It looks like you’re writing an argument against data in literary study …

would you like some help with that?

I’m not being snarky. Right now, I have several friends writing articles that are largely or partly a critique of interrelated trends that go under the names “data” or “distant reading.” It looks like many other articles of the same kind are being written.

This is good news! I believe fervently in Mae West’s theory of publicity. “I don’t care what the newspapers say about me as long as they spell my name right.” (Though it turns out we may not actually know who said that, so I guess the newspapers failed.)

In any case, this blog post is not going to try to stop you from proving that numbers are neoliberal, unethical, inevitably assert objectivity, aim to eliminate all close reading from literary study, fail to represent time, and lead to loss of “cultural authority.” Go for it! Ideas live on critique.

But I do want to help you “spell our names right.” Andrew Piper has recently pointed out that critiques of data-driven research tend to use a small sample of articles. He expressed that more strongly, but I happen to like the article he was aiming at, so I’m going to soften his expression. However, I don’t disagree with the underlying point! For some reason, critics of numbers don’t feel they need to consider more than one example, or two if they’re in a generous mood.

There are some admirable exceptions to this rule. I’ve argued that a recent issue of Genre was, in general, moving in the right direction. And I’m fairly confident that the trend will continue. A field that has been generating mostly articles and pamphlets is about to shift into a lower gear and publish several books. In literary studies, that tends to be an effective way of reframing debate.

But it may be another twelve to eighteen months before those books are out. In the meantime, you’ve got to finish your critique. So let me help with the bibliography.

When you’re tempted to assume that all possible uses of numbers (or “data”) in literary study can be summed up by engaging one or two texts that Franco Moretti wrote in the year 2000, you should resist the assumption. You are actually talking about a long, complex story, and your readers deserve some glimpse of its complexity.

For instance, sociologists, linguists and book historians have been using numbers to describe literature since the middle of the twentieth century. You should make clear whether you are critiquing that work, or just arguing that it is incapable of addressing the inner literariness of literature. The journal Computers and the Humanities started in the 1960s. The 1980s gave rise to a thriving tradition of feminist literary sociology, embodied in books by Janice Radway and Gaye Tuchman, and in the journal Signs. I’ve used one of Tuchman’s regression models as an illustration here.

tuchman

Variables predicting literary fame in a regression model, from Gaye Tuchman and Nina E. Fortin, Edging Women Out (1989).

<deep breath>

In the 1990s, Mark Olsen (working at the University of Chicago) started to articulate many of the impulses we now call “distant reading.” Around 2000, Franco Moretti gave quantitative approaches an infusion of polemical verve and wit, which raised their profile among literary scholars who had not previously paid attention. (Also, frankly, the fact that Moretti already had disciplinary authority to spend mattered a great deal. Literary scholars can be temperamentally conservative even when theoretically radical.)

But Moretti himself is a moving target. The articles he has written since 2008 aim at different goals, and use different methods, than articles before that date. Part of the point of an experimental method, after all, is that you are forced to revise your assumptions! Because we are actually learning things, this field is changing rapidly. A recent pamphlet from the Stanford Literary Lab conceives the role of the “archive,” for instance, very differently than “Slaughterhouse of Literature” did.

But that pamphlet was written by six authors—a useful reminder that this is a collective project. Today the phrase “distant reading” is often a loose description for large-scale literary history, covering many people who disagree significantly with Moretti. In a recent roundtable in PMLA, for instance, Andrew Goldstone argues for evidence of a more sociological and less linguistic kind. Lisa Rhody and Alison Booth both argue for different scales or forms of “distance.” Richard Jean So argues that the simple measurements which typified much work before 2010 need to be replaced by statistical models, which account for variation and uncertainty in a more principled way.

One might also point, for instance, to Lauren Klein’s work on gaps in the archive, or to Ryan Cordell’s work on literary circulation, or to Katherine Bode’s work, which aims to construct corpora that represent literary circulation rather than production. Or to Matt Wilkens, or Hoyt Long, or Tanya Clement, or Matt Jockers, or James F. English … I’m going to run out of breath before I run out of examples.

Not all of these scholars believe that numbers will put literary scholarship on a more objective footing. Few of them believe that numbers can replace “interpretation” with “explanation.” None of them, as far as I can tell, have stopped doing close reading. (I would even claim to pair numbers with close reading in Joseph North’s strong sense of the phrase: not just reading-to-illustrate-a-point but reading-for-aesthetic-cultivation.) In short, the work literary scholars are doing with numbers is not easily unified by a shared set of principles—and definitely isn’t unified by a 17-year-old polemic. The field is unified, rather, by a fast-moving theoretical debate. Literary production versus circulation. Book history versus social science. Sociology versus linguistics. Measurement versus modeling. Interpretation versus explanation versus prediction.

Critics of this work may want to argue that it all nevertheless fails in the same way, because numbers inevitably (flatten time/reduce reading to visualization/exclude subjectivity/fill in the blank). That’s a fair thesis to pursue. But if you believe that, you need to show that your generalization is true by considering several different (recent!) examples, and teasing out the tacit similarities concealed underneath ostensible disagreements. I hope this post has helped with some of the bibliographic legwork. If you want more sources, I recently wrote a “Genealogy of Distant Reading” that will provide more. Now, tear them apart!

Versions of disciplinary history.

Accounts of the history of the humanities are being strongly shaped, right now, by stances for or against something called “digital humanities.” I have to admit I avoid the phrase when I can. The good thing about DH is, it creates a lively community that crosses disciplinary lines to exchange ideas. The bad thing is, it also creates a community that crosses disciplinary lines to fight pointlessly over the meaning of “digital humanities.” Egyptologists and scholars of game studies, who once got along just fine doing different things, suddenly understand themselves as advancing competing, incompatible versions of DH.

The desire to defend a coherent tradition called DH can also lead to models of intellectual history that I find bizarre. Sometimes, for instance, people trace all literary inquiry using computers back to Roberto Busa. That seems to me an oddly motivated genealogy: it would only make sense if you thought the physical computers themselves were very important. I tend to trace the things people are doing instead to Janice Radway, Roman Jakobson, Raymond Williams, or David Blei.

On the other hand, we’ve recently seen that a desire to take a stand against digital humanities can lead to equally unpersuasive genealogies. I’m referring to a recent critique of digital humanities in LARB by Daniel Allington, Sarah Brouillette, and David Golumbia. The central purpose of the piece is to identify digital humanities as a neoliberal threat to the humanities.

I’m not going to argue about whether digital humanities is neoliberal; I’ve already said that I fear the term is becoming a source of pointless fights. So I’m not the person to defend the phrase, or condemn it. But I do care about properly crediting people who contributed to the tradition of literary history I work in, and here I think the piece in LARB leads to important misunderstandings.

The argument is supported by two moves that I would call genealogical sleight-of-hand. On the one hand, it unifies a wide range of careers that might seem to have pursued different ends (from E. D. Hirsch to Rita Felski) by the crucial connecting link that all these people worked at the University of Virginia. On the other hand, it needs to separate various things that readers might associate with digital humanities, so if any intellectual advances happen to take place in some corner of a discipline, it can say “well, you know, that part wasn’t really related; it had a totally different origin.”

I don’t mean to imply that the authors are acting in bad faith here; nor do I think people who over-credit Roberto Busa for all literary work done with computers are motivated by bad faith. This is just an occupational hazard of doing history. If you belong to a particular group (a national identity, or a loose social network like “DH”), there’s always a danger of linking and splitting things so history becomes a story about “the rise of France.” The same thing can happen if you deeply dislike a group.

So, I take it as a sincere argument. But the article’s “splitting” impulses are factually mistaken in three ways. First, the article tries to crisply separate everything happening in distant reading from the East Coast — where people are generally tarnished (in the authors’ eyes) by association with UVA. Separating these traditions allows the article to conclude “well, Franco Moretti may be a Marxist, but the kind of literary history he’s pursuing had nothing to do with those editorial theory types.”

That’s just not true; the projects may be different, but there have also been strong personal and intellectual connections between them. At times, the connections have been embodied institutionally in the ADHO, but let me offer a more personal example: I wouldn’t be doing what I’m doing right now if it weren’t for the MONK project. Before I knew how to code — or, code in anything other than 1980s-era Basic — I spent hours playing with the naive Bayes feature in MONK online, discovering what it was capable of. For me, that was the gateway drug that led eventually to a deeper engagement with sociology of literature, book history, machine learning, and so on. MONK was created by a group centered at our Graduate School of Library and Information Science, but the dark truth is that several of those people had been trained at UVA (I know Unsworth, Ramsay, and Kirschenbaum were involved — pardon me if I’m forgetting others).

MONK is also an example of another way the article’s genealogy goes wrong: by trying to separate anything that might be achieved intellectually in a field like literary history from the mere “support functions for the humanities” provided by librarians and academic professionals. Just as a matter of historical fact, that’s not a correct account of how large-scale literary history has developed. My first experiment with quantitative methods — before MONK — took shape back in 1995, when my first published article, in Studies in Romanticism (1995). used quantitative methods influenced by Mark Olsen, a figure who deserves a lot more credit than he has received. Olsen had already sketched out the theoretical rationale for a research program you might call “distant reading” in 1989, arguing that text analysis would only really become useful for the humanities when it stopped trying to produce readings of individual books and engaged broad social-historical questions. But Olsen was not a literature professor. He had a Ph.D in French history, and was working off the tenure track with a digital library called ARTFL at the University of Chicago.

Really at every step of the way — from ARTFL, to MONK, to the Stanford Literary Lab, to HathiTrust Research Center — my thinking about this field has been shaped by projects that were organized and led by people with appointments in libraries and/or in library science. You may like that, or feel that it’s troubling — up to you — but it’s the historical fact.

Personally, I take it as a sign that, in historical disciplines, libraries and archives really matter. A methodology, by itself, is not enough; you also need material, and the material needs to be organized in ways that are far from merely clerical. Metadata is a hard problem. The organization of the past is itself an interpretive act, and libraries are one of the institutional forms it takes. I might not have realized that ten years ago, but after struggling to keep my head above water in a sea of several million books, I feel it very sincerely.

This is why I think the article is also wrong to treat distant reading as a mere transplantation of social-science methods. I suspect the article has seen this part of disciplinary history mainly through the lens of Daniel Allington’s training in linguistics, so I credit it as a good-faith understanding: if you’re trained in social science, then I understand, large-scale literary history will probably look like sociology and linguistics that happen to have gotten mixed in some way and then applied to the past.

But the article is leaving out something that really matters in this field, which is turning methods into historical arguments. To turn social-scientific methods into literary history, you have to connect the results of a model, meaningfully, to an existing conversation about the literary past. For that, you need a lot of things that aren’t contained in the original method. Historical scholarship. Critical insight, dramatized by lively writing. And also metadata. Authors’ dates of birth and death; testimony about perceived genre categories. A corpus isn’t enough. Social-scientific methods can only become literary history in collaboration with libraries.

I know nothing I have said here will really address the passions evoked on multiple sides by the LARB article. I expect this post will be read by some as an attempt to defend digital humanities, and by others as a mealy-mouthed failure to do so. That’s okay. But from my own (limited) perspective, I’m just trying to write some history here, giving proper credit to people who were involved in building the institutions and ideas I rely on. Those people included social scientists, humanists, librarians, scholars in library and information science, and people working off the tenure track in humanities computing.

Postscript: On the importance of libraries, see Steven E. Jones, quoting Bethany Nowviskie about the catalytic effect of Google Books (Emergence 8, and “Resistance in the Materials”). Since metadata matters, Google Books became enormously more valuable to scholars in the form of HathiTrust. The institutional importance I attribute to libraries is related to Alan Liu’s recent observations about the importance of critically engaging infrastructure.

References

Jones, Steven E. The Emergence of the Digital Humanities. New York: Routledge, 2014.

Olsen, Mark. “The History of Meaning: Computational and Quantitative Methods in Intellectual History,” Joumal of History and Politics 6 (1989): 121-54.

Olsen, Mark. “Signs, Symbols, and Discourses: A New Direction for Computer-Aided Literary Studies.” Computers and the Humanities 27 (1993): 309-14.