The Index as Argument: On the Tyranny of the Alphabetical
We are taught to trust the index. It is the final, impartial arbiter of a book’s contents, a democratic directory where every subject, name, and concept is granted equal access via the cold logic of the alphabet. To consult it is an act of pure utility. We seek a fact, a name, a quote, and the index dutifully delivers its coordinates. It is the epitome of efficiency, a tool for our hurried age. But I want to posit a heresy: the index is not a neutral guide. It is an argument, a narrative in miniature, and one that often betrays the spirit of the text it claims to serve.
Consider the process of its creation. An indexer—whether the author, a devoted editor, or a hired professional—must make thousands of subjective decisions. What is deemed important enough to include? What subtle reference, what fleeting but beautiful aside, is condemned to oblivion because it lacks obvious utility? The index privileges the declarative over the suggestive, the proper noun over the abstract emotion, the fact over the feeling. It is a map that highlights only the cities and ignores the winding country paths, the quiet meadows, the particular quality of the light.
This alphabetical tyranny creates a strange and silent hierarchy. In a work of history, ‘War, tactics of’ will inevitably precede ‘Women, daily lives of’. The ‘Zwingli, Huldrych’ entry will always have the final word, a position of prominence granted not by theological impact but by the accident of his name’s initial letter. The structure implies a value that isn’t there. The connective tissue of the author’s thought—the slow build of an idea, the resonance between chapters, the thematic echoes—is severed and scattered. The book is atomized into a collection of isolated entries, ready for extraction.
This fosters a particular, and I would argue impoverished, way of reading. The index encourages the surgical strike. It facilitates the scholar who needs a citation or the student cramming for an exam, but it discourages the meandering, curious reader who might stumble upon a delightful idea on page 217 while searching for something else entirely on page 218. The index makes such serendipity inefficient, almost illicit. It teaches us to value a text for its discrete particles of data rather than for its holistic atmosphere.
I am not advocating for the abolition of the index. Its utility is undeniable. But I am arguing for a conscious skepticism towards it. We must recognize it for what it is: a deeply interpretive piece of work. The next time you close a book, before you consign it to the shelf, read its index not as a tool, but as a text itself. Ask what its entries reveal about the priorities of its maker. See what is missing. In its silent, alphabetical order, you will find one of the most potent—and most overlooked—arguments the book has to offer.
Notes & further reading
A few pages I came back to while writing this: