Gutenberg morreu falido (os editores de hoje jogam a conta para os autores...)

Correto: pretendendo imprimir a Bíblia, Gutenberg não tinha mesmo a quem pedir dinheiro. Se ao menos ele tivesse começado por livros de auto-ajuda, ou receitas de negócios para executivos, ele teria alguma chance de ficar rico, mas essa aventura da Bíblia só podia arruiná-lo.
Bem, não seja por isso: os editores, atualmente, só querem ser capitalistas sem riscos. Livros que não têm um mercado muito seguro, tem de estar pagos antes de serem lançados ao público.
Por outro lado, Gutenberg não teve de pagar copyright aos chineses, por ter copiado o princípio dos tipos móveis dos impressores chineses.
Os chineses estão descontando hoje, copiando tudo o que podem dos ocidentais.
Acho que eles exageram um pouco: os últimos filmes de Hollywood podem ser encontrados nas esquinas de grandes cidades chineses por cerca de 1,2 dólares.
Onde está a honestidade?, como diria nosso Noel Rosa...
Paulo Roberto de Almeida

Start the Presses
By ROBERT PINSKY
The New York Times Book Review, August 13, 2010

THE BOOK IN THE RENAISSANCE
By Andrew Pettegree
Illustrated. 421 pp. Yale University Press. $40

“The humanist mythology of print.” With this phrase the British scholar Andrew Pettegree indicates the cultural story his book amends, and to some extent transforms. In an understated, judicious manner, he offers a radically new understanding of printing in the years of its birth and youth. Print, in Pettegree’s account, was never as dignified or lofty a medium as that “humanist mythology” of disseminated classics would suggest.

The story begins with money. Johannes Gutenberg did not find a way to profit from his technical achievements. The Gutenberg Bible, a gigantic project, required large amounts of capital that needed replenishing over time, long before there was any hope of profit. The finished product inspired awe, but the print run was 180 copies. Gutenberg “died bankrupt and disappointed.”

Nor was he alone. Apparently, it took decades before some people figured out how to make money from this remarkable invention. For decades after Gutenberg, it was not even clear that print would become a success. How do you market books? How many should you run off at one time? Piracy was a problem, as were texts changed, mutilated or combined in unauthorized editions. Many printers were ruined, trying to exploit the new medium.

Clever authors like Ludovico Ariosto involved themselves in production: he arranged to supply paper for the printing of his “Orlando Furioso.” Producers of the physical book made most of the money, Pettegree explains, so “the best that the author could hope for was that the publication would enhance his career.” The nature and concept of “publishing” needed to evolve, and Pettegree sets forth that evolution with an expert abundance of information: delicious for us nonscholars to taste, though we may not consume it all.

The publishing approaches that succeeded will not be unfamiliar to readers of our own century. About the world of posters, handouts, pamphlets, pictures, almanacs, prophecies, topical poems, hoaxes and one-page documents, Pettegree says, in a sentence that ends with three recognizable nouns: “Many people, printers, sellers and writers, saw the potential of this market for news, sensation and ­excitement.”

“News, sensation and excitement” might, for some customers, include the printed scripts of plays that had been well received on the stage, like Christopher Marlowe’s “Massacre at Paris” and some of Shakespeare’s history plays. None of those niche-audience printings were as successful as reliably popular best sellers like the (possibly excitement-providing) sermons of Arthur Dent, or More and Dering’s “Short Catechism for Householders.” Erasmus was a best-selling author, as was Luther, but ephemeral material supplied the main business of the early publishing industry. Classical authors, we are told, accounted for “around 5 percent of all printed books published in the 15th century.”

Like sensation and news, personal and family documents sold well. In the days of papal indulgences, people liked a certificate, perhaps suitable for framing like a diploma, to display their freedom from sin. Over two years at the end of the 15th century, a single monastery commissioned 200,000 of these documents, with a space for the sin-free name to be filled in.

Often printers made money from works published on demand for free distribution, with the revenue coming from its advertising value. As an example, Pettegree cites the Jesuit order, which linked public shows and performances to printed records, programs and scripts. In 1588, a parade in Lisbon celebrated a Jesuit establishment that boasted a public library and several recently donated relics, “including the skull of St. Bridget of Ireland and the undershirt of the Virgin Mary.” As the parade went through the city, it paused twice for “the staging of edifying plays.” Pettegree observes that this lavish display represents the “astute manipulation of different media,” a coordination he calls “a ubiquitous feature of the first age of print.”

The “fluid, transitional nature of communication” during printing’s first heyday naturally attracted detractors. “This is what the printing presses do: they corrupt susceptible hearts” wrote the “dyspeptic Benedictine” Filippo de Strata. Clumsy and unreliable editions led to “the charge that print had debased the book.” By making book ownership more common, print also “diminished the lustre of the Renaissance library,” causing many collections to dwindle or dissolve altogether as “the library as a cultural institution struggled to adapt to the new age.”

For a time, civil and religious authorities controlled the immense scale of explosive information and misinformation. When the Protestant Henry of Navarre ascended to the French throne in 1589, the news was available to English readers in “at least 40 pamphlets,” while his 1594 conversion to Roman Catholicism “was greeted with deafening silence in London.” Gradually, however, centralized control was overwhelmed by the reckless abundance of the tumultuous, street-oriented press. Petty gossip, ignorant screeds, inflammatory pamphlets and religious tracts flowed and overflowed.

The new technology also led to large-scale, faith-based burning of both books and people. The papal bull of excommunication that Martin Luther burned in 1520 also ordered that his books be destroyed. Luther in turn planned to add the works of Thomas Aquinas and Duns Scotus to the flames, but, as Pettegree notes, “books were expensive” and the scholars of Wittenberg were unwilling to make such a sacrifice. The “genocidal rage” engendered by religious differences included populations as well as their books. In Spain, Julián Hernández and his heretical colleagues were burned alive along with “many thousands of books.” In Geneva, the physician and theologian Michael Servetus — who to his misfortune correctly described the circulation of blood but published the information in a text that also took an unorthodox view of the Trinity — was burned, as were copies of the book. Of perhaps a thousand printed, only three survive.

Pettegree writes well and amasses information superbly. He refrains from explicitly comparing the technology of print, and its historical impact, with the technology of the Internet. Implicit similarities include issues of intellectual property and privacy, of power, of libel, as well as a general challenge to old modes — the proliferation of personal expression, the contentiousness, the question of how to capitalize, and capitalize upon, a new medium.

This scholarly restraint, leaving his readers to compare and contrast, seems wise. And there are certainly contrasts with the modern age. Describing the immensely popular verse romances like “Orlando Furioso,” for example, Pettegree shows that in the Renaissance these works were not read in the prolonged, silent trance experienced by readers of Dickens or Flaubert. Modern readers recognize the quiet, lone hours spent by Henry James’s character Isabel Archer, that immersive reading experienced not only by devotees of James but by escapist fans of the genre known as “airport books.” In contrast to this industrial-age solitude of print narrative, the 16th-century verse romances and other episodic books like “The Decameron” were suited for reading aloud — enjoyed in a communal, social setting.

In an appended “Note on Sources,” Pettegree allows himself to acknowledge that, “Ironically, it has been the next great information revolution — the Internet — that has allowed this work on the first age of print to be pursued to a successful conclusion.” Digital information newly available from all over the world enhanced his research on early print culture — in all its frequently vulgar, ephemeral, zany and menacing variety.

Robert Pinsky is the poetry editor of Slate and the founder of the Favorite Poem Project (favoritepoem.org).