Paraplex: Or, the Functions of Angels in the Archives

What a pleasure to be back at Brown for the twentieth anniversary of the Women Writers Project and the symposium "Women in the Archives." It was more than 20 years ago that I, as an inexperienced assistant professor in the mid 1980s was invited to become part of an extraordinary adventure, the creation of something that was at that time called a "text base" to be done with computers and the exotic lure of something called "hypertext." In preparing for this lecture, I had my own encounter with archive fever—in the depths of a filing cabinet, I unearthed several bulky folders of correspondence from the 1980s and early '90s, the majority sent by snail mail, some by the then technologically advanced means of fax. I even have a print out of a very early antique e-mail, done with a dot matrix printer on the old-style accordion fold computer print out paper with its green and yellowing lines, which I had to cut down to fit within a standard file folder.

The majority of these documents were, of course, from the guardian angel of the project Susanne Woods. By 1986 she had formed a group of interested scholars and crafted the first of many successful grants, the first of several from the NEH, for the creation of this then novel and unknown of enterprise. The original board of literary scholars, Elizabeth Kirk, Stuart Curran, Elizabeth Hageman, Patricia Caldwell, Susanne and myself joined forces with the first project manager Elaine Brennan, who literally had to invent the initial systems by which materials were entered into the computer and distributed. Allen Renear, the first textbase wizard, in the successful 1991 "tools grant" application to NEH was described as wanting to be released to give "18% of his time" to the project, but in fact he was 100% important in the initial development of the textbase as it navigated the early stages of textual encoding.

From my perspective I was the anomaly in this team, a newcomer obsessed with handwritten documents in the company of distinguished senior scholars in their fields, who clearly shared a vision of the possibilities of the new technologies to affect change, even if some of us were less clear about how the things actually worked than others. Stuart Curran, in particular, always was a vigorous advocate of expanding technology to enhance the scope and range of the project, daringly suggesting early on that we might consider using something called a "scanner" rather than chaining students to typewriters, laborers referred to as "keyboarders" in those early documents. That several of these keyboarders survived and went on to successful academic careers is a testament to the hardiness and ability to sit for hours in small darkened rooms found in Brown students.

In spite of my general cluelessness, two things were clear to me from the beginning: the people who did encoding would eventually rule the world, and that the project was a tremendous opportunity to rethink what we thought we knew about early British literature and about women's participation in literary culture in general. Being part of the initial Women Writers Project changed my life—it gave me opportunities and challenges that shaped the course of my entire career, and I will always be grateful that I was "encoded" by the project at such an early stage in my intellectual career. I remain to this day haunted by hypertexts.

I will take this occasion to think a little about women writers in the archives in general, both as artifacts within it and as scholars exploring it in the context of the Women Writers Project's announced mission of "taking women [writers] out of the archives" and into the classroom and the technologies for doing so. Thinking about this occasion took me back to a 1990s text, Derrida's Archive Fever (1995) not so much for its investigation of archives as such, but as a starting point for thinking about the types of questions currently being raised by cultural historians concerning the nature and aura of the archive as it shapes knowledge about the past and what we go to the archives in search of. In particular, I will be thinking about the peculiarities of how archives function with different types of texts and different types of scholars and I will conclude with some thoughts about recent trends in archive technologies for the preservation and manipulation of the contents of archives.

One would think that archives, a collection of documents, would be gender neutral ground, but of course it is not. In the classic theory of the archive as propounded by Derrida, archives are, no surprise, coded as default male. The origin of the word archive itself signifies the defining aspects of the archive's nature for Derrida. Coming from the Greek meaning to control or command, the origin of archive he draws attention to is that "initially [the word meant] a house, a domicile, an address, the residence of the superior magistrates, the archons, those who commanded."[1] Significantly "the archons are first of all the documents' guardians. They do not only ensure the physical security of what is deposited and of the substrate. They are also accorded the hermeneutic right and competence. They have the power to interpret the archives." Archives, for Derrida, are based on the principle of "consignation, that is, of gathering together" (4). The final premise deriving from the name's origins is the way in which the location, what Derrida calls the "topo-nomology" functions: "it is thus, in this domicilization, in this house arrest, that archives take place. The dwelling, this place where they dwell permanently, marks this institutional passage form the private to the public, which does not always mean from the secret to the nonsecret." Later in the piece he stresses, "there is no archive without a place of consignment, without a technique of repetition and without a certain exteriority. There's no archive without outside…the archivization produces as much as it records the event."

This classical sense of the archive as the place of both preservation and imprisonment, where the past is both protected from dissolution but also hidden from view, is fundamental in understanding the ways in which Anglo-american feminist literary history has operated over the last few decades. To have a place in the archive is to ensure that the document will be preserved, that it will be become part of a gathered cultural memory, that it will move from being a private textual object into a public context. But as Derrida points out, the move from the private and individual into an institution of identity is not necessarily the move from "the secret to the nonsecret" (2). Some documents in the archives retain their secrets.

Speaking from my own experiences in working with manuscript archive materials, it rapidly became clear that much more was contained in the various archives than was described in the catalogues which organized its contents and represented the available past to the researcher. It was, of course, in this spirit of happy discovery that the original team became determined to liberate women's texts out of the archive and make them easily available for classroom teaching purposes. This process of archival recovery continues to this day: even now, twenty years later, we are still discovering women "lost" in the protective space of the archives. The manuscript writings of the mid-17th century royalist poet and romance writer Hester Pulter were only discovered in the mid-1990s because of a cataloging error which had hidden it under another text's number; ironically, it was the work preparing to digitalize the collection that led to her volume being pulled from the shelf and actually examined. More recently, we have the case of the "lost" spiritual narrative of Elizabeth Isham which vanished from England when sold at auction in the early twentieth century and only recently recovered at Princeton.

Why were these women writers "lost" in the archive in the first place? Derrida's and Foucault's pointing to the function of the archive as the "official" history or documents of identity and the institutional control of access to knowledge and interpretation obviously plays a key part. Resistance to official control of the past has resulted in the revisionist histories of nations, cultures, and literary canons. As Robert Griffin has noted, it is a commonplace now in textual and historical studies that "sustained research in the archive has the potential to challenge and subvert received ideas in any field."[2] In the 1990s trend in historical studies termed "the turn to the archives," this return to the original repository of documentary evidence has achieved for historians the hallmark of authority. As Carolyn Steedman has observed in her study Dust: The Archive and Cultural History (2002), the record office and the archive are presented as being the spaces in which the fundamental work of the historian is performed: the dustier the document retrieved, the more difficulties encountered by the research in finding it, the more authentic and authoritative becomes the aura of the narrative based on these hard-won "facts." "To enter that place where the past lives, where ink on parchment can be made to speak, still remains the social historian's dream, " she observes, a dream of "bringing to life those who do not for the main part exist, not even between the lines of state papers and legal documents, who are not really present" (70). However, historians such as Steedman and Antoinette Burton in her collection called Archive Stories are now rightly questioning the authority seemingly granted by these "facts" contained and retrieved from the archive, following Michel Foucault's observations that archives themselves are "monuments to particular configurations of power."[3] For cultural historians, how archives are put together, maintained, and accessed affects the stories that are told about them and the stories that their contents tell.

What then is the relationship between literary historians, especially those interested in the recovery of texts by women, and the archive? Historically, there are two simple problems associated with finding women in the archives. The first is access: until very recently it was essential to be able to travel to the physical space of the archive in order to investigate its contents. People able to travel to archives in any period tend to look only for what particularly interests them; it has only been in the last few decades that women researchers have begun to dominate the fields of literary and cultural history. When I was a graduate student, it would not have been considered to be a viable subject for a dissertation in English literature, for example, to comb the archives looking for poems by women or to investigate women's herbals and life writings. Simply put, there weren't enough people in the archives who were looking for women in the archives.

Second, is that although women's texts and documents have been historically preserved in archives both national and private, they have in most cases been hidden from sight within them because of the nature of the archive itself. Because of this invisibility or what Derrida would call "notsecret" secret status, observers were led to believe that there were no women present in the collections or at least, there were very few in their catalogues. And thus, I would argue, women's texts have had the peculiar but not unique position of being preserved as part of the historical past and cultural memory, but being continually forgotten, as feminist critics in the 1980s noted, requiring each generation to rediscover them anew.

Since I am speaking at Brown once again twenty years after I spoke here before, I must, of course, return to that fertile source of ways to think about women in the past, Virginia Woolf and A Room of One's Own . My journey through women's literary history in a sense began with Woolf's creative fiction about it. But before she created the myth of Judith Shakespeare, she, rather like me these last few weeks, was trying to understand the issues involved in giving the talk she had been invited to do and like me, she turned to the archives for inspiration As she is wandering around "Oxbridge" attempting to imagine her talk on women and fiction, she is struck by the idea of seeing the manuscript of Milton's "Lycidas" in the college library for inspiration, to see the material artifacts so important to literary history's understanding of itself. She walks confidently up to the door of the library, where

…instantly there issued, like a guardian angel barring the way with a flutter of black gown instead of white wings, a deprecating, silvery, kindly gentleman, who regretted in a low voice as he waved me back that ladies are only admitted to the library if accompanied by a Fellow of the College or furnished with a letter of introduction.

Any one who has worked in some of Britain's most famous repositories of textual materials has their favorite story of being denied access, of being told that the book which one looked at only a week earlier was somehow now officially listed as being "destroyed during the war," or of being told that one does not having the "proper" credentials to view the past. Elin Diamong recounts her 2006 venture into the Fales Library collection as a type of performance ritual: the archive's rites of passage before she gains access "reeks of legality and ceremony," she observes, "it's where you curtsey even when you don't intend to."[4] And archivists and rare book librarians, of course, have their own archive stories, of scholars with leaking pens, or heavy head colds and damp tissues, those who don't hesitate to use their forearms or a heavy reference text to flatten out and hold open a fragile spine, and those sublime individuals snapping over leaves pages with smudgy fingers or even better, carefully licking the fingers before flipping each now permanently altered page.

Woolf's response to her archon of the university is immediate and uncompromising. "That a famous library has been cursed by a woman is a matter of complete indifference to a famous library," she observes dispassionately and correctly, "venerable and calm, with all its treasures safe locked within its breast, it sleeps complacently and will, so far as I am concerned, so sleep for ever." "Never will I wake those echoes," she concludes, "never will I ask for that hospitality again, I vowed as I descended the steps in anger."

What is not immediately clear in this story, however, is that if Virginia Woolf had been a William or a James Woolf, the response and the result would have been exactly the same. It was not simply her gender, I would argue, that is the issue here concerning access to the library on this occasion: it is her not being a member of a small and privileged group and her not being affiliated with an institution which would provide the necessary credentials which ensure access.

I make this observation to raise a point about our relationship with future archives of different types. The time now has past in Anglo-American research archives that simply being a woman would be grounds to deny access—women scholars now roam freely through the dustiest and stuffiest preserves in libraries housing these archives. But in my opinion there are new questions arising about types of access to archives and what work is done in archives which still have peculiar resonances for those of us who work with women's texts.

What Derrida and Foucault do not mention, of course, is the presence of women in the archon and the archives. But, as should come as no surprise to the members of this audience, a little research shows that there are of course women in archives both as archons and in archives. If Derrida had pressed his investigation of the word archon further, he would have met the other understanding of archon, the intermediate spirits, angels and demons, in the Gnostic gospels. In the book of Sophia Pistis, the Virgin Mary is taught by Christ after his resurrection and one of the functions he explains is the realm of the archons. They, too, are rulers and have dominion over realms, like the male Greek magistrates. But the Gnostic archons also have very strong physical and personal characteristics and are gendered.

One of them is Paraplex, the first, formidable female ruler of the "middle way". She is described as "a ruler with a woman's shape, whose hair reachest down to her feet, under whose authority stand five-and twenty archdemons which rule over a multitude of other demons."[5] I will leave it to those here who are more familiar with the organization of the WWP encoding process now to continue the possible comparison. There are other women archon, Ariouth, the Aethiopian, and finally "triple-faced Hekate." The function of these female rulers is to seize souls guilty of particular crimes and carry them off for punishment. Gnosticism posits salvation through knowledge, the knowing of the mysteries, and while male archeons control interpretation and access to the laws, it is interesting that our female archons are largely responsible for punishing what people do with knowledge, or crimes of language, for example in Paraplex's case "raging, and cursing, and slandering," and her minions seek out the souls of "the violently passionate, of cursers and of slanderers" (595). One wonders if Virginia Woolf attracted their notice as she stood cursing on the steps of Trinity's library, but one certainly imagines that they seized up with appreciation those earlier generations of critics who persistently perpetuated two mistruths about women in the archives, that they did not exist at all and that even if they did, they were not good enough to be recovered.

My point about the presence of female archons in the universe is not that I wish to swap one set of unpleasant angels, even if they may be "on our side," for another but to make the point that in my experiences in archives, the assertion that something "isn't there" is very often a good indicator that something is, although it may not be what we are looking for or even what we hope to find. Every one in this room who has worked much at all in secular archives has their own archive stories involving the guardian angels who both mislead us and occasionally resulted in those serendipitous finds that shake the foundations of our assumptions.

Almost simultaneously with this turn to the archives by cultural and literary historians, electronic media and its technologies were developing and indeed seemed poised to abolish the problems of access and visibility. If you attended MLA in San Francisco this year, you are aware that the field of digital humanities has now truly come of age. To judge from the number of sessions devoted to the issues surrounding electronic publication, the creation of electronic editions and digital archives, this new media is by far and away the most dynamic and growing new field for intellectual and scholarly activity.

This, of course, is where projects such as the Women Writers Project with its long and sustained history of innovation in the field plays such an important role. It is not that the WWP never set a foot wrong, but that it was attempting to treat literary texts in a way they had not systematically been handled before, inventing techniques and protocols as the difficulties demanded. I think none of the original literary advisors for the project had any real sense of the technological difficulties involved in those early stages and I think that while the original members of IRIS working on the text base certainly came to love women's literature, that was not the prime inspiration for their labor in the project. The gap between the desire to have women's texts in the classroom, freely and easily available and the knowledge of how to encode texts of this sort for dissemination was large.

Clearly that is one of the most important developments in electronic media archives and textbases, that we have literary scholars who understand the intricacies of encoding and the ways in which electronic texts work and an appreciation by those developing the technology of the needs of this type of material. Electronic texts and archives offer above all else physical access to documents outside the location of the original archive and searchability of those documents; they promise both speed and coverage. You can put any and everything in to an electronic archive and it can be read by people any where in the world.

Indeed, critics such as Stephen J. Mexal argue that for the first time, the archive can "become divorced from the physicality of the arkeion."[6] In a special issue 2007 issue of ELN devoted to the nature and use of archives, Mexal offers the digital as the solution to issues raised by Derrida and Foucault. For him, the information contained in the archive "can for the first time, can exist as dematerialized ideas instead of fetishized objects " (132). He sees the relationship between the digitalized archive and the material one as being "a magnified mimesis": "because the digital archive operates according to a principle of multiplicity—there is not one physical document, but rather endless simulacra of that document, viewable by an infinite number of individuals" (128). In contrast to the prison house of the material archive, the electronic archive becomes a "storehouse of infinitude, virtual archives that cater not just to a disciplinary micro-public, but to a real public: a general public" (133). He concludes that "if archives produce publics, then the archive must be available and accountable to that public. And democratic archives, today, mean digital archives" (134).

Given the WWP's goal of "liberating" women's texts from the archive, this interpretation of the powers of the digital over the material as a democratization of information access is compelling. But, it also raises some questions about the nature of the information one wishes to retrieve from the archive and the extent to which digitalization can simply replace the material archive in doing certain types of work.

Mexal and others, of course, acknowledge the obvious issue associated with the creation of digital archives, that of the rapid changes in technology. As he notes, "the printed or engraved word is one of the most durable technologies in human history. Digital files on the other hand, are potentially the least permanent" (129). He concludes that at this point in development, "it seems one potential danger of a fully digitalized archive may be the necessity to maintain a secondary archive: an archive of archival technologies" (130). While liberating the contents of the archive from the control of the place of the archons, the rapid advancements in technology threaten the same with an existence in an electronic limbo if care is not taken at every step to ensure the archives sustainability.

And, of course, it is not only technology that drives the creation and maintenance of electronic media. I was uneasily in listening to the accounts of the archival projects currently underway at the 2008 MLA sessions how frequently the word "money" was invoked. As those who have had the pleasure of working first hand to create electronic archives or text bases know, the finding of financial support for the digitalization, for encoding, is just the first step. Grace Ioppolo admitted quite frankly in her talk "early modern manuscripts in the digital age," that what determined the specific items to be included in the Henslowe archive of dramatic documents was funding, for example, the decision to offer only selections from the holdings rather than the complete material archive. Ray Siemens, in the panel on "Digital Initiatives in Early Modern Literature" (#497), put it well, saying that electronic texts have "an exciting future but an inconvenient present" and reiterated that such projects "have to be commercially viable." The digitalization of the important reference series The Index of English Literary Manuscripts is searchable only in restricted ways because of financial constraints. The market emphasis, it appeared in the roundtable by university publishers on electronic publication, is on very large projects and data bases like EEBO and ECCO—and obviously one of the huge strengths of electronic archives is their ability to include an infinity of searchable materials.

What happens to those very large projects whose funding fails? Peter Holland's recent article "Scholars and the Marketplace: Creating Online Shakespeare Collections" traces what he refers to as "exercises in commercial suicide," analyzing the early failure of the Arden Shakespeare CD-ROM in 1997 and the Cambridge King Lear Text and Performance Archive in 2000.[7] Although exemplary in their scholarship and imagination, both projects failed to find a market. Comparing their fate to the success of commercially drive EEBO and ECCO, Holland argues that the success of the latter projects was based on their scale, the "remarkable completeness" they offered, enabled by previous decades of microfilmed texts: "their sale was guaranteed precisely by the scale of their contents. Inclusiveness was all" (247). The final "lesson" in commercial catastrophe involved Holland's own efforts to launch a web-subscription site ArdenOnline using the 3rd series of Arden editions and including specially commissioned contextual essays by leading scholars to support the editions and images. As he notes, "it was sad to find, as I wrote this piece, that a Web-link to the contents page of the ArdenOnline…tells anyone clicking it that the page is unavailable." Sadder still, for Holland, is that the collapse of the project involved "a new phenomenon in academic writing, for the newly written materials only available even in only in the limited framework of a subscription site are now completely inaccessible. Even a rare book, he observes, "is available in a library or two. But these Web-texts have now become invisible and very nearly as completely lost as Shakespeare and Fletcher's Cardenio" (248). In the classical material archive, texts such as Hester Pulter's or Elizabeth Isham's can be lost, but they can also be found again, witness the fate of many women writers—in a dead site, what joy?

Examples such as this in combination of the insistent rhetoric of the marketplace as being an essential shaping element for future of digital archives and editions drives home to me the continuing critical importance of projects such as the WWP and its younger relations such as the Emory Women Writers Resource and the Perdita Project to offer an alternative vision about the nature and the goal of the electrification of the archives. I am thus concerned when I attend MLA panels and symposia devoted to digitalization the extent to which decisions are market driven; and as any one who has worked on early modern women writers can tell you, funding for work in the humanities in general is precarious. When decisions are being made about what projects will be funded by Mellon, Donald Waters at a recent symposium discussed the nature of the electronic archive as being the construction of "field building knowledge" as opposed to the supposed desire by libraries to control hidden sources of data in their special collections.[8] Like Mexal, Waters sees the removal of the textual materials from the physical repository through digitalization and encoding as the ways "fields" are built. But what does that mean about the fate and existence of the singular object in the material archive? What types of projects will be funded at the necessary level? Will women's texts once again fade into silence and secrecy because they will not be part of these very large projects?

For example, what will be the role of the individual scholar who finds a fascinating text and wants to make it more widely available in this vision of the democratic archive? Mexal takes the hard-line stance that "surely the only thing worse than saving nothing is saving everything. Too much information is itself a potentially debilitating sickness of the archive… [electronic] archivists are freed to exercise their critical judgment, crafting collections based more on historical/scholarly criteria and less on the trivilalities of space and cost" (129). Those who have worked with early modern women's texts are feeling the angel's shadow passing over them at this point—is this not the perfect environment for women's texts being evaluated as less important, less essential to our understandings of the past than the "really" significant historical figures?

In the current climate, will NEH or Mellon be interested in the anomaly, in the singular, in the obscure, when faced by the seeming completeness and accessibility of EEBO? Why do anything since we now have EEBO and Adams Matthews has digitized the Perdita Collection? If that becomes the dominant mentality, what will happen to the study of those "less significant" figures? Are we not risking a return to the perceptions of value that haunted Virginia Woolf? As is well known to those sitting in this audience, if not in the larger world of marketing electronic and digital products, in terms of access to the electronic archive, what is the position of the student or scholar whose college cannot afford the $30,000 + price tag plus subscription fees to have access to these electronic archives? The very price alone of such projects makes me wonder about how democratic Mexal's vision would be in reality. Without specialized projects like the WWP and the Emory Women Writers Resource, I fear that women are in a situation of being lost in the archives again.

And that brings me to my final concern about the rhetoric used to "sell" electronic and digital media as opposed to what they can actually do. In many ways I pity the young student or scholar who is "born digital" and who is under the happy assumption that EEBO is indeed an all-inclusive record of the textual past up to 1700. Mexal does not worry—he believes that "things like bindings and glues and scents do not provide sufficient rationale for continuing the historical tradition of archival restriction" (131). He sees little reason to "privilege" "the original singularity of the material object" and firmly asserts that "as scholars and archivists, we should be willing to destroy the material archive in order to ensure its wide-scale digital access" even if the process of scanning or digitalizing requires the dismembering of the book object in the process (133).

Clearly, Mexal, who is a historian working on 19th-century American political issues, goes to the archive looking for different things than many of us interested in early modern women. Speaking for myself only, the material object, the empirical reality of the artifact also conveys meaning. That the very materiality of women's handwritten artifacts is its own systems of textuality can easily be lost again in a system that privileges the linguistic.

I am also concerned if my students only have a virtual realm for analysis, as rich and as searchable as that may be. Encounters with material reality, as Dr. Johnson observed, can be painful and a jolt to what one thought one knew as "fact." I am concerned in part because it took me many, many years of working in the material archive before I appreciated how richly singular early modern textual objects are, not only individual handwritten documents, but also for example, the fact that one can call up two works by the well-known seventeenth-century writer of domestic and household recipe books, Hannah Wolley, which have the same title and are published in the same year by the same printer housed in the same library and they will have different contents and different author portraits. EEBO gives the illusion of completeness very effectively but I would argue it does so at the expense of the singular and the complex and the creation of EEBO in itself invites careful scrutiny.

I am also a little grumpily concerned about the very ease of the searchability of the electronic sources. Indeed, Julia Flanders is correct when she writes about the changing nature of research for students who encounter the world of the unfamiliar and the profound and positive effects this can have.[9] But there is something still to be said for slowness, what Robert Griffin whom I mentioned at the start of this talk describes as of the benefits of discovery through the unexpected tripping over anomalies that upset one's presuppositions and ingrained assumptions. We are looking at classrooms of students who dwell in the virtual realm to an extent unimaginable for my generation, about whom Michael Jensen, one of the creators of Project Muse, has observed that the verb "to research" typically is interchangeable with "to google" and who believe in Wikipedia and can navigate "second life" alternative reality with flair and ease.[10] Their relationship with digital media, however, as Jensen states, has been shaped for them by huge profit-driven companies whose goal is creating on-line entertainment for a consumer culture.

As Julia has written, these younger "born digital" scholars have skills that I do not have. They can approach materials from fresh perspectives and see new possibilities that trouble our preconceived notions especially in terms of genre and force us to historicize our assumptions. I think their worlds will be even richer if it is still connected with material empirical reality, the experience of the material archive working in collaboration with the electronic rather than replaced by it, if their initial experiences with the electronic indeed can provide the desire and impetus to enter those formerly forbidden material archives, not to dwell there in the dust, but to make new discoveries which will also challenge our perceptions of both the material textual world and the digital.

I am one of those people who has finally just now joined Facebook, but still can't figure out how to make friends. I am not the future. I still believe in hypertext, and I am completely mesmerized by the potential of work being done now on digital editions, and the use of interactive media in the classroom. I also believe in angels both material and invisible, demonic and enabling. I believe that projects such as the Women Writers Project are the archons of the future; I hope over the course of the next twenty years, the values expressed in this project and its commitment to joint ventures in electronic scholarship and the presence of women writers in the classroom will become the model rather than the exception.


1. Jacques Derrida, Archive Fever: A Freudian Impression, trans. Eric Prenowitz (Univ. Chicago Press, 1996), 2.

2. Robert J. Griffin, "Working with Anonymity: A Theory of Theory vs Archive" Literature Compass, 4/2 (2007): 465.

3. Quoted in Antoinette Burton, "Introduction," Archive Stories: Facts, Fictions, and the Writing of History (Duke University Press, 2005), p. 6.

4. Elin Diamond, "Performance in the Archives," Theatre History Studies, 28 (2008): 24.

5. The Pistis Sophia, translated by Samael Aun Weor (Thelma Press, 2005), chapter 139, 594.

6. Stephen J. Mexal, "Material Knowledge: Democracy and the Digital Archive," English Language Notes, 45 (2007), 123-135.

7. Peter Holland, "Scholars and the Marketplace: Creating Online Shakespeare Collections," Shakespeare 4(2008): 261-269.

8. Donald J. Waters, "Archives, Online Edition-Making, and the Future of Scholarly Communication in the Humanities," The Changing Landscape of Scholarly Communication in the Digital Age, TAMU Feb. 11-13, 2009

9. Julia Flanders, "Learning, Reading, and the Problem of Scale: Using Women Writers Online," Pedagogy: Critical Approaches to Teaching Literature, Language, Composition, and Culture, 2 (2002), 49-58.

10. Michael J. Jensen, "Scholarly Authority in the Age of Abundance: Retaining Algorithmic Relevance in the New Landscape," The Changing Landscape of Scholarly Communication in the Digital Age, TAMU Feb. 11-13, 2009.