Millenarianism — the belief in the end of this world and the coming of the next — is, in Noble’s view, a key driver of early proto-scientists, at least those in seventeenth-century England. There was, he argues, a sense at the time that the Fall of Adam from Eden “could be reversed” (45).

He describes these “Puritan Baconians” and their utilitarian and millenarian outlook as giving formative shape to modern science. He argues that these early scientists were really technologists: the early founders of the “new scientific academies … tended to view science as technology … as an enterprise … bound up … with the useful arts” (57).

Connected with this utilitarian perspective, for Noble, is the strong connection between scientific pioneers and early capitalist enterprise (59). He points to Robert Boyle’s father and other early Royal Society members who “were involved in such industries as tobacco, distilling, and trade” (59).[1]

Noble suggests, though, that these “founders of modern science” eventually moved away from earlier views of recovering Eden and, “with increasingly more hubris than humility,” began to speak of achieving of an understanding of divine creation itself, instead of the lesser focus on Adam’s knowledge characteristic of earlier times (62). In other words, they moved from being content with a focus on technology and “what works” to become scientists focused on questions beyond the materialistic.

Increasingly “mechanistic scientists” began to divorce God and creation, and to view God as outside his clockwork universe. They began to imagine themselves as occupying a similar, God-like perspective, one that gazed from “outside of nature”:

For Newton, then, to uncover the hidden logic of the universe was to understand and in that sense identify with, the mind of its Creator. (63-65)

This was very different from earlier views of “God in nature” that earlier hermetic and alchemical traditions — predecessors of modern “technoscience” — held.

In short, Noble argues that these early scientists began to dispense with a humble pursuit of the divine in nature and to instead view themselves as gods (67). (Perhaps a dislike of this hubris is why he identifies himself as a modern-day Luddite and refuses to use email.)

In his descriptions of eighteenth century European science, Noble continues to emphasize the importance of millenarian beliefs to the science and technology of this time. For example, Joseph Priestly, known for his work in electricity and with oxygen, insisted on the connections between his scientific work and his religious views, which included a belief in prophecy and Revelation. Priestly focused on the “practical application of science” to further the goals of “both immediate utility and millennial preparation” (71).

But it was not just Priestly. Religious belief generally motivated early scientists in this time, according to Nobel, who writes that Michael Faraday, known for his work with electricity, was involved in a sect of fundamentalist Christianity that focused on a very literal interpretation of the Bible (71). Charles Babbage, mathematician and industrial inventor, also focused on arguments “in favor of religion” (72). For Noble, religious belief and scientific pursuits were both unified and mutally supportive — at least in the minds of eighteenth-century European scientists.

Noble next moves into what I think might be the most intriguing aspect of this section of his work: his investigation of the role Freemasonry, including its “devoutly religious” — if anticlerical — beliefs, played in fostering scientific advances and improving the “useful arts” (77).

As the eighteenth century progressed, the technological Freemasons proved to be “among the earliest advocates of industrialization” and served as “midwives” at the birth of the “latest incarnation of spiritual men, the engineer” (79). Noble writes: “As the founding fathers of both the engineering profession and engineering education, the Freemasons passed on the legacy of the religion of technology to modernity’s ‘New Man’” (79).

Moving into nineteenth-century science, Noble turns his attention to Auguste Comte and his positivist system. Positivism, he argues, is “strikingly reminiscent of the Christian goal of a transcendent recovery of mankind’s original divine image-likeness and dominion over nature” (84). As with the millenarians, writes Noble, for positivists the “world’s transformation was inevitable and imminent” (84).

Marx and the socialists shared Comte’s “technology-inspired millenariasm” and carried the old beliefs forward into a “new secular age” (86). Comte and the positivists may have rejected nineteenth-century religion as unscientific, but, according to Noble, the scientific worldview they adopted instead was remarkably like the religion it replaced.

In a later chapter he calls “The New Eden,” Noble turns to America, where he believes “the useful arts became wedded to Adamic myths and millennial dreams” as “nowhere else before or since” (88). In America, “scientific and industrial revolutions followed in the wake of religious revival” (90). Technological inventions in America carried with them religious meanings. The telegraph, for example, was viewed as “divinely inspired for the purpose of spreading the Christian message farther … bringing closer and making more probable the day of salvation” (94).

In nineteenth-century America, religion and technology were neither distinct nor disconnected; instead, they both reinforced and strengthened each other.

But despite this deep connection between technology and religion, religion in the twentieth century moved away from being a driver of both technological invention and scientific innovation. Increasingly, religion has been seen as oppositional to science and technology.

Still, for many Christians this opposition is uneccessary and even problematic. For example, Noble explains tht NASA — at least into the Shuttle years — contained many devout Christians who saw their missions to space in deeply religious terms, and saw no conflict between their scientific and religious missions.

But what can one make, then, of the Young-Earth Creationismisms rejection of geological and evolutionary sciences? Or the ongoing attempts by Christian evangelicals to “teach the controversy” of evolution in high-school classrooms? Does this kind of fight prove Noble’s integration thesis wrong?

While I don’t think Noble fully answers these questions, his focus on technology perhaps suggests an answer. Science — or at least, some kinds of science — are not easy for some modern Christians to accept. But technology, even missions to the Moon or Mars, are much more readily reconciable with faith. They are, in older terms, explorations of God’s world, not challenges to God’s supremacy.

The Master Switch by Tim Wu

Peter Decherney, Nathan Ensmenger, and Christopher S. Yoo recently published an article, Are Those Who Ignore History Doomed to Repeat it?, on Tim Wu‘s book, The Master Switch: The Rise and Fall of Information Empires. Wu argues that communications technologies follow “the Cycle,” beginning as open systems, only to be closed by corporate moguls — and then re-opening again as the Cycle starts anew after a new innovation emerges. Decherney, Ensmenger, and Yoo do not completely reject Wu’s thesis, but they do argue that Wu’s focus on individual actors neglects the complexities of other market players (advertisers, for example), government agencies, and other supply- and demand-side actors.

Wu’s thesis rests on the powerful idea that we can improve our future by learning from the past, an approach that is core to my own historical focus on the telegraph in the nineteenth century — and the lessons that it can teach us about current and future technologies like the Internet.

Wu’s vision of influential corporate moguls whose visionary approaches unify and then close communications networks is seductive in the same way that our vision of a Romantic author is (Americans especially seem to cling to this idealistic notion). For example, it’s tempting, but equally misleading, to view Star Wars as the work of George Lucas, forgetting — or eliding — the number of other figures who played major or minor roles in its creation and production. The same is true of any technological development.

Decheney, et al. also make the convincing argument that, even if we focus only on larger-than-life individuals (Alexander Graham Bell, former AT&T President Theodore Vail, financier J.P. Morgan, and so on), we have to take account of visionary individuals who have pushed for openness instead: in the Internet age, that includes Richard Stallman and Vint Cert. They write:

Clearly, bold leadership was not the exclusive province of the established corporate interests.

Many other have tried for unified historical approaches, and visionary works like Wu’s are powerful and useful for understanding the past. However, write Decheney, et al.:

History is notoriously untidy, and all too often real-world facts stubbornly refuse to conform to what would otherwise be a terrific story.

Large, sweeping accounts of historical development give a readily graspable broad picture, and (hopefully) provide useful guidance, at least on large-scale decision-making. But this broad guidance can be misleading, if seductive to policmakers seeking “simple policy inferences” that can be readily employed and discussed without needing a strong understanding of the underlying concepts and factors. But these “sweeping and categorical” understandings can produce distored perspectives by politicos — think of former Alaskan Senator Ted Stevens statement:

The internet is not a big truck. It’s a series of tubes,

Adding complexity can make decisionmaking more, well, complex, but it can also “provide a better foundation for sound public policy.” That, hopefully, is what I will be producing with my work on privacy and the telegraph in the nineteenth century.

"Ask For Young's Aerated Waters" by Flickr user ninastoessinger. CC BY-SA 2.0.

After running a (horribly unscientific) poll on my law & technology blog for several months, I discovered that less than 15% of people voting found any of the Google-served advertisements to be relevant (not unwanted… irrelevant).

This is a problem.

Google has always claimed their ads are contextual and targeted to the content of your pages. This may once have been true — and may even be true for some people’s sites — but it isn’t true for me. Ads I serve to search-engine visitors are the best targeted, while those that rely solely on page content are the worst. I suspect Google’s increased “personalization” of ads are only going to make this worse, from the perspective of relevance to my content.

I’ve experimented with other services, such as Infolinks and Kontera, but the vast majority of the double-underlines show up under single words with ads that are only marginally related to my page’s content. So, for example, “offer” and “credit” will link to credit-card offers. Even if “law” is underlined, it tends to link to sites on the law of attraction.

I don’t run ads to make a profit. I run ads to pay for hosting, and I ideally want to run ads that provide some value to my visitors. So this is particularly vexing to me, but I think it’s a problem — at the very least — for any site not primarily focused on “monetization.” I don’t want ads to dominate or distract, I want them to add value for everyone. (Crazy, I know.)

To try to address this, I focus Google ads mostly to search-engine visitors, and not others (though I’m always experimenting, of course, if only to keep up with trends). I’ve used services like Linkworth, which at least lets me approve ads manually. I could choose to sell all my own ads directly — but I’m simply too small and too uninterested in marketing — for this to be worthwhile. I’ve found AdBrite and similar services are equally irrelevant to my visitors. Pay-for-posts — even somewhat relevant posts — make no sense for a blog like mine, even if they might be fine for a commercialized blog.

Has anyone else experienced the problem of irrelevance? Any potential solutions? Or are well-targeted, contextual ads simply impossible to achieve?

Specifically, the Supreme Court ruled 5-2 against the old Charles River Bridge Company, saying that Massachusetts had not violated the federal constitution’s Contracts Clause — a victory, it was held at the time, for state’s rights (as was Dred Scott). Justice Taney, generally very conservative and pro-property rights (and incidentally in favor of preserving slavery, as abolition would deprive owners of property), ruled against the contracts claim of the private corporation in favor of the public good:

While the rights of private property are sacredly guarded, we must not forget that the community also have rights, and that the happiness and well-being of every citizen depends on their faithful preservation. Charles River Bridge, 36 U.S. at 548.

Taney aligned the “public good” with progress and technological improvements. Ruling in favor of the entrenched Charles River Bridge Corporation would mean that the country would “be thrown back to the improvements of the last century, and obliged to stand still.” Id. If an exclusive monopoly were upheld, then incumbent highway corporations would hold back development of new railroads and canals, which were booming as the new technologies of the nineteenth centuries.

New developments and new approaches had permitted a new corporation to build a new bridge at a lower cost — and to make it free within a few years of its opening, while still turning a profit for its investors. But in doing so, the profit-making potential of the old bridge was destroyed (although investors had already made back their initial investment multiple times over).

But hadn’t the old company taken a risk initially? Didn’t its investors deserve to reap their new profits because they had taken the risk initially? Wouldn’t setting a precedent that their state-granted monopoly could be limited later actually inhibit future investment?

If these questions all seem rather familiar in the 21st century, it’s because these are the same kinds of arguments advanced by patent and copyright holders today. Pharmaceutical companies want their patent monopolies to extend further, and argue that failing to grant a sufficient monopoly would inhibit development and investment. Music and movie companies argue that their copyright monopolies should extend even further than it does now — because otherwise creation and investment would suffer.

Taney said “no” to this argument in 1837. I’ll ask the obvious question, then: did this decision to limit a monopoly contract reduce investment and technological development in the nineteenth century? The (equally obvious) answer is, “no”: the nineteenth century gave us railroads, the telegraph, the telephone, and much, much more. If there’s anything we can learn from Taney’s 1837 decision, it’s that minimizing monopoly rights does not inhibit development — and, I think, the reverse is even more likely.

It’s a lesson we would do well to keep in mind when considering the length and extent of patent and copyright monopolies.

The Wealth of Networks by Yochai Benkler

In The Wealth of Networks: How Social Production Transforms Markets and Freedom, Yochai Benkler discusses his vision of the role of technology in social change. He rejects an overly deterministic vision of technology (which he connects with Lewis Mumford and Marshall McLuhan), but also rejects a view of technology as immaterial to a society’s direction:

A view of technologies as “tools that happen, more or less, to be there, and are employed in any given society in a pattern that depends only on what that society and culture makes of them is too constrained. A society that has no wheel and no writing has certain limits on what it can do.” (17)

Instead, he adopts a “simple” idea that is “distinct from a naive determinism”:

Different technologies make different kinds of human action and interaction easier or harder to perform. All other things being equal, things that are easier to do are more likely to be done, and things that are harder to do are less likely to be done. All other things are never equal. That is why technological determinism in the strict sense — if you have technology “t,” you should expect social structure or relation “s” to emerge — is false. (17)

To illustrate the point, he describes the different impacts that new ocean-going technologies had on Spain or Portugal (their land ambitions were curtailed by strong neighbors) and China (which focused inland). He also notes how the printing press impacted Protestant countries (where individual reading of the Bible was encouraged) differently than Catholic countries (where “where religion discouraged individual, unmediated interaction with texts, like France and Spain”).

He summarizes his position by saying the following:

Neither deterministic nor wholly malleable, technology sets some parameters of individual and social action. It can make some actions, relationships, organizations, and institutions easier to pursue, and others harder. (17)

In regards to modern networking technologies (like the Internet), he warns:

The same technologies of networked computers can be adopted in very different patterns. There is no guarantee that networked information technology will lead to the improvements in innovation, freedom, and justice that I suggest are possible. (18)

Image by spiralstares via Flickr

An article in Slate claims:

While legal automation will be a boon for those who can’t afford representation, it’s bad news for lawyers. The industry is already in a slump, and law school is no longer seen as a sure path to riches. Because software will allow fewer lawyers to do a lot more work, it’s sure to drive down both price and demand.

My opinion? Software won’t replace lawyers, but it will reduce the demand for certain routine legal services and raise the complexity of litigation. Those without the software will be at a disadvantage. It will also cut into the work of paralegals. But not lawyers.

(Part of this reminds me of the claims in the early 20th century that polygraph machines would replace juries, since machines could judge truth of falsity and revolutionize the entire legal process. That didn’t happen, of course.)

It’s true that being a lawyer today involves a great deal of drudge work, especially at the lower echelons, and certainly eliminating some of the most time-consuming parts of the profession has the potential to reduce the workload. But while computer programs to generate wills have cut back on the demand for bare-bones legal services, the general result, I think, has been to increase the number of written wills, not to reduce the people who consult a lawyer for more complex drafting. Similarly, I expect contract-writing tools to help create more written contracts, not to reduce the important of lawyers who write and review more complex deals. The result will, hopefully, be more routinized, written business processes — but may result in freeing lawyers to spend more time drafting complex documents that exceed the abilities of programs to interpret alone.

The basics of document review can already be outsourced abroad in some cases, and using machine processing is rather similar. It helps with the routine and frees up time for the more complex.

The law is a complex human construction because society is a complex human construction. As long as it stays that way (and as long as people form a society, it will), it will take humans versed in its complexities to manage it fully.

So it’s always been distressing to me that PACER, which provides access to federal court records beyond just the final decisions that Google Scholar (or even LexisNexis and Westlaw) specialize in. Sure, for most legal work, the final decisions matter the most, but for historians and other scholars, seeing the party materials and “raw” details of the cases provides useful data for analysis. I had always hoped that PACER — which I hear runs a surplus anyway — would trend downward in price as the cost of delivering electronic access decreases. Instead comes this news:

The cost of electronic access to court files through the Public Access to Court Electronic Records program, better known as PACER, will rise to 10 cents per page from the current 8 cents per page, the Judicial Conference said.

via Federal courts to hike records’ fees 25% – Josh Gerstein – POLITICO.com.

I suppose it’s a nice gesture that they will waive the fees if you spend under $15/year, and I suppose the role of grant money is to fund my access to such materials, but honestly, I don’t think this is a good trend. I suppose the courts were focused on for-profit lawyers — or more specifically, on extracting a bit of silver from those lawyers — when they considered the pricing for PACER, and I see their point. This is the kind of necessary decision when taxes don’t fully fund government infrastructure (like the courts), but I lament the move to extract more capital from what ought to be public records.

The trend should be towards more open government and open courts, not the reverse.

But really, each of these has choices is distinct, and in many cases their use-cases do not overlap. Carrier pigeons, for example, are really point-to-point messaging mechanisms, unless you have a flock — and they take time to breed, so they are a poor choice if you have need to keep people updated on a variety of different topics. And unlike the owls of Harry Potter, carrier pigeons go to places and not people — so tracking down your significant other in either Greece or Italy — why won’t they call? — is out. (You may, of course, find different ways to make these work for you — in the digital age, square pegs can be refactored to fit in round holes, after all.)

Image via Wikipedia

Facebook

Facebook is the ideal place for keeping in touch with real people I’ve really met, especially if I’m likely to lose track of them otherwise. It’s geographically diverse, lets me share enough to give people a sense they’ve got an idea what I’m up to, and (despite its best efforts otherwise) lets me otherwise stay private (with caveats). So who do I connect with on Facebook? Friends (of various levels) from high school, college, postgrad. Friends — not professional colleagues — from work. Tricky decisions of categorization abound, of course: is this colleague enough of a friend for me to connect with them on Facebook, or do they belong on LinkedIn only? Segregating people into groups with various privacy settings help, of course, as does not sharing things I don’t want the public to possibly see. Sure, this is friend-stuff, but nothing I put on Facebook would be too embarrassing, or cost me a job. Facebook has been pushing pages (AP, PBS, BBC, business generally) that share non-personal information, but I’m increasingly finding this a distraction from the reason I use Facebook: people.

Image via CrunchBase

LinkedIn

LinkedIn has been touted as the professional version of Facebook, but that’s only partly true. LinkedIn is not really about sharing day-to-day details about me, but rather about highlighting my accomplishments and work. But beyond that, it’s mostly a Rolodex of up-to-date business cards of people I’ve dealt with professionally. I will connect with any colleague (or one of my undergrads) on LinkedIn without hesitation, unlike on Facebook. In terms of privacy, well, the point is to be visible and findable professionally. So that’s what goes up there. No home addresses, no home telephone numbers, just business contact details.

Image via CrunchBase

Twitter

Twitter is for link sharing and quick conversations (very quick, and very short) with absolutely anyone I find remotely interesting. I don’t refollow anyone who follows me, only those I think are interesting. I share things I want to broadcast with the world (but am too polite to get a bullhorn). Sometimes it’s personal, sometimes professional, but always with the idea that anyone might read it. It’s great for more distant connections with people I may or may not ever meet, but who say and write about interesting things.

Image via CrunchBase

Google Plus

Google Plus is the new player, but it brings in some of the best of both Twitter and Facebook. Yes, I can put my actual friends in circles and easily limit what I share with just them (so that’s a bit like Facebook, but more focused). No, not everyone I know on Facebook is on Google Plus (and may never be). Google Plus also lets me follow people I’ve never met who say interesting things, like Twitter, but it emphasizes longer posts and more detailed, threaded conversations — without forcing me to dance with privacy settings as on Facebook, and without assuming these people are actually my friends (even if they could be). In many respects, I’m finding that it challenges quick-blogging services like Posterous and Tumblr more than Facebook or LinkedIn. It does seem a potential threat to Twitter, which I am finding myself more and more viewing as a social link sharing service as opposed to a discussion mechanism (but it’s GREAT for that).

Summary

So, here it is in short form:

Facebook: real people, real sharing of personal (but not too personal) information. If you actually know me in “real life,” friend me. If not, go elsewhere. I share semi-personal stuff here (what I had for dinner and who made it).

LinkedIn: real people doing real business networking. If I’ve met you in a professional capacity, connect with me. If not, well, tell me why we can do business! I share only professional info here.

Twitter: on the Internet, no one knows if you’re a dog, but we do care if you have something interesting to share. If you do, follow me and I might follow you back. If you don’t, follow me and I won’t follow you back. I share thoughts and links here.

Google Plus: real people (for now) sharing what they found interesting today, including articles, thoughts, stories, and photos. If you actually know me, I might add you to my Friends circle; if not, but you are interesting, you’ll make Following. Please give me commentary with your links!

Maybe next week I’ll explain how I use carrier pigeons.

Related articles

• Google+ will be squeezed out of social world, says LinkedIn CEO – Computerworld (mbcalyn.wordpress.com)
• It’s Google Plus vs. Twitter, Not Facebook (scalableintimacy.com)
• Different social networks for different purposes (inpropriapersona.com)

At least at the University of California, San Diego, the process involves tech transfer officers — 6 for the life sciences, 3 for other kinds of technology, and 1 who does both — reviewing the research done at UCSD. They look for innovations that may be potentially turned into marketable intellectual property. According to Dr. Montisano, a life sciences tech transfer officer at UCSD, they do not “police faculty.” As a result, they sometimes do not learn of new technology until after publication, which immediately causes the loss of international patent rights, and puts U.S. patent rights on a 1-year timeline.

If they do manage to intercept the technology in time — either through researchers submitting it to them directly, or by discovering it after publication — they review the innovation, and may file a provisional patent application to preserve their rights (this allows publication). They then have a year to convert that to a full patent.

Once they have provisional protection in place, the office looks for a good licensee for the technology. They first put a description of the innovation on the UCSD web site, making it available to interested parties who may be seeking such technology. They also identify and actively target potential companies for licensing, focusing on those they know do work in the field and who may be interested in the technology.

The point, according to Dr. Montisano, is to get the technology out into the world through commercialization, not to make a fortune, and UCSD looks for licensees on this basis. Such a focus emphasizes the public nature of the university, and emphasizes the role of the tech transfer office as the buffer zone between private and public enterprise — they license innovations for money, but do so with a goal of benefitting the public.

Additionally, the distribution process also protects researchers from undue market influences. The university owns the invention, not the professor, or grad student, or research tech. 50% of the incoming money goes to the university as a whole, while the remaining 50% is split by the department between those who developed the invention and the department. Thus, even the incoming money is diluted and sifted, buffering the researchers themselves from direct contact with the commercial players.

More rules are in place when it comes to researchers profiting or being overly involved in the commercial enterprise while retaining their role at the university. A university researcher cannot be the executive of a licensee company nor a board member, but can sit on a scientific advisory board. Such a researcher can own shares in the company, though, suggesting at least one way for the market to more directly intrude on an individual academic. Nonetheless, to be full involved in directing a licensee, a researcher must leave the university and their post as an academic and fully enter the commercial world.

Finally, the office itself is insulated from the money involved. Although they bring in millions to the University of California, UCSD’s technology transfer office is funded entirely by the state. No funding comes through a percentage of license fees and no officer receives specific bonuses for signing deals. This emphasizes their focus on the public service of commercializing technology, rather than on their use as market-enablers.

Madey v. Duke

Even after Madey, many researchers continue to ignore patent protections, and continue their work as if they didn’t need to license technology. The result has been increasing claims by license-holders, and a growing sense by researchers that this is complicating their scientific pursuits and introducing extra costs and restrictions.

Universities, now large licensors themselves of new technology thanks to Bayh-Dole and technology transfer offices, have turned to, in the language of Professor Robin Feldman, “open transfer” agreements to lossen up these restrictions. Such agreements are added to agreements when universities license their technologies for industry to develop, and permit both the licensing university and any other nonprofit they allow to use the technology for education and research. This approach co-opts the mechanisms of the market, rather like open-source licensing does, to permit the continued free sharing and publishing in the academic community.

What do these clauses look like? In the case of the University of California, San Diego, Article 2.2 of the sample agreement for licensing captures this “open transfer” provision:

2.2 Reservation of Rights. UNIVERSITY reserves the right to:
(a) use the Invention, and Patent Rights for educational and research purposes;
(b) publish or otherwise disseminate any information about the Invention at any time; and
(c) allow other nonprofit institutions to use and publish or otherwise disseminate any information about Invention and Patent Rights for educational and research purposes.

Part (a) and (b) are relatively standard in all licensing agreements, commercial or not. Most industry licenses also permit the licensor to use their own technology. Part (c) is the interesting part, as it permits other nonprofit institutions to also use and even publish on the technology, provided it is for educational and research purposes. In other words, what the Federal Circuit has taken out of common law, university tech transfer offices have recreated through their own market-focused and neoliberal license agreements.

This approach suggests that, despite efforts to commercialize the “ivory tower,” there remain creative resistance that seeks to maintain the traditional values and benefits of an academic research environment.