LITMIR.BIZ

      Paper mills required rivers, and I think it is appropriate that two rivers have shaped my own understanding of the nature of the page. I grew up near the source of the Hudson River in the patchwork wilderness of the Adirondack Park, a six-million-acre area—larger than Yellowstone, Everglades, Glacier, and Grand Canyon National Parks combined—of which roughly half is private land (villages, businesses, farms, etc.) and the other half is forest preserve that has been designated “forever wild.”⁴ With age and reading and train trips down the Hudson River to access rare books in archival libraries came the realization that the Adirondacks were not a sovereign island of wilderness but were, and in many ways continue to be, New York City’s hinterland. My journeys through the watersheds and river valleys between the Adirondacks and archival libraries have shaped this work and have left me unable to think about technology and progress without also asking about wilderness and landscape.

      Now in Madison, Wisconsin, I write these words less than fifty miles from where Aldo Leopold once stood on the edge of the Wisconsin River looking at a piece of driftwood and jotting down observations that would, with enough paper and time, become these lines in A Sand County Almanac:

      The spring flood brings us more than high adventure; it brings likewise an unpredictable miscellany of floatable objects pilfered from upriver farms…. Each old board has its own individual history, always unknown, but always to some degree guessable from the kind of wood, its dimensions, its nails, screws, or paint, its finish or the lack of it, its wear or decay. One can even guess, from the abrasion of its edges and ends on sandbars, how many floods have carried it in years past.⁵

      Here Leopold offers what we might now recognize as a material culture reading of lumber that is invested not only in political and cultural systems, but also, and especially, in ecosystems. Drawing attention to “biotic interactions between people and land,” Leopold claims that the riparian lumber is “not only a collection of personalities, but an anthology of human strivings in upriver farms and forests.”⁶ The person who understands human strivings in upriver farms and forests has a kind of ecological literacy to reconstruct the history of a piece of driftwood, Leopold claims. The driftwood serves, in his account, as “a kind of literature” that might be “taught on campuses,” a record of the past that is accessible and available to be “read at will.”⁷ The language he uses to describe the ecological readings is that of eager curiosity tempered by sensible humility: the history of a board, Leopold claims, is “always unknown, but always to some degree guessable from the kind of wood, its dimensions, its nails, screws, or paint, its finish or lack of it, its wear or decay.”⁸ This language of discovery, of the unknown but to some degree guessable, of drawing on imperfect expertise in an attempt to make the ecologies of media more legible, aptly describes the project that The Nature of the Page undertakes.

      I quote these lines from a specially issued Leopold Pines Edition of A Sand County Almanac, an edition that, in 2007, was “printed on paper made from pines planted by Aldo Leopold and his family in the 1930s and ’ ’40s.”⁹ In a foreword to the edition, Nina Leopold Bradley, A. Carl Leopold, and Estella B. Leopold, who, as children, helped to plant the very pines from which the volume’s paper was made, write of the “happy continuity” of their father’s “precious pine trees becoming the medium, the paper, on which we print his moving words.”¹⁰ Reading Leopold reading driftwood on pages made from the pine trees he planted with his children is, for me, quite a lot like holding Renaissance books printed or written on handmade paper, objects whose human ecology repeatedly interrupts the text on the page and insists on being read. History is mediated by nature; nature is mediated by history. The Leopold Pines Edition is one of many examples I cite in this book where the nature of the medium, paper, intertwines with the message it carries in complex ways that are mostly unknown, but that are at least partially guessable. The Nature of the Page, then, tells a story about textual habits grounded in and supplied by ecological habitats. It is a story about the plants, animals, and minerals on which the poetry of Shakespeare and his contemporaries was stored and then transmitted across time and space. And it is a story, in the end, about the ecological resources we use now in our attempts to preserve the poetry we have received from the past on thin, pliable, handcrafted leaves of organic matter.

      INTRODUCTION

      Toward an Ecology of Texts

      What must matter to the environmental humanities is how texts are entangled with and address the larger processes by which societies conceptualize and manage their environment.

      —Hannes Bergthaller et al., “Mapping Common

      Ground: Ecocriticism, Environmental History, and the Environmental Humanities”

      In “The Book,” a short poem published in 1655, Henry Vaughan observes that his Bible’s paper is made from flax plants and that its binding is made from the wood of a tree covered with the skin of a “harmless beast.” What happens to a Bible, Vaughan wonders, on the day of resurrection, when all things are restored to their perfect forms? Does the Bible revert to its vegetal, bestial origins? Vaughan’s poem raises questions about the earthly matter from which media are made, about how nonhuman objects in bookish format persist, interrupt, and alter the words they are made to record. Embedded in the pages of Renaissance texts are legible ecologies that record the environmental negotiations of people and things, of humans, humanists, and nonhumans. I return to “The Book” in Chapter 2, but here I introduce the poem in summary to call attention to its intriguing mode of reading. Vaughan’s reading of a book, like the reading of driftwood discussed in the Preface, draws on what is known in order to imagine the material history of the text in his hands. Like Leopold, Vaughan acknowledges his own role in the narrative as the one who is holding the object and envisioning its “unknown, but to some degree guessable” past. But then Vaughan’s reading takes a sudden, surprising turn: he pivots around the object to look from its past creation to its future destruction. Both book and reader intersect in a moment of flux, and Vaughan knows that the nonhuman things he holds, gathered in the past into the form of a book, must be scattered again in the future.

      The Nature of the Page takes up and extends the Janus-faced mode of reading past and future that is modeled in “The Book.” The readings I offer here attempt to account for what the text is, at the moment and place of human intersection, but also to draw out the past and future lives of the nonhuman things we recognize, metonymically, as texts. In an influential essay that laid the groundwork for future scholarship on material texts, Margreta de Grazia and Peter Stallybrass call attention to the fact that a Renaissance text is “a provisional state in the circulation of matter.”¹ Literary critics and book historians have, in recent years, drawn attention to the provisionality of texts as they circulate in society, but The Nature of the Page extends the conversation about provisions and provisionality to its literal roots. Drawing attention to ecological provisionality in its many senses—temporary,

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