A History of Bibliographies of Bibliographies

In Short

This scholarly history traces the evolution of universal bibliographies of bibliographies from the sixteenth century through the mid-twentieth century. Archer Taylor charts how early modern scholars first embedded lists of reference works inside massive subject indexes, how seventeenth-century compilations established the genre as an independent discipline, and how later bibliographers struggled with classification systems, omitted essential predecessors, and eventually turned toward modern international cooperation. The work remains lasting because it illuminates the persistent structural challenges of organizing human knowledge, showing that every generation must continuously rebuild its own bibliographical tools to reflect its changing intellectual landscape.

The Story

The narrative begins in the sixteenth century with early pioneers of universal reference works. Conrad Gesner incorporates a hidden bibliography of bibliographies inside his Pandectae of 1548, establishing a logical classification scheme that unfortunately proves too rigid for later scholars to update or revise. Alongside contemporaries like Israel Spach, Gesner lays the groundwork for organizing printed knowledge, though these early modern writers focus heavily on classical sources rather than contemporary publications.

Moving into the seventeenth century, the discipline comes into its own as an independent scholarly undertaking. Philip Labbé publishes his Bibliotheca bibliothecarum in 1653, establishing the standard model for gathering reference lists into a standalone volume. Labbé suffers from inconsistent methods—such as mixing Latin and vernacular book titles or offering occasional, biased commentary primarily on Protestant authors—yet his work provides an essential foundation. Antoine Teissier later expands Labbé’s text into his Catalogus auctorum in 1686, broadening the scope by adding hundreds of biographies and funeral orations, though he minimizes his predecessor's contributions on his title page.

During the eighteenth century, the genre falls into neglect and fragmentation. Writers like J. D. Durey de Noinville assemble disorderly lists that lack coherent plans or clear selection criteria. Durey de Noinville includes arbitrary mixtures of titles, missing crucial reference works while misclassifying specialized sale catalogues. These compilers work in isolation, ignoring previous achievements and allowing early progress to slide into obscurity.

The nineteenth century witnesses a surge of ambitious individual projects compiled almost exclusively by professional librarians. Scholars such as Gabriel Peignot claim to invent entirely new frameworks while failing to exhaust the information gathered by earlier bibliographers like Labbé. Subsequent figures like J. P. Namur attempt massive classified surveys but struggle under disorganized structures, failing to provide subject indexes and placing sale catalogues alongside general reference works. Julius Petzholdt achieves a landmark success with his Bibliotheca bibliographica in 1866, though his rigid political categories eventually grow obsolete. Meanwhile, compilers like Joseph Sabin create selective, single-volume guides that reflect contemporary research needs while overlooking older European traditions.

In the twentieth century, the scale of published material explodes, forcing the discipline to transition from individual effort to large-scale cooperation. Periodical surveys like the H. W. Wilson Company’s Bibliographic Index track tens of thousands of current bibliographies across thousands of categories. Theodore Besterman produces his monumental World Bibliography of Bibliographies, expanding it across multiple editions to incorporate tens of thousands of records, including technical patent abridgments. Finally, Aksel G. S. Josephson compiles a specialized index tracking bibliographies of bibliographies themselves, capping four centuries of effort to master the printed record.

How It Unfolds

The early foundations Conrad Gesner establishes early organizational systems in his 1548 Pandectae, embedding a universal subject index that reflects sixteenth-century learning. His logical structure remains rigid, preventing subsequent scholars from easily revising or expanding his work.

Independence in the seventeenth century Philip Labbé establishes the bibliography of bibliographies as a standalone discipline with his 1653 Bibliotheca bibliothecarum. Antoine Teissier later expands Labbé’s compilation in 1686, adding thousands of biographical works while obscuring his source material.

Eighteenth-century stagnation Compilers like J. D. Durey de Noinville produce disorderly, unusable lists without clear plans or selection standards. These authors work independently, ignoring previous accomplishments and allowing early bibliographical gains to lapse into obscurity.

Nineteenth-century librarian projects Gabriel Peignot, J. P. Namur, and Julius Petzholdt launch massive individual efforts to classify reference literature. While Petzholdt sets a high standard of precision, changing political realities and complex classification systems eventually render these individual schemes difficult to navigate.

Twentieth-century cooperative expansion Rising publication volumes force bibliographers toward international cooperation and modern periodical tracking. Theodore Besterman compiles tens of thousands of entries in his multi-volume World Bibliography, while Aksel G. S. Josephson creates a specialized history of bibliographies in the third degree.

The People

Conrad Gesner seeks to create a universal system of knowledge in the sixteenth century through his massive biobibliographical dictionary and subject indexes. His meticulous classification scheme and focus on classical sources make his work brilliant, yet so rigid that no other scholar can successfully update it, leaving his contributions unrecognized by later generations.

Philip Labbé aims to gather all known book catalogues into a single reference tool in 1653. His irregular methods, erratic language citations, and occasional commentary on Protestant writers introduce minor flaws, but his work establishes the benchmark for seventeenth-century bibliographical scholarship.

Antoine Teissier wants to expand upon previous bibliographical compilations by incorporating biographical entries, funeral orations, and eulogies. His desire to claim sole credit leads him to obscure Labbé’s original foundation, diluting the pure focus of the bibliography of bibliographies by turning it into a general biographical index.

Julius Petzholdt strives to establish a definitive, highly structured classification of bibliographical works in 1866. His deep interest in classification theory yields a masterpiece of scholarship, but his nineteenth-century political assumptions—such as grouping Hungarian books under Austrian listings—eventually make his work difficult for modern researchers to navigate.

Theodore Besterman attempts to construct a comprehensive international record of all separate bibliographies in the twentieth century. He battles the overwhelming volume of modern publication and the problem of unindexed "linked" works, ultimately expanding his compilation across multiple editions to encompass eighty thousand titles.

In Its Own Voice

Regarding these men [i.e., heretical authors] ancient writers ought also to be consulted: Philastrius, Augustine, the author of Praedestinati (edited by Sirmondus), St. Epiphanius, St. John Damascene, and others.

Philip Labbé adds this unexpected note of historical commentary to his citation of a catalogue of heretical writers compiled by Bernardus Luxemburgensis.

Let this book of Labbé's be commended to you for diligent study above all others, for (disregarding the obscenities, which are scattered about in it like mouse dirt in pepper) it is one of the very best works in the field...

Theologian J. F. Reimann offers this colorful assessment of Labbé’s Bibliotheca bibliothecarum when recommending it to students of literature.

The lesson is that each age must create its own bibliography of bibliographies.

Archer Taylor reflects on how changing systems of knowledge render even the finest historical classifications obsolete to later generations of scholars.

What It's Really About

The book explores how human beings attempt to impose order on an ever-expanding universe of written records. It demonstrates that bibliographical classification is never a neutral or static exercise; rather, it reflects the specific intellectual, political, and cultural assumptions of the era in which it is created. A secondary theme centers on the problem of scholarly continuity. Taylor illustrates how early bibliographers repeatedly reinvented the wheel, discarding or ignoring the work of their predecessors out of ignorance, ambition, or flawed methodology. Ultimately, the book asks how scholars can preserve access to past knowledge when every system designed to organize that knowledge eventually becomes obsolete itself, proving that maintaining access to information requires constant, conscious renewal by every succeeding generation.

Why Read It Today

This volume appeals to book historians, librarians, archivists, and anyone fascinated by the architecture of knowledge and information systems. Reading it feels like walking through a quiet, meticulously curated museum of scholarly ambition, where forgotten manuscripts and massive multi-volume folios are examined with understated humor and sharp critical discernment.

The prose is measured and precise, offering clear insights into how past researchers navigated the daunting task of book discovery without digital databases. The book does present certain difficulties: it assumes a basic comfort with Latin titles, bibliographical jargon, and historical library terminology, while focusing strictly on universal reference works rather than national or specialized lists. Furthermore, it deals extensively with obscure sixteenth- and seventeenth-century authors whose names will be unfamiliar to general readers. What stays with you, however, is a profound appreciation for the fragile nature of human record-keeping. Taylor leaves the reader with a humbling realization: no single catalog, no matter how vast or meticulously planned, can ever permanently contain the world's knowledge.

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