So in the Age of Screens there are a few options: first off, you are your brand. All this egalitarian talk about connecting authors with readers is littered with marketing speak to a degree that’s nauseating. Content is overshadowed by your personal ability to “build an audience” as an author with a readily available e-book and a couple thousand facebook friends. As with most “revolutionary” things, this cuts both ways.

Online Reviewing Moment #6: My best-friend from high school wrote a book. It’s called Ruthless Monster, it’s available from Lulu.com as a printed and e- book. He tells me so at least twice a day. It’s a thriller about Trey Masterson, a Chicago lawyer married to “the woman of his dreams” who has his life dismantled by a “twisted and sinister soul.” I’m sure this is a book that I will never read. One that sort of represents the wariness about self-publishing . . . And the constant reminders about it have nearly caused me to disconnect from someone I was recently very excited to hear from. But he’s only doing what he absolutely has to: If you pay $2,500 to get your book published, you better be fricking persistent in getting the word out to your potential customers.

Brands built around communities are actually effective. Going back to my survey, a few of my students admitted to seeking out books by particular authors and publishers. Exact Change. New Directions. These symbolize a certain aesthetic in the same way Matador and Merge do for us indie rock lovers who went to college in the mid-90s. A book by New Directions—even by an unknown, “literary” author—_must_ be good.

Granted, a lot of love is still directed at New Directions from the days of bookstores organized by publisher. By people who first encountered them “back in the day” or by seeking out Roberto Bolano’s backlist. For a new press/author doing serious work, you face all the challenges described above: no serendipitous discovery at a bookstore, next to no print reviews (the type of reviews the masses trust in), and next to no physical distribution (where your “slick” covers can come into play).

So we’re living in an Age of Screens and we have something important to say. We have to say it online, because most of the communities we used to have in our small Midwestern towns have been shuttered in favor of Starbucks and the slowly dissolving Borders. It scares me to write this, having followed my own train of thought from bookstore love to despair at how my publishing company finds readers, to “what if I ever wrote that book I’ve been talking about since I was 21 . . .” but devices and the Internet seem to offer the best way to find a literary community.

Running counter to War and Peace and Tolstoy’s pro-it’s-all-muddled sort of standpoint, the 21st century will be ruled by individuals. If you’re looking to find the thing to “blow your mind,” you won’t be looking at the New York Times (were you ever?), but to the random blogger-personality who “gets” you. You’ll tell the world what you feel via GoodReads and Twitter and other things that flow through out screens.

We’ve lost something important in our unstoppable drive toward the abstracted computing world. In its place we have something with potential . . . Right now that space—the ethereal world of the Age of Screens—is dictated by those who are most savvy . . . but it doesn’t have to stay that way.

Online Discovery Moment #7: When I first proposed this speech, I wanted to talk about reviews in the 21st century. Ģ����ý the way blogs and online magazines would mark a resurgence of interest in book reviews. That amid the sea of hundreds of thousands of nonfiction works out there, readers would be lost without a bookseller to guide them. I initially was thinking about how people would want to turn to an “authoritative” voice to help them find the books they actually want to read. I was also worried that we’ve put too much faith in the perceived openness of the Internet and the ebook distribution platforms—that maybe we’re not being cynical enough in predicting the ways hyper-capitalist publishers and the like would try and worm their way into those outlets and influence readers through sneaky marketing tricks learned in books like Rob Walker’s Buying In of Dan Ariely’s Predictably Irrational. That’s all still there, but I think what’s happening now is that the resurgence isn’t in terms of codified, respected review sources but in terms of smart, respectable personalities. What seems to work is when you go from someone who straight tweets about books you like with reasonable hashtags, to someone who transforms—through their leveraging of all the different media platforms, or simply by being themselves at all moments everywhere—their written information into something three-dimensional. When the recommendations are embodied, they pull in readers. They exist, they have feedback loops, they are creating new, interesting things. And they become the “cool” that pulls others into their orbit. Not to make this too personal, but consider Richard Nash, his time at Soft Skull, the play Cursor is getting. Great ideas, sure. Good books, OK. But really? A lot of the success is because Richard is Richard. That’s a hard lesson to swallow, since from an organizational perspective it makes the future feel uncertain, and from a more culturally aware level, it feels a bit like the cliques us bookish types avoided in high school. But to differentiate, in this case, the cool comes from ideas and phrases and giving people things to enjoy and think about, not from wearing Izod shirts and driving a red convertible.

*

So, seriously, what does this mean? I have no idea. I feel like we’ve entered a precarious moment, where we can reach anyone with anything, but are transitioning from one set of recommending systems to another. New literary fanatics are adrift in this moment. Will it all be awesome? Will the Open Letters of the world reach a 1000 times more readers than they do now? Will e-book sales make our business model viable? Hopefully?

Regardless, we’re at a moment where things are up in the air. A moment where we’ve lost what’s kept our society moving in thoughtful directions in favor of the slick and new and non-physical. We need to be aware of what’s gone, what’s possible, and what’s important in this age that values screens and immediate profit to thoughtful, personal interaction.

Which is why I plan on continuing down this line of thought, trying to blend together findings from neuroscience and behavioral economics to look at what goes on in the mind of an individual reader, to how that reader chooses what he/she decides to read (selecting a book is not like choosing toothpaste . . . or is it?), to why and where and how books become social, to what this means to the greater culture. Not sure where all of this will lead, but hopefully it’ll provide a better understanding of readers and of how these great cultural shifts in bookselling and publishing are playing themselves out across a number of levels.

What does this all mean? So, we live in an age that values the slick lines of an iPad, that chases sales of books that fit pre-existing patterns, that wants to go all-in on the digital in order to revolt against (with good cause) the hegemony of the Big Six Publishers, and believes that behind the omnipresent screens in our lives is a fledgling democracy where we can get whatever we want and that talent and the ability to connect will reign supreme.

More importantly: where does literature—especially translated literature, whose “voice” is hindered by non-English speaking authors and the view that translators are second-class—fit into this Age of Screens?

To rephrase: we’ve stripped away all the institutions that supported the ways in which most outsiders found their literature, leaving texts to float untethered in the ether, there to be found . . .

There is no serendipity on Amazon.com. As much as I love buying books for cheap—and knowing that they’ll “be there”—I know that Amazon is nothing more than a kick-ass checkout counter. It’s not a bookstore; it’s not an informed reader telling you things. “Those who bought X also bought Y”? It’s nothing more than an algorithm of sales. If you bought pattern-reinforcing Twilight you’ll probably also love The Da Vinci Code. It’s nearly impossible to come across something totally out of nowhere on Amazon. And yet, for the long-term benefit of society, we need people to have—and be exposed to—ideas from the out-of-nowhere.

Online Discovery Moment #4: This semester I’m teaching a class on “Translator & World Literature.” I have ten students in the class, and we’re reading ten books. The other night I was on Amazon.com looking for info on a book I was reviewing—a title that’s actually included in our class. On that book’s Amazon page, the scroll of “Customers Who Viewed This Item Also Viewed” simply listed all the other books in my class. By putting titles on a syllabus I had subtly altered the experience of every Amazon customer looking for Thomas Pletzinger’s Funeral for a Dog.

Some time ago, Random House studied what caused people to actually buy books in bookstores. They observed customers, they had them fill out surveys, they figured out a set of attributes that lead a reader’s “willingness to pay” to exceed the price of the book, resulting in a purchase. What they found: a book cover is the most important thing, followed by whether a book is displayed or not. (Big piles equal big sales! “We” trend like sheep!) Reviews? Very near the bottom. (Although anyone who worked in a bookstore will attest to NPR being a million times more important that the _New York Times Book Review_—we’ve all dealt with the customer seeking the book that “they talked about on the NPR . . . I think it was blue, with the word “age” in the title?”) Word-of-mouth was higher . . .

Again with the recap: Everything is available instantly. Or almost. Any obscure French translation can either be downloaded immediately to a Kindle-iPad, or be overnighted from Amazon. But how someone found out about this book is still mysterious . . .

All the presentations and chatter focus on how the Age of Screens is the most democratic and egalitarian. Ģ����ý how an author can directly reach her/his audience. And this is true and beautiful in an anti-capitalist way. Traditionally publishers have hated interacting with their readers and done all they could to avoid having to deal with them—something that’s finally changing.

Online Discovery Moment #5: A couple years back I attended a Salzburg Global Seminar on translation. There were about 80 translation related people there (publishers, translators, reviewers, etc.), including a very high-profile German publisher. During a session on the “Internet and Translation” that I moderated, this German publisher railed against the influence of the “free Internet” and how online publishing was destroying his newspapers, literary journals, etc. When I pointed out to him that another value of the Internet was the ability to actually interact with fans and readers his reply was simply: “Why would I ever want to talk with those people?” This distain will not draw the readers seeking the literary fringe to actual literature.

Since I’m old and way too jacked into the literary scene to stand back from it and observe, I asked a bunch of my students a series of questions about the reading habits. I wanted to get a sense of what a reader as reader does. We (as publishers and people involved in the culture business) love to talk about being “reader-centric,” but we mean this in the aggregate. Readers as in thousands of them. What do they do? What do they buy? But when you narrow this down to a single person, all the findings of behavioral economics and neuroscience as related to decision making starts to come into play. Which could open up some interesting paths of thought.

The kids I talked to were recent grads and kids in grad school—the same people I think would be interested in Open Letter books, in “literature.” Well. First off, they read next to no book reviews. Not one of them ever bought a book based on a Twitter recommendation. Instead they rely upon word-of-mouth and serendipity. Each of them has a handful of “book friends” whose recommendations can tip the scales and cause them to actually seek out a particular book. Aside from that, they browse . . . they find the misfiled title (the ‘G’ author mistakenly placed among the ‘T’s), they occasionally Google their favorite authors to see if there’s something new available. They return to old patterns—favorite authors—and see what those people recommend. Overarching theme: they rely on people and chance.

This totally worked in the age of cluttered small bookshops with idiosyncratic collections and more eccentric owners. I was a bookstore brat. I memorized fiction sections and talked to the guys with the cardigans and tattoos who had read way more than I had. I took recommendations. I fell in love with bookstore girls. I remember losing my innocence when I entered a Waldenbooks and had the epiphany that there’s nothing special here. I remember my first experience of Barnes & Noble’s sterility. I remember the moment when I talked to a book buyer and realized that the pattern-shifting books just weren’t viable “for a store of our size.” I remember deciding that I had to get into publishing.

That moment has passed. Never again will a small-town Midwestern kid have the opportunity to peruse a hand-picked selection of literary fiction—one that might not appeal to the masses, but is dripping in cache and the cool of smartness. This is an exaggeration, clearly, but Saginaw, Michigan kids who end up interested in strange art will rely on Amazon.com—at least for the foreseeable future.

(There’s a larger story here . . . Unique, readerly bookstores are going to suffer a dark ages in the majority of America. Historically, the chain stores and then the online retailers destroyed a huge number of these outlets. And ebook sales have further eroded their margins, leaving small, nondescript stores the will never survive by selling the books their readers—who only want to read the entertainment everyone else is reading—want to buy, since those same readers can buy the same thing for less online or at a chain. The stores that will survive in the long run are the one that set themselves apart in terms of knowledge and content. And those stores can only exist in readerly cities and metropolises.)

Online Discovery Moment #3: One day I noticed that Tosh Berman, a bookseller at Book Soup in L.A., had given Albert Cossery’s A Splendid Conspiracy five stars on GoodReads. Having run the Best Translated Book Award for years, and having dedicated my life to the literature beyond our borders, I felt like I should know this author. But no. No recognition at all. I marked A Splendid Conspiracy “to read” on GoodReads (and Facebook). The next day, I checked my home computer and Jeff Waxman, a bookseller from Chicago, had given Albert Cossery’s The Jokers five stars on GoodReads. Weird, no? So I marked that “to read” on GoodReads/Facebook and took my kids to forest by my house to run around and whatnot. Now, I’m a pretty unattentive parent, so as my kids did flips off the “ramps” in the woods and threw dirt at each other, I checked my iPhone for new messages. What I found: My friend Brad had seen my Cossery-related GoodReads/Facebook notices and copied part of Cossery’s Wikipedia bio onto my facebook wall. Cossery was a special sort of Egyptian/French writer who believed in “laziness.” A professional author, he wrote 8 books over 60+ years. Basically, he sounded awesome. I scooped up my kids—who were, literally, throwing clots of dirt at each other at the time—drove to Barnes & Noble, bought A Splendid Conspiracy, read it that night, and told at least 20 other people about his genius. Including a pair of girls in a local bar where I read the ending . . . They were both into books, into finding the weird, and he sounded right up their alley. So I loaned them my copy, which they hopefully enjoyed as much as I did.

Broadly speaking, “literature” is pattern breaking. This isn’t necessarily always true, but most of the truly lasting works are the ones that shift our perceptions, that shock us with the new. This is one reason why these books might not sell quite as well as their more entertaining counterparts, but as mentioned above, these books can turn out to be much more influential in the long run. Take David Markson for example. His early books sold like shit (and I know—I worked for his publisher), yet writers thought him a writer’s writer, which influenced their writing, which spread virally, which lead to his books selling better, and also to things like David Shield’s Reality Hunger.

Not only would I argue that the cultural import of these books far exceeds their sales, but that the majority of these influential “literary” books are works in translation. America (and Great Britain) is notorious for sucking at the whole translated literature thing, and yet ask a crowded room to name their all-time favorite books and you’ll be inundated with a long list of titles not originally penned in English. (To hearken back: what could be better at throwing a wrench into predicted patterns than something coming from an entirely different culture, with a totally different semantic web, and unique way of perceiving the world? And it’s worth noting that although we may initially resist these sorts of titles, it’s the uniqueness, the upending that is most memorable and has the longest lasting impact.)

Nevertheless, for a long while now the cultural discourse as we know it has come to apply certain unfavorable words to the most serious of literature. Translated literature is talked about as “serious,” “European,” “difficult,” “dry,” etc. (Gary Shteyngart’s Super Sad True Love Story, does a brilliant job of satirizing and taking this trend to its extreme.) It’s also always framed from the perspective that something has been “lost” in going from one language and culture to another—a perspective that diminishes the importance of the translation and provides yet another reason to avoid reading these books. (Unless the book being review is a Swedish crime novel, or something that fits our patterns perfectly, like The Elegance of the Hedgehog.) All of these phrases make it sound like reading these books would be work, no? Whether it’s acknowledged or not, this is part of the overriding prejudice that results in the oft-cited figure that only 3% of all the books published in America are works in translation. We know they won’t sell, that only the most sadomasochistic of people will read them, that reviewers will view these books as being secondary to the original version, etc.

This “musty” European literature—in outmoded printed book form!—is, in some ways, the antithesis to this Age of Screens in which every new gadget is “slicker,” “sleeker,” “sexier” than the last. We fetishize devices to such a degree that the common subway rider is more likely to judge their fellow commuters based on what Droid OS they’re using than what book someone is reading.

Despite all my depressive and resigned statements above—“the masses want Britney Spears ad infinitum!”—I do believe there is a countermovement. There is a group of readers, small but powerful, who see “literature” as something the cool kids do, analogous to listening to the hippest of the indie rock, to residing on the marginalized fringes of culture where trends are set. Which is what really brings me to the key set of questions I have when thinking about our book culture—both from the view of an avid reader and a publisher of “serious translated literature”: given all the other pattern-fitting entertainments available, what pleasures does a reader receive that cause them to pick up a work of “literature”?; how does this overcome the “negative priming” that’s become associated with literature in translation?; how does someone actually find out about a pattern-shattering book and what actually gets them to pick it up?; especially in an age of abundance where more than a million books are published every year?; which literary books are the ones that acquire a sort of “cool” veneer that helps them find a cult audience—one that slowly moves from cult to mainstream in a way that mimics the viral spread of internet videos?; and can our Age of Screens facilitate the development and expansion of this fringe?

Since the launch of the first idea of an electronic book, there’s been gallons of ink spilled comparing the publishing and music industries. There are some fruitful comparisons there, several lessons to learn, but there are a few key disconnects that influence the answer to the questions posed above.

In Chris Anderson’s The Long Tail, he used the Rhapsody music service (which I swear by and am using as I write this) to show that in a digital marketplace, the niches find their consumers. When everything is made available and is equally accessible, the “fringes” can find their thing. We’re unbound by the physicality of space, where all that’s available is the top selling items. In other words, suddenly anyone can access those musicians who shatter patterns and help change the world.

But music does not equal books. Music is communal, immediate. You walk into the Gap and you’re exposed to the latest “indie” bands while you procure a sweater to keep you warm. And then that song shows up on a Volkswagen commercial, in a Starbucks CD . . . We are constantly exposed to music and we can become attracted to it within seconds. I’ve shopped at Banana Republic hundreds of times and never once have I heard someone reciting a Cavafy poem. And when I buy I book, I know I’m setting aside at least ten hours of my life . . . Whereas I listen to at least a couple new albums a week just driving to and from work.

So how does anyone find a pattern-shattering work of literature? Not on TV commercials. Or in the mall. Or in reviews. And there is no Pitchfork.com for edgy books.

Online Discover Moment #2: I’m curious about what kind of impact a Pitchfork for books would have. Not just because a tastemaking sort of site like this would imbue reading with a sense of being hypercool, but because I think the numbered grading system would revolutionize the way readers relate to book reviews. As things are now, reviews are written to be read and pondered. Some are more obviously positive (or negative) than others, but most are crafted to be somewhere in between. This book “shows promise,” but is also “overly ambitious.” “Brilliant, yet flawed.” So on and forth. I think there’s a reason the majority of readers just look at the first and last paragraphs—they want the punchline: is this book good? Rather than deny this impulse (which is only ramped up in our age of abundance and screens), we should take advantage of the desire for fixed knowledge. By giving Franzen’s Freedom a 4.4, readers will immediately engage—either for or against. They’ll be encouraged to engage because they’ve been given a clear base against which to react. They’d be more likely to become involved in discussions, or read the book to reinforce (or dismiss) this very clear, numerological judgment. At least this is my hypothesis. (And yes, I know that Complete Review uses letter grades. And yes, these do function in a way similar to what I’m proposing. Except how many grades are really possible? Assuming Michael uses A though E, with pluses or minuses for everything except an “E,” then he has 13 possibilities. But a D+ or D-? Insanely unlikely. In all actuality, there are about 10 grade possibilities, with the vast majority of titles earning an A-, B+, B, or B-. Everything is always a 3.5. A 10 point scale with one decimal leads to 100 possible scores, and shades of reaction that far exceed the letter-grade format.)

Contemporary life is lived through screens. Initially, it was the TV that invaded our families and took over our free time. Now it’s computers, smartphones, tablets; it’s email, digital files, the cloud. For better or worse, the past quarter-century (or more) has powered a move away from the physical and into cyberspace—especially in terms of our work-life and entertainment options.

None of this is new, all of it pretty much why we’re here at this conference talking about what’s going on, what’s next, how publishers can adapt to these new techno-cultural forces, and what this means for readers. What I’d like to talk about for the next ten minutes is what’s lost in this shift away from human interaction and what that means for serious literature—specifically, fiction and nonfiction in translation—and what possibilities there are for new modes of audience development.

I want to take one quick moment and sort of define what I mean by “serious literature” and why I think this is a subgenre worth considering in special detail. What I’m talking about are those books_—the truly literary works that lend themselves to being read, appreciated, and debated decades in the future. Yes, I’m aware that without even really defining this it already smacks of elitism. And yes, I realize that to try and truly describe the parameters of what defines “literature” is an impossible task. Instead of trying to restrict this, or embark on endless, Borgesian categorizing, I just want to distinguish between “literature” and “entertainments.” These terms can apply to any and all genres: there are comic books and literary graphic novels, there’s James Joyce and there’s _Twilight, Thomas Bernhard and James Patterson, Dubravka Ugresic and Sarah Palin’s autobiography. You know it when you see it.

Generally speaking, most people read “entertainments.” And more power to them. For the vast majority of people, reading is just another way to kill some free time, once they’ve conquered all their videogames, the 359 channels are filled with drudgery, and the Internets aren’t updating themselves as fast as their growing boredom. In terms both of content and intended audience, all the Vooks and enhanced this-and-that are ideal for these sorts of books. And these are the sort of books reinforce the social impulse behind reading—it’s much easier to find people to talk to about these sorts of titles, because these tend to be those books that seemingly everyone is reading. Much easier to find Facebook friend with whom you can share certain experiences . . .

For a million different capitalist reasons, we tend to equate sales with success. If a book reaps profits, it must be a good book. And from the perspective of a struggling business, this is the sort of success one needs to survive. But there are other metrics . . . There are reasons to value works of “high literature” that may sell only a few thousand copies, but have a great impact on this select group of readers. As alluded to above, these are the books that may not crack the best-seller lists, but spark innovation and new ideas. Granted, there are exceptions to every rule, but speaking in broad strokes, “entertainments” tend to reinforce current dominant cultural modes, whereas “literature” can upend some beliefs, ways of thinking, assumptions. Which may well explain why these books have limited sales success . . .

In Jonah Lehrer’s Proust Was a Neuroscientist, he describes the neurological basis behind why we find certain music beautiful, other compositions stridently unpleasant, and why these standards change over time. No need to go into the whole explanation here, but it’s basically all about pattern recognition. When we hear a piece of music, we predict what’s coming next—we look for recognizable patterns. And in a wicked positive feedback loop, when we guess correctly, our brain rewards us, provides us with a pleasant feeling that is associated with that pattern, a pattern that we then seek out, anticipate, get rewarded for, on and on. This is one reason why hearing songs we’ve heard a number of times is such a warm experience.

Although I’m clearly extending metaphors and jumping frames from neuroscience to societal influences, but I think part of the constant recycling of ideas and easily recognizable plots, melodies, phrasings are based in our attraction to the patterns we’re already familiar with. We—meaning the aggregate of the hundreds of millions of people who bought and read books last year—like books, movies, art that’s, for the most part, smooth and unchallenging. Not all of “us,” clearly, but those of “us” who make books bestsellers and turn Mormon parables into a worldwide phenomenon.

Online Discovery Moment #1: I’m a consummate user of GoodReads. Within minutes of finishing a book, I’ve already written a brief review about it and updated my profile to review the book I’m about to start next. I scan the daily digest emails to see what my friends are reading, recommending, planning to read. I see this as one of the main ways I keep my finger on the pulse of the literary community, while finding out about titles worth checking out. (More on that below.) Recently though, I noticed that all of my friends are just like me. We read translations, we avoid “grocery store” books, we love the European modernists and the post-Boom Latin American authors. In a way, this is not dissimilar from picking out books that fit pre-existing patterns. My social group doesn’t necessarily inform me, it reflects back at me my own literary values.

When I was invited to talk at this, I decided that I really wanted to write something new, something that I haven’t exactly written about, or talked about before. (It’s way easier just going back to the tried-and-true, but that does start to feel a bit stale.)

This conference is fairly unique in terms of publishing conferences, in that you’re asked to send a short description of what you’re going to talk about, or a list of provocative statements that should help foster discussion. I went back and forth with Maarten Valken about this, until we hit upon the idea of talking about the role of reviews in the digital age.

In thinking about this, I ended up spending a lot of time reading books on behavioral economics and neuroscience (in particular Jonah Lehrer’s fantastic ), as entry points to thinking about the reader as individual reader.

For years, a lot of more progressive publishing people and social thinkers (not sure how exactly to categorize a Richard Nash) have talked about the need to connect and focus on our readers. But we tend to think of them in the aggregate, as a group that reacts to certain things. And although we talk a lot about being reader-centric, we rarely actually talk to actual individual readers.

Which seemed to bring up a lot of questions for me: like how does an individual hear about books nowadays? Why do they want to read certain things? And although answers like “word-of-mouth” feel very obvious, I got curious about how this actually functions. If a Facebook friend posts a recommendation, are you likely to buy it? How many people actually influence your reading decisions? What happens when you’re faced with too many choices?

All of which led to a much-too-long speech/essay that I kind of cribbed from at the conference. (It’s physically impossible for me to read speeches . . . I must improvise.) Since this piece was long and very time-consuming, I decided to run it all on here and on

So, if you follow that link, you’ll get the first chunk of the essay. And if you come back next week, I’ll be serializing the whole messy long-winded thing.

One other note: This essay felt very exploratory as I was writing it . . . And after working on it for a while, I think the best way to really improve this is to transform it into a 2.0 version that more clearly delineates all the various concerns. My dream (which hopefully won’t go completely unfulfilled) is to make this a much longer and more encompassing project that blends together some findings on the brain and reading, behavioral economics stuff, and ideas about what’s happening in terms of publishing and bookselling and all that. Something that would start from the individual reader and the process of reading, out through how we discover books, the social aspects of reading, and the impact all these developments are having on culture.

Anyway, that’s really neither here nor there, except that I’m half-hoping some of you will have suggestions of other books/articles/studies that might be interesting to look at, and/or people worth talking to . . .

Unlike some of the other digitally-focused conferences I’ve attended (such as TOC Frankfurt), this was less about “what’s possible” and more about “what this means.” Which was refreshing and very interesting.

The foundation did record all of the talks, and has made most (soon to be all?) available on (I personally love all the stills . . . We all look a bit over-enthused with our hand gestures and what not.)

All of the speeches were great, and to make this even easier, here are links and quick summaries to the speeches that are available:

of Pan Macmillan gave a great overview of where we are in terms of ebooks and the digital market.

talked about and the need to connect with your audience.

Richard Nash’s speech isn’t online (yet), but he talked about the coming Age of Abundance and how economic theory provides a basis for arguing that this abundance will force prices to zero.

talked about the impact of technology on human imagination from a philosophical perspective.

Harry Blom’s speech isn’t up yet either, but he talked about Springer and publishing edatabase versions of journals.

discussed his book/iPad app.

from Faber and Faber talked about this as well, but from a publisher’s perspective.

gave the funniest, most entertaining speech (Ramy’s a born public speaker of the best variety) about publishing in Arabic and his company

discussed the role of translators in this digital age.

Finally, reading and discovery in the Age of Screens. But I’ll talk more about that in a separate post . . . For now, I just want to encourage you to check out some of these videos. I think you’ll find them very interesting and enjoyable. (And we were all limited to 10 minutes, so they’re short.)