Sanders Bernstein

Myrddin Wilt, if he does yet breathe, can be found in the Forest of Celyddon. Although some say he is merely a figure of legend, it may be less than prudent to concur with the doubters. After all, they were the men who dismissed the story of Myrddin’s magicking of Stonehenge from across the seas and we know now that the monument’s stone came from a quarry that is indeed across a sea, across the Cardigan Bay, on the southern coast of Wales. Such disbelief, however, is not uncommon in the treatment of this man of the woods. His life, to this point, has not been one of ease, but has been marked, yes, by madness but also by a never-ending struggle against those who would sleight his essential nature, even going so far as to attempt to kill him for it.



His nature is as his name indicates, Wild, or Of the Woods. Once a prince in the world of men, he rules over the forest as king. He speaks the tongues of animals and they listen to him as they listened to Adam, Noah, and the early men of this earth. The society of his animal companions, sometimes the pig, sometimes the wolf, is the only society that Myrddin can withstand for the world of men has driven him to despair and madness. Much has been made of his madness, which unmoored his mind’s eye so that rather than experience the world in the present, as the mass of men do, he sees the future relentlessly unfolding before him. To hear him speak of the future is to put oneself in peril, for, as it is commonly known, foreknowledge is a grave danger to all sane men who encounter it.



 Myrddin was, before prophecy struck him, a great lord of the Welsh people, the bearer of a golden torque. He was terrible to meet in battle and his prowess inspired awe from his enemies and friends alike. He had a wife whom he loved dearly and who was deeply enamored of him and his powerful figure. He was, from all accounts, well spoken and well spoken of at court, though he harbored great hostility toward the Christian missionaries who had taken to trumpeting their new faith throughout the land. It might have been because of this animosity that he went mad, though the accounts all differ as to how it happened. What is certain is that he was never the same after the Battle of Arfderydd.



The Battle of Arfderydd was fought on the plains of Scotland before Scotland was known by such a name, between the rivers of Liddel and Esk. Assembled on the field that day were the hosts of the Welsh’s two most mighty warlords, Rhydderch Hael, a Christian ruler, and Gwenddolau, a devotee to the old Gods and Myrddin’s liege lord. It is during this clash of titans that the Gods touched Myrddin. According to some records, he was cursed by one of Rhydderch’s Christian clerics. Others say that it was his discovery that he had slain his sister’s children in the fight that plunged him into turmoil. Some warriors bearing scars from the battle tell of celestial figures that howled Myrddin’s name and chased him from the field of combat, while an equal contingent claim that the champion simply laid down his weapons and walked away from the bloodshed.



Oh blissful dam

if you saw

the sheer violence

that I saw,

you wouldn’t sleep in the morning,

you wouldn’t dig the hillside

you wouldn’t make for the wild

by a desolate lake. 

—“The Ohs of Myrddin,” *The Black Book of Carmarthen*



Away from the moans of the dying and injured, away from the grunts of the soldiers exhausting themselves in the attempt to kill their enemy, in the attempt to stay alive themselves, away from the horrible accusatory silence of the corpses, of the cloven heads that bobbed in estuaries of blood, away from that silence, that silence! and into the woods went Myrddin. Off into the wild he flew “like any bird of the air,” if the Gaelic record *The Frenzy of Suibhne* is to be believed. He landed in an apple-tree in the Forest of Celyddon and was to stay there for many years. In that forest, the forest where the madmen searched for their sanity, he lived with the animals. He slept in the boughs of the oak trees and lived on a diet of nuts and vegetables. It was among the animals that he hid as he sought protection from King Rhydderch who he was certain was trying to kill him. It was to the animals that he foretold the coming of Cadwaladyr, the great King who would unite the Britons and bring peace. It was to the animals that he spoke as he attempted to find peace with the violence of his kind.



Perhaps it is this preference of the world of animals to the world of men, the possibility that Myrddin harbors deep reservations about humankind, that spurs some chroniclers to deny him his madness, to deny him his time in the forest. Believe it if you wish, but there certainly seems to be a coterie dedicated to extirpating him, or at least Myrddin as he truly is, from the records. Geoffrey of Monmouth not only Latinized the Welsh, changing Myrddin to Merlinus (lore has it that he chose this name because Merdinus—the logical Latinization—would have been too closely associated with the Anglo-Norman word for shit, merde) but he also expunged Myrddin’s madness and his sylvan life completely in his *Historia Regum Britanniae*. In fact, this “Merlin” was prescient from his earliest days, always able to divine the future’s truth, and is brought to the court of King Vortigern when yet a child. Geoffrey did try to amend his factual errors with his later work, Vita Merlini, in which he does recognize Myrddin’s time in the forest and the horrific genesis of his foresight, but the process of recasting Myrddin as Merlin, of siphoning away the man’s spirit to feed a fantasy was begun.



In one account of his madness from the Gaelic tradition, Myrddin brings his madness upon himself by trying to spear a cleric after the cleric sprinkles him with holy water. It seems that the Welshman had found the ritual to be insulting. Close to six hundred years after this event, Robert de Boron, a deeply Christian French poet of the late 12th century, completed the cleric’s work—or at least did so in writing. Through his Merlin, he began to convince Europe that the man was a Christian. The unknown father in Geoffrey of Monmouth’s account becomes a demon and Myrddin’s otherwise troublesome paganistic aspects could be neatly explained away as the result of his devilish heritage. But his demonic blood, manifested in his full head of hair—a sign of his bestial associations—and his perfect knowledge of the past, which could be no other than a full acquaintance with pagan lore, is counteracted by his acceptance of the Christian faith. His mother has him baptized, neutralizing the threat of ungodliness and transforming the troubled antichrist into a leader of the Christian world. Gifted by God with knowledge of the future (for Christianity’s God is the future as Boron takes pains to make evident), Merlin spends his life as the courtly adviser to King Arthur and his knights. By Boron’s book, Merlin’s prophecies and magical powers are useful tools in creating the most perfect Christian world possible.  Discounting a brief time masquerading as a shepherd so that he can usher Arthur into the world, the woods, the wilderness, the outdoors, seem to have been successfully exorcised from his person. De Boron’s account presents as self-evident the obviously false idea that Merlin was a man of the courts rather than of the woods.



In fact, when Myrddin is removed from his arboreal kingdom, it is known that he becomes terribly depressed and is prone to retaliate against his captors with awful pronouncements. Geoffrey of Monmouth, referencing earlier records, tells of Myrddin being captured by his sister, Queen Ganieda, and being brought back to court. There, he refuses to speak a word about his experiences and suffers civilization in silence. That is, until one day, when he sees the King Rodarcus, his sister’s husband, remove a leaf from his sister’s hair. He laughs and there is a quality to the laugh that like the fury of a waterfall about to crash against the rocks, excites and frightens the King so that he must know why the madman is laughing. The King will give him anything to know, to know, from whence this secret mirth bubbles, finally promising to allow Myrddin to return to the woods. The response though, could not have brought joy to Rodarcus for Myrddin tells him that the leaf became entangled in her locks when she lay in the woods with her lover. Myrddin tells the King that his great love for his wife is unrequited. She loves the man with whom she lay that morning under the trees of Myrddin’s forest. And then Myrddin laughs because he shall be free.



The records of other men exposed to Myrddin’s prophetical voice are equally joyless. In one account, Myrddin orders his wife to remarry—his love for nature leaves no room for any other—on one condition: that he never lay eyes on her husband. On the day of her marriage, he comes riding to her, astride a great stag, shepherding herds of animals that he desires to give to her. However, as she comes out to meet him, her husband catches sight of Myrddin and laughs at the man riding a deer. Like thunder is to lightning so is laughter the warning that Myrddin is about to strike. If you hear the sound in his presence, it is best to leave as quickly as possible. Myrddin, hearing the laughter, knows exactly who makes such noise and, turning to look at the man, flies into a rage in which he tears the horns from his stag and assaults the bridegroom with them. And then he disappears back into the shadows of the forest.



The Myrddin that rides off in a burst of speed, astride his bloody steed, slicked with sweat from the exertion of ripping the antlers from his mount, lost in the exhilaration of dramatic action, is a far cry from contemporary depictions. The man who crushes his wife’s betrothed with a blow of the antlers is a virile, albeit chaste, being. He is strong and powerful, a warrior who simply chooses not to fight, a noble savage, not the doddering octogenarian in which his spirit—whatever is left of it at least—has been incarnated. Sir Thomas de Malory introduces this misconception in his romance, *La Morte D’Arthur*, as he writes that Merlin, after being ignored by Arthur when appearing as “a child of fourteen year of age,”  “came again in the likeness of an old man of four-score years of age, whereof the king was right glad, for he seemed to be right wise.” After Malory, the choice that Merlin makes to assume “the likeness” of an old man is forgotten. The association between age and wisdom becomes primary. He becomes an old man because he is the wise councilor. Age, rather than the touch of madness, becomes the font of wisdom and Myrddin Wilt finds himself further effaced. 



Becoming thirsty, Merlin leaned down to the stream and drank freely and bathed his temples in its waves, so that the water passed through the passages of bowels and stomach, settling the vapours within him, and at once he regained his reason and knew himself, and all his madness departed and the sense which had long remained torpid in him revived, and he remained what he had once been—sane and intact with his reason restored.



—*Vita Merlini*, Geoffrey of Monmout



It is recorded by Geoffrey of Monmouth, even if the surviving Welsh poems do not acknowledge it, that Myrddin does eventually recover his sanity by drinking from a newly born stream. Restored to his senses, though still empowered with the vision that his madness had wakened, it is said that his first action was to praise nature. For Myrddin, there is nothing that can compare with the world of the forest. The forest is Myrddin’s home. There he lives and there he one day shall die.  



Thomas Malory’s *La Morte D’Arthur* tells of how the lady of the lake refuses Merlin’s love because she was “aferde of  [Myrddin] for cause he was a devyls son.” This sentiment seems to characterize Merlin’s later “chroniclers” as well. They are afraid of Myrddin’s true nature. They age him, remove him from his natural habitat, and create a force to tame him—Vivien’s seductive charms. However, even in such stories as that of Malory and Alfred Lord Tennyson’s “Merlin and Vivien” they cannot deny his sylvan roots.  Even if they remove him from his life’s rightful realm, they allow him to return there for his eternal sleep. Even if they cloud his reason with lust for the lady of the lake, they are unable to do away with all of his aboriginal tendencies. Malory tells of how Merlin returns to the earth, how he goes “under the stone to let [the lady of the lake] wit of the marvels there, but she wrought it so that for him he never came out.” Alfred Lord Tennyson, while reducing dignified Myrddin to lecherous Merlin, an old man allowing the needs of his “dying flesh” to lead him into doom, depicts the final moments of Merlin’s life as occurring among “the ravaged woodland” and ends the poem with Merlin sleeping forever not simply within the forest, but within a tree: “in the hollow oak he lay as dead, / And lost to life and use and name and fame.” 



So Merlin, Myrddin, is sentenced to sleep. The fantasists—Monmouth, de Boron, Malory, Tennyson—are unable to destroy his presence. His animal magnetism is too robust, too vibrant, too wild, to be fully washed away by the waters of baptism nor predictable enough to be channeled properly in the world of the court.  And so they invent the myth of his lust to draw him out of the court, back into his wild world of the forest and there sentence him to sleep, not death—they do not have that power of the pen—and they proceed with the stories that they are interested in telling. They chained him to their purposes, forced him to usher Arthur into the world and to his throne, all the while denying Myrddin his own true history. And then they cast him off, back into the forest from whence he came. But, Myrddin, even in his sleep, even as they have imagined him, laid to rest in a tomb encased by earth or oak, remains their nightmare, the specter of the natural world, not yet bent over by Christ or civilization. He haunts them like wolves circling just beyond the light of a campfire; they cannot distinguish the forms but they can feel the presences. In response, they crowd closer around the fire. On the outskirts of their minds, hidden in the caves that they have long since run from, they know he, Myrddin, is waiting with the knowledge that primeval nature is not something to be afraid of—simply to respect—and that terrifies them even more.



When I remain under the green leaves the riches of Calidon delight me more than the gems that India produces, or the gold that Tagus is aid to have on its shore, more than the crops of Sicily or the grapes of pleasant Methis, more than lofty turrets or cities girded with high walls or robes fragrant with Tyrian perfumes.  Nothing pleases me enough to tear me away from my Calidon which in my opinion is always pleasant.  Here shall I remain while I live, content with apples and grasses, and I shall purify my body with pious fastings that I may be worthy to partake of the life everlasting.



—*Vita Merlini*, Geoffrey of Monmouth



Myrddin Wilt, if he does yet breathe, can be found in the Forest of Celyddon. Perhaps he is singing, for he is, they say, as gifted in voice as the famed Taliesin of the golden brow. But, if he has died in the centuries since he was last beheld by mortal mind, if the word-sorcerers de Boron and Malory have succeeded in stealing his soul to animate their fantastical courtier-counselor, Merlin the magician, and Myrddin Wilt has sunk into slumber, then, it is said, wait for the time of the great King Cadwaladyr’s return, when the steel cages shall crash to the ground, the black tar shall be uprooted, the endless fires shall be extinguished, the silver dragons that belch smoke into the sky slain, and Myrddin Wilt shall once again walk with the lonely wolf, ride the crownless stag, and speak prophecy to the pig.   

In a famous episode of the television show, *The Twilight Zone*, Henry Bemis, “a bookish little man whose passion is the printed page but who is conspired against by…a world full of tongue-cluckers and the unrelenting hands of the clock,” miraculously survives a nuclear blast. The lone survivor, he despairs until he discovers that the entire book collection of the public library has been saved as well. Finally, the bibliophile can truly pursue his passion, uninterrupted by anything or anyone, with, as he declares “all the time I need, and all the time I want.” However, after arranging all of the books that he intends to read into perfectly ordered stacks, and situating himself on the steps of the library to begin his literary fete, his glasses slip from his nose and shatter on the stone. Within his grasp are all of the books that he could ever want to read, and yet, his access to them has been denied by a cruel quirk of fate. He can feel the texture of the books’ cover but cannot see what is inside of them. He knows they are there, but can never enter them, can never experience the magic of exploring their hidden worlds. With this terrible knowledge written large across his face, the camera zooms out, reducing Henry Bemis to just another heap on the library’s steps. The narrator delivers his inevitable verdict: “Mr. Henry Bemis [is] in the Twilight Zone.”



We are all in the Twilight Zone, we just haven’t realized it yet. Or so, essentially, writes Robert Darnton, Harvard University’s Carl H. Pforzheimer University Professor, in his recent article in *The New York Review of Books*, “Google and the Future of Books.” According to Darnton, we are all like Henry Bemis, except, rather than having our glasses accidentally break from a tumble, they have been filched by the soft, moisturized hands of Larry Page and Sergei Brin and then ruthlessly and systematically comminuted beneath their canvas Adidas. Darnton alleges that Google, though it has managed to digitize a staggering number of books over the past four years, making accessible to the users of the internet works previously languishing in the backrooms of University libraries, as the result of new plans in the wake of a recent copyright lawsuit, will now be the main obstacle to universal access of these materials. 



Darnton has a problem with the monetization of the library. In particular, he is deeply suspicious of Google’s potential monopoly of access to digital books.  The fact that Google is a publicly traded company and must answer to the powers of profit and not just the altruistic gods of knowledge or the reasonable voice of the people is a real sticking point for him.  That Google has no obligation (beyond its self-imposed promise “of broad access to the Books by the public, including institutions of higher education”) to society at large—that its first allegiance is to its shareholders—is reason for alarm. As Darnton asserts,





Libraries exist to promote a public good: “the encouragement of learning,” learning “Free To All.” Businesses exist in order to make money for their shareholders—and a good thing, too, for the public good depends on a profitable economy. Yet if we permit the commercialization of the content of our libraries, there is no getting around a fundamental contradiction.





The class action suit leveled against Google in the fall of 2005 for its digitization of copyrighted texts ended in a settlement (pending a New York district court’s approval) that gives Google the digital copyright to all out-of-print books and to any copyrighted book whose author chooses to opt in. Because the suit was a class action, no potential competitor in the digital book trade can make headway in digitizing copyrighted book unless it goes to individual copyright holders one by one or is confronted with a class action suit of its own. So, to mount a real challenge to Google’s dominance would take an incredible amount of time, during which Google could easily move to head off its would-be rival. Furthermore, as Darnton points out, the revenue sharing agreement of the settlement (giving Google 37 percent of the profit and the holder of the copyright 63 percent) effectively allows Google to charge as high prices as it wishes with few checks and balances. Google will have no real competition and no real price ceiling, a combination rife with the potential for consumer exploitation.



The settlement has caused a general uproar. Jeffrey Toobin was perhaps the first to raise the alarm, warning about the possibility of a monopoly in a February 2007 article in The New Yorker, nearly two years before the deal was reached. It was followed by a wave of articles about the Google digitization project altering the publishing landscape. *The Atlantic*, *The New York Review of Books*, virtually every intellectually reputable paper had something to say. But the pre-settlement debate paled before the veritable storm of criticism ensued when the deal was actually reached. An editorial in *The Boston Globe* questioned whether the new deal was a “goldmine of ideas—or theft?” And, while even Google’s opponents cannot deny that the books search is providing unprecedented access to a previously unimaginable number of books, they appear to be fortifying themselves for a long legal battle. Objections are being filed from all sides before the window for such action ends on September 4. Consumer Watchdog and Internet Archives have both objected to the settlement on antitrust grounds. And it is not a question of whether others will contest the ruling, only of when.



Distrustful of the pursuit of profit, Darnton too believes that Google will, as a corporation, inevitably choose private good over public benefit. Despite the definite public benefits the project has already created (for example, access to one million books in the public domain) and will create in the future (free access to the database from one terminal in every public library in the United States) all of which Darnton does acknowledge, Google’s digitization drive is something to bewail rather than ballyhoo. Darnton mourns what could have been, “We could have created a National Digital Library—the twenty-first-century equivalent of the Library of Alexandria. It is too late now.”



However, the question Darnton never asks is would the “twenty-first-century equivalent of the Library of Alexandria” necessarily be a good thing? Would it be free of the ulterior, or rather, in Google’s case, explicit extra-epistemophilic motives?



Throughout history, storehouses of knowledge have never been built with entirely pure intentions. Ulterior motives have always lurked amidst the stacks. In the Abbasid Caliphate’s famed House of Wisdom, where the learning of Ancient Rome and Greece was protected from the political chaos of those lands, where al-Khwarizmi invented algebra (and his name gave us the word “algorithm”), Muslims appropriated the knowledge of conquered India, turning the Hindu number system into Arabic numerals.  Now considered the first public library, the library of San Marco, founded by Cosimo de’ Medici in 1444, was created as power publicity, as a means of instituting the Medici’s dominance in Florence. It was a vehicle of what Dutch historian Johan Huizinga calls a “cruel publicity,” an attempt to move from the medieval ostentation of private wealth into the modern power practice of influencing the civic realm.  Even the Library of Alexandria was not born out of benevolence. Ptolemy Soter starved out Athens until it relinquished its knowledge and enabled him to build the greatest library ever, a repository of humanity’s cultural production that would endow his Alexandria with the wisdom of the ages. While scholars from throughout the world were allowed to come and study at the library, texts were not to be shared with other countries. The Ptolemies banned the exportation of papyrus and confiscated many a scroll from Alexandria’s visitors.



In modern times, libraries retain their hidden agenda.  France’s Bibliothèque Nationale served to consolidate the rule of the people during the French Revolution when, beneath the banner of knowledge, it confiscated all of the private collections of the First and Second estates. John Dewey’s project (through his decimal system and his company, The Library Bureau, which peddled library equipment) was to make libraries efficient and, in turn, transform its frequenters into efficient beings. The public libraries of America were not simply wells from which Americans could drink as deeply as they wished but served to baptize new waves of immigrants, acting as headquarters of cultural assimilation. From their midst, social workers would venture forth, armed with books promoting American values that they would distribute to the children of the tenements.



Furthermore, access has always been limited to even the most embracing  institutions of knowledge. In Umberto Eco’s *The Name of the Rose* where the library holds what seems to be all knowledge, the librarian Jorge de Burgos restricts access, going to such lengths as murder, and even burning down the library, to prevent anyone from reading Aristotle’s book on comedy. Similarly, even the most voluminous of libraries have been selective in their circulation. At the New York Public Library, whose motto, as Darnton reverentially invokes, is “Free for All,” minorities were made to feel unwelcome for most of the 20th century. Who can forget the protagonist of James Baldwin’s *Go Tell It On the Mountain* looking at the library’s steps and deciding not to enter its hallowed halls because “everyone, all the white people inside, would know that he was not used to great buildings, or to many books, and they would look at him with pity?” Today, at the libraries of academic institutions, like the one at Harvard over which Darnton presides, dedicated to open and liberal discourse, one needs to have a university identification card to gain access to the stacks, or otherwise must undergo the mind numbing trial of bureaucratic paperwork.



And, of course, inside the libraries, there remain bureaucratic layers to navigate. In Oxford’s Bodleian Library, no one is allowed to remove books from the shelves except for the librarians; all scholars are at their mercy. In France’s Bibliothèque Nationale, the same is true. Where in history has there been unmediated access to knowledge? Even Google does not promise this. One searches Google according to an algorithm of its engineers devising. Why would the fact of power melt away now, just because we’ve changed mediums from the physical to the digital?







Eben Moglen, a Professor of Law at Columbia University and a leading proponent of “free culture,” makes a powerful case that the digitization of the world does change things and profoundly so. What Google has done and what it is doing is in no way comparable to the accumulation by libraries of old, not because of its scale, but because the very nature of the object being assembled, the book, has transformed. For all of history, books were objects—things you could hold, touch, taste, even, if you wanted to—that had a certain cost to reproduce.



The digital books of today no longer have physical lives. Moglen declares in his 2003 “(dot)Communist Manifesto,” “The dominant goods in the system of production—the articles of cultural consumption that are both commodities sold and instructions to the worker on what and how to buy—along with all other forms of culture and knowledge now have zero marginal cost.” To reproduce a digital text, all you have to do is press “download” and now you have a copy. Or, if it’s on your hard drive already, a left click and a selection of the command “copy” or “duplicate” will suffice. With just your right index finger, you can now have two digital copies of *King Lear* where just a millisecond before you owned only one.



In light of the ease of replication Moglen has a list of demands. They are sevenfold:



1. Abolition of all forms of private property in ideas.

2. Withdrawal of all exclusive licenses, privileges and rights to use of electromagnetic spectrum. Nullification of all conveyances of permanent title to electromagnetic frequencies.

3. Development of electromagnetic spectrum infrastructure that implements every person’s equal right to communicate.

4. Common social development of computer programs and all other forms of software, including genetic information, as public goods.

5. Full respect for freedom of speech, including all forms of technical speech.

6. Protection for the integrity of creative works.

7. Free and equal access to all publicly-produced information and all educational material used in all branches of  the public education system.



While Google complies with six of these precepts, it flagrantly violates the first, and that is the desire held dearest to Moglen’s heart. The fact that post-settlement Google clings to the copyright, even though it is legally mandated to do so, is downright immoral: “when everyone can possess every intellectual work of beauty and utility—reaping all the human value of every increase of knowledge—at the same cost that any one person can possess them, it is no longer moral to exclude.”



The library that Google assembles via its Book Search is not this hyperleap forward, as Darnton, despite his suspicions of commerce, believes to be the case. Moglen would not deny that Google’s prodigious digital translation is a tremendous step forward for human knowledge, but Google’s “library” model remains mired in the material realm. In its refusal to share all information, to allow the reader unfettered access to its archives (though, of course, unfettered still means mediated by its algorithm), it denies the reader what is rightfully his. Google Book Search still operates as if it were dealing with physical forms.



Within Moglen’s idealistic yet compelling worldview Google’s post-settlement project becomes more then just a thing of which to be wary—it is an outright violation of the proper order of the digital universe.  To return to the position of poor Harry Bemis, for Moglen, rather than having our glasses broken, all of our books were snatched up while our backs were turned. We found the public library with all of its riches and just as we were about to set ourselves down to enjoy this bounty, we discover that it is all gone.  We can still see perfectly clearly, but the books themselves have vanished, taken from us by the long hand of Google. Or, if they’re still on the steps, we can no longer feel them, we can no longer find them. They have been stolen from our grasp by Google’s potent black magic.







In the Middle Ages, the frontispieces of books were inscribed with curses directed toward potential book thieves. The curses were varied and elaborate, indicative of just how highly these books were prized: “If anyone dares to carry this book off, either secretly or publicly, may he hang by the throat as ravens pick out his eyes,” “For him that stealeth from this library, let [the book] change into a serpent into his hand and rend him. Let bookworms gnaw his entrails, and when at last he goeth to his final punishment, let the flames of hell consume him,” “He who steals or sells this book, let him die the death, let him be fried in a pan, let the falling sickness and fever seize him, and let him be broken on a wheel and hanged, Amen.” Chained to altars and stone pillars, the book was protected so vigilantly, by physical and spiritual forces both, not simply because of the knowledge it contained, but also its very corporal existence was immensely valuable. A book was worth, quite literally, a fortune. It was a rare and unique treasure.



The digital volume, however, has no aura, to borrow Walter Benjamin’s term. It is no more than straight knowledge, purely a means of access into the author’s world. It is infinitely reproducible. There is no cult surrounding its object. There is no object for a cult to worship: just 0s and 1s creating an image on a screen. If the experience of the internet can be defined as the solitary, private exploration of a social, public sphere, then the book is at its essence is the prototype of the internet: the private experience of a virtual world in conversation with a myriad other worlds.



It might not be a revolutionary claim, that the bodiless book is the Internet before the Internet (innumerable others have done so using Jorge Luís Borges’s “Library of Babel” as an illustrative example), but it makes for an easy way to conceive of the problem of ownership with which both Darnton and Moglen wrestle. No one owns the Internet. While individuals or corporations may lay claim to a website address, or many addresses, as a whole, it is outside of the realm of any single interest. To own something implies control and no one has managed to truly control the Internet. The Chinese government has tried over and over again, but it is impossible to assert autocratic force. Google, Yahoo, Dogpile, Lycos are highways but it is always possible to take the back roads. The Internet is too big and individual experience is too unique to completely control either, to be able to own either.



It is inevitable that Google’s black magic monopoly will fall, not because another great competitor will emerge to challenge it, but rather, because millions of competitors already exist. The innumerable Henry Bemises all have a magic of their own. Armed with the ability to copy and share files, it is a real possibility that they could destabilize Google’s predicted dominance. By virtue of their powers, peer-to-peer networks could become the sites of knowledge circulation, just as they became the vehicles of music and video traffic and undercut those respective industries. Rather than a great new digital library, we might instead see the locus of knowledge shift to the fringes. Google will find its power diluted as biblio-Napsters surface as Google’s stockpiles are replicated and disseminated throughout the World Wide Web.



The power dynamic of the library will not disappear; it never will. Its ulterior motives will not be exorcised. However, if the library goes, the particular type of power dynamic it propagates cannot help but go too. If book traffic is not organized around a center that can be controlled by a singular force, then, while power dynamics do not disappear completely, the possibility of a coherent, sinister manifestation is muddled by the masses. There are simply too many actors with too many disparate interests. 



Men and women at their computers already fight against Google Library’s hegemony, some even unknowingly, undermining its monopoly as they share book files, as they copy texts, as they circumvent and occasionally steal from the giant who staked its hold on the ancient idea of Alexandria. The end to that dream is unavoidable. The power of the book declares that Google Book Search must face its predestined curse. It is what is written. And, as Google Books dies, a death that has already begun as piracy becomes typical practice, the Henry Bemises of the world salvage the great library’s contents in preparation for the day when we finally will be able to read them.