Cognitive Technology

I worked in bookselling from 1994 to 2004. During that time, the death of the book was a constant source of conversation and consternation. I imagine that it still is. And yet… And yet the book continues to not die. The survival of the book depends on a complex array of factors—the conservative nature of the publishing industry, the singular smell of old paper in a leather binding—but, fundamentally, the book persists because it is a remarkably successful piece of technology.

When we encounter the word “technology,” we tend to think of things that run on silicon chips and have an LED screen. We think, for example, of the iPhone. The iPhone is, of course, a piece of technology. It was invented for a complex array of reasons—Apple’s market-driven need to duplicate the success of the iPod, the gadget-lover’s desire for a new new thing—but, basically, it exists because people would rather have one small device that allows them to check e-mail, take photos, listen to music, google stuff, and—oh, yeah—make phone calls than carry around 20 pounds of electronic equipment.

The book as we know it exists because people found it preferable to stone tablets, papyrus scrolls, and the various other means of recording and transmitting text that were invented before somebody had the brilliant idea of folding together separate pages and binding them between two covers. The book has changed over the millennia, of course—very few of us have our books hand-printed and illuminated by monks these days—but the basic form persists because it works. The digitization of printed material is a worthwhile project, and I’m interested to see where it goes. I have, myself, used and purchased ebooks. It’s nice to have the Harlequin novel I want delivered to my computer at the click of a button. However, if I try to take my laptop out into the backyard on a sunny day, or if I try to read my romance in the bathtub, I discover once again what a wonderful piece of technology the lowly mass market paperback is.

I’ve been thinking about this because Professor Primeau mentioned print-on-demand in our last class, and because we talked about the value of traditional scholarly discourse. I’ve been thinking that the hoary old expository paper persists because it works. It’s important to be aware of the many ways in which the academy has been and continues to be exclusionary, and I remain open to the possibility that there may be something inherently discriminatory about traditional discourse. I would like to argue that discrimination is not, itself, a bad thing—if what academic discourse rejects is bad scholarship rather than groups of people. But I also know that groups of people have been excluded by the academy arguing that certain groups of people are constitutionally incapable of sound scholarship. So…

So, I guess I would like to suggest, as some of my colleagues did Wednesday night, that traditional discourse is valuable because it works well. As a means of communication, it has proven useful in transmitting thoughts from one person to another. And, as a piece of what we might call cognitive technology, it encourages critical thinking and enforces clear organization. It is an effective tool for fostering a community of ideas.

But, I would like to add that this doesn’t mean that there’s no room for innovation, just as the advent of the paperback didn’t mean that no one would ever again need or want a hardbound book. What it means is that pretty much every paper I write begins as a five-paragraph theme—the form I learned from Ms. Dye in the tenth grade. Often, I find it necessary to deviate from this scheme. We did talk briefly Wednesday night about the possibility that certain texts require particular—even “alternative”—forms, and I think that makes perfect sense. But, myself, I don’t abandon the traditional form that has served me so well over twenty years of schooling until I feel that I don’t have a choice.

Certainly, with my latest research, I tried strenuously to wrestle it into a paper before I decided that it really should be a website. I’m guessing, though, that, when I reach the end of the project, I will feel the need to summarize my web-based experience. I’m guessing that I’ll feel compelled to organize my thoughts and try to arrive at some conclusions. I’m guessing that when I’m finished with this process of assessment, what I’ll end up with is a text that looks very much like a good, old-fashioned expository paper.