Why is classification a dirty word?

I have been brooding on this for a while but have been nudged into expressing it by Karen Coyle's post. I can't articulate, let alone understand, the argument as well as Karen can; but I think she strikes the nail on the head when she says that we have forgotten about classification and about the importance of subject retrieval.
When, and why, did we suddenly get ashamed of classification? Most library users don't understand how classification works; a majority of librarians don't understand how classification works; but when did we get to the point where even a majority of cataloguers don't understand how classification works? Many cataloguers think that classification is all about shelf arrangement - that classification is only the number on the spine label.
Keywords just don't do it and never will. Do a keyword search for "pain" in our catalogue and you'll find some books about pain and pain relief; a number of novels which happen to have "pain" in the title; and a book in French about bread. And yet somehow, and largely I suspect because of Google and its ilk, we have come to think that's OK.
In libraries we will never be able to out-Google Google because we don't have the enormous resources that it would take, but that's not the problem. Why do we want to follow Google instead of doing something better?
Somewhere along the road we seem to have decided that users don't understand classification and therefore we shouldn't use it. Now there is absolutely no reason for users to understand classification, any more than there is for every driver to understand the mechanics of the internal combustion engine, or for every concert-goer to be a expert music theorist. Our job as cataloguers is to provide the engine, plus just enough guidance to enable our library users to get the best out of it. And anyway, people do understand classification otherwise they would never be able to find their way around the supermarket - almost every part of our public and private world is organised in some systematic way.
Classification isn't elitist, it is an absolutely essential tool for organising knowledge. We should be proud of it, not ashamed of it.

Remembering the card catalogue

I was struck yesterday by this comment in an account of a visit to the Courtney Library in Cornwall:
"From a cataloguer's perspective this is the most fascinating aspect of this Library; there is no computerised catalogue for printed books".
I have said before on this blog that I am a very old person. I spent the year before my professional course, and the three years after it, working with big union card catalogues, so to a large extent I cut my professional teeth on them.
The first job people that like me were given, was withdrawing cards for items no longer in stock. The logic for this was, that if you took out the wrong card, it could be put back again. Only when you had proved your care and diligence in withdrawals were you allowed to file cards in to the catalogue, because a mistake there might not be found for a long time, if at all.
What I learned, and learned very quickly, was that a mistake in an entry, whether that mistake was a simple typo or a failure of authority control (not that I knew then that that was what it was called) meant that cards for the same entity were not filed together; equally, that cards with consistent entries filed next to each other and meant that lots of stuff by or about the same thing were brought together (I didn't know that this was called collocation). It was a very simple way to demonstrate the basic principles of a catalogue.
While I'm not advocating card catalogues as a better tool for today's world than their online equivalents, I wonder if it is as easy for new or aspiring cataloguers nowadays to get an understanding of the way catalogues "work" without such a pragmatic and hands-on experience.
Opinions, anyone?

"We don't pay you to be altruistic"

There is a huge difference between using other people's data and being truly co-operative. Most people nowadays seem to take, but not to give back - and my manager was criticising me, not completely seriously, but not completely in jest either, some years ago, for taking extra pains to get something right so I could contribute it back to a shared database so other people could reap the benefit.

Discussion around RDA, and economic exigency, has often touched on the necessity nowadays of being able to take data from as wide a range of sources as possible, to save cataloguing time and effort. There is, rationally enough, a consequent acceptance of the "good enough" rather than the pursuit of an absolute gold standard. I used to be quite fundamentalist about this myself when younger, regarding a deviation from the standard as not error, but sin. I've mellowed over time.

Because of our dependence upon derived records, indeed, standards are coming to be seen as comprising consistency not with universally-agreed rules but with the style of your principal source of records and, to use a UK example, I have heard people say that they catalogue "according to BDS". (This is not to decry the work of my colleagues there, which is excellent). It does, however, reinforce the idea that you take the best records you can find, and tailor your own house style to them.

The emphasis is so much on taking and accepting, and editing as little as possible, that the idea of sharing has rather gone out of the window. And arguments have been made that if RDA allows a greater scope for cataloguer's judgement, then sharing is no longer possible - noone is going to want your version of the record anyway.

What I don't understand is why, if we are being looser about standards, this isn't going to make sharing easier. What is wrong with making something a bit better, even if you don't make it perfect? Can we, actually, afford not to be altruistic?

Building a career on laziness

It worked for me - building a career on other people's laziness.

Most people don't want to spend time checking data, or working on data repairs - it's not exciting or glamorous, even if it teaches you an awful lot about the way the database works.

Most people don't want to go to boring routine meetings - but even the dullest meeting has other people at it who might turn out to be really interesting.

Most people don't want to engage with detail, with a mass of routine tasks, with the daily repetitious grind, and they'll be delighted if you offer to help them out with it. And cataloguers are naturally good at this sort of thing, after all - we've got the eye for detail, we can manage a whole heap of tasks, we can sort stuff out, we can spot patterns in things and fit things together - we've got that sort of mindset.

So it always surprises me that more people don't want to get involved in what seems to be the boring stuff, but is actually the stuff which teaches you an awful lot about the way your system, your organisation, fits together and works (or doesn't work). I've heard all sorts of excuses - I'm too busy, I haven't got time, I'm stressed enough already, why should I, it's not in my job description, why can't someone else do it. Some cataloguers even shun this sort of thing because they think that it feeds the stereotype and that cataloguers too should be dealing with ideas and strategies and policy.

Of course we should. Even if what I am advocating seems like the very opposite of high-visibility cataloguing, I don't want cataloguers to get stuck in the mud. But one of the ways to get influence and respect is to be able to sort out other people's problems, contribute ideas which help them achieve what they want to do, come up with ideas for developments which fit well with what's already being done and take it a bit further forward. These are the things which come out of knowing how things work and having a mastery of the detail, of the underside of stuff.

I think we should engage with our inner geek and take advantage of any opportunity to get involved with what's going on around us, even at the lowest level, and make that the first step on the ladder, because knowledge really does become power.

So, next time one of your colleagues is complaining about having to do something really really boring, offer to help out by doing it for him; he'll thank you for it, and you'll be doing yourself and your future a power of good.

Sorting the fact from the fiction

I've had a bit of a break and was bemused and amused in equal measure on my return by the correspondence that has been going on amongst the RDA-L list members about main entries for fictitious characters who purport to have written books. To put it briefly, if a book presents itself as having been written by a character who we all know doesn't really exist, we still have to make that fictitious character the main entry. So, "The Hums of Pooh" will appear under Pooh's name even though we all know that Pooh didn't really write them and AA Milne did.

I've bleated about this before and it still strikes me as moderately daft. We don't classify by title (we don't do we? Please tell me you don't put "Leaves of grass" in botany) but do our best to find out what the book is really about - and therefore why shouldn't we make an equivalent attempt to discover and reveal the true author? Yes, we should also make it plain that the book seems to have been written by a fictional character, either in the statement of responsibility or in a note, because that helps and informs the reader - just as we make a note if a book is not at all about what the title makes it seem.

What bothers me, though, is that we are adopting this new rule - copying what it says on the title-page without any questioning or any application of common-sense - at exactly the same time as we are all jumping up and down trying to explain the importance of what we do, how we mediate and manage and moderate information to add value for our users. I think I'm going to find that quite difficult when I appear to believe that "Me Cheeta" was written by an ape.

Crispy bacon

We often lament that cataloguing is a specialism, a niche activity, that not many people want and for which there is little or no market.

On my way to work, I often see a white van delivering to the various sandwich shops and delis along my route. On the side of the van is emblazoned, "Crispy bacon and cooked sausage specialists". Now I wouldn't have thought there was that big a market for crispy bacon, it wouldn't have occurred to me that a firm could have built a reputation and a business on it. But that white van has been making its deliveries for years now (in fact, they have extended the business, they used to be just, "crispy bacon specialists").

It cheers me up. A world that supports the crispy bacon trade surely has room in it for specialist cataloguers too!

Administrative? Who, me?

One of the reasons for the lack of posts lately is that like many, if not most, library authorities at the moment, mine is engaged in restructurings, rumours and threats of redundancies, ever-changing plans and plots, to the point that now we begin to long for any conclusion at all, even the worst, as long as it puts an end to the uncertainty. It is all very time-consuming and tiring and noone is going to come out of it well.

One of the latest plans for restructurings - it was only yesterday, but there has probably been another one since - showed Bib Services being merged under the overall title of "Administrative Services".

Now, "Support Services" I could have borne with a reasonable degree of equanimity - we provide support and a service. That's what we do.

But there's something about "Administrative Services" that really puts my back up. There is, I suppose, nothing wrong with being an administrator - but to be part of an administrative service? Doesn't that sound petty and mean and unimportant and, well, downright unprofessional? A way of demeaning and belittling bib services into something which involves form-filling and pen-pushing and counting paperclips? The sort of bad name you'd give a dog before neglecting and finally shooting him?

A rose by any other name would smell as sweet, just as long as it wasn't called an administrative service.

Tell me, am I being arrogant? Am I just tired and overwrought and a big glass of wine and half an hour with Monty Don will make me feel better?