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Papyrus is an interesting material. It was one of the scant few plant-based paper products in the ancient world, and, when it wasn't being used to compose such lofty things as epic poems and bills of sale on particularly cranky mules, it served a wide variety of non-literary purposes. Papyrus was (and still is) used in numerous genres: corpse preservation, haberdashery, roofing, netting, baskets, rope, and mats, just to name a few. It's an incredibly versatile plant, but when historians attempt to explain the shift away from papyrus scrolls to codices made with parchment (a paper product made predominantly from goat and sheep skins), they tend to emphasize how brittle it is, how susceptible to moisture and aridity, how rough its surface is, and how generally unwieldly the long strips used to make scrolls were.
Most of the papyrus in the ancient world came from Egypt, so it's not exactly a shocker to discover that one of the biggest finds in the history of papyrology took place in Oxyrhynchus, a town in southern Egypt named after the species of fish said to have eaten Osiris's wiener. Along with Herculaneum in the shadow of Mt. Vesuvius, it is the source of the vast preponderance of papyrus fragments that exist and likewise of most discoveries of "new" classical texts, which may seem like an oxymoron (har har). What I mean is texts we knew probably existed at some point but for which there were no surviving copies, like Sophocles' Ichneutae, which has the dubious distinction of being one of the most peculiar satyr plays in existence. It is neither particularly bawdy nor particularly funny. Sophocles always was a bit of a downer. Surely, several individuals at our fine university could talk your ear off about all this (they're on the second floor of Angell Hall--no, not the philosophers...), but I wish to address something a little more pertinent to this blog, their digital afterlives.
While I have in the past taken issue with the "sky is falling" rhetoric of the digitizers (I mean no disrespect; some of my best friends are digitizers, which I realize reads just like "some of my best friends are black"), in the case of ancient papyrus it truly is apt. William Biers, a professor of Colleen's from the University of Missouri (our mutual alma mater), often tells the story of a dig some graduate student participated in where he was carrying an amphora full of papyrus scrolls. He, the graduate student, dropped the amphora, and when it hit the ground, the texts shattered soundlessly into a pile of dust. Whoops, sorry history; our bad. So when optical scanning came on the scene as a genuine means of digitally preserving documents, papyrus was one of the first things subjected to it. Alas, we may lose the papyrus, but we'll always have Paris... err, the image!
WRONG! The problem with papyrus is not only do you have to know dialects of ancient languages most people have never even heard of, the script on a significant number of scraps is barely legible to the naked eye, and magnification was often hardly of any assistance. One of the feats digitization did permit, however, was the ability to run the images of the fragments through various after effects processes, like photoshop filters, to up the contrast and to improve legibility in ways not possible with just the document itself. But it was with the development of high intensity x-ray scanning that legibility of ancient documents improved immensely, not just in terms of reading the "visible" text but also palimpsest, text scraped away so the paper could be re-used.
In terms of relative purchasing power, books have never been cheaper, so it is perhaps hard for us to imagine that you'd want to reuse a book; we just recycle or throw them away. But re-using a physical document is not merely limited to wiping away what it was and making something new of it. Sometimes, texts are already inscribed with more than we can see, and it is incumbent on us not to be so arrogant to think we know all that it is and can be. As the more recent x-ray scanning demonstrates, it is important to keep those ancient things with us, so that we might return to them, so that we might see them again with what we have learned. Traianos was fond of opening public lectures with the claim that most papyrus fragments are boring, are receipts, are tallies, are well-deserving of returning to the rubbish heaps of Oxyrhynchus where they were found. In a way he was right, but in a way he was also very wrong.
