Imagine There's No Libraries

  

The old Beatles song "Imagine" asks the listener to think what life would be without Heaven.  Libraries are not Heaven, but they perform a little-considered yet essential role in the cultures of many nations.  And some recent trends in library science and the way academic libraries are operated makes me wonder if we're heading toward the extinction of libraries as we know them.

 

With the invention of writing around 3000 B. C. (which took place in several locations around the world), it first became possible to store thoughts in physical form.  This had a profound effect on the way governments and individuals operated.  For the first time, a disputed question could be referred not simply to the oldest and wisest person around, but to a written record that doesn't change. 

           

Until the invention of printing, books and libraries were expensive, and access was limited mostly to the ruling and most prosperous classes.  The establishment of universities around 1200 A. D. led to the founding of research libraries, where scholars could go to learn the best of what had been taught in the past.  Both the Scientific and Industrial Revolutions depended vitally on libraries and the written word to propagate new knowledge and built upon what was learned.  Western civilization itself is unthinkable without widespread access to standard works of philosophy, government, science, and the arts which can be found, in a last resort, at a library.

 

Then came the digital revolution.  Some interesting statistics from a 2023 report of the Association of College and Research Libraries shows that while research universities—those which grant doctoral degrees—still have an average of 71% of their collections in physical form, only about 1.6% of all circulation in university libraries represents physical objects.  All the rest is in digital form.  And for all other types of colleges and universities—four-year bachelor-granting, master's degree only, and two-year and community colleges—the vast majority of their holdings are digital.  The bottom line is, physical books and journals are largely a thing of the past as far as university libraries are concerned.  And the research libraries which still hold physical books and journals are moving them as fast as they can to offsite storage facilities, which are much cheaper to maintain than open stacks of real books.

 

Okay, you say, so what?  Libraries used to house big awkward scrolls, then hand-written tomes, and now it's mostly digital.  The information is still there, and now it can be accessed by a wider variety of people.  What's to complain about?

 

Two things come to mind.

 

The first is what I would call the curatorial function of libraries and librarians.  Even on the level of a small town library, before the digital revolution their physical collection represented a hierarchy of importance, as assessed by educated professionals who knew what kinds of things a library should have in it for the particular place and time.  If a wacko walked in from the street trying to hand out brochures warning of an imminent zombie apocalypse, the librarians would listen to him, maybe, but after he left they'd dump his brochures in the trash.

 

No more.  Mr. Zombie Apocalypse has his own website, X account, Facebook page, and probably a Substack blog too.  And while the reference librarian isn't going to point you at his page, there's nothing to stop you from going there.  Even the little Guinness-Book-of-Records type questions that people dream up are no longer asked of librarians.  Everyone carries around a little oracle in their pocket, and all you have to do is ask the oracle, and you'll get some kind of answer. 

 

Librarians are aware that their former core function—to curate what they regarded as the most important information for a locality, whether a small town or a big university—is being steadily usurped by Google, Facebook, and now AI bots.  So they are busy cultivating other activities to host:  meetings, social events, makerspaces, and other doings that serve the communities for which they feel responsible.  So far, it has worked, but sometimes I wonder whether people will forget what libraries are for in the welter of auxiliary activities and services that librarians are coming up with.

 

The second and most scary downside to all this is one that's unlikely, but for certain places it's already become a reality, at least for a while.  In the recent turmoil in Iran set off by severe inflation, the government essentially shut down that nation's internet in late December.  And of this writing, the shutdown continues.

 

The ostensible reason was to quell political protests, but the effect has been much wider than simply to keep people from organizing anti-government demonstrations.  I'm sure that to the extent Iranian libraries have embraced the digital revolution and dispensed with their physical collections, they are currently regretting any progress they have made in that area. 

 

It can't happen here, you say, "here" being North America, Europe, or most other places with so-called enlightened governments.  Well, if you got in a time machine and went back to 1966 and told people there that in 2026, we'd have seen riots at the U. S. Capitol aimed at disrupting the results of a presidential election, unilateral action by the executive branch to impose tariffs and trade restrictions, to kidnap heads of other governments, and to intimidate leaders of the legislative and judiciary branches with spurious lawsuits, they might not have believed you. 

 

I'm not trying to criticize any particular administration, but to point out that an all-electronic library that relies on the internet has certain vulnerabilities that physical documents don't have.  This is not to say that we should reverse the trend toward digital archiving of information, though that is a sore subject on its own.  But in going the internet-based route by exchanging physical stuff kept in one place for digital stuff in the cloud, libraries have vaporized the main reason that people go to them.  If you can go straight to the cloud for information, guided by AI companions that are smarter than a hundred librarians, why bother with libraries?

 

That's a question librarians will have to struggle with in the future.  For their sake and for the sake of all cultures who have benefited from libraries in the past, I hope they come up with some good answers. 

 

Sources:  The 2023 report by the Association of College and Research Libraries "The State of U. S. Academic Libraries" is available at https://www.ala.org/sites/default/files/2024-10/2023%20State%20of%20Academic%20Libraries%20Report.pdf.  I also referred to the Wikipedia article "2026 Internet blackout in Iran."

The False Promise of Digital Storage for Posterity

Now that almost every book, photograph, artwork, article, news item, story, drama, or film is published digitally, we are supposed to rejoice that the old-fashioned imperfect and corruptible analog forms of these media—paper that ages, film that deteriorates—has been superseded by the ubiquitous bit, which preserves data flawlessly—that is, until it doesn't.  A recent article in the engineering magazine IEEE Spectrum highlights the problems that Hollywood is having in simply keeping around usable digital copies of their old films.  And "old" in this sense can mean only three or four years ago. 

It's not like there isn't a standard way of preserving digital copies of motion pictures.  About twenty years ago, a consortium of companies got together and agreed on an open standard for magnetic-tape versions of movies and other large-volume digital material called "linear tape-open" or LTO.  If you've never heard of it, welcome to the club.  An LTO-7 cartridge is a plastic box about four inches (10 cm) on a side and a little less than an inch thick.  Inside is a reel of half-inch-wide (12 mm) tape about three thousand feet (960 m) long, and it can hold up to 6 terabytes (6 x 10¹² bytes) of uncompressed data.  Costing a little more than a hundred bucks, each cartridge is guaranteed to last at least 30 years—physically.

The trouble is, the same companies that came up with the LTO standard are part of the universal high-tech digital conspiracy to reinvent the world every two years.  Keeping something the same out of respect for the simple idea that permanence is a virtue is an entirely foreign concept to them.  Accordingly, over the last twenty years there have been seven generations of LTO tapes, and each one hasn't been backward-compatible for more than one or two generations. 

What this means to movie production companies that simply want to preserve their works digitally is this:  every three or four years at the outside, they have to copy everything they've got onto the new generation of LTO tapes.  And these tapes don't run very fast—it's not like burning a new flash drive.  Transferring an entire archive can take months and cost millions of dollars, but the customers are at the mercy of the LTO standard that keeps changing. 

According to the Spectrum article, Warner Brothers Studios has turned over the job of preserving their films to specialist film archivists at the University of Southern California, which already had a well-funded operation to preserve video interviews with Holocaust victims.  But USC faces the same digital-obsolescence issues that the studios are dealing with, and one USC archivist calls LTO tapes "archive heroin"—it's a thrill compared to the old analog archive methods, but it gets to be an expensive habit after a while.

And that gets us to a more fundamental question:  given limited resources, what should each generation preserve, in terms of intellectual output, for the next one?  And how should preservation happen?

For most of recorded history, preservation of old documents was left mostly to chance.  Now and then a forward-looking monarch would establish a library, such as the famous one in Alexandria that was established by Ptolemy I Soter, the successor of Alexander the Great, about 300 B. C.   It held anywhere from 40,000 to 400,000 scrolls, and lasted until the Romans conquered Egypt around 30 B. C., when it suffered the first of a series of fires that destroyed most of its contents. 

One can argue that the entire course of Western history would be different if all the works of the Greek philosopher Aristotle (384 B. C. - 322 B. C.) had been lost.  The way we came to possess what works we have of his is hair-raising.  After Aristotle died, his successor Theophrastus at the school where Aristotle taught, the Lyceum, inherited from Aristotle a large set of what we would call today lecture notes.   After Theophrastus died, he left them to Neleus of Scepsis, who took them from Athens, where the Lyceum was, back home to Scepsis, and stuck them in his cellar.  Then he died.  Evidently the Greek families held on to real estate back then, and it's a good thing too, because it wasn't till about 100 B. C., more than two centuries after Aristotle's passing, that Neleus's descendants had a garage sale or something, and a fellow named Apellicon of Teos found the manuscripts and bought them.  He took them back to Athens, where Apellicon's library was confiscated by the conquering Romans in 86 B. C.  Finally, some Roman philosophers realized what they had in Aristotle's works and started making copies of them around 60 B. C.

I won't even go into how most of Aristotle's works were lost again to everyone except Arabic scholars up to about 1200 A. D., but we've had enough ancient history for one blog.  The point is that historic preservation was left largely to chance until people began to realize the value of the past to the present in an organized way. 

While the movie industry deserves credit for laying out lots of money to preserve chunks of our visual cultural history, one must admit that their interests are mostly financial.  Once the people who see a movie when they're in their twenties die out, the only folks interested in such films are the occasional oddball historian or fans of specialty outlets such as the Turner Classic Films channel. 

The real problem with digital archives is not so much the fact that the technology advances so fast, although that could be alleviated.  It's the question that never has an answer until it's sometimes too late:  what is worth preserving? 

If you're a well-heeled library like the one at Harvard University, the answer is simple:  everything you get your hands on.  But most places are not that well off, so it's a judgment call as to what to toss and what to keep using the always-limited resources at hand.

Despite the best intentions of well-funded film archivists, my suspicion is that a few centuries hence, we will find that many of the works of most importance to the future, whatever they are, were preserved not on purpose, but by hair-raising combinations of fortunate accidents like the ones that brought us the works of Aristotle.  And if I'm wrong, well, chances are this blog won't be one of those things that are preserved.  So nobody will know.

Sources:  The article "The Lost Picture Show:  Hollywood Archivists Can't Outpace Obsolescence" by Marty Perlmutter appeared in the May 2017 issue of IEEE Spectrum and online at http://spectrum.ieee.org/computing/it/the-lost-picture-show-hollywood-archivists-cant-outpace-obsolescence?.  The story of how Aristotle's works came down to us is reported independently by at least two ancient sources, and so is probably pretty close to the truth, according to the Wikipedia article on Aristotle.  I also referred to Wikipedia articles on the Library of Alexandria and the Ptolemaic dynasty.