Sunday, September 16, 2007
Machine makes books in a jiffy
Digital scribe is a novel concept for library patrons
By Stevenson Swanson | Tribune national correspondent
September 16, 2007
Bookstores and publishers are worried that increasingly powerful computers, realistic video games and an all-pervasive Internet spell trouble for the future of such a decidedly low-tech object as a book.
But a machine on display at a New York City library offers a glimpse of a different digital destiny. Whirring and clattering in a corner near the check-out desk, the glass-enclosed contraption takes only a few minutes to turn a computer file into a collection of pages printed with words and bound between a stiff paper cover.
In other words, a book.
While mass-market electronic books remain an elusive goal for publishers and retailers, the digital age could result in a different kind of revolution for readers, according to Jason Epstein, a legendary publishing figure who is one of the co-founders of the company that made the machine.
Any book in existence could be printed out in a matter of minutes, provided there was a digital file of it. As a result, book lovers would no longer be stymied in their search for a certain title if it was out of print. They could have the book printed while they wait, at a bookstore, a library or a coffee shop.
"I think eventually everything will be digitized, which will mean that everyone in the world will have the same access to books as people in New York or Chicago," said Epstein, the former editorial director of Random House, who as a young editor in the 1950s saw the sales potential of paperbacks, which put inexpensive books in the hands of millions of readers. "Think of this machine as a visit to Kitty Hawk."
Machine in action
The device, called the Espresso Book Machine, uses a black-and-white printer to produce the pages of a book from a PDF file, one of the most common digital formats. While that copier spits out the pages, a color copier prints the cover on heavier stock.
Once the pages are printed, an electronically controlled clamp pulls the collected sheets over a roller to apply glue and then fastens the pages to the cover. Another clamp rotates the book so a blade can trim it to its finished size, and it pops out of a slot at the bottom of the device.
In a demonstration last week at the New York Public Library's Science, Industry and Business Library, the Espresso produced a copy of Charles Dickens' "A Christmas Carol" in five minutes.
During the machine's stay at the library, visitors have been able to request free copies of 13 titles, most of them no longer covered by copyright, including William Shakespeare's "Macbeth" and Mark Twain's "The Adventures of Tom Sawyer."
"It just blows my mind that this was instantly made," said Matt Tyson, 25, riffling the pages of "Book Business," Epstein's 2001 book about publishing.
Espresso machines also have been producing books at the World Bank in Washington and the Bibliotheca Alexandrina in Alexandria, Egypt. At the end of the month, the New York machine will be installed at the New Orleans Public Library. And next month, an Espresso machine will go into operation at its first retail location, Northshire Bookstore in Manchester Center, Vt.
"On any given day, I'm losing sales because people come in and ask for a book, and if we don't have it, we lose a sale," said Chris Morrow, whose family owns the store. "I want to be in a position to say, 'Grab a cup of coffee or browse a while, and I'll have a copy for you.'"
Binding the ideas
After a career of editing such writers as Norman Mailer and Gore Vidal, Epstein gave a series of lectures in 1999 in which he reflected on his experiences in publishing and predicted that customers would be able to order an out-of-stock title and have it printed right away. All that needed to happen was for somebody to invent a machine that would fit in a store.
The future arrived sooner than Epstein thought. Jeff Marsh, a St. Louis engineer and inventor, had produced a prototype device that combined photocopying with bookbinding, using existing technology. After one of Epstein's lectures, he learned about the invention from a friend of Marsh's.
Epstein licensed Marsh's machine and teamed up with Dane Neller, a Chicago-area native and the former chief executive of specialty food retailer Dean & DeLuca, to form On Demand Books, the company that markets the Espresso.
Neller said that some Chicago-area universities and public libraries have expressed interest in the book machine, as have some book retailers, but no deals have been made yet.
Gerald Beasley, 47, a librarian at Columbia University, compared the machine to medieval scribes who wrote books by hand.
"This is a robotic scribe," he said as his son Christopher, 8, peered through the smoked-glass cabinet to watch a book being made. "There is something magical about commissioning your own copy of a book."
Writing a new chapter in publishing Books on demand, how it works:
*Cost of the Espresso Book Machine: about $100,000, although a streamlined model under development could cost as little as $25,000.
*Cost of printing one page of a book: about 1 cent.
*Number of people required to run the machine: one. Apart from selecting a title to print, keeping the machine stocked with paper and toner, and disposing of waste paper, the machine runs by itself.
*Number of titles available so far: 200,000 public-domain titles provided by the Open Content Alliance in San Francisco, which is building a library of digitized texts.
-- Stevenson Swanson soswanson@tribune.com
Tuesday, September 11, 2007
Old guard moves on
Lutheran members will worship for last time on West Side
By Manya A. Brachear | Tribune religion reporter
September 7, 2007
North Austin Lutheran Church, which has stood near the border of Chicago and Oak Park for 86 years, is a relic of the West Side's German and Scandinavian past.
Its congregation has shown itself to be a tenacious bunch. After a fire did extensive damage to the church's worship area in 1985, parishioners sifted through the rubble to recover every last shard of stained glass and spent more than a million dollars to restore the building at 1500 N. Mason Ave. to its original splendor.
But as parishioners moved to the suburbs and Austin became a largely African-American neighborhood, what was once one of the nation's largest Lutheran congregations dwindled to just 10 members.
The church offered ministries including a food pantry and after-school program. African-Americans living near the church were invited to attend, but the hymns remained the same ones favored by the old-timers, and few stayed.
On Sunday the remaining members of North Austin, many of whom were baptized and married there, will turn the church over to United Mission of Christ Lutheran Church, an African-American congregation that aims to bring new life to the historic church.
"I'm not so sure our service was the kind that people felt familiar with," said Rev. Thetis Cromie, North Austin's pastor for the last 15 years. "Our hope is that [the new] church will be able to reach out to people in a way that [they]will be responsive to."
The shuttering of North Austin Lutheran points to a challenge facing many Lutheran churches in American cities. While the ethnic makeup of many neighborhoods changed, churches focused on preserving the buildings and traditions of their European forebears rather than altering their liturgy to accommodate new cultures.
That has contributed to an overall decline for the Evangelical Lutheran Church in America. Since forming in 1987, the ELCA has steadily lost members, dropping from 5.3 million to 4.8 million in 2007. Empty churches have closed or consolidated with other congregations.
ELCA Presiding Bishop Mark Hanson has urged congregations to "welcome the new immigrant in our midst."
Rev. Raymond Legania, pastor of Bethel-Imani Lutheran Church, one of 15 African-American Lutheran congregations on the South Side, said Lutheran churches in Chicago have been closing since the 1970s as blacks moved into many South and West Side neighborhoods and joined churches of other denominations. . "The liturgical style [of Lutherans] is not friendly to Africans-Americans and the way they worship," Legania said. Many feel once they walk in the door they're told to "leave your culture at the door and pretend you're someone else."
Although the congregation at North Austin Lutheran was not unfriendly, Legania said, the Sunday service retained its European flavor. African-Americans who came for help at the church were welcomed at the food pantry, but rarely felt at home in the church's pews on Sunday, Legania said.
North Austin's peak was in the 1930s. As people moved to the suburbs after World War II, the congregation lost membership but remained strong. Robert Abson, 81, remembers the exodus of North Austin members that took place in the mid-1960s when blacks began to move into the neighborhood.
"It was our home church. We saw no reason to leave," Abson said. "Those of us who stayed with it never regretted it."
LaVerne Schwartz, 70, one of the youngest parishioners at North Austin, was married in the church. Her children were baptized and confirmed there. And she had her husband's funeral service there too.
"There's a point where I have to move on," she said. "But we're down to so few it's time to go."
After the 1985 fire, which further emptied the church's pews, Schwartz and her daughter sifted through the rubble from the fire for days collecting stained glass. All eight windows were repaired to reveal images from the life of Christ.
While Abson and other parishioners view Sunday's worship service as a funeral, Cromie said she prefers to call it "a death and resurrection."
"I want this to be viewed as a transformation of the ministry that's here and an affirmation of a new direction," Cromie said. "The ritual may be different. Prayer may be different. But the story will still be the same."
By Manya A. Brachear | Tribune religion reporter
September 7, 2007
North Austin Lutheran Church, which has stood near the border of Chicago and Oak Park for 86 years, is a relic of the West Side's German and Scandinavian past.
Its congregation has shown itself to be a tenacious bunch. After a fire did extensive damage to the church's worship area in 1985, parishioners sifted through the rubble to recover every last shard of stained glass and spent more than a million dollars to restore the building at 1500 N. Mason Ave. to its original splendor.
But as parishioners moved to the suburbs and Austin became a largely African-American neighborhood, what was once one of the nation's largest Lutheran congregations dwindled to just 10 members.
The church offered ministries including a food pantry and after-school program. African-Americans living near the church were invited to attend, but the hymns remained the same ones favored by the old-timers, and few stayed.
On Sunday the remaining members of North Austin, many of whom were baptized and married there, will turn the church over to United Mission of Christ Lutheran Church, an African-American congregation that aims to bring new life to the historic church.
"I'm not so sure our service was the kind that people felt familiar with," said Rev. Thetis Cromie, North Austin's pastor for the last 15 years. "Our hope is that [the new] church will be able to reach out to people in a way that [they]will be responsive to."
The shuttering of North Austin Lutheran points to a challenge facing many Lutheran churches in American cities. While the ethnic makeup of many neighborhoods changed, churches focused on preserving the buildings and traditions of their European forebears rather than altering their liturgy to accommodate new cultures.
That has contributed to an overall decline for the Evangelical Lutheran Church in America. Since forming in 1987, the ELCA has steadily lost members, dropping from 5.3 million to 4.8 million in 2007. Empty churches have closed or consolidated with other congregations.
ELCA Presiding Bishop Mark Hanson has urged congregations to "welcome the new immigrant in our midst."
Rev. Raymond Legania, pastor of Bethel-Imani Lutheran Church, one of 15 African-American Lutheran congregations on the South Side, said Lutheran churches in Chicago have been closing since the 1970s as blacks moved into many South and West Side neighborhoods and joined churches of other denominations. . "The liturgical style [of Lutherans] is not friendly to Africans-Americans and the way they worship," Legania said. Many feel once they walk in the door they're told to "leave your culture at the door and pretend you're someone else."
Although the congregation at North Austin Lutheran was not unfriendly, Legania said, the Sunday service retained its European flavor. African-Americans who came for help at the church were welcomed at the food pantry, but rarely felt at home in the church's pews on Sunday, Legania said.
North Austin's peak was in the 1930s. As people moved to the suburbs after World War II, the congregation lost membership but remained strong. Robert Abson, 81, remembers the exodus of North Austin members that took place in the mid-1960s when blacks began to move into the neighborhood.
"It was our home church. We saw no reason to leave," Abson said. "Those of us who stayed with it never regretted it."
LaVerne Schwartz, 70, one of the youngest parishioners at North Austin, was married in the church. Her children were baptized and confirmed there. And she had her husband's funeral service there too.
"There's a point where I have to move on," she said. "But we're down to so few it's time to go."
After the 1985 fire, which further emptied the church's pews, Schwartz and her daughter sifted through the rubble from the fire for days collecting stained glass. All eight windows were repaired to reveal images from the life of Christ.
While Abson and other parishioners view Sunday's worship service as a funeral, Cromie said she prefers to call it "a death and resurrection."
"I want this to be viewed as a transformation of the ministry that's here and an affirmation of a new direction," Cromie said. "The ritual may be different. Prayer may be different. But the story will still be the same."
