Why It Matters

Brothers Thaddeus and Thomas sat side by side at their copy desks in the scriptorium, the feathers of their long quills scratching audibly against stiff parchment. Their fellow monks chanted faintly in the distance while the two brothers labored, trying to meet the quickly approaching deadline set by a wealthy townsman for a copy of Piers Plowman. Thomas placed his quill into his inkwell and shook his hand in the air.

“Another cramp?” Thaddeus asked.

“Verily,” replied Thomas.

“Take solace, Brother Thomas, for we won’t labor thusly much longer.”

“How might that be, for I count eleven pages yet to copy.”

This declaration brought forth Brother Thaddeus’s hearty laugh, the one that signaled either joyousness or derision, Thomas could not discern which. Perhaps his brother’s jiggling belly contained both, much like the Savior was both God and human. “These eleven pages remain our burden to bear, Thomas, this is true. I refer only to Herr Gutenberg’s brilliant invention.”

Brother Thomas had no idea to what his fellow copyist referred, as unlike Thaddeus he never left the remote abbey at which he remained cloistered nearly as long as he could remember. Thaddeus, on the other hand, found himself in the nearby town weekly, where he exchanged the monk’s laborious products–their ale and their handwritten books and manuscripts–for the meager income that supported the brothers. Thomas never asked Thaddeus whether he dawdled during these excursions, for worldly matters were of no interest to him. Besides, he didn’t have to: Thaddeus always swayed visibly as he led the abbey’s mule back up the narrow drive, and his loosened tongue inevitably slurred the secular gossip shared with him by the tavern keeper and other merchants.

“Gutenberg’s machine? Why, it is only the most consequential invention since the wheel. Mark my words: This will change everything,” Thaddeus declared.

“And what does this magical device purport to do?”

“What does it do? Why, Brother Thomas, it does the work of you, me, and every copyist in this scriptorium in a fraction of the time and with complete accuracy. Imagine hundreds of copies of this–” and here he waved his hand over the Plowman pages atop his desk “–this trash, or better: Imagine hundreds of copies of the Holy Scripture reproduced precisely and in no more time than it takes malt to ferment.”

Now it was Brother Thomas’s turn to laugh. “Indeed, that would be a fantastic machine, but such a feat is impossible.”

“Far from it, for as you know all things are possible through the Lord. I have seen this wondrous machine with mine own eyes. It is called a ‘printing press,’ and as the wine press squeezes the sweet juice from the grape Gutenberg’s device impresses words upon the page.”

“Oh, you are having a bit of fun at my expense,” Thomas said.

“No, indeed,” Thaddeus replied. He waved his ink-stained hand around the cavernous room. “Someday they will stretch a rope across yon doorway and one of our brothers will lead the townspeople to that very spot. ‘This is how books used to be made,’ he will tell them, and the good people will marvel at their primitive past. And here’s the most remarkable thing: This will transpire within our lifetimes.”

“This is nonsense you speak,” said Thomas. “While you are engaging in flights of fancy why not imagine machines that chant? Machines that make ale!”

“Verily, that day, too, will come.”

The two stared at each other, Thomas’s smile slowly fading as he looked upon Thaddeus’s stoic countenance. “You–you are not joking.”

“Nay,” Thaddeus said. “I have seen this wondrous machine. It is the future.”

“But what about us?”

“What about us?”

“What shall we do?”

“That is the beauty of automation, brother. Liberated from the drudgery of our labor, imagine the time we shall have for more meaningful endeavors!” Thaddeus exclaimed, his eyes wild with possibility.

“But our work supports the abbey. Without this income how will we sustain ourselves?”

“With new work, of course. Better work. Meaningful work. Jobs that we cannot yet imagine.”

“But what if no one will pay us for these labors? How then will we eat?” Thomas asked, his hands clinched tightly before him.

Thaddeus considered his fellow monk with a long, silent stare, and then with a sigh he said, “Thomas, you just don’t get it.”

“On the contrary, my brother, it is you who does not understand,” Thomas replied. “People will not pay for books and manuscripts printed by soulless machines. They want to see in their purchases the hands of the craftsmen who made them: the beautiful illuminations of Brother Malachi, the playful marginalia of Brothers Rowan and Martin. Even your own unique kerning imbues our pages with humanity, pages that otherwise would be no more than cemeteries littered with lifeless words.”

Thaddeus shrugged. “Nobody cares about any of that. Cost, availability, and time to market–these are the things that matter, and we cannot compete. Just look at the two of us struggling to complete this hopeless backlog in days when a printing press could do so in minutes. You are living in the past, my brother. This is the 15th century! We’re living in a fantastic future where change comes quickly! We either move with it or it rolls over us like the latest in oxcarts.”

“We simply need more copyists,” Thomas said. “That will solve our problem.”

“Yes, and bring with it a host of new ones. How will we feed and clothe these new additions to our order on the same income we earn now? No, we must embrace change and rejoice, for with it most certainly comes a future filled with less drudgery and more meaningful work.”

“But I like my job.”

“And I would like a cassock made from a material that won’t scratch my trinity, but we don’t always get what we want,” Thaddeus smirked.

Brother Thaddeus’s prediction proved true: People did indeed prefer fast and affordable to slow and expensive. Beauty and craftsmanship never even factored into the equation. The printing press quickly decimated the copyist industry.

But Brother Thomas was correct, too. The loss of income was more that the little abbey could absorb, and soon enough it was deconsecrated and turned into an exclusive resort named “Script by Marriott,” where the nearby town’s wealthy merchants paid to relax by the reflecting pool while reading their printed books.

As for those new meaningful jobs: The chanting monks performed two shows per day in the old scriptorium, now called The Brothers’ Showroom, for whatever coppers the merchants threw at their feet. The brewery added two shifts to keep up with the drunken tourists. Unfortunately, a multinational conglomerate purchased the rights to the monks’ ale, so those former brothers labored for no more than flat salaries.

Brother Thaddeus changed his name to Tad and took a job as the resort’s head bellman. Twenty-four hours per day, seven days per week Tad was on call in the event that a guest needed fresh towels, room service, or just wanted to complain about the drafty old building. Tips were considered part of his total compensation, but they were few and far between. The tavern keeper and other merchants usually stiffed their old drinking buddy.

Brother Thomas found himself in a hospitality industry service job, too: His exquisite calligraphy was put to good use signing visitors into the leather-bound guest register that graced the resort’s front desk. This was the only book on the premises not printed upon Gutenberg’s contraption.

This event marked the last time in human history that a new invention resulted in the displacement of skilled workers who subsequently found themselves working at lower paying, soul-crushing jobs just to get by.

And it was good. Amen.