I used to spend hours every week browsing in bookstores, new and used. I'd even think nothing of devoting an entire day to doing so. In recent years, all that has changed. Instead, I do a lot of browsing online and have a good idea of what I hope to find before I set foot in a bookstore. I followed that procedure yesterday on a visit to University Bookstore here in Seattle, but since I didn't find a single one of the books I specifically looked for, I ended up spending a couple of hours browsing instead and thus buying a lot of books I hadn't given a though to in advance, just as I used to. I was surprised to find on the shelves a number of books from the early and middle parts of the 20th century I knew of but had never actually read, all newly printed complete with modern new prices, too.
After I bought them and sat down in the cafe with an iced tea and my booty, however, was that though these books were all newly printed, they had not been set in modern fonts, but simply reproduced as if they were nothing more than digitally printed pdfs of the original pages. (I suspect that's exactly how they were produced.) It would have reduced the cost to the publisher considerably to do, I suppose. To my annoyance, in two cases the books don't even have the grace of showing the date of the reissue, presumably on the pretense that the copyright date is the only date that matters. Since the book is not, of course, being sold as a part of the original print run half a century (or more) earlier, this pretense leaves me feeling deprived of data about the book's publication history. Have these books been in continuous print all this time? Or is it just that the changing technology of printing and its economics has made a no-muss, no-fuss reissue economically feasible?
Does it sound as though I'm complaining? I guess I am. I will admit it: I find many of the older fonts uncomfortable to read. That isn't to say I won't read them when I have to. Back in the 1970s I read hundreds of books printed in the 16th, 17th, and 18th centuries, most of them florid or even Gothic, fonts that, for instance, turned esses into effs. I've always been willing to read old books set in old fonts when that's the only choice for books I really want to read. Just last year, for instance, inspired by a chapter in Alexis Lothian's thesis, I read a pdf of Elizabeth Burgoyne Corbett's late ninetheenth-century New Amazonia that took considerable effort to read, partly because the pdf reproduction is rather poor, partly because the font was tiresome-- and then typed the whole thing out it in preparation for having it typeset for Aqueduct's Heirloom Books series. Most older fonts just can't be read by an optical character reader, and so they have to be keyed in by hand. Seeing these graphically reproduced reissues, it occurred to me that unlike all those publishers, neither Kath nor I would ever have thought of merely reproducing the pdf of the Corbett novel (or any other) book. Apparently, book design and ease of reading matter to us tremendously. Now that I think of it, I recall, in the first months of our preparing to start Aqueduct, Kath's intense interest in choosing our house fonts, all based on her own experiences as a reader-- and I also her complaints over the years about various fonts (of which I had previously been less conscious than she).
Clearly, fashions in fonts change. You have only to look at books published in different decades to see that. One of the reprinted books mentioned above, one with a 1951 copyright date and the statement "Vintage Books are published by Alfred A. Knopf and Random House, Inc." and no other date after that, apart from a bio of the author which mentions his death and two awards won post-1951 that Vintage must have added in a later reprint that the copyright page does not bother to mention, has a font one never sees now, though it's a font I would have found familiar in the 1970s. (Don't ask me for its name: there are very few fonts I can actually identify by name.) I find myself wondering whether the fonts I find the most readable now would have seemed as readable to me in the 1970s as they do to me now. Are publishers actually using increasingly readable fonts (perhaps due to better and better design), or is readability an illusion created by changes in taste? Fashions do affect how we view clothing, shoes, and hair styles (not to mention home, car, and book cover designs).
It seems I have a subject of conversation when next I see the one font-designer I actually know. And who knows, maybe neurobiologists will someday serve up new evidence shedding light on the question, particularly given the interest they've been taking in investigating what happens in people's brains when they read different sorts of things and finding perceptible differences in the brain between reading printed and electronic texts.
Sunday, August 18, 2013
Thursday, August 1, 2013
Such sloppiness and carelessness with people's lives is only heightened, though, by the increasing disappearance of that little constitutional right that used to be known as "due process." Just the other day we learned of the horrific case of Daniel Chong, a UCSD engineering student who in April 2012 was locked into a 5x8-foot room without water or toilet much less food and "forgotten" for five days--only to be discovered near renal failure (and covered with his own feces). How does a law enforcement agency "forget" a human being they've locked up? Since this appears to have been genuinely unintentional, it signals a blatant disregard for procedure much less a total lack of a sense of responsibility for citizens taken into custody. (Which may actually be more dire in its implications than if he'd been deliberately tortured in this way.) This lack of a sense of responsibility is seen is continual, immoral force in the many, many prisons and jails in every corner of our country.
Why do I say Howard is in charge? I invite you to look at a few of the other such news stories of the last few days. We've had more revelations about what the NSA is able to do (and in fact does)--including the capability of tracking any internet user's every email and website visit. We've learned that Oakland's city government has decided to open a special surveillance center, "The Domain Awareness Center," which, according to the Oakland wiki,
will act as a “fusion center,” aggregating video feeds and real-time data from a number of sources around Oakland. Possible program components include integration of closed-circuit video feeds (CCTV) from all over Oakland, including 700 cameras at Oakland public schools and 135 cameras at the Oakland Coliseum complex. Video and data feeds from all over Oakland would be aggregated at the DAC, then analyzed with license plate recognition software, thermal imaging and body movement recognition software, possibly facial recognition software, and more, all with absolutely no privacy or data-retention policies in place, or substantive debate at the committee or council level about the program.And then there's the case of the suburban Long Island family who have reported a visit from "the counterterrorism police" arriving at their home in three black SUVs, apparently because they decided that the searches the members of this family had collectively done made them a justifiable target for (further) investigation. See, Michele Catalano was researching pressure cookers (for preparing lentils and quinoa), her husband was shopping around for a backpack, and their son, a teenaged "news junky," had done searches on the Boston marathon bombing. These three series of searches coming from the same ISP endowed them with a suspicious profile--suspicious enough, that is, to warrant a visit from half a dozen armed officers. Here's Michele Catalano:
They mentioned that they do this about 100 times a week. And that 99 of those visits turn out to be nothing. I don’t know what happens on the other 1% of visits and I’m not sure I want to know what my neighbors are up to.99 times out of a hundred? I bet it's a lot less than that, considering that they're bothering people who have the temerity to google pressure cookers, backpacks, and bombings. Anyone who's a writer has got to find this worrisome-- just think of all the things we're constantly running online searches on. Just think of the sort of scenarios we write about. I'm amazed they haven't shown up at my home yet. Am I to take it that it's only a matter of time?
45 minutes later, they shook my husband’s hand and left. That’s when he called me and relayed the story. That’s when I felt a sense of creeping dread take over. What else had I looked up? What kind of searches did I do that alone seemed innocent enough but put together could make someone suspicious? Were they judging me because my house was a mess (Oh my god, the joint terrorism task force was in my house and there were dirty dishes in my sink!). Mostly I felt a great sense of anxiety. This is where we are at. Where you have no expectation of privacy. Where trying to learn how to cook some lentils could possibly land you on a watch list. Where you have to watch every little thing you do because someone else is watching every little thing you do.
All I know is if I’m going to buy a pressure cooker in the near future, I’m not doing it online.
I’m scared. And not of the right things.
There are many more news items I could mention--we're constantly reading of the consequences of the apparently indissoluble union of technology with surveillance and military applications. When I read a week or so ago about the program used in many US cities to track license plates, I realized that if you write mysteries or thrillers you're probably always out of date. The potential for blackmail, for instance, must have been raised tremendously in the last five years, given the number of secrets most people try to keep from those around them--secrets we used to think the government had no business uncovering. Maybe we should be calling this particular historical era the Age of Surveillance. In any case, writers haven't a chance in the world of keeping ahead of this technology curve.
ETA: Josh Lukin has pointed me to another version of this story, namely that the family's online searches at home didn't trigger the visit, but a "tip" from a former employer: see http://gawker.com/how-a-paranoid-blogger-made-everyone-scared-to-google-p-992804224. This article quotes a statement from the police: "Suffolk County Criminal Intelligence Detectives received a tip from a Bay Shore based computer company regarding suspicious computer searches conducted by a recently released employee. The former employee’s computer searches took place on this employee’s workplace computer. On that computer, the employee searched the terms “pressure cooker bombs” and “backpacks.”" That may not be as scary, but it doesn't make me feel better. I'm a writer, after all. I explore all kinds of menace and doom. Should that make me a target for suspicion?