Reflecting on Nicholas Carr’s claim that the net has altered the way he thinks, I offered a contrast between the net as largely information passage and the experience of reading, qua that.
I tried to offer an example of what I meant. A rather poor one I think, and then I remembered, dimly, that I had written my master’s thesis on Henry James, a readerly writer if there ever was one.
I finished that dissertation in 1973 I think, and then in 1974, Peter Bagdonovich came out with the film version of James’ “Daisy Miller,” featuring Cybill Shepard. Boy, that was a long time ago, but I remember leaving the movie house disgusted. The rather horsy Cybill simply was not my Daisy. And that film–whatever else it might be–simply was not Henry James. Sure the guy had stolen the plot; innocent bullheaded young American women goes to Europe, doesn’t heed advice about how Europe is different, catches the flu and dies. That’s about it, plus some sort of moral. Awful flimsy stuff on which to hang a film. I have not consequently watched any of the other many films that have come out over the decades using James’ work.
You simply can’t watch a film of a work by James. James’ works are not watchable, only readable….if that.
Take the following. Try to read it (I dare you!). The first paragraph of James’ greatest novel, The Ambassadors:
Strether’s first question, when he reached the hotel, was about his friend; yet on his learning that Waymarsh was apparently not to arrive till evening he was not wholly disconcerted. A telegram from him bespeaking a room “only if not noisy,” reply paid, was produced for the enquirer at the office, so that the understanding they should meet at Chester rather than at Liverpool remained to that extent sound. The same secret principle, however, that had prompted Strether not absolutely to desire Waymarsh’s presence at the dock, that had led him thus to postpone for a few hours his enjoyment of it, now operated to make him feel he could still wait without disappointment. They would dine together at the worst, and, with all respect to dear old Waymarsh–if not even, for that matter, to himself–there was little fear that in the sequel they shouldn’t see enough of each other. The principle I have just mentioned as operating had been, with the most newly disembarked of the two men, wholly instinctive–the fruit of a sharp sense that, delightful as it would be to find himself looking, after so much separation, into his comrade’s face, his business would be a trifle bungled should he simply arrange for this countenance to present itself to the nearing steamer as the first “note,” of Europe. Mixed with everything was the apprehension, already, on Strether’s part, that it would, at best, throughout, prove the note of Europe in quite a sufficient degree.
A first paragraph like that does not belong on the web. No information at all is passed. Just the experience of Strether’s subjectivity, which to be experienced, must be read. Of course, while this might be true, the question remains: is this experience worth the time it takes to do it.