Discover J.R.R. Tolkien’s Personal Book Cover Designs for The Lord of the Rings Trilogy

In some rare cas­es, adap­ta­tions and inter­pre­ta­tions of a lit­er­ary work can sur­pass the source. Despite hun­dreds of valiant efforts on the part of fans, film­mak­ers, game/toy design­ers, and radio pro­duc­ers, this has nev­er been true of the ful­ly-real­ized fan­ta­sy world in J.R.R. Tolkien’s The Hob­bit and The Lord of the Rings tril­o­gy (not that it’s ever been anyone’s intent). As we not­ed in a pre­vi­ous post, Tolkien’s fic­tion­al world is so intri­cate, its sources so vast and var­ied, that Corey Olsen, “The Tolkien Pro­fes­sor,” has made it his entire life’s work to open that world up to stu­dents and curi­ous read­ers, such as with his eight-part lec­ture series on The Hob­bit.

One might also add illus­tra­tors to the list of Tolkien inter­preters above who have—in the almost nine­ty years since The Hobbit’s pub­li­ca­tion and more than sev­en­ty years since the first appear­ance of The Lord of the Rings trilogy—done their best to visu­al­ize Tolkien’s world. But per­haps no one did so bet­ter than the mas­ter him­self. Long known as a visu­al artist as well as a lit­er­ary one, Tolkien left behind over 100 illus­tra­tions for The Hob­bit, one of which adorns 2011’s Harper­Collins 75th anniver­sary edi­tion of the book. He also cre­at­ed these orig­i­nal cov­er designs for each book in The Lord of the Rings tril­o­gy.

In the long and com­plex pub­li­ca­tion his­to­ry of Tolkien’s most famous of works, it’s unclear if these designs ever made it onto books pub­lished dur­ing his life­time, but the sig­il in the cen­ter of The Fel­low­ship of the Ring design (above), with its omi­nous eye of Sauron sur­round­ed by elvish runes and topped by the one ring, did grace the ele­gant, min­i­mal­ist cov­ers of the first edi­tion of the tril­o­gy. Tolkien’s art­work received a thor­ough treat­ment in a 1995 mono­graph J.R.R. Tolkien Artist & Illus­tra­tor, which cov­ers over 60 years of Tolkien’s life as an artist, and the mag­ic of flickr brings us this com­pendi­um of Tolkien illus­tra­tions.

Note: An ear­li­er ver­sion of this post appeared on our site in 2013.

Relat­ed Con­tent: 

Lis­ten to J.R.R. Tolkien Read Poems from The Fel­low­ship of the Ring, in Elvish and Eng­lish (1952)

The Art of the Book Cov­er Explained at TED

Vladimir Nabokov Mar­vels Over Dif­fer­ent “Loli­ta” Book Cov­ers

Jack Kerouac’s Hand-Drawn Cov­er for On the Road

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

The Very First Film Adaptation of Mary Shelley’s Frankenstein, a Thomas Edison Production (1910)

The sto­ry of humans cre­at­ing mon­strous beings in their image may have peren­ni­al rel­e­vance, even if it seems spe­cif­ic to our con­tem­po­rary cul­tur­al moment. What, after all, is Oscar Isaac’s AI inven­tor in Ex Machi­na but a 21st-cen­tu­ry update of Vic­tor Franken­stein? (Before Isaac went on to por­tray Vic­tor him­self in Guiller­mo del Toro’s 2025 film adap­ta­tion.) And what is Frankenstein’s mon­ster but a Goth­ic recre­ation of the Golem, or any num­ber of folk­loric automa­tons in cul­tures far and wide? It’s an age-old arche­typ­al sto­ry that seems to get an update every year.

Peo­ple have imag­ined mak­ing arti­fi­cial peo­ple, per­haps for as long as peo­ple have told sto­ries. But each iter­a­tion of that sto­ry emerges from a his­tor­i­cal matrix of par­tic­u­lar tech­no­log­i­cal, philo­soph­i­cal, and meta­phys­i­cal anx­i­eties. In the case of Ex Machi­na, we have not only a think­ing, feel­ing humanoid, but one cre­at­ed out of mass data col­lec­tion and designed to serve the pruri­ent inter­ests of a Niet­zschean ven­ture cap­i­tal­ist engi­neer.

In the orig­i­nal Franken­stein, a nov­el writ­ten by a woman, Mary Shel­ley, we have a very dif­fer­ent kind of mon­ster, born out of a Roman­tic con­ver­gence of inter­est in alche­my and the occult—the orig­i­nal domains of ear­ly mod­ern sci­en­tists like Isaac Newton—and more mod­ern, indus­tri­al sci­en­tif­ic meth­ods (hence the novel’s sub­ti­tle, The Mod­ern Prometheus). Many crit­ics have called the nov­el the first work of sci­ence fic­tion, and many, like Mau­rice Hin­dle in the intro­duc­tion to the Pen­guin Clas­sics edi­tion, have described its main theme as “the aspi­ra­tion of mod­ern mas­culin­ist sci­en­tists to be tech­ni­cal­ly cre­ative divini­ties.”

And yet, writes Ruth Franklin at the New Repub­lic—draw­ing con­vinc­ing­ly on Shelley’s own trau­mat­ic expe­ri­ences with birth—Franken­stein might “also be a sto­ry about preg­nan­cy.” Intrigu­ing as this pos­si­bil­i­ty may be, most inter­pre­ta­tions of the nov­el have seen it as “a fable of mas­cu­line repro­duc­tion, in which a man cre­ates life asex­u­al­ly.” That tra­di­tion con­tin­ues in the movies with the first film adap­ta­tion of Franken­stein, made by Edi­son stu­dios just over 100 years after the novel’s 1818 pub­li­ca­tion.

The 1910 short silent film, which you can watch above, bills itself as “a lib­er­al adap­ta­tion from Mrs. Shel­ley’s famous sto­ry,” and opens in its first scene with Vic­tor Franken­stein leav­ing home for col­lege. Two years lat­er, the Faus­t­ian mad sci­en­tist dis­cov­ers the mys­tery of life, uses the knowl­edge to make his “creature”—a sur­pris­ing­ly grotesque scene—and, appalled at the sight of it, rejects the thing in hor­ror. The rest of the sto­ry pro­ceeds along the usu­al lines, as the mon­ster, in rags and fright wig, seeks recog­ni­tion from his creator/parent and wreaks hav­oc when he does not receive it.

This first Franken­stein film, direct­ed by J. Sear­le Daw­ley, arrived two years after Edis­on’s Bronx, New York stu­dios began full and very lucra­tive oper­a­tions, and, by this time, writes Rich Drees, motion pic­tures had begun to receive unwel­come atten­tion from “moral cru­saders and reform groups, who decried the new medi­um as being dan­ger­ous and encour­ag­ing of immoral­i­ty.” Edi­son respond­ed quick­ly, fear­ing “a seri­ous threat to his bot­tom line,” and ordered that his films’ pro­duc­tion qual­i­ty and “moral tone” be improved.

Franken­stein, writes Drees, “was the per­fect choice to kick off pro­duc­tion under this new moral ban­ner. It’s a sto­ry that deals with the extremes of the human con­di­tion, life and death, and the dan­gers of tam­per­ing in God’s realm.” Edi­son released the film with the fol­low­ing dis­claimer:

To those famil­iar with Mrs. Shelley’s sto­ry it will be evi­dent that we have care­ful­ly omit­ted any­thing which might be any pos­si­bil­i­ty shock any por­tion of the audi­ence. In mak­ing the film the Edi­son Co. has care­ful­ly tried to elim­i­nate all actu­al repul­sive sit­u­a­tions and to con­cen­trate its endeav­ors upon the mys­tic and psy­cho­log­i­cal prob­lems that are to be found in this weird tale. Wher­ev­er, there­fore, the film dif­fers from the orig­i­nal sto­ry it is pure­ly with the idea of elim­i­nat­ing what would be repul­sive to a mov­ing pic­ture audi­ence. 

Five years after the Edi­son stu­dio’s short, anoth­er silent adap­ta­tion, Life With­out Soul, appeared. Made by the Ocean Film Cor­po­ra­tion, this film is now lost to his­to­ry, but it qual­i­fies as the first fea­ture-length adap­ta­tion at 70 min­utes. A review of the film, writes the blog Franken­steinia, “reveals a sto­ry that hews fair­ly close to Mary Shel­ley’s nov­el,” mak­ing a “bold attempt at cap­tur­ing the world-span­ning sweep of the tale.”

Sev­er­al dozen film adap­ta­tions in the ensu­ing years have tracked more or less close­ly to Shel­ley’s narrative—giving Franken­stein’s mon­ster a bride and hav­ing Vic­tor Franken­stein rean­i­mate his dead lover with the mind of a wrong­ly exe­cut­ed man. But none of these films, so far as I know, has drawn out the sub­text of Franken­stein as a nov­el about preg­nan­cy and child­birth. Such an adap­ta­tion remains to be made—although Mag­gie Gyl­len­haal’s 2026 film The Bride! has become the first adap­ta­tion by a woman.

You can find Mary Shel­ley’s Franken­stein in our col­lec­tions of Free eBooks and Free Audio Books.

The film above will be added to our col­lec­tion, 4,000+ Free Movies Online: Great Clas­sics, Indies, Noir, West­erns, Doc­u­men­taries & More.

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

Relat­ed Con­tent:

The First Hor­ror Film, George Méliès’ The Manor of the Dev­il (1896)

Franken­wee­nie: Tim Bur­ton Turns Franken­stein Tale into Dis­ney Kids Film (1984)

Mary Shelley’s Hand­writ­ten Man­u­scripts of Franken­stein Now Online for the First Time

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

One of the Best Preserved Ancient Manuscripts of The Iliad Is Now Digitized: See the “Bankes Homer” Manuscript in High Resolution (Circa 150 C.E.)

Each time I sit through the end cred­its of a film, I think about how weird auteur the­o­ry is—that a work of cin­e­ma can be pri­mar­i­ly thought of as the sin­gu­lar vision of the direc­tor. Typ­i­cal exam­ples come from arti­er fare than the usu­al Hol­ly­wood block­buster in which crews of thou­sands of stunt­peo­ple, spe­cial effects tech­ni­cians, and ani­ma­tors (and sev­er­al dozen “pro­duc­ers”) make essen­tial con­tri­bu­tions. In the case of, say, Wes Ander­son or David Lynch—or ear­li­er direc­tors like Godard or Kubrick—one can’t deny the evi­dence of a sin­gu­lar mind at work. Even so, we tend to ele­vate direc­tors to the sta­tus of god­like arti­fi­cers, sur­round­ed by a few angel­ic helpers behind the cam­era and a few star actors in front of it. Every­one else is an extra, includ­ing, very often, the actu­al writ­ers of a film.

Of course, the notion of the auteur comes from the gen­er­al the­o­ry of author­ship that iden­ti­fies lit­er­ary works as the prod­uct of a sin­gle intel­lect. French the­o­rists like Michel Fou­cault and Roland Barthes have cast sus­pi­cion on this idea. When it comes to writ­ing from the man­u­script age, hun­dreds or thou­sands of years old, it can be next to impos­si­ble to iden­ti­fy the author of a work.

Many an ancient work comes down to us as the prod­uct of “Anony­mous.” In the case of the major Greek epics, The Odyssey and The Ili­ad, we have a name, Homer, that most clas­sics schol­ars treat as a con­ve­nient place­hold­er. As a Uni­ver­si­ty of Cincin­nati clas­sics site not­ed, “Homer” could stand for “a group of poets whose works on the theme of Troy were col­lect­ed.”

Though writ­ten ref­er­ences to Homer date back to the 6th cen­tu­ry B.C., giv­ing cre­dence to the his­tor­i­cal exis­tence of the leg­endary blind poet, he might have been more direc­tor than author, bring­ing togeth­er into a coher­ent whole the labor of hun­dreds of dif­fer­ent sto­ry­tellers. For his­to­ri­an Adam Nicol­son, author of Why Homer Mat­ters, “it’s a mis­take to think of Homer as a per­son. Homer is an ‘it.’ A tra­di­tion. An entire cul­ture com­ing up with ever more refined and ever more under­stand­ing ways of telling sto­ries that are impor­tant to it. Homer is essen­tial­ly shared.” The nar­ra­tive poet­ry attrib­uted to Homer, Nicol­son sug­gests, might go back a thou­sand years before the poet sup­pos­ed­ly put it to papyrus.

You can read this Nation­al Geo­graph­ic inter­view with Nicol­son (or buy his book) to fol­low the argu­ment. It isn’t par­tic­u­lar­ly original—as Daniel Mendel­sohn writes at The New York­er, “the dom­i­nant ortho­doxy” for over a hun­dred years “has been that The Ili­ad evolved over cen­turies before final­ly being writ­ten down” some­time around 700 B.C. We have no man­u­scripts from that ear­ly peri­od, and no one knows how much the poem evolved through scrib­al errors in the trans­mis­sion from man­u­script to man­u­script over cen­turies. This is one of many ques­tions lit­er­ary his­to­ri­ans ask when they approach papyri like that at the top—an excerpt from the so-called “Bankes Homer,” the best-pre­served spec­i­men of a por­tion of The Ili­ad, con­tain­ing Book 24, lines 127–804, and dat­ing from cir­ca 150 C.E.

Pur­chased in Egypt in 1821 by Egyp­tol­o­gist William John Bankes, and acquired by an adven­tur­er named Gio­van­ni Finati on the island of Ele­phan­tine, the papyrus scroll, which you can see in full and in high res­o­lu­tion at the British Library site, was cre­at­ed like most oth­er “lit­er­ary papyri” for hun­dreds of years. As the British Library describes the process:

Pro­fes­sion­al scribes made copies from exem­plars at the request of clients, tran­scrib­ing by hand, word by word, let­ter by let­ter. Until around the 2nd cen­tu­ry CE these man­u­script books took the form of rolls com­posed of papyrus sheets past­ed one to the oth­er in suc­ces­sion, often over a con­sid­er­able length.

In addi­tion to the text itself, notes the site His­to­ry of Infor­ma­tion, the man­u­script con­tains “breath­ing marks and accents made by an ancient diorthotes or ‘cor­rec­tor’ to show cor­rect poet­ic pro­nun­ci­a­tion.” The ancient prac­tice of “cor­rect­ing” was a ped­a­gog­i­cal tech­nique used for train­ing stu­dents to prop­er­ly read the text. Like­ly for hun­dreds of years before there was a text, the poem would be com­mit­ted to mem­o­ry, and recit­ed by anony­mous bards all over the Greek-speak­ing world, prob­a­bly chang­ing in the telling to suit the tastes and bias­es of dif­fer­ent audi­ences. Who can say how many, if any, of those ancient bards bore the name “Homer”?

Again you can see the Bankes Homer in high res­o­lu­tion here (click the image to view in a larg­er for­mat).

Note: An ear­li­er ver­sion of this post appeared on our site in 2018.

Relat­ed Con­tent:

Hear What Homer’s Odyssey Sound­ed Like When Sung in the Orig­i­nal Ancient Greek

Emi­ly Wil­son Is the First Woman to Trans­late Homer’s Odyssey into Eng­lish: The New Trans­la­tion Is Out Today

Explore 5,300 Rare Man­u­scripts Dig­i­tized by the Vat­i­can: From The Ili­ad & Aeneid, to Japan­ese & Aztec Illus­tra­tions

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

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

Samuel_L_Clemens,_1909

Most peo­ple know that Mark Twain wrote about Jim and Huck­le­ber­ry Finn nav­i­gat­ing down the Mis­sis­sip­pi. Less well known is that he occa­sion­al­ly dab­bled in the bur­geon­ing genre of sci­ence fic­tion. His 1898 short sto­ry “The Great Dark” is about a ship that sails across a drop of water on a micro­scope slide. His nov­el A Con­necti­cut Yan­kee in King Arthur’s Court is one of the first to explore time trav­el. And, in a short sto­ry called “From The ‘Lon­don Times’ in 1904,” Twain pre­dict­ed the inter­net. In 1898. Read it here.

Set six years into the future, the sto­ry starts off as a crime mys­tery. Clay­ton, a quick-tem­pered army offi­cer, is accused of mur­der­ing Szczepanik, the inven­tor of a new and promis­ing device called the tel­elec­tro­scope. The tale’s unnamed nar­ra­tor describes it like this:

As soon as the Paris con­tract released the tel­elec­tro­scope, it was deliv­ered to pub­lic use, and was soon con­nect­ed with the tele­phon­ic sys­tems of the whole world. The improved ‘lim­it­less-dis­tance’ tele­phone was present­ly intro­duced and the dai­ly doings of the globe made vis­i­ble to every­body, and audi­bly dis­cuss­able too, by wit­ness­es sep­a­rat­ed by any num­ber of leagues.

That sounds a lot like social media. Mark Twain dreamed up X and YouTube dur­ing the William McKin­ley admin­is­tra­tion.

Fac­ing the hangman’s noose, Clay­ton asks for, and receives, a tel­elec­tro­scope for his cell. As the nar­ra­tor describes Clay­ton’s tel­elec­tro­scop­ic rev­el­ry, it sounds uncan­ni­ly like a bored cubi­cle dweller surf­ing the web at work.

…day by day, and night by night, he called up one cor­ner of the globe after anoth­er, and looked upon its life, and stud­ied its strange sights, and spoke with its peo­ple, and real­ized that by grace of this mar­velous instru­ment he was almost as free as the birds of the air, although a pris­on­er under locks and bars. He sel­dom spoke, and I nev­er inter­rupt­ed him when he was absorbed in this amuse­ment. I sat in his par­lor and read, and smoked, and the nights were very qui­et and repose­ful­ly socia­ble, and I found them pleas­ant. Now and then I would hear him say ‘Give me Yedo;’ next, ‘Give me Hong-Kong;’ next, ‘Give me Mel­bourne.’ And I smoked on, and read in com­fort, while he wan­dered about the remote under­world, where the sun was shin­ing in the sky, and the peo­ple were at their dai­ly work.

The sto­ry itself is an admit­ted­ly minor work by the mas­ter of Amer­i­can fic­tion. In its last third, the sto­ry abrupt­ly turns into a sur­pris­ing­ly sour satire about the sad state of our legal sys­tem. As Clay­ton is get­ting marched to the gal­lows, the nar­ra­tor spots the guy Clay­ton sup­pos­ed­ly mur­dered on the tel­elec­tro­scope screen, stand­ing in a crowd for the coro­na­tion of the new “Czar” of Chi­na. Even though no crime took place, Clay­ton is still sen­tenced to hang.

“From The ‘Lon­don Times’ in 1904” con­tains two long-run­ning themes in Twain’s work and life. One is the absur­di­ty of the courts – see, for exam­ple “The Facts in the Great Land­slide Case.”

And the oth­er is a fas­ci­na­tion with tech­nol­o­gy. In spite of his folksy image, he was, as they say now, an ear­ly adopter. He was the first in his neigh­bor­hood to get a tele­phone. He may or may not have been the first major author to use a type­writer to write a nov­el. He lost his shirt invest­ing in a Vic­to­ri­an-era start­up hawk­ing an exceed­ing­ly com­plex print­ing press called the Paige Com­pos­i­tor. And he allowed him­self to be filmed by Thomas Edi­son in 1909, a year before his death.

One won­ders what he would have thought of his tel­elec­tro­scope in action.

Note: The char­ac­ter Szczepanik men­tioned above was clear­ly named after a Pol­ish inven­tor, Jan Szczepanik, who talked about cre­at­ing a “telec­tro­scope,” in the late 19th cen­tu­ry. How­ev­er, if you read a report in The New York Times in 1898, it becomes appar­ent that Szczepanik’s “telec­tro­scope” was­n’t as vision­ary as what Twain had in mind.

via Cracked/TheTy­ee

Note: An ear­li­er ver­sion of this post appeared on our site in 2014.

Relat­ed Con­tent:

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.

Jonathan Crow is a Los Ange­les-based writer and film­mak­er.

A Guide to Every Major Film Adaptation of Homer’s Odyssey Before Christopher Nolan’s Movie

If you plan on shoot­ing your own adap­ta­tion of Home­r’s Odyssey, bear in mind how much rests on your choice of lead­ing man. In order to play Odysseus, an actor must sum­mon a real grav­i­tas, but also a still-smol­der­ing vital­i­ty: here is a man who led the Greek army to defeat Troy, but still has the dogged­ness to make the decade-long jour­ney back home to his wife. In the mid-nine­teen-fifties, Hol­ly­wood had just the chin for the job: Kirk Dou­glas, who plays Odysseus under his Latin name in the epony­mous Ulysses. Though mer­ci­less in its exci­sions to Home­r’s text, as explained in the Under­rat­ed Cin­e­ma video above, it still has more or less every­thing you’d want in a fan­tas­ti­cal Tech­ni­col­or spec­ta­cle — and one shot by The Wiz­ard of Oz vet­er­an Harold Rosson at that.

Those in search of a view­ing expe­ri­ence more adher­ent to the orig­i­nal sto­ry should con­sid­er L’Odis­sea: not the Ital­ian silent film from 1911 recent­ly fea­tured here on Open Cul­ture, but the 1968 Ital­ian minis­eries direct­ed by Fran­co Rossi, who would go on to be bet­ter known for Quo Vadis? Though no Odyssey adap­ta­tion fits every­thing in, this one gets just about as com­plete as a clas­sics fan could hope for in its 446-minute run­time.

As Odysseus, the Yugoslav heart­throb Bekim Fehmiu (for a brief moment there­after, cin­e­ma’s next glob­al star) may or may not be to your taste. More acclaimed is Armand Assante, por­tray­er of fig­ures from John Got­ti to Mick­ey Spillane to Niet­zsche, in NBC’s Odyssey minis­eries from 1997, which also fea­tures the likes of Isabel­la Rosselli­ni, Bernadette Peters, Christo­pher Lee, and Vanes­sa Williams.

Though star-stud­ded, shot in the real Mediter­ranean, and direct­ed by one­time Tarkovsky col­lab­o­ra­tor Andrei Kon­chalovsky, the Odyssey of the nineties isn’t much ref­er­enced today, per­haps due to its dat­ed visu­al effects. View­ers will nev­er have any such objec­tion to Uber­to Pasolin­i’s The Return, not because it only came out the year before last, but because it has prac­ti­cal­ly no visu­al effects in the first place. Focus­ing only on the lat­ter half of the Odyssey, the film dra­ma­tizes the reunion of Odysseus and his wife: a very human sto­ry, espe­cial­ly in that it con­tains no mon­sters. Dif­fer­ent adap­ta­tions have cut out the sirens, say, or Scyl­la and Charyb­dis, though it’s a rare pro­duc­tion bold enough not to put every­thing it has into the cyclops scene. But you can get an actor like Ralph Fiennes to play Odysseus — and for that mat­ter, Juli­ette Binoche to play Pene­lope — there’s lit­tle need for a crea­ture fea­ture.

Relat­ed Con­tent:

Watch the First Spec­tac­u­lar Film Adap­ta­tion of the Odyssey (1911)

Hear What Homer’s Odyssey Sound­ed Like When Sung in the Orig­i­nal Ancient Greek

A Walk Through Homer’s Odyssey: A Guide to the Epic Before See­ing Christo­pher Nolan’s Film

Christo­pher Hitchens Explains Why Homer’s Odyssey Still Mat­ters to Our World (2000)

The Ori­gins of the Mon­sters in Homer’s Odyssey: The Cyclops, Sirens, Scyl­la & More

Greek Myth Comix Presents Homer’s Ili­ad & Odyssey Using Stick-Man Draw­ings

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.

Hear What Homer’s Odyssey Sounded Like When Sung in the Original Ancient Greek

homer_british_museum

Image via Wiki­me­dia Com­mons

It’s been a human­ist tru­ism for some time to say that Shake­speare speaks to every age, tran­scend­ing his time and place through the sheer force of his uni­ver­sal genius. But any hon­est stu­dent first encoun­ter­ing the plays will tell you dif­fer­ent­ly, as will many a sea­soned schol­ar who works hard to place the writer and his work in his­tor­i­cal con­text. Even one­time direc­tor of London’s Nation­al The­atre, Nicholas Hyt­ner, once said, “I’ll admit that I hard­ly ever go to a per­for­mance of one of Shakespeare’s plays with­out expe­ri­enc­ing blind pan­ic dur­ing the first five min­utes. I sit there think­ing… I have no idea what these peo­ple are talk­ing about.”

Of course, none of that means we can’t learn to appre­ci­ate Shake­speare, and we do not need a grad­u­ate-lev­el edu­ca­tion to do so. But much of his archa­ic lan­guage and obscure ref­er­ences will always sound for­eign to mod­ern ears. How much more so, then, the lan­guage of the ancient Greeks, whether in trans­la­tion or not? Although we’ve also been taught to think of the Home­r­ic epics as con­tain­ers of uni­ver­sal truth and beau­ty, the world of Homer was, in many ways, an alien one—and the lit­er­a­ture of ancient Greece was far clos­er to song than even Shakespeare’s musi­cal speech­es.

In fact, “before writ­ing was gen­er­al­ly known among the Greeks,” the Uni­ver­si­ty of Cincin­nati notes, “poets recit­ed and sang sto­ries for audi­ences at the courts of city lead­ers and at fes­ti­vals. A poet could actu­al­ly impro­vise a tale in the six-beat rhythm of Greek verse if he knew the plot of his sto­ry.” We do not know whether Homer was one enter­pris­ing scribe or “a group of poets whose works on the theme of Troy were col­lect­ed” under one name. But in either case, that poet or poets heard the tales of Hec­tor and Achilles, Odysseus and Pene­lope, and all those med­dling gods sung before they wrote them down. Now, thanks to Georg Danek of the Uni­ver­si­ty of Vien­na and Ste­fan Hagel of the Aus­tri­an Acad­e­my of Sci­ences, we have some idea of what those songs may have sound­ed like.

“In the course of the last years,” write Danek and Hagel, “we have devel­oped a tech­nique of singing the Home­r­ic epics, which is appro­pri­ate for the pri­mar­i­ly oral tra­di­tion from which these poems emerge.” The two schol­ars cau­tion that their the­o­ret­i­cal recre­ations are “not to be under­stood as the exact recon­struc­tion of a giv­en melody, but as an approach to the tech­nique the Home­r­ic singers used to accom­mo­date melod­ic prin­ci­ples to the demands of the indi­vid­ual verse.” Accom­pa­nied by a four-stringed lyre-like instru­ment called a phorminx, “the Home­r­ic bard” would impro­vise the “melody at the same time as he impro­vised his text, which was unique in every per­for­mance.” In the audio above, you can hear Danek and Hagel’s melod­ic recre­ation of lines 267–366 of book 8 of the Odyssey, in which Demod­ocus sings about the love of Ares and Aphrodite.

At their site, the two schol­ars present an abstract of their Home­r­ic singing the­o­ry, with musi­co­log­i­cal and lin­guis­tic evi­dence for the recre­ation. Their tech­ni­cal cri­te­ria will con­fuse the non-spe­cial­ist, and none but ancient Greek speak­ers will under­stand the record­ing above. But it brings us a lit­tle clos­er to expe­ri­enc­ing Home­r’s epic poet­ry, “the foun­da­tion stones of Euro­pean Lit­er­a­ture,” as the ancient Greeks might have expe­ri­enced it.

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 2016.

Relat­ed Con­tent:

What Ancient Greek Music Sound­ed Like: Lis­ten to a Recon­struc­tion That’s “100% Accu­rate”

How Ancient Greek Stat­ues Real­ly Looked: Research Reveals their Bold, Bright Col­ors and Pat­terns

Learn Ancient Greek in 118 Free Lessons: A Free Online Course from Bran­deis & Har­vard

Hear What Shake­speare Sound­ed Like in the Orig­i­nal Pro­nun­ci­a­tion

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

by | Permalink | Make a Comment ( 5 ) |

Umberto Eco’s Personal Library Opens to the Public: More Than 32,000 Books, Exactly as He Left Them

Umber­to Eco’s The Name of the Rose sold so well that its Eng­lish trans­la­tor William Weaver could add an exten­sion onto his Tus­can vil­la, which he called the “Eco Cham­ber.” The Bib­liote­ca Eco, or Eco Library, whose rib­bon-cut­ting ear­li­er this month you can see in the Ital­ian news clip just above, may not be as wit­ti­ly named, but it’s a much more ambi­tious project. It was opened this year, the tenth anniver­sary of the famed philoso­pher, semi­oti­cian, nov­el­ist, and crit­ic’s death, at the Uni­ver­si­ty of Bologna, where he was a pro­fes­sor from 1971 to 2007. Hous­ing more than 32,000 books from his per­son­al library in Milan (pre­vi­ous­ly fea­tured here on Open Cul­ture, and the sub­ject of its own fea­ture-length doc­u­men­tary), it stands as an explorable con­crete rep­re­sen­ta­tion of his capa­cious mind.

So capa­cious was that mind, in fact, that the Eco Library actu­al­ly com­pris­es sev­er­al libraries, chiefly the Rare Book Library and the much-sub­di­vid­ed Work­ing Library. In them, one encoun­ters sec­tions “ded­i­cat­ed to lit­er­ary gen­res, comics and pop­u­lar cul­ture, works by and about Umber­to Eco” — includ­ing more than 2,000 edi­tions and trans­la­tions of his own books — “ancient and medieval phi­los­o­phy, the his­to­ry of ideas, semi­otics, trans­la­tion and the­o­ries of lan­guage,” says the Uni­ver­si­ty of Bolog­na’s mag­a­zine Uni­bo.

There are “Ital­ian, French, Eng­lish-lan­guage, Ger­man, Cen­tral Euro­pean, Slav­ic, Latin Amer­i­can and many oth­er lit­er­a­tures,” includ­ing works of “detec­tive fic­tion and sci­ence fic­tion, pop­u­lar lit­er­a­ture and the feuil­leton.” As any­one who’s read Eco’s essay on Peanuts might imag­ine, “his com­ic book col­lec­tion is also of great impor­tance.”

Indeed, as any fan would expect, Eco’s name­sake library reflects not just the vast sweep of his human­is­tic inter­ests and knowl­edge, but also his play­ful sense of eccen­tric­i­ty, and even grotes­querie. Accord­ing to the Fon­dazione Umber­to Eco, most of the vol­umes it con­tains “are marked by a dis­tinc­tive ex lib­ris,” an adap­ta­tion of a six­teenth-cen­tu­ry wood­cut that depicts a don­key on a cor­nu­copia-topped latrine. “The ani­mal plays a small pipe, set­ting in motion a mer­ry dance of a dozen cavort­ing mon­keys.” The books them­selves have been painstak­ing­ly arranged just as Eco shelved them, in accor­dance with the “good neigh­bor” prin­ci­ple of plac­ing seem­ing­ly unre­lat­ed titles in close prox­im­i­ty in order to reveal unex­pect­ed intel­lec­tu­al con­nec­tions between them. The vol­umes from Eco’s coun­try house in Monte Cerignone will also be incor­po­rat­ed into the col­lec­tion, but as the man him­self knew, the best libraries, like the best minds, are nev­er tru­ly com­plete.

Relat­ed con­tent:

Watch Umber­to Eco Walk Through His Immense Pri­vate Library: It Goes On, and On, and On!

Umber­to Eco Explains Why We Make Lists

The Virtue of Own­ing Books You Haven’t Read: Why Umber­to Eco Kept an “Antili­brary”

Dis­cov­er the 1126 Books in John Cage’s Per­son­al Library: Fou­cault, Joyce, Wittgen­stein, Vir­ginia Woolf, Buck­min­ster Fuller & More

Darwin’s Per­son­al Library Goes Dig­i­tal: 330 Books Online

The Largest Book­shelf Tour Ever Filmed: Inside a Classicist’s 20,000-Volume Library

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 Walk Through Homer’s Odyssey: A Guide to the Epic Before Seeing Christopher Nolan’s Film

You’re gear­ing up to see Christo­pher Nolan’s Odyssey, but you haven’t read the Home­r­ic work. Or you read it so long ago that it feels like you’ve nev­er read it at all. No wor­ries. Above, Tom Hol­land and Dominic Sand­brook, the hosts of The Rest Is His­to­ry pod­cast, take you through the major plot lines of the Odyssey, unpack­ing the lit­er­ary and his­tor­i­cal mean­ing of the epic’s dif­fer­ent tales. It’s a good primer—just what you need to get ready for one of the big­ger cin­e­ma releas­es this year. Enjoy!

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 

Watch the First Spec­tac­u­lar Film Adap­ta­tion of the Odyssey (1911)

Archae­ol­o­gists Think They’ve Dis­cov­ered the Old­est Greek Copy of Homer’s Odyssey: 13 Vers­es on a Clay Tablet

The His­to­ry of Ancient Greece in 18 Min­utes: A Brisk Primer Nar­rat­ed by Bri­an Cox

 

 

by | Permalink | Make a Comment ( 1 ) |

More in this category... »
Quantcast