National libraries with the
financial means have been steadily digitizing their collections.
In the near future,
those who study literary history will be at a loss if all they have is a diskette
containing the final “clean” version
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Obsolete machines and the
ephemeral nature of web-based materials are just some of the hurdles confronting
archivists as they struggle to preserve the world’s digital heritage
The wobble of Neil Armstrong’s legendary leaps on the moon are engraved in the
memory of at least a generation. Yet 30 years later, much of the actual data from
that mission has been lost. Apparently, NASA lacked the foresight to save
the equipment and software required to read it. If the scourge of technological obsolescence
can cause such a loss for the world’s leading space agency, imagine the challenge
awaiting national libraries in their task to preserve the world’s digital heritage.
Just a few years ago, digital technologies emerged as a godsend for archivists. As
e-mail and the Internet spread, pundits began taking bets on how long it would take
for paper to disappear. Libraries with the financial means began digitizing their
collections. Instead of submitting their precious collections to page-fraying, spine-breaking
habits of scholars in a merciless search for key passages, librarians handed them
a slim pair of CD-ROMs, digital copies of the great
works, which could be scanned in minutes. With a flip of a switch, libraries could
signficantly expand access to their collections.
Yet in the frenzy to digitize, precious resources may have been wasted. Without a
co-ordinated strategy, some sister organizations have made digital copies of similar
sections of their collections. With a bit more foresight, they might have worked
together to offer a more diverse selection. Converted to the cult of the new technologies,
others have been a bit too zealous in cleaning up—throwing out—their ageing documents
like old newspapers. And finally, some of the more prestigious institutions have
fallen upon a double-edged sword after proudly displaying the gems of their collections
on the Internet. The digital versions whetted the general public’s appetite to see
the “real thing” which means that crowning documents like the Magna Carta risk becoming
veritable attractions.
Ironically, the supposed saviour, digitization, may be an enemy in the battle to
build and preserve perpetual archives. To begin with, the technology is so new that
we cannot be certain of the longevity of, for example, CD-ROMs. A more immediate threat lies
in the extraordinary speed of technological progress. “The great creator becomes
the great eraser,” warns an American futurist, Stewart Brand. We can read a thousand-year-old
manuscript, yet archivists cannot decipher some materials that are less than 20 years
old.
Remember the old floppy discs of the not-so-distant past? If by some miracle a library
finds some of those clunky machines, the chances of acquiring spare parts, the right
software required and a trained technician are just about nil. Today, “backward compatible”
software—that designed to read old versions—generally only covers one or two generations
of changes, which offers little relief when the average life cycle of hardware and
software is a mere 18 months. Indeed, the U.S. based Research Libraries Group found
in a 1998 survey that nearly half (15 of 36) of its member institutions reported
losing access to part of their digital holdings because of obsolescence.
Awaiting a long-term solution, archivists continue to rely on a veritable relic:
microfilm for crumbling paper collections. But the old stand-by does little to resolve
the latest thorn in their side: the new wave of “born-digitals,” works created on
computer-like websites and electronic journals.
Consider the case of continually up-dated documents on the Web. Should we preserve
all the various drafts of the document or only the final version? The drafts of great
works of literature are treasure troves for scholars. For instance, Victor Hugo’s
splendid handwriting and the powerful drawings he used to fill in the margins of
the pale blue paper he favoured are rich in historical significance. In the near
future, those who study literary history will be at a loss if all they have is a
diskette containing the final “clean” version with no draft, no hesitation, no notes,
no drawings nor doodles.
The same is true of e-mail. A century ago, famous writers may have recorded their
movements, discoveries and emotions to friends or family in letters which have often
been preserved as part of our cultural heritage, helping to set literary works in
the context of the writer’s life and thought. E-mail storage is increasingly seen
as a burden on a computer system. Will the memory of today’s literary giants lose
out to that of the computer?
And what about all the links an electronic publication might have to other websites?
The exhilaration that grips us when we surf the Net quickly turns to vertigo with
the thought of preserving that sea of information.
National libraries are testing two different approaches. Given the extraordinary
volume of web-based materials, Australian archivists are becoming “gatekeepers,”
sifting through and selecting the most important materials for a national electronic
repository. To be part of the depot, an item must either be about the country or
particularly relevant to its interests. Alternatively, it can be the work of an Australian,
recognized as an authority on an issue of international significance. While this
approach appears to be the most practical, there is a danger in becoming overly selective.
After Napoleon ransacked the Vatican archives and sent them back to Paris in 1810,
the French only saved the documents of immediate and apparent interest.
Alternatively, archivists might try to save the entire electronic domain of a country.
Sweden has embarked on such an ambitious project, in collaboration with other Nordic
states. Thanks in large part to a robot that takes regular “snapshots” of the Internet,
the Swedes have already amassed more than 58,000 items—from online publications to
conference proceedings—in building a central electronic repository.
Both of these routes lead to two major obstacles: copyright conflicts and costs.
In some countries, publishers must deposit copies of every new publication in national
libraries. These laws, however, do not always apply in the electronic domain. While
some publishers voluntarily deposit copies of “handheld” works, like CD-ROMs, ephemeral works like electronic journals
are practically untouchable for legal reasons. By subscribing to those journals,
libraries or individuals aren’t actually buying a “copy,” just a license to access
the material.
Taking
a digital refresher
Do they have
the right to offer that access to the public? And what if a library stops a subscription?
Then they don’t necessarily have the right to display or offer public access to back
issues for which they paid.
Enormous financial pressure is building on national libraries and publishers alike
to iron out new business arrangements and partnerships. Publishers are leery of the
responsibility for preservation, yet at the same time cannot afford to see their
collections become obsolete. Meanwhile, the archivists are finding it far more expensive
to acquire an electronic publication than a traditional one. The National Library
of Australia, for example, estimates that it takes one person a full working day
to acquire the first version of an online publication—a task five times more labour
intensive than adding a print item. A study by the British Library suggested that
the cost of managing and preserving a digital publication over a 25-year-period is
about 20 times greater than it is for print.
A hefty chunk of the costs go to “refreshing” digital documents. Every five or ten
years, electronic collections are supposed to embark on a “migration,” in archival
lingo, to an updated computer configuration. Unfortunately, the journey is not without
its casualties. Formats and presentations may change and some sections risk disappearing
altogether. Does it matter if the look and “feel” of a website changes, so long as
the contents remain?
For some archivists, migration is just a standby for “emulation,” which would involve
a combination of software and hardware capable of mimicking the behaviour of obsolete
platforms and operating systems. In short, the aim is to develop a kind of mini-archive
to “remind” computers of their past. But the technological wizards can only forge
part of the key to preserving our digital documents. Ultimately, we must reconfigure
relations between libraries and publishers.
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