[Overdue] “Don’t Judge a Book by Its Cover”

I really enjoyed “Devotion and Defacement: Reading Children’s Marginalia,” Seth Lerer’s article on children’s relationships to books, and I think it intersected with Ann Blair’s “Note Taking as an Art of Transmission” in some interesting ways.

Children mark their books up for all kinds of reasons and have done so ever since books began to circulate. (One thing his study doesn’t address is children’s access to and treatment of books in non-western antiquity, which—if possible to do—would be an interesting comparative study.) Blair’s treatment of marginalia as a form of note taking touches on the significance of marking a text by hand, but really focuses on the way content is recorded and transmitted— “storing, sorting, summarizing, selecting”—and the conditions that influence a reader’s choices in the annotation process (Blair, 85).

There are some major differences between note taking /annotation in books and what children write or draw in their books. The most obvious, of course, is that annotation serves a practical purpose, whether done for future reference and recall (storing and selecting) and/or as a means of recording one’s thoughts and responses at the time in order to explore them further, like talking to ones’ self, but on paper, and sometimes a margin is the only paper that is handy.

My father’s annotations in a cheap “Craft Classics” college-era copy of Shakespeare’s sonnets (Hyder H. Rollins, Ed., 1951).

Children’s “annotation” varies so much, from scribbled lines in crayon to words and doodles. Looking at them, it’s hard to know whether these are direct responses to a book’s content— words and images on a page—or the result of having some paper and a crayon within reach.  (I’m referring primarily to children’s marking in the modern age of plentiful printed books on paper, not hand-inscribed manuscripts on vellum). Once I saw a listing for a collectible children’s book from an online book seller:   It included the typical descriptive language for used books like “covers faded, edgeworn,” and then: “some pages marked by previous owner in crayon.” Although these may not have been an aid to memory, they were just as much a record, an interior response exteriorized, and demonstrate the owner’s thought and intention. As Lerer writes, “It brings the inside outside” (130).

My “annotated” copy of “Rich Cat, Poor Cat” (Bernard Waber, 1963).

I think annotations are most always a mark of ownership and a certain kind of identification with books. The annotations we might find in a second-hand book are not usually made to be passed on.  Making Melville’s marginalia publicly accessible was a welcome development for Melville scholars and literary historians, but he wrote in the books he owned; even writing in books he borrowed from others indicates a feeling of ownership at the moment he made a mark on the page. Usually, we find young children’s annotations in the books read to them, given to them, or found in their homes. Unless these are made intentionally to spite an adult, they indicate a similar and probably unconscious declaration of “this is mine / this is my mark.”  I think this is true even of shared books or those “signed over” to new owners, as in  Lerer’s account of  young Robert Doe who, having previously recorded his ownership of Dicts and Sayinges of the Philosophers, later inscribed on several pages “Robert Doe was the right houner to this Booke but how I give it to my well be loued brother Antony Doe 1614” (135).

Back cover annotations, by me, of my mother’s childhood copy of “The Wonderful Story of How You Were Born” (Sidonie Matsner Gruenberg, 1952). (The back cover image is reversed on the book.)

Writing in a second-hand library book, “On a Summer Day” (Lois Lenski, 1953).

The process of creation and the structure of codex-style books mirror this interior/exterior dynamic.  Physically, the book is such a powerful example of inside/outside that it becomes a metaphor: “don’t judge a book by its cover.” And it is the record of an author’s interior thought and intention and private activity—a record of time in an author’s life—made public, readable, and subject to analysis of all kinds long after the author is gone. The same goes for children’s annotations and those of adults.”Such acts enable us to see not just the public text but the author’s response” (Lerer, 130). When I find marking or notes in second-hand books, I can’t help but wonder about the previous owner—whether a child or adult— and their experience of reading the same words on the page.

Play and pedagogy

Our class discussion of play and pedagogy, and forms of play, made me think of this film, which despite the lackluster title, is quite fascinating. The history of the school and its relationship to the community is also really interesting.  This cartoon essay that appeared in the 2010 NYT provides some helpful context from a former student.

School: A Film About Progressive Education : Dick (Lee) Inc. : Free Download, Borrow, and Streaming : Internet Archive

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Hessian Hills

This would be the time of year for a school reunion up at Hessian Hills, if the old school had been that kind of place.


“Eternal Villageance is the price of liberty!”

Geospatial visualization (fancy term for mapping) is an ideal format for exploring this history of place, because (borrowing terms from linguistics) it allows for both a diachronic view of how a place changes over time, and a synchronic view – an interpretation of how it was at any given time. Both approaches to place can be depicted through mapping, and interactive maps extend the possibilities for how the stories of a time and place/place in time are created.

I will be creating an interactive geospatial visualization project that addresses the following questions: How does tracing the social and geographical connections of a single person, who was part of a rich and vibrant world of artists, writers, and activists in a New York City neighborhood in the early 20th century, enhance our understanding of that time and place?  Or, more specifically, what kinds of socio-cultural narratives does mapping create, revise, elide, and/or reproduce?  Is there anything new we can learn when doing literary history in this way?

The cultural and political history of Greenwich Village from the founding of New Amsterdam through the end of the 20th century is fascinating, but is also a well-documented subject, most recently in John Strausbaugh’s fabulous The Village: 400 Years of Beats and Bohemians (2013).  Using this text as an initial source and my friend Doug Skinner’s extended blog-based mini-biography of Edwards as both inspiration and starting point, I will sketch out the contours of a time and place from the perspective of a once-ubiquitous but now largely forgotten literary figure, Robert “Bobby” Edwards. Edwards was editor of The Quill literary magazine, and a well-known character throughout Greenwich Village and beyond, mainly in the ‘teens through the 1920s. (He also built ukuleles, wrote songs, and painted).  As Doug wrote, Edwards was also  “a somewhat controversial figure: many entrenched Villagers were serious artists, and bridled at his frivolity, and at his promotion of the Village as a Boho playground.”

As a “scene” in all senses of the word,  the Village has always been a source of excitement and a an object of derision, a generator of cultural myths and stereotypes, a home for artists and exiles, and a center of economic and cultural change. With ESRI Story Maps or Neatline (an open-source plugin for the Omeka platform), and possibly with an additional network visualization tool like Gephi or RAW, I plan to map what I can discover about Edwards’s activity –including his social and literary relationships–as it has been documented in primary and secondary sources. The goals are to make more visible the social, cultural, and political mechanisms at the heart of a quintessential New York City neighborhood, and to present opportunities for considering the differences between narratives created through mapping, visualization, and text-based histories.

Mapping the text; “texting” the map

Our group set out to create an annotated edition of Benito Cereno using maps to situate it in social, historical, and postcolonial contexts, and to reveal what the narrative itself leaves “off the map”. As the project progressed, the concept of the map as metaphor–whether a means of geolocation, of representing history, or conferring identity, or of claiming some kind of physical, psychological, political, aesthetic, or linguistic space, among many possibilities–took over. We discussed using text to annotate a map, or using maps to annotate text. A map contains a multiplicity of meaning, depending on who made it and who is looking at it. It’s no wonder, then, that even with a central idea governing our project, we each have used “maps” as a jumping off point into different territories and concepts around what annotation is and what a map, or mapping, can be. Like annotation, mapping is a critical intervention. In some foundational way, is the text a map? What can a text map? What can’t it map? Benito Cereno was published serially. Does a text (or map, or annotation) have to exist in a centralized space, or can it be distributed across virtual and historical spaces? I think our multifaceted group project, in various ways, poses these questions, and attempts to answer at least some of them.

I chose a fairly orthdox approach, using maps and images, for the most part as contemporaneous as possible to either the setting or the publication of Benito Cereno, to provide historical background for words, places, and other elements in the first-published section of narrative that are part of an unwritten subtext of trade, colonial occupation, and religious and cultural violence. Finding and vetting such material is time consuming; using it to annotate a text requires additional framing by way of explanation or analysis.  It was fascinating, however, to discover items like a hand-drawn chart of a mid-19th century voyage from Boston to San Francisco around the perimeter of South America. This very real ship made much of the same route as the fictional San Dominick was first purported by Don Benito to have taken. Although Captain Delano had most recently been trading in China, his ship was a “sealer” based in Boston; I sealing expeditions from Northeast cities often went to the areas around the Falkland Islands to hunt. That chart could easily reflect previous voyages of the Bachelor’s Delight. Maps enable a diachronic visualization of history, real or imagined; geolocating a point in time is also a form of annotation.

Just a note on the reading…

The fall before last, I took the first section of the ITP Core seminar, and our class also read “As We May Think.” We took turns blogging on the course readings and that week it was one of my classmates, Eileen Clancy’s turn. I was looking back at the course site for other perspectives on Bush’s essay (or anything I’d written about it) and found that her post is quite relevant to what we’ve been discussing in class.  So I thought I’d pass it along.

Memex as Icon

Oh, and there’s this.



Text + Annotations x Time = ?

Numerous passages in Bauer and Zirker’s “Whipping Boys Explained: Literary Annotation and Digital Humanities” got me thinking about the way text annotations accrete and the implications of an increasingly rich annotation layer for the text it’s attached to–whether a physical book that has passed through many hands, a book or article annotation that cites earlier notes on the same subject, or on a digital annotation platform. At what point in time does the annotation layer merge with the text and exist in tension with it? Or, could an annotation layer at some point rival its object as “primary text”?  Would that depend on a reader’s habits or intentions or is simply it a matter of critical mass? Bauer and Zirker gesture at these questions when they ask “what the idea of a literary text is presupposed by annotation, and how does annotation affect a text, both in its medial forms and as regards its meaning?” (paragraph 6).

As I read through the essay I began thinking about the Talmud. I’m fairly secular and have never studied it, but it offers a fascinating case for considering the implications of annotation over time. A general description of the Talmud’s contents is a “the teachings and opinions of thousands of rabbis (dating from before the Common Era through to the fifth century) on a variety of subjects, including Halakha (law), Jewish ethics, philosophy, customs, history, lore and many other topics.” https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Talmud.

Physically, it is a conglomerate, layered text comprising of treatises, interpretations, teachings, commentary, and commentary on commentary relating to Jewish law. But it is not the kind of legal document one would find in a contemporary law library.  Here is an example of a typical page:


Page of the Talmud, diagrammed: 1: Mishnah, oral law codified into “short rulings” cir. 200 AD; 2: Gemara, “a collection of scholarly discussions on Jewish law, 200 to 500 AD, which refer to both the Mishnah and other works including the Torah; 3: Commentaries of Rashi (Rabbi Shlomo Yitzchaki, 11th Century French scholar); 4: other commentaries dating  from the 10th Century onwards; 5: Page and chapter heading   (from https://www.bbc.com/news/magazine-24367959)

Therefore, I found Bauer and Zirker’s initial attempt to limit their consideration of annotation to “literary” material a matter of convenience for the sake of their project, but not a fruitful way to think about textual annotation in the terms they set out. (Even they couldn’t sustain it: early in the essay they note that, somehow unlike creative literature, “legal and religious texts are annotated with a view to clarifying meaning and defining their relevance for the lives of people who are affected by them” (paragraph 4). Yet just a few paragraphs later they cite biblical glossing and annotation as “an enrichment of the reading process” (paragraph 11) and “based on an idea of who and what the reader is” (paragraph 10). The motivations for and implications of annotation really hold for all texts.  And the Talmud is an exceptionally rich subject for consideration in this regard, with “all the imperfections, the trivialities, the multiplicity of voices, the wild associations – everything that characterizes human conversation.

Although it took many centuries to develop into its current form, it is not even a document frozen in time; a new edition is underway with additional, recent contributions. A comprehensive digital edition was recently launched, as “the Talmud is peculiarly suited to a digital treatment.” Mayer Pasternak, director of the project, elaborates on this:

”It’s a web of interconnected ideas and thoughts and commentaries.  In one place something might be very poorly elaborated and you’ll find in another place in the Talmud it’s discussed at length – there’s a constant cross-referencing process.” So if you’re itching to read the Talmud on your commute, there’s an app for that, with hundreds of thousands of hyperlinked sources and annotations.


This is one text that cannot exist apart from the multi-level, multi-layered annotations that accrued throughout centuries of use in numerous locations; the annotations, and its ongoing centrality in Jewish thought, debate, and practice, are what create and sustain the text as a living document. Like Bauer and Zirker’s ideal annotation platform, it is a remarkable “model of collaboration” among author, annotator, and reader over time.

The Bartleby Tapes

Related imageI’m writing some of this host with this speech to text app in my excess ability settings on my computer. Since we worked with text to speech applications to render the voices in Bartleby the scrivener, I thought it would be interesting to try things the other way around.  I’ve never used speech to text before, just as I’ve never edited a few dozen audio clips together and end to end until this past week. Composing sentences in my mind first is much more difficult and composing them on a keyboard karma which in it, which enables me not only to correct mistakes, but to work with the language in a nonlinear way, and this seems to be the way my mind works with the language most of the time  Amo G

Okay, this is becoming too difficult and time consuming.

Just as the experiment of “writing” with my voice forced me to shift my approach to composing with language, our group experiment, using text-to-speech for every character but Bartleby, forced me to listen differently and to think about how voice shapes a reader’s perceptions, not only of character but of an entire story. Removing the expected reshuffled the story thematically; it produced effects/affects that more conventional strategies might not achieved for an audiobook listener; and it caused me to be more open-minded about robots. The following ramble touches on some of the aforementioned:

These days speech-to-text/text-to-speech most often brings to mind the “accessibility features” I was just playing with: tools to make both two-way communication and/or reading easier for some people unable to speak, see, or manipulate a physical text. But speech-to-text was once primarily a tool used in modern business practices—dictation. The “boss” spoke into a machine and a secretary—a copyist of sorts who was the human mechanism for rendering speech to text—listened to it and typed it out. In the 20th century, the clerical workforce primarily comprised of women.* Without consulting any sources I’ll go way out on a limb and suggest that women still make up a large percentage of the white-collar workforce that is not “middle management” or above. Women added a gender differential to the workplace, and the way we perceive, define, and differentiate labor was forever changed. Automation is a form of apparently “workerless” labor; now that it surrounds us, could it be that the way we conceive of it is obliquely but intrinsically connected to the way we understand gender? Siri and Alexa, for example, have been discussed in this respect. (It’s also been argued that some voices are shown to affect listeners in a more optimal way than others, which is supposedly why people prefer women’s voices on their GPS.)

As we know, when Melville wrote Bartleby, the office worker and the copyist were traditionally male roles—women had not yet entered the public sphere as white-collar workers. It follows then that Bartleby, as both scrivener and refusenik, was rendered from the get-go as a rather robotic individual in every way, someone who becomes increasingly sapped of a humanity the narrator laments—or fears for?—in the final sentence. Ironically, this loss of humanity is also what seems to accelerate (or at least coincides with) his loss of functionality as a copying machine. Conversely, we like Siri and Alexa because they have the amazing functions of a machine, yet sound sort of human. (Although personally I can’t stand the sassy tone of the UPS lady.) Could it be that, in order for the world (as we know it) to work, robotic and  humanistic elements must coexist in our machines somehow? In us? I don’t think Melville had the cyborg in mind, but N. Katherine Hayles might agree. Marx might not approve.

Our group chose to use a chorus of female automatons for our version of Bartleby. This was in large part an effort to work against the text, this time to turn the entirely male world of the narrative inside out. One thing that occurred to me as I discussed this with Lauren, just before she began converting the text to speech, is that this approach also turns a typical feminist reading on its head. Not only were all the human characters rendered as robots and the most robotlike character rendered as human, but women occupied roles both of labor and power over labor. They were running the machine.

These three shifts in perspective produced a very alien/alienating experience of the story– but in a good way.  As other people have noted, listening accentuated aspects of the narrative that might have slipped by more easily in an unvoiced text. Listening to a text-to-speech rendering, with all of its imperfections, tone-deaf pronunciations, and incorrect “translations,” highlighted Melville’s language choices and the way we hear “authority” and force in individual words and phrases that could just as easily be deemphasized by “wrong” speech. Voices with the barest hint of emotion—as well as those with non-“English” accents—actually brought out the humor in the story, even in the mundane interactions of minor characters.

Not only did the humor become clearer to me, but oddly enough, so did the idiosyncrasies of Melville’s characters.  In many ways, Bartleby is the least sympathetic character, if only because he is the most thinly written character. There’s just not much of him there at all, which is part of the point. Although the narrator’s empathy was something our group had debated, and which drove us to make some unusual post-production choices, as a female robot, the narrator actually seemed a little more human to me. They all did. Melville’s characters are flawed and interesting, because humans are flawed and interesting.  Listening to the clips of “tape” I was ham-fistedly editing together, I found myself sympathizing more with these alien voices.  Forced to act out Bartleby the Scrivener, they resembled machines that were putting on a play, on the verge of manifesting human traits, but just shy of the kind of emotional capacity we believe draws a line between them and us.

* I’m thinking ahead to fantasy scene in Vannevar Bush’s “As We May Think” (1945):

At a recent World Fair a machine called a Voder was shown. A girl stroked its keys and it emitted recognizable speech. No human vocal chords entered into the procedure at any point; the keys simply combined some electrically produced vibrations and passed these on to a loud-speaker. In the Bell Laboratories there is the converse of this machine, called a Vocoder. The loudspeaker is replaced by a microphone, which picks up sound. Speak to it, and the corresponding keys move. This may be one element of the postulated system.

The other element is found in the stenotype, that somewhat disconcerting device encountered usually at public meetings. A girl strokes its keys languidly and looks about the room and sometimes at the speaker with a disquieting gaze. From it emerges a typed strip which records in a phonetically simplified language a record of what the speaker is supposed to have said. Later this strip is retyped into ordinary language, for in its nascent form it is intelligible only to the initiated. Combine these two elements, let the Vocoder run the stenotype, and the result is a machine which types when talked to.


Slow Listening

Until this assignment, I had never listened to an audiobook. The closest I get is a yearly listen to Dylan Thomas’s “A Child’s Christmas in Wales,” which I have on the original  Caedmon LP (1958). In searching for audiobooks, I came across a claim that this particular recording was one of the first iterations of what we’d now call an audiobook. However, that is clearly untrue, as it only makes sense that recordings for the blind would have been produced since the early 20th century, and Rubery confirms this in his brief history of recorded spoken word (62-63). Perhaps it marks an early example of a recorded fiction that was meant to appeal to the masses.

Because I had never listened to an audiobook I decided to pick something I’d never read. Ray Bradbury’s Fahrenheit 451 seemed like a good choice, since it’s about books, and although I’d seen the Truffaut film adaptation I’d never read the book. It’s a short novel as well, and because my time is extremely limited I wanted something that wouldn’t take too many hours, and which I wouldn’t have to listen to while doing other things or skip sections to get through it.  In other words, I made a conscious choice to listen to it in the same way I would have read it in an ideal scenario: solitary and with focus, and only on the subway or at the gym if necessary. But I also discovered that this approach to listening (i.e., as if it were reading) is extremely ingrained and very unconscious. While I was looking for something not too long, my main concern was that I tend to be a slow reader, and I was worried that even a recording of 5-6 hours might take longer for me to get through.  I was not anticipating a situation like the public reading of Dickens described by Rubery: a performance in which “the recitation of a scene that takes a mere ten minutes to read silently to one’s self can take upwards of forty minutes when read aloud before an audience” (58). I was anticipating somehow being a “slow listener,” because I was equating listening to the physical act of reading text and the cognitive act of interpreting it.

This led me to think more about my own bias towards the traditional reading experience and the weird neuroses that (I now recognize) go along with it. My ideal reading experience is tactile, focused, solitary–albeit too slow and occasionally distracted–and in some way amounts to an accomplishment once a book is finished. Not getting around to reading  books l’ve begun or reading “enough” books feels, to me, like not doing other things I like and really should do-–like going to the gym, seeing my friends more often, organizing my life more effectively.

But why should listening not count as a type of reading? Just as Edison advocated, blind people and those who cannot easily manipulate a book or e-reader undoubtedly consider it reading (62).  Although reading and listening engage different senses and “sense data” as well as different kinds of language processing, they both involve a reading voice and a narrative interacting with one’s imagination.  There are drawbacks to audiobooks (not everyone has a voice like Dylan Thomas) but for me the benefit is that I can concentrate entirely on the narrative without the act of reading mediating it. The physical process of reading and the inner voice that silently repeats the words can sometimes distract me from the world of the text. I am sure  this experience must vary according to the way one’s brain is wired. However, I think the verdict for me in terms of which is a more “effective” method will depend on how much I retain of Fahrenheit 451 and for how long.

There is so much I could write about Fahrenheit 451 in audio format and the way it accentuates elements of the novel that speak directly to contemporary culture and electronic media consumption. But that would entail a very long essay. “Meta” is an understatement, to say the least. Written in 1953, the novel explores reading vs. listening, memory vs. text, scripted reality, voyeuristic mass media, and the effects of ubiquitous audio devices in everybody’s ears, for example. It even includes a form of solitary, immersive narrative entertainment that has superseded the interior-yet-immersive experience that reading–whether visual or aural–can be. Broadcasts on the wall-sized television screens that define the “parlors” of people’s homes in the novel enact the “secondary orality” discussed by Ong and Donoghue. In fact, they are precisely the “programmes imitating participatory communities such as book groups without actually bringing readers into contact with other human beings” (69). At the conclusion of Fahrenheit 451, the protagonist discovers real human connection–and himself–through interacting with others who value books, reading, and the roles creative thought and narrative play in humanizing the world.

All the world…is a digital Friend Wheel

My favorite quote from this week’s readings comes from Alan Liu’s “From Reading to Social Computing”:

In essence, Facebook became a platform for character role-playing. It allowed students to study the play as if they were directors staging it in alternative medium. All the world, as it were, is not a wooden “O” but a digital Friend Wheel.

This metaphor contains multitudes. Dating from 2013, it inevitably dates the project and makes it impossible to replicate on the same terms: Liu refers to a Facebook feature that came and went like so many others it has offered over the years (I don’t remember the Friend Wheel; I hardly remember the social graph it once debuted, and never made use of it). Nevertheless, this one-off aspect captures something of the nature of a “great work” of art or literature.  In addition, Facebook is no longer the social network of choice for the student age group he was working with; and he describes his class’s use of the platform in a way that, according to Facebook’s guidelines, would surely be considered abuse of the platform.  In many ways, this makes Facebook perfect for such an experiment. Unlike Instagram – which was just getting started – Snapchat, the now-defunct Vine, or even Twitter, Facebook requires a primarily narrative-based creation and performance of personae (I have two accounts myself) for reasons surely examined by many other studies in social science, rhetorical theory, and psychology. The suspicion with which many users view it only encourages a less-than-absolutely-faithful reflection (as if this were possible) of who its users “are” in “meatspace.”

I imagine that this experiment not only enlivened Romeo and Juliet and brought it to life, but also must have enlivened the social networking experience altogether and brought these other issues to light for the participants. And, although it was probably a closed group, I love thinking of the potential “lurkers” watching the goings on and wondering, but unable to participate. Facebook, in Barthes’s terms, provides a fundamentally “writerly” experience of self, others, and social connections in which authority is decentralized; through posts, likes, and responses, readers and writers (users and friends) mutually build and interpret each other’s online selves (often through misreading). Like Liu’s other experiment with The Canterbury Tales and blogging, the social world of R&J has a remarkable affinity to today’s social networking platforms “even to the point that the rudeness, “flames,” baitings from “trolls,” and other apparent debasements and provocations of language typifying the extremes” of social networking have a performative, dramatic ethos. In ways seeming to build on Hayles’s use of Facebook as a pedagogical tool (“Hyper and Deep Attention, ”196), Liu’s use of Facebook also highlighted the reader’s role in (recon)constructing a literary text’s own voice and meaning: it “allowed the students to study the play as if they were directors staging it in an alternative medium.”  As Liu posits elsewhere in his essay, a “successful online reading environment would integrate social networking tools in a way that extends readers’ existing strategies.” Moreover, Liu reminds us that this approach is fundamentally orthodox: knowledge and experience are, as N. Katherine Hayles has suggested in How We Became Posthuman (1999), distributed phenomena . In the case of texts, Liu explains that these are accessed “through combinations of authors, documents, readers, and scholar-critics—that is, in the social networks of all of the above.”

Because I am no longer in the loop when it comes to typical classroom pedagogy in a literature course (as opposed to somewhat still-nascent interactive, technology-based pedagogy) I don’t know if Liu’s experiments with Facebook have been widely adopted. They would have to be adapted to the platform’s changing features and its stricter guidelines for the creation of accounts. I hope it has been adopted more widely, or—sooner rather than later—will be. Like the MLA Commons and other developments in crowd-sources peer review, which have not quite yet transformed—but promise to—the stale rigmarole of academic publishing, and with it the institutions of academic authority and tenure and promotion procedures, “it may be that social computing will change the whole paradigm of literary reading and research to make central the social environment of literature…scholarship, equipped with Web 2.0, becomes a fully social act.”  I wonder what will happen when “Web 3.0” arrives.