases the two historians might end up taking very different interpretative approaches: priority in publishing isn't quite as important in history as in some other fields. Also, this shouldn't really be a big concern once the historian who collected the material has published.

3. This is closely related to point 2: historians still generally get the most credit for traditional publications. This seems to be changing, but the incentives have long been weighted towards publishing and disseminating finished research, rather than the materials on which research could be based.

4. A "do your own research" ethic. Maybe I'm being uncharitable here, but I think many people who are more than willing to talk about material they've found could still be reluctant to share the copies they've made themselves, especially if it took a lot of time, effort, and money to collect them. I suspect people are more willing to share when they've built up trust with their colleagues and when there's some reciprocity involved. This also ties in to the point about credit and incentives.

5. Permissions/rights. In my experience researching the 19th and 20th century US, it's pretty uncommon to come across truly unrestricted archival materials. In the days when I primarily requested photocopies, the vast majority of those copies arrived with stamps on them saying that they were for personal research use only and that further permission would be required if I wanted to use them for any other purpose. Even when taking digital photos myself, there's usually an agreement somewhere that puts similar restrictions on those images. Furthermore, copyright in unpublished materials can be a really complicated area, especially if it's not something you've been trained to navigate. The physical owner of a letter, for instance, might not have the right to publish that letter, much less grant permission to do so to someone else.

6. Lack of infrastructure. Let's say you have material to share and you have the right to share it (or are just willing to take risks): how are you going to do that? You could e-mail a few files or send out paper copies in an envelope - if there even is a paper form to your records - but what if you have a hundred or more files/images/pages?  And how are you going to handle the descriptive context and content that goes with the material? You usually need citation and location information, at the very least, if you're going to authenticate the materials as being legitimate copies of the originals. You should have this information, if your intent was to collect things in a way that would make it possible to cite them later, but it's still something to watch out for.

I think that last point is really key: once you've gotten past all of the other objections, there's still the problem of coming up with an effective way to share material that the average historian could actually carry out without too much trouble. Not everyone has the time/background/resources to just go out and build  their own digital repository/collection/archive (I'm sidestepping the terminology question here).

What are the possibilities? I can think of a few:

1. Personal networks. I guess you could call this peer-to-peer sharing, if you like putting everything into technology terms. This is basically scholars sharing material with each other at an individual level. This can be done through the mail or in person - I assume that for most of the history of history, when scholars shared material this is how they did it - or through e-mail or other file transfer methods.

Advantages: It's pretty simple and doesn't really require historians to do anything they don't already know how to do, unless they're trying some complicated file transfer method. It also happens to be a method that historians are already using.

Challenges: It's not public, for one thing. So it's not quite open sharing. (For some I'm sure that's a feature, not a bug.) It also might not scale very well as the volume of material that gets transferred grows. Plus there's a potential problem of losing track of essential metadata when sending around batches of image files: you have to be careful not to end up with directories full of filenames like DSCG1128 with no clear indication of what archives and what collections those files are supposed to be linked to. That latter issue is something everyone has to face when managing image and text collections, but coordinating among many different individuals is likely to be more difficult than coordinating among institutions or groups.

2. Historian-hosted websites: Historians could set up their own websites to host the material they want to share.

Advantages: This could be open to any visitor, though of course the site owner could also employ password protection. It also would maintain the connection between the historian who collected the material and the material. If the historian were to change affiliation, as often happens in the academic world, the site could "move" with them fairly easily (in the sense of being updated to reflect the new affiliation).

Challenges: It requires historians to know how to host a site and manage an image and/or text collection, or at least to have access to someone with that knowledge. (Note: I'm not saying these are bad skills to have, just that you can't assume many historians have them right now.) This actually might not be too difficult, depending on the platform being used. I didn't have to know much about the internal workings of wordpress to be able to set up this blog, but finding a pre-packaged archival system that's easy for a regular user to set up and maintain is a bit trickier. Wordpress is comparatively simple.

Also, this could lead to material being distributed across dozens of personal sites, which could make it difficult to find things. As with option 1, coordinating among lots of individuals can be difficult. And what if two or more historians have materials they copied out of the same collection? Ideally, that would get linked up.

3. Institutional hosting based on the researcher's affiliation: The researcher's home institution supports and hosts the materials.

Advantages: As in the historian-hosted model, in this model the materials could be placed on the open web. Ideally, institutional support would mean that the institution's archivists, librarians and IT staff would all collaborate, reducing the burden on any one individual. Institutions might be able to work the archival materials into existing infrastructure, such as a digital repository if they have one up and running.

Challenges: As mentioned above, academics often change affiliation. What happens to the material then? Does it become part of the institution's holdings or will it be transferred? Or will one copy go with the historian and one stay with the institution? And will the new institution want to host material that's been/being hosted elsewhere?

Another issue that could come up is the difference between records that the historian produces - such as notes, drafts, teaching materials, and other personal papers - and those that the historian collects - such as archival and other source material, much of which will be copies of materials held at other institutions. The historian's home institution might be very interested in keeping the (or "their") historian's personal papers while at the same time being reluctant to keep copies of source materials taken from elsewhere.

There would also still be a need for coordination to make it possible for researchers to search across different institutions' holdings. This is essentially the same problem the historian-hosted model would face, but at least there would be fewer institutional sites and many institutions already have a history of sharing metadata.

One additional note: the Valley of the Shadow project, which I think has been both successful and influential, might fit this model. William G. Thomas III and Edward Ayers have since moved to other institutions, but the site remains at the University of Virginia.

4. Archival institution hosting: in this model, the institution that holds the original also makes the digital copy available.

Advantages: lots of archives already have ongoing digitization projects. As holders of the originals, they are in the best position to authenticate the material they put on the web. They are also in the best position to maintain the links between individual items and their archival context - that is, where the items fit in within the larger context of the collection and perhaps of the institution as a whole. Duplication of copies among researchers shouldn't be a problem, as the originals (or maybe we should call them "original copies"?) will be available at the archives' site.

Challenges: Historians' choices of what to copy and archivists' choices of what to copy are likely to diverge quite often. Historians are probably most interested in individual items or ranges of material within collections. This can make perfect sense in the context of a research program, but to an outside observer it might look rather haphazard and partial and may not make the best focus for a digitization project. Archivists have to be concerned with their own institutional priorities and in many archives historians may not even be the primary users. That said, there are surely many opportunities to collaborate  on projects and I'm sure that historians will find many archives' own digitization projects useful for their research.

As for the kind of sharing I've been talking about in this post, there are some archives that employ "scan-on-demand" policies in which material is scanned as it's requested. I don't know how many of these scans get posted to the open web - in some cases, the scanning simply makes it less costly to produce additional copies in the future - but it could be one way to facilitate sharing among historians. I think some archives are also experimenting with programs where historians can take digital photographs in the course of their own research and then have the option of giving the archives a copy of those photos (or some subset of them) to then be put on the web. But I'm not sure if that's actually happening, or I've just read about it as a proposal.

5. Some other kind of consortial or centralized hosting. Could this be something like an arxiv for collected archival material? In theory, it would be possible to create something like that, but getting it off the ground could be difficult, as it would have to find a home somewhere. Maybe this is a possibility that the Digital Public Library of America could look into. Many public libraries have history rooms, after all.

Those are the five main models I could come up with off the top of my head. I think you can probably find actual examples of the first four, although I'm not sure I've come across a personal website hosting copies of archival material. My takeaways from this exercise:

  1. Outside of mailing packages from place to place, we're really talking about digitized or digital materials here and the web remains the most open way to share them.
  2. To make this kind of sharing more open and more routine, historians need to have relatively accessible ways to transfer their material into a system for sharing.
  3. In the near future, I think we'll see the first and third model most often. That is, historians will continue to share with colleagues and peers at an individual level, while larger-scale sharing will come mostly in the form of projects. Projects make it possible to pool resources and seem to align best with scholarly incentives.
  4. As for model 4, I think archives-driven projects will continue to be much more common within archives than historian-driven projects, for obvious reasons. However, the boundaries between models 3 and 4 are pretty artificial, as archives and research institutions already do a lot of collaboration - not to mention the fact that many universities have archives and special collections on campus. So in some ways the boundaries are an artifact of the way I've set up the post.
  5. There need to be ways to share and combine metadata so that people can search and browse across sites and collections. This is already true and people are working on it.
  6. There's no escaping permissions and rights questions. Another point already in effect.
  7. A lot of what I've written here applies to any type of researcher who uses archives. I've focused on historians because that's the context of my original conversation but I don't mean to exclude other researcher groups from the larger discussion.
  8. There are a lot of issues I haven't even gotten into, such as bulk access to archival material.
  9. Sometimes you just have to see the originals for yourself. Nothing wrong with that, especially if you like visiting archives and you've got time and support.

learning to cursive

Judith Thurman's recent post at the New Yorker blog on cursive handwriting and the Declaration of Independence reminded me of something I wrote some time ago about my own experiences learning to write and read cursive. Reading it over now, I don't think schoolkid me would have been sad to see schools decide not to teach cursive anymore.


One of my earliest memories is of being in a shopping cart. This is followed by a memory of being on the floor of a supermarket near a shopping cart, followed by a memory of being in the car, my right arm propped up against the door, on the way to the hospital where my arm was put in a cast.

I'd like to think that being right-handed and breaking my right arm when I was four is the reason handwriting was so difficult for me, but it's more likely that I simply lacked a bit of coordination at that age. I also had trouble coloring inside the lines and cutting things with scissors along the lines. And I still don't hold eating utensils correctly. For quite a while, long after the cast came off, I could grip a pencil only with the help of a triangular accessory, but eventually I got the hang of it.

I don't remember how my printing looked originally; in third or fourth grade we got to cursive. I couldn't do it. I was given extra worksheets designed to lead me into it: mostly practice with italicization, doing everything but connecting the letters. By fifth grade, when all written assignments had to be in cursive (for reasons completely and utterly unknown to me) I could manage it, but only painfully, slowly, with hideous letters. In junior high they didn't care about cursive vs. printing: they just wanted writing. I went back to printing, but my printed handwriting had by then taken on the shape of italics. I still print in italics and I still can't write decent cursive. In English, that is.

One of the things that worried me most about taking Russian before I got to the first day of my first class was learning a new alphabet. One of the things that worried me most about taking Russian after the first day of my first class was learning that Russian handwriting is pretty much all cursive. To my surprise, it turned out that I had little to worry about. My Russian cursive may not be native-writerly, but it is better than my English cursive and it took a lot less time to learn.

It is not uncommon for people working with handwritten documents to run into problems making out what the words say; it is especially difficult when you're just starting out in research. In the fall term after I first took Russian I began reading 19th century correspondence in English; even worse, the first letters I read weren't just handwritten, they were faded copies of letters in a letterpress copy book.

I know a number of people who've had similar experiences with old handwriting: taking 10, 20 minutes to read a page; wanting to give up; wondering if the 20th century is really the more interesting period; nearly fighting back tears (literally or metaphorically) to finish those first few pages. A fellow grad student a few years ago told me that upon coming across, in the handwritten meeting minutes of some organization in 19th century Germany, a discussion of whether or not to buy a typewriter, she immediately said to herself, sitting there in the archives: "Yes! Buy it, buy it now!"

I've sometimes described trying to read old handwriting as a cross between "Wheel of Fortune" and cryptography. If you can make out a few words initially you can use them to decipher the rest. If you know a word is "the", for instance, you have an idea of what "t", "h", and "e" look like - although initial letters often look different than the same letters in the middle of a word. Get enough letters in other words and you can read those words; get enough words in a sentence and you can read the sentence, or most of it.

Proper nouns can be especially difficult; so can initial capitals. Signatures are probably the worst. Once, through the careful examination of m's, o's, and w's in a group of letters written around the same time by the same author, I concluded that a word I've seen quoted in publications as "work" most likely is "Mark": not the most earth-shattering revelation, I know.

As I struggled through those first few letters that day I realized I was running into an additional problem: I had become so accustomed from my summer language course to reading cursive as Russian that I was struggling with the English letters that look like Russian ones. (Example: "m" in Cyrillic script is transliterated as/sounds like "t" in English.) Realizing this, I went up to the main desk at the archives, got a piece of scratch paper, returned to my seat, and set about forming, for the first time since grade school, a cursive list of all the letters of the English alphabet - upper and lower case - which I could then turn to as a reference sheet.

"the library is itself their laboratory and museum"

From William Coolidge Lane, "The treatment of books according to the amount of their use" (1903):

(emphasis in the original; I have added paragraph breaks for readability)

The question then resolves itself into this: Can a scholar accomplish his work if he has to depend exclusively on bibliographies, the library catalogs, and selected standard works, to learn what material he ought to examine, and is not able to find the books themselves brought together into one or several specific places on the shelves — groups of books, that is to say, which he can run through in searching for his facts or evidence, and can easily recur to from time to time, groups of books in which he is almost sure to find volumes for which he would not have thought of asking, but which would prove to have value; while many others he can dismiss with a glance, though he would have felt obliged to send for them if he found them recorded in the catalog. No catalog record can take the place of a first-hand examination of the book, and it often happens that a moment's glance at the book will show a trained bookman that there is nothing to his purpose there. The saving of time from this fact alone is an important item in any scholar's daily work.

From a somewhat careful inquiry in regard to investigations lately in progress in the Harvard College Library, I am convinced that this direct personal access to a classified collection of all the material at hand is of the first importance if profitable work is to be accomplished.

From a description of some of these investigations, it will be seen that in many cases appropriate bibliographies do not exist to which the student may turn for information in regard to his sources. He is going over the ground, that is to say, for the first time, and is making his bibliography as he goes. In other cases the bibliographies which he can use are so extensive and record so much that is out of his reach that an enormous loss of time results simply from sifting out the comparatively small amount of material accessible to him.

The library catalog is of use in some cases. Its use should always supplement search by other means, but often the student's inquiry is for specific points to be found only by searching through a series of general works, so that he cannot depend upon the catalog for the precise information which he requires.

In fact, the work of a philologist or a historian in searching for new facts or fresh evidence in regard to the subject of his inquiry may be properly compared to that of the naturalist searching in the field for his specimens. The naturalist cannot tell his assistant to go to such and such a stone in such a pasture and bring him from under it a particular beetle. He must himself search from stone to stone on the chance of finding what he wants, and in precisely the same way the literary worker searches from volume to volume for what he seeks. He knows the field in which his facts will be found, as the naturalist knows the habitat of his specimens, but can no more tell in advance in what volume he will find what he wants than the naturalist can foresee under what particular stone he will discover his beetle.

A physicist, to take another example, is studying certain unknown relations in electricity or sound. He refers to books in order to inform himself as to what others have already learned, that he may be guided by their results. His own work, however, is with the instruments of his laboratory, and his use of books is a supplementary matter.

A writer on economics, on the other hand, like the physicist, must know the results of others labors as recorded in books, but unlike him, books also form the main field of his investigation, for the facts which he seeks are for the most part to be found in print.

Scientists, who thus find the material of their studies in nature, and refer to books mainly for the records of previous discovery, often fail to recognize the fact that to the students of history, literature, philology, economics, etc. — to the students, that is to say, of human expression and accomplishment— books are themselves the very material of their study, and are not merely the record of what others have discovered before them (like the chemical journals and the transactions of scientific societies).

Books are, with architecture, sculpture, and painting the only tangible evidence of what men have been, and how they lived and expressed themselves. For the students of these subjects, the library is itself their laboratory and museum[*], and should be used in the same way that laboratories and museums are used by the scientists. Its resources should be as conveniently and systematically arranged as are the contents of the scientist's workrooms. A museum that stored its birds, its insects, its fishes, and its reptiles packed indiscriminately together because they would thus occupy less room, or that expected an inquirer to know in advance on which specimens he would find a particular kind of parasite growing, would be as reasonably administered as a library in which a reader, seeking to trace out some special phenomenon in literary or social history, should be expected to know in advance in precisely what volumes he would find the evidence he sought.

Lane was Librarian of Harvard and was responding to Harvard President Charles W. Eliot's suggestion that little-used library books be moved to a separate facility, to be built on less expensive land, where they could be shelved more densely--but where they could not be browsed directly. Readers would have to page these books at one of the central libraries; ideally, the books would then be delivered the following day.

As described in Kenneth Brough's Scholar's Workshop (1953), a study of the development of academic library services from the late 19th century to the early 1950s, Eliot's plan sounds quite similar to what many academic libraries do today with their off-site and/or high density storage facilities. Eliot even advocated developing partnerships with other libraries to coordinate and share book storage; these sound quite a bit like the consortial arrangements that groups of libraries have developed in today's world.

At the time, however, Eliot's proposal was not adopted.** Lane undertook a survey of researchers and came to the conclusion that direct access to books was integral to certain fields of scholarship and needed to be preserved. He acknowledged, however, that other types of research would not be significantly affected by the proposed changes:

(again, I have broken this up for readability--this is part of one paragraph in the original)

A comparison of the above instances with the ordinary requests for advice and assistance constantly made at all library reference desks shows that there are two widely different ways of using a library. On the one hand, a man who desires to inform himself about some period or subject and is content to accept what some competent writer has published, consults one or two standard books on the subjects; these naturally suggest others and he follows them up if so disposed. For reading of this kind, access to a large collection is unimportant and may even be discouraging, and the elaborate equipment of a great reference library is quite unnecessary.

On the other hand, a man who undertakes to follow out some new line of inquiry, to establish relations between certain facts not hitherto studied in connection, and to draw fresh conclusions from what he learns, sets about his work in a very different way. So does one who attempts to collect from a wide range of sources, scattered and fragmentary references hitherto unnoticed on some specific subject, that he may thus add to the general sum of knowledge in regard to it. Nearly all the instances cited above are of this kind.

For such work, direct personal access to a well classified and abundant collection of books is the first requisite. To be deprived of it means at the very least a serious and unnecessary waste of time, and in many cases it altogether prevents the undertaking of the inquiry.

In fact, this liberty of access is itself of such primary importance that the question of a division of the library into books much used and books little used becomes a secondary question to be decided solely on the ground of practical convenience. A library may well find it convenient to place less used subjects, or the less used books on popular subjects, in a more distant part of the building, or even, when pressed by want of room, in a separate building, but it cannot afford to store them in such a way that scholars cannot themselves look them over and find them in an order convenient for such examination.

Writing at a time when just about the only way to read a book was to actually have it in front of you, Lane ultimately sided with a policy of open stacks, though he left the door open for building remote, but still browseable, facilities for little-used books. For the fields of research he identified as being heavily based on the types of sources found in libraries, some kind of direct access was considered essential.

Things have obviously changed quite a bit since Lane and Eliot's time. I think it is still true that there are some disciplines that rely heavily on the kinds of materials one finds in libraries, though to be clear, I should point out that such sources can be found in lots of other places, such as archives or museums or, for that matter, in the possession of any institution, group, or individual that creates or collects (and also preserves).*** Browsing strategies remain important to these fields, but I think it's a mistake to consider browsing synonymous with stack browsing.

Collections have grown past the point - indeed, they probably passed it years ago - where even a large research library could still provide open stacks for nearly everything it owns. Not just because of the expense and the extent of space needed, but also because increasingly materials are being created and stored in formats that simply cannot be browsed "physically" because they cannot be read directly by people: digital formats, of course, but also other forms of media (film, video, audio tape, and so on).

Moreover, there are now viable ways to gain access to the contents of books (and other sources) without actually having to hold the physical copies. You can browse in a browser. And even when you can't get full-text, search engines, databases, and yes, even the much-maligned, often frustrating, but still valuable online library catalog can usually get you a lot farther than the old card catalog would. There are more ways of providing an "order convenient for...examination" than shelf arrangement.

Now, I don't want to sound too technologically triumphant here. Is everything digitized? Of course not. Are there still barriers to digitizing and providing convenient electronic access to much of the material on the shelves of academic libraries? Yes.  Can stack browsing still be a useful way of finding new connections you might not otherwise have come across? Yes to that too. Does the physical object retain its importance? Certainly. We are living in a hybrid world, one that's likely to last for quite a while.


*Given the terms of the analogy - naturalists and specimens - Lane was probably thinking of the museum here as a site of active research, not as an institution with mostly static collections. I don't think this is a case of the library as "book museum" [note: link no longer works] - although some of the other arguments Lane makes in the paper could be pushed in that direction.

**For a full discussion of the debate, see Brough, Scholar's Workshop, 124-134. Lane wasn't alone: the 1903 American Library Association conference hosted a panel - or what we'd now call a panel - on "The Treatment of Books According to the Amount of Their Use." I found Lane's paper, which appeared in the conference proceedings, by following a footnote in Brough.

***For a recent analysis of library- and record-based research, see Andrew Abbott's papers here. It's also worth noting that "conventional reading" is now only one of the ways to analyze such materials. There are also, to name just two broad categories, statistical and digital methods.



2019-08-12: added note about nonworking link to the old Library Loon blog.

My instructor was Mr. Langley, and he taught me to sing a song. If you'd like to hear it I can sing it for you.

I read this

Over the past few years I’ve had an uncomfortable sense that someone, or something, has been tinkering with my brain, remapping the neural circuitry, reprogramming the memory. My mind isn’t going—so far as I can tell—but it’s changing. I’m not thinking the way I used to think. I can feel it most strongly when I’m reading. Immersing myself in a book or a lengthy article used to be easy. My mind would get caught up in the narrative or the turns of the argument, and I’d spend hours strolling through long stretches of prose. That’s rarely the case anymore. Now my concentration often starts to drift after two or three pages. I get fidgety, lose the thread, begin looking for something else to do. I feel as if I’m always dragging my wayward brain back to the text. The deep reading that used to come naturally has become a struggle.

and thought that I've been having the same experience for a few years now, except that when I lose a thread while reading a book or article online and look for something else, that something else is more text in another tab or window. Then I remembered that I've always had to put energy into concentrating on what I'm reading, even if I find it interesting. The only exceptions are things I find engrossing - even if I don't find them interesting. What makes something engross me? I don't exactly know. I'd say "good writing" but that's hardly a satisfying explanation.

I read this

Research that once required days in the stacks or periodical rooms of libraries can now be done in minutes. A few Google searches, some quick clicks on hyperlinks, and I’ve got the telltale fact or pithy quote I was after.

and thought that the seeming thinness of research aimed mainly at gathering "telltale fact"s or "pithy quote"s resides more in its goals than in its methods.

I read this

I’m not the only one. When I mention my troubles with reading to friends and acquaintances—literary types, most of them—many say they’re having similar experiences. The more they use the Web, the more they have to fight to stay focused on long pieces of writing. Some of the bloggers I follow have also begun mentioning the phenomenon. Scott Karp, who writes a blog about online media, recently confessed that he has stopped reading books altogether. “I was a lit major in college, and used to be [a] voracious book reader,” he wrote. “What happened?” He speculates on the answer: “What if I do all my reading on the web not so much because the way I read has changed, i.e. I’m just seeking convenience, but because the way I THINK has changed?”

and the sentiments felt familiar. I may have always had to work to keep focused on long writing, but I used to finish books at a much higher rate. Outside of required readings, I used to start multiple books at once until I found one that held my interest until I finished it, at which point I re-started the process. Now it seems like I'm always beginning books.

I read this

“I can’t read War and Peace anymore,” he admitted. “I’ve lost the ability to do that. Even a blog post of more than three or four paragraphs is too much to absorb. I skim it.”

and thought, who can read War and Peace in any sort of "normal" way at all? I read it in bunches over a period of about a month, quickly at first when I was into it, more slowly when I began to get frustrated with the plot about halfway through, lethargically as I approached the end, determinedly as I read the final few hundred pages in one sitting, knowing that if I put it down I was in danger of never picking it up again. I reflected that reading fiction has always been a different experience with me than reading non-fiction. I can't skim fiction. I might read blog posts quickly, but I don't skim them unless I'm deciding whether or not to then read them.

I read this

As part of the five-year research program, the scholars examined computer logs documenting the behavior of visitors to two popular research sites, one operated by the British Library and one by a U.K. educational consortium, that provide access to journal articles, e-books, and other sources of written information. They found that people using the sites exhibited “a form of skimming activity,” hopping from one source to another and rarely returning to any source they’d already visited. They typically read no more than one or two pages of an article or book before they would “bounce” out to another site. Sometimes they’d save a long article, but there’s no evidence that they ever went back and actually read it.

and wondered if there was also evidence that they never went back and actually read those articles. I wondered if the authors considered that people may be exhibiting "a form of skimming activity" because they were skimming to see which of their search results were useful, if any. Or because they were curious about something they found but weren't looking for. I wondered if browsing nearby books in the stacks is "a form of skimming activity." I wondered if this says something about how people search as well as about how people read.

I read this

“We are not only what we read,” says Maryanne Wolf, a developmental psychologist at Tufts University and the author of Proust and the Squid: The Story and Science of the Reading Brain. “We are how we read.” Wolf worries that the style of reading promoted by the Net, a style that puts “efficiency” and “immediacy” above all else, may be weakening our capacity for the kind of deep reading that emerged when an earlier technology, the printing press, made long and complex works of prose commonplace. When we read online, she says, we tend to become “mere decoders of information.” Our ability to interpret text, to make the rich mental connections that form when we read deeply and without distraction, remains largely disengaged.

and tried to remember where I saw Wolf's work discussed recently. I resisted searching for it right then and there. [I later looked and found it: Caleb Crain's essay "Twilight of the Books" on the future of reading.]

I read this

Reading, explains Wolf, is not an instinctive skill for human beings. It’s not etched into our genes the way speech is. We have to teach our minds how to translate the symbolic characters we see into the language we understand. And the media or other technologies we use in learning and practicing the craft of reading play an important part in shaping the neural circuits inside our brains. Experiments demonstrate that readers of ideograms, such as the Chinese, develop a mental circuitry for reading that is very different from the circuitry found in those of us whose written language employs an alphabet. The variations extend across many regions of the brain, including those that govern such essential cognitive functions as memory and the interpretation of visual and auditory stimuli. We can expect as well that the circuits woven by our use of the Net will be different from those woven by our reading of books and other printed works.

and thought, that may be true, but doesn't that mean we have the flexibility to re-wire if we change our behavior? So to the extent that there's a change taking place, it might not be a permanent one.

I read this

Sometime in 1882, Friedrich Nietzsche bought a typewriter—a Malling-Hansen Writing Ball, to be precise. His vision was failing, and keeping his eyes focused on a page had become exhausting and painful, often bringing on crushing headaches. He had been forced to curtail his writing, and he feared that he would soon have to give it up. The typewriter rescued him, at least for a time. Once he had mastered touch-typing, he was able to write with his eyes closed, using only the tips of his fingers. Words could once again flow from his mind to the page.

and thought of Francis Parkman, who needed a special tool to help him hand-write along straight lines as his vision worsened.

I read this

In Technics and Civilization, the historian and cultural critic Lewis Mumford described how the clock “disassociated time from human events and helped create the belief in an independent world of mathematically measurable sequences.” The “abstract framework of divided time” became “the point of reference for both action and thought.”

and thought that maybe if I finish reading Mumford's two best known Cities books, I might read some of his other work. I remembered that I decided not to get a used copy of Technics and Civilization recently because I wasn't sure how it stood in relation to his other work - and, more importantly, because it was kind of heavy and I didn't want to carry it when I moved.

I read this

When the Net absorbs a medium, that medium is re-created in the Net’s image.

and was reminded of Marx writing that the bourgeoisie creates the world in its own image.

I read the rest of that paragraph

It injects the medium’s content with hyperlinks, blinking ads, and other digital gewgaws, and it surrounds the content with the content of all the other media it has absorbed. A new e-mail message, for instance, may announce its arrival as we’re glancing over the latest headlines at a newspaper’s site. The result is to scatter our attention and diffuse our concentration.

and thought: you can change a lot of those settings, you know.

I read this

The Net’s influence doesn’t end at the edges of a computer screen, either. As people’s minds become attuned to the crazy quilt of Internet media, traditional media have to adapt to the audience’s new expectations. Television programs add text crawls and pop-up ads, and magazines and newspapers shorten their articles, introduce capsule summaries, and crowd their pages with easy-to-browse info-snippets. When, in March of this year, The New York Times decided to devote the second and third pages of every edition to article abstracts, its design director, Tom Bodkin, explained that the “shortcuts” would give harried readers a quick “taste” of the day’s news, sparing them the “less efficient” method of actually turning the pages and reading the articles. Old media have little choice but to play by the new-media rules.

and wondered if the author thought these were all bad developments. More ads and shorter articles certainly don't seem like a positive step, but abstracts and snippets, done well, could be quite helpful. Assuming abstracts aren't all that people ever read.

I read this

Taylor’s system is still very much with us; it remains the ethic of industrial manufacturing. And now, thanks to the growing power that computer engineers and software coders wield over our intellectual lives, Taylor’s ethic is beginning to govern the realm of the mind as well. The Internet is a machine designed for the efficient and automated collection, transmission, and manipulation of information, and its legions of programmers are intent on finding the “one best method”—the perfect algorithm—to carry out every mental movement of what we’ve come to describe as “knowledge work.”

Google’s headquarters, in Mountain View, California—the Googleplex—is the Internet’s high church, and the religion practiced inside its walls is Taylorism. Google, says its chief executive, Eric Schmidt, is “a company that’s founded around the science of measurement,” and it is striving to “systematize everything” it does. Drawing on the terabytes of behavioral data it collects through its search engine and other sites, it carries out thousands of experiments a day, according to the Harvard Business Review, and it uses the results to refine the algorithms that increasingly control how people find information and extract meaning from it. What Taylor did for the work of the hand, Google is doing for the work of the mind.

The company has declared that its mission is “to organize the world’s information and make it universally accessible and useful.” It seeks to develop “the perfect search engine,” which it defines as something that “understands exactly what you mean and gives you back exactly what you want.” In Google’s view, information is a kind of commodity, a utilitarian resource that can be mined and processed with industrial efficiency. The more pieces of information we can “access” and the faster we can extract their gist, the more productive we become as thinkers.

and had a few questions:

  1. What happened to labor? Is Google's workforce organized along Taylorized lines? Reports suggest that the answer is "no," at least for some subset of employees.
  2. How can the claim that the internet is encouraging Taylor-like efficiency be reconciled with an article premised on distraction and lack of concentration? It sounds like it is the search engine itself that's being Taylorized.

I read this

“The ultimate search engine is something as smart as people—or smarter,” Page said in a speech a few years back. “For us, working on search is a way to work on artificial intelligence.” In a 2004 interview with Newsweek, Brin said, “Certainly if you had all the world’s information directly attached to your brain, or an artificial brain that was smarter than your brain, you’d be better off.” Last year, Page told a convention of scientists that Google is “really trying to build artificial intelligence and to do it on a large scale.”

and thought it sounded like marketing.

I read this

The idea that our minds should operate as high-speed data-processing machines is not only built into the workings of the Internet, it is the network’s reigning business model as well. The faster we surf across the Web—the more links we click and pages we view—the more opportunities Google and other companies gain to collect information about us and to feed us advertisements. Most of the proprietors of the commercial Internet have a financial stake in collecting the crumbs of data we leave behind as we flit from link to link—the more crumbs, the better. The last thing these companies want is to encourage leisurely reading or slow, concentrated thought. It’s in their economic interest to drive us to distraction.

and thought it was a good point. I wondered if it would have been better to build the article around this observation rather than around reading. Page layouts, column widths, displaying articles on one or on multiple pages, print versions, linking within the same site or set of sites - all of these things affect the way we read and are affected by the way we read (since site designers have to try to grab and hold our attention). The internet is not just some undifferentiated entity known as "the internet"; search engines don't just pull up "the best" or "the most efficient" results at the top. There is a sense in which technology "uses" us, sure, but that shouldn't obscure the ways technology mediates the way people interact with or act upon each other. That's one of the reasons we use the word "media" right? (Or is that a false etymology?)

I read this

In Plato’s Phaedrus, Socrates bemoaned the development of writing. He feared that, as people came to rely on the written word as a substitute for the knowledge they used to carry inside their heads, they would, in the words of one of the dialogue’s characters, “cease to exercise their memory and become forgetful.” And because they would be able to “receive a quantity of information without proper instruction,” they would “be thought very knowledgeable when they are for the most part quite ignorant.” They would be “filled with the conceit of wisdom instead of real wisdom.” Socrates wasn’t wrong—the new technology did often have the effects he feared—but he was shortsighted. He couldn’t foresee the many ways that writing and reading would serve to spread information, spur fresh ideas, and expand human knowledge (if not wisdom).

and thought that what Plato and the article both leave out is the unreliability of memory and the ability to check it against a documentary record (which itself isn't always reliable).

I read this

The arrival of Gutenberg’s printing press, in the 15th century, set off another round of teeth gnashing. The Italian humanist Hieronimo Squarciafico worried that the easy availability of books would lead to intellectual laziness, making men “less studious” and weakening their minds.

and thought of Ann Blair's article about Early Modern information overload.

I read this

The kind of deep reading that a sequence of printed pages promotes is valuable not just for the knowledge we acquire from the author’s words but for the intellectual vibrations those words set off within our own minds. In the quiet spaces opened up by the sustained, undistracted reading of a book, or by any other act of contemplation, for that matter, we make our own associations, draw our own inferences and analogies, foster our own ideas. Deep reading, as Maryanne Wolf argues, is indistinguishable from deep thinking.

and was reminded, despite my skepticism about much of the article, how much I too value sustained reading. But having read some books online in the past two years, I don't know that it has to be print-based.

I finished reading the article. I tracked down some links and planned to post on it in a day or two. I read some other things online. I turned off the computer and began reading this book, which I've been meaning to read since I mentioned it months ago. It could be years before I finish it.



2019-08-12: links updated

because this blog needs content

It is probably a practice frowned upon by the arbiters of blogger ethics but I'm going to start posting long comments I write elsewhere over here, for archiving purposes. On steamboats vs. railroads:*

1. Schwantes’ book on steam travel in the Northwest is beautifully illustrated. (As is his railroad book on the same region, which may have been the first to come out, though chronologically the sequel.) Just thought I’d recommend it, though I haven’t read the text.

2. As dware points out, railroads have not actually been in vogue in western history for a while. They might become so in the future if they aren’t already becoming so. (Disclosure: I came very close to writing a railroad dissertation.) I have the impression that some of the better regarded railroad-related books to come out more recently weren’t western railroad books.

3. I suspect steamboats lose out for a couple of reasons.

There’s the perception that their era didn’t last very long - the fact that you can start talking about railroads in the 1830s overshadows the fact that the east-(mid)west routes were not completed until later (the 1850s? I don’t remember the precise dates). And it takes a while for (railroad) Chicago to supplant (Mississippi River) St. Louis.

There’s the perception that their impact was still quite localized even considering its reach. You can have competition on the Mississippi but it’s pretty much all on the Mississippi. Competition between railroads involved competing routes in different sections of the country and competing communities along those routes. In terms of ports, you’ve got New Orleans as an endpoint on the one hand, and Boston vs. New York vs. Philadelphia vs. Baltimore on the other. It would be interesting to know if steamboats lack attention in histories of other regions. I assume they preceded railroads in a number of European colonies.

There’s the fact that they weren’t a new power source - steamboats and the steam engine were around already for ocean travel. And somewhat related to this is the fact that being able to get around the world sort of overshadows being able to get into the interior of a continent. But it can be argued that the steamship deserves more attention too. It certainly seems to get less attention than wind-based maritime exploration.

There’s the fact that water travel was already, and had long been, quicker than land travel. Traveling faster over a river is one thing; traveling faster overland - not being required to stick to (and build, in the case of canals) a watercourse - by an entirely new technology is quite another. A better boat is still a boat; a railroad is not a horse-drawn carriage.

4. Robert Fulton apparently thought that the submarine would, by being such an effective tool of war, force countries to make peace with one another rather than fight. He had some problems making this idea work in practice.

*Maybe one day I'll link to a blog that is not that one.