The last time we moved internet service was just becoming an issue. When we first came to our Somerville apartment we had dial-up. Do you believe it? Shortly after that FIOS came to town and we decided to give it a try, but at a fairly low speed. We’ve always tried to be responsible with money and I naturally balk at paying for something as intangible and amorphous as “internet connectivity.” I guess I’m a naive realist after all. In any case, one of the top priorities in moving to our new place was getting internet set up. Even before electricity or gas or water. It has become THE utility. The place to pay the bills for all the other utilities. And since I’m now telecommuting, the umbilical cord that connects me to work.
I don’t mean to sound all grandpa-ish on you, but just twelve years ago we struggled for any connection at all. We had one computer (and one work laptop) and only the desktop had internet access. Many of the arcane pieces of hardware found in the attic were from attempts to get us onto the net more efficiently. We even had to draw up a contract for who could use the computer and for how long since all of us wanted that magic window onto the virtual world. Now, like most households, we have wifi and high speed access. When we’re not at the computer, we have our smart phones at hand. The strangest thing about all of this is that now that we’ve got constant connection, our nation has become as polarized as it has ever been. Perhaps we see a little too much of each other? Or too little?
The web has connected us to those we like. Walking down the street it’s rare to find someone not staring at their phone, ignoring all living beings around him or her. We’ve been able to filter out those we don’t like. Those who have different points of view. The net shows us that we aren’t alone, and even those with extreme views can find plenty of compatriots in cyberspace. There’s a reason we used to be told not to discuss religion or politics. Now we know everybody else’s business.
There was a time when moving meant going to where the jobs are. Especially in academia. Colleges and universities exist in set locations. In space-time. Telecommuting isn’t an option (although even that’s happening in some cases now). Moving these days means weighing your internet access options. Satellite is just too slow and unreliable. Who would’ve imagined, for those of us born just after Sputnik went up, that now even space-based connections just aren’t advanced enough? Cyberspace has become more infinite than outer space. And I still prefer pencil and paper.
I’m moving. It turns out that transport companies don’t offer service to Enceladus, and inter-planetary moves are expensive, so we’re moving just one state over. If, by chance, you know me from work you need not worry—my job will remain the same but the commute will become tele. Over the past several weeks my wife and I have been sorting through the accumulated effects of thirty years of married life. Our current apartment has an attic. Uninsulated, there are few days when it’s not too hot or too cold to stand to be up there for very long—kind of like other planets, come to think of it. Also neighbors don’t appreciate creaking floorboards over their heads the hours I’m awake. Going through things that were hurriedly packed to get out of Nashotah House was quite poignant. That’s the way fragments of past lives are, I guess. You see, that was an unexpected move. Life has a way of being complicated.
One of the more remarkable discoveries was how much we used to put on paper. As a scholar of ancient documents, I have an inherent distrust of electronic media. To be written means to appear on a permanent—as much as material things can be permanent—medium. Back in my teaching days assignments were handed in on paper. Grading was done on paper. Teaching evaluations were distributed on paper. Academic publications were done on paper. In order to be a professor you needed a house. I taught at five different schools over a span of nearly two decades. There was a lot of paper to go through.
The academic mindset is seasonal. I kept waiting for summer to come to have time to sort through everything. Outside academia, I’m still learning, summer is just another series of work days. Yes, you can cash in vacation time, but you’ll not have that entirely sensible canicule hiatus that allows you to examine what you’ve accumulated and determine if you’ll ever need it again. It was like archaeology in the attic. When volunteering at Tel Dor in the summer of 1987—summers were like that, as I said—I learned that by far the majority of pottery found at digs is discarded. There are literally tons of it thrown away. You can’t keep it all. So the attic was a kind of triage of memories. Not all of this was going to fit in the new house. Decisions had to be made. I guess I was thinking that if a company could take us to Enceladus they’d have figured out how to transport everything. It turns out that to escape earth’s gravity, you have to get your ship as light as possible. With over half a century of memories, however, there’s bound to be some weight to be left behind.
Posted in Archaeology, Higher Education, Holidays, Memoirs, Posts, Travel
Tagged academia, Archaeology, Enceladus, Higher Education, Nashotah House, Tel Dor
I never met Jonathan Z. Smith, although he was hard to miss at conferences. By the time I was a doctoral student his writings were deemed essential reading in several areas of religious studies. Smith, like a few renegade scholars, had doctoral training in one area but went on to teach himself far more diverse subjects, earning him rare accolades as someone who understood a vast amount about religion. That’s something you can do if you have a university willing to back you up. The usual formula for academic success (degrees from Ivy League schools, one of which must be Harvard, dissertation published by Oxford University Press, and letters of recommendation from one or two key players) encourages extreme specialization. Siloed thinking. Only when you’ve found a school that believes in you can you branch out like Smith did. Like most people in my field, I’ve read his stuff.
Scholars can be remarkably naive about how “the system” works. Most, for instance, don’t know that Academia.edu is a for-profit website. Not that there’s anything wrong with that; most of my old papers are available on Academia. The thing is, publishers may not want you to post your research there. You see, academics often believe the results of their research should be free. Thing is, someone has to pay for publishing it. It’s not cheap to publish books or journals. Undercutting a publisher may seem like fun, but then the book prices go up and everybody’s mad. These things are interconnected. Jonathan Z. Smith would’ve understood that.
For reasons poorly comprehended, some academics get publishers’ eyes and they want to build this person up. It may be—more than likely is—that an early book sold well. Nothing says academic veracity like lucre. The more books printed with one’s name on them, the better known said scholar becomes. Some even make it to the level of public intellectuals. It’s not a journey over which an individual has much control. Quite often it’s the support structures offered—steady, tenure-track job, ready acceptance at prestige presses, media exposure. Smith, like my doctoral advisor John C. L. Gibson, never used a computer. Try to get a university post today with that stance. I dare you. He set his own terms. In a world where being an academic means knowing an awful lot about a very little, the shadow of those who’ve earned the right to say a lot about a lot lies long on the ground. But it’s a good idea to ask your publisher before you decide to post things on Academia. Be informed about this little bit.
Many academics I know dismiss editors as just another species of laity put on earth to serve the guild. There’s perhaps some truth to that. Without people to write books—and few beyond the professorate are granted the time and leisure to do so—we’d be without a job. One of the more hidden aspects of being an editor is, however, its prophylactic role. One thing that those of us who’ve written books know is that we get pretty close to our subject. We have to. Writing a book while viewing your topic from a distance is possible, but not desirable. Being too close to your subject, however, often leads to extreme myopia. Many are those who are quick to dismiss editorial suggestions wonder later why their books didn’t do better. Think about it. Editors, by definition, read all the latest stuff.
We’re kind of like shepherds, my fellow editors and me. We try to keep the ideas in order. We’re not the owners—the authors are—but without an able shepherd you soon find yourself lacking the sheep that make you wealthy. The benefit of an editor is having dispassionate eyes—often knowing eyes—viewing a nascent book without the love of a parent. Don’t get me wrong—we often have great fondness for those books we didn’t write. We can tell the author something s/he is too attached to the text to notice. We can help the writer avoid mistakes. Not that we’re perfect, but we are critical because we’re rooting for you. Facilitators.
It used to be common for editors to be authors. With the growing atomization of specialization, however, this is fairly rare these days. As a colleague of mine once put it, editors are more like deans than faculty. We look at book budgets and statistics. We face the harsh realities. And some of us were once faculty. I receive dismissive notes now and again, supposing that I’m an English major who made it good. Unlike many editors, however, I write. I’ve sat on both sides of this desk and when I offer advice it’s for your own good. Academics and publishers need each other. For one, without books there’s no promotion. Without books, for the other, there’s no paycheck. Like any shepherd, however, we know that the sheep are the important assets. We shepherd ideas into books. But you have to trust the shepherd to do the job.
I recently came across a website with academic papers available on it. Although the internet has yet to achieve its promise as a locus of solid academic material, such sites are becoming more common. I’ve been uploading my own papers onto Academia.edu since they seem to be old enough not to impact anyone’s sales aspirations. In any case, this particular website I found noted that a paper had been updated at such-and-such a time, and that anyone who had downloaded the previous version should delete it and use the new one instead. This is a dilemma. I know of publishers who make corrections without issuing new editions. When I buy a book, what it actually says will depend on the printing rather than on the edition. I wonder if such retractions are really fair. How does one know when she’s reading something outdated?
Picture this: a young kid, perhaps an unknowing fundamentalist, reading his Bible. Then he gets a newer copy of the same translation. But soon he notices that there are differences. Although the example may sound overly Talmudic, it is factual. Bibles, being printed in large quantities, are especially susceptible to error. When did the printed word become something that’s negotiable? I’ve been pondering clay tablets and their apparent immutability. Contrary to popular belief, most clay tablets weren’t fired—it was a lot of effort for something that had limited value. Some tablets show signs of erasure or additional words being added. In the case of clay, this is often very clear. Besides, the readers were few and specialists. They knew what they had. But for a modern person staking the salvation of her soul on a document, is it not problematic to change a jot or tittle (of which not the least shall pass away)? Has technology made us immune to fixed texts?
Back to the website I found. What if I downloaded the faulty paper and wrote my own paper based on it? How would I know to go back and check to see if a new version had been uploaded? Am I to spend all my time revisiting web pages to see what has changed? Knowledge itself seems now to have become whimsical. What is true depends on the date and time you accessed it. Perhaps I’m just a dreamer, but there was a time, it seems to me, before post-modernism, when you might purchase a book and be fairly certain of what you had. Errata sheets (or the more fancy addenda et corrigenda) didn’t intrude into the typeset page. You could still read correctly, assured that someone had spotted and acknowledged the mistake. We have, I fear, outlived the need for sic. And it is only a small step from siclessness to truth that changes second by second. Is this the siclessness unto death?