According to Plato (in Phaedrus) when Hermes, the alleged inventor of writing, presented

his invention to the Pharaoh Thamus, he praised his new technique that was supposed to

allow human beings to remember what they would otherwise forget. But the Pharaoh was

not so satisfied. "My skillful Theut, he said, memory is a great gift that ought to be kept

alive by training it continuously. With your invention people will not be obliged any

longer to train memory. They will remember things not because of an internal effort, but

by mere virtue of an external device."

We can understand the preoccupation of the Pharaoh. Writing, as any other new

technological device, would have made torpid the human power which it substituted and

reinforced - just as cars made us less able to walk. Writing was dangerous because it

decreased the powers of mind by offering human beings a petrified soul, a caricature of

mind, a mineral memory.

Plato's text is ironical, naturally. Plato was writing his argument against writing. But he

was pretending that his discourse was told by Socrates, who did not write (since he did

not publish, he perished in the course of his academic fight.)

Nowadays, nobody shares these preoccupations, for two very simple reasons. First of

all, we know that books are not ways of making somebody else think in our place; on

the contrary they are machines that provoke further thoughts. Only after the invention

of writing was it possible to write such a masterpiece on spontaneous memory as Proust's

La Recherche du Temps Perdu.

Secondly, if once upon a time people needed to train their memory in order to remember

things, after the invention of writing they had also to train their memory in order to

remember books. Books challenge and improve memory; they do not narcotize it.

However, the Pharaoh was instantiating an eternal fear: the fear that a new technological

achievement could abolish or destroy something that we consider precious, fruitful,

something that represents for us a value in itself, and a deeply spiritual one.

It was as if the Pharaoh pointed first to the written surface and then to an ideal image

of human memory, saying: "This will kill that."

More than one thousand years later Victor Hugo in his Notre Dame de Paris, shows us a

priest, Claude Frollo, pointing his finger first to a book, then to the towers and to the

images of his beloved cathedral, and saying "ceci tuera cela", this will kill that. (The book

will kill the cathedral, alphabet will kill images).

The story of Notre Dame de Paris takes place in the XVth century, a little later than the

invention of printing. Before that, manuscripts were reserved to a restricted elite of literate

persons, but the only means to teach the masses about the stories of the Bible, the life of

Christ and of the Saints, the moral principles, even the deeds of the national history or the

most elementary notions of geography and natural sciences (the nature of unknown

peoples and the virtues of herbs or stones), was provided by the images of the cathedral.

A medieval cathedral was a sort of permanent and unchangeable TV program that was

supposed to tell people everything indispensable for their everyday lives as well as for

their eternal salvation. The book would have distracted people from their most important

values, encouraging unnecessary information, free interpretation of the Scriptures, insane

curiosity.

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