This paper offers a response to Roger Bagnall’s contribution on Digital Papyrology, but a proper response to this particular topic requires addressing the broader topic behind this workshop: the reinvention of editing in a digital age. More than a decade ago, at a conference at MIT, Jerome McGann remarked in passing that we were entering a great age of editing. These words were not among his prepared remarks—when this programmatic remark was called to his attention several years later, he had forgotten the words but warmly endorsed the sentiment. The papers in this workshop suggest the impending truth of that prophetic remark. Scanning books and generating transcriptions is the incunabular phase of digital publication.1 We need to rethink the goals of editing in the light of the possibilities and challenges of emergent digital media.2 We are not entering—we have already entered and will never leave—a new intellectual space, where the speed and the distance between question and answer is qualitatively different from that for which we were trained.
In a digital world where we can publish video and sound and where we can annotate space, we need to extend our vision of editing beyond linguistic sources. In his paper for this collection, Ken Price talks about “topic-based editing,” of which his own Civil War Washington3 provides one example.4HyperCities5 illustrates the opportunities of annotating coordinates in space and time, allowing us to trace such events as the turmoil in Tehran after the 2009 Iranian elections and a tumultuous succession of public buildings over the past century in Berlin. Alison Muri’s Grub Street Project6 sets out to bring an entire moment in history to life. If we are to publish documents—especially documents as enmeshed with their material and cultural context as tweets from Tehran or newspapers from eighteenth century London or nineteenth century Washington, we need to embed them within rich cultural databases and to imagine our textual annotations as links into geographic, visual, quantitative, and textual data.
Within this essay, I restrict myself to the editing of textual sources, but within that field I understand editing in a very broad sense as making our primary textual sources usable for scholarly work. If we take this as an intellectual model, then a wide range of document-centric publications is relevant. These include not only facsimile, diplomatic, and critical editions but also translations, commentaries, and even specialized lexica and indices—documents that are hypertextual in nature, largely composed of individual annotations and expositions upon named portions of a primary source.7 The boundary between editing in this sense and other categories of publication is, in this case (as in almost any classification task), fuzzy. Essays in expository prose that largely follow the structure of a document to elicit an interpretation should probably be considered as well. At least some such studies would be better served if published as hypertextual guides through a document, directing a reader’s focus to one passage after another and using chunks of argumentation to draw out various features of the primary source and comparanda.8 The instinct for such publications is deep, and early forms of such hypertextual publications have appeared in various guises (PerseusPaths, Walden’s Paths,9 etc.).
I advance two basic hypotheses:
1) We need editors—lots of them. We have before us a new model of intellectual life in general and especially within the humanities. We have valued scholarship that is difficult to produce and almost as difficult to understand. When a 2009 tenure track job listing asked for candidates who can support contributions and original research by undergraduates as well as MA students within the field of Classics, almost none of nearly two hundred applicants had been trained to think about what MA-level students, much less undergraduates, could contribute to the field or about what meaningful research they might be able to conduct.10 A few had creative ideas and had even experimented in their teaching but they had done so outside of—and in some measure in spite of—their formal training. Most of those with whom we spoke shifted uncomfortably in their chairs as we pressed them on this point.
We have vast amounts of work before us—far more than a relative handful of salaried academics can accomplish and plenty accessible to our students and to those who love a given subject but maintain a day job doing something else.11 We need to edit the entire record of humanity. Brute digitization provides physical access to digital representations that are qualitatively more useful than anything possible in print—print publication constitutes only a small dimensional reduction of the space in which we now move. At least as important, we have at our disposal a growing set of analytical tools that can make these sources intellectually as well as physically accessible.12 At one end, we can detect not only words and phrases but also ideas in vast collections of data—the bigger the better, in fact.13 The same currents that flatten individual human analysts provide the lift on which many of our algorithms can soar, allowing us to find within vast collections patterns that yield themselves to deep contemplation—and indeed, to the most traditional of intensive reading.14 At the other end, we can now automatically generate background information—a workable commentary—with which to contextualize what we see. And we have begun to attack the greatest of all logistical barriers in intellectual life—the heretofore impenetrable barrier of language. In print culture, we could do nothing with documents in languages that we had not studied. Already today, if we combine machine translation of individual words as well as passages, morphological and syntactic analysis, dictionary lookup, and text mining we can begin to work with sources that were once inaccessible.15
Vast collections and clever services provide a starting point for human analysis. Consider one particular example from my own field. Most Latin literature was produced after, and much builds upon, the tiny surviving corpus of Classical Latin.16 We have an endless supply of intellectually accessible and eminently useful undergraduate and MA-level projects, with our students building upon their training in Classics, analyzing the results of automated systems, and producing introductions, commentaries, and annotated translations of individual documents. We can then publish these as components of increasingly sophisticated digital libraries that can parse their structure and mine the machine-actionable information within them: the scholarly labor applied to each edited document becomes training data that then improves the automated results for the rest of the document in question, as well as the corpus of digital Latin.17 If we move towards community-driven models of updating and preserving such editions, preserving the original contributions within a versioning system but allowing the documents to evolve as their authors pursue their careers, these editions can serve as starting points rather than as fixed and obsolescent snapshots.
If we understand editing as the process of enabling others to think about an object from the past, then the editorial process applies as much to spaces (e.g., the development of the Unter den Linden in Berlin), buildings (e.g., the Brandenburg Gate), and objects (e.g., the Quadriga atop the Brandenburg Gate, a chariot drawn by four horses driven by Victoria, the Roman goddess of victory), as to topics (e.g., the development of Prussian nationalism of which Unter den Linden and the Brandenburg Gate are expressions).
Editors can be as much artists as scholars, for the editor who contextualizes an object directs the reader, listener or viewer to a finite set of data that align themselves into meaningful patterns. Editors in this sense differ from authors insofar as they direct their audiences’ gaze away from themselves and towards the object of contemplation. The point is not to vanish—to vanish is to deceive and to imply a transparency that simply does not exist. Rather, editors must provide the clearest possible account of their own biases.18 In this, they resemble their colleagues in the sciences, who explain how the data was collected and how they conducted their experiments so that others can draw their own conclusions about the strengths and limitations of their work.
2) In a digital age, philologists need to treat our editions as components of larger, well-defined corpora rather than as the raw material for printed page layouts.19 Many may take this as obvious but few have pursued the implications of this general idea. The addition of punctuation, the use of upper case to mark proper names, specialized glossaries, the addition of name and place indices, and even translations prefigure major classes of machine-actionable annotation—interpretations of morphological and syntax analyses, lexical entries, word senses, co-reference, named entities are only a subset of the features we may choose to include as new practices of editing emerge. Even when we turn to the most heavily studied classical Greek and Latin texts, a radically new world is taking shape. We have returned to an age of the editio princeps—not literally the first edition, but the first edition in a medium so distinct from that which preceded it that it constitutes a new beginning. We see before us a great age—indeed, a heroic age, one filled with triumphs and false starts, messy, destabilized and destabilizing, and, above all, dynamic.
The remainder of this paper will focus primarily upon the new forms of editing and their consequences. But before exploring those consequences, we will first outline some basic goals based upon the changing possibilities within the digital culture.







