In the Netherlands, the patent system was actually abolished in 1869 as a result of such criticisms. Observers in a number of other countries, including Britain, concluded that their national patent systems were doomed. Various proposals were made to replace patents, with state-provided prizes or bounties to particularly useful inventions being the most popular.56 79

These snippets are hardly sufficient to const.i.tute any kind of survey of critical reactions to intellectual property systems, but I believe that nevertheless they give us some sense of typical debates. What do these debates tell us?

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From the early days of intellectual property as we know it now, the main objections raised against it were framed in the language of free trade and "anti-monopoly." In the United States, the founding generation of intellectuals had been nurtured on the philosophy of the Scottish Enlightenment and the history of the struggle against royal monopolies. They saw the arguments in favor of intellectual property but warned again and again of the need to circ.u.mscribe both its term and its scope.

This is the point at the heart of Jefferson's letter. This is why he insisted that we understand the policy implications of the differences between tangible property and ideas, which "like fire" are "expansible over all s.p.a.ce, without lessening their density in any point."

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What were the concerns of these early critics? They worried about intellectual property producing artificial scarcity, high prices, and low quality. They insisted that the benefits of each incremental expansion of intellectual property be weighed against its costs. Think of Macaulay discussing Johnson's preference for a shin of beef rather than another slice of postmortem copyright protection. They worried about its justice; given that we all learn from and build on the past, do we have a right to carve out our own incremental innovations and protect them by intellectual property rights?57 Price aside, they also worried that intellectual property (especially with a lengthy term) might give too much control to a single individual or corporation over some vital aspect of science and culture. In more muted fashion, they discussed the possible effects that intellectual property might have on future innovation. The most radical among them worried about intellectual property's effects on political debate, education, and even control of the communications infrastructure, though they did not use that particular phrase. But the overwhelming theme was the promotion of free trade and a corresponding opposition to monopolies.

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Now if we were to stop here and simply require that today's policy makers, legislators, and judges recite the Jefferson Warning before they rush off to make new intellectual property rules for the Internet and the genome, we would have accomplished a great deal. National and international policy makers are keen to set the "rules of the road for the digital age." If they would momentarily pause their excited millenarian burbling and read the points scratched out with a quill pen in 1813, or delivered (without PowerPoint support) on the floor of the House of Commons in the 1840s, we would be better off.

Everyone is beginning to understand that in the world of the twenty-first century the rules of intellectual property are both vital and contentious. How good it would be then if our debate on intellectual property policy were as vigorous and as informed as the debates of the nineteenth century. (Though we might hope it would also be more democratic.) 83

And yet . . . there is much that is missing from the skepticism of the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries and much that remains unclear. Look at the structure of these comments; they are framed as criticisms of intellectual property rather than defenses of the public domain or the commons, terms that simply do not appear in the debates. There is no real discussion of the world of intellectual property's outside, its opposite. Most of these critics take as their goal the prevention or limitation of an "artificial" monopoly; without this monopoly our goal is to have a world of--what? The a.s.sumption is that we will return to a norm of freedom, but of what kind? Free trade in expression and innovation, as opposed to monopoly? Free access to expression and innovation, as opposed to access for pay? Or free access to innovation and expression in the sense of not being subject to the right of another person to pick and choose who is given access, even if all have to pay some flat fee? Or is it common ownership and control that we seek, including the communal right to forbid certain kinds of uses of the shared resource? The eighteenth- and nineteenth-century critics brushed over these points; but to be fair, we continue to do so today. The opposite of property, or perhaps we should say the opposites of property, are much more obscure to us than property itself.

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For the most part, the antimonopolist view of intellectual property makes a simple case. Monopolies are bad. Have as few as possible and make them as narrow and as short as possible. This is a fine principle, but it falls short of an affirmative explanation and defense of the role of the public domain or the commons in enabling creativity, culture, and science. That is a shame because just as intellectual property is different from tangible property, so too is its opposite, its outside.

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What are those opposites? The two major terms in use are "the public domain" and "the commons." Both are used in multiple ways--probably a good thing. The public domain is material that is not covered by intellectual property rights. Material might be in the public domain because it was never capable of being owned. Examples would be the English language or the formulae of Newtonian physics. Alternatively, something might be in the public domain because rights have expired. The works of Shakespeare or the patents over powered flight are examples.

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Some definitions of the public domain are more granular. They focus not only on complete works but on the reserved s.p.a.ces of freedom inside intellectual property. The public domain would include the privilege to excerpt short quotations in a review.

This vision is messier, but more instructive. If one uses a spatial metaphor, the absolutist vision is a tessellated map.

Areas of private property are neatly delineated from areas of the public domain. Mozart's plot sits next to that of Britney Spears; one public, the other private. In the granular view, the map is more complex. Ms. Spears' plot is cut through with rights to make fair use, as well as with limitations on ownership of standard themes. Instead of the simple tiled map, the granular vision has private plots with public roads running through them.

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In popular discussion, we tend to use the absolutist view of both property and the public domain. Lawyers prefer the more complex view of property and are coming slowly to have a similarly complex view of the public domain. That is the definition I will be using.

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The term "commons" is generally used to denote a resource over which some group has access and use rights--albeit perhaps under certain conditions. It is used in even more ways than the term "public domain." The first axis along which definitions of the term "commons" vary is the size of the group that has access rights. Some would say it is a commons only if the whole society has access. That is the view I will take here.

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The other difference between public domain and commons is the extent of restrictions on use. Material in the public domain is free of property rights. You may do with it what you wish. A commons can be restrictive. For example, some open source software makes your freedom to modify the software contingent on the condition that your contributions, too, will be freely open to others. I will discuss this type of commons in Chapter 8.

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So these are working definitions of public domain and commons.

But why should we care? Because the public domain is the basis for our art, our science, and our self-understanding. It is the raw material from which we make new inventions and create new cultural works. Why is it so important? Let us start with the dry reasons.

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Information and innovation are largely nonrival and nonexcludable goods. This is Jefferson's point, though expressed in less graceful language. It has some interesting corollaries.

Information is hard to value until you have it, but once you have it, how can you dispossess yourself of it? The apple can be taken back by the merchant if you decide not to buy. The facts or the formulae cannot. The moment when you might have decided to pay or not to pay is already over. The great economist Kenneth Arrow formalized this insight about information economics,58 and it profoundly shapes intellectual property policy. (To a large extent, for example, the requirement of "patent disclosure" attempts to solve this problem. I can read all about your mousetrap but I am still forbidden from using it.

I can decide whether or not to license your design at that point.) But for all the material in the public domain, where no intellectual property right is necessary, this point is solved elegantly by having the information be "free as the air to common use." All of us can use the same store of information, innovation, and free culture. It will be available at its cost of reproduction--close to zero--and we can all build upon it without interfering with each other. Think of the English language, basic business methods, tables of logarithms, the Pythagorean theorem, Shakespeare's insights about human nature, the periodic table, Ohm's law, the sonnet form, the musical scale.

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Would you have paid to purchase access to each of these? I might tell you that English was a superior communication tool--a really good command language for your cognitive operating system. There could be levels of access with corresponding prices. Would you pay to get access to "English Professional Edition"? We can certainly imagine such a way of organizing languages. (To some extent, scribal conventions operated this way. The languages of the professions still do. One paid for access to "law French" in the common law courts of England. One pays for an interpreter of contemporary legal jargon in today's legal system. But even there the language is free to the autodidact.) We can imagine language, scientific knowledge, basic algebra, the tonic scale, or the cla.s.sics of four-hundred-year-old literature all being available only as property. Those who had the highest "value for use" would purchase them. Those who did not value them highly--whether because they could not know what could be built with them until they had done so or because they did not have the money--would not. What would this world, this culture, this science, this market look like?

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It would probably be very inefficient, the economists tell us.

Perfect information is a defining feature of the perfect market.

The more commodified and restricted our access to information, the less efficient the operation of the market, the more poorly it allocates resources in our society. (The permanent and in some sense insoluble tension between the need to provide incentives to generate information, thus raising its cost, and the need to have access to perfect information for efficiency is the central feature of our intellectual property policy.)59 When we commodify too much we actually undermine creativity, since we are raising the price of the inputs for future creations--which might themselves be covered by intellectual property rights. But "inefficient" is too bloodless a way to describe this world. It would be awful.

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Our markets, our democracy, our science, our traditions of free speech, and our art all depend more heavily on a public domain of freely available material than they do on the informational material that is covered by property rights. The public domain is not some gummy residue left behind when all the good stuff has been covered by property law. The public domain is the place we quarry the building blocks of our culture. It is, in fact, the majority of our culture. Or at least it has been.

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I deliberately gave easy examples. It is obvious how unnecessary but also how harmful it would be to extend property rights to language, to facts, to business methods and scientific algorithms, to the basic structures of music, to art whose creators are long dead. It is obvious that this would not produce more innovation, more debate, more art, more democracy.

But what about the places where the value of the public domain is not obvious?

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What if we were actually moving to extend patents to business methods, or intellectual property rights to unoriginal compilations of facts? What if we had locked up most of twentieth-century culture without getting a net benefit in return? What if the basic building blocks of new scientific fields were being patented long before anything concrete or useful could be built from them? What if we were littering our electronic communication s.p.a.ce with digital barbed wire and regulating the tiniest fragments of music as if they were stock certificates? What if we were doing all this in the blithe belief that more property rights mean more innovation? The story of this book is that we are.

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The Jefferson Warning is important. It is, however, just a warning. While it would be excellent to print it on pocket cards and hand it to our elected representatives, that alone will not solve the most pressing problems we face. In the chapters that follow, I shall try to go further. In Chapter 3, I set the process of expansion we are engaged in--our "second enclosure movement"--in perspective by comparing it to the original enclosures of the gra.s.sy commons of old England. In Chapter 4, I jump from the world of the fifteenth or nineteenth century to the world of the twenty-first, from elevators and grain hoppers to video recorders, the Internet, and file-sharing services. I use the story of several key legal disputes to ill.u.s.trate a broader history--the history of intellectual property's struggle with communications technologies that allow people to copy more cheaply. Strangely enough, the Jefferson Warning will be crucial in understanding the debate over copyright online and, in particular, in understanding the fear that drives our current policy making, a fear I refer to as the Internet Threat.

Chapter 3: The Second Enclosure Movement 1

The law locks up the man or woman Who steals the goose from off the common But leaves the greater villain loose Who steals the common from off the goose.

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The law demands that we atone When we take things we do not own But leaves the lords and ladies fine Who take things that are yours and mine.

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The poor and wretched don't escape If they conspire the law to break; This must be so but they endure Those who conspire to make the law.

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The law locks up the man or woman Who steals the goose from off the common And geese will still a common lack Till they go and steal it back.

[Anon.]1 5

In fits and starts from the fifteenth to the nineteenth century, the English "commons" was "enclosed." 2 Enclosure did not necessarily mean physical fencing, though that could happen.

More likely, the previously common land was simply converted into private property, generally controlled by a single landholder.

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The poem that begins this chapter is the pithiest condemnation of the process. It manages in a few lines to criticize double standards, expose the controversial nature of property rights, and take a slap at the legitimacy of state power. And it does this all with humor, without jargon, and in rhyming couplets.

Academics should take note. Like most criticisms of the enclosure movement, the poem depicts a world of rapacious, state-aided "privatization," a conversion into private property of something that had formerly been common property or perhaps had been outside the property system altogether. One kind of "stealing" is legal, says the poet, because the state changes the law of property to give the "lords and ladies" a right over an area formerly open to all. But let a commoner steal something and he is locked up.

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The anonymous author was not alone in feeling indignant. Thomas More (one of only two saints to write really good political theory) made similar points, though he used sheep rather than geese in his argument. Writing in the sixteenth century, he had argued that enclosure was not merely unjust in itself but harmful in its consequences: a cause of economic inequality, crime, and social dislocation. In a wonderfully bizarre pa.s.sage he argues that sheep are a princ.i.p.al cause of theft. Sheep? Why, yes.

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[Y]our sheep that were wont to be so meek and tame, and so small eaters, now, as I hear say, be become so great devourers and so wild, that they eat up, and swallow down the very men themselves. They consume, destroy, and devour whole fields, houses, and cities.

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Who were these sheep? Bizarre Dolly-like clones? Transgenic killer rams? No. More meant only that under the economic lure of the wool trade, the "n.o.blemen and gentlemen" were attempting their own enclosure movement.

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