How an Edward Hopper Painting Inspired Norman Bates’ Iconic House in Alfred Hitchcock’s Psycho

Alfred Hitch­cock was not Amer­i­can, as even casu­al view­ers of his tele­vi­sion show could tell right away. He may have exag­ger­at­ed his Eng­lish­ness, but like more than a few high-pro­file out­siders, he also used his cul­tur­al posi­tion to ren­der the Unit­ed States all the more vivid­ly in his work. Grow­ing up, he amassed enough sec­ond-hand knowl­edge of the coun­try in which he would one day live that he already knew his way around New York when first he set foot there. But it was some years after he relo­cat­ed to Hol­ly­wood that his films began to feel Amer­i­can — and, even­tu­al­ly, more Amer­i­can than those made by domes­tic direc­tors, thanks in part to his uncon­ven­tion­al per­spec­tive on local sources of inspi­ra­tion.

Image by Diego Del­so, via Wiki­me­dia Com­mons

Take the archi­tec­ture. Asked by François Truf­faut about Nor­man Bates’ “ghost­ly house” in Psy­cho, he explained that “the mys­te­ri­ous atmos­phere is, to some extent, quite acci­den­tal. For instance, the actu­al locale of the events is in north­ern Cali­fornia, where that type of house is very com­mon.” He was­n’t try­ing to “recon­struct an old-fash­ioned Uni­ver­sal hor­ror pic­ture atmos­phere,” but “sim­ply want­ed to be accu­rate.” Yet the house is report­ed to have been inspired by an east-coast mod­el as well, and one found in art: Edward Hop­per’s paint­ingHouse by the Rail­road(top), from 1925, itself made with ref­er­ence to a real Vic­to­ri­an man­sion that still stands in Haver­straw, New York, between a rail­road and a ceme­tery.

Hitch­cock had already made use of Hop­per, that most cin­e­mat­ic of Amer­i­can painters. Here on Open Cul­ture, we’ve pre­vi­ous­ly fea­tured the visu­al influ­ence of Hop­per paint­ings from the nine­teen-twen­ties and thir­ties like Automat, Night Win­dows, Hotel Room, and Room in New York on Rear Win­dow. “Both artists explored the lone­li­ness that results from mod­ern­iza­tion,” writes Tim Brinkhof at Art­net. “Hopper’s paint­ings and Hitch­cock­’s films explore the extent to which progress and urban mod­ern­iza­tion have made the world lone­li­er and, as a result, capa­ble of acts of explo­sive, irra­tional vio­lence,” a capa­bil­i­ty per­son­i­fied in the dis­turbed motel-keep­er Nor­man Bates.

“The [Haver­straw] house was built in 1885, near the crest of a hill that ris­es steeply from the west bank of the Hud­son Riv­er,” writes Paul Bochn­er in the Atlantic. “By the turn of the cen­tu­ry it had been aban­doned; neigh­bor­hood chil­dren called it haunt­ed.” It was lat­er pur­chased by the dis­trict attor­ney of Rock­land Coun­ty, whose eldest daugh­ter remem­bered that, “when she was thir­teen, she looked out her bed­room win­dow and saw a man sit­ting across the road, paint­ing.” The man was, of course, Edward Hop­per. She would­n’t have known, sev­en­teen years before Nighthawks, that he was on his way to becom­ing one of the coun­try’s most famous artists. As for what the house would one day become in the hands of Alfred Hitch­cock, then just start­ing his career on the oth­er side of the Atlantic, nobody could have imag­ined.

Relat­ed Con­tent:

16 Free Hitch­cock Movies Online

How Edward Hopper’s Paint­ings Inspired the Creepy Sus­pense of Alfred Hitchcock’s Rear Win­dow

How Cin­e­ma Inspired Edward Hopper’s Great Paint­ings, and How Edward Hop­per Inspired Great Film­mak­ers

Alfred Hitch­cock Want­ed Frank Lloyd Wright to Design the North by North­west House: An Archi­tect Just Built It for $45 Mil­lion

How Edward Hop­per “Sto­ry­board­ed” His Icon­ic Paint­ing Nighthawks

Sal­vador Dalí Goes to Hol­ly­wood & Cre­ates a Wild Dream Sequence for Alfred Hitch­cock

Based in Seoul, Col­in Marshall writes and broad­casts on cities, lan­guage, and cul­ture. He’s the author of the newslet­ter Books on Cities as well as the books 한국 요약 금지 (No Sum­ma­riz­ing Korea) and Kore­an Newtro. Fol­low him on the social net­work for­mer­ly known as Twit­ter at @colinmarshall.

A 3,000-Year-Old Painter’s Palette from Ancient Egypt, with Traces of the Original Colors Still In It

It’s a good bet that your first box of crayons or water­col­ors was a sim­ple affair of six or so col­ors… just like the palette belong­ing to Amen­emopet, vizier to Pharaoh Amen­hotep III (c.1391 — c.1354 BC), a plea­sure-lov­ing patron of the arts whose rule coin­cid­ed with a peri­od of great pros­per­i­ty.

Amenemopet’s well-used artist’s palette, above, resides in the Egypt­ian wing of New York City’s Met­ro­pol­i­tan Muse­um of Art.

Over 3000 years old and carved from a sin­gle piece of ivory, the palette is marked “beloved of Re,” a roy­al ref­er­ence to the sun god dear to both Amen­hotep III and Akhen­aton, his son and suc­ces­sor, whose wor­ship of Re resem­bled monothe­ism.

As cura­tor Catharine H. Roehrig notes in the Met­ro­pol­i­tan’s pub­li­ca­tion, Life along the Nile: Three Egyp­tians of Ancient Thebes, the palette “con­tains the six basic col­ors of the Egypt­ian palette, plus two extras: red­dish brown, a mix­ture of red ocher and car­bon; and orange, a mix­ture of orpi­ment (yel­low) and red ocher. The painter could also vary his col­ors by apply­ing a thick­er or thin­ner lay­er of paint or by adding white or black to achieve a lighter or dark­er shade.”

(Care­ful when mix­ing that orpi­ment into your red ocher, kids. It’s a form of arsenic.)

Oth­er min­er­als that would have been ground and com­bined with a nat­ur­al bind­ing agent include gyp­sum, car­bon, iron oxides, blue and green azu­rite and mala­chite.

The col­ors them­selves would have had strong sym­bol­ism for Amen­hotep and his peo­ple, and the artist would have made very delib­er­atereg­u­lat­ed, evenchoic­es as to which pig­ment to load onto his palm fiber brush when dec­o­rat­ing tombs, tem­ples, pub­lic build­ings, and pot­tery.

As Jen­ny Hill writes in Ancient Egypt Onlineiwn—col­orcan also be trans­lat­ed as “dis­po­si­tion,” “char­ac­ter,” “com­plex­ion,” or “nature.” She delves into the specifics of each of the six basic col­ors:

Wadj (green) also means “to flour­ish” or “to be healthy.” The hiero­glyph rep­re­sent­ed the papyrus plant as well as the green stone mala­chite (wadj). The col­or green rep­re­sent­ed veg­e­ta­tion, new life and fer­til­i­ty. In an inter­est­ing par­al­lel with mod­ern ter­mi­nol­o­gy, actions which pre­served the fer­til­i­ty of the land or pro­mot­ed life were described as “green.”

Dshr (red) was a pow­er­ful col­or because of its asso­ci­a­tion with blood, in par­tic­u­lar the pro­tec­tive pow­er of the blood of Isis…red could also rep­re­sent anger, chaos and fire and was close­ly asso­ci­at­ed with Set, the unpre­dictable god of storms. Set had red hair, and peo­ple with red hair were thought to be con­nect­ed to him. As a result, the Egyp­tians described a per­son in a fit of rage as hav­ing a “red heart” or as being “red upon” the thing that made them angry. A per­son was described as hav­ing “red eyes” if they were angry or vio­lent. “To red­den” was to die and “mak­ing red” was a euphemism for killing.

Irtyu (blue) was the col­or of the heav­ens and hence rep­re­sent­ed the uni­verse. Many tem­ples, sar­copha­gi and bur­ial vaults have a deep blue roof speck­led with tiny yel­low stars. Blue is also the col­or of the Nile and the primeval waters of chaos (known as Nun).

Khenet (yel­low) rep­re­sent­ed that which was eter­nal and inde­struc­tible, and was close­ly asso­ci­at­ed with gold (nebu or nebw) and the sun. Gold was thought to be the sub­stance which formed the skin of the gods.

Hdj (white) rep­re­sent­ed puri­ty and omnipo­tence. Many sacred ani­mals (hip­po, oxen and cows) were white. White cloth­ing was worn dur­ing reli­gious rit­u­als and to “wear white san­dals” was to be a priest…White was also seen as the oppo­site of red, because of the latter’s asso­ci­a­tion with rage and chaos, and so the two were often paired to rep­re­sent com­plete­ness.

Kem (black) rep­re­sent­ed death and the after­life to the ancient Egyp­tians. Osiris was giv­en the epi­thet “the black one” because he was the king of the nether­world, and both he and Anu­bis (the god of embalm­ing) were por­trayed with black faces. The Egyp­tians also asso­ci­at­ed black with fer­til­i­ty and res­ur­rec­tion because much of their agri­cul­ture was depen­dent on the rich dark silt deposit­ed on the riv­er banks by the Nile dur­ing the inun­da­tion. When used to rep­re­sent res­ur­rec­tion, black and green were inter­change­able.

If you would like to sup­port the mis­sion of Open Cul­ture, con­sid­er mak­ing a dona­tion to our site. It’s hard to rely 100% on ads, and your con­tri­bu­tions will help us con­tin­ue pro­vid­ing the best free cul­tur­al and edu­ca­tion­al mate­ri­als to learn­ers every­where. You can con­tribute through Pay­Pal, Patre­on, and Ven­mo (@openculture). Thanks!

Note: An ear­li­er ver­sion of this post appeared on our site in 2021.

Relat­ed Con­tent: 

Won­ders of Ancient Egypt: A Free Online Course from the Uni­ver­si­ty of Penn­syl­va­nia

Harvard’s Dig­i­tal Giza Project Lets You Access the Largest Online Archive on the Egypt­ian Pyra­mids (Includ­ing a 3D Giza Tour)

Pyra­mids of Giza: Ancient Egypt­ian Art and Archaeology–a Free Online Course from Har­vard

The Met Dig­i­tal­ly Restores the Col­ors of an Ancient Egypt­ian Tem­ple, Using Pro­jec­tion Map­ping Tech­nol­o­gy

Take a 3D Tour Through Ancient Giza, Includ­ing the Great Pyra­mids, the Sphinx & More

What Ancient Egypt­ian Sound­ed Like & How We Know It

Ayun Hal­l­i­day is an author, illus­tra­tor, the­ater mak­er in NYC.

by | Permalink | Make a Comment ( 1 ) |

How Nashville Became Home to a Full-Scale Replica of the Parthenon

Asked to iden­ti­fy “the Athens of the South,” many Amer­i­cans might well point to Athens, Geor­gia, espe­cial­ly if they hap­pen to be fans of REM, the B‑52s, or Of Mon­tre­al. In fact, that title was claimed by Nashville, Ten­nessee as ear­ly as the eigh­teen-fifties, when the city put into action its ambi­tious plans for a pub­lic edu­ca­tion sys­tem. By the end of that cen­tu­ry, Nashville boast­ed not just more than 20 col­leges and uni­ver­si­ties (Van­der­bilt being the best known today), but also a full-scale repli­ca of the Parthenon, the ancient tem­ple to the god­dess Athena. It was built for the state’s Cen­ten­ni­al Exhi­bi­tion in 1897, when no dis­play of local grandeur was too much.

Near­ly 130 years lat­er, the Nashville Parthenon remains a major local attrac­tion along­side the likes of the Grand Ole Opry, the Coun­try Music Hall of Fame, and the Honky Tonk High­way. The struc­ture cur­rent­ly sit­u­at­ed in Cen­ten­ni­al Park (also the home of that mod­ern site of pil­grim­age, the Tay­lor Swift Bench) isn’t the same one at which vis­i­tors mar­veled in 1897.

After a cou­ple of decades of dete­ri­o­ra­tion, writes Art­sy’s Isaac Kaplan, “mas­sive ren­o­va­tions were under­tak­en in 1920, over­seen by an archi­tect named Rus­sell Hart, who com­mit­ted to mak­ing the build­ing both endur­ing and as his­tor­i­cal­ly true to the orig­i­nal Parthenon as pos­si­ble,” an exten­sive rebuild that even entailed mak­ing casts of the orig­i­nal mar­bles.

Unlike the bombed-out ruin in the Athens of Greece, the Nashville Parthenon stands proud­ly intact. But does it pass muster with seri­ous enthu­si­asts of clas­si­cal civ­i­liza­tion? In the video at the top of the post, Gar­rett Ryan of ancient-his­to­ry YouTube chan­nel Told in Stone makes the trip. He notes that, though it does con­tain a gold-plat­ed (or rather, gold-leaf plat­ed) stat­ue of Athena much like the one orig­i­nal­ly sculpt­ed by Phidias, the build­ing is “not an exact repli­ca. It’s made of con­crete, not mar­ble, it has no frieze, the col­ors are all wrong, and the inte­ri­or is very dif­fer­ent from the orig­i­nal. But it gives a sense of the scale of the Parthenon,” and “cap­tures the expe­ri­ence of vis­it­ing a tem­ple of this size.” The park­ing lot right along­side it does some harm to the illu­sion, grant­ed, but it does encour­age the vis­i­tor to reflect upon the nature of civ­i­liza­tion: Amer­i­can civ­i­liza­tion, that is.

Relat­ed con­tent:

The City of Nashville Built a Full-Scale Repli­ca of the Parthenon in 1897, and It’s Still Stand­ing Today

A Tour of Athens’ Acrop­o­lis, Explained with 3D Recon­struc­tions

A 3D Mod­el Reveals What the Parthenon and Its Inte­ri­or Looked Like 2,500 Years Ago

How the Ancient Greeks Built Their Mag­nif­i­cent Tem­ples: The Art of Ancient Engi­neer­ing

A Vir­tu­al Tour of Ancient Athens: Fly Over Clas­si­cal Greek Civ­i­liza­tion in All Its Glo­ry

How the Parthenon Mar­bles End­ed Up In The British Muse­um

Based in Seoul, Col­in Marshall writes and broad­casts on cities, lan­guage, and cul­ture. He’s the author of the newslet­ter Books on Cities as well as the books 한국 요약 금지 (No Sum­ma­riz­ing Korea) and Kore­an Newtro. Fol­low him on the social net­work for­mer­ly known as Twit­ter at @colinmarshall.

Benedict Cumberbatch Reads Albert Camus’ Touching Thank You Letter to His Elementary School Teacher

It’s nev­er too late to thank the teacher who changed your life.

Oprah Win­frey fell to pieces when she was reunit­ed on air with Mrs. Dun­can, her fourth grade teacher, her “first lib­er­a­tor” and “val­ida­tor.”

Patrick Stew­art used his knight­hood cer­e­mo­ny as an occa­sion to thank Cecil Dor­mand, the Eng­lish teacher who told him that Shakespeare’s works were not dra­mat­ic poems, but plays to be per­formed on one’s feet.

And Bill Gates had kind words for Blanche Caffiere, the for­mer librar­i­an at View Ridge Ele­men­tary in Seat­tle, who des­tig­ma­tized his role as a “messy, nerdy boy who was read­ing lots of books.”

One of the most heart­felt stu­dent-to-teacher trib­utes is that of Nobel Prize-win­ning author and philoso­pher Albert Camus to Louis Ger­main, a father sub­sti­tute whose class­room was a wel­come reprieve from the extreme pover­ty Camus expe­ri­enced at home. Ger­main per­suad­ed Camus’ wid­owed moth­er to allow Camus to com­pete for the schol­ar­ship that enabled him to attend high school.

As read aloud by actor Bene­dict Cum­ber­batch, above, at Let­ters Live, a “cel­e­bra­tion of the endur­ing pow­er of lit­er­ary cor­re­spon­dence,” Camus’ 1957 mes­sage to Ger­main is an exer­cise in humil­i­ty and sim­ply stat­ed grat­i­tude:

Dear Mon­sieur Ger­main,

I let the com­mo­tion around me these days sub­side a bit before speak­ing to you from the bot­tom of my heart. I have just been giv­en far too great an hon­our, one I nei­ther sought nor solicit­ed.

But when I heard the news, my first thought, after my moth­er, was of you. With­out you, with­out the affec­tion­ate hand you extend­ed to the small poor child that I was, with­out your teach­ing and exam­ple, none of all this would have hap­pened.

I don’t make too much of this sort of hon­our. But at least it gives me the oppor­tu­ni­ty to tell you what you have been and still are for me, and to assure you that your efforts, your work, and the gen­er­ous heart you put into it still live in one of your lit­tle school­boys who, despite the years, has nev­er stopped being your grate­ful pupil. I embrace you with all my heart.

Albert Camus

The let­ter was grate­ful­ly received by his for­mer teacher, who wrote back a year and a half lat­er to say in part:

If it were pos­si­ble, I would squeeze the great boy whom you have become, and who will always remain for me “my lit­tle Camus.”

He com­pli­ment­ed his lit­tle Camus on not let­ting fame go to his head, and urged him to con­tin­ue mak­ing his fam­i­ly a pri­or­i­ty. He shared some fond mem­o­ries of Camus as a gen­tle, opti­mistic, intel­lec­tu­al­ly curi­ous lit­tle fel­low, and praised his moth­er for doing her best in dif­fi­cult cir­cum­stances.

Read­ers, please use the com­ments sec­tion to share with us the teach­ers deserv­ing of your thanks.

You can find this let­ter, and many more, in the great Let­ters of Note book.

Note: An ear­li­er ver­sion of this post appeared on our site in 2017.

Relat­ed Con­tent:

Albert Camus: The Mad­ness of Sin­cer­i­ty — 1997 Doc­u­men­tary Revis­its the Philosopher’s Life & Work

Albert Camus, Edi­tor of the French Resis­tance News­pa­per Com­bat, Writes Mov­ing­ly About Life, Pol­i­tics & War (1944–47)

Hear Albert Camus Deliv­er His Nobel Prize Accep­tance Speech (1957)

Ayun Hal­l­i­day is an author, illus­tra­tor, the­ater mak­er in NYC.

Alfred Hitchcock Wanted Frank Lloyd Wright to Design the North by Northwest House: An Architect Just Built It for $45 Million

Vil­lains who live in opu­lent, remote mod­ernist hous­es may have been a cliché since the last cen­tu­ry, but giv­en Hol­ly­wood’s addic­tion to the tried and true, they do still turn up now and again. Unsur­pris­ing­ly, few film­mak­ers have man­aged to use them any­where near as mem­o­rably as Alfred Hitch­cock did. Think back to North by North­west, that show­case of both late-fifties high style and unadul­ter­at­ed Hitch­cock­ery, and any num­ber of images come right to mind: the dead­ly crop duster bear­ing down on Cary Grant, the hang off the edge of Mount Rush­more, the cheeky cut to the train enter­ing the tun­nel. But on the archi­tec­tural­ly inclined, the deep­est impres­sion is made by not a shot but a set: the house — mod­ernist, opu­lent, remote — occu­pied by James Mason’s vil­lain Phillip Van­damm.

“The pio­neer­ing deci­sion to fea­ture a mod­ern house as the villain’s lair in North by North­west arose from both the prac­ti­cal needs of the script and the desire to explore inno­va­tion in archi­tec­tur­al rep­re­sen­ta­tion,” writes Chris­tine Madrid French, author of The Archi­tec­ture of Sus­pense: The Built World in the Films of Alfred Hitch­cock.

The look of the Van­damm House betrays con­sid­er­able inspi­ra­tion from the work of Frank Lloyd Wright, espe­cial­ly his “icon­ic Falling­wa­ter, best known for its aston­ish­ing pro­ject­ed porch­es can­tilevered over a run­ning stream.” As the Hol­ly­wood sto­ry goes, Hitch­cock asked Wright him­self about the pos­si­bil­i­ty of design­ing the house, but when the archi­tect asked for ten per­cent of the film’s entire bud­get, the job went to pro­duc­tion design­er Robert F. Boyle.

Despite the high­ly un-Wright­ian steel beams sup­port­ing the can­tilevered liv­ing room (insert­ed because Grant need­ed a way to climb in), movie­go­ers left the the­ater assum­ing that they’d wit­nessed a show­down in one of his hous­es. In fact, like so many of Hitch­cock­’s famous built envi­ron­ments, the struc­ture did­n’t actu­al­ly exist: Boyle and his col­lab­o­ra­tors con­struct­ed pieces on sets, com­plet­ing the rest with mat­te paint­ings. Yet their work did, in a sense, bring the Van­damm House into the world. A North by North­west fan since child­hood, archi­tect John Boc­car­do just this year achieved his $45 mil­lion dream of build­ing it for real. Apart from faith­ful­ly repli­cat­ing onscreen details, he also put in an eigh­teen-seat home the­ater, pos­si­bly on the safe assump­tion that the buy­er will be a fel­low cinephile — who, giv­en that the house over­looks Park City, Utah rather than sits atop Mount Rush­more, will sure­ly rue the day Sun­dance decid­ed to move to Boul­der. See pho­tos here.

If you would like to sup­port the mis­sion of Open Cul­ture, con­sid­er mak­ing a dona­tion to our site. It’s hard to rely 100% on ads, and your con­tri­bu­tions will help us con­tin­ue pro­vid­ing the best free cul­tur­al and edu­ca­tion­al mate­ri­als to learn­ers every­where. You can con­tribute through Pay­Pal, Patre­on, and Ven­mo (@openculture). Thanks!

Relat­ed con­tent:

16 Free Hitch­cock Movies Online

Alfred Hitch­cock Explains the Plot Device He Called the ‘MacGuf­fin’

Take a Tour of Frank Lloyd Wright’s Ennis House, the Man­sion That Has Appeared in Blade Run­ner, Twin Peaks & Count­less Hol­ly­wood Films

1,300 Pho­tos of Famous Mod­ern Amer­i­can Homes Now Online, Cour­tesy of USC

A Med­i­ta­tive Tour of Falling­wa­ter, Frank Lloyd Wright’s Archi­tec­tur­al Mas­ter­piece

Sal­vador Dalí Cre­ates a Dream Sequence for Spell­bound, Hitchcock’s Psy­cho­an­a­lyt­ic Thriller

Based in Seoul, Col­in Marshall writes and broad­casts on cities, lan­guage, and cul­ture. He’s the author of the newslet­ter Books on Cities as well as the books 한국 요약 금지 (No Sum­ma­riz­ing Korea) and Kore­an Newtro. Fol­low him on the social net­work for­mer­ly known as Twit­ter at @colinmarshall.

When Albert Einstein & Charlie Chaplin Met and Became Fast Famous Friends (1930)

Pho­to via Wiki­me­dia Com­mons

“You do not real­ly under­stand some­thing unless you can explain it to your grand­moth­er,” goes a well-known quote attrib­uted var­i­ous­ly to Albert Ein­stein, Richard Feyn­man, and Ernest Ruther­ford. No mat­ter who said it, “the sen­ti­ment… rings true,” writes Michelle Lav­ery, “for researchers in all dis­ci­plines from par­ti­cle physics to ecopsy­chol­o­gy.” As Feyn­man dis­cov­ered dur­ing his many years of teach­ing, it could be “the mot­to of all pro­fes­sion­al com­mu­ni­ca­tors,” The Guardian’s Rus­sell Gross­man writes, “and espe­cial­ly those who earn a liv­ing com­mu­ni­cat­ing the tricky busi­ness of sci­ence.”

Ein­stein became one of the world’s great sci­ence com­mu­ni­ca­tors by choice, not neces­si­ty, and found ways to explain his com­plex the­o­ries to chil­dren and the elder­ly alike. But per­haps, if he’d had his way, he would rather have avoid­ed words alto­geth­er, and pre­ferred acro­bat­ic feats of silent dar­ing to get his mes­sage across. We might at least con­clude so from his rev­er­ence for the work of Char­lie Chap­lin. Chap­lin was the only per­son Ein­stein want­ed to meet in Cal­i­for­nia dur­ing his sec­ond, 1930–31 vis­it to the U.S., when he was “at the height of his fame,” notes Claire Cock-Starkey at Men­tal Floss, “with news­pa­pers track­ing his every move and aca­d­e­mics clam­or­ing for expla­na­tions of his the­o­ries.”

The admi­ra­tion, of course, was mutu­al. Their first meet­ings hap­pened out­side the press’s scruti­ny, at Uni­ver­sal Stu­dios, “where the pair took a tour and had lunch togeth­er. They hit it off straight away, shar­ing quick wits and curi­ous minds.” In his auto­bi­og­ra­phy, Chap­lin writes that Einstein’s wife Elsa fina­gled an invi­ta­tion to din­ner at Chaplin’s house. And he “was only too hap­py to oblige,” Cock-Starkey writes, arrang­ing an “inti­mate din­ner, at which Elsa regaled him with the sto­ry of when Ein­stein came up with his world-chang­ing the­o­ry, some­time around 1915.”

The two con­tin­ued to cor­re­spond, and the big pub­lic unveil­ing of their friend­ship came when Chap­lin invit­ed Ein­stein to the pre­miere of City Lights in 1931 (see pho­to up top) where the mega-celebri­ties from very dif­fer­ent worlds were greet­ed by reporters, pho­tog­ra­phers, and ador­ing crowds. There are sev­er­al record­ed ver­sions of their con­ver­sa­tion. In one account, Ein­stein expressed bemuse­ment at the cheer­ing, and Chap­lin remarked, “the peo­ple applaud me because every­one under­stands me, and they applaud you because no one under­stands you.”

Chap­lin him­self wrote in his 1933–34 trav­el­ogue, A Come­di­an Sees the World, that one of Einstein’s sons uttered the line, weeks after­ward: “You are pop­u­lar [because] you are under­stood by the mass­es. On the oth­er hand, the professor’s pop­u­lar­i­ty with the mass­es is because he is not under­stood.” Yet anoth­er ver­sion, cir­cu­lat­ing on the Nobel Prize’s Insta­gram and col­lect­ing tens of thou­sands of likes, has the exchange take place in a dia­logue.

Ein­stein: “What I most admire about your art, is your uni­ver­sal­i­ty. You don’t say a word, yet the world under­stands you!”

Chap­lin: “True. But your glo­ry is even greater! The whole world admires you, even though they don’t under­stand a word of what you say.”

What­ev­er they real­ly said to each oth­er, it’s clear Ein­stein saw some­thing in Char­lie Chap­lin worth emu­lat­ing. Chap­lin left his mark on Exis­ten­tial­ist phi­los­o­phy, lend­ing the name of his film Mod­ern Times to Jean-Paul Sartre and Simone de Beauvoir’s influ­en­tial jour­nal, Les Temps Mod­ernes. He left a lega­cy on Beat poet­ry, lend­ing the name City Lights to Lawrence Ferlinghetti’s infa­mous San Fran­cis­co book­store and pub­lish­er. And it seems he also maybe had some small effect on physics, or on the most famous of physi­cists, who might have har­bored a secret ambi­tion to be a silent film comedian—or to com­mu­ni­cate, at least, with the uni­ver­sal effec­tive­ness of one as skilled as Char­lie Chap­lin, favorite of genius­es and grand­moth­ers (and genius grand­moth­ers) every­where.

Note: An ear­li­er ver­sion of this post appeared on our site in 2020.

Relat­ed Con­tent:  

60+ Free Char­lie Chap­lin Films Online

Einstein’s The­o­ry of Rel­a­tiv­i­ty Explained in One of the Ear­li­est Sci­ence Films Ever Made (1923)

Hear Albert Ein­stein Read “The Com­mon Lan­guage of Sci­ence” (1941)

The Char­lie Chap­lin Archive Opens, Putting Online 30,000 Pho­tos & Doc­u­ments from the Life of the Icon­ic Film Star

Josh Jones is a writer and musi­cian based in Durham, NC.

The Declaration of Independence Performed by Morgan Freeman, Benicio del Toro, Winona Ryder & Other Actors

Some suc­cess­ful Hol­ly­wood pro­duc­ers spend their mon­ey on yachts, sports teams, and Euro­pean cas­tles. Nor­man Lear’s biggest pur­chase, or at least his most famous one, was a copy of the Dec­la­ra­tion of Inde­pen­dence. He did not, of course, buy the kind of repro­duc­tion any tourist can pick up at the gift shop of a major Amer­i­can his­toric site, but a “Dun­lap broad­side,” one of 200 or so run off by Philadel­phia print­er John Dun­lap on the very night of July 4th, 1776. After hand­ing over $8.1 mil­lion in exchange for the doc­u­ment in 2001, Lear put it on tour, and it there­after made years of pub­lic appear­ances all around the coun­try, includ­ing at the 2002 Olympics, Super Bowl XXXVI, and the Live 8 con­cert in the city where it was made.

Lear’s pur­chase also inspired a film, as it might well do for any man with his con­nec­tions. Co-pro­duced by Lear and the late Rob Rein­er, anoth­er Hol­ly­wood enthu­si­ast of Amer­i­can pol­i­tics, the 2001 short at the top of the post cap­tures a dra­mat­ic read­ing of the Dec­la­ra­tion of Inde­pen­dence by a line­up of big stars of the day, includ­ing the likes of Michael Dou­glas, Winona Ryder, Edward Nor­ton, Renée Zell­weger, and Beni­cio del Toro.

Their per­for­mances were all shot togeth­er at Inde­pen­dence Hall in Philadel­phia by Con­rad Hall, the famed cin­e­matog­ra­ph­er of Cool Hand Luke, Butch Cas­sidy and the Sun­dance Kid, Marathon Man, and Amer­i­can Beau­ty, on  July 4, 2001.

These 25 years lat­er, the film remains an invig­o­rat­ing refresh­er on what the Dec­la­ra­tion of Inde­pen­dence actu­al­ly says. Don’t think of it as the next best thing to read­ing that hal­lowed doc­u­ment: as Mor­gan Free­man tells us in his intro­duc­tion, Thomas Jef­fer­son “intend­ed for the dec­la­ra­tion to be per­formed, and not just read. Its words and rhythms were writ­ten to be spo­ken, in proud and defi­ant tones in grand pub­lic places.” His fel­low thes­pi­ans deliv­er them with the aplomb of a coun­try that under­stood itself as supreme in the world, though one does now feel a cer­tain irony in their speak­ing in the mid-sum­mer of 2001, just months before that con­fi­dence would be ter­ri­bly shak­en. Amer­i­can his­to­ry, it turned out, had not yet end­ed; even now, on the 250th anniver­sary of the Unit­ed States’ inde­pen­dence, it may have just bare­ly begun.

Relat­ed con­tent:

Fred­er­ick Douglass’s Fiery 1852 Speech, “The Mean­ing of July 4th for the Negro,” Read by James Earl Jones

John Trumbull’s Famous 1818 Paint­ing Dec­la­ra­tion of Inde­pen­dence Vir­tu­al­ly Defaced to Show Which Found­ing Fathers Owned Slaves

Read George Washington’s “110 Rules of Civil­i­ty”: The Code of Decen­cy That Guid­ed America’s First Pres­i­dent

Meet “Found­ing Moth­er” Mary Katharine God­dard, First Female Post­mas­ter in the U.S. and Print­er of the Dec­la­ra­tion of Inde­pen­dence

Bertrand Russell’s 10 Com­mand­ments for Liv­ing in a Healthy Democ­ra­cy

John Wayne Recites the Pledge of Alle­giance

Based in Seoul, Col­in Marshall writes and broad­casts on cities, lan­guage, and cul­ture. He’s the author of the newslet­ter Books on Cities as well as the books 한국 요약 금지 (No Sum­ma­riz­ing Korea) and Kore­an Newtro. Fol­low him on the social net­work for­mer­ly known as Twit­ter at @colinmarshall.

Meet the Syntopicon: The Ambitious Index That Tried to Organize All of Western Thought (1952)

Mor­timer J. Adler rose to cul­tur­al promi­nence in the mid-twen­ti­eth-cen­tu­ry Unit­ed States, not that a fig­ure like him could have done so in any oth­er place or time. A hap­haz­ard pro­fes­sion­al and intel­lec­tu­al path involv­ing copy-boy work at the New York Sun, night school, and an incom­plete Colum­bia degree even­tu­al­ly led to a fac­ul­ty posi­tion teach­ing phi­los­o­phy of law at the Uni­ver­si­ty of Chica­go. In 1945, he com­menced work on what would become the Great Books of the West­ern World, a 54-vol­ume set pub­lished by Ency­clopæ­dia Bri­tan­ni­ca includ­ing the works of every­one from Homer to Vir­gil to Dar­win to Hem­ing­way. Sold door-to-door, it became an unlike­ly suc­cess by the ear­ly nine­teen-six­ties, and for a time it was a fair­ly com­mon, if book­shelf-dom­i­nat­ing, sight in the aspi­ra­tional homes of sub­ur­ban Amer­i­ca.

How many of those fam­i­lies reg­u­lar­ly pulled their Great Books off the shelf is anoth­er mat­ter. Despite hav­ing come through an inten­sive process of cura­tion, they could still look rather impos­ing as the wall of knowl­edge they formed all togeth­er. To this prob­lem, Adler offered a char­ac­ter­is­ti­cal­ly ambi­tious and idio­syn­crat­ic solu­tion: a con­cept-ori­ent­ed index called the Syn­topi­con — or rather, “A Syn­topi­con.”

“He believed these two vol­umes to be just the ‘assis­tance’ that the aver­age man need­ed to dig into the books that formed West­ern Civ­i­liza­tion,” writes Jonathan White, an alum­nus of the sim­i­lar­ly West­ern canon-based St. John’s Col­lege. They “com­prised an exhaus­tive cat­a­logue of each time one of the 102 ‘Great Ideas of West­ern Civ­i­liza­tion’ was men­tioned in the 431 ‘Great Books’ enshrined in Bri­tan­ni­ca’s col­lec­tion.”

Good and evil, log­ic and love, plea­sure and pain, uni­ver­sal and par­tic­u­lar: all the big ideas, at least as Adler defined them, were there in A Syn­topi­con. Cus­tomers report­ed­ly found it unwieldy, but the notion behind it holds out a cer­tain appeal still today. It’s even inspired the launch of Syntopi.com, a dig­i­tal suc­ces­sor that enables you to nav­i­gate “the Great Con­ver­sa­tion” in a vari­ety of ways includ­ing a 3D visu­al­iza­tion and a per­son­al cur­ricu­lum-cre­ation tool. The Great Books of the West­ern World’s mid-cen­tu­ry read­ers — pro­fes­sion­als and busi­ness­men look­ing to fill the gaps in their gen­er­al knowl­edge, vet­er­ans ready to learn more after their G.I. Bill-fund­ed col­lege edu­ca­tion, house­wives hop­ing to get a han­dle on what intel­li­gent peo­ple were sup­posed to know about — could have had fun with it. And we could ben­e­fit, no doubt, from redis­cov­er­ing a lit­tle of their earnest­ly self-improv­ing spir­it our­selves. You can view an edi­tion of A Syn­topi­con on the Inter­net Archive, or this site.

Relat­ed Con­tent:

The West­ern Canon: From Homer to Mil­ton (Free Course)

Harold Bloom Cre­ates a Mas­sive List of Works in The “West­ern Canon”: Read Many of the Books Free Online

The West­ern Tra­di­tion by Eugen Weber: 52 Video Lec­tures

Great Big Ideas: Free Course Fea­tures Top Thinkers Tack­ling the World’s Most Impor­tant Ideas in 12 Lec­tures

48 Ani­mat­ed Videos Explain the His­to­ry of Ideas: From Aris­to­tle to Sartre

The 10 Great­est Books Ever, Accord­ing to 125 Top Authors (Down­load Them for Free)

Based in Seoul, Col­in Marshall writes and broad­casts on cities, lan­guage, and cul­ture. He’s the author of the newslet­ter Books on Cities as well as the books 한국 요약 금지 (No Sum­ma­riz­ing Korea) and Kore­an Newtro. Fol­low him on the social net­work for­mer­ly known as Twit­ter at @colinmarshall.

The Thai Beef Noodle Soup That Has Been Continuously Simmering for 52 Years

As Bangkok ris­es into the ranks of the world’s great culi­nary des­ti­na­tion cities, its restau­rant scene caters to ever more well-heeled trav­el­ers. There, you can now vis­it estab­lish­ments with not just one, and not just two, but three Miche­lin stars. Even so, many a Bangkok habitué will sure­ly tell you that the city’s best food is still served in the same hum­ble places as always, or at least whose rent has­n’t been hiked too bad­ly. Even in as hip­ster­ized an area as Ekka­mai Road, though, some have been around long enough to own their real estate. Take Wat­tana Panich, which has been serv­ing beef noo­dle soup in its own build­ing for more than 50 years — and indeed, using the same broth the whole time.

You can have a look at the process in the Great Big Sto­ry video at the top of the post. “For­ev­er soup, also known as per­pet­u­al stew or hunter’s pot, is enjoy­ing a moment as adven­tur­ous cooks and intre­pid din­ers redis­cov­er the old method in which a broth can sim­mer for weeks, months or even years,” writes Shan Li in a recent Wall Street Jour­nal arti­cle.

Third-gen­er­a­tion Wat­tana Panich own­er Nat­tapong Kawee­nunta­wong “has tend­ed the broth from morn­ing until night since gain­ing cus­tody two decades ago. By day, it bub­bles in a giant stain­less-steel pot about 5 feet across and one foot deep, encased in lava-like con­crete and heat­ed by gas. He tweaks the fla­vor by adding fresh ingre­di­ents, includ­ing fish sauce, soy sauce, chunks of beef and sachets of Chi­nese herbs.”

Per­haps you feel you can taste it already. But its reg­u­lar vis­i­tors may insist that you’ll nev­er real­ly know the fla­vor of the shop’s epony­mous broth, con­tin­u­ous­ly refined while being rolled over night after night for five decades, until you try it for your­self. The prospect may put cer­tain West­ern­ers, uncom­fort­able con­sum­ing even last night’s left­overs, ill at ease. But they should rest assured that the sol­id ingre­di­ents are always fresh. It’s just the broth itself, rig­or­ous­ly strained each night and boiled each day, that has been kept in use, tying the estab­lish­ment to its own past in the same man­ner as its inher­it­ed own­er­ship. As with any fam­i­ly busi­ness, of course, each gen­er­a­tion gets com­plete­ly dis­placed soon­er or lat­er, just as every mol­e­cule of “for­ev­er soup” at one time will, in the­o­ry, have been con­sumed by some lat­er time. Is the broth Wat­tana Panich uses today real­ly iden­ti­cal to the one it start­ed with in 1974? That’s a philo­soph­i­cal ques­tion best saved for after the meal.

Relat­ed Con­tent:

Chow­da!: Three Cen­turies of Recipes Reveal the Rise of New England’s Finest Culi­nary Export

When Al Capone Opened a Soup Kitchen Dur­ing the Great Depres­sion: Anoth­er Side of the Leg­endary Mobster’s Oper­a­tion

Allen Ginsberg’s Per­son­al Recipe for Cold Sum­mer Borscht

How to Make the Old­est Recipe in the World: A Recipe for Net­tle Pud­ding Dat­ing Back 6,000 BC

The Old­est Restau­rant in the World: How Madrid’s Sobri­no de Botín Has Kept the Oven Hot Since 1725

Based in Seoul, Col­in Marshall writes and broad­casts on cities, lan­guage, and cul­ture. He’s the author of the newslet­ter Books on Cities as well as the books 한국 요약 금지 (No Sum­ma­riz­ing Korea) and Kore­an Newtro. Fol­low him on the social net­work for­mer­ly known as Twit­ter at @colinmarshall.

Isaac Asimov Laments the “Cult of Ignorance” in the United States (1980)

Rochester Insti­tute of Tech­nol­o­gy, via Wiki­me­dia Com­mons

In 1980, sci­en­tist and writer Isaac Asi­mov argued in an essay that “there is a cult of igno­rance in the Unit­ed States, and there always has been.” That year, the Repub­li­can Par­ty stood at the dawn of the Rea­gan Rev­o­lu­tion, which ini­ti­at­ed a decades-long con­ser­v­a­tive groundswell. Polit­i­cal strate­gist Steve Schmidt (who has been regret­ful about choos­ing Sarah Palin as John McCain’s run­ning mate in 2008) once point­ed to what he called “intel­lec­tu­al rot” as a pri­ma­ry cul­prit, and a cult-like devo­tion to irra­tional­i­ty among a cer­tain seg­ment of the elec­torate.

It’s a famil­iar con­tention. There have been cri­tiques of Amer­i­can anti-intel­lec­tu­al­ism since the country’s found­ing, though whether or not that phe­nom­e­non has inten­si­fied, as Susan Jaco­by alleged in The Age of Amer­i­can Unrea­son, may be a sub­ject of debate. Not all of the unrea­son is par­ti­san, as fail­ures to chal­lenge human- and AI-gen­er­at­ed mis­in­for­ma­tion in polit­i­cal news sources and social media out­lets over recent years have shown. But “the strain of anti-intel­lec­tu­al­ism,” writes Asi­mov, “has been a con­stant thread wind­ing its way through our polit­i­cal and cul­tur­al life, nur­tured by the false notion that democ­ra­cy means that ‘my igno­rance is just as good as your knowl­edge.’”

Asimov’s pri­ma­ry exam­ples hap­pen to come from the polit­i­cal world. How­ev­er, he doesn’t name con­tem­po­rary names but reach­es back to take a swipe at Eisen­how­er (“who invent­ed a ver­sion of the Eng­lish lan­guage that was all his own”) and George Wal­lace. Par­tic­u­lar­ly inter­est­ing is Asimov’s take on the “slo­gan on the part of the obscu­ran­tists: ‘Don’t trust the experts!’” This lan­guage, along with charges of “elit­ism,” Asi­mov wry­ly notes, is so often used by peo­ple who are them­selves experts and elites, “feel­ing guilty about hav­ing gone to school.” So many of the Amer­i­can polit­i­cal class’ wounds are self-inflict­ed, he sug­gests, but that’s because they are behold­en to a large­ly igno­rant elec­torate:

To be sure, the aver­age Amer­i­can can sign his name more or less leg­i­bly, and can make out the sports headlines—but how many nonelit­ist Amer­i­cans can, with­out undue dif­fi­cul­ty, read as many as a thou­sand con­sec­u­tive words of small print, some of which may be tri­syl­lab­ic?

Asimov’s exam­ples are less than con­vinc­ing: road signs “steadi­ly being replaced by lit­tle pic­tures to make them inter­na­tion­al­ly leg­i­ble” has more to do with lin­guis­tic diver­si­ty than illit­er­a­cy, and accus­ing tele­vi­sion com­mer­cials of speak­ing their mes­sages out loud instead of using print­ed text on the screen seems to fun­da­men­tal­ly mis­un­der­stand the nature of the medi­um. Jaco­by in her book-length study of the prob­lem looks at edu­ca­tion­al pol­i­cy in the Unit­ed States, and the resis­tance to nation­al stan­dards that vir­tu­al­ly ensures wide­spread pock­ets of igno­rance all over the coun­try. Asimov’s very short, pithy essay has nei­ther the space nor the incli­na­tion to con­duct such analy­sis.

Instead he is con­cerned with atti­tudes. Not only are many Amer­i­cans bad­ly edu­cat­ed, he writes, but the broad igno­rance of the pop­u­la­tion in mat­ters of “sci­ence… math­e­mat­ics… eco­nom­ics… for­eign lan­guages…” has as much to do with Amer­i­cans’ unwill­ing­ness to read as their inabil­i­ty.

There are 200 mil­lion Amer­i­cans who have inhab­it­ed school­rooms at some time in their lives and who will admit that they know how to read… but most decent peri­od­i­cals believe they are doing amaz­ing­ly well if they have cir­cu­la­tion of half a mil­lion. It may be that only 1 per cent—or less—of Amer­i­cans make a stab at exer­cis­ing their right to know. And if they try to do any­thing on that basis they are quite like­ly to be accused of being elit­ists.

One might in some respects charge Asi­mov him­self of elit­ism when he con­cludes, “We can all be mem­bers of the intel­lec­tu­al elite.” Such a blithe­ly opti­mistic state­ment ignores the ways in which eco­nom­ic elites active­ly manip­u­late edu­ca­tion pol­i­cy to suit their inter­ests, crip­ple edu­ca­tion fund­ing, and oppose efforts at free or low cost high­er edu­ca­tion. Many efforts at spread­ing knowledge—like the Chau­tauquas of the ear­ly 20th cen­tu­ry, the edu­ca­tion­al radio pro­grams of the 40s and 50s, and the pub­lic tele­vi­sion rev­o­lu­tion of the 70s and 80s—have been ad hoc and near­ly always imper­iled by fund­ing crises and the designs of prof­i­teers.

Nonethe­less, the wide­spread (though hard­ly uni­ver­sal) avail­abil­i­ty of free resources on the inter­net has made self-edu­ca­tion a real­i­ty for many peo­ple, and cer­tain­ly for most Amer­i­cans. But per­haps not even Isaac Asi­mov could have fore­seen the bit­ter polar­iza­tion and dis­in­for­ma­tion cam­paigns that tech­nol­o­gy has also enabled. Need­less to say, “A Cult of Igno­rance” was not one of Asimov’s most pop­u­lar pieces of writ­ing. First pub­lished on Jan­u­ary 21, 1980 in Newsweek, the short essay has nev­er been reprint­ed in any of Asimov’s col­lec­tions.

Note: An ear­li­er ver­sion of this post appeared on our site in 2016.

Relat­ed Con­tent:

Isaac Asi­mov Reviews George Orwell’s Nine­teen Eighty-Four and Calls It “Not Sci­ence Fic­tion, But a Dis­tort­ed Nos­tal­gia for a Past that Nev­er Was”

Isaac Asi­mov Pre­dicts the Future on The David Let­ter­man Show (1980)

Isaac Asi­mov on How Libraries Can Rad­i­cal­ly Change Your Life (1971)

Isaac Asi­mov Pre­dicts in 1964 What the World Will Look Like in 2014

Josh Jones is a writer and musi­cian based in Durham, NC. 

An Entire Ancient Greek Philosophical Treatise Burned by Mount Vesuvius Has Been Deciphered with X‑Ray and AI Technologies

Most of our con­cep­tion of Sto­icism, an ancient school of thought much fea­tured here on Open Cul­ture, derives from the writ­ings of just three fig­ures: Epicte­tus, Mar­cus Aure­lius, and Seneca the Younger. But there were oth­er Sto­ics, and despite their antiq­ui­ty, we may yet learn more about them. Take Chrysip­pus of Soli, who was offi­cial­ly known as the Sec­ond Founder of Sto­icism due to his influ­ence on its spread through­out the Greek and Roman world. What we know of his demand­ing work, we know because of ref­er­ences writ­ten on scrolls inad­ver­tent­ly pre­served in a vil­la in Her­cu­la­neum when near­by Mount Vesu­vius erupt­ed in the year 79. To date, most of those “Her­cu­la­neum papyri” have been unread­able, but soon, thanks to tech­nolo­gies like X‑ray micro­to­mog­ra­phy and arti­fi­cial intel­li­gence, that may change.

In 2023, we post­ed about the decod­ing of the first word of one such scroll, an achieve­ment made with the incen­tive of prizes offered by a con­test called the Vesu­vius Chal­lenge. Now, says its web­site, “we have com­plete­ly vir­tu­al­ly unwrapped and read PHerc. 1667 — the scroll the Vesu­vius Chal­lenge com­mu­ni­ty knows as Scroll 4 — with­out ever touch­ing its pages.”

What appears to be lit­tle more than a big hunk of char­coal, fur­ther dam­aged by sev­er­al phys­i­cal unrolling attempts in less tech­no­log­i­cal­ly advanced times, turns out to be “a philo­soph­i­cal trea­tise on ethics, and the evi­dence points to a Sto­ic work: it turns on human nature, impulse, and the moral progress of human beings.” The scrol­l’s last pre­served col­umn even drops the name of Aris­tocre­on, “nephew and dis­ci­ple of the great Sto­ic Chrysip­pus,” sug­gest­ing it dates to the sec­ond cen­tu­ry BC.

These col­lab­o­ra­tive efforts, both tech­no­log­i­cal and intel­lec­tu­al, have made PHerc. 1667 “the first Her­cu­la­neum papyrus to be dig­i­tal­ly unrolled and read in full, end to end, and made avail­able for sus­tained schol­ar­ly study.” But there are also oth­er texts still being deci­phered, includ­ing PHerc. 139, which has been iden­ti­fied as “Philode­mus, On Gods, Book 8 — a trea­tise by the Epi­cure­an philoso­pher whose works fill so much of this library.” In their day, Sto­icism and Epi­cure­anism stood as sim­i­lar but rival philoso­phies, and it seems that the own­er of the so-called Vil­la of the Papyri (pos­si­bly Julius Cae­sar’s father-in-law) had an inter­est in both of them. Ancient Sto­ics and Epi­cure­ans car­ried on a live­ly debate about how to live, some of whose argu­ments were writ­ten down. If the nec­es­sary tech­nolo­gies con­tin­ue to advance, per­haps we’ll one day be able to read them all and pick that con­ver­sa­tion up right where they left it off. Learn more about the decod­ing of the papyrus here and here.

via Smith­son­ian Mag­a­zine

Relat­ed con­tent:

Researchers Use AI to Decode the First Word on an Ancient Scroll Burned by Vesu­vius

Based in Seoul, Col­in Marshall writes and broad­casts on cities, lan­guage, and cul­ture. He’s the author of the newslet­ter Books on Cities as well as the books 한국 요약 금지 (No Sum­ma­riz­ing Korea) and Kore­an Newtro. Fol­low him on the social net­work for­mer­ly known as Twit­ter at @colinmarshall.


  • Great Lectures

  • About Us

    Open Culture scours the web for the best educational media. We find the free courses and audio books you need, the language lessons & educational videos you want, and plenty of enlightenment in between.


    Advertise With Us

  • Archives

  • Search

  • Quantcast