It’s Banned Books Week: Listen to Allen Ginsberg Read His Famously Banned Poem, “Howl,” in San Francisco, 1956

Howl Cover

Accord­ing to Ruth Gra­ham in Slate, Banned Books Week is a “crock,” an unnec­es­sary pub­lic   indul­gence since “there is basi­cal­ly no such thing as a ‘banned book’ in the Unit­ed States in 2015.” And though the aware­ness-rais­ing week’s spon­sor, the Amer­i­can Library Asso­ci­a­tion, has shift­ed its focus to book cen­sor­ship in class­rooms, most of the chal­lenges posed to books in schools are sil­ly and eas­i­ly dis­missed. Yet, some oth­er cas­es, like that of Perse­po­lisMar­jane Satrapi’s graph­ic nov­el mem­oir of her Iran­ian child­hood dur­ing the revolution—are not. The book was pulled from Chica­go Pub­lic School class­rooms (but not from libraries) in 2013.

Even now, teach­ers who wish to use the book in class­es must com­plete “sup­ple­men­tal train­ing.” The osten­si­bly objec­tion­able con­tent in the book is no more graph­ic than that in most his­to­ry text­books, and it’s easy to make the case that Perse­po­lis and oth­er chal­lenged mem­oirs and nov­els that offer per­spec­tives from oth­er coun­tries, cul­tures, or polit­i­cal points of view have inher­ent edu­ca­tion­al val­ue. One might be tempt­ed to think that school offi­cials pulled the book for oth­er rea­sons. Per­haps we need Banned Books Week after all.

Anoth­er, per­haps fuzzi­er, case of a “banned” book—or poem—from this year involves a high school teacher’s fir­ing over his class­room read­ing of Allen Gins­berg’s porno­graph­ic poem “Please Mas­ter.” The case of “Please Mas­ter” should put us in mind of a once banned book writ­ten by Gins­berg: epic Beat jere­mi­ad “Howl.” When the poem’s pub­lish­er, Lawrence Fer­linghet­ti, attempt­ed to import British copies of the poem in 1957, the books were seized by cus­toms, then he and his busi­ness part­ner were arrest­ed and put on tri­al for obscen­i­ty. After writ­ers and aca­d­e­mics tes­ti­fied to the poem’s cul­tur­al val­ue, the judge vin­di­cat­ed Fer­linghet­ti, and “Howl.”

But the tri­al demon­strat­ed at the time that the gov­ern­ment reserved the right to seize books, stop their pub­li­ca­tion and sale, and keep mate­r­i­al from the read­ing pub­lic if it so chose. As with this year’s dust-up over “Please Mas­ter,” the agents who con­fis­cat­ed “Howl” sup­pos­ed­ly object­ed to the sex­u­al con­tent of Gins­berg’s poem (and like­ly the homo­sex­u­al con­tent espe­cial­ly). But that rea­son­ing could also have been cov­er for oth­er objec­tions to the poem’s polit­i­cal con­tent. “Howl,” after all, was very sub­ver­sive in its day, and in a way served as a kind of man­i­festo against the sta­tus quo. It had a “cat­a­clysmic impact,” writes Fred Kaplan, “not just on the lit­er­ary world but on the broad­er soci­ety and cul­ture.”

We’ve fea­tured var­i­ous read­ings of “Howl” in the past, and if you’ve some­how missed hear­ing those, nev­er heard the poem read at all, or nev­er read the poem your­self, then con­sid­er dur­ing this Banned Books Week tak­ing the time to read it and hear it read—by the poet him­self. You can hear the first record­ed read­ing by Gins­berg, in 1956 at Port­land’s Reed Col­lege. You can hear anoth­er impas­sioned Gins­berg read­ing from 1959. And above, hear Gins­berg read the poem in 1956, in San Fran­cis­co, where it was first pub­lished and where it stood tri­al.

You can also hear Gins­berg fan James Franco—who played the poet in a film called Howlread the poem over a visu­al­ly strik­ing ani­ma­tion of its vivid imagery. And if Gins­berg isn’t your thing, con­sid­er check­ing out the ALA’s list of chal­lenged or banned books for 2014–2015. (I could cer­tain­ly rec­om­mend Perse­po­lis.) While pro­hibit­ing books from the class­room may seem a far cry from gov­ern­ment cen­sor­ship, Banned Books Week reminds us that many peo­ple still find cer­tain kinds of books deeply threat­en­ing, and should push us to ask why that is.

Relat­ed Con­tent:

High School Teacher Reads Allen Ginsberg’s Explic­it Poem “Please Mas­ter” and Los­es His Job

The First Record­ing of Allen Gins­berg Read­ing “Howl” (1956)

Allen Gins­berg Reads His Famous­ly Cen­sored Beat Poem, Howl (1959)

James Fran­co Reads a Dream­i­ly Ani­mat­ed Ver­sion of Allen Ginsberg’s Epic Poem ‘Howl’

Find great poems in our col­lec­tion, 800 Free eBooks for iPad, Kin­dle & Oth­er Devices

Josh Jones is a writer and musi­cian based in Durham, NC. Fol­low him at @jdmagness

James Baldwin’s One & Only, Delightfully-Illustrated Children’s Book, Little Man Little Man: A Story of Childhood (1976)

Baldwin - Little Man Little Man005

As a writer, a thinker, and a human being, James Bald­win knew few bound­aries. The black, gay, expa­tri­ate author of such still-read books as Go Tell it on the Moun­tain and The Fire Next Time set an exam­ple for all who have since sought to break free of the stric­tures imposed upon them by their soci­ety, their his­to­ry, or even their craft. Bald­win wrote not just nov­els but essays, plays, poet­ry, and even a chil­dren’s book, which you see a bit of here today.

Lit­tle Man Lit­tle Man: A Sto­ry of Child­hood came out in 1976, a pro­duc­tive year for Bald­win which also saw the pub­li­ca­tion of The Dev­il Finds Work, a book of writ­ing on film (yet anoth­er form on which he exert­ed his own kind of social­ly crit­i­cal mas­tery). In Lit­tle Man, he writes not about a high­ly visu­al medi­um, but in a high­ly visu­al medi­um: young chil­dren delight in live­ly illus­tra­tions, and they must have espe­cial­ly delight­ed in the ones here (more of which you can see in this gallery), drawn by French artist Yoran Cazac with a kind of mature child­ish­ness.

Those same adjec­tives might apply to Bald­win’s writ­ing here as well, since he aims his sto­ry toward chil­dren, talk­ing not down at them but straight at them, in their very own lan­guage: “TJ bounce his ball as hard as he can, send­ing it as high in the sky as he can, and ris­ing to catch it.” So goes the intro­duc­tion to the main char­ac­ter, a four-year-old boy liv­ing in Harlem whom Bald­win based on his nephew. “Some­times he miss­es and has to roll into the street. A cou­ple of times a car almost run him over. That ain’t noth­ing.”

TJ and WT, his old­er pal from the neigh­bor­hood, take their scrapes through­out the course of this short book, but they also have a rich expe­ri­ence — and thus pro­vide, for their read­ers young and old, a rich expe­ri­ence — of the unique time and place in which they find them­selves grow­ing up. Their work­ing-class Harlem child­hood obvi­ous­ly has its pains, but it has its joys too. “TJ’s Dad­dy try to act mean, but he ain’t mean,” Bald­win writes. “Some­time take TJ to the movies and he take him to the beach and he took him to the Apol­lo The­atre, so he could see blind Ste­vie Won­der. ‘I want you to be proud of your peo­ple,’ TJ’s Dad­dy always say.”

At We Too Were Chil­dren, Ariel S. Win­ter high­lights the book’s ded­i­ca­tion “to the emi­nent African-Amer­i­can artist Beau­ford Delaney. Bald­win met Delaney when he was four­teen, the first self-sup­port­ing artist he had ever met, and like Bald­win, Delaney was black and homo­sex­u­al. Delaney became a men­tor to Bald­win, who often spoke of him as a ‘spir­i­tu­al father,’ ” and “it was Delaney who intro­duced Bald­win to Yoran Cazac in Paris.” Bald­win became god­fa­ther to Caza­c’s third child, and Cazac, of course, became the man who gave artis­tic life to Bald­win’s vision of child­hood itself.

You can pick up your own copy of Lit­tle Man Lit­tle Man: A Sto­ry of Child­hood on Ama­zon.

Relat­ed Con­tent:

Langston Hugh­es Presents the His­to­ry of Jazz in an Illus­trat­ed Children’s Book (1955)

Langston Hugh­es Reveals the Rhythms in Art & Life in a Won­der­ful Illus­trat­ed Book for Kids (1954)

A Child’s Intro­duc­tion to Jazz by Can­non­ball Adder­ley (with Louis Arm­strong & Thelo­nious Monk)

Watch Langston Hugh­es Read Poet­ry from His First Col­lec­tion, The Weary Blues (1958)

James Bald­win Debates Mal­colm X (1963) and William F. Buck­ley (1965): Vin­tage Video & Audio

James Bald­win: Wit­ty, Fiery in Berke­ley, 1979

Col­in Mar­shall writes else­where on cities, lan­guage, Asia, and men’s style. He’s at work on a book about Los Ange­les, A Los Ange­les Primer, the video series The City in Cin­e­maand the crowd­fund­ed jour­nal­ism project Where Is the City of the Future? Fol­low him on Twit­ter at @colinmarshall or on Face­book.

Harry Clarke’s 1926 Illustrations of Goethe’s Faust: Art That Inspired the Psychedelic 60s

30-clarke-faust

Evok­ing the play­ful grotesques of Shel Sil­ver­stein, the goth­ic gloom of Neil Gaiman’s Sand­man comics, the occult beau­ty of the Rid­er-Waite tarot deck, and the hid­den hor­rors of H.P. Love­craft, Har­ry Clarke’s illus­tra­tions for a 1926 edi­tion of Goethe’s Faust are said to have inspired the psy­che­del­ic imagery of the 60s. And one can eas­i­ly see why Clarke’s dis­turb­ing yet ele­gant images would appeal to peo­ple seek­ing altered states of con­scious­ness. Clarke, born in Dublin in 1889, came to promi­nence as an illus­tra­tor of imag­i­na­tive literature—by Hans Chris­t­ian Ander­sen, Edgar Allan Poe, and others—though he worked pri­mar­i­ly as a design­er, with his broth­er, of stained glass win­dows. Faust was the last book he illus­trat­ed, and the most fan­tas­tic.

10-clarke-faust_900

Clarke (1889 — 1931) drew his inspi­ra­tion from the Art Nou­veau move­ment that began in the pre­vi­ous cen­tu­ry with artists like Aubrey Beard­s­ley and Gus­tav Klimt. We see the influ­ence of both in Clarke’s gaunt, elon­gat­ed fig­ures and his inter­est in unusu­al, organ­ic pat­terns and orna­men­ta­tion. We can also see—mentions an online Tulane Uni­ver­si­ty exhib­it of his work—the influ­ence of his own stained glass work, “through use of heavy lines in his black and white illus­tra­tions.” The blog Gar­den of Unearth­ly Delights notes that “ini­tial­ly Har­raps, the pub­lish­er, did not like the draw­ings (Clarke recalled that they thought the work was ‘full of steam­ing hor­rors’), and many of the illus­tra­tions were fin­ished under pres­sure.”

Clarke-Faust-mephisto

Despite the publisher’s reser­va­tions, reviews of the 2,000-copy lim­it­ed edi­tion were large­ly pos­i­tive. Review­ers praised the draw­ings for their “dis­tinc­tive charms” and “wealth of fan­tas­tic inven­tion.” One crit­ic for the Irish States­man wrote, “Clarke’s fer­til­i­ty of inven­tion is end­less. It is shown in the mul­ti­tude of designs less elab­o­rate than the page plates, but no less intense.” The “page plates” referred to eight full-col­or, full-page illus­tra­tions like the paint­ing of Faust and Mephistophe­les above. Addi­tion­al­ly, the book con­tains eight full-page ink wash illus­tra­tions, six full-page illus­tra­tions in black and white, and six­ty-four small­er black and white vignettes.

16-clarke-faust_900

You can read the Clarke-illus­trat­ed poem online here, with the illus­tra­tions repro­duced, albeit bad­ly. (Also down­load the text in var­i­ous for­mats at Project Guten­berg.) To see many more high­er-qual­i­ty dig­i­tal scans like the ones fea­tured here, vis­it 50 Watts and The Gar­den of Unearth­ly Delights, which also brings us more quo­ta­tions from review­ers, includ­ing “a neg­a­tive review of the draw­ings” that sums up what we might—and what those 60s revival­ists sure­ly did—find most appeal­ing about Clarke’s illus­tra­tions. They present, wrote a crit­ic in the mag­a­zine Art­work,

A dream world of half-cre­at­ed fan­tasies; the pow­er­less fan­cies of senile visions; mis­shapen bod­ies with worm­like heads; star­ing eyes of octo­pus­es and rep­tiles gaze like pon­der­ous sauri­an of the lost world, while half-fin­ished homun­culi change like “plas­ma” in forms unbound by rea­son.

That last phrase, “unbound by rea­son,” could also apply to the weird, night­mar­ish pil­grim­age of Goethe’s hero, and to the shak­ing off of old stric­tures that artists like Clarke, his fin de siè­cle pre­de­ces­sors, and his psy­che­del­ic suc­ces­sors strove to achieve.

24-clarke-faust_900

Relat­ed Con­tent:

Eugène Delacroix Illus­trates Goethe’s Faust, “One of the Very Great­est of All Illus­trat­ed Books”

Oscar Wilde’s Play Salome Illus­trat­ed by Aubrey Beard­s­ley in a Strik­ing Mod­ern Aes­thet­ic (1894)

Gus­tave Doré’s Splen­did Illus­tra­tions of Edgar Allan Poe’s “The Raven” (1884)

Alber­to Martini’s Haunt­ing Illus­tra­tions of Dante’s Divine Com­e­dy (1901–1944)

Josh Jones is a writer and musi­cian based in Durham, NC. Fol­low him at @jdmagness

Hear Blade Runner, Terminator, Videodrome & Other 70s, 80s & 90s Movies as Novelized AudioBooks

It is the year 2019. The world is over­crowd­ed. Decay­ing. Mech­a­nized. Android slaves, pro­grammed to live for only four years, are tech­no­log­i­cal mar­vels — strong, intel­li­gent, phys­i­cal­ly indis­tin­guish­able from humans. Into this world comes a band of rebel androids. Desparate to find the mas­ter­mind who built them, bent on extend­ing their life span, they will use all their super­hu­man strength and cun­ning to stop any­thing — or any­one — who gets in their way. Ordi­nary peo­ple are no match to them. Nei­ther are the police. This is a job for one man only. Rick Deckard. Blade Run­ner.

Thus opens the nov­el Blade Run­ner: A Sto­ry of the Future. But even if you so enjoyed Rid­ley Scot­t’s Blade Run­ner that you went back and read the orig­i­nal nov­el that pro­vid­ed the film its source mate­r­i­al, these words may sound unfa­mil­iar to you, not least because you almost cer­tain­ly would have gone back and read Philip K. Dick­’s Do Androids Dream of Elec­tric Sheep?, the real object of Blade Run­ner’s adap­ta­tion. When the movie came out in 1982, out came an edi­tion of Do Androids Dream of Elec­tric Sheep? re-brand­ed as Blade Run­ner: Do Androids Dream of Elec­tric Sheep? — and out as well, con­fus­ing­ly, came Blade Run­ner: A Sto­ry of the Future, the nov­el­iza­tion of the adap­ta­tion.

Who would read such a thing? Movie nov­el­iza­tions have long since passed their 1970s and 80s pre-home-video prime, but in our retro-lov­ing 21st cen­tu­ry they’ve inspired a few true fans to impres­sive demon­stra­tions of their enjoy­ment of this spe­cial­ized form of lit­er­a­ture. “They’re spe­cial to me because when I was younger there were a lot of films I desired to see but didn’t get to, and the nov­el­iza­tions were sold at the Scholas­tic Book Fairs,” says enthu­si­ast Josh Olsen in an inter­view with West­word, who describes his books of choice as “adapt­ed from films, or ear­ly drafts of films at least, locked with short dead­lines and print­ed cheap­ly and per­func­to­ri­ly and end up being part of the movie’s mas­sive mar­ket­ing uni­verse. Basi­cal­ly, it’s the lit­er­ary equiv­a­lent of the McDonald’s cup from back in the day.”

And so we have Audio­books for the Damned, Olsen’s labor of love that has tak­en over thir­ty of these nov­el­iza­tions (all out of print) and adapt­ed them yet one stage fur­ther. You can hear all of them on the pro­jec­t’s Youtube page, from Blade Run­ner: A Sto­ry of the Future (an easy start­ing place, since the nov­el­iza­tion’s scant eighty pages make for a lis­ten­ing expe­ri­ence con­sid­er­ably short­er than the movie itself) to The Ter­mi­na­tor to Video­drome. And if you’d like to spend your next cross-coun­try dri­ve with such cher­ished kitsch clas­sics as Pol­ter­geist, The BroodOver the Edge, or The Lost Boys in unabridged (and unsub­tle) prose form, you can get them on their fea­tured audio­book page. This all deliv­ers to us the obvi­ous next ques­tion: which bold, nos­tal­gic Mil­len­ni­al film­mak­er will step for­ward to turn all these extreme­ly minor mas­ter­works back into movies again?

via Metafil­ter

Relat­ed Con­tent:

700 Free Audio Books: Down­load Great Books for Free

John Lan­dis Decon­structs Trail­ers of Great 20th Cen­tu­ry Films: Cit­i­zen Kane, Sun­set Boule­vard, 2001 & More

Moviedrome: Film­mak­er Alex Cox Pro­vides Video Intro­duc­tions to 100+ Clas­sic Cult Films

Col­in Mar­shall writes else­where on cities, lan­guage, Asia, and men’s style. He’s at work on a book about Los Ange­les, A Los Ange­les Primer, the video series The City in Cin­e­maand the crowd­fund­ed jour­nal­ism project Where Is the City of the Future? Fol­low him on Twit­ter at @colinmarshall or on Face­book.

Behold the Largest Atlas in the World: The Six-Foot Tall Klencke Atlas from 1660

biggest book in the world

Last week, we fea­tured the free dig­i­tal edi­tion of the The His­to­ry of Car­tog­ra­phy. Or what’s been called “the most ambi­tious overview of map mak­ing ever under­tak­en.” The three-vol­ume series con­tains illus­tra­tions of count­less maps, pro­duced over hun­dreds of years. And it, of course, ref­er­ences this fine spec­i­men: A gift giv­en to Eng­land’s Charles II in 1660, The Klencke Atlas fea­tured state-of-the-art maps of the con­ti­nents and var­i­ous Euro­pean states. It was also notable for its size. Stand­ing six feet tall and six feet wide (when opened), the vol­ume remains 355 years lat­er the largest atlas in the world. Learn more about it with the BBC clip below.

If you would like to sign up for Open Culture’s free email newslet­ter, please find it here. It’s a great way to see our new posts, all bun­dled in one email, each day.

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:

The His­to­ry of Car­tog­ra­phy, the “Most Ambi­tious Overview of Map Mak­ing Ever,” Now Free Online

A Won­der­ful Sci­en­tif­ic Map of the Moon from 1679: Can You Spot the Secret Moon Maid­en?

Galileo’s Moon Draw­ings, the First Real­is­tic Depic­tions of the Moon in His­to­ry (1609–1610)

New York Pub­lic Library Puts 20,000 Hi-Res Maps Online & Makes Them Free to Down­load and Use

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Artist Animates Famous Book Covers in an Elegant, Understated Way

moby dick cover

Javier Jensen, an artist liv­ing down in San­ti­a­go, Chile, has breathed a lit­tle life into some beloved book cov­ers. And when I say lit­tle, I mean lit­tle. His ani­mat­ed touch­es are nice­ly under­stat­ed, hard­ly dis­tract­ing from the orig­i­nal cov­er designs.

To the 1851 cov­er of Her­man Melville’s Moby Dick, Jensen added a lit­tle flip­ping whale tale (above). A plan­et shim­mers and a star sparkles on the cov­er of Antoine de Saint Exu­pery’s Le Petit Prince. Wisps of smoke rise from a pipe on Conan Doyle’s The Adven­tures and Mem­oirs of Sher­lock Holmes.

See more cov­ers, includ­ing how Jensen reworked Fran­cis Cugat’s orig­i­nal cov­er design for The Great Gats­by, here.

You can find many of these clas­sic works in our twin col­lec­tions:

800 Free eBooks for iPad, Kin­dle & Oth­er Devices

and

1,000 Free Audio Books: Down­load Great Books for Free

via Boing­Bo­ing/Slate

Relat­ed Con­tent:

83 Years of Great Gats­by Book Cov­er Designs: A Pho­to Gallery

600+ Cov­ers of Philip K. Dick Nov­els from Around the World: Greece, Japan, Poland & Beyond

Illus­tra­tions for a Chi­nese Lord of the Rings in a Stun­ning “Glass Paint­ing Style”

10 Won­der­ful Illus­tra­tions from the Orig­i­nal Man­u­script of Antoine de Saint-Exupéry’s The Lit­tle Prince

Ralph Steadman’s Evolv­ing Album Cov­er Designs: From Miles Davis & The Who, to Frank Zap­pa & Slash (1956–2010)

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The British Library Puts Over 1,000,000 Images in the Public Domain: A Deeper Dive Into the Collection

Oriental Tooth Paste

Every year for the past decade or so, we‘ve seen new, dire pro­nounce­ments of the death of print, along with new, upbeat rejoin­ders. This year is no dif­fer­ent, though the prog­no­sis has seemed espe­cial­ly pos­i­tive of late in robust appraisals of the sit­u­a­tion from enti­ties as diver­gent as The Onion’s A.V. Club and finan­cial giant Deloitte. I, for one, find this encour­ag­ing. And yet, even if all print­ed media were in decline, it would still be the case that the his­to­ry of the mod­ern world will most­ly be told in the his­to­ry of print. And iron­i­cal­ly, it is online media that has most enabled the means to make that his­to­ry avail­able to every­one, in dig­i­tal archives that won’t age or burn down.

One such archive, the British Library’s Flickr Com­mons project, con­tains over one mil­lion images from the 17th, 18th, and 19th cen­turies. As the Library wrote in their announce­ment of these images’ release, they cov­er “a star­tling mix of sub­jects. There are maps, geo­log­i­cal dia­grams, beau­ti­ful illus­tra­tions, com­i­cal satire, illu­mi­nat­ed and dec­o­ra­tive let­ters, colour­ful illus­tra­tions, land­scapes, wall-paint­ings and so much more that even we are not aware of.” Microsoft dig­i­tized the books rep­re­sent­ed here, and then donat­ed them to the Library for release into the Pub­lic Domain.

The Aldine “O'er Land and Sea.” Library

One of the quirky fea­tures of this decid­ed­ly quirky assem­blage is the Mechan­i­cal Cura­tor, a bot-run blog that gen­er­ates “ran­dom­ly select­ed small illus­tra­tions and orna­men­ta­tions, post­ed on the hour.” At the time of writ­ing, it has giv­en us an ad for the rather cul­tur­al­ly dat­ed arti­fact “Ori­en­tal Tooth Paste,” a prod­uct “pre­pared by Jews­bury & Brown.” Many of the oth­er selec­tions have con­sid­er­ably less fris­son. Nonethe­less, writes the Library, often “our newest col­league,” the Mechan­i­cal Cura­tor, “plucks from obscu­ri­ty, places all before you, and leaves you to work out the rest. Or not.”

Tiger

The Flickr Com­mons site itself gives us a much more con­ven­tion­al orga­ni­za­tion, with images—most of them dis­cov­ered by the Mechan­i­cal Curator—grouped into sev­er­al dozen themed albums. We have “Book cov­ers found by the com­mu­ni­ty from the Mechan­i­cal Cura­tor Col­lec­tion,” fea­tur­ing images like that of The Texas Tramp or Sol­id Sam the Yan­kee Her­cules, a pulpy title pub­lished in 1890 by the Aldine Library’s “O’er Land and Sea” series. And just above, see an illus­tra­tion from the 1892 pub­li­ca­tion To the Snows of Tibet through China…With Illus­tra­tions and a Map. Each image’s page offers links to oth­er illus­tra­tions in the book and those of oth­er books pub­lished in the same year.

Cottager's Sabbath

Here, we have a strik­ing illus­tra­tion from an 1841 edi­tion of The Cottager’s Sab­bath, a poem… with … vignettes… by H. War­ren. This image comes from “Archi­tec­ture, found by the com­mu­ni­ty from the Mechan­i­cal Cura­tor Col­lec­tion.”

Pilgrims

We also have odd­i­ties like the illus­tra­tion above, from 1885’s “A Can­ter­bury Pil­grim­age, rid­den, writ­ten, and illus­trat­ed by J. and E.R.P.” This is to be found in “Cycling, found by the com­mu­ni­ty from [you guessed it] the Mechan­i­cal Cura­tor Col­lec­tion,” which also con­tains plen­ty of more com­mer­cial illus­tra­tions like the 1893 “Paten­tee of Keating’s Spring Fork.”

Spring Fork

Speak­ing of com­merce, we also have an album devot­ed to adver­tise­ments, found by the com­mu­ni­ty from, yes, the Mechan­i­cal Cura­tor Col­lec­tion. Here you will dis­cov­er ads like “Ori­en­tal Tooth Paste” or that below for “Gentlemen’s & Boy’s Cloth­ing 25 Per Cent. Under Usu­al Lon­don Prices” from 1894. Our con­cep­tion of Vic­to­ri­an Eng­land as exces­sive­ly for­mal gets con­firmed again and again in these ads, which, like the ran­dom choice at the top of the post, con­tain their share of awk­ward or humor­ous his­tor­i­cal notions.

Gentlemen's Clothing

Doubt­less none of the pro­to-Mad Men of these very Eng­lish pub­li­ca­tions fore­saw such a mar­vel as the Mechan­i­cal Cura­tor. Much less might they have fore­seen such a mech­a­nism aris­ing with­out a mon­e­tiz­ing scheme. But thanks to this free, new­fan­gled algorithm’s efforts, and much assis­tance from “the com­mu­ni­ty,” we have a dig­i­tal record that shows us how pub­lic dis­course shaped print cul­ture, or the oth­er way around. A fas­ci­nat­ing, and at times bewil­der­ing, fea­ture of this phe­nom­e­nal archive is the require­ment that we our­selves sup­ply most of the cul­tur­al con­text for these aus­tere­ly pre­sent­ed images.

Relat­ed Con­tent:

2,200 Rad­i­cal Polit­i­cal Posters Dig­i­tized: A New Archive

Yale Launch­es an Archive of 170,000 Pho­tographs Doc­u­ment­ing the Great Depres­sion

Down­load for Free 2.6 Mil­lion Images from Books Pub­lished Over Last 500 Years on Flickr

Down­load 100,000 Free Art Images in High-Res­o­lu­tion from The Get­ty

Josh Jones is a writer and musi­cian based in Durham, NC. Fol­low him at @jdmagness

Stephen Colbert Reads Flannery O’Connor’s Darkly Comedic Story, “The Enduring Chill”

A good man is hard to find… a good man who can hold an audi­ence rapt by read­ing aloud for over an hour is hard­er still.

Soon-to-be Late Show host Stephen Col­bert acquits him­self quite nice­ly with Flan­nery O’Connor’s 1958 short sto­ry “The Endur­ing Chill,” above.

The tale of an ail­ing New York-based playwright’s unwill­ing return to his ances­tral home is a nat­ur­al fit for Col­bert, raised in Charleston, South Car­oli­na by North­ern par­ents. Record­ed at the behest of Select­ed Shorts, a pub­lic radio pro­gram where­in well known per­form­ers inter­pret con­tem­po­rary and clas­sic short fic­tion, the story—hand picked by Colbert—is a risky choice for 2015.

Like all of O’Connor’s work, it’s dark­ly comedic, and rife with rich char­ac­ter­i­za­tions. It also makes repeat­ed ref­er­ence to “Negroes,” two of whom the reader—in Col­bert’s case, a white man—is tasked with bring­ing to life. In this cur­rent cli­mate, I sus­pect most white come­di­ans would’ve played it safe with O’Connor’s lurid crowd pleas­er, “A Good Man is Hard to Find,” a sta­ple of high school read­ing lists, which you can hear O’Con­nor, her­self, read here.

Col­bert sails through by bring­ing his North­west­ern Uni­ver­si­ty the­ater train­ing to bear. (O’Connor was a favorite of the Per­for­mance Stud­ies depart­ment dur­ing his time there.)

Hav­ing spent years embody­ing a right wing wind­bag on his satir­i­cal Col­bert Report, the come­di­an clear­ly rel­ish­es the oppor­tu­ni­ty to tack­le a vari­ety of roles, includ­ing the main character’s will­ful­ly super­fi­cial moth­er, his sour sis­ter, and the afore­men­tioned pre-Civ­il Rights-era African-Amer­i­can men, work­ers in the hero’s mother’s dairy barn. The Catholic Col­bert also has fun with an unex­pect­ed­ly less-than-eru­dite Jesuit priest.

Grow­ing up in South Car­oli­na, Col­bert made a con­scious deci­sion to steer clear of a South­ern accent, but his pro­nun­ci­a­tion of the word “poem” is a hall­mark of authen­tic here.

As for O’Connor, she gets in a not-so-sub­tle jab at Gone with the Wind, as well as the sort of read­er who, try­ing to be help­ful, coun­sels an aspi­rant South­ern writer to “put the War in there.”

Some­thing tells me these two would have hit it off…I would’ve loved to hear him inter­view her along with George Clooney, Amy Schumer, and oth­er first week guests.

Col­bert’s read­ing of “The Endur­ing Chill” will be added to our col­lec­tion, 1,000 Free Audio Books: Down­load Great Books for Free.

via Metafil­ter

Relat­ed Con­tent:

Flan­nery O’Connor: Friends Don’t Let Friends Read Ayn Rand (1960)

Stephen Col­bert Reads Ray Brad­bury Clas­sic Sci-Fi Sto­ry “The Veldt”

Rare 1959 Audio: Flan­nery O’Connor Reads ‘A Good Man is Hard to Find’

Stephen Col­bert & Louis CK Recite The Get­tys­burg Address, With Some Help from Jer­ry Sein­feld

Ayun Hal­l­i­day is an author, illus­tra­tor and per­former who revis­its her low bud­get back­pack­er trav­els in the new edi­tion of No Touch Mon­key! And Oth­er Trav­el Lessons Learned Too Late . Fol­low her @AyunHalliday

 

 

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