The Internet Threat
The conventional wisdom is that governments respond slowly to
technological change. In the case of the Internet, nothing could
be further from the truth. In 1994 and 1995, "dot-com" was still
a mystical term for many. Most stories about the Internet dealt
with sexual predation rather than possibilities of extreme
wealth. Internet commerce itself was barely an idea, and some of
the most exciting sites on the Web had pictures of coffeepots in
university departments far away. ("See," one would proudly say
to a technological neophyte friend when introducing him to the
wonders of the Net, "the pot is empty and we can see that live
from here! This changes everything!") It was an innocent time.
Yet the U.S. government was already turning the wheels of
intellectual property policy to respond to the threat (and
promise) of the Internet. More precisely, they were trying to
shape the future of the cumbersomely named "National Information
Infrastructure," the official name for the "information
superhighway" that it was presumed would replace the "immature"
technology of the Net. The government was wrong about that, and
about a lot else.
The blueprint for new intellectual property policy online came
from the Patent and Trademark Office. That office promulgated
first a Green Paper and then, after further hearings, a White
Paper, on "Intellectual Property and the National Information
Infrastructure."1 As policy and legal documents these are in one
sense long out of date. Some of their legal arguments were
successfully challenged. Some of their most important proposals
were rejected, while many others have become law. But as a
starting point from which to trace the frame of mind that has
come to dominate intellectual property policy online, they are
hard to equal.
These documents contained proposals that nowadays would be seen
as fairly controversial. Internet service providers were said to
be "strictly liable" for copyright violations committed by their
subscribers; that is to say, they were legally responsible
whether or not they knew about the violation or were at fault in
any way. Loading a document into your browser's transient cache
memory while reading it was said to be making a "copy." There
was more: the beginnings of what later became the Digital
Millennium Copyright Act,2 making it illegal to cut through the
digital fences which content providers put around their
products. The attitude toward fair use was particularly
revealing. At one point in the White Paper it was hinted that
fair use might be a relic of the inconveniences of the analog
age, to be discarded now that we could have automated fractional
payments for even the most insignificant use.3 (It was noted,
however, that some disagreed with this conclusion.) At another
point, fair use was described as a "tax" on rights holders and a
"subsidy" to those who benefited from it, such as educational
institutions.4 The White Paper also suggested that while any
potential loss to rights holders caused by the new technology
needed to be countered with new rights and new protections, any
potential gain to them through the new technology was simply
theirs. Potential gain did not offset the need to compensate for
potential loss.
So what views of intellectual property were we carrying forward
into the Internet age? Intellectual property is just like other
property. Rights are presumptively absolute. Any limitations on
them, such as fair use, are taxes on property owners, subsidies
to the society at large. It sounds like a perfect time to
administer the Jefferson Warning I sketched out in Chapter 2.
After all, Jefferson was specifically warning against each of
these errors two hundred years ago. To find them in a student
paper would be disappointing--irritating, even. But this document
was the blueprint for the intellectual property regime of
cyberspace.
But do these mistakes matter? How important is it that we get
the rules of intellectual property right? To me, a number of my
colleagues, some librarians, a few software gurus, the White
Paper was more than just a bit of bad policy in a technical
field--like a poorly drafted statute about the witnessing of
wills, say. When you set up the property rules in some new
space, you determine much about the history that follows.
Property rules have a huge effect on power relationships and
bargaining positions. Think of rules setting out water rights or
the right to drive cattle over homesteaders' land in the
American West. But they also are part of a larger way of seeing
the world; think of the early-twentieth-century rules treating
unions as "conspiracies in restraint of trade" or the Supreme
Court decisions that dispossessed the American Indians on the
theory that they did not comprehend the concept of property and
thus did not "own" the land being taken from them.5 We were at a
comparable point in the history of cyberspace. What was being
set up here was a vision of economy and culture, a frame of mind
about how the world of cultural exchange operates, and
eventually a blueprint for our systems of communication. At this
stage, the range of possibilities is extremely wide. A lot of
different choices could be made, but subsequent changes would be
harder and harder as people and companies built their activities
around the rules that had been laid down. This was, in short, a
tipping point where it was particularly important that we make
the right decisions.
Conventional political science told us there were a lot of
reasons to fear that we would not make the right decisions. The
political process was going to be particularly vulnerable to
problems of capture by established industries, many of whom
would (rightly) see the Internet as a potential threat to their
role as intermediaries between artists and creators on the one
hand and the public on the other.
Intellectual property legislation had always been a cozy world
in which the content, publishing, and distribution industries
were literally asked to draft the rules by which they would
live. The law was treated as a kind of contract between the
affected industries. Rationally enough, those industries would
wish to use the law not merely to protect their legitimate
existing property rights, but to make challenges to their basic
business plans illegal. (Imagine what would have happened if we
had given the lamp-oil sellers the right to define the rules
under which the newfangled electric light companies would
operate.) There would be no easy counterweight to these
pressures, as Jessica Litman points out in a wonderful set of
reflections on copyright lawmaking, because the potential
competitors to existing titans were just being born and could
thus be strangled safely in their cradles.6 Certainly the public
would have little grasp as yet of what was at stake.
In any event, when had the public played a role in intellectual
property legislation? That kind of law affected businesses with
printing presses or TV towers, not normal citizens. It did not
help that the legislators were largely both ignorant and
distrustful of the technology of the Internet--which was, at the
time, thought to be dominated by foreign hackers, suicidal
cults, pirates, and sleazy pornographers. (Terrorists and
Nigerian spammers would be added to the mix later.)
Given an area of law that legislators were happy to hand over to
the affected industries and a technology that was both
unfamiliar and threatening, the prospects for legislative
insight were poor. Lawmakers were assured by lobbyists
a) that this was business as usual, that no dramatic changes
were being made by the Green or White papers; or
b) that the technology presented a terrible menace to the
American cultural industries, but that prompt and statesmanlike
action would save the day; or
c) that layers of new property rights, new private enforcers of
those rights, and technological control and surveillance
measures were all needed in order to benefit consumers, who
would now be able to "purchase culture by the sip rather than by
the glass" in a pervasively monitored digital environment.
In practice, somewhat confusingly, these three arguments would
often be combined. Legislators' statements seemed to suggest
that this was a routine Armageddon in which firm, decisive
statesmanship was needed to preserve the digital status quo in a
profoundly transformative and proconsumer way. Reading the
congressional debates was likely to give one conceptual
whiplash.
To make things worse, the press was--in 1995, at least--clueless
about these issues. It was not that the newspapers were ignoring
the Internet. They were paying attention--obsessive attention in
some cases. But as far as the mainstream press was concerned,
the story line on the Internet was sex: pornography, online
predation, more pornography. The lowbrow press stopped there. To
be fair, the highbrow press was also interested in Internet
legal issues (the regulation of pornography, the regulation of
online predation) and constitutional questions (the First
Amendment protection of Internet pornography). Reporters were
also asking questions about the social effect of the network
(including, among other things, the threats posed by pornography
and online predators).
There were certainly important issues within the areas the press
was willing to focus on, and I do not mean to trivialize them. I
worked with a couple of civil liberties groups in opposing the
hapless Communications Decency Act, one of the most poorly
drafted pieces of speech regulation ever to come out of
Congress.7 It was a palpably unconstitutional statute,
eventually struck down by a unanimous Supreme Court.8 Its
proposals would have burdened the speech of adults while failing
to protect the interests of minors. Reporters loved the topic of
the Communications Decency Act. It was about sex, technology,
and the First Amendment. It foreshadowed the future of online
speech regulation. One could write about it while feeling
simultaneously prurient, principled, and prescient: the
journalistic trifecta. For law professors who worked on digital
issues, the Communications Decency Act was an easy topic to get
the public to focus on; we had the reporters and editors calling
us, pleading for a quote or an opinion piece.
Intellectual property was something quite different. It was
occasionally covered in the business pages with the same
enthusiasm devoted to changes in derivatives rules. Presented
with the proposals in the Green and White Papers, the reporters
went looking for opinions from the Software Publishers
Association, the Recording Industry Association of America, or
the Motion Picture Association of America. This was not bias or
laziness--to whom else would they go? Who was on the "other side"
of these issues? Remember, all of this occurred before Napster
was a gleam in Sean Fanning's eye. Sean Fanning was in middle
school. Amazon.com was a new company and "Google" was not yet a
verb.
In this environment, convincing the legislature or the press
that fundamental public choices were implicated in the design of
intellectual property rights for the digital world was about as
easy as convincing them that fundamental public choices were
implicated in the rules of tiddlywinks. My own experience is
probably representative. I remember trying to pitch an article
on the subject to a charming but uncomprehending opinion page
editor at the Washington Post. I tried to explain that decisions
about property rules would shape the way we thought about the
technology. Would the relatively anonymous and decentralized
characteristics of the Internet that made it such a powerful
tool for global speech and debate come to be seen as a bug
rather than a feature, something to be "fixed" to make the Net
safe for protected content? The rules would also shape the
economic interests that drove future policy. Would we try to
build the system around the model of proprietary content
dispensed in tightly controlled chunks? Would fair use be made
technologically obsolescent? Would we undercut the various
nontraditional methods of innovation, such as free software,
before they ever managed to establish themselves? What would
become of libraries in the digital world, of the ideal that
access to books had important differences from access to
Twinkies? After I concluded this lengthy and slightly incoherent
cri de Coeur, there was a long pause; then the editor said
politely, "Are you sure you couldn't make some of these points
about a free speech issue, like the Communications Decency Act,
maybe?"
I finally placed the piece in the Washington Times,9 which was
best known at the time as the only metropolitan newspaper owned
by the Unification Church, familiarly referred to as the
Moonies. This hardly counted as a direct line to the popular
imagination (though the article's mild criticisms elicited an
extraordinary reaction from the Clinton administration's lead
official on intellectual property policy--throwing me for several
weeks into a surreal world of secondhand threats, third-party
leaks, and a hilarious back-and-forth in the letters page).10
Things were not completely one-sided. An unlikely group of
critics had formed: librarians, a few software developers, law
professors, some Internet libertarians. Of particular note was
the Digital Future Coalition, which grew to represent a broad
range of interested groups and industries thanks in part to the
prescient analysis and remarkable energy of one of my
colleagues, Peter Jaszi.11 Together with Pamela Samuelson,
Jessica Litman, and a number of other distinguished legal
scholars, Peter turned his considerable intellectual talents to
explaining why writers, telecom companies, scientists,
manufacturers of consumer electronics, and a host of other
groups should be interested in the rules being debated. There
had been a series of official hearings in which complaints were
carefully collected and just as carefully ignored. This became
harder to do as the critics became more numerous and better
organized. Nevertheless, the currents were clearly running
against them. It would be nice to say that this was merely
because of the clubby history of intellectual property
legislation, or the difficulty in getting press attention, or
the various issues of industry capture and collective action
problems. Yet this would be to miss a vital element of the
situation.
Conventional political science showed that there were structural
reasons why the legislative process was likely to succumb to
industry capture.12 The reality turned out to be much worse. The
real problem was not a political process dominated by cynical
power politics, nor an initial absence of critical newspaper
coverage, though both of those factors contributed. The real
problem was that most of the proponents of the White Paper's
policies believed their own arguments so deeply and sincerely
that they saw any criticism of those positions as either godless
communism or hippy digital anarchism. (Frequently, in fact, they
clung to their arguments even when there was fairly strong
evidence that they would actually be harming themselves by
putting these policies into effect. I will expand on this point
later.) More importantly, they succeeded in getting their story
about the threats and promises of the digital future accepted as
the basis for all discussion of intellectual property policy. It
became the organizing set of principles, the master
narrative--call it what you will.
The heart of the story is beguilingly simple. The Internet makes
copying cheaper and does so on an unparalleled global scale.
Therefore we must meet the greater danger of illicit copying
with more expansive rights, harsher penalties, and expanded
protections. True, as I pointed out before, some of these
expansions may indeed have the practical effect of reducing
rights that citizens thought they had, such as fair use, low-
level noncommercial sharing among personal friends, resale, and
so on. But without an increase in private property rights,
cheaper copying will eat the heart out of our creative and
cultural industries. I call this story the Internet Threat. It
is a powerful argument and it deserves some explanation.
Think back for a moment to the first chapter and the difference
between Madame Bovary and the petunia. If the reason for
intellectual property rights is the "nonrival" and
"nonexcludable" nature of the goods they protect, then surely
the lowering of copying and transmission costs implies a
corresponding need to increase the strength of intellectual
property rights. Imagine a line. At one end sits a monk
painstakingly transcribing Aristotle's Poetics. In the middle
lies the Gutenberg printing press. Three-quarters of the way
along the line is a photocopying machine. At the far end lies
the Internet and the online version of the human genome. At each
stage, copying costs are lowered and goods become both less
rival and less excludable. My MP3 files are available to anyone
in the world running Napster. Songs can be found and copied with
ease. The symbolic end of rivalry comes when I am playing the
song in Chapel Hill, North Carolina, at the very moment that you
are both downloading and listening to it in Kazakhstan--now that
is nonrival.
THE LOGIC OF PERFECT CONTROL
My point is that there is a teleology--a theory about how
intellectual property law must develop historically--hidden
inside the argument I call the Internet Threat. The argument,
which is touted endlessly by the content industries--and not
without reason--can be reduced to this: The strength of
intellectual property rights must vary inversely with the cost
of copying. With high copying costs, one needs weak intellectual
property rights if any at all. To deal with the monk-copyist, we
need no copyright because physical control of the manuscript is
enough. What does it matter if I say I will copy your
manuscript, if I must do it by hand? How will this present a
threat to you? There is no need to create a legal right to
exclude others from copying, no need for a "copy right." As
copying costs fall, however, the need to exclude increases. To
deal with the Gutenberg press, we need the Statute of Anne--the
first copyright statute--and the long evolution of copyright it
ushered in.
But then comes the Internet. To deal with the Internet, we need
the Digital Millennium Copyright Act,13 the No Electronic Theft
Act,14 the Sonny Bono Copyright Term Extension Act,15 and
perhaps even the Collections of Information Antipiracy Act.16 As
copying costs approach zero, intellectual property rights must
approach perfect control. We must strengthen the rights,
lengthen the term of the rights, increase the penalties, and
make noncommercial illicit copying a crime. We must move outside
the traditional realm of copyright altogether to regulate the
technology around the copyrighted material. Companies are
surrounding their digital materials with digital fences. We must
make it a violation of the law to cut those digital fences, even
if you do so to make a "fair use" of the material on the other
side. We must prohibit the making of things that can be used as
fence-cutters--a prospect that worries researchers on encryption.
In the long run, we must get rid of the troublesome anonymity of
the Internet, requiring each computer to have an individual ID.
We must make click-wrap contracts enforceable, even on third
parties, even when you cannot read them before clicking--so that
you never actually buy the software, music, movies, and e-books
you download, merely "license" them for a narrowly defined range
of uses. We must create interlocking software and hardware
systems that monitor and control the material played on those
systems--so that songs can be licensed to particular computers at
particular times. Uses that the owners wish to forbid will
actually be impossible, whether they are legal or not.
In other words, we must make this technology of the Internet,
which was hailed as the great "technology of freedom," into a
technology of control and surveillance. The possibility of
individuals circulating costless perfect digital copies requires
it. It would be facile (if tempting) to say we must remake the
Internet to make it safe for Britney Spears. The "Internet
Threat" argument is that we must remake the Net if we want
digital creativity--whether in music or software or movies or e-
texts. And since the strength of the property rights varies
inversely with the cost of copying, costless copying means that
the remade Net must approach perfect control, both in its legal
regime and its technical architecture.
Like any attractive but misleading argument, the Internet Threat
has a lot of truth. Ask the software company producing
expensive, specialized computer-assisted design programs costing
thousands of dollars what happens when the program is made
available on a "warez" site or a peer-to-peer filesharing
network. The upstart computer game company pinning its hopes and
its capital on a single new game would tell you the same thing.
The easy availability of perfect, costless copies is a danger to
all kinds of valuable cultural and economic production. The
story of the Internet Threat is not wrong, it is simply
dramatically incomplete in lots of ways. Here are two of them.
Costless Copying Brings Both
Costs and Benefits
The Internet does lower the cost of copying and thus the cost of
illicit copying. Of course, it also lowers the costs of
production, distribution, and advertising, and dramatically
increases the size of the potential market. Is the net result a
loss to rights holders such that we need to increase protection
and control in order to maintain a constant level of incentives?
A large, leaky market may actually provide more revenue than a
small one over which one's control is much stronger. What's
more, the same technologies that allow for cheap copying also
allow for swift and encyclopedic search engines--the best devices
ever invented for detecting illicit copying. What the Net takes
away with one hand, it often gives back with the other. Cheaper
copying does not merely mean loss, it also means opportunity.
Before strengthening intellectual property rights, we would need
to know whether the loss was greater than the gain and whether
revised business models and new distribution mechanisms could
avoid the losses while capturing more of the gains.
But wait, surely theft is theft? If the new technologies enable
more theft of intellectual property, must we not strengthen the
laws in order to deal with the problem? If some new technology
led to a rash of car thefts, we might increase police resources
and prison sentences, perhaps pass new legislation creating new
crimes related to car theft. We would do all of this even if the
technology in question gave car owners significant benefits
elsewhere. Theft is theft, is it not?
The answer in a word is no. Saying "theft is theft" is exactly
the error that the Jefferson Warning is supposed to guard
against. We should not assume that intellectual property and
material property are the same in all regards. The goal of
creating the limited monopoly called an intellectual property
right is to provide the minimum necessary incentive to encourage
the desired level of innovation. Anything extra is deadweight
loss. When someone takes your car, they have the car and you do
not. When, because of some new technology, someone is able to
get access to the MP3 file of your new song, they have the file
and so do you. You did not lose the song. What you may have lost
is the opportunity to sell the song to that person or to the
people with whom they "share" the file. We should not be
indifferent to this kind of loss; it is a serious concern. But
the fact that a new technology brings economic benefits as well
as economic harm to the creation, distribution, and sale of
intellectual property products means that we should pause before
increasing the level of rights, changing the architecture of our
communications networks, creating new crimes, and so on.
Remember, many of the things that the content industries were
concerned about on the Internet were already illegal, already
subject to suit and prosecution. The question is not whether the
Internet should be an intellectual property-free zone; it should
not be, is not, and never was. The question is whether, when the
content industries come asking for additional or new rights, for
new penalties, for the criminalization of certain types of
technology, we should take into account the gains that the
Internet has brought them, as well as the costs, before we
accede to their requests. The answer, of course, is that we
should. Sadly, we did not. This does not mean that all of the
content industries' attempts to strengthen the law are wrong and
unnecessary. It means that we do not know whether they are or
not.
There is a fairly solid tradition in intellectual property
policy of what I call "20/20 downside" vision. All of the
threats posed by any new technology--the player piano, the
jukebox, the photocopier, the VCR, the Internet--are seen with
extraordinary clarity. The opportunities, however, particularly
those which involve changing a business model or restructuring a
market, are dismissed as phantoms. The downside dominates the
field, the upside is invisible. The story of video recorders is
the best-known example. When video recorders--another technology
promising cheaper copying--first appeared, the reaction of movie
studios was one of horror. Their business plans relied upon
showing movies in theaters and then licensing them to television
stations. VCRs and Betamaxes fit nowhere in this plan; they were
seen merely as copyright violation devices. Hollywood tried to
have them taxed to pay for the losses that would be caused.
Their assumption? Cheaper copying demands stronger rights.
Having lost that battle, the movie studios tried to have the
manufacturers of the recording devices found liable for
contributory copyright infringement; liable, in other words, for
assisting the copyright violations that could be carried out by
the owners of Sony Betamaxes. This, of course, was exactly the
same legal claim that would be made in the Napster case. In the
Sony case, however, the movie companies lost. The Supreme Court
said that recording of TV programs to "time-shift" them to a
more convenient hour was a fair use.17 The movie studios' claims
were rejected.
Freed from the threat of liability, the price of video recorders
continued to fall. They flooded consumers' houses at a speed
unparalleled until the arrival of the World Wide Web. All these
boxes sitting by TVs now cried out for content, content that was
provided by an emerging video rental market. Until the triumph
of DVDs, the videocassette rental market made up more than 50
percent of the movie industry's revenues.18 Were losses caused
by video recorders? To be sure. Some people who might have gone
to see a movie in a theater because the TV schedule was
inconvenient could instead record the show and watch it later.
Videos could even be shared with friends and families--tattered
copies of Disney movies recorded from some cable show could be
passed on to siblings whose kids have reached the appropriate
age. VCRs were also used for copying that was clearly
illicit--large-scale duplication and sale of movies by someone
other than the rights holder. A cheaper copying technology
definitely caused losses. But it also provided substantial
gains, gains that far outweighed the losses. Ironically, had the
movie companies "won" in the Sony case, they might now be worse
off.
The Sony story provides us with some useful lessons--first, this
20/20 downside vision is a poor guide to copyright policy. Under
its sway, some companies will invariably equate greater control
with profit and cheaper copying with loss. They will conclude,
sometimes rightly, that their very existence is threatened, and,
sometimes wrongly, that the threat is to innovation and culture
itself rather than to their particular way of delivering it.
They will turn to the legislature and the courts for guarantees
that they can go on doing business in the old familiar ways.
Normally, the marketplace is supposed to provide correctives to
this kind of myopia. Upstart companies, not bound by the habits
of the last generation, are supposed to move nimbly to harvest
the benefits from the new technology and to outcompete the
lumbering dinosaurs. In certain situations, though, competition
will not work:
* if the dinosaurs are a cartel strong enough to squelch
competition;
* if they have enlisted the state to make the threatening
technology illegal, describing it as a predatory encroachment on
the "rights" of the old guard rather than aggressive
competition;
* if ingrained prejudices are simply so strong that the
potential business benefits take years to become apparent; or
* if the market has "locked in" on a dominant standard--a
technology or an operating system, say--to which new market
entrants do not have legal access.
In those situations, markets cannot be counted on to self-
correct. Unfortunately, and this is a key point, intellectual
property policy frequently deals with controversies in which all
of these conditions hold true.
Let me repeat this point, because it is one of the most
important ones in this book. To a political scientist or market
analyst, the conditions I have just described sound like a
rarely seen perfect storm of legislative and market dysfunction.
To an intellectual property scholar, they sound like business as
usual.
In the case of the VCR wars, none of these factors obtained. The
state refused to step in to aid the movie companies by
criminalizing the new technology. There were equally powerful
companies on the other side of the issue (the consumer
electronics companies selling VCRs) who saw this new market as a
natural extension of a familiar existing market--audio recorders.
There was no dominant proprietary technological standard
controlled by the threatened industry that could be used to shut
down any threats to their business model. The market was allowed
to develop and evolve without premature legal intervention or
proprietary technological lockout. Thus we know in this case
that the movie companies were wrong, that their claims of
impending doom from cheap copies were completely mistaken. The
public and, ironically, the industry itself benefited as a
result. But the Sony case is the exception rather than the rule.
That is why it is so important. If competition and change can be
forbidden, we will get relatively few cases that disprove the
logic that cheaper copying must always mean stronger rights. The
"natural experiments" will never be allowed to happen. They will
be squelched by those who see only threat in the technologies
that allow cheaper copies and who can persuade legislators or
judges to see the world their way. The story line I describe
here, the Internet Threat, will become the conventional wisdom.
In the process, it will make it much less likely that we will
have the evidence needed to refute it.
The Holes Matter as Much as the Cheese
The Sony case is important in another way. The Supreme Court's
decision turned on the judgment that it was a "fair use" under
U.S. copyright law for consumers to record television programs
for time-shifting purposes. Since fair use comes up numerous
times in this book, it is worth pausing for a moment to explain
what it is.
The content industries like to portray fair use as a narrow and
grudging defense against an otherwise valid case for copyright
infringement--as if the claim were, "Yes, I trespassed on your
land, which was wrong, I admit. But I was starving and looking
for food. Please give me a break." This is simply inaccurate.
True, fair use is asserted as "an affirmative defense"; that is
the way it is brought up in a copyright case. But in U.S. law,
fair uses are stated quite clearly to be limitations on the
exclusive rights of the copyright holder--uses that were never
within the copyright holder's power to prohibit. The defense is
not "I trespassed on your land, but I was starving." It is "I
did not trespass on your land. I walked on the public road that
runs through it, a road you never owned in the first place."
When society hands out the right to the copyright holder, it
carves out certain areas of use and refuses to hand over control
of them. Again, remember the Jefferson Warning. This is not a
presumptively absolute property right. It is a conditional grant
of a limited and temporary monopoly. One cannot start from the
presumption that the rights holder has absolute rights over all
possible uses and therefore that any time a citizen makes use of
the work in any way, the rights holder is entitled to get paid
or to claim "piracy" if he does not get paid. Under the sway of
the story line I called the Internet Threat, legislators have
lost sight of this point.
So what is "fair use"? When I am asked this question by
nonlawyers, I offer to show them the actual provision in the
copyright act. They recoil, clearly imagining they are about to
be shown something the size and complexity of the tax code. Here
is the statutory fair use provision in its entirety
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