NOTES TOWARD AN UNWRITTEN NON-LINEAR ELECTRONIC TEXT,
"THE ENDS OF PRINT CULTURE" (a work in progress)
by
MICHAEL JOYCE
Center for Narrative and Technology, Jackson, MI
_Postmodern Culture_ v.2 n.1 (September, 1991)
Copyright (c) 1991 by Michael Joyce, all rights
reserved. This text may be freely shared among
individuals, but it may not be republished in any
medium without express written consent from the
author and advance notification of the editors.
Adapted from a talk originally given at the Computers
and the Human Conversation Conference, Lewis and Clark
College, Portland, Oregon, March 16, 1991
[1] For a period of time last year on each end of our town,
like compass points, there was a mausoleum of books. On the
north end of town a great remainder warehouse flapped with
banners that promised 80% off publishers prices. Inside it
row upon row of long tables resembled nothing less than
those awful makeshift morgues which spring up around
disasters. Its tables were piled with the union dead: the
mistakes and enthusiasms of editors, the miscalculations of
marketing types, the brightly jacketed, orphaned victims of
faddish, fickle or fifteen minute shifts of opinion and/or
history. There an appliance was betrayed by another (food
processor by microwave); a diet guru was overthrown by a
leftist in leotards (Pritikin by Fonda); and every would-be
Dickens seemed poised to tumble, if not from literary
history, at least from all human memory (already gangs of
Owen Meanies leer and lean against faded Handmaidens of
Atwood).
[2] Upon first looking into such a warehouse--forty miles
east of our spare parts, bible belt midwest town, in what we
outlanders think of as wonderful Ann Arbor; we thought only
a university town could sustain this. When the same outfit
opened up in our town, and the tables were piled not with
the leavings of Ann Arborites but with towers of the same
texts, we knew this was a modern day circus. Ladies and
gentlemen, children of all ages! here come the books!
[3] Meanwhile, at the opposite pole in the second
mausoleum, a group termed the Friends of the Library
regularly sell off tables of what shelves can no longer
hold. One hundred years of Marquez is too impermanent for
the permanent collection of our county library, but so too--
at least for the branches which feed pulp back to this
trunk--so too is the Human Comedy, so too are the actual
Dickens or Emily Dickinson. The book here must literally
earn its keep.
[4] Both the remainder morgue and the friends of the
library mortuary are examples of production/distribution
gone radically wrong. Books--and films and television
programs and software, etc.--have become what cigarettes are
in prison, a currency, a token of value, a high voltage
utility humming with options and futures. It is not
necessary to have read them. Rather we are urged to imagine
what they could mean to us; or, more accurately, to imagine
what we would mean if we were the kind of people who had
read them.
[5] This is to say that the intellectual capital economy
has to some extent abandoned the idea of real, material
value for one of utility. This abandonment is not unlike
the kind that in a depressed real estate market leaves
so-called "worthless" condos as empty towers in whose
shadowy colonnades the homeless camp. Ideas of all sorts
have their fifteen minute warholian half-life and then
dissipate, and yet their structures remain. We have long
ago stopped making real buildings in favor of virtual
realities and holograms. The book has lost its privilege.
For those who camped in its shadows, for the culturally
homeless, this is not necessarily a bad thing. No less than
the sitcom or the Nintendo cartridge, the book too is merely
a fleeting, momentarily marketable, physical instantiation
of the network. And the network, unlike the tower,is ours
to inhabit.
[6] In the days before the remote control television
channel zapper and modem port we used to think network meant
the three wise men with the same middle initial: two with
the same last name, NBC and ABC, and their cousin CBS. Now
we increasingly know that the network is nothing less than
what is put before us for use. Here in the network what
makes value is, to echo the poet Charles Olson, knowing how
to use yourself and on what. Networks build locally
immediate value which we can plug into or not as we like.
Thus the network redeems time for us. Already with remote
control channel zapper in hand the most of us can track
multiple narratives, headline loops, and touchdown drives
simultaneously across cable transmissions and stratified
time. In the network we know that what is of value is what
can be used; and that we can shift values everywhere,
instantly, individually, as we will.
[7] We live in what, in _Writing Space_, Jay Bolter calls
the late age of print (Bolter 1991). Once one begins using
a word processor to write fiction, it is easy to imagine
that the same techne which makes it possible to remove the
anguish from a minor character on page 251 of a novel
manuscript and implant it within a formative meditation of
the heroine on page 67 could likewise make it possible to
write a novel which changes every time the reader reads it.
Yet what we envision as a disk tucked into a book might
easily become the opposite. The reader struggles against
the electronic book. "But you can't read it in bed," she
says, everyone's last ditch argument. Fully a year after
Sony first showed Discman, a portable, mini-CD the size of a
Walkman, capable of holding 100,000 pages of text, a
discussion on the Gutenberg computer network wanted to move
the last ditch a little further. The smell of ink, one
writer suggested; the crinkle of pages, suggests another.
[8] Meanwhile in far-off laboratories of the
Military-InfotainmentComplex--to advance upon Stuart
Moulthrop's phrase (Moulthrop, 1989b)--at Warner, Disney or
IBApple and MicroLotus, some scientists work on synchronous
smell-o-vision with real time simulated fragrance
degradation shifting from fresh ink to old mold; while
others build raised-text touch screens with laterally facing
windows that look and turn like pages, crinkling and sighing
as they turn. "But the dog can't eat it," someone protests,
and--smiling, silently--the scientists go back to their
laboratories, bags of silicone kibbles over their shoulders.
[9] What we whiff is not the smell of ink but the smell of
loss: of burning towers or men's cigars in the drawing room.
Hurry up please, it's time. We are in the late age of
print; the time of the book has passed. The book is an
obscure pleasure like the opera or cigarettes. The book is
dead, long live the book. A revolution enacts what a
population already expresses: like eels to the Sargasso, 100
thousand videotapes annually return to a television show
about home videos. In the land of polar mausolea, in this
late age of print, swimming midst this undertow who will
keep the book alive?
[10] In an age when more people buy and do not read more
books than have ever been published before, often with
higher advances than ever before, perhaps we will each
become like the living books of Truffaut's version of
Bradbury's _Fahrenheit 451_, whose vestal readers walk along
the meandering river of light just beyond the city of text.
We face their tasks now, resisting what flattens us,
re-embodying reading as movement, as an action rather than a
thing, network out of book.
[11] We can re-embody reading if we see that the network is
ours to inhabit. There are no technologies without
humanities; tools are human structures and modalities.
Artificial intelligence is a metaphor for the psyche, a
contraption of cognitive psychology and philosophy;
multimedia (even as virtual reality) is a metaphor for the
sensorium, a perceptual gadget beholding to poetics and film
studies. Nothing is quicker than the light of the word. In
"Quickness," one of his _Six Memos for the Next Millennium_,
Italo Calvino writes:
In an age when other fantastically speedy, widespread
media are triumphing and running the risk of flattening
all communication onto a single, homogeneous surface,
the function of literature is communication between
things that are different simply because they are
different, not blunting but even sharpening the
differences between them, following the true bent of
the written language. (Calvino 1988, 45)
[12] Following the true bent of the written language in the
late age of print brings us to the topographic. "The
computer," Jay Bolter says," changes the nature of writing
simply by giving visual expression to our acts of conceiving
and manipulating topics. "In the topographic city of text
shape itself signifies, as in Warren Beatty's literally
brilliant rendering of the city of Dick Tracy. There the
calm, commercial runes of marquee, placard, neon and shingle
(DRUGS, LUNCHEONETTE, CINEMA) not only map the pathways of
meaning and human intercourse, but they also shape and color
the city itself and its inhabitants. Face and costume,
facade and meander, river's edge and central square, booth
or counter, Trueheart or Breathless. "Electronic writing,"
says Bolter
is both a visual and verbal description. It is not the
writing of a place, but rather a writing with places,
spatially realized topics. Topographic writing
challenges the idea that writing should be merely the
servant of spoken language. The writer and reader can
create and examine signs and structures on the computer
screen that have no easy equivalent in speech. (Bolter
1991, 25)
[13] Ted Nelson, who coined the term hypertext in the
1960's, more recently defined it as "non-sequential writing
with reader controlled links." Yet this characterization
stops short of describing the resistance of this new object.
For it is not merely that the reader can choose the order of
what she reads but that her choices in fact become what it
is.
[14] Let us say instead that hypertext is reading and
writing electronically in an order you choose; whether among
choices represented for you by the writer, or by your
discovery of the topographic (sensual) organization of the
text. Your choices, not the author's representations or the
initial topography, constitute the current state of the
text. You become the reader-as-writer.
[15] We might note here that the word we want to describe
the reader-as-writer already exists, although it is too
latinate and bulky for contemporary use. Interlocutor has
the correct sense of one conversant with the polylogue, as
well as the right degrees of burlesque, badinage, and
bricolage behind it. Even so, we will have to make do
with--and may well benefit by extending--the comfortable
term, reader.
[16] We may distinguish two kinds of hypertext according to
their actions (Joyce, 1988). Exploratory hypertext, which
most often occurs in read-only form, allows readers to
control the transformation of a defined body of material.
It is perhaps the type most familiar to you, if you have
seen a Hypercard stack. (Note here that a stack is the name
of the electronic texts created by this Apple product.
There are other hypertext systems, such as Storyspace and
Supercard for the Macintosh, or Guide for both the Macintosh
and MS-DOS machines, and the newcomer ToolBook for the
latter.)
[17] In the typical stack, the reader encounters a text
(which may include sound and graphics, including video,
animations, and what have you). She may choose what and how
she sees or reads, either following an order the author has
set out for her or creating her own. Very often she can
retain a record of her choices in order to replay them
later. More and more frequently in these documents she can
compose her own notes and connect them to what she
encounters, even copying parts from the hypertext itself.
[18] This kind of reading of an exploratory hypertext is
what we might call empowered interaction. The transitional
electronic text makes an uneasy marriage with its reader.
It says: you may do these things, including some I have not
anticipated.
[19] It is to an extent true that neither the author's
representations nor the initial topography but instead the
reader's choices constitute the current state of the text
for her. In these exploratory hypertexts, however, the text
does not transform or rearrange itself to embody this
current state. The transitional electronic text is as yet a
marriage without issue. Each of the reader's additions lies
outside the flow of the text, like Junior's shack at the
edge of the poster-colored city of Dick Tracy. The text may
be seen as leading to what she adds to it, yet her addition
is marginal, ghettoized. Stuart Moulthrop suggests that to
the extent that hypertexts let a power structure "subject
itself to trivial critiques in order to pre-empt any real
questioning of authority . . . hypertext could end up
betraying the anti-hierarchical ideals implicit in its
foundation" (Moulthrop 1989a). Under such circumstances the
reader's interaction does not reorder the text, but rather
conserves authority. She moves outside the pathways of
meaning and human intercourse, unable to shape and color the
city itself or its inhabitants.
[20] Even so, to the extent that the topographical writing
of an exploratory hypertext lets readers create and examine
signs and structures, it does make implicit the boundary
which both marks and makes privilege or authority. In fact
it has always been true that the interlocutory reader, let
us say brooding alone in the reading room of the British
Museum, might come to see this boundary. Attuned to
organizational structures of production and reproduction,
she might mark with Althusser, "the material existence of an
ideological apparatus" of the state (Althusser 1971).
[21] But she might not be able to see quite as clearly or as
quickly as she can see in the hypertext how the arena is
organized to marginalize and diminish her. This is the
trouble with hypertext, at any level: it is messy, it lets
you see ghosts, it is always haunted by the possibility of
other voices, other topographies, others' governance.
[22] Print culture is as discretely defined and
transparently maintained as the grounds of Disney World.
There is no danger that new paths will be trod into the
manicured lawns. Some would like to think this
groundskeeping is a neutral decision, unladen,
de-contextualized, removed from issues of empowerment,
outside any reciprocal relationship. For the moment
institutions of media, publishing, scholarship, and
instruction depend upon the inertia of the aging technology
of print, not just to withstand attack on established ideas,
but to withstand the necessity to refresh and reestablish
these ideas. In fact, hypermedia educators frequently
advertise their stacks by featuring the fact that the
primary materials are not altered by the webs of comments
and connections made by students. This makes it easier to
administer networks they say.
[23] Like the Irish king Cuchulain who fought the tide with
his sword, they lose who would battle waves on the shores of
light. The book is slow, the network is quick; the book is
many of one, the network is many ones multiplied; the book
is dialogic, the network polylogic.
[24] The second kind of hypertext, constructive hypertext,
offers an electronic alternative to the grey ghetto
alongside the river of light. Constructive hypertext
requires a capability to create, change, and recover
particular encounters within a developing body of knowledge.
Like the network, conference, classroom or any other form of
the electronic text, constructive hypertexts are "versions
of what they are becoming, a structure for what does not yet
exist" (Joyce 1988).
[25] As a true electronic text, the constructive hypertext
differs from the transitional exploratory hypertext in that
its interaction is reciprocal rather than empowered. The
reader gives birth to the true electronic text. It says:
what you do transforms what I have done, and allows you to
do what you have not anticipated. "It is not just that [we]
must make knowledge [our] own," says Jerome Bruner in
_Actual Minds, Possible Worlds_, but that we must do so "in
a community of those who share [our] sense of culture"
(Bruner 1986).
[26] A truly constructive hypertext will present the reader
opportunities to recognize and deploy the existing linking
structure in all its logic and nuance. That is, the
evolving rhetoric must be manifest for the reader. She
should be able to extend the existing structure and to
transform it, harnessing it to her own uses. She should be
able to predict that her own transformations of a hypertext
will cause its existing elements to conform to her
additions. While not merely taking on but surrendering the
forefront to the newly focused tenor and substance of the
interlocutory reader, the transformed text should continue
to perform reliably in much the same way that it has for
previous readers.
[27] Indeed, every reading of the transformed text should
in some sense rehearse the transformation made by the
interlocutory reader. If a reader, let us call her Ann, has
read a particular text both before and after the
intervention of the interlocutory reader, Beatrice, Ann's
experience of the text should have the familiar discomfort
of recognition. Ann should realize Beatrice's reading.
[28] Not surprisingly, the first efforts at developing truly
constructive hypertexts have taken place in (hyper)fictions.
_afternoon_ (Joyce 1990) attempts to subvert the topography
of the text by making every word seem as if it yields other
possibilities, letting the reader imagine her own
confirmations. This "letting" likely signifies a partially
failed attempt, a text which empowers more than it
reciprocates. In situating and criticizing _afternoon_,
Stuart Moulthrop speculated, "a writing space [which]
presumes a new community of readers, writers, and designers
of media . . . [whose] roles would be much less sharply
differentiated than they are now "(Moulthrop, 1989a).
[29] In attempting to develop such a community it becomes
clear to hyperfiction writers that unless roles of author
and reader are much less sharply differentiated, the silence
will have no voice. Even interactive texts will live a lie.
"In all claims to the story," writes the Canadian poet Erin
Moure,
There is muteness. The writer as
witness, speaking the stories, is a lie, a liberal
bourgeois lie.
Because the speech is the writer's speech, and each
word of the
writer robs the witnessed of their own voice, muting
them.
(Moure 1989, 84)
[30] Increasingly hyperfiction writers consider how the
topographic (sensual) organization of the text might present
reciprocal choices that constitute and transform the current
state of the text. How, in the landscape of the city of
text, can the reader know that what she builds will move the
course of the river? How might what she builds present what
Bruner calls an invitation to reflection and culture
creating. In her poem, "Site Glossary,: Loony Tune Music,"
Moure says
witness as a concept is outdated in the countries of
privilege, witness as tactic, the image as completed
desktop publishing & the writer as accurate, the names
are
sonorous & bear repeating tho there is no repetition
the
throat fails to mark the trace of the individual voice
which
entails loony tune music in this age
(Moure 1989, 115)
[31] Hyperfictions seek to mark the trace with their own
loony tune music. In _Chaos_ Stuart Moulthrop has
speculated a fiction which is consciously unfinished,
fragmentary, open, one of emotional orientations and
transformative encounters. John McDaid's hyperfiction
_Uncle Buddy's Phantom Fun House_ is an electronic world of
notebooks, scrap papers, dealt but unplayed Tarot cards,
souvenirs, segments, drafts, and tapes, unfinished in the
way that death unfinishes us all (McDaid, 1991). In _Izme
Pass_, their hyperfictional "deconstruction of priority,"
Carolyn Guyer and Martha Petry seek "to weave . . . [a] new
work made not of the parts but the connections . . . [in
order] to unmurk it a little, to form connection in time and
space, but without respect to those constraints "(Guyer
1991b).
[32] While this may seem the same urge toward a novel which
changes each time it is read, what has changed in the
interim between novelist-at-word-processor and hyperfiction
writer is that computer tools to accomplish these sorts of
multiple texts have been built. Moreover hyperfiction
writers have not only imagined and rendered them, but also
and more importantly have begun to set out an aesthetic for
a multiple fiction which yields to its readers in a
reciprocal relationship.
[33] This sort of reciprocal relationship for electronic art
has a conscious history in the late 20th century. In Glenn
Gould's essay "Strauss and the Electronic Future" (1964) he
envisions a "multiple authorship responsibility in which the
specific functions of the composer, the performer, and
indeed the consumer overlap." He expands this notion in his
extraordinary essay, "The Prospects of Recording" (Gould
1966): "Because so many different levels of participation
will, in fact, be merged in the final result, the
individualized information concepts which define the nature
of identity and authorship will become very much less
imposing."
[34] What joins the concerns of many of writers working with
multiple fictions is nothing less than the deconstruction of
priority involved in making identity and authorship much
less imposing. "The fact in the human universe," says
Charles Olson, "is the discharge of the many (the multiple)
by the one (yrself done right . . . is the thing--all
hierarchies, like dualities, are dead ducks)" (Olson, 1974).
[35] These writers share a conviction that the nature of
mind must not be fixed. It is not a transmission but a
conversation we must keep open. "If structure is identified
with the mechanisms of the mind," says Umberto Eco, "then
historical knowledge is no longer possible" (Eco, 1989). We
redeem history when we put structure under question in the
ways that narrative, hypertext and teaching each do in their
essence. Narrative is the series of individual questions
which marginalize accepted order and thus enact history.
Hypertext links are no less than the trace of such
questions, a conversation with structure. All three are
authentically concerned with consciousness rather than
information; with creating and preserving knowledge rather
than with the mere ordering of the known. The value
produced by the readers of hypertexts or by the students we
learn with is constrained by systems which refuse them the
centrality of their authorship. What is at risk is both
mind and history.
[36] In Wim Wenders' (and Peter Handke's) film, _Wings of
Desire_, the angels walk among the stacks and tables of a
library, listening to the music within the minds of the
individual readers. It is a scene of indescribable delicacy
and melancholy both (one which makes you want to rush from
the theatre and into the nearest library, there to read
forever), into the midst of which, shuffling slowly up the
carpeted stair treads, huffing at each stairwell landing,
his nearly transparent hand touching on occasion against the
place where his breastbone pounds beneath his suit and vest,
comes an old man, his mind opening to an angel's vision and
to us in a winded, scratchy wheeze.
[37] "Tell me muse of the story-teller," he thinks, "who was
thrust to the end of the world, childlike ancient . . . ."
The credits tell us later that this is Homer. "With time,"
he thinks, "my listeners became my readers. They no longer
sit in a circle, instead they sit apart and no one knows
anything about the other . . . ."
[38] Homer's is for us increasingly an old story. When
print removed knowledge from temporality, Walter Ong reminds
us, it interiorized the idea of discrete authorship and
hierarchy. Ong envisioned a new orality (Ong 1982). In
this case it is a film which restores the circle; likewise
the "multiple authorship" of hypertext offers an electronic
restoration of the circle.
[39] Although hypertext is an increasingly familiar cultural
term, its artistic import is only beginning to be realized.
In novels whose words and structures do not stay the same
from one reading to another, ones in which the reader no
longer sits apart but by her interaction, shapes and
transforms.
[40] Shaping ourselves, we ourselves are shaped. This is
the reciprocal relationship. It is likewise the elemental
insight of the fractal geometry: that each contour is itself
an expression of itself in finer grain. We have been
talking so long about a new age, a technological age, an
information age, etc., that we are apt to forget that it is
we who fashion it, we who discover and recover it, we who
shape it, we who literally give it form with how we use
ourselves and on what.
[41] This organic reconstitution of the text may be what
makes constructive hypertext the first instance of what we
will come to conceive as the natural form of multimodal,
multi-sensual writing: the multiple fiction,the true
electronic text, not the transitional electronic analogue of
a printed text like a hypertextual encyclopedia. Fictions
like _afternoon_, _WOE_, _Chaos_, _IZME PASS_, or _Uncle
Buddy's Phantom Funhouse_ can neither be conceived nor
experienced in any other way. They are imagined and
composed within their own idiom and electronic environment,
not cobbled together from pre-ordained texts.
[42] For these fictions there will be no print equivalent,
nor even a mathematical possibility of printing their
variations. Yet this is in no way to suggest that these
fictions are random on the one hand or artificial
intelligence on the other. Merely that they are
formational.
[43] What they form are instances of the new writing of the
late age of print, what Jane Yellowlees Douglas terms "the
genuine post-modern text rejecting the objective paradigm of
reality as the great 'either/or' and embracing, instead, the
'and/and/and'" (Douglas, 1991). The issues at hand are not
technological but aesthetic, not what and where we shall
read but how and why. These are issues which have been a
matter of the deepest artistic inquiry for some time, and
which share a wide and eclectic band of progenitors and a
century or more of self-similar texts in a number of media.
[44] The layering of meaning and the simultaneity of
multiple visions have gradually become comfortable notions
to us, though they form the essence underlying the
intermingled and implicating voices of Bach which Glenn
Gould heard with such clarity. We are the children of the
aleatory convergence. Our longing for multiplicity and
simultaneity seems upon reflection an ancient one, the sole
center of the whirlwind, the one silence.
[45] It is an embodied silence which the multiple fiction
can render. We find ourselves at the confluence of
twentieth century narrative arts and cognitive science as
they approach an age of machine-based art, virtual
realities, and what Don Byrd calls "proprioceptive
coherence" (Byrd, 1991). The new writing requires rather
than encourages multiple readings. It not only enacts these
readings, it does not exist without them. Multiple fictions
accomplish what its progenitors could only aspire to,
lacking a topographic medium, light speed, electronic grace,
and the willing intervention of the reader.
-----------------------------------------------------------
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