Play Mark Twain’s “Memory-Builder,” His Game for Remembering Historical Facts & Dates

twain game

Mark Twain wrote The Adven­tures of Tom Sawyer, The Adven­tures of Huck­le­ber­ry Finn, and A Con­necti­cut Yan­kee in King Arthur’s Court, of course, but like any good lumi­nary of 19th-cen­tu­ry Amer­i­ca, he also put togeth­er a few inven­tions on the side. These non-lit­er­ary achieve­ments of Twain’s includ­ed an “Improve­ment in Adjustable and Detach­able Straps for Gar­ments” (as the patent calls it) meant to replace sus­penders, a “self-past­ing” scrap­book”, and the “Mem­o­ry-Builder, a game for acquir­ing and retain­ing all sorts of facts and dates.”

“Twain believed that mem­o­riza­tion — a com­mon strat­e­gy of 19th-cen­tu­ry school­ing — was a wor­thy, if tire­some, pur­suit, and looked for ways to make it more inter­est­ing for annoyed stu­dents,” writes Slate’s Rebec­ca Onion. This line of think­ing led him to cre­ate the Mem­o­ry-Builder, which he described as a “game which shall fill the chil­dren’s heads with dates with­out study” in an 1883 let­ter to a friend. He explained the back­ground of his edu­ca­tion­al phi­los­o­phy in much fuller detail in a 1914 piece from Harper’s mag­a­zine:

Six­teen years ago when my chil­dren were lit­tle crea­tures the gov­erness was try­ing to ham­mer some primer his­to­ries into their heads. Part of this fun — if you like to call it that — con­sist­ed in the mem­o­riz­ing of the acces­sion dates of the thir­ty-sev­en per­son­ages who had ruled Eng­land from the Con­queror down. These lit­tle peo­ple found it a bit­ter, hard con­tract. It was all dates, they all looked alike, and they would­n’t stick. Day after day of the sum­mer vaca­tion drib­bled by, and still the kings held the fort; the chil­dren could­n’t con­quer any six of them.

This expe­ri­ence gave rise to a cou­ple of dif­fer­ent learn­ing meth­ods, of which the Mem­o­ry-Builder (patent­ed in 1885) would prove the best-known. Though Twain worked out a way to play it on a crib­bage board con­vert­ed into a his­tor­i­cal time­line, you can play a tech­no­log­i­cal­ly much-updat­ed but mate­ri­al­ly iden­ti­cal ver­sion of the game online (with the same crib­bage pins and the same strange­ly intense focus on those roy­als) at the web site of the Uni­ver­si­ty of Ore­gon’s library. Alter­na­tive­ly, you can play an adap­ta­tion that deals with the life and times of Twain him­self at the Uni­ver­si­ty of Vir­gini­a’s web site.

Whether or not the Mem­o­ry-Builder can help you learn your his­to­ry, you’ll have to find out for your­self. Not hav­ing caught on at the time, Twain’s game did­n’t get far out of the pro­to­type stage, but the idea behind it has sur­vived in the form of one of Twain’s many so-very-quotable quotes: “I have nev­er let my school­ing inter­fere with my edu­ca­tion.” Some­thing tells me he’d approve of see­ing his game on the inter­net, sure­ly the tool that has done more to get edu­ca­tion into the learn­er’s own hands than any­thing else in human his­to­ry so far. (Um, have you seen our list of 1100 Free Online Cours­es?)

via Slate

Relat­ed Con­tent:

Mark Twain Pre­dicts the Inter­net in 1898: Read His Sci-Fi Crime Sto­ry, “From The ‘Lon­don Times’ in 1904”

Mark Twain Wrote the First Book Ever Writ­ten With a Type­writer

Mark Twain Shirt­less in 1883 Pho­to

Mark Twain Cap­tured on Film by Thomas Edi­son in 1909. It’s the Only Known Footage of the Author.

Col­in Mar­shall hosts and pro­duces Note­book on Cities and Cul­ture as well as the video series The City in Cin­e­ma and writes essays on cities, lan­guage, Asia, and men’s style. He’s at work on a book about Los Ange­les, A Los Ange­les Primer. Fol­low him on Twit­ter at @colinmarshall or on Face­book.

Take the 146-Question Knowledge Test Thomas Edison Gave to Prospective Employees (1921)

640px-Thomas_Edison2

I remem­ber open­ing my col­lege news­pa­per one day, and out of it fell what looked like an adver­tis­ing sup­ple­ment of unusu­al­ly util­i­tar­i­an design. Upon clos­er inspec­tion, it con­tained a series of math‑y look­ing prob­lems for the read­er to work out and, if they did so, mail in to an address pro­vid­ed. Word soon began to cir­cu­late that this unusu­al leaflet came from no less an insti­tu­tion than Google itself, already well known as a provider of advanced search ser­vices but not quite yet as a benev­o­lent provider of dream jobs (an image now sat­i­rized in movies like The Intern­ship).

The unusu­al hir­ing prac­tices of giant, inno­v­a­tive Amer­i­can tech­nol­o­gy com­pa­nies have become the stuff of mod­ern myth, but the usage of seem­ing­ly job-unre­lat­ed intel­lec­tu­al tests as a fil­ter for poten­tial employ­ees has a much longer his­to­ry. Thomas Edi­son, that orig­i­nal giant of Amer­i­can tech­no­log­i­cal inno­va­tion, put for­ward the first famous exam­ple: a 146-ques­tion test on sub­jects of gen­er­al knowl­edge from geog­ra­phy to his­to­ry to physics to the price of gold.

“Amer­i­cans obsessed over the test fol­low­ing [the] pub­li­ca­tion of many ques­tions in the May 11, 1921 New York Times,” writes Pale­o­fu­ture’s Matt Novak. “From there the test was debat­ed, copied, and par­o­died in news­pa­pers and mag­a­zines around the coun­try.” If you’d like to get a sense of how you’d have fared in the scram­ble for a sweet Edi­son job, set your mind back to the ear­ly 1920s and tack­le these ques­tions as best you can:

1. What coun­tries bound France?

2. What city and coun­try pro­duce the finest chi­na?

3. Where is the Riv­er Vol­ga?

4. What is the finest cot­ton grown?

5. What coun­try con­sumed the most tea before the war?

6. What city in the Unit­ed States leads in mak­ing laun­dry machines?

7. What city is the fur cen­tre of the Unit­ed States?

8. What coun­try is the great­est tex­tile pro­duc­er?

9. Is Aus­tralia greater than Green­land in area?

10. Where is Copen­hagen?

11. Where is Spitzber­gen?

12. In what coun­try oth­er than Aus­tralia are kan­ga­roos found?

13. What tele­scope is the largest in the world?

14. Who was Besse­mer and what did he do?

15. How many states in the Union?

16. Where do we get prunes from?

17. Who was Paul Revere?

18. Who was John Han­cock?

19. Who was Plutarch?

20. Who was Han­ni­bal?

21. Who was Dan­ton?

22. Who was Solon?

23. Who was Fran­cis Mar­i­on?

24. Who was Leonidas?

25. Where did we get Louisiana from?

26. Who was Pizarro?

27. Who was Boli­var?

28. What war mate­r­i­al did Chile export to the Allies dur­ing the war?

29. Where does most of the cof­fee come from?

30. Where is Korea?

31. Where is Manchuria?

32. Where was Napoleon born?

33. What is the high­est rise of tide on the North Amer­i­can Coast?

34. Who invent­ed log­a­rithms?

35. Who was the Emper­or of Mex­i­co when Cortez land­ed?

36. Where is the Impe­r­i­al Val­ley and what is it not­ed for?

37. What and where is the Sar­gas­so Sea?

38. What is the great­est known depth of the ocean?

39. What is the name of a large inland body of water that has no out­let?

40. What is the cap­i­tal of Penn­syl­va­nia?

41. What state is the largest? Next?

42. Rhode Island is the small­est state. What is the next and the next?

43. How far is it from New York to Buf­fa­lo?

44. How far is it from New York to San Fran­cis­co?

45. How far is it from New York to Liv­er­pool?

46. Of what state is Hele­na the cap­i­tal?

47. Of what state is Tal­la­has­see the cap­i­tal?

48. What state has the largest cop­per mines?

49. What state has the largest amethyst mines?

50. What is the name of a famous vio­lin mak­er?

51. Who invent­ed the mod­ern paper-mak­ing machine?

52. Who invent­ed the type­set­ting machine?

53. Who invent­ed print­ing?

54. How is leather tanned?

55. What is arti­fi­cial silk made from?

56. What is a cais­son?

57. What is shel­lac?

58. What is cel­lu­loid made from?

59. What caus­es the tides?

60. To what is the change of the sea­sons due?

61. What is coke?

62. From what part of the North Atlantic do we get cod­fish?

63. Who reached the South Pole?

64. What is a mon­soon?

65. Where is the Mag­dale­na Bay?

66. From where do we import figs?

67. From where do we get dates?

68. Where do we get our domes­tic sar­dines?

69. What is the longest rail­road in the world?

70. Where is Kenosha?

71. What is the speed of sound?

72. What is the speed of light?

73. Who was Cleopa­tra and how did she die?

74. Where are con­dors found?

75, Who dis­cov­ered the law of grav­i­ta­tion?

76. What is the dis­tance between the earth and sun?

77. Who invent­ed pho­tog­ra­phy?

78. What coun­try pro­duces the most wool?

79. What is felt?

80. What cere­al is used in all parts of the world?

81. What states pro­duce phos­phates?

82. Why is cast iron called pig iron?

83. Name three prin­ci­pal acids?

84. Name three pow­er­ful poi­sons.

85. Who dis­cov­ered radi­um?

86. Who dis­cov­ered the X‑ray?

87. Name three prin­ci­pal alka­lis.

88. What part of Ger­many do toys come from?

89. What States bound West Vir­ginia?

90. Where do we get peanuts from?

91. What is the cap­i­tal of Alaba­ma?

92. Who com­posed “Il Trova­tore”?

93. What is the weight of air in a room 20 by 30 by 10?

94. Where is plat­inum found?

95. With what met­al is plat­inum asso­ci­at­ed when found?

96. How is sul­phuric acid made?

97. Where do we get sul­phur from?

98. Who dis­cov­ered how to vul­can­ize rub­ber?

99. Where do we import rub­ber from?

100. What is vul­can­ite and how is it made?

101. Who invent­ed the cot­ton gin?

102. What is the price of 12 grains of gold?

103. What is the dif­fer­ence between anthracite and bitu­mi­nous coal?

104. Where do we get ben­zol from?

105. Of what is glass made?

106. How is win­dow glass made?

107. What is porce­lain?

108. What coun­try makes the best opti­cal lens­es and what city?

109. What kind of a machine is used to cut the facets of dia­monds?

110. What is a foot pound?

111. Where do we get borax from?

112. Where is the Assuan Dam?

113. What star is it that has been recent­ly mea­sured and found to be of enor­mous size?

114. What large riv­er in the Unit­ed States flows from south to north?

115. What are the Straits of Messi­na?

116. What is the high­est moun­tain in the world?

117. Where do we import cork from?

118. Where is the St. Gothard tun­nel?

119. What is the Taj Mahal?

120. Where is Labrador?

121. Who wrote “The Star-Span­gled Ban­ner”?

122. Who wrote “Home, Sweet Home”?

123. Who was Mar­tin Luther?

124. What is the chief acid in vine­gar?

125. Who wrote “Don Quixote”?

126. Who wrote “Les Mis­er­ables”?

127. What place is the great­est dis­tance below sea lev­el?

128. What are axe han­dles made of?

129. Who made “The Thinker”?

130. Why is a Fahren­heit ther­mome­ter called Fahren­heit?

131. Who owned and ran the New York Her­ald for a long time?

132. What is copra?

133. What insect car­ries malar­ia?

134. Who dis­cov­ered the Pacif­ic Ocean?

135. What coun­try has the largest out­put of nick­el in the world?

136. What ingre­di­ents are in the best white paint?

137. What is glu­cose and how made?

138. In what part of the world does it nev­er rain?

139. What was the approx­i­mate pop­u­la­tion of Eng­land, France, Ger­many and Rus­sia before the war?

140. Where is the city of Mec­ca?

141. Where do we get quick­sil­ver from?

142. Of what are vio­lin strings made?

143. What city on the Atlantic seaboard is the great­est pot­tery cen­tre?

144. Who is called the “father of rail­roads” in the Unit­ed States?

145. What is the heav­i­est kind of wood?

146. What is the light­est wood?

Some of these ques­tions, like those on the loca­tion of Copen­hagen or the iden­ti­ty of Leonidas (you need think back only to 300), have grown eas­i­er with time. Some — “What is coke?” “What is vul­can­ite and how is it made?” — have grown hard­er. Oth­ers will require you to call upon not cur­rent knowl­edge, but peri­od knowl­edge: sure, you know the num­ber of states in the union now, but how about in 1921? And sure, you know which city is the fur cen­ter of the Unit­ed States now, but how about in 1921?

Once you’ve made your guess­es, you can check your answers over at Pale­o­fu­ture. Edis­on’s test will almost cer­tain­ly frus­trate you — and if it does­n’t, you may have a career wait­ing not at Google, but on Jeop­ardy! — and it may even fill you with grat­i­tude that we live in an age where hot employ­ers check for raw brain­pow­er, not the abil­i­ty to mem­o­rize a seem­ing­ly ran­dom assort­ment of facts. But the test itself, like sev­er­al of its ques­tions, pulls a bit of a trick. The tremen­dous amount of atten­tion it received when the pub­lic caught a glimpse of it reveals Edis­on’s mas­tery of the high­est Amer­i­can force: pub­lic­i­ty.

Note: Thanks to one of our read­ers, you can see how Edi­son defend­ed the test in the pages of The New York Times.

via Pale­o­fu­ture

Relat­ed Con­tent:

Watch Har­vard Stu­dents Fail the Lit­er­a­cy Test Louisiana Used to Sup­press the Black Vote in 1964

Thomas Edi­son & His Trusty Kine­to­scope Cre­ate the First Movie Filmed In The US (c. 1889)

Take The Near Impos­si­ble Lit­er­a­cy Test Louisiana Used to Sup­press the Black Vote (1964)

Col­in Mar­shall hosts and pro­duces Note­book on Cities and Cul­ture as well as the video series The City in Cin­e­ma and writes essays on cities, lan­guage, Asia, and men’s style. He’s at work on a book about Los Ange­les, A Los Ange­les Primer. Fol­low him on Twit­ter at @colinmarshall or on Face­book.

Albert Einstein Sports a Native American Headdress and a Peace Pipe at the Grand Canyon, 1931

einstein with the hopi
Click here to view the image in a larg­er for­mat.

In 1931, Cal­tech invit­ed Albert Ein­stein to spend some time on their cam­pus, with the hopes that he might even­tu­al­ly join their fac­ul­ty. While in South­ern Cal­i­for­nia, he met Char­lie Chap­lin, took a pho­to with an Ein­stein pup­pet, enjoyed the mild win­ter, ruf­fled a few con­ser­v­a­tive feath­ers, then even­tu­al­ly left town. On the train ride back across the coun­try, he vis­it­ed the Hopi House, near the Grand Canyon, where he posed for a pic­ture with mem­bers of the Hopi tribe. The web­site Hanksville.org revis­its the clas­sic pho­to­graph (appar­ent­ly tak­en by Eugene O. Gold­beck) that doc­u­ment­ed his short vis­it:

There are sev­er­al strik­ing things about this pho­to­graph that deserve men­tion. It is clear that the head­dress that has been placed on Pro­fes­sor Ein­stein’s head and the pipe he has been giv­en to hold have no rela­tion­ship to the Indi­ans in this pho­to­graph. These Indi­ans are Hopis from the rel­a­tive­ly near­by Hopi pueb­los while the head­dress and pipe belong to the Plains Indi­an cul­ture.… The Hopis in this pic­ture were employ­ees of the Fred Har­vey Com­pa­ny who demon­strat­ed their arts there and, no doubt, posed for many oth­er pic­tures with tourists.

Besides Albert Ein­stein and his wife, there are 3 adult Hopis and one Hopi child in the pho­to­graph. Ein­stein is hold­ing the hand of a young Hopi girl in a very nat­ur­al man­ner; she is clutch­ing some­thing tight­ly in her oth­er hand and is quite intent upon some­thing out­side the frame. Prof. Ein­stein’s attrac­tion to chil­dren is seen in sev­er­al oth­er unof­fi­cial pho­tographs. He loved chil­dren and felt quite com­fort­able with them. The two men on the left side of the pho­to­graph were there to facil­i­tate the Ein­steins’ trip. The man on the left is J. B. Duffy, Gen­er­al Pas­sen­ger Agent of the ATSF (the famous Atich­son, Tokepa and San­ta Fe Rail­road); the oth­er man is Her­man Schweiz­er, Head of Fred Har­vey Curio, nor­mal­ly sta­tioned in Albu­querque. He may have spo­ken Ger­man and was there­fore present because Prof. Ein­stein was not com­plete­ly com­fort­able yet with Eng­lish.

Accord­ing to the Ein­stein Almanac, the Hopi “gave Ein­stein a peace pipe, rec­og­niz­ing his paci­fism, and dubbed him the ‘Great Rel­a­tive.’ ” You can see the pipe on dis­play in the pho­to.

As one web­site observed, what’s per­haps most notable about the his­toric image is this: It cap­tures lay­ers of commodification/fetishization. Here stands the most fetishized intel­lec­tu­al of the 20th cen­tu­ry pos­ing with one of the most fetishized peo­ples. Or maybe that’s just over­think­ing things.

Note: Some sources date the clas­sic pho­to back to 1922, but that seems less plau­si­ble. The Har­ry Ran­som Cen­ter pro­vides an image avail­able for down­load here.

Fol­low us on Face­book, Twit­ter and Google Plus and share intel­li­gent media with your friends. Or bet­ter yet, sign up for our dai­ly email and get a dai­ly dose of Open Cul­ture in your inbox.

Relat­ed Con­tent:

Lis­ten as Albert Ein­stein Calls for Peace and Social Jus­tice in 1945

Albert Ein­stein Hold­ing an Albert Ein­stein Pup­pet (Cir­ca 1931)

“Do Sci­en­tists Pray?”: A Young Girl Asks Albert Ein­stein in 1936. Ein­stein Then Responds.

Ein­stein for the Mass­es: Yale Presents a Primer on the Great Physicist’s Think­ing

The Musi­cal Mind of Albert Ein­stein: Great Physi­cist, Ama­teur Vio­lin­ist and Devo­tee of Mozart

Free Physics Cours­es in our Col­lec­tion of 1100 Free Online Cours­es

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Discover the Oldest Beer Recipe in History From Ancient Sumeria, 1800 B.C.

Ninkasi Tablets

Image cour­tesy of Lock, Stock, and His­to­ry

Beer, that favorite bev­er­age of foot­ball fans, frat boys, and oth­er macho stereotypes—at least accord­ing to the advertisers—actually has a very long, dis­tin­guished her­itage. It’s old­er, in fact, than wine, old­er than whiskey, old­er per­haps even than bread (or so some schol­ars have thought). As soon as humans set­tled down and learned to cul­ti­vate grains, some 13,000 years ago, the pos­si­bil­i­ty for fermentation—a nat­u­ral­ly occur­ring phenomenon—presented itself. But it isn’t until the 5th cen­tu­ry, B.C. that we have sources doc­u­ment­ing the delib­er­ate pro­duc­tion of ale in ancient Sume­ria. Nonethe­less, beer has been described as the “mid­wife of civ­i­liza­tion” due to its cen­tral role in agri­cul­ture, trade, urban­iza­tion, and med­i­cine.

Beer became so impor­tant to ancient Mesopotami­an cul­ture that the Sume­ri­ans cre­at­ed a god­dess of brew­ing and beer, Ninkasi, and one anony­mous poet, smit­ten with her pow­ers, penned a hymn to her in 1800 B.C.. A daugh­ter of the pow­er­ful cre­ator Enki and Nin­ti, “queen of the sacred lake,” Ninkasi is all the more poignant a deity giv­en the role of women in ancient cul­ture as respect­ed brew­ers. The “Hymn to Ninkasi,” which you can read below, not only pro­vides insight into the impor­tance of this cus­tom in Sumer­ian mythol­o­gy, but it also gives us a recipe for brew­ing ancient Sumer­ian beer—the old­est beer recipe we have.

Trans­lat­ed from two clay tablets by Miguel Civ­il, Pro­fes­sor of Sumerol­o­gy at the Uni­ver­si­ty of Chica­go, the poem con­tains instruc­tions pre­cise enough that Fritz May­tag, founder of the Anchor Brew­ing Com­pa­ny in San Fran­cis­co, took it upon him­self to try them. He pre­sent­ed the results at the annu­al meet­ing of the Amer­i­can Asso­ci­a­tion of Micro Brew­ers in 1991. The brew­ers, writes Civ­il, “were able to taste ‘Ninkasi Beer,’ sip­ping it from large jugs with drink­ing straws as they did four mil­len­nia ago. The beer had an alco­hol con­cen­tra­tion of 3.5%, very sim­i­lar to mod­ern beers, and had a ‘dry taste lack­ing in bit­ter­ness,’ ‘sim­i­lar to hard apple cider.’” A chal­lenge to all you home brew­ers out there.

Unfor­tu­nate­ly, May­tag was unable to bot­tle and retail the recre­ation, since ancient Mesopotami­an beer “was brewed for imme­di­ate con­sump­tion” and “did not keep very well.” But what Civ­il learned from the exper­i­ment was that his translation—in the hands of a mas­ter brew­er “who saw through the dif­fi­cult ter­mi­nol­o­gy and poet­ic metaphors”—produced results. Below, see the first part of the “Hymn to Ninkasi,” which describes “in poet­ic terms the step-by-step process of Sumer­ian beer brew­ing.” A sec­ond part of the hymn “cel­e­brates the con­tain­ers in which the beer is brewed and served” and “includes the toasts usu­al in tav­ern and drink­ing songs.” You can read that joy­ful text—which includes the line “With joy in the heat [and] a hap­py liver”—on page 4 of Pro­fes­sor Civil’s arti­cle on the Hymn.

 

Hymn to Ninkasi (Part I)
Borne of the flow­ing water,
Ten­der­ly cared for by the Nin­hur­sag,
Borne of the flow­ing water,
Ten­der­ly cared for by the Nin­hur­sag,

Hav­ing found­ed your town by the sacred lake,
She fin­ished its great walls for you,
Ninkasi, hav­ing found­ed your town by the sacred lake,
She fin­ished it’s walls for you,

Your father is Enki, Lord Nidim­mud,
Your moth­er is Nin­ti, the queen of the sacred lake.
Ninkasi, your father is Enki, Lord Nidim­mud,
Your moth­er is Nin­ti, the queen of the sacred lake.

You are the one who han­dles the dough [and] with a big shov­el,
Mix­ing in a pit, the bap­pir with sweet aro­mat­ics,
Ninkasi, you are the one who han­dles the dough [and] with a big shov­el,
Mix­ing in a pit, the bap­pir with [date] — hon­ey,

You are the one who bakes the bap­pir in the big oven,
Puts in order the piles of hulled grains,
Ninkasi, you are the one who bakes the bap­pir in the big oven,
Puts in order the piles of hulled grains,

You are the one who waters the malt set on the ground,
The noble dogs keep away even the poten­tates,
Ninkasi, you are the one who waters the malt set on the ground,
The noble dogs keep away even the poten­tates,

You are the one who soaks the malt in a jar,
The waves rise, the waves fall.
Ninkasi, you are the one who soaks the malt in a jar,
The waves rise, the waves fall.

You are the one who spreads the cooked mash on large reed mats,
Cool­ness over­comes,
Ninkasi, you are the one who spreads the cooked mash on large reed mats,
Cool­ness over­comes,

You are the one who holds with both hands the great sweet wort,
Brew­ing [it] with hon­ey [and] wine
(You the sweet wort to the ves­sel)
Ninkasi, (…)(You the sweet wort to the ves­sel)

The fil­ter­ing vat, which makes a pleas­ant sound,
You place appro­pri­ate­ly on a large col­lec­tor vat.
Ninkasi, the fil­ter­ing vat, which makes a pleas­ant sound,
You place appro­pri­ate­ly on a large col­lec­tor vat.

When you pour out the fil­tered beer of the col­lec­tor vat,
It is [like] the onrush of Tigris and Euphrates.
Ninkasi, you are the one who pours out the fil­tered beer of the col­lec­tor vat,
It is [like] the onrush of Tigris and Euphrates.

Relat­ed Con­tent:

Cook Real Recipes from Ancient Rome: Ostrich Ragoût, Roast Wild Boar, Nut Tarts & More

The Art and Sci­ence of Beer

Lis­ten to the Old­est Song in the World: A Sumer­ian Hymn Writ­ten 3,400 Years Ago

Free Cours­es in Ancient His­to­ry, Lit­er­a­ture & Phi­los­o­phy

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

Guidelines for Handling William Faulkner’s Drinking During Foreign Trips From the US State Department (1955)

Faulkner1

Image by Carl Van Vecht­en, via Wiki­me­dia Com­mons

There’s a polite turn of phrase I’ve always found amus­ing, if a lit­tle sad; when some­one has too much to drink at a social func­tion and embar­rass­es him or her­self, we say the per­son has been “over­served.” This euphemism gra­cious­ly lays the blame at the host’s feet rather than the some­times shame­faced imbiber’s, sug­gest­ing that a good host cares enough about his or her guests—whether they be light­weights or binge-drink­ing alcoholics—to mon­i­tor their intake and keep things on an even keel. In the case of one noto­ri­ous­ly hard-drink­ing guest, nov­el­ist William Faulkn­er, this respon­si­bil­i­ty became much more than the tact­ful bur­den of a few friends. Keep­ing an eye on the writer’s drink­ing became a man­date of State Depart­ment offi­cers at the U.S. Infor­ma­tion Agency dur­ing Faulkn­er’s offi­cial trips abroad.

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Since his 1950 Nobel win—writes Greg Barn­his­el at Slate—Faulkn­er was in high demand as a Cold War good­will ambas­sador for Amer­i­can cul­ture, along with Martha Gra­ham, John Updike, and Louis Arm­strong, all “liv­ing proof that Amer­i­ca wasn’t just Mick­ey Mouse and chew­ing gum.” Unfor­tu­nate­ly, as most every­one knows, “the author had a bit of a drink­ing prob­lem.” Dur­ing a 1955 vis­it to Japan, for exam­ple, he got so drunk at the wel­come recep­tion “that the U.S. ambas­sador ordered he be put on the next plane back to the states.” U.S. offi­cials may have been embar­rassed, but the Japan­ese, it seems, did not feel that Faulkner’s drink­ing was a hin­drance. Accord­ing to Dr. Leon Picon, books offi­cer at the Tokyo embassy, the writer’s hosts “didn’t see any­thing wrong with the amount of drink that he had, and they under­stood when he went off com­plete­ly, and was not com­mu­ni­ca­ble again….” Rather than send Faulkn­er home, Picon found ways to make sure his guest was nev­er over­served.

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Picon—whom Faulkn­er called his “wet nurse”—composed and dis­creet­ly cir­cu­lat­ed a doc­u­ment called “Guide­lines for Han­dling Mr. William Faulkn­er on His Trips Abroad.” These instruc­tions came from Picon’s obser­va­tions that Faulkn­er “fared bet­ter… when there was lit­tle time for con­cert­ed drink­ing.” Of the Japan­ese vis­it Faulkn­er biog­ra­ph­er David Mint­ner writes:

Giv­en shrewd­ly arranged sched­ules and care­ful­ly arranged audi­ences, Faulkn­er talked eas­i­ly about books, war, and race, hunt­ing, farm­ing, and sail­ing. Although his man­ners remained for­mal and his replies for­mu­la­ic, he seemed poised and respon­sive.

Barn­his­el quotes among Picon’s guide­lines for assur­ing a smooth vis­it the fol­low­ing:

  • “Keep sev­er­al pret­ty young girls in the front two rows of any pub­lic appear­ance to keep his atten­tion up”
  • “Put some­one in charge of his liquor at all times so that he doesn’t drink too quick­ly”
  • “Do not allow him to ven­ture out on his own with­out an escort”

As the declas­si­fied mem­o­ran­da above tes­ti­fy (click once, and then again, to view them in a larg­er for­mat), the instruc­tions helped oth­er for­eign ser­vice offi­cers to suc­cess­ful­ly nav­i­gate the writer’s habits. In the memo near the top of the post with the odd­ly-word­ed sub­ject “Exploita­tion of Faulkn­er Vis­it,” Dr. Picon is laud­ed for “humor­ing and han­dling Mr. Faulkn­er,” and his guide­lines cred­it­ed with being “effec­tive and vital to the suc­cess of the whole tour.” The memo just above—written in need­less­ly wordy bureau­cratese, appar­ent­ly by none oth­er than J. Edgar Hoover—commends Picon in more detail:

The Depart­ment wish­es to com­mend Mr. Leon Picon for the superb job he did in describ­ing a pro­ce­dure for devel­op­ing a pro­gram for Mr. Faulkn­er in oth­er coun­tries.

In his book Cold War Mod­ernists, Barn­his­el, a pro­fes­sor at Duquesne Uni­ver­si­ty, notes that Faulkn­er con­tin­ued to rep­re­sent the U.S. abroad, in trips to Greece and Venezuela, and though his drink­ing remained a chal­lenge for his gov­ern­ment han­dlers, the trips were deemed unqual­i­fied suc­cess­es.

via Slate

Relat­ed Con­tent:

Drink­ing with William Faulkn­er: The Writer Had a Taste for The Mint Julep & Hot Tod­dy

Rare Audio: William Faulkn­er Names His Best Nov­el, And the First Faulkn­er Nov­el You Should Read

William Faulkn­er Reads His Nobel Prize Speech

Free Online Lit­er­a­ture Cours­es, part of our larg­er col­lec­tion, 1,700 Free Online Cours­es from Top Uni­ver­si­ties

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

George Orwell Creates a Who’s Who List of “Crypto” Communists for British Intelligence Forces (1949)

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Jour­nal­ist and nov­el­ist Eric Blair, known for all of his pro­fes­sion­al life by the pen name George Orwell, staunch­ly iden­ti­fied him­self as a demo­c­ra­t­ic social­ist. For exam­ple, in his slim 1946 pub­li­ca­tion Why I Write, he declared, “Every line of seri­ous work I have writ­ten since 1936 has been writ­ten, direct­ly or indi­rect­ly, against total­i­tar­i­an­ism and for demo­c­ra­t­ic social­ism as I under­stand it.” Despite the wide­spread blur­ring of lines these days between social­ism and communism—whether through igno­rance or delib­er­ate misleading—the dis­tinc­tion was not lost on Orwell. Though he sup­port­ed an equi­table dis­tri­b­u­tion of wealth and pub­lic insti­tu­tions for the com­mon good, he fierce­ly opposed Sovi­et com­mu­nism as anti-demo­c­ra­t­ic and oppres­sive. As Orwell biog­ra­ph­er John Newsinger writes, one “cru­cial dimen­sion to Orwell’s social­ism was his recog­ni­tion that the Sovi­et Union was not social­ist. Unlike many on the left, instead of aban­don­ing social­ism once he dis­cov­ered the full hor­ror of Stal­in­ist rule in the Sovi­et Union, Orwell aban­doned the Sovi­et Union and instead remained a social­ist.”

Of course, Orwell’s anti-com­mu­nist sen­ti­ments are famil­iar to every stu­dent who has read Ani­mal Farm. Less well known is the degree to which he con­tributed to anti-com­mu­nist pro­pa­gan­da, even cor­re­spond­ing with British secret ser­vices and keep­ing a black­list of writ­ers he deemed either “cryp­tos” (secret com­mu­nists), “fel­low trav­ellers” (com­mu­nist sym­pa­thiz­ers), or out­right mem­bers of the Com­mu­nist Par­ty. Orwell’s involve­ment with the Infor­ma­tion Research Depart­ment (IRD), a pro­pa­gan­da unit formed in 1948 under the UK’s For­eign Office to com­bat Stal­in­ism at home and abroad has received a good deal of atten­tion in the past few decades, in part because of the dis­cov­ery in 2003 of a pri­vate note­book con­tain­ing his orig­i­nal list. Even before this rev­e­la­tion, biog­ra­phers and his­to­ri­ans had known about the list, which Orwell includ­ed, in part, in a let­ter to his love inter­est Celia Kir­wan, who worked for the IRD, with the instruc­tions that she keep it secret due to its “libelous” nature. Orwell intend­ed that the writ­ers on the list not be asked to work for the IRD because, in his esti­ma­tion, they were peo­ple who could not be trust­ed.

Reac­tions to Orwell’s list have been very mixed. When the sto­ry first broke in the late nineties, Orwell’s long­time friend Michael Foot said he found the list “amaz­ing” and out of char­ac­ter. One of the peo­ple named, Nor­man Macken­zie, ascribed the list to Orwell’s ill­ness, say­ing that the writer was “los­ing his grip on him­self” in 1949 dur­ing his final strug­gle with the tuber­cu­lo­sis that killed him that year. Orwell biog­ra­ph­er Bernard Crick defend­ed his actions, writ­ing, “He did it because he thought the Com­mu­nist Par­ty was a total­i­tar­i­an men­ace. He wasn’t denounc­ing these peo­ple as sub­ver­sives. He was denounc­ing them as unsuit­able for counter-intel­li­gence oper­a­tion.” On the oth­er hand, late left­ist fire­brand jour­nal­ist Alexan­der Cock­burn con­demned Orwell as a “snitch” and thought the list was evi­dence of Orwell’s big­otry, giv­en his sus­pi­cion of Paul Robe­son as “anti-white” and his denounc­ing of oth­ers due to their rumored homo­sex­u­al­i­ty or Jew­ish back­ground. He makes a com­pelling case. What­ev­er Orwell’s moti­va­tions, the effect on the named indi­vid­u­als’ pro­fes­sion­al and polit­i­cal lives was mild, to say the least. This was hard­ly a McCarthyite witch-hunt. Nonethe­less, it’s a lit­tle hard for admir­ers of Orwell not to wince at this col­lab­o­ra­tion with the state secret ser­vice.

Below, see the list he sub­mit­ted to Kir­wan in his let­ter. Fur­ther down is a list of names, includ­ing those of Orson Welles and Kather­ine Hep­burn, that appeared in his note­book but not on the list he gave to the IRD.

Writ­ers and jour­nal­ists

Aca­d­e­mics and sci­en­tists

Actors

Labour MPs

Oth­ers

Peo­ple named in Orwell’s note­book, but not appear­ing on the final IRD list:

Relat­ed Con­tent:

George Orwell Explains in a Reveal­ing 1944 Let­ter Why He’d Write 1984

George Orwell Reviews Mein Kampf (1940)

George Orwell’s Five Great­est Essays (as Select­ed by Pulitzer-Prize Win­ning Colum­nist Michael Hiltzik)

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

Glorious Early 20th-Century Japanese Ads for Beer, Smokes & Sake (1902–1954)

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Ear­li­er this month, we fea­tured adver­tise­ments from Japan’s pre­war Art Deco gold­en age, a peri­od that shows off one facet of the coun­try’s rich graph­ic his­to­ry. While all forms of Japan­ese design remain com­pelling today, any time or place would be hard pressed to com­pete with the world of Japan’s pre-war print adver­tis­ing. It has, espe­cial­ly for the mod­ern West­ern­er, not just a visu­al nov­el­ty but a com­mer­cial nov­el­ty as well: as often as not, sur­viv­ing exam­ples glo­ri­fy now-restrict­ed addic­tive sub­stances like alco­hol and tobac­co.

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At Pink Ten­ta­cle (a com­plete­ly safe-for-work page, believe it or not), you can find a roundup of Japan­ese print adver­tise­ments for prod­ucts that tap into just such vices. Japan opened up to the world in a big way in the mid-to-late 19th cen­tu­ry, and the coun­try’s accep­tance (and sub­se­quent Japan­i­fi­ca­tion) of all things for­eign kept chug­ging along right up until the Sec­ond World War. At the top, we have an appeal­ing exam­ple of this inter­na­tion­al­ism at work in the ser­vice of Saku­ra Beer in the late 1920s. The 1902 ad just above depicts not just the globe but a smok­ing Pega­sus astride it in the name of Pea­cock cig­a­rettes.

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When the tone of Japan­ese life got mil­i­taris­tic in the 1930s, so did the tone of Japan­ese ads. The 1937 poster just above pro­claims “Defense for Coun­try, Tobac­co for Soci­ety,” a mes­sage brought to you by the South Kyoto Tobac­co Sell­ers’ Union. Below, the kind of Japan­ese maid­en pre­war graph­ic design always ren­dered so well appears in a dif­fer­ent, more out­ward­ly patri­ot­ic, and much more naval form.

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It goes with­out say­ing that most of these ads’ design­ers geared them toward the eyes of the Japan­ese — most, but not all. After the war, dur­ing the Unit­ed States’ occu­pa­tion of the coun­try, there appeared print announce­ments in this same styl­is­tic vein urg­ing GIs and oth­er Amer­i­can mil­i­tary per­son­nel to keep on their best com­mer­cial behav­ior. Take, for instance, these words the straight­for­ward­ly named Japan Monop­oly Cor­po­ra­tion placed beside this arche­typ­i­cal­ly court­ly but unchar­ac­ter­is­ti­cal­ly stern tra­di­tion­al lady in 1954:

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A valiant effort, but from the sto­ries I’ve heard of the occu­pa­tion, no amount of graph­ic design could’ve shut down that par­tic­u­lar black mar­ket. And final­ly, no look back at vin­tage Japan­ese ads would be com­plete with­out includ­ing one adver­tise­ment for sake. The ad below is for Zuigan sake, cre­at­ed in 1934.

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Relat­ed Con­tent:

Adver­tise­ments from Japan’s Gold­en Age of Art Deco

Hand-Col­ored Pho­tographs of 19th Cen­tu­ry Japan

Two Short Films on Cof­fee and Cig­a­rettes from Jim Jar­musch & Paul Thomas Ander­son

Col­in Mar­shall hosts and pro­duces Note­book on Cities and Cul­ture as well as the video series The City in Cin­e­ma and writes essays on cities, lan­guage, Asia, and men’s style. He’s at work on a book about Los Ange­les, A Los Ange­les Primer. Fol­low him on Twit­ter at @colinmarshall or on Face­book.

Watch Veterans of The US Civil War Demonstrate the Dreaded Rebel Yell (1930)

“It was the ugli­est sound that any mor­tal ever heard—even a mor­tal exhaust­ed and unnerved by two days of hard fight­ing, with­out sleep, with­out rest, with­out food and with­out hope.”

- Ambrose Bierce,  “A Lit­tle of Chicka­mau­ga” (1898)

 

“…a shrill ring­ing scream with a touch of the Indi­an war-whoop in it .”

- Lon­don Times reporter William Howard Rus­sell (1861)

 

“…a fox­hunt yip mixed up with sort of a ban­shee squall.”

- His­to­ri­an Shel­by Foote (1990)

 The seces­sion­ist bat­tle cry has long cap­ti­vat­ed Civ­il War schol­ars. A fix­ture of lit­er­a­ture as well as eye­wit­ness accounts, its actu­al sound was a mat­ter of con­jec­ture. It lent itself to col­or­ful descrip­tion. Pho­net­ic ren­der­ings could not hope to repro­duce the chill­ing effect:

“Yee-aay-ee!”  ‑Mar­garet Mitchell

“Wah-Who-Eeee!”  ‑Chester Gool­rick

“Rrrrrr-yah­h­h­h­h­h­h­h­h­h­h­h­h­h­h­h­hh-yip-yip-yip-yip-yip!” -H. Allen Smith

Of course, the Rebel Yell is far from the only sound to have struck a note of dread dur­ing The Civ­il War. Hoof­beats, the crack­le of flames, a white voice com­mand­ing you to leave your hid­ing place…

By the time the harm­less-look­ing grand­pas in the archival footage above donned their old uni­forms to demon­strate the yell, the war had been over for six­ty-five years.

There’s a clear sense of occa­sion. The old fel­lows’ pipes are impres­sive, though one begins to under­stand why there was nev­er con­sen­sus regard­ing the actu­al sound of the thing.

Lin­guist Allen Walk­er Read con­clud­ed that the yell—aka the “Pibroch of the Con­fed­er­a­cy,” a vocal lega­cy of blue paint­ed Celtic war­riors fac­ing down the Roman army—was a stress-relat­ed, full body response. Ergo, any hol­ler­ing done after 1865 was a fac­sim­i­le.

At least one vet­er­an agreed. In Ken Burn’s Civ­il War doc­u­men­tary, Shel­by Foote recalled how one of them refused to oblige eager lis­ten­ers at a soci­ety din­ner, claim­ing he could only exe­cute it at a run, and cer­tain­ly not with “a mouth full of false teeth and a bel­ly full of food.”

(An asser­tion sev­er­al legions of grey coat­ed reen­ac­tors clear­ly do not sup­port.)

My 14-year-old son was great­ly amused by the coy­ote-like ulu­la­tions of the old gents. The vari­ety of inter­pre­ta­tions only height­ened his enjoy­ment. Their proud demon­stra­tion is unde­ni­ably rem­i­nis­cent of  Patrick Stewart’s take on the region­al vari­a­tions of moo­ing British cows.

I had to remind my boy that this was once a seri­ous thing. To quote Hen­ry “Dr. Liv­ingston, I Pre­sume” Stan­ley, who par­tic­i­pat­ed in the Bat­tle of Shiloh as a 21-year-old enlis­tee on the South­ern side:

It drove all san­i­ty and order from among us. It served the dou­ble pur­pose of reliev­ing pent-up feel­ings, and trans­mit­ting encour­age­ment along the attack­ing line. I rejoiced in the shout­ing like the rest. It remind­ed me that there were about four hun­dred com­pa­nies like the Dix­ie Greys, who shared our feel­ings. Most of us, engrossed with the mus­ket-work, had for­got­ten the fact; but the wave after wave of human voic­es, loud­er than all oth­er bat­tle-sounds togeth­er, pen­e­trat­ed to every sense, and stim­u­lat­ed our ener­gies to the utmost.

Relat­ed Con­tent:

“The Civ­il War and Recon­struc­tion,” a New MOOC by Pulitzer-Prize Win­ning His­to­ri­an Eric Fon­er

Visu­al­iz­ing Slav­ery: The Map Abra­ham Lin­coln Spent Hours Study­ing Dur­ing the Civ­il War

Down­load 78 Free Online His­to­ry Cours­es: From Ancient Greece to The Mod­ern World

Find cours­es on The Civ­il War in our col­lec­tion, 1,700 Free Online Cours­es from Top Uni­ver­si­ties

Ayun Hal­l­i­day is an author, illus­tra­tor, and Chief Pri­ma­tol­o­gist of the East Vil­lage Inky zine. Fol­low her @AyunHalliday

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