"What are you reading now?" my friend asked me as we were leaving the bar, both of us readers and both vaguely interested in the other's tastes. I knew I couldn't tell him "A history of paper," so I tried to sell it a bit. I tried banking on the author's previous successes: "It's called 'Paper' and it's by the same guy that wrote 'Cod' and 'Salt'." No sell, he wasn't impressed. He returned only a blank expression devoid of any recognition. I'd have to go in: "It's a history of paper and of general world history through paper as a focusing lens." My friend nodded as we approached our cars, hands in his pockets, as he then said "If there was a way to un-ask that question, I would."
I don't blame my friend - a history of paper is a hard sell. To use marketing jargon I generally dislike, it's "unsexy". How could anything as mundane as paper be interesting? How much is there even to say about paper?
As it turns out, a lot. The mundanity of paper is actually what leads to the book's versatility. It allows the author a chance to talk about art, language and linguistics, philosophy, history, economics, war, poetry, imperialism, and a whole host of other topics. The very fact that paper is so integrated into our lives has given the author tremendous scope and he takes full advantage of it. There's something here for everybody. Myself, I was particularly fond of the sections about the developments of different writing systems and then, later, the discussion surrounding such notable artists as Picasso and Matisse. Of course, the sections on the French and American Revolutions were also fascinating to me (despite pitting me against that most dreaded of subjects, economics).
But unfortunately, just because there is something here for everybody, doesn't mean that I think this is a book for everybody. The style was a little dry (though very direct and accessible), which means that it may drag for people that aren't as receptive to the material or as curious as I naturally am. (Also, a small organizational complaint: the author obviously dedicated himself entirely to this project. As a result, he also obviously came away with too much information from his research than he could organically incorporate into the book. There are parts with strange tangents and add-ons, asides that detract and distract from the passages into which they were fit. It's never bad enough to diminish the book, but it is noticeable).
Another complaint, typical of world histories, is that it moved much too fast. In a mere eighteen pages in the fourteenth chapter, the author crams in the French Revolution, the beginnings of the Industrial Revolution, the invention of photography, the invention of the lithograph, the invention of the daguerreotype, the invention of the internal combustion engine, and the invention of the steam engine. Within the first five chapters, he's covered thousands and thousands of years. Of course, this isn't his fault, no world history can expect to not be fast if it hopes to cram everything into just over three hundred and thirty pages, but, again, it is noticeable.
As are the frequent, unsubtle callbacks to the book's main theme, what Kurlansky calls the "technological fallacy." I don't want to dwell too much on this, except that my own feelings are that it's a bit like reading someone who has taken a strong position on the chicken and the egg paradox. Ultimately, it feels a little unnecessary and irrelevant. It did nothing more than to remind me of when I make up a thesis for a paper that isn't really what I want to talk about, but does allow me to get at what it is that I actually want to talk about.
For all these nitpicks, I did greatly enjoy the book and was surprised by how many things I came away learning. I wouldn't call myself Kurlansky's most fervent fan on the basis of just this work, but I would not hesitate to say that I look forward to seeing what he does next if he continues in the vein of these microhistories and that I am pretty motivated to check out his previous works.