I
The practice of title-page transcription in English bibliographical
scholarship evolved principally during the first half of the twentieth century
and was given its great exposition in Bowers's Principles.
The
modern tradition effectively began with Falconer Madan's work in the
1890s,[4]
and it developed largely in the hands of A. W. Pollard, W. W. Greg, and
R.
B. McKerrow;
[5] indeed, the
conventions
set forth by McKerrow in 1927 (in
An Introduction to Bibliography
for
Literary Students, pp. 147-154)
[6] are
essentially those recommended, and described in much greater detail, by
Bowers two decades later (
Principles, pp. 135-184). This
standard
system—which has been outlined more briefly in various books since
then,
such as Philip Gaskell's
A New Introduction to Bibliography
(1972)
—is very simple in its basic conventions: all lettering, with its
capitalization
and punctuation, is to be transcribed, and all other printed images (rules,
devices, borders, etc.) are to be recorded or described; the ends of lines are
to be indicated; and typography is to be represented by any roman, italic,
and
black letter designs of a single size, no attempt being made to reproduce the
design or size of
the type of the original (except that two sizes of capital in a single line are
to
be represented by large and small capitals). Because the product of these
conventions goes only part way toward providing a facsimile of the
original,
this system is often called "quasi-facsimile transcription"—a
negative-sounding name that anticipates some of the objections raised
against the system. If one accepts the value of this approach, Bowers's
splendid account provides all the guidance one needs in matters of detail,
taking note, in the process, of certain debates that have occurred about
particular conventions. And a great many bibliographers over the years
have
in fact accepted this method of transcription; it must by now be one of the
most widely employed conventions of bibliography.
It has not gone unchallenged, however, and criticisms have been
voiced
nearly as long as the system, in its modern form, has existed. Those who
have defended the system have, in many cases, actually invited the
criticisms,
for their arguments have not always been very convincing.
The two principal reasons that have generally been advanced for using
quasi-facsimile transcription are that it enables the reader to visualize the
typographic layout of the title page and that it provides details useful for
distinguishing different editions or printings of the same work. Another,
more practical, reason has sometimes been mentioned as well: that
transcription is less costly than photographic reproduction. The flaws in
these arguments are transparent, and if there were nothing more to be said
in
favor of quasi-facsimile transcription it should be abandoned without further
discussion. What seems curious is that neither the advocates nor the
detractors view the subject in relation to the larger question of the function
and methodology of quoting,
[7] and
indeed
the nature of descriptive bibliography itself. As a result, the former group
has
not been able to mount a very strong defense, and the latter has felt that
demolishing certain
limited arguments was sufficient for discrediting the whole
undertaking.
The argument that transcription costs less than reproduction is now
largely outmoded, for inexpensive methods of printing illustrations of title
pages exist.[8] Even before such
methods
were readily accessible, the financial argument was not always valid, as J.
M.
Osborn pointed out in one of the more impassioned attacks on
quasi-facsimile transcription, in his review of Hugh Macdonald's Dryden
bibliography: "if," he said, "a proper allowance is made for the time spent
by
the compiler in transcribing a title leaf, in checking and rechecking it until
the
final revised proof, the computation of cost would be very different from
the
mere expense of reproduction." He concluded that "the use of
quasi-facsimile transcription in published bibliographies will soon be
generally recognized as an anachronism."[9]
The assumption underlying such arguments is that transcription
is a makeshift substitute for photography, attempting to perform the same
function but not succeeding very well. If that were true, then naturally the
easy availability of photographs would render transcriptions obsolete. But
to
say no more is to take a superficial view of the matter. Yet the technical
advances in the printing of illustrations have been more responsible than
any
other factor for the increasing criticism of quasi-facsimile transcription. The
use by the Pall Mall Bibliographies (since the first volume in 1972)
[10] and by the Pittsburgh Series in
Bibliography
(since the second volume, also in 1972) of title-page reproductions instead
of transcriptions provides but two prominent examples of a growing
trend.
[11]
If there are reasons to retain transcriptions, they are surely not the
ones
usually cited. No one can defend the idea that transcription allows one to
visualize the title page in any precise way: all one has to do is imagine
some
of the typographic variations that would be rendered identically in
transcription to see the point.[12] Even
Madan in 1893 asked, "who has ever yet, by his description, created, in the
mind of a reader, an adequate impression of the appearance of successive
title-pages throughout a bibliography?" (p. 92).[13] Similarly the notion that
transcriptions enable
users to identify editions or impressions is on the face of it doubtful: neither
would photographs accomplish this purpose, without the supporting detail
provided in the other parts of a full description, for identity of title page
obviously does not establish identity of the whole book. The importance of
title pages for identification has
often been greatly exaggerated, and other evidence correspondingly
undervalued.[14]
In any case, identity (or difference) of title page cannot be determined with
certainty by means of transcription.
In the most notable criticism of quasi-facsimile transcription, David
Foxon makes similar points, leading up to them with a historical
investigation (in his Howell and Zeitlin & VerBrugge Lecture for
1970,
Thoughts on the History and Future of Bibliographical
Description).
He traces the origin of title-page transcription to Edward Capell's
Prolusions (1760), in which the line-ends of a title page are
marked
with vertical strokes and its use of roman, italic, and black letter followed,
except that large and small capitals are always used instead of full capitals.
Foxon stresses Capell's eccentricity and crankiness and concludes that
Capell's style of transcription "seems to have been born of his typograhical
ingenuity, probably reinforced by an antiquarian interest in the appearance
of
the original title-pages" (p. 13). Because Capell's catalogue of Shakespeare
quartos (1781) does not place editions of the same play together, Foxon
asserts that Capell "did not think
of his system as useful for distinguishing editions." He makes the same
points
when he turns to the work, a century later,[15] of Madan, Pollard, and Greg.
"Madan's
primary concern," he says, "was to enable the reader to visualize the
appearance of a title-page," and Madan actually preferred photography for
this purpose; when Madan talked about identifying different editions he
referred to other techniques (noting the last words on certain pages and the
positions of signatures in relation to the text above them), not to title-page
transcription. Similarly, Pollard and Greg in their 1906 paper, as Foxon
shows, were interested in providing a means to give the reader of a
bibliography a mental picture of title pages; "there is no suggestion," he
adds, "that the object of detailed title-page transcription is to bring to light
concealed editions or variants which is the chief argument for its use today"
(p. 17). At the end of his historical excursus Foxon
wonders "whether quasi-facsimile description did not become popular with
bibliographers just because xerox copies were not then available, and they
felt the need of some equivalent for a title-page that they could take with
them from library to library—whether or not it was effective in
identifying
variants" (p. 20).
The historical aspects of Foxon's discussion are of considerable
interest:
we have too few studies of the history of bibliographical conventions. But
his historical account appears not to be disinterested, for it seems slanted
to
lead the reader to the conclusion that title-page transcription is both
anachronistic and unhelpful. The origin of such transcription, he hints, is
suspect: both Capell and Madan had "an addiction to the ingenious
convention," and "it is to this addiction that we owe quasi-facsimile" (p.
18).
Furthermore, anyone who now argues that transcriptions are useful for
identifying editions is simply providing "another example of the
rationalization of an existing practice" (p. 17). Whatever position one takes
regarding the value of quasi-facsimile transcription, one is bound to be
puzzled by this attempt to link its history with a questioning of its current
utility. What the inventors and other distinguished practitioners of
quasi-facsimile transcription
believed it accomplished—though undeniably of interest—is
irrelevant to
the question whether it can now be sensibly defended. To find value in a
practice of the past for reasons different from those previously used to
justify
it is not necessarily to "rationalize." (Besides, in the case of quasi-facsimile,
what would be the motivation to rationalize? Does anyone really have a
vested interest in it?) Foxon takes note of this point in a limited way: he
asks, "even if quasi-facsimile was not originally intended as a means of
distinguishing editions, is it valuable for that purpose?" (pp. 18-19). He
then
examines the entries in Greg's Bibliography of the English Printed
Drama
to the Restoration, finds that "only in three cases out of about a
thousand is quasi-facsimile transcription necessary to distinguish editions,
and in three further cases it fails to do the job," and concludes that "the
total
score does not provide a very convincing argument for the practical
utility of quasi-facsimile as a means of distinguishing editions." This result
is
hardly surprising; indeed, it is obvious, even without a laborious
investigation. No doubt there is much truth in the idea that early
bibliographers, at a time when photographs were costly and Xerox copies
unavailable, "felt the need of some equivalent for a title-page"—
despite
the lack of logic of their carrying a transcription from one library to another
"whether or not it was effective in identifying variants." But regardless of
what the early bibliographers thought about the role of transcription as a
substitute for photography, everyone today understands, without the need
for argument, that good photographs or Xerox copies provide better
representations of title-page layouts than transcriptions normally do. So
Foxon's criticism of quasi-facsimile transcription—limiting itself to
two
interrelated questions, whether transcription enables
one to visualize title pages and whether it permits one to distinguish
editions—amounts only to stating the obvious. It is hard to see what
he
accomplishes by stopping at this point, having attacked arguments that no
one could seriously defend. An effective consideration of transcription must
take into account factors other than these.
At the outset, one must recognize, as Foxon does, the value of
photographs. Any bibliographer would be foolish not to take advantage of
available technology. Since good reproductions of typographic title
pages[16] can now be included with
relatively little trouble and expense in the printed sheets of a bibliography,
there is every reason for doing so, and the resulting bibliographies will be
the
better for it. Xerographic copies are somewhat less desirable than
photographs unless the slight alteration in size often inherent in the process
is eliminated by an appropriate adjustment.[17] After all, a considerable part of
the value of a
title-page reproduction is lost if it is not presented in its actual size. One
can
(indeed, must) report the dimensions of the original, but a significantly
reduced (or enlarged) reproduction is of questionable utility, because the
qualities that a typographic layout has in one size may be
altered when it is mechanically contracted (or expanded).[18] Leaving the matter of size aside,
one still
encounters, more often than seems possible, the naive belief that
photographic and xerographic reproductions are necessarily truthful and
accurate. This is not the place for a full discussion of the limitations of
reproductions—a subject that has enormous implications for all
scholars,
indeed all readers. I shall simply say here that bibliographers, of all people,
ought to be particularly aware of the problem. They should understand the
many ways in which a reproduction may misrepresent the original, either
because some blemish results from the reproductive process[19] or because some feature of the
original (such
as inking on the verso or the blind impression of a type that was not
properly
inked) shows up in a misleading way or does not show up at
all.
[20] Obviously any reproduction,
whatever the process, should be carefully proofread, at the latest proof
stage, against the original; and any problems it poses—if they are not
correctable by making a new reproduction—should be pointed out in
notes.
[21] Reproductions of title pages
handled in this way are certainly an asset to any bibliography.
But the decision to include title-page reproductions in a bibliography
really has nothing to do with the question whether to provide transcriptions.
The two represent fundamentally different approaches to the representation
on paper of a physical object; these approaches are complementary, and one
does not necessarily obviate the other. A reproduction offers a
two-dimensional visual representation of a three-dimensional object, or
certain parts of it, whereas a transcription gives a detailed account in
words.
The basic task of bibliographical description, as the word
description
suggests, is to provide a verbal account—a set of statements
about
a book, not a set of photographs or depictions of it. Clearly the two are
complementary, for the verbal account may be clarified by supplementary
illustrations, just as a set of photographs (of a title page, certain other
pages,
endpapers, binding, and so on) would leave much
to be desired if it were not accompanied by annotation. The notion that a
reproduction of a title page renders a transcription unnecessary implies that
the real purpose of the "description" is to present pictures of the object
under consideration; if so, all the other features of the book ought to be
presented pictorially as well, even though comments in words might often
be
appended. Carrying this approach to its extreme would result in a facsimile
of the entire volume, including photographs of the binding, endpapers, and
the like. Such a facsimile would have its uses; and if it were accompanied
by
appropriate and thorough annotation, its contribution to historical
scholarship could be substantial. But that contribution would be different
from what a bibliographical description accomplishes, unless the annotation
amounted to a full descriptive account, not limited to the one copy
reproduced or to the one impression represented by the reproductions. Full
facsimiles serve a function
(despite the risks inherent in reproduction) in making conveniently
accessible
the texts of certain copies of books; but they leave untouched the job of
description.
[22] A scholarly study that
describes and analyzes the physical form and the printing and publishing
history of a group of related books—which is what a bibliography
is—has a value that is not diminished by the availability of
photographic
means for reproducing the pages of particular copies of books. The job of
descriptive bibliography —making certain kinds of statements about
books—is simply not accomplished by presenting pictures instead of
an
account in words. A picture may supplement, illustrate, even clarify, the
words but does not render them superfluous; anyone who thinks that it does
fails to comprehend how a scholarly historical study—such as
bibliography—works.
This point would be so even if copies of a single impression of a
book
could be produced as identical objects. But "identical" manufactured objects
are in fact not identical. Every copy of a given impression of a book is
different—however slight the differences may be—from every
other
copy. Some of the differences may normally be irrelevant to the
bibliographer's concerns: irregularities in the weave of the binding cloth,
for
instance, or variations in the glue. Others, such as textual variants and
cancels, are always relevant. A bibliographical description, like any other
historical account, must—if it is to be a sound piece of
scholarship—be
based on a thorough examination of the evidence. The resulting product is
not a description of a single copy but an account that encompasses, and
arranges in a meaningful way, all the variations that appear relevant to the
bibliographer. A picture of a title page, or any
other part of a book, represents only a single copy and is therefore
fundamentally different in scope from a verbal description. At best, the
picture reproduces one piece of evidence on which the description is based.
As such it is a useful adjunct to a description, but it cannot be the
equivalent
of a description—not only because verbal accounts are different from
depictions but also because the verbal description is not an account of a
single copy.
[23] When one speaks of
"the
first edition" or "the first printing," one is using collective terms that refer
to
groups of individual items. Each of those items is a distinct piece of
evidence, and no one of them can fully represent the group as a whole.
Photographic reproductions can depict, with varying degrees of accuracy,
title pages or other parts of an individual item; but a consolidated account
of
"the edition," or of "the title page of the edition," encompassing any
variations among copies, must be
made in words, for it is an abstraction and thus not photographable.
[24]
Variations among copies come about in two ways. The kind just
discussed emerges from the manufacturing process: such differences were
therefore present in copies when they were released to the public and are
the
bibliographer's business to record, for they are part of production history.
But variations among copies as they exist at present also result from the
post-publication history of each copy, from the varying treatment to which
each copy has been subjected. These differences— such as a custom
binding on one copy or the stub of a ripped-out half-title in
another—do
not enter into the historical account that the bibliographer constructs. It is
to
emphasize this distinction that the term "ideal copy" is employed by
bibliographers as an indication of the object of a bibliographical description.
The bibliographer attempts to describe
"ideal," rather than actual, copies in order to eliminate from the account
features of the surviving copies that were not present in those copies at the
time of their publication.
[25] In his
discussion of the importance of quasi-facsimile transcription, Bowers points
out, "In the case of some rare books, it is only possible to reconstruct the
title from a comparison of several mutilated copies" (p. 136). This is of
course a special case, but it illustrates the way in which a description must
rise above the peculiarities of individual copies. Whether a seeming defect
in
a title page in fact emerged after publication is not always immediately
apparent, but the bibliographer must come to a conclusion about the matter.
The surviving copies of a book constitute the body of evidence the
bibliographer has to work with, and a central part of the assessment of that
evidence must be to determine how it has been affected by post-publication
events. The fact that
copies of books—from all periods—do vary from one another
(however
the variations are to be explained) provides a practical argument for the
inadequacy of photographic reproductions as substitutes for verbal
descriptions. And this practical argument only reinforces the theoretical
one:
that the presentation of raw data—which the reproduction of a title
page
from a particular copy is—produces a fundamentally different kind
of work
from the one that a descriptive bibliography aims to be.
[26] These arguments, I should repeat,
do not
lessen the value of reproductions as illustrative matter; they speak only to
the
point that reproductions cannot serve as substitutes for descriptive accounts
in words.
Within those descriptive accounts, the function of title-page
transcription
has sometimes been misconceived, because it has often been linked with the
identification of particular impressions or issues. But the question of how
successfully quasi-facsimile transcription can be as an identifier is not the
basic question. One should instead ask whether every element in a
bibliographical description must justify its presence by its usefulness for
identification. The whole history of the development
of descriptive bibliography can be seen as a movement away from the
limited
notion of a bibliography as a statement of identifying points and toward the
concept of bibliography as historical record.
[27] In a scholarly historical
description, one
includes whatever details seem relevant to the particular description, given
its defined scope, whether or not those details are necessary for
identification: description is more inclusive than identification. Like any
other historical account, a bibliographical description is made up of direct
quotations and of statements by the writer of the account, the proportions
of
the two varying according to the judgment of the writer. Once we recognize
that verbal description and photographic reproduction are distinct
approaches, with different goals, and that quotation is an effective tool in
description, it seems natural that quotation of a title page should be a
standard element in a bibliographical description.
Other quotations are likely to occur as well, however, and whatever one
says
about title-page transcription must apply to the whole body of quotation in
a
description, of which the quotation of the title page is only one part, though
obviously a prominent one.
[28] Some
bibliographers wish to quote copyright notices, or printers' imprints, or
sectional titles; others do not. But whatever is quoted, the quotations are
part of the rhetoric of the description as a whole; and, like the other parts
of
the description, they are not tied to the defects or peculiarities of particular
copies,
[29] nor do they necessarily
serve to
identify particular impressions, issues, or states.
Prescribing explicitly just when quotations ought to be made is not
feasible; as in other historical writing, that decision would vary with the
material and with the spaciousness of exposition contemplated. But
something more can be said about the standards to be followed in quoting,
when one does decide that a quotation is called for. What "accuracy" in
quotation means, after all, is not self-evident: one can be accurate at
various
levels of detail, and the crucial issue is to determine which details are
relevant for one's purpose. The conventions even of ordinary quoting have
not remained constant over the years. Prior to the twentieth century,
quotation marks were often found enclosing indirect quotations,
paraphrases, and approximate quotations. At present, we expect material
within quotation marks (or otherwise identified as a quotation) to repeat
accurately the wording, spelling, capitalization, italicization, and
punctuation
of the original; but we do not assume that it reproduces the type designs
and
sizes or the lineation of the original. Quasi-facsimile transcription is a more
inclusive convention of quotation, in which more features of the original
typography and layout are quoted than in "ordinary" quotation.
[30] Some aspects of this convention
are fairly well
established, and others remain open to variation. There is widespread
agreement, for example, that type designs and specific type sizes are not
comprehended in the convention and that an indication of line endings does
belong in it; but on a matter such as how precise to be in the reporting of
typographic rules, practice varies (a rule may simply be noted, or its
relative
length may be stated, or its measured length, accurate within a specified
tolerance, may
be recorded). Each bibliographer will have to decide, and announce in a
preface, what standards of transcription are being employed in a given
instance.
[31] Bowers has already gone
a
long way toward establishing appropriate standards; but anyone is free to
modify them, or indeed to be more demanding in the details for inclusion,
so
long as the operative conventions are always made clear. The overriding
point is that some form of quotation paying special attention to typographic
matters is appropriate in a bibliographical description, which by definition
is
concerned with the physical presentation of texts. It is irrelevant to protest
that quasi-facsimile transcription does not reveal certain characteristics of
the
original. Recourse to the original will always be required for some
purposes;
but quotation—with whatever limitations are entailed by the
conventions
adopted—serves a purpose in any historical account, and in a
historical
bibliographical
account it makes sense to quote in a way that recognizes the concerns of
bibliography.
Whether it is ever really defensible to quote without taking lineation
and
other physical points into account is a separate question, and a more
important one. The ordinary approach to quotation assumes that intellectual
content can be separated from physical form, and it proceeds to define some
typographical features (e.g., italics) as textual, because by convention they
suggest meaning, and others (e.g., type design and line endings) as
nontextual, because presumably they play no role in meaning.
But what bibliographers have been elucidating for a century is the way in
which the physical aspects of textual transmission affect what is transmitted.
One cannot seriously envision in any near future the mass conversion of the
reading public to an understanding of this truth. For practical purposes,
therefore, it will be necessary for some time to continue quoting in ordinary
discourse as if this insight had not been achieved. The fact that it has,
however, imposes certain obligations on those who understand it. For one
thing, they cannot simply quote from one copy of one edition of a work,
without checking other copies, and editions as well, to see whether there
are
variants in the passage; quoting is like preparing to undertake an edition,
for
one must be cognizant of textual problems in the text of what is being
quoted. A second obligation is that, whenever one has the proper audience,
one should quote in such a way as to report the physical evidence that one
deems likely to
be relevant to understanding the text or the history of the production of the
book as a physical object. The pages of a descriptive bibliography are
certainly one place where quasi-facsimile quoting is appropriate. Another
is
any article or book of analytical bibliography or textual criticism, or any
essay attached to a scholarly edition.
Some scholars who understand this general point have decided to
provide passages of text in photographic reproduction from the edition
cited—a practice that has recently come to be known as
"photoquoting."
The term, like the practice, is useful, so long as it does not lead readers
into
thinking of photographic reproduction as one further step in the continuum
of quoting. It cannot be placed in the same scale, since it is fundamentally
different. Some bibliographers who have substituted photographic facsimiles
of title pages for quasi-facsimile transcriptions have similarly reproduced
portions of other pages, such as copyright notices, as a way of quoting
them.
But whether one is dealing with a copyright notice, a passage of text, or a
title page, the distinction between quotation and reproduction remains the
same.[32] A photographic
reproduction—of
a whole page or of a few lines—is often a valuable addition to a
discussion—especially when certain physical characteristics are the
subject
of that discussion (as they no doubt ought to be more often than is
commonly understood). But such a reproduction can only be an illustration
supplementing the text, because the physical features of the original
appearance of the cited passage, even if they are what is being discussed,
cannot themselves determine the physical presentation of the new discussion
or of quotations within it. The distinction between the visual evidence
reflected (in whatever degree of accuracy) in a reproduced passage and the
typographic design and layout of one's own writing and quotation is not a
trivial one: it reinforces, and in no sense denies, the connection between
physical presentation and intellectual content. A previous instance of such
connection cannot be recreated except as an exhibit, which exists
independently of whatever context it finds itself
placed in. The practical consequence is that anyone who photoquotes should
always identify the particular copy used, recognizing that such an
illustration
is limited to the representation of a single copy. And anyone who quotes in
reset type, whether in quasi-facsimile style or in the ordinary way, should
be
reasonably satisfied that the quotation to be used does not vary among
copies of the edition.
[33]
Quotation (as distinct from reproduction) serves an irreplaceable
function in historical discourse, and quasi-facsimile quotation (in some
form)
is more appropriate than ordinary quotation in those pieces of historical
research that are particularly bibliographical in character. That is really the
only point that needs to be made about quasi-facsimile transcription. The
use
of photographic reproductions in bibliography is certainly to be encouraged;
but to imagine that the presence of such illustrations
has any bearing on when to use, and when not to use, quasi-facsimile
quoting is seriously to misunderstand the nature of historical writing, and
therefore of descriptive bibliography.
