What is an [non-American] Author?

Carlin Romano's essay in The Chronicle explores some problematic features of the international (read: non-American) publishing industry. Simply put, he echoes the twenty-year-old remarks of Anne-Solange Noble in her essay "The Joys of Selling Rights to America," in which she outlines the shortcomings of American publishers that impede non-American authors' ability to be published in America: "American editors can't read foreign languages. American houses refuse to pay more than skinflint prices for European books. American publishers insist on making a large profit on a translated book. American publishers demand state translation subsidies from countries where books originate..., European books don't travel well..." In other words, America is a persistently difficult place for Others to become authors. Romano continues, lamenting this lack of exposure of worthy international authors, noting how Americans are missing out on some very diverse and worthwhile literature. His conclusion echoes David Bellows' call to either "adopt a common tongue" or "learn the other languages we need," lest we become "shameful" (non)participants in international literary culture.

So what does this have to do with authorship, anyway? And is Romano's final analysis bringing anything new or interesting to the conversation?

We might explore two avenues to authorship construction via Romano's article. Instead of rambling on, however, I'll pose these as questions that we can hopefully interrogate together. First, can we safely travel to a distinction between "authorship" and "American authorship" based on language, culture, and international relations? As many of us know, English has become an almost undisputed Lingua Franca in business, politics, education, and so on. Increasingly, English speakers expect to be understood universally and the world, largely, abides by this demand out of politicoeconomic (yes, I know this is not really a word) considerations. So are we supposed to be surprised that this situation occurs in the publishing world as well?

Second, do you agree that the problem "is probably closer to the historical norm on this planet than the culture of translation that seems natural and unavoidable around the world today?" In fact, what does this even mean? Does he mean that the American problem is not uniquely American, that it is in fact historically consistent? Do you agree/disagree? Why?

Finally, if we take this article seriously and uncover its implications in terms of authorship? Does it complicate authorship if we impose borders--linguistic, nationalistic, economic, cultural--on textual productions? What are we left with? Are there multiple models of authorship relative to one's position within/out borders? If so, what would this course look like in a different part of the world? What, then, do we make of Romano's argument that these problems are easily fixed by multilingualism? (I mean to suggest that Romano is shortsighted and focused only on the linguistic borders present instead of the cultural borders)
      

Bradnt's "Who's the President?"

Brandt’s “Who’s the President: Ghostwriting and Shifting Values in Literacy” looks at how ghostwriting both helps and hurts the values instilled into writing and literacy. Brandt explores different situations where ghostwriting is used and the issues it brings up. Brandt first uses the example of Dennis Kucinich. Kucinich publicly denounced the practice of using ghostwriters, something that the other nominees had used to help write campaign books. He asked, “’If a president has a ghostwriter, who’s the president?’” (549). This is reminiscent of Barth’s “Death of an Author,” specifically the example at the beginning of the text when he gives an example from a text and asks who said the line.

            Further on in her article, Brandt establishes a short history of practices that are equivalent to modern day ghostwriting. She mentions the hiring of scribes and scholars, the eighteenth century practice of publishers and printing companies claiming ownership over documents they published, something discusses more in depth in Feather’s article that we read two weeks ago. Brandt then quotes the current US copyright law that states when writers are commissioned to produce a document, the ownership of the document rests in the hands of the benefactor (553).

            Brandt emphasizes the amount of skill it takes for ghostwriters to do their job well, more specifically, “bringing an author into being” (555). Brandt includes interviews with ghostwriters to best describe what the process involves. Ghostwriters usually interview the person they are writing for in order learn themes and write as if they were their employer. Clearly this part of the ghostwriting takes skill, learning what the right questions are to ask the person and detecting hints that indicate to the ghostwriter how that person would write. So “bringing an author into being” sounds like it is a fusion of the employer’s thoughts and speaking techniques and the writer’s ability combine words to create a sophisticated and brilliant document. Brandt then uses writers that observe their employer speaking so they can understand how they will read the document. Brandt notes, “Ghostwriters expend a great deal of energy trying to capture the ‘signature’ style of thought or values of an author-client” (556). Again the skill it must take to discover this is remarkable. Brandt starts mentioning negative consequences of ghostwriting when she tells of a CEO who was not happy with the product his ghostwriter gave him. In this instance the CEO, “expos[ed] its status in public and distancing himself from the words” (558). Because the employer owns the writing, they have the right to reveal its origin to remove the responsibility and blame the person who actually produced it.

            Brandt moves on to talk about “scarcities” that incite ghostwriting (559). She starts out by listing time as a scarcity. This concept is common sense, people with high up positions that come with an abundance of responsibility take up a lot of time and in order to manage the job, some things need to be outsourced to others. Brandt names CEOs and politicians as examples of this. The next scarcity Brandt mentions is knowledge. Again, she cites politicians, stating that there is no way they have the time to understand all complexities of the decisions they have to make. They enlist ghostwriters with to do the research and compose an in depth document regarding the issue at hand. Finally Brandt lists skill as a scarcity. Skills included are the ability to write, literacy, and understanding a certain language. Without these skills, a person is unable to sufficiently and competently express what it is his/her document is meant to achieve. The situation Brandt uses as an example is a writer helping immigrants prepare documents such as personal letters to family members and, “official correspondence with the U.S. government over such matters as immigration, citizenship, employment, housing, or social welfare” (561). Brandt explains that the government assumes a level of competency of the English language and a ghostwriter can give immigrants that literacy.

            Brandt’s final section deals with controversies that have come up with ghostwriting. Areas of ghostwriting that have come under fire include the military, law, and science. The main concern with each of these is the misrepresentation ghostwriting can produce. Critics feel ghostwriting in these areas can create a false image of the benefactor’s competency of the matter and also makes the readers feel mislead.

            Brandt finishes by stating, “But as I hope I have demonstrated, ghostwriting also is a unique ground upon which current transformations in literacy may be particularly apprehensible” (567). Brandt shows ghostwriting and the implications it brings is actively altering the values in our culture as well as the concept of literacy.

            As I read this article, I realized how truly complex the concept of ghostwriting is. The dynamic between the ghostwriter and the “owner” of the document appears balanced and completely unbalanced at the same time. The ghostwriter is providing a service for the employer and is getting paid for their services. However if the document, such as a book, receives critical acclaim, the commissioner reaps the benefits. But, if the benefactor disagrees with the product, they can publicly reveal that they did not write it and shift the blame to the ghostwriter even though they paid to own it.

Questions

1.      Brandt discusses controversial situations of ghostwriting, the central theme for all of her examples is the misrepresentation of which the writer is and the reader feeling deceived. How is it that in these circumstances it is considered wrong, but in other circumstances, say politicians hiring speech writers or a well known author hiring writers to write some of their books, it is standard practice? How is it the reader is not deceived in these situations?

2.      In the movie and television business, it is standard practice that writers write for the actors to say the lines and bring the characters to life. Even though they are given credit, the majority of critics and fans give credit to the actors for the show’s or movie’s success. Is this practice relatable to ghostwriting?  

Brandt and Ghostwriting

In Deborah Brandt’s article “Who’s the President?: Ghostwriting and the Shifting Values in Literacy,” Brandt examines the role of ghostwriters and the more public personas they work for in popular culture. In her article, it appears that the ghostwriter is “dead,” much of as how Barthes imagines the author to be dead, even though the ghostwriter is doing the brunt of the work. Brandt writes of how in our culture literacy is highly valued, so much so that when it is “discovered” that a president had a ghostwriter write a campaign book the response was, “who is the president?” (549). In this example, one sees how writing is valued as both giving status and a status marker. In other words, one can “make a name” through writing (550). But the question arises of how ghostwriters and the implications of ghostwriters are “[transforming] the meanings, values and practices of literacy, not to mention the institutions and organizations that are harnessing them” (551).

In the section titled Situating the Study, Brandt looks at how ghostwriting has been a focus of study for literary and communication scholars, just to name a few. Brandt mentions how communication scholars have studied the way an author’s background influences a text, but how those studies are muddied when ghostwriters are brought into the conversation (551). Brandt also mentions workplace writing in this section, which in itself is a highly collaborative model where many voices are involved in the construction of a text.

In the section, writing can be sold and authorship can be bought, Brandt shows the value of ghostwriting. Here Brandt brings up the idea of plagiarism and how ghostwriting can be viewed as different from plagiarism. Ghostwriting is viewed as “work made for hire” and therefore is an acceptable substitute for the public personality actually writing and at the same time is also a financially lucrative model in the world of writing. But Brandt also shows the difficulty regarding ghostwriting since the public in many cases must assume that the public personality named in association with the work is responsible, or the ‘author’, of the communication. Brandt also examines the views of ghostwriters through interviews in how they recognize their employers as “controlling agents” of their work, often even talking with their employers to try to establish the kind of information they would share or the voice they would have if they were to write the text themselves (554). When I read this part, I couldn’t help but think about my youthful obsession with the work of V.C. Andrews and how when I realized that much of her work was ghostwritten, I could barely distinguish the difference between Andrews’ actual work and the voices of her ghostwriters. Brandt also mentions how ghostwriters have a sort of “persona control” when they work for their clients (557).

In the penultimate section, Literacy and scarcity Brandt acknowledges the idea of “ghostwriter as researcher” and therefore, in some ways, the source of the knowledge (559). Brandt also acknowledges the correlation between writing and time, where when someone “takes time to write” it shows attentiveness, care, and involvement with the audience (560). This in turn will cause the reader to think of the writer as he or she reads through the text (560). In the final part of the essay, Brandt acknowledges the power of writing where writing can “boost someone’s reputation or claim to entitlement” since he or she has shown proper knowledge and engagement with selected material as well as the audience involved (561).

Finally, in Ghostwriting and the social order: cases of controversy, Brandt looks at critics of ghostwriting where critics see ghostwriting as deceptive since the “author” is not doing the actual writing. This, critics feel, exploits people and the trust they have put into the represented personas or organizations. In looking at this problem, Brandt examines legal and medical consequences, such as how pharmaceutical companies will hire ghostwriters in their efforts to promote new medicines (565).

As I read this article, I kept thinking about two things: 1. the similarities between Brandt’s discussion of the placement of ghostwriters and Barthes “Death of the Author” and 2. celebrity culture where many celebrities have “written” books with the aid of ghostwriters whose names are barely, if at all, mentioned. In Brandt’s view, it seems as if to the majority of the reading public, the ghostwriter is indeed “dead” or not important. I recently read a book by a “celebrity” (Zak Bagans of the TV show Ghost Adventures whose book Dark World is mainly about how he became interested in the paranormal) who had a ghostwriter and while the ghostwriter’s name was visible on the book (though in much smaller font size, of course), discussions about the book were all directed to the celebrity with the ghostwriter never mentioned, which bothered me as someone who writes, both academically and creatively. Finally, Brandt’s essay serves well juxtaposed with Venuti’s essay on copyright and translation since translators do not have the same status as authors in copyright law.

Questions:

1.                    On page 567, Brandt assumes the following: “the internet seems to be a favoring a less original form of writing: creation by citation, sampling, cutting and pasting, and blurring the roles of writers and readers.” Do you agree this is “less original” or do you think that this is just a new way of writing and sharing of knowledge?

2.                    On page 557, ghostwriters admitted to manipulating the writing to make their “author” appear “smarter.” Discuss the ethical implications of this.

3.                    What are some complications you see to the “ghostwriter as researcher” persona? Brandt discussed, for example, how the ghostwriter does much of the primary research and dissemination of the research and therefore the person the writing is associated with doesn’t have the same experiences, but is believed to have these experiences and to know what he or she is talking about when that may or may not be the case. 

Steinmann: on "Authority and Authenticity: Scribbling Autors and the genius of print in Eighteenth-Century England"

Marlin B. Ross presents an interesting case of liminality: the space between scribbling and author in several cases. Interestingly, his history starts with handwriting, and his claim that “handwriting is a technology invented to stabilize meaning” (232). Those who knew how to write, then, were captors of their moment. By the end of the essay, this changes: those who “scribble” are not capturing the moment, but living in a liminal space, as defined by Pope, et al. The corruption of the manuscript and the distancing by the printing press and the sanctioned authorities made those who just wrote for themselves fall to the ranks of “temporary madness…[scribbling] represents yielding to the temptation of individual whims at the expense of commonplace understanding” (237). Good poets (published poets) must battle the “phantoms” (244) of the scribblers who would take away their authority, those that “occupy a taboo-laden space between the topographical boundaries which mark off the discrete sites of high and low culture” (ibid, emphasis in original).

Though this essay is located in a fixed position in time, it brings to mind those who self-publish today. Academia, and in general, the public, do not see these publications as valid or as validating. Thus Ross’s claim that “when print becomes the case of authority rather than merely its effect, what results is the compulsiveness of print” still stands; despite or perhaps because of technology, scribblers continue to exist in a liminal space.

Kruschek: Masten's Beaumont and/or Fletcher

Jeffrey Masten’s article re: the “collaboration and the interpretation of Renaissance drama” begins with a discussion of the term “anonymous” as it relates to dramatic materials in the time before the 1600s. He states that this was a “historical moment prior to the emergence of the author in its modern form…[and is a] mode of textual production that distances the writer(s) from the interpreting audience…[and] disperses the authorial voice” (363). The result is “a different configuration of authorities controlling texts and…constraining their interpretation” (363). Overall, Masten is arguing that considerations of “the previous owner of the text, the publisher, the actors, the theatre audience, and the reads of the printed texts” are more relevant to the interpretation of the play than the author(s), as opposed to what Hoy argued (380).

Having taken Dr. Theile’s Shakespeare class in the Spring of 2010, Masten’s article was quite interesting. In fact, my term paper topic for that class covered in greater detail his discussion on page 364 of the role of the acting company in altering the plays themselves. From memory here, and sorry I cant cite this, my research indicated that not only did actors at the time improvise based on audience reactions, etc. that Masten brings up, but also because a theater, which would have one acting company, would have multiple plays running at a given time. That means that actors had to learn lines and act in several different plays that might show one right after the other. It would be easy for me to see how actors at the time would tinker with, or in some cases simply not be able to fully memorize, the lines of a play, which could lead to the alteration of a specific line(s). Said line(s) could at some point have made their way into the “final cut” of an “official” printed copy.

In Theile’s class, we also discussed several times that a play isn’t meant to be read, it is meant to be played, i.e. seen, heard, experienced, and that our interpretations, and subsequent liking or disliking, of a play we have read may be vastly different when actually acted out. I loved the only paragraph on pg 366, and especially the line about needing “to consider the social production of different genres and the ways in which they reach print.” So, in that sense I think that Masten is right to “call for the revision in the way we have read Renaissance dramatic collaboration” (372). In watching Macbeth at the Guthrie that spring, I noticed that editing decisions had been made with regards to the lines, i.e. it wasn’t read perfectly line by line. It appears that editing is still happening the Shakespeare’s work.

Questions: I think that Masten’s decision to begin and end his chapter with Foucault’s quote was an interesting one given the recent-ish obsession with figuring out who actually wrote the plays associated with Shakespeare. This is really more personal introspection on my part, but this chapter made me ask myself how I would really feel if it came to light that Shakespeare’s plays were written by someone other than the man we think did. I would still think the work beautiful, but sort of mourn the metaphorical death of the solitary genius whittling away at his craft. Logically, however, I think it makes more sense to recognize the role the theater as an enterprise would have/could have impacted the final editing of any given play.

Milton's Contract - VMathew

1.      
The discussion of the author and how to properly define such a role continues in “Milton’s Contract”.  Lindenbaum introduces the topic of authorship through the works of Ben Jonson.  Jonson fit the model of an author as he edited his own writing and established his presence within his own work.  Lindenbaum transitions over to John Milton and in a similar manner, is qualified to be the ideal author.  Milton is a substantial author, according to the relevance of his work and those who followed his texts.  Though, the importance of an author can be related to or even defined by their relationship with their publisher.  Milton influenced the course of his reputation along with the reverence of his work upon “…entering into a formal contract with printer Samuel Simmons for the publication of Paradise Lost” (176).

Documented evidence would suggest that the contract itself is considered to be one of the earliest agreements between an author and a publisher.  The stated contract entailed Milton “…to receive five pounds immediately, an additional five pounds at the end of the first edition (that edition or impression considered to be completed when 1300 copies had been sold off to “particular reading Customers”), and then five more pounds at the end of each of each of the second and third impressions (these, too, considered to be completed when 1300 copies were sold)”(177).  Furthermore, Milton “could demand an accounting of sales at reasonable intervals” (179).  Beyond that, the contract required that none of the three editions were  to extend to 1500 copies.  In turn, Milton gave over to Simmons “All that Booke Copy or Manuscript”.  Milton also agreed not to print the book or manuscript without the strict permission of Simmons. 

The contract would imply that Milton was unjustifiably shortchanged for his work.  Other authors of the time were compensated much more generously than Milton.  Richard Baster for his work Saint’s Everlasting Rest accumulated 170 pounds.  Though, the counter argument for Milton’s supposed defilement is the limitation of 1500 copies on each impression.  This stipulation was set in place to protect Milton and made sure that “Simmons’ profits would not increase inordinately in relation to the amounts Milton was to receive” (179).   Simmons was by no means a greedy man.  It is pertinent to mention the fact that Simmons produced unacknowledged works and did so for 18 years.      

Milton stands far beyond any author of his time in due respect to his contract with Simmons.  “For that alone we see an author an author who is fully acknowledging the condition of authorship , viewing himself as the possessor of property gives him definite rights…”(180)  Because of this, Milton is said to be the first professional modern author.

The terms of the contract do not overtly reveal how authors behaved in relation to their rights.  This contract will of course stir up debate of the significance of the author and the relations an author has with their publisher.  This in turn will bring up arguments for where the author stands juxtaposed to copyright law.    

Questions:

How have author's rights changed throughout the centuries into modern day? 

Milton's Contract: "The five-pound epic"

Historical evidence on author-publisher relations in the developing book trade in late-seventeenth century England as seen by Lindenbaum highlights that literary property, as the right of the author, was considered distinct from and had encompassed the publisher’s copyright. The earliest preserved contractual agreement that transferred a right to print from the author to his publisher was John Milton’s publication contract with Samuel Simmons for Paradise Lost in April of 1667. In this contract, Milton agreed to accept five pounds at the commencement of the contract, five pounds at the end of the first edition (when 1,300 copies had been sold to “particular reading Customers”), and five pounds each at the end of the second and third impressions (of 100 works each) in return for the manuscript of Paradise Lost. Both Milton and Simmons agreed that these three editions would not run more than 1,500 copies each. Twenty pounds for a manuscript of an epic poem extremely seems modest by the standards of that time, but evidence of the amount typically paid for the sale of a manuscript when Simmons purchased Paradise Lost is too scant to conclusively determine that Milton was underpaid for the poem. While a publisher’s unfair treatment of an author might indicate a superior position in the author-publisher relationship that would have allowed it to control all of the rights to print and sell manuscripts, this did not appear to be the case with Milton’s contract and the circumstances surrounding its signing. To the contrary, Milton appeared to have the upper hand in this arrangement, as the contract contained provisions that protected Milton as an owner of specific property rights in the manuscript even after the right to print the work had been assigned to Simmons.

            Perhaps the most telling sign that Milton retained some form of literary property in Paradise Lost after assigning the right to print to Simmons was that one of the clauses in Milton’s contract allowed him to demand an accounting of sales at reasonable intervals. Should Simmons fail to provide such accounting as demanded, Simmons would be under a duty to pay Milton the five pounds for the whole impression as if it were due then rather than after completing the sales of 1,300 copies of the poem. The inclusion of such a clause into the contract seems to indicate that both Milton and Simmons thought that the author of a manuscript possessed some form of property right in the work even after the right to print the work was assigned to a printer. Because the right to demand an accounting of sales was a legal or equitable right that only a co-owner of a property interest or a beneficiary in a trust relationship could own, it appears that both Milton and Simmons considered the author of a manuscript its property owner, putting the printer in possession of the manuscript in the position of a trustee for as long as they owned the more limited right to print the work. Lindenbaum also points to another clause in the contract that suggests that Milton was in possession of some form of property right in the work. The cap on 1,500 copies of the work that Simmons could print ensured that the printer’s profits would not disproportionally exceed the author’s due and provides additional evidence to support the claim that the printer possessed a more limited right to print the work that stemmed from the author’s more encompassing property right. Milton’s publication contract for Paradise Lost thus provides a rare and invaluable glimpse into a notion of literary property as an author’s right acknowledged by both authors and publishers even before authors were recognized as capable of owning copyright in their work.

Questions:

·      While this contract in many ways showed some authorial understanding or legal savvy on Milton’s part, in what way was the contract lacking as evident by the destitution of his granddaughter?

·      Would you agree with the notion that it was desperation due to being out-of-favor that motivated Milton to use Simmons?

MK's Post : Authorship & Quotation Marks

De Grazia’s “Sanctioning Voice: Quotation Marks, the Abolition of Torture, and the Fifth Amendment” spotlights the case of Jeffrey Masson, who sued for libel over alleged misquotes published in a New Yorker interview.  Two courts ruled in favor of the defendants, upholding their argument that, in the interest of maintaining a free press, journalists are not responsible for inaccuracies in quoted material; rather, they are free to extrapolate meaning from an interview subject’s words and present it as a direct quotation so long as there is no “actual malice.”  The Supreme Court revered this ruling and restored quotation marks to “a unique standard of accuracy” (286).  As with Feist Publications, Inc. v. Rural Telephone Services, we once again see judicial procedures being used to encode interpretations of authorship into law.

But it is De Grazia’s segue into the relationship between quotation marks and sanctioned torture that truly caught my attention.  De Grazia argues that “lax use of quotations summons up the grisly shadow of compulsory self-incrimination, of being forced to bear witness against oneself, in this instance by being made to speak (or, more precisely, by being made to look in print to speak) self-condemnatory words” (286).  I agree with this argument, and wonder about the possible implications for 21^st century American justice.  The chapter itself speaks of torture in the past tense; the title refers to the “abolition” of torture and makes mention of “the shadow” of coerced confessions.  But recent developments (or perhaps more accurately, recent publication of past developments) coming out of the courts suggest that this particular authorship issue—the coerced confession, the institutional takeover of individual voice—is an ongoing point of concern.   

In August of 2011, we witnessed the release of the so-called “Memphis Three,” a trio of men who served eighteen years in prison for murder.  All three were convicted on the strength of a confession elicited from Jessie Misskelley, seventeen at the time, interrogated by police over a twelve-hour period with no parental guardian or legal counsel present.  Another relevant case comes from Radley Balko, an award-winning former investigative journalist with a focus on civil rights, who recently documented the case of Thomas Cogdell, a twelve-year-old who confessed to killing his sister after a multi-hour police interrogation.  Balko used his blog to highlight the case as part of his campaign to require all states to videotape police interrogations.

I think the call for recorded interrogations plays into the historic tension between law and authorship.  As our readings suggest, the law often enforces distorted authorship definitions.   For example, Venuti points out in “Translation, Authorship, Copyright,” that American copyright favors a view of translation that does not truly exist:

A translation is not regarded as an independent text, interposing linguistic and literary differences which are specific to the translating culture, which are added to the foreign text to make it intelligible in that culture, and which the foreign author did not anticipate or choose.  The foreign author’s originality is assumed to transcend any differences, so that the translation can be viewed as effectively identical to the foreign text.  (5)       

I wonder if the effort to require the recording of police interrogations can be framed as an effort to ensure that the authorship of the confession matches the common perception of it (i.e., a confession is “the truth,” freely offered).  

Question

As a teacher of writing, I wonder if raising the specter of this particular murky and violent issue of authorship with a young population is a worthwhile idea?  I wonder if young readers need to be reminded that just because something is in print, in a record, recorded by an institution with a kind of built-in ethos, that does not mean it is completely accurate in the way they might assume.  

Davin's Post, Authorship and American Political Texts

As last week’s readings (primarily sociological and philosophical) and this week’s readings (primarily historical) have shown, the notion of authorship carries several implications: Foucault’s “What is an Author?” offers an examination of the ways authorship has been used to legitimize texts and to control dissent; Eliot’s piece contemplates the idea of genius, or “individual talent,” relative to the substantial body of work in the long history of literature; Barthes’ “The Death of an Author” echoes Wimsatt and Beardsley in its treatment of the limitations an author imposes; and this week’s readings trace the legal definitions of the author via copyright law, with notable stops highlighting Samuel Johnson’s ghostwriting in the prelude to an execution, Wordsworth’s famous perspective on the cultural value/role of the author, and an interesting observation concerning the “battle [that] is shaping over the future of the Internet” that is even more interesting in the wake of recently proposed legislation SOPA (Stop Online Piracy Act) and PIPA (Protect Intellectual Property Act). <(That didn’t feel like one sentence while I was writing it.) However, because I’m interested in political texts and culture, I think it would be interesting to highlight what I’ve been thinking about concerning intellectual property and the construct of authorship, if only to give myself a baseline from which to begin the semester’s enlightenment.

Because it is an election year taking place in the context of increased political awareness, if not involvement (the Tea Party, Occupy, the aftermath of Citizens United—the bill that injected even more anonymous money into American politics), because this awareness/involvement has given increased volume to more political positions and proposals (including those on "opposite" ends of mainstream politics), and because American political change must always pass the Forefathers’ litmus test, the interpretation and appropriation of Jefferson, Washington, Paine, Adams, Franklin, Madison, etc. will play an increased role in American politics, society, and culture. Anyone watching the (insert choice adjective here) political theatre already knows this has been a major consideration among the more popular discussions of DOMA (the Defense of Marriage Act), the tax code, foreign intervention vs. isolationism, "the pursuit of happiness," freedom of/for/from religion…. Certainly, these discussions are affected by personal ideologies influenced by strong religious considerations and forged in a culture that has championed the individual, free enterprise, and the Judeo-Christian tradition most loudly; however, they also stem from an interesting definition and perception of author, definitions that sometimes seem to border on religious reverence, and definitions that have tremendous implications, even for those who don't know about these discussions, or don't care.

So...to try to pull this together, I wonder what type of larger ideological considerations form our definitions of authorship, and in looking at the way American Revolutionaries and early statesmen are used in argument today, how can discussions of political authorship inform our discussions of authorship in other areas, and vice versa?

    

John Feathers' Rights in Copies to Copyright

 

John Feathers' Rights in Copies to Copyright summarizes early developments of copyright in relation to authors. As his title suggests, Feathers walks readers briefly through the immediate aftermath of print technology and its consequences, namely those concerning the legal regulation of text. Early regulation, according to Feather, occurred as early as 1563 as patents were awarded to texts, enabling authors a period of exclusive rights to print texts. Not surprisingly, early regulation had less to do with some abstract notion of rewarding creativity and more to do with the State's access (read: ability to censor) to text and knowledge production and distribution. The state charged the freemen of the Company of Stationers of London with this task, and in return the Stationers gained exclusive access and control over English publishing. In short, copyright has always been a political act, rooted in the regulation of knowledge and a monopolistic financial model. The government and media companies joined together to regulate media consumption. I suspect this sounds familiar to a contemporary audience.

Feather's analysis continues, again echoing familiar trends. The ownership of media, and more specifically the rights to copy, distribute, and own media, were restricted to members of the Stationers' Company. Media were indeed highly profitable commodities that were closely monitored via registration, fines, and permissions.  Again, these developments and beginnings sound familiar to a current context in which media industry partners with government to control distribution, censor via categorization, and regulate ways in which consumers interact with media. 

While Feather only means to provide an overview on the early developments of rights in copies, we need more if we are to interrogate authorship. For instance, Feather helpfully examines copyright in terms of Elizabethan and Jacobean drama. He admits to generalizing that "plays were written by authors working on commission for theatrical companies," (203) and explores the connections between playwrights, production companies, and publishers, yet we miss an exciting opportunity to inquire about intellectual property as it existed prior to entry in the Stationers' Register. After all, Shakespeare's authorship and originality have been called into question, and perhaps rightly so. He was, after all, much more akin to a remix artist than a purely original, muse-inspired god-author.

Shakespeare used Holinshed’s Chronicles in many of his works, also including King Lear. The story of King Lear is discussed in a number of 16^th century writings, including a 1559 collection of tales titled The Mirror for Magistrates and Edmund Spenser’s 1590 work, The Faerie Queen (Mabillard). Shakespeare also drew heavily from The Moste Famous Chronicle historye of Leire King of England and his Three Daughters, first performed in 1594 and first published in 1605 by stationer Simon Stafford (Well, Taylor, & Jowett 509). We could also direct our attention to Romeo and Juliet. Shakespeare drew from several sources which should sound familiar: Arthur Brooke’s The Tragicall Historye of Romeus and Iuliet (1562), Matteo Bandello’s Giulietta e Romeo (1554), Luigi Da Porto’s Historia Novellamente Ritrovata di Due Nobili Amanti or  A Story Newly Found of two Noble Lovers (1530). This list could be expanded to include all of Shakespeare's work and its almost universally derivative nature. 

This detour into Shakespeare leads to my discussion questions:

If a text is "born" when registered, when copied into official protection, when does authorship take place? When is the author born?

Feather observes that the rise of the author into a growing class was "possible only because the products of their pens commanded a market price, and that in turn was possible only because the commodity was protected against unfair competition" (209). What is "unfair competition?" Where does Shakespeare fit into this definition/framework? 

In a similar vein, Feather indicates that eventually, a realization took place that valued the uniqueness of copies, creators, and rights to print (208). Does praise of this realization seem indicative of an allegiance to Romantic notions of authorship and self? Why/why not?

Feather's Right to Copyright - Jones

January, 18 2012        

John Feather’s “Rights in Copies to Copyright” focuses on the evolution of copyright laws in England. He follows a trail of documents from the earliest documented patents to the Copyright Act of 1814. Feather’s goal through his paper is to establish whether authors had claim to their works prior to the 1814 act. One topic Feather covers is the patents of “privileged books.” The main goal behind granting patents was to guarantee that the publisher earned money from the books by keeping the market narrow by restricting who could print it (192-193). Printing was also limited by the British monarch; nothing could be published unless it passed through crown appointed censors (195). The reason for this is clear, the government wanted to control what was printed to control what the people were reading, a perfectly normal practice back then and is still implemented in some countries today. This practice makes me wonder, how many authors back then created a manuscript only to have it rejected by the censors and so it was never read by the people. Is there a piece of literary genius that this world has missed out on because the crown wanted to control what types of things their citizens read?

In order for a text to be considered protected in the 16^th and 17^th century, each copy someone wanted protected had to be entered in the Register that was recorded and kept by the Company of Stationers. This signified that the person who registered it had sole rights to the document(s) he/she registered (198). Towards the end of his paper, Feather claims, “It would be perverse to claim that authors’ rights were widely recognized in pre-revolutionary England; it would be more accurate, although still perhaps a slight exaggeration, to suggest that they were dimly perceived” (208). Given the documents that Feather presents as a means of showing a timeline of patents and copyrights from this time periods, Feather is accurate in this assertion. Most of the patents and copyrights did not directly include the authors, but the printing companies. The printing companies did pay the authors for their manuscripts, and as Feather points out, this does show in some form a passing of ownership. But clearly, copyrights in this time period were to protect the printing companies’ sole right to print the texts. I like to think that modern copyrights authors have to protect their texts are to protect the integrity and quality of the work, no for mere profit.