FYI
[1]The Copyright Term Extension Act
of 1998 retroactively lengthened copyright by twenty years for books copyrighted
after January 1, 1923. Unfortunately, the copyright status of books published in
the twentieth century is complicated by legislation that has extended copyright
eleven times during the last fifty years. Until a congressional act of 1992,
rightsholders had to renew their copyrights. The 1992 act removed that
requirement for books published between 1964 and 1977, when, according to the
Copyright Act of 1976, their copyrights would last for the author's life plus
fifty years. The act of 1998 extended that protection to the author's life plus
seventy years. Therefore, all books published after 1963 remain in copyright,
and an unknown numberunknown owing to inadequate information about the deaths
of authors and the owners of copyrightpublished between 1923 and 1964 are also
protected by copyright. See Paul A. David and Jared Rubin, "Restricting Access
to Books on the Internet: Some Unanticipated Effects of U.S. Copyright
Legislation," Review of Economic Research on Copyright Issues, Vol. 5,
No. 1 (2008).
[2]The full text of the settlement
can be found at www.googlebooksettlement.com/agreement.html. For Google's legal notice concerning the settlement, see page 35 of
this issue of The New York Review.
>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>
Google & the Future of Books
How can we navigate through the information landscape that
is only beginning to come into view? The question is more urgent than ever
following the recent settlement between Google and the authors and publishers
who were suing it for alleged breach of copyright. For the last four years,
Google has been digitizing millions of books, including many covered by
copyright, from the collections of major research libraries, and making the
texts searchable online. The authors and publishers objected that digitizing
constituted a violation of their copyrights. After lengthy negotiations, the
plaintiffs and Google agreed on a settlement, which will have a profound effect
on the way books reach readers for the foreseeable future. What will that future
be?
No one knows, because the settlement is so complex that it
is difficult to perceive the legal and economic contours in the new lay of the
land. But those of us who are responsible for research libraries have a clear
view of a common goal: we want to open up our collections and make them
available to readers everywhere. How to get there? The only workable tactic may
be vigilance: see as far ahead as you can; and while you keep your eye on the
road, remember to look in the rearview mirror.
When I look backward, I fix my gaze on the
eighteenth century, the Enlightenment, its faith in the power of knowledge, and
the world of ideas in which it operatedwhat the enlightened referred to as the
Republic of Letters.
The eighteenth century imagined the Republic of Letters as a
realm with no police, no boundaries, and no inequalities other than those
determined by talent. Anyone could join it by exercising the two main attributes
of citizenship, writing and reading. Writers formulated ideas, and readers
judged them. Thanks to the power of the printed word, the judgments spread in
widening circles, and the strongest arguments won.
The word also spread by written letters, for the eighteenth
century was a great era of epistolary exchange. Read through the correspondence
of Voltaire, Rousseau, Franklin, and Jeffersoneach filling about fifty
volumesand you can watch the Republic of Letters in operation. All four writers
debated all the issues of their day in a steady stream of letters, which
crisscrossed Europe and America in a transatlantic information
network.
I especially enjoy the exchange of letters between Jefferson
and Madison. They discussed everything, notably the American Constitution, which
Madison was helping to write in Philadelphia while Jefferson was representing
the new republic in Paris. They often wrote about books, for Jefferson loved to
haunt the bookshops in the capital of the Republic of Letters, and he frequently
bought books for his friend. The purchases included Diderot's
Encyclopédie, which Jefferson thought that he had got at a bargain price,
although he had mistaken a reprint for a first edition.
Two future presidents discussing books through the
information network of the Enlightenmentit's a stirring sight. But before this
picture of the past fogs over with sentiment, I should add that the Republic of
Letters was democratic only in principle. In practice, it was dominated by the
wellborn and the rich. Far from being able to live from their pens, most writers
had to court patrons, solicit sinecures, lobby for appointments to
state-controlled journals, dodge censors, and wangle their way into salons and
academies, where reputations were made. While suffering indignities at the hands
of their social superiors, they turned on one another. The quarrel between
Voltaire and Rousseau illustrates their temper. After reading Rousseau's
Discourse on the Origins of Inequality in 1755, Voltaire wrote to him, "I
have received, Monsieur, your new book against the human race.... It makes one
desire to go down on all fours." Five years later, Rousseau wrote to Voltaire.
"Monsieur,...I hate you."
The personal conflicts were compounded by social
distinctions. Far from functioning like an egalitarian agora, the Republic of
Letters suffered from the same disease that ate through all societies in the
eighteenth century: privilege. Privileges were not limited to aristocrats. In
France, they applied to everything in the world of letters, including printing
and the book trade, which were dominated by exclusive guilds, and the books
themselves, which could not appear legally without a royal privilege and a
censor's approbation, printed in full in their text.
One way to understand this system is to draw on the
sociology of knowledge, notably Pierre Bourdieu's notion of literature as a
power field composed of contending positions within the rules of a game that
itself is subordinate to the dominating forces of society at large. But one
needn't subscribe to Bourdieu's school of sociology in order to acknowledge the
connections between literature and power. Seen from the perspective of the
players, the realities of literary life contradicted the lofty ideals of the
Enlightenment. Despite its principles, the Republic of Letters, as it actually
operated, was a closed world, inaccessible to the underprivileged. Yet I want to
invoke the Enlightenment in an argument for openness in general and for open
access in particular.
If we turn from the eighteenth century to the
present, do we see a similar contradiction between principle and practiceright
here in the world of research libraries? One of my colleagues is a quiet,
diminutive lady, who might call up the notion of Marion the Librarian. When she
meets people at parties and identifies herself, they sometimes say
condescendingly, "A librarian, how nice. Tell me, what is it like to be a
librarian?" She replies, "Essentially, it is all about money and
power."
We are back with Pierre Bourdieu. Yet most of us would
subscribe to the principles inscribed in prominent places in our public
libraries. "Free To All," it says above the main entrance to the Boston Public
Library; and in the words of Thomas Jefferson, carved in gold letters on the
wall of the Trustees' Room of the New York Public Library: "I look to the
diffusion of light and education as the resource most to be relied on for
ameliorating the condition promoting the virtue and advancing the happiness of
man." We are back with the Enlightenment.
Our republic was founded on faith in the central principle
of the eighteenth-century Republic of Letters: the diffusion of light. For
Jefferson, enlightenment took place by means of writers and readers, books and
librariesespecially libraries, at Monticello, the University of Virginia, and
the Library of Congress. This faith is embodied in the United States
Constitution. Article 1, Section 8, establishes copyright and patents "for
limited times" only and subject to the higher purpose of promoting "the progress
of science and useful arts." The Founding Fathers acknowledged authors' rights
to a fair return on their intellectual labor, but they put public welfare before
private profit.
How to calculate the relative importance of those two
values? As the authors of the Constitution knew, copyright was created in Great
Britain by the Statute of Anne in 1710 for the purpose of curbing the
monopolistic practices of the London Stationers' Company and also, as its title
proclaimed, "for the encouragement of learning." At that time, Parliament set
the length of copyright at fourteen years, renewable only once. The Stationers
attempted to defend their monopoly of publishing and the book trade by arguing
for perpetual copyright in a long series of court cases. But they lost in the
definitive ruling of Donaldson v. Becket in 1774.
When the Americans gathered to draft a constitution thirteen
years later, they generally favored the view that had predominated in Britain.
Twenty-eight years seemed long enough to protect the interests of authors and
publishers. Beyond that limit, the interest of the public should prevail. In
1790, the first copyright actalso dedicated to "the encouragement of
learning"followed British practice by adopting a limit of fourteen years
renewable for another fourteen.
How long does copyright extend today? According to the Sonny
Bono Copyright Term Extension Act of 1998 (also known as "the Mickey Mouse
Protection Act," because Mickey was about to fall into the public domain), it
lasts as long as the life of the author plus seventy years. In practice, that
normally would mean more than a century. Most books published in the twentieth
century have not yet entered the public domain. When it comes to digitization,
access to our cultural heritage generally ends on January 1, 1923, the date from
which great numbers of books are subject to copyright laws. It will remain
thereunless private interests take over the digitizing, package it for
consumers, tie the packages up by means of legal deals, and sell them for the
profit of the shareholders. As things stand now, for example, Sinclair Lewis's
Babbitt, published in 1922, is in the public domain, whereas Lewis's
Elmer Gantry, published in 1927, will not enter the public domain until
2022.[1]
To descend from the high principles of the Founding Fathers
to the practices of the cultural industries today is to leave the realm of
Enlightenment for the hurly-burly of corporate capitalism. If we turned the
sociology of knowledge onto the presentas Bourdieu himself didwe would see
that we live in a world designed by Mickey Mouse, red in tooth and
claw.
Does this kind of reality check make the
principles of Enlightenment look like a historical fantasy? Let's reconsider the
history. As the Enlightenment faded in the early nineteenth century,
professionalization set in. You can follow the process by comparing the
Encyclopédie of Diderot, which organized knowledge into an organic whole
dominated by the faculty of reason, with its successor from the end of the
eighteenth century, the Encyclopédie méthodique, which divided knowledge
into fields that we can recognize today: chemistry, physics, history,
mathematics, and the rest. In the nineteenth century, those fields turned into
professions, certified by Ph.D.s and guarded by professional associations. They
metamorphosed into departments of universities, and by the twentieth century
they had left their mark on campuseschemistry housed in this building, physics
in that one, history here, mathematics there, and at the center of it all, a
library, usually designed to look like a temple of learning.
Along the way, professional journals sprouted throughout the
fields, subfields, and sub-subfields. The learned societies produced them, and
the libraries bought them. This system worked well for about a hundred years.
Then commercial publishers discovered that they could make a fortune by selling
subscriptions to the journals. Once a university library subscribed, the
students and professors came to expect an uninterrupted flow of issues. The
price could be ratcheted up without causing cancellations, because the libraries
paid for the subscriptions and the professors did not. Best of all, the
professors provided free or nearly free labor. They wrote the articles, refereed
submissions, and served on editorial boards, partly to spread knowledge in the
Enlightenment fashion, but mainly to advance their own careers.
The result stands out on the acquisitions budget of every
research library: the Journal of Comparative Neurology now costs $25,910
for a year's subscription; Tetrahedron costs $17,969 (or $39,739, if
bundled with related publications as a Tetrahedron package); the average
price of a chemistry journal is $3,490; and the ripple effects have damaged
intellectual life throughout the world of learning. Owing to the skyrocketing
cost of serials, libraries that used to spend 50 percent of their acquisitions
budget on monographs now spend 25 percent or less. University presses, which
depend on sales to libraries, cannot cover their costs by publishing monographs.
And young scholars who depend on publishing to advance their careers are now in
danger of perishing.
Fortunately, this picture of the hard facts of life in the
world of learning is already going out of date. Biologists, chemists, and
physicists no longer live in separate worlds; nor do historians,
anthropologists, and literary scholars. The old map of the campus no longer
corresponds to the activities of the professors and students. It is being
redrawn everywhere, and in many places the interdisciplinary designs are turning
into structures. The library remains at the heart of things, but it pumps
nutrition throughout the university, and often to the farthest reaches of
cyberspace, by means of electronic networks.
The eighteenth-century Republic of Letters had been
transformed into a professional Republic of Learning, and it is now open to
amateursamateurs in the best sense of the word, lovers of learning among the
general citizenry. Openness is operating everywhere, thanks to "open access"
repositories of digitized articles available free of charge, the Open Content
Alliance, the Open Knowledge Commons, OpenCourseWare, the Internet Archive, and
openly amateur enterprises like Wikipedia. The democratization of knowledge now
seems to be at our fingertips. We can make the Enlightenment ideal come to life
in reality.
At this point, you may suspect that I have
swung from one American genre, the jeremiad, to another, utopian enthusiasm. It
might be possible, I suppose, for the two to work together as a dialectic, were
it not for the danger of commercialization. When businesses like Google look at
libraries, they do not merely see temples of learning. They see potential assets
or what they call "content," ready to be mined. Built up over centuries at an
enormous expenditure of money and labor, library collections can be digitized en
masse at relatively little costmillions of dollars, certainly, but little
compared to the investment that went into them.
Libraries exist to promote a public good: "the encouragement
of learning," learning "Free To All." Businesses exist in order to make money
for their shareholdersand a good thing, too, for the public good depends on a
profitable economy. Yet if we permit the commercialization of the content of our
libraries, there is no getting around a fundamental contradiction. To digitize
collections and sell the product in ways that fail to guarantee wide access
would be to repeat the mistake that was made when publishers exploited the
market for scholarly journals, but on a much greater scale, for it would turn
the Internet into an instrument for privatizing knowledge that belongs in the
public sphere. No invisible hand would intervene to correct the imbalance
between the private and the public welfare. Only the public can do that, but who
speaks for the public? Not the legislators of the Mickey Mouse Protection
Act.
You cannot legislate Enlightenment, but you can set rules of
the game to protect the public interest. Libraries represent the public good.
They are not businesses, but they must cover their costs. They need a business
plan. Think of the old motto of Con Edison when it had to tear up New York's
streets in order to get at the infrastructure beneath them: "Dig we must."
Libraries say, "Digitize we must." But not on any terms. We must do it in the
interest of the public, and that means holding the digitizers responsible to the
citizenry.
It would be naive to identify the Internet with the
Enlightenment. It has the potential to diffuse knowledge beyond anything
imagined by Jefferson; but while it was being constructed, link by hyperlink,
commercial interests did not sit idly on the sidelines. They want to control the
game, to take it over, to own it. They compete among themselves, of course, but
so ferociously that they kill each other off. Their struggle for survival is
leading toward an oligopoly; and whoever may win, the victory could mean a
defeat for the public good.
Don't get me wrong. I know that businesses must be
responsible to shareholders. I believe that authors are entitled to payment for
their creative labor and that publishers deserve to make money from the value
they add to the texts supplied by authors. I admire the wizardry of hardware,
software, search engines, digitization, and algorithmic relevance ranking. I
acknowledge the importance of copyright, although I think that Congress got it
better in 1790 than in 1998.
But we, too, cannot sit on the sidelines, as if the market
forces can be trusted to operate for the public good. We need to get engaged, to
mix it up, and to win back the public's rightful domain. When I say "we," I mean
we the people, we who created the Constitution and who should make the
Enlightenment principles behind it inform the everyday realities of the
information society. Yes, we must digitize. But more important, we must
democratize. We must open access to our cultural heritage. How? By rewriting the
rules of the game, by subordinating private interests to the public good, and by
taking inspiration from the early republic in order to create a Digital Republic
of Learning.
What provoked these jeremianic- utopian
reflections? Google. Four years ago, Google began digitizing books from research
libraries, providing full-text searching and making books in the public domain
available on the Internet at no cost to the viewer. For example, it is now
possible for anyone, anywhere to view and download a digital copy of the 1871
first edition of Middlemarch that is in the collection of the Bodleian
Library at Oxford. Everyone profited, including Google, which collected revenue
from some discreet advertising attached to the service, Google Book Search.
Google also digitized an ever-increasing number of library books that were
protected by copyright in order to provide search services that displayed small
snippets of the text. In September and October 2005, a group of authors and
publishers brought a class action suit against Google, alleging violation of
copyright. Last October 28, after lengthy negotiations, the opposing parties
announced agreement on a settlement, which is subject to approval by the US
District Court for the Southern District of New York.[2]
The settlement creates an enterprise known as the Book
Rights Registry to represent the interests of the copyright holders. Google will
sell access to a gigantic data bank composed primarily of copyrighted,
out-of-print books digitized from the research libraries. Colleges,
universities, and other organizations will be able to subscribe by paying for an
"institutional license" providing access to the data bank. A "public access
license" will make this material available to public libraries, where Google
will provide free viewing of the digitized books on one computer terminal. And
individuals also will be able to access and print out digitized versions of the
books by purchasing a "consumer license" from Google, which will cooperate with
the registry for the distribution of all the revenue to copyright holders.
Google will retain 37 percent, and the registry will distribute 63 percent among
the rightsholders.
Meanwhile, Google will continue to make books in the public
domain available for users to read, download, and print, free of charge. Of the
seven million books that Google reportedly had digitized by November 2008, one
million are works in the public domain; one million are in copyright and in
print; and five million are in copyright but out of print. It is this last
category that will furnish the bulk of the books to be made available through
the institutional license.
Many of the in-copyright and in-print books will not be
available in the data bank unless the copyright owners opt to include them. They
will continue to be sold in the normal fashion as printed books and also could
be marketed to individual customers as digitized copies, accessible through the
consumer license for downloading and reading, perhaps eventually on e-book
readers such as Amazon's Kindle.
After reading the settlement and letting its
terms sink inno easy task, as it runs to 134 pages and 15 appendices of
legaleseone is likely to be dumbfounded: here is a proposal that could result
in the world's largest library. It would, to be sure, be a digital library, but
it could dwarf the Library of Congress and all the national libraries of Europe.
Moreover, in pursuing the terms of the settlement with the authors and
publishers, Google could also become the world's largest book businessnot a
chain of stores but an electronic supply service that could out-Amazon
Amazon.
An enterprise on such a scale is bound to elicit reactions
of the two kinds that I have been discussing: on the one hand, utopian
enthusiasm; on the other, jeremiads about the danger of concentrating power to
control access to information.
Who could not be moved by the prospect of bringing virtually
all the books from America's greatest research libraries within the reach of all
Americans, and perhaps eventually to everyone in the world with access to the
Internet? Not only will Google's technological wizardry bring books to readers,
it will also open up extraordinary opportunities for research, a whole gamut of
possibilities from straightforward word searches to complex text mining. Under
certain conditions, the participating libraries will be able to use the
digitized copies of their books to create replacements for books that have been
damaged or lost. Google will engineer the texts in ways to help readers with
disabilities.
Unfortunately, Google's commitment to provide free access to
its database on one terminal in every public library is hedged with
restrictions: readers will not be able to print out any copyrighted text without
paying a fee to the copyright holders (though Google has offered to pay them at
the outset); and a single terminal will hardly satisfy the demand in large
libraries. But Google's generosity will be a boon to the small-town,
Carnegie-library readers, who will have access to more books than are currently
available in the New York Public Library. Google can make the Enlightenment
dream come true.
But will it? The eighteenth-century philosophers saw
monopoly as a main obstacle to the diffusion of knowledge not merely monopolies
in general, which stifled trade according to Adam Smith and the Physiocrats, but
specific monopolies such as the Stationers' Company in London and the
booksellers' guild in Paris, which choked off free trade in books.
Google is not a guild, and it did not set out to create a
monopoly. On the contrary, it has pursued a laudable goal: promoting access to
information. But the class action character of the settlement makes Google
invulnerable to competition. Most book authors and publishers who own US
copyrights are automatically covered by the settlement. They can opt out of it;
but whatever they do, no new digitizing enterprise can get off the ground
without winning their assent one by one, a practical impossibility, or without
becoming mired down in another class action suit. If approved by the courta
process that could take as much as two yearsthe settlement will give Google
control over the digitizing of virtually all books covered by copyright in the
United States.
This outcome was not anticipated at the outset. Looking back
over the course of digitization from the 1990s, we now can see that we missed a
great opportunity. Action by Congress and the Library of Congress or a grand
alliance of research libraries supported by a coalition of foundations could
have done the job at a feasible cost and designed it in a manner that would have
put the public interest first. By spreading the cost in various waysa rental
based on the amount of use of a database or a budget line in the National
Endowment for the Humanities or the Library of Congresswe could have provided
authors and publishers with a legitimate income, while maintaining an open
access repository or one in which access was based on reasonable fees. We could
have created a National Digital Librarythe twenty-first-century equivalent of
the Library of Alexandria. It is too late now. Not only have we failed to
realize that possibility, but, even worse, we are allowing a question of public
policythe control of access to informationto be determined by private
lawsuit.
While the public authorities slept, Google took the
initiative. It did not seek to settle its affairs in court. It went about its
business, scanning books in libraries; and it scanned them so effectively as to
arouse the appetite of others for a share in the potential profits. No one
should dispute the claim of authors and publishers to income from rights that
properly belong to them; nor should anyone presume to pass quick judgment on the
contending parties of the lawsuit. The district court judge will pronounce on
the validity of the settlement, but that is primarily a matter of dividing
profits, not of promoting the public interest.
As an unintended consequence, Google will
enjoy what can only be called a monopolya monopoly of a new kind, not of
railroads or steel but of access to information. Google has no serious
competitors. Microsoft dropped its major program to digitize books several
months ago, and other enterprises like the Open Knowledge Commons (formerly the
Open Content Alliance) and the Internet Archive are minute and ineffective in
comparison with Google. Google alone has the wealth to digitize on a massive
scale. And having settled with the authors and publishers, it can exploit its
financial power from within a protective legal barrier; for the class action
suit covers the entire class of authors and publishers. No new entrepreneurs
will be able to digitize books within that fenced-off territory, even if they
could afford it, because they would have to fight the copyright battles all over
again. If the settlement is upheld by the court, only Google will be protected
from copyright liability.
Google's record suggests that it will not abuse its
double-barreled fiscal-legal power. But what will happen if its current leaders
sell the company or retire? The public will discover the answer from the prices
that the future Google charges, especially the price of the institutional
subscription licenses. The settlement leaves Google free to negotiate deals with
each of its clients, although it announces two guiding principles: "(1) the
realization of revenue at market rates for each Book and license on behalf of
the Rightsholders and (2) the realization of broad access to the Books by the
public, including institutions of higher education."
What will happen if Google favors profitability over access?
Nothing, if I read the terms of the settlement correctly. Only the registry,
acting for the copyright holders, has the power to force a change in the
subscription prices charged by Google, and there is no reason to expect the
registry to object if the prices are too high. Google may choose to be generous
in it pricing, and I have reason to hope it may do so; but it could also employ
a strategy comparable to the one that proved to be so effective in pushing up
the price of scholarly journals: first, entice subscribers with low initial
rates, and then, once they are hooked, ratchet up the rates as high as the
traffic will bear.
Free-market advocates may argue that the market will correct
itself. If Google charges too much, customers will cancel their subscriptions,
and the price will drop. But there is no direct connection between supply and
demand in the mechanism for the institutional licenses envisioned by the
settlement. Students, faculty, and patrons of public libraries will not pay for
the subscriptions. The payment will come from the libraries; and if the
libraries fail to find enough money for the subscription renewals, they may
arouse ferocious protests from readers who have become accustomed to Google's
service. In the face of the protests, the libraries probably will cut back on
other services, including the acquisition of books, just as they did when
publishers ratcheted up the price of periodicals.
No one can predict what will happen. We can only read the
terms of the settlement and guess about the future. If Google makes available,
at a reasonable price, the combined holdings of all the major US libraries, who
would not applaud? Would we not prefer a world in which this immense corpus of
digitized books is accessible, even at a high price, to one in which it did not
exist?
Perhaps, but the settlement creates a fundamental change in
the digital world by consolidating power in the hands of one company. Apart from
Wikipedia, Google already controls the means of access to information online for
most Americans, whether they want to find out about people, goods, places, or
almost anything. In addition to the original "Big Google," we have Google Earth,
Google Maps, Google Images, Google Labs, Google Finance, Google Arts, Google
Food, Google Sports, Google Health, Google Checkout, Google Alerts, and many
more Google enterprises on the way. Now Google Book Search promises to create
the largest library and the largest book business that have ever
existed.
Whether or not I have understood the settlement correctly,
its terms are locked together so tightly that they cannot be pried apart. At
this point, neither Google, nor the authors, nor the publishers, nor the
district court is likely to modify the settlement substantially. Yet this is
also a tipping point in the development of what we call the information society.
If we get the balance wrong at this moment, private interests may outweigh the
public good for the foreseeable future, and the Enlightenment dream may be as
elusive as ever.
Notes
[1]The Copyright Term Extension Act
of 1998 retroactively lengthened copyright by twenty years for books copyrighted
after January 1, 1923. Unfortunately, the copyright status of books published in
the twentieth century is complicated by legislation that has extended copyright
eleven times during the last fifty years. Until a congressional act of 1992,
rightsholders had to renew their copyrights. The 1992 act removed that
requirement for books published between 1964 and 1977, when, according to the
Copyright Act of 1976, their copyrights would last for the author's life plus
fifty years. The act of 1998 extended that protection to the author's life plus
seventy years. Therefore, all books published after 1963 remain in copyright,
and an unknown numberunknown owing to inadequate information about the deaths
of authors and the owners of copyrightpublished between 1923 and 1964 are also
protected by copyright. See Paul A. David and Jared Rubin, "Restricting Access
to Books on the Internet: Some Unanticipated Effects of U.S. Copyright
Legislation," Review of Economic Research on Copyright Issues, Vol. 5,
No. 1 (2008).
[2]The full text of the settlement
can be found at www.googlebooksettlement.com/agreement.html. For Google's legal notice concerning the settlement, see page 35 of
this issue of The New York Review.
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