The Mechanic Muse - What Is Distant Reading? - NYTimes.com - 0 views
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Lit Lab tackles literary problems by scientific means: hypothesis-testing, computational modeling, quantitative analysis. Similar efforts are currently proliferating under the broad rubric of “digital humanities,” but Moretti’s approach is among the more radical. He advocates what he terms “distant reading”: understanding literature not by studying particular texts, but by aggregating and analyzing massive amounts of data.
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People recognize, say, Gothic literature based on castles, revenants, brooding atmospheres, and the greater frequency of words like “tremble” and “ruin.” Computers recognize Gothic literature based on the greater frequency of words like . . . “the.” Now, that’s interesting. It suggests that genres “possess distinctive features at every possible scale of analysis.” More important for the Lit Lab, it suggests that there are formal aspects of literature that people, unaided, cannot detect.
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Distant reading might prove to be a powerful tool for studying literature, and I’m intrigued by some of the lab’s other projects, from analyzing the evolution of chapter breaks to quantifying the difference between Irish and English prose styles. But whatever’s happening in this paper is neither powerful nor distant. (The plot networks were assembled by hand; try doing that without reading Hamlet.) By the end, even Moretti concedes that things didn’t unfold as planned. Somewhere along the line, he writes, he “drifted from quantification to the qualitative analysis of plot.”
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I would admire it more if he didn’t elsewhere dismiss qualitative literary analysis as “a theological exercise.” (Moretti does not subscribe to literary-analytic pluralism: he has suggested that distant reading should supplant, not supplement, close reading.) The counterpoint to theology is science, and reading Moretti, it’s impossible not to notice him jockeying for scientific status. He appears now as literature’s Linnaeus (taxonomizing a vast new trove of data), now as Vesalius (exposing its essential skeleton), now as Galileo (revealing and reordering the universe of books), now as Darwin (seeking “a law of literary evolution”).
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Literature is an artificial universe, and the written word, unlike the natural world, can’t be counted on to obey a set of laws. Indeed, Moretti often mistakes metaphor for fact. Those “skeletons” he perceives inside stories are as imposed as exposed; and literary evolution, unlike the biological kind, is largely an analogy. (As the author and critic Elif Batuman pointed out in an n+1 essay on Moretti’s earlier work, books actually are the result of intelligent design.)
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Literature, he argues, is “a collective system that should be grasped as such.” But this, too, is a theology of sorts — if not the claim that literature is a system, at least the conviction that we can find meaning only in its totality.
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The idea that truth can best be revealed through quantitative models dates back to the development of statistics (and boasts a less-than-benign legacy). And the idea that data is gold waiting to be mined; that all entities (including people) are best understood as nodes in a network; that things are at their clearest when they are least particular, most interchangeable, most aggregated — well, perhaps that is not the theology of the average lit department (yet). But it is surely the theology of the 21st century.