On days that I'm not elbow-deep in archival boxes, I can sometimes be found at Penn State Harrisburg's library, holed up in a back office on the 2nd floor. Often, I'm bobbing my head to obscure punk, rap, or other music on
Rolling Stones's 500 Greatest Albums of All Time list while I am thumbing through and scanning pages from chunky reference books. Because my current research project focuses on the 1950s-1990s, I need to use a vast amount of material that wasn't born-digital and cannot be accessed through aggregator databases like
HathiTrust because it is still protected by U.S. copyright law. Searching volumes by hand, making my own copies, and uploading them to Zotero is tedious work -- the kind of task that well-supported researchers hand off to graduate student assistants -- but being a library historian at an institution that doesn't have an LIS program is a threadbare and lonely undertaking.
Fortunately, though, each day I uncover a little "gem" that isn't directly related to my topic, but is supremely entertaining. Lately, I have been thumbing through 1960s editions of
The Bowker Annual -- now known as
Library and Book Trade Almanac -- and it is loaded with them.
Bowker's/LBTA is an annual publication that many younger librarians "heard about" when they were in library school, but have never actually used because the $300-400 price tag is too steep for most institutions. That so many of my colleagues haven't had the joy of playing with
Bowker's is unfortunate, because the overview essays, lists, and statistics it provides are authoritative and fascinating for anyone who wants to nerd over history and trends in our profession. I have been using it mainly because of its succinct, annually updated information about the Library Services and Construction Act, a federal program that funded dozens of library buildings, cooperative networks, and innovative projects in Pennsylvania during the 1960s through the 1990s. However,
Bowker's can be helpful for many other inquiries.
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1960s editions of The Bowker Annual, a classic in the field of librarianship. Photo by the author. |
A decade ago, when I was researching the history of public librarianship during the 1900s-1940s, I struggled to wrap my head around a subfield called "Documentation" which was emerging at the time. As best I could tell, it was of high interest in academic, government, and special libraries where users were keen to find journal articles, technical information, government records, statistics, and other materials that weren't easily searchable in library card catalogs. While librarians are infamous for speaking in "Librarianese" that everyday people don't understand, documentalists used a dialect that can be inscrutable even to fluent Librarianese speakers like me!
Too bad that I didn't have the 1962 edition of Bowker's at my side, because, in it, there is "A Dictionary of Documentation Terms" that *only* appears that year. Compiled by Frank S. Wagner, a librarian at the Celanese Corporation of America (a chemical company in Texas), it consists of 14 pages of concisely defined terms from "abridgement" to "Zipf's law." I spent 20 minutes of my lunch break poring over it and having a blast.
Some of the words may not have been on the tip of every librarian's tongue in the early 1960s, but they are quite familiar to librarians of today, especially to those who frequently use periodicals databases. For example, Wagner's dictionary includes "abstract," "keyword," "subject," and "thesaurus" -- terms that I use all the time when teaching students how to search ERIC, PsycINFO, and PubMed. There are other words that may have been highly familiar to librarians in the book-centric environment of 100 years ago, but are seldom used now unless you are in the rare books field: "collophon," "concordance," "forel," "imprint," "lacuna," and "virgule." Wagner also included plenty of words that flashed on and off the scene at mid-century. For instance, a full column of his dictionary consists of terms beginning with "micro" -- not only "microfilm," but "microcard," "micro-opaque," "microtransparency," and others that remind us that reducing texts into teensy sizes used to be the (only) solution for libraries that were running out of storage space. Finally, there are a few doozies that I'd love to use in casual conversation, like "amphiboly" (the condition of having 2 or more meanings), "filiatory" (hierarchical), or "penumbral" (partial interest or activity).
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The first full page of Frank S. Wagner's "Dictionary of Documentation," published in the 1962 edition of The Bowker Annual of Library and Book Trade Information. Photo by the author. |
Having worked in libraries for 35 years, all the while watching my profession transition from a print-based world to a digital one, there are 2 things that I greatly miss. Today, we obtain a lot of information from online sources where content is overwritten anytime the creator or host decides to update the site. Unless it's captured by an archiving initiative like
Wayback Machine, we can't see annual snapshots and, through them, the long historical arcs that resources like
Bowker's provide. Also, so many of our searches are initiated by keywords and processed by algorithms that lead us straight to what we ask for (or something kinda close!). It's definitely more efficient, but the joys of finding fascinatingly weird items such as "The Dictionary of Documentation" are farther and fewer in between.
Call me an old crank, but sometimes I prefer my research old-school.