A pair of nicely contrasting stories appeared this weekend – one about the new 16-volume edition of the Britannica Student Encyclopedia, and another about the ongoing digitization of thousands of ancient manuscripts in an Egyptian monastery.

The first story, from the Toronto Star, outlines Britannica’s decision to bring out a massive set of student encyclopedias in an age when most kids do most of their research on the Internet. Predictably, there is much discussion of the cultural tension between paper-based encyclopedias like Britannica’s and the current online champion, Wikipedia.

The Encyclopaedia Britannica was always considered the most august publication of its kind. The great 11th edition of the encyclopedia, published in 1911, was an imperial monument, like the Oxford English Dictionary, a beautiful, leather-bound testimony to the progress of Western knowledge. The civilization that produced this artifact was a civilization that penetrated the darkness of the past and gave order to the present.

I looked up what Wikipedia, the online “free encyclopedia,” says about the Encyclopaedia Britannica – which is like hearing what Toyota has to say about General Motors. The two entities are not friends. “An increasing number of alternative information sources have reduced the popular demand for print encyclopedias significantly,” the Wikipedia entry points out. That means you, Britannica.

From Wikipedia, I also learn that American owners of Britannica, who took over at the beginning of the 20th century, “introduced aggressive marketing practices, such as direct marketing and door-to-door sales.” Hence the birth of the encyclopedia salesman. (That figure has now gone forever – families today order their sets from the Encyclopaedia Britannica website.)

The second story, from the Los Angeles Times, is about the arduous and complex task of photographing some 3,000-odd ancient texts housed at the remote Holy Monastery of St. Catherine in Sinai, Egypt. The work is being done by the son of a camel driver, Hemeid Sobhy, who just kind of fell into the job.

“When I was studying at the university, the archbishop said I could work at the monastery,” Hemeid says in carefully considered English. He had thought he might work in a bank, but when he didn’t find a situation that suited him, he went home and presented himself to Archbishop Damianos. As abbot of St. Catherine’s community of monks, the archbishop is responsible for day-to-day operations and outreach as well spiritual traditions.

Hemeid’s timing was impeccable. Father Justin, who arrived at the monastery in 1996, needed help. Born into a Baptist family that published religious books, he became fascinated with Byzantine history as a student at the University of Texas and joined the Greek Orthodox church. He entered a monastery in Brookline, Mass., and took charge of its publishing projects.

Father Justin has no expectation that the monastery’s library will be fully photographed any time soon, but doesn’t see that as the point, anyway.

“Photographing the whole library is not a realistic goal,” Father Justin says. “But, as with all collections, 90% of the users are interested in 10% of the collection. The 10% that is of the greatest interest is quite a reasonable goal.”

It’s an interesting story, but Quilblog could have done without the stock bits of exotica that pop up throughout the piece. (”On a refreshingly cool morning, before the sun drenches every exposed grain of sand in this vast desert…”)