Closer To The Ideal

Awful and sad. Rogers Cadenhead writes Why Leslie Harpold’s Sites Disappeared. We are often misunderstood by our family, and they often hold a worrisome power to censor us after our deaths.

I sent an email yesterday to Leslie’s niece, asking if it would be possible for some of her friends to reprint her work as a book and web site. Today I heard back. They will not allow anything to be republished. Because I’ve been told that some of her writings might be a sensitive issue for her family, I replied to her niece that if this is indeed the case, those particular works could be excluded from reprint.

This did not go over well.

I was told that it’s none of my business why her family doesn’t want her work republished, which is absolutely true, and that her legacy “is not dependent on websites or books; her legacy is with every person who knew her and loved her.” This is only partially true. Leslie was an early pioneer in the creation of autobiographical content and experimental web design. She left behind thousands of web pages, many of which are as memorable as Possible Scenarios for Heaven from 2003.

Leslie’s family appears to have decided to let her entire body of work disappear and be forgotten completely. The only things that are left online are articles she wrote for other sites, such as The Morning News.

This raises an important question for those of us who create work on the web that we publish ourselves. When heirs decide to bury a web creator’s body of work by shuttering sites and rejecting all republication requests, can anything be done to save the material?

If the heirs of Charles Dickens had decided that his novels were not his legacy, they could have spurned all publishers and let the books fall out of print, but the existing copies would not have vanished entirely. There still would be physical copies of the books to read and some would’ve survived long enough to fall into the public domain.

It is a sad story where one’s career fails after one has died. The worst thing you can do to a pioneer is erase any trace of their innovations. That she had a big impact on a lot of people is obvious from what was written about her, This Is Not a Eulogy

Todd Levin: Leslie was the Internet’s den mother. She adopted me in 1996, after discovering my Web site—perhaps you were familiar with its very memorable URL, http://users.interport.net/~toddl—and presented me with her plan to launch a web zine called Smug. It was to be both a repudiation of the early Web’s Whole Earth Catalog brand of sincerity, and a big Midwestern embrace of everything we hold dear. It was going to be amazing. It was going to change the medium, and maybe even the world.

I thought she was full of shit, and that Smug would never be seen by any eyes other than Leslie’s. I also honestly thought she was using this fictitious zine as counterfeit currency to purchase an online friendship, because I didn’t trust anyone I met on the Internet. But no one else had shown any interest in my writing, and there’s something very intoxicating about someone who wants to create something new and explosive and world-changing, and wants you on her team. So yes, fuck yes. Smug was going to change the world.

…Liz Entman: I knew Leslie only through her writing, which reveals a woman I would very much have liked to meet in person—sensitive, intelligent, thoughtful, perceptive, and deeply, quietly hilarious. Her writing is fresh and very, very good. She wrote an article for us before I came on board that is especially poignant to read now—“How to Write a Thank-You Note”—which seems to reveal her wit, warmth, and humor as much as it explicates a problem of modern etiquette. It is fitting, then, to give thanks here for Leslie and her many gifts. She will be missed.

…Liz Entman: I knew Leslie only through her writing, which reveals a woman I would very much have liked to meet in person—sensitive, intelligent, thoughtful, perceptive, and deeply, quietly hilarious. Her writing is fresh and very, very good. She wrote an article for us before I came on board that is especially poignant to read now—“How to Write a Thank-You Note”—which seems to reveal her wit, warmth, and humor as much as it explicates a problem of modern etiquette. It is fitting, then, to give thanks here for Leslie and her many gifts. She will be missed.

Anil Dash wrote, Leslie Harpold: Always Fearless, Never Smug

If you didn’t know her work, you might fear that someone who owned the domain names fearless.net and smug.com might be a bit, well… prickly. But more than 10 years after Leslie Harpold helped start some of the most clever and intelligent personal sites on the web, and just a few short months after her untimely passing, the lasting impression of Leslie’s life, on and off the web, is of surpassing kindness. And as we look at 10 years of blogging culture this week, her impact and legacy in the world of blogging is well worth revisiting.

The sites that Leslie helped create are legion. There’s The Historical Present, her blog. And Harpold.com (formerly Hoopla.com), which acts as something of a gateway to the rest of Leslie’s legacy on the web. The Smug archives still bear witness to the early experiments in design and writing which Leslie shared with us all. And each year, Leslie shared with us her Advent Calendars, (see 2001, 2002, 2003, 2004, and 2005) making explicit her desire to give a gift to the entire web.

Clearly, Leslie Harpold had a big impact on the early web, and on the early pioneers of the web. Her life, and work, is now a part of history. It is all together tragic that her family wants to erase her memory, just because they are uncomfortable with some of what she wrote.

I’ve been reading John C. Bogle’s book, Enough. He makes the argument that we live in an era where our business leaders have forgotten what enough is. However much they have, they need more: more cars, more jets, more yachts, more homes, more money. Bogle feels that the ethical lapses we’ve seen in recent years were facilitated by the loss of the concept of enough. It is a good book. People who are interested in questions of business ethics should read it.

On a related note, today the news page over at YCombinator pointed to this old article “How Much Scratch is Enough?” written by Ryan D’Agostino.

Okay, let’s see. Say I give myself eight years—no, better make it ten. Just to be safe. I figure I’ll definitely want a great apartment in Manhattan. Near Central Park. Plus a summer house in, say, the Carolinas. Nothing too big, but nice. Also, enough to put a couple of kids through college. Prep school too. Oh, and Colorado. A condo, on the slopes. Gotta have a nice set of wheels—Beemer—and an SUV (to get around Colorado). Then maybe I’ll open up a little cafe somewhere, or get a boat. Yeah, a boat would be cool. Ten years. Figure $15 million. I think I can do it. But then I’m out. Definitely. Out for good. Just sailing around on my boat.

This is how it starts: with a pledge. A promise to yourself that you will make a certain amount of money—that you will hit your number—by a certain age, and that you will, upon reaching that carefully calculated goal, get out. Go sail your boat. Or open your bookstore or your bed and breakfast, or be a philanthropist or whatever. You won’t have to worry about money. You’ll invest a big, juicy nugget and live off the interest, which will be more than enough.

For some people, though, that word becomes a stumbling block: enough. It makes the calculations tricky, and sometimes, it changes the plan. Enough creeps slowly but steadily upward, like ivy spreading imperceptibly over an entire side of a house, and once it does you can’t picture what the house looked like before. At first, you aim high—way into the millions—and while part of you knows that chances are you won’t really end up with that much, part of you knows there’s a chance you will. You see the number in big, block numerals in your mind, and the corners of your mouth curl up into a little smile, just for a second, when you picture yourself hitting the mark.

Bogle and D’Agostino are both criticizing consumption (cars, houses, jets, etc). I’ve no problem with that. I’m critical of consumption too. But I think it is odd that they both write as if consumption is the only thing that a person might want money for.

For my part, I will never have enough money.

I have in my head an unlimited number of ideas for new businesses. Some are web-based, and of these, some are content sites and some offer a software service. But also, some of the businesses I’d like to pursue have nothing to do with the web. I’ve some software ideas to help biologists and, in particular, to help people learn biology (I’ve just been studying biology myself, so I’m aware of things that could help me learn it better). Some of these ideas are simple, such as a calculator that allows certain kinds of very easy programming (easier than Matlab). And having only recently started studying advanced math, I’m aware that people who take up math as adults, and who are self-taught, may have a set of questions that are different than what high school students ask. And I’ve various creative endeavors I’d like pursue. For instance, I’ve been writing a screenplay for a movie loosely based on the events that occurred at Enron.

The various ideas I’ve got in my head right now could keep me busy for 40 years, and I could easily burn through $200 million pursing them all. I really doubt that I’m going to succeed at all of these endeavors, and I seriously doubt I’ll ever have anything like that kind of money, but I figure I might as well just give it a try and see how far I get. And if a miracle happens, and I end up with $200 million, I’m very certain that by that time my overall goals will have expanded to the point that I’ll need a billion to fund my further ambitions.

I will never have enough money.

D’Agostino suggests that when you finally get the millions of dollars that you’ve been aiming for, you smile: “You see the number in big, block numerals in your mind, and the corners of your mouth curl up into a little smile, just for a second, when you picture yourself hitting the mark.”

I think the opposite is true: the most exciting part of launching a new business is the first dollar that you get. The first few dollars bring a huge thrill, even though the numbers are trivial:

“Our first $100 dollars!”

And then:

“Out first $1,000 dollars!”

And then:

“OMIGOD! Our first $10,000 dollars!”

After awhile the thrill starts to fade. No one celebrates when a new business reaches the $30,000 mark. I assume there is some satisfaction to reaching a $1,000,000 (never been there myself) but I have trouble imagining it is as exciting as the first few dollars that come in, those early dollars that give you your first clue that maybe you’ve a product or service that people will actually want to give you money for.

I do not need multiple cars, houses, jets or yatchs. 10 years from now, I’ll be happy if I have a small apartment in New York City, my current Volvo, which I hope to keep going despite some body rust, and $100,000,000 of software projects that are all going well.

In his fictional scenario (I assume it is fictional) D’Agostino says: “But then I’m out. Definitely. Out for good. Just sailing around on my boat.”

I can’t imagine ever wanting to get out. The thrill of launching and running a business is the most fun thing I’ve yet discovered. If I got out, what would I do? I’d simply get back in.