Category Archives: Document

From register to blockchain

Stationers’ Register entry for Arden of Faversham, from Shakespeare Documented

In the early days of print, the Stationers’ Company in London had a monopoly on publishing. The guild created a register (the Stationers’ Register) that documented publishers’ rights to produce particular printed works. This served as a way to check the authenticity of printed works in a time when unauthorized copies were beginning to proliferate—if they didn’t correspond to the line in the register, they were probably illicit. (“Probably,” because, in practice, not all works were duly registered.)

The system worked well enough for some time, though there were some problems. As Adrian Johns writes in Piracy: The Intellectual Property Wars from Gutenberg to Gates, the Crown could supervene the register by way of royal patent—and so the systems of register and patent sometimes were at odds.

Other things that limited the register’s usefulness: It only existed in one place, so it was in practice difficult and costly for people to confirm its contents. And moreover, it was controlled by the Stationers’ Company, and so it could only be trusted to the extent that the company was trusted.

So much for early modernity. As Johns chronicles, concerns about piracy exploded since the time of the Stationers’ Register. And now that we have digital assets, which in principle can be reproduced infinitely, it’s as big an issue as ever.

For any document or piece of information, we need a way to determine whether we can trust it. This stands for both the legitimacy of the document’s production and distribution (as in say, currency and digital music) and its content (as in news stories).

The invention of print led to new forms of and urgency regarding piracy, and the register was one method of dealing with it. Now, with the world wide web, we are seeing this again. And to deal with contemporary piracy (among other issues related to information trust), we’re seeing the rise of a new technology: blockchain.

Blockchain is one of the world’s most exciting new technologies. As the internet revolutionized information sharing and communications, blockchain has the capacity to revolutionize the economy and many of our social systems. You’ve probably heard of bitcoin, which is the first platform built on blockchain technology, and in the coming decades you’re sure to hear of many more. Experts are likening the situation with blockchain to that of the internet protocol, which was invented in the 1970s but didn’t burst through the popular realm until the 1990s—in those terms, some say we’re in 1992.

In brief, a blockchain is a distributed ledger used to record transactions in a verifiable and inalterable way. As described in The Economist‘s briefing, blockchain “is a way of making and preserving truths.” The blockchain is something everyone can refer to, to determine who owns what and where it came from. This goes for digital goods as much as physical ones—the blockchain prevents digital things from being reproduced infinitely. Importantly, when we compare it to the Stationers’ Register, it can be checked for practically no cost, and it doesn’t rely on an external authority as a grounds for trust.

Blockchain is sure to turn any number of industries upside down. If it relies on documentation, change is in the air. The question, though, is in the details. For a smattering, you can check out:

Writing, memory and freedom

Is this memory?

One of the reasons we write things down is to help us remember. That seems clear; I don’t want to forget your phone number or what I was supposed to get from the grocery store, so I write it down.

Some ancient philosophers worried that writing would wipe away our capacity for organically remembering things. Even today, writers such as Nicholas Carr, author of The Shallows: What the Internet is Doing to Our Brains, make analogous arguments.

But those worries seem secondary to the problem that writing (and information systems generally) creates the sense that all memories have been recorded and are retrievable.

First of all, this is an illusion. It is impossible to record everything, and gaps are inevitable. Frighteningly, we may not notice when things are missing, and we fill in the gaps through inference. We know this in everyday life as “jumping to conclusions.” The idea that we think we can record everything seems to come from the 20th-century enchantment with computing, whose metaphors have permeated many aspects of life.

Psychologist Arthur Glenberg argues against this position in his 1997 paper What Memory is For. The idea of total recall—that our brains are recording everything we ever experience but that it’s locked away and can be coaxed out through psychotherapy—is a myth, Glenberg argues. Rather, Glenberg advances a view of memory as a facilitator of action in our environments, and something that is not totally accurate (and shouldn’t be!). More recently, Julia Shaw makes similar points in her book The Memory Illusion, in which she goes over many ways that our memories can betray us. The pernicious thing is not when we forget—it’s when we misremember things and think we’re correct. You can watch an animated abstract for The Memory Illusion here:

Second, remembering may not always be the best thing. Also in 1997, Geof Bowker published a paper on the importance of organizational forgetting. Organizations need to manage a lot of information and knowledge. Normally we think of this only in terms of remembering, but organizations also need to think about forgetting—especially that which no longer serves.

In the everyday lives of individuals, too, memories can sometimes be straightjackets. Sure, it’s easy to argue that forgetting an unpleasant memory could be problematic, but the ability to forget aspects of one’s past is also important for moving forward.

Modern technology has made this so much more complicated. Consider, for example, that you once had an abusive lover. You’ve since broken up, but remembering that person feels more painful than helpful. In the days of yore, you could simply burn all the photographs of the two of you and that would be that. But today, traces of your past relationship may be strewn about Facebook forever. For another sort of example, the work of Oliver Haimson on the intersection of gender transition and social media also presents a fascinating case.

The point is, the (im)possibility of forgetting becomes a crucial ethical issue today. Philosopher Luciano Floridi writes in The Ethics of Information:

Recorded memories tend to freeze the nature of their subject. The more memories we accumulate and externalize, the more narrative constraints we provide for the construction and development of personal identities. Increasing our memories also means decreasing the degree of freedom we might enjoy in defining ourselves. Forgetting is also a self-poietic [creative] art… Capturing, editing, saving, conserving, and managing one’s own memories for personal and public consumption will become increasingly important not just in terms of protection of informational privacy… but also in terms of a morally healthy construction of one’s personal identity.

We should remember that memory slips are not all bad—both mental forgetting and missing written information. And we should also be more humble about what we do “remember,” because it may very well be wrong.

Documenting the self

I’ve been hard at work on my dissertation proposal—I’m studying the processes of artistic self-portraiture—and I’ve been thinking about self-documentation. In modern society we seem to be compelled to write about ourselves. We make resumes and CVs, and we write bios for our social media profiles, which are becoming central for everything from everyday communication to dating and business. There are, of course, also many non-verbal ways in which we document ourselves, which is a focus of my dissertation.

The later work of Michel Foucault suggests that self-documentation is not new. On the contrary, many in Ancient Greece and Rome apparently kept hupomnēmata, or notebooks “to collect what one has managed to hear or read, and for a purpose that is nothing less than the shaping of the self.” These were fragmentary notebooks, but their result was not merely a collection of disjointed scraps; rather, they contributed to a new whole, along with the writer themselves. According to Foucault, the purpose of the hupomnēmata was to care for the self, which was an ancient directive. (Foucault laments that today we only recall know thyself, having forgotten about care for thyself.) As Foucault writes, “writing transforms the things seen or heard ‘into tissue and blood.’” People regularly returned to their hupomnēmata for nourishment.

The function of the hupomnēmata is quite different from the modern genre of autobiography, whose purpose is not to care for the self but to care for others. Autobiographies and many other self-documents are packaged for sale (in various senses), but the hupomnēmata were intensely private. They were more about the process than the product.

Today, some of us keep hupomnēmata. Mine, if you could call it that, is in Evernote. But I think this is a rare practice. On the other hand, many people cultivate something like hupomnēmata in their social media feeds. A Twitter feed, for instance, presents a seemingly disjointed collection of thoughts and snippets from the world, and it seems to be both like and unlike hupomnēmata. On Twitter (and other social media, or even ICT-made self-documents in general), are posts revisited as a means of self-care? Is the primary audience the self or another?