The Kindle, the book and permanence

Jonathan Franzen recently issued a rebuke to Kindle readers everywhere when he said that text on a screen is ‘just not permanent enough’. What does this mean? What is not permanent about it? 

The language of the Kindle is rooted in impermanence: a page is not turned, it is refreshed; a book is not opened, it is loaded; a book is not bought, it is downloaded. Franzen, perhaps, is objecting to the new reading lexicon. A book is not a book unless the words still exist then the page had been read. In a book, of course, the words physically exist. A turned page still tells the story, but where does the story go when a page is ‘refreshed’? Taking Franzen on face value, does he have a point? Bluntly, no. If a page does not exist before the Kindle refreshes, where does it come from? This is the simple response to Franzen’s objection. Existence may be different in the world of the Kindle than it is in the world of books, but of course it still exists.

However, I believe that Franzen’s objection is far more complicated. It cannot be reduced simply to a luddite’s temper, a fist shake at technological advance. Franzen’s objection is actually about the permanence of text. He says that a Kindle screen feels as if ‘we could delete that, change that, move it around.’ Of course, when a book is in control of the author, this is merely called editing. Yet when it is published, Franzen seems to argue, this type of interference is desecration. This is not, as so many objections about the Kindle are, merely about the tactile response to the new medium. This is something sacred that has been defiled; the writer's vision never crystalised into art.

This is a far more interesting observation. It perhaps reflects textual theory, in particular with regard to a writer’s relationship with the text. Does the artist have ownership of it and therefore the right to change it as he pleases? Should there be a point where the artist comes divorced from it, a point where is belongs to everyone equally? Should the text be analysed as if the writer does not exist at all, divorced from biography? Is a published book set in stone? And is this relationship fundamentally different in kind when the text is on the Kindle rather than in a book?

In a delicious irony, considering Franzen’s remarks, the first UK edition of his novel Freedom was printed with a number of typos. The publishers response? To recall the book and pulp it. Of those that had been sold, readers were offered the opportunity to replace their ‘faulty’ copy with a new one. Of course, not everyone would have done this, but it is fair to say that most were returned and pulped out of existence. And as time passes, more will pass out of existence copies of this book. Words were not just moved about a screen, they were destroyed entirely. This is simply mischief-making, however. This book was destroyed only because it contained typos and did not represent a fair copy of the author’s work. These changes were simply about editing, something which any writer would say they have a right to do. At this point the text still belongs to the author. However, it does demonstrate the paper permanence is not what Franzen might have us believe. 

So perhaps Franzen’s objection is more that once the fair copy of the book has been published it is set, unchanged for future generations, never to edited again. Unfortunately this is not true. Tess of the D’ubervilles is a great book by one of the great English novelists, Thomas Hardy. Yet the story of the book that you come to read today is more complicated. First, there was the serialisation in two magazines, each of which published a slightly different version of the story (the rape of Tess, for example, was left out). Then there was the first book of the story, which differed again. Yet even at that point, Hardy had not finished and still claimed the right to edit so that he made changes even as late as 1912. What is permanence in this case? Is there a stage when the author and the text must divorce themselves from one another? You could object, of course, and say that the other copies still exist, that they are permanent. But do they not simply become versions of permanence? There are other examples: Great Expectations, for instance, had two endings; Elizabeth Gaskell’s Bronte biography went through three editions. Is this permanent in the sense that the author and the work become divorced? It seems, after all, that it is still possible to ‘delete that, change that, move that around.’

What of the Kindle in this debate? It does not offer much of a defence of itself in this regard. Indeed, it might come off worse because Amazon have the ability to remotely delete items on a person’s Kindle without their permission. Thus, in this case, it could simply have removed all faulty copies and replaced them. Therefore, would not this mean that only one version exists, whereas at least for physical books it is possible to retain all editions? But there are other ereaders on the market, and as Franzen’s objections were in respect of a screen rather than a particular product, we shall treat Kindle as other treat Biro, that is a generic terms of all ereaders. When we consider these,  ereaders respect of permanence is more deferential. I have a Sony Reader. To purchase books one must first download it to one’s computer and then upload the book to the ereader. At the point, it is isolated from outside interference. It is also possible to duplicate the file, onto a memory card, onto a hard drive, even onto a server. Duplication of these files, and their isolation from outside interference, is easy. Remote deletion is not possible. The file is protected and easily reproduced, unlike the book which can be pulped; is this not more permanent than a book?

Think too about the oppression of novels. A printed copy could be destroyed. Book burnings are a very strong symbolic gesture about the destruction of knowledge. But in the electronic world, oppression is much more difficult. Think of the brave bloggers in repressed societies. If they were to rely on the printed world, would their testament have such force? The fact the digital, a world of which the Kindle is a part, can so easily reproduce itself on millions of systems worldwide, ensure their permanence and their strength. The ebook still exists where perhaps the physical book can go up in flames.

Franzen is wrong, then, when he objects to the impermanence of the Kindle, or the digital word.  Yet it is difficult for me not to agree with the sentiment. There is something special about a book. But it is not permanence; it is impermanence.  A book's entropy is there for all to see as is its fragile existence, perhaps now more under threat than ever, which one must endeavour to protect. A Kindle screen does not change; one page is much like the other; one book a screen of words, another book simply a screen of different words. Yet, I can look at the physical book without reading the words and appreciate its uniqueness; I can run my hand over a page and feel the undulation of the printed word beneath my fingertips. An older book picks up its own life, its own experience and its own smell, its stains, even its notes in the margin. It gets old, it fades, it loses its memory as it loses its pages. And by the light of a candle sometimes one swears one can see a word’s shadow flicker to the flame's irregular beat.

It is not permanence, it is impermanence that makes the written word special. So special that it must be protected.