Frankly, the first thing that came to mind after I read the prompt for this week’s blog post was Twitter, and I’m interested in parsing out the ways in which textuality and literary sociality occurs through and about Twitter—this analysis happening in conjunction with today’s readings, resonating in a lot of ways. My interest in this sort of thing resonates, in particular, to Liu’s consideration of “social computing as an object of literary study” as well as his juxtaposition between social computing and social reading: “I recognize that much of what provoked me to turn to literature in the first place—vital, daring, and meditative expressions of human experience—is there. It is there in the naked lyric of a blog post celebrating or mourning some personal or public event. It is there in the classical drama of a brawling, controversial Wikipedia article whose behind-the-scenes “talk” page stages the chorus of the “rule of many” or “wisdom of crowds.”” Throughout his article, Liu articulates the decentralization of reading in post-structuralist theory that falsifies the binary between the reader and the author (+ publisher) that has been traditionally conceived of as making up The Literary. Indeed, as Price articulates, this work of decentralization is in opposition to”the myth of the self0made reader—of an unmediated communion between a reader’s mind and an author’s” that effectively “erases all the third parties who sell books, lend books, catalog books, give or withhold them.”

I think, now, critically about what textuality and political education means has meant in this current moment. While digital humanities and humanities scholarship, with regards to Twitter, have largely read its function in social movements around political action and protest tactic, there is less discussion around how publics are formed on Twitter in and through reading: For examples, what this calls for is the impact of Twitter in spurring reading groups, the creation of anti-racist syllabi, etc. But perhaps what is more interesting is the way in which Twitter exemplifies reading in the 21st century: the decentralization of authorship and ideas, the clarity of reading a public and mediated activity, and the spurring of new technologies for reading (e.g., digital tools that turn Twitter threads into sharable, easy-to-read PDFs). Overall, whether we like it or not, Twitter is a space of political education, and thus an important node in a larger, media-literary ecology. I’m thinking about the way my reading group is formed by friends on Twitter, and how our readings are guided by conversation we see on Twitter.

In his article, Alan Liu outlines social writing, publishing, reading, and interpreting. When talking about books, especially rare books, which researchers and scholars of the book often regard and compare to museum objects, of particular interest is a history of those copies that survived and became part of libraries. Such publications are the transmitters of history not only of a particular copy, or of an owner’s library it used to be part of, but of an intellectual history of several decades, if not centuries, that could be traced back by examining one particular copy. Therefore, searching for and studying such copies is an enriching and gratifying endeavor because it helps us–by researching marginalia, book provenance, library stamps–to understand and restore a path this book took to get from one place to another. These little, trifling as someone might think details of the book, might lead to a greater understanding of a particular era–the then reading habits, the nuances of book collecting, the palette (or its lack) of book publishing.

Of distinct interest and challenge is to trace down books published in eighteen or nineteen centuries, their print-run was traditionally pretty modest. Typically, we would already know of several existing copies of such publication–and often the copies we are aware of, which are part of libraries, had mysterious stories before they ended up in a climate-control section of special collections.

One such example is a collection of Ukrainian fairy tales published in 1835; it is one of the first collections of fairy tales in general, making this book extra valuable. Back in the day, the book like that would have a relatively modest print run, and therefore it is not surprising that only several copies are available at the libraries. According to the OCLC catalog, the book that captured attention was available just in two academic libraries.

Although there was another copy–not included in the OCLC catalog–as part of the collection at a research institution that I used to work at. That copy was truly intriguing because of several stamps it had: one by the former owner of the book and one a library it used to be part of; in addition to that, the copy had marginalia notes. The stamp of a former owner was from the second part of the nineteenth century. Another significant copy component was an inscription by a prominent Ukrainian linguist, literary scholar, and a writer who probably bought the book from its previous owner and then donated to a library the book was part of. Finally, the copy contained a call number assigned to this copy sometime at the beginning of the twentieth century. Last but not least, the copy has marginal notes which, I tend to believe, might have been left by someone who prepared the second edition of this anthology at the beginning of the twentieth century.

If trying to decipher these coded messages of the book, which are not that obscure and illegible as one might think, the readers might get an image of cultural, intellectual, geographical movement and usage of this particular copy in Eastern Europe in the nineteenth and twentieth century. There are other vital questions still unanswered: what was this book’s path to the United States and did it happen–this could be figured out while doing comprehensive research of this copy.

Have the anxieties of our time inspired us to find comfort in a fictional idea of what reading used to be? Are we living in an unprecedented new era, marking the end to a golden age of reading? In her introduction to What We Talk About When We Talk Novels, Leah Price argues that these digital-age questions about the printed word are not new and the golden age of reading was never what digital-age writers conceive. Making comparisons of current concerns with each historical reinvention of the book, she argues that “our own era continues rather than breaks with, a tradition of innovation that has seen new formats emerge over and over again for half a millennium.” (4)

Exploring the golden age of print from the “rise of mass audiences in the eighteenth century to the Cold War-era triumph of the paperback”, she identifies and counters three fundamental myths. The “myth of exceptionalism”, our twenty-first-reader sense that we are experiencing unprecedented change; the “myth of the ideal reader”, or equating reading with virtue; finally she lists the “myth of the self-made reader”, or the idea of an “unmediated communion between a reader’s mind and the author”, which “erases all the third parties who sell books, lend books, catalog books, give or withhold them.” This idea also erases how important and inevitable the community that connects other readers is.

One of the central arguments in the essay is that reading a book as a solitary immersive experience may have never existed in the way that is commonly assumed in the digital age. Yet the image of peacefully curling up in a comfortable chair with a good book, is pervasive in our culture ,beyond the academic conversation. Still I am not able to conceive of reading as a solitary experience, and I have not yet sensed a great difference between reading a printed book or a tablet or computer screen. This statement is always met with some level of horror, but I still enjoy both equally and I have never longed for one or the other. What has always mattered the most to me was the community of others reading the same words, but seeing and experiencing something different. 

As a child, I would immerse myself in a novel, often completely focused on the conversations that would follow. I wondered what landscapes and faces looked and smelled like to other readers, and I impatiently waited for my friends to finish the book so we could finally argue about the female protagonists. This were the last years of communist Albania, but many books were still forbidden. My older cousins secretly shared books, and sometimes handwritten stories, whose darkened corners and falling edges were covered in handwritten notes. 

It was one of my greatest aspirations to be part of their group. The thrill of peeking into a forbidden world proved irresistible and I read many novels that I was not ready for, and academic texts that I did not understand. I am still traumatized by The Stranger and just about everything that happens The House of Spirits. 

I was reminded of this when Leah Price looks at the tension between print and handwriting. Handwriting lasted up to late 18^th century in Europe, and its ability to avoid censure, in a way print cold not, allowed for radical writers and thinkers to publish their ideas. The same way reading forbidden literature worked in a communist country, this fostered a feeling of community and “forged a collective through the act of forwarding or exchanging ideas.” In many ways she argues this is similar to Twitter or blogging. I agree.

I’ve noticed thus far during my time in the Digital Humanities Program that certain assumptions about the digital humanities from the world outside the subject persist and may even become more problematic when talking about the subject. Specifically, one of the weaknesses of not-necessarily-digital humanities seems to persist in the digital humanities: the fallacy of a static, ubiquitous canon. This takes on a whole new form in the digital humanities due to digital humanities adding the element of the platform, which can be put in conversation with a work. That is, while in the classical humanities, it may be a common assumption that anyone engaged in a given conversation is familiar with, for instance, Moby Dick. In the digital humanities on the other hand, it takes on a slightly different form; people may assume that one not only is familiar with the social media platform, Twitter, but that one explicitly has an active Twitter account.

When I delved into this week’s readings, this is what I had on my mind. While it wasn’t explicitly related to the readings, it did somewhat direct my thoughts. For instance, as I was reading through the introduction of Leah Price’s What We Talk About When We Talk About Books, I was drawn to Price’s description of her experiences with her first smartphone. She writes that “[her] first smartphone strafed [her] pocket with predictions that even if reading survived, eyes would glaze over before the 141st character,” which is a direct reference to Twitter’s old character cap (Price 2). I was able to recognize this reference despite the fact that the only time I’ve had a Twitter account was for an incredibly brief period many years ago that I made roughly two posts on during its short existence. However, a quick query with one’s search engine of choice will reveal that Twitter has roughly 300 million active users – a significant percentage of the world’s population, but far from the entire world. Of course, there are people beyond this number who are nonetheless familiar, even intimately, with the platform, myself possibly included. However, the experience of maintaining an actively running Twitter account that you use regularly is not something that everyone has, has had, or will have.

This assumption that a given individual has familiarity with, let’s say, every site that reaches a certain traffic threshold is incredibly unsustainable. There are two ways of thinking about this. First, one could consider it ideal for the development of digital humanities to preserve the popularity of sites as they are in order to establish a proper digital canon. This, of course, is completely ridiculous. It encourages the maintenance of a very arbitrary status quo, and is frankly infeasible in the first place. Alternatively, one could consider it ideal to actively and persistently engage with any website that reaches a certain level or popularity. This may seem reasonable at first, but it quickly loses cohesion when one realizes that there are many websites that are very infrequently discussed, yet around as popular as sites like Twitter, such as Bing or Stack Overflow. Additionally, if a popular site suddenly loses popularity and another site rises in popularity to take its place, it would become the duty of those in the digital humanities to quickly engage with that site and develop at least cursory familiarity with it.

One part of Price’s piece that really resonated with me, personally, was at the beginning of chapter one – Price describes an experience in a train’s Quiet Car. She writes that her immersion in the piece she was reading was ironically “interrupted by a loud command to ‘enjoy our library atmosphere'” (Price 17). When I take the Metro North, I usually try to get tranquil seating in the Quiet Car. When I’m not being disturbed by screaming infants or grown adults blasting music from their devices, there will inevitably be a point where a loud, seemingly arbitrary tone plays over the speakers, which, unlike the recorded voice telling riders what stop the train has arrived at, is much too audacious and jarring to simply filter out.

Price’s discussion of the “library atmosphere” delves into more detail as the chapter continues. It seems like her idea is that libraries are become less significant as locations, but perhaps more significant as the basis for an aesthetic. Despite the gradual departure of libraries as the prime locations for research and information gathering, they still remain symbols of knowledge, curiosity, self-improving, and the potential of learning. While somewhat tangential, I would think that there are probably more people in the world that can identify a library with these aspects than there are people with active Twitter accounts, even if there are fewer people who patronize libraries actively.

On a slightly different note, in another course I’m taking, Introduction to Digital Humanities, taught by Matt Gold, we discussed the idea of defining digital humanities, and why it can’t entirely be as succinctly defined as other terms. In her “This is Why We Fight: Defining the Values of Digital Humanities,” Lisa Spiro suggests that “by creating a core set of values, the digital humanities community may be able to unite to confront challenges such as the lack of open access to information and hidebound policies that limit collaboration and experimentation.” In other words, the digital humanities does not necessarily need to be exclusive in nature – by bestowing it with clear-yet-malleable set of key aspects, digital humanities can circumvent the suppression of knowledge, institutional or otherwise.

While I’m focusing on the Price reading here, the other readings this week affected me similarly, especially what “Community Reading and Social Imagination” had to say about what those “engaged in the real world” were receptive to (419). Admittedly, I sneaked a peak at Walter Benjamin’s Illuminations – I couldn’t help myself, I’m a massive fan of Benjamin’s work – and I was reminded of his “The Work of Art in the Age of Mechanical Reproduction,” a piece I find has aged like a fine wine. On a base level, many of the readings me left with the following thought at the forefront of my mind: “[one’s] experiences are not universal.” This isn’t because I couldn’t relate to the readings; quite the opposite in fact. Rather, in a field as expansive as the digital humanities seems to be, I feel like it’s impossible for everything to apply to everyone: a canon for digital humanities would be infinitely more difficult to manage that one for a more classical form of the humanities.

On a more personal level, the prompt itself is what got me thinking about these topics of canon, definition, and what one should and shouldn’t know and consider, and it was also probably what brought Benjamin’s other work to mind (although, just the other night, I was talking with a friend about his idea of Cult Value, so that could have done it too). I regularly do think about “the media that undergird [my] reading in all their glorious materiality,” and the ideas of “the small ‘form factor’ and cheap price of the mass-market paperback,” and “the dynamic and multimodal space of the browser window” were certainly food for thought, but the mention of “the intimate whisper of the Audible narrator in the earbuds” is what really made me turn my head and think about canon, inclusion, and exclusion. I’ve never used Audible as a service, I haven’t listened to a proper audiobook in over a decade, and I haven’t worn earbuds for a similar period of time (albeit that’s because they hurt my ears, over-the-ear headphones are my go-to now). I guess on some level, this reflects the fact that, indeed, very few experiences are universal.

I have been a consumer of books from an early age, which is just one of the reasons I became a librarian. I love to, as Price writes, “curl up alone with a novel” but then talk to people about it. My younger years were spent listening to my aunts and grandmother discuss the books they were reading and favorite authors. In high school, “racy” YA books were shared with classmates, covertly making the rounds in an all girls private school and discussed at the lunch table. Even at work, I was eager to recommend books to patrons and hear their thoughts during their next visit. I even started a book club with my friends, although many of our meetings centered around food and wine.

With the pandemic, that all changed. There were no more interactions with patrons and friends were not interested in reading for pleasure because of the uncertainties they faced with their jobs and concerns about their family’s health. I tried to find the bright side of the shutdown, thinking that with this unexpected free time I would put a dent in my ‘To Read’ list, but eventually found myself uninterested in picking up a book. I, like many people, turned to streaming services and TikTok for entertainment.

I enjoyed the TikTok dances and challenges, but one day stumbled on what is called BookTok. A 15 second video showed a girl’s wall to wall book collection and I was intrigued. Clicking on her other videos, I saw book recommendations, summaries, and book related challenges. I scrolled through the comment section, and saw others agreeing with the girl’s recommendations or offering titles they believed were better. There were debates happening in the comments, usually respectful and with other creators mentioned. Soon my ‘For You’ Page featured creators showcasing their color coded libraries, acting out their favorite passages, or highlighting the artwork of classic and new books. I even saw authors talking about their own works and supporting up and coming authors. It was amazing to me how 15 second videos could generate so much interaction between actual strangers.

My passion for reading was reignited, and I realized it was because of this digital community I was now a part of. There is nothing like reading a good book for me. But, sharing that book and connecting with others is what drives my love of reading. I love conversing with others about my current favorite or trying to decide what the hell an author was thinking with the ending they wrote. And I could once again do that, but now in a digital space.

As a librarian, I recognize the importance of a community of readers. I think I just underestimated the usefulness of digital tools in creating that community. I focused more on the traditional ideas of how the community should meet, rather than the community itself.