LITMIR.BIZ

FIGURE 1. “The Communications Circuit,” in Robert Darnton, “What Is the History of Books?” (1982). Reprinted courtesy of the MIT Press.

      What about nonhuman presence in texts, then? The Nature of the Page advocates an “ecology of texts” as a necessary and timely extension of McKenzie’s sociology of texts.²² Like a sociology of texts, an ecology of texts further extends the field, bringing more agents into play. It suggests, in a manner akin to that of McKenzie, that there is more to see and discover in the pages we have turned. An ecology of texts is an extension that has been latent in book history at least since Lucien Febvre and Henri-Jean Martin’s seminal study, The Coming of the Book.²³ Febvre and Martin, like other scholars of the Annales school in 1960s France, are often credited with drawing attention to “the general pattern of book production and consumption” rather than “fine points of bibliography.”²⁴ But in their discussion of papermaking as a collaboration of the “industrial” and the “natural,” one can also see the seed of a more ecologically attentive approach: “The story, in brief, of the papermaking industry is that its development was always conditional on the supply of its raw materials.”²⁵ Even the language of Darnton’s communications circuit draws on ecological metaphors: “Books belong to circuits of communication that operate in consistent patterns…. By unearthing those circuits, historians can show that books do not merely recount history; they make it” (emphasis mine).²⁶ “Unearthing,” though, requires one more step: the representation of the natural matter that makes the books that make history. One need not have any special investment in environmentalism to appreciate how much of the story we miss if we accept natural resources as givens rather than variables in the history of media.

      On the other hand, one need not have any special investment in Renaissance poetry or book history to notice an important connection between the long, pollutive history of paper mills and Rob Nixon’s attention, in Slow Violence and the Environmentalism of the Poor, to “paper trail identity” and the ways “writing has become fundamental to petro-modernity’s control of labor.”²⁷ Indeed, in the section “Orality, Geology, and Writing: The Technologies of Encounter” Nixon puts that work in a direct conversation with “The Sociology of a Text: Oral Culture, Literacy, and Print in Early New Zealand,” the final chapter of McKenzie’s Bibliography and the Sociology of Texts—and further highlights the “slow violence” that becomes visible when we attend to human presence in texts.²⁸ Early handmade paper, which has played such an important role in codicological and bibliographical research of the past, is filled with other kinds of legible evidence about histories of weather and weaving, of ports and imports and exports, of environmental exploitation and toxic effluence. As Diane Kelsey McColley claims in a reading of Vaughan’s poetry, “Part of ecological thinking is knowing where our artifacts come from, with what cost to the earth, to habitats, to species, to individuals of those species, and in human labor.”²⁹

      Regardless of what we emphasize individually when we write about literature of the past, the great majority of humanities scholars access primary sources not only in editions, but also in archival libraries, where we hold and read and handle the slowly decaying remains of historical ecosystems that we call “Renaissance England” or “postcolonial Africa” or “nineteenth-century Latin American literature.” (Throughout this book, I use the term “archival libraries” when designating specific, material spaces that facilitate on-site access to published and unpublished historical records.)³⁰ Bruce Holsinger suggests that “to be a medievalist is to be hopelessly implicated in and to constantly witness the mass deaths of countless sheep, lambs, calves, and goats for the means of literary transmission.”³¹ In doing so, Holsinger raises important concerns about the implications and the social and environmental ethics of archival research, topics to which I return in this book, especially in the final chapter. My starting point, though, is aesthetics as much as ethics, scholarly due diligence as much as environmental awareness. Seeing and emphasizing the organic nature of the texts we examine can give rhetorical weight to the matter from which texts are made and can begin to account for the crucial negotiations between humans and the world of things in the acts of creating (and preserving) material records of ideas.

      We accept, as readers and as writers, that words on matter never perfectly replicate ideas in the mind. We accept and even enjoy these incongruities between mind and matter, but our fascination with the agency of humans, with human language, with human media, tends to blur our ability to see the ecological negotiations that undergird textual creation and circulation. Using biological metaphors like “medial ecologies,” we tend to overlook the actual ecologies that make media possible.³² And yet, as this book demonstrates, the affordances of a particular media form are determined by the affordances of the available plants, animals, and minerals used to create those forms. Natural resources can be imagined as boundless in Utopia; anywhere else, as the inputs from the natural world change, so do the outputs—the books themselves. A poem printed on paper can be read and circulated and preserved differently than a poem written on parchment or engraved on a stone monument or, for that matter, a poem inscribed on a cucumber.³³

      Confluence: Academic, Conservatorial, Artisanal

      Inscribed cucumbers, as it happens, are a part of paper’s fascinating history of raw materials to rags to reading matter, a history that has been told and retold in prose and in poetry for centuries. The story of paper is captivating in part because paper is both perfectly familiar, a quotidian object used in unremarkable ways each day, and perfectly exceptional, a remarkably important cultural commodity with an intriguing backstory. In The New Organon (1620), Francis Bacon says paper is both “a common enough thing” and “a unique instance of art,” an “absolutely unique” artificial material that, although made from nature “change[s] her completely.”³⁴ Fascination with the simultaneous oddity and mundanity of paper has inspired a vast body of literature on its history and uses, but the works that this book engages can be grouped into three kinds of expertise on early handmade paper, three streams of interest: academic, conservatorial, and artisanal. These streams of interest begin with different kinds of questions, are driven by different currents, and, as one would expect, end by telling stories in which certain kinds of details tend to surface. When they converge in The Nature of the Page, the currents shift and roil at the confluence, different kinds of details find their way to the surface,

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