What to do with vast amounts of information

One of the things I have been thinking about as I prepare to start up my project is how to best organise the vast amounts of data I will need to use. Some of this data will come “ready-made” – already packaged and organised by various commercial and public vendors of data.  Here I am thinking about company accounts and various other financial and corporate data.  Some of this information will have to be gleaned from old and contemporary newspapers and magazines, a great deal of which won’t even be digitised (or in English).  Some of this stuff will have to come from old-school grant in the archives (and since I happily and unabashedly fetishise archives, this will be FUN).  Some will come from the vast online ocean of data regularly emitted by the agencies of the US Government.  And then, there will be ethnographic materials, and long open-ended, unstructured interviews, fieldwork, and site visits…

I am not yet sure how I am going to organise all of this.  I assume I will need to create a relational database of a sort.  But what software to use here?  And once it is constructed, how do I make sure I am not swallowed up by the data – either by its sheer volume or by the strange and perverse attraction of numbers?

The blog, Sapping Attention, has long been a home for thinking through the problems of digital humanities.  The reason I really like this blog – and its ruminations – is threefold.  First, it has to do with whaling ships.  As you have probably figured out, I am now obsessing a bit with ships, and given my slightly hysterical and quasi-religious love of Moby Dick, a complete fascination (wholly non-instrumental) in whaling ships.  And Sapping attention deals with whaling data!  Woohoo!  Second, the author is at once very technically proficient and sufficiently confident enough not to have the slight inferiority complex so many social scientists seem to have towards their more mathematically rigour-minded colleagues in the natural sciences.   Third, the author is a historian who thinks about sources and the making of sources; he writes

We need to rejuvenate three traditional practices: first, a source criticism that explains what’s in the data; second, a hermeneutics that lets us read data into a meaningful form; and third, situated argumentation that ties the data in to live questions in their field.

As a first step, how can you not love a person in digital humanities whose admonishment faintly echoes this wonderful passage by Michel-Rolph Trouillot in Silencing the Past:

Silences enter the process of historical production at four crucial moments: the moment of fact creation (the making of sources); the moment of fact assembly (the making of archives); the moment of fact retrieval (the making of narratives); and the moment of retrospective significance (the making of history in the first instance) (p. 26).

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“It is not down in any map; true places never are.”

Before starting any project, I like to self-saturate with novels about a subject.   It is one of the greatest pleasures of learning something entirely new, and it is a way to get a sense of the texture and richness of a place or a subject in ways that scholarly writing very rarely can convey.  The pleasure of being a total novice on the scholarship of shipping and ports is that one gets to read maritime novels, novels about pirates and ports, and one gets to read Melville…

I am a bit obsessed with Melville.  I came to his Moby Dick quite late, having tried it and failed when I was younger. I console myself by telling myself that one has to be older to understand the extraordinary humour of the book, its vastness, its generosity, its messy, sprawling grandeur.  I think the book’s great admirer, CLR James, correctly sees Moby Dick as the visionary parable about capitalism, and as a reading of the rebellious and wise seamen aboard the ship.   Others see it as a more existential novel.  It is those two things and so much more.  I love the comical sketch of the “insulated Quakerish Nantucketers”, Bildad and Peleg.   I love how Moby Dick upsets the certainties of racialisation (just look at the loving portrait of Queequeg; the generosity and courage of such characters as Fedallah and Tashtego and Dragoo).  In fact, CLR James also loved the way Melville pictured the seamen.  He used this authorisation by Melville to write his own Marxist reading of the book:

If, then, to meanest mariners, and renegades and castaways, I shall hereafter ascribe high qualities, though dark; weave round them tragic graces; if even the most mournful, perchance the most abased, among them all, shall at times lift himself to the exalted mounts; if I shall touch that workman’s arm with some ethereal light; if I shall spread a rainbow over his disastrous set of sun; then against all mortal critics bear me out in it, thou Just Spirit of Equality, which hast spread one royal mantle of humanity over all my kind! Bear me out in it, thou great democratic God!

I love the book’s language, prophetic in one place, melancholy in the other, droll still elsewhere.  I love the sense of space and of claustrophobia, of camaraderie and of fear in it.  I love the gorgeous way it begins. No, not “Call me Ishmael”; but that beautiful sense of greyness which follows just after, and its oceanic resolution:

Whenever I find myself growing grim about the mouth; whenever it is a damp, drizzly November in my soul; whenever I find myself involuntarily pausing before coffin warehouses, and bringing up the rear of every funeral I meet; and especially whenever my hypos get such an upper hand of me, that it requires a strong moral principle to prevent me from deliberately stepping into the street, and methodically knocking people’s hats off—then, I account it high time to get to sea as soon as I can. This is my substitute for pistol and ball. With a philosophical flourish Cato throws himself upon his sword; I quietly take to the ship.

So here is taking to the ship.

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