Henry Miller Makes a List of “The 100 Books That Influenced Me Most”

Henry_Miller_1940

Image licensed under Pub­lic Domain via Wiki­me­dia Com­mons

Take a sur­vey of a hun­dred writ­ers from the mid- to late-twen­ti­eth cen­tu­ry about the books that influ­enced them most and you’re bound to find plen­ty of Hen­ry Miller tucked in with the Vic­to­ri­ans, the Rus­sians, and the Beats. The Brook­lyn-raised author of such noto­ri­ous­ly banned nov­els as Trop­ic of Capri­corn and Trop­ic of Can­cer has long appealed to con­tem­po­rary writ­ers not only because of his frank explo­rations of sex­u­al­i­ty and oth­er taboo sub­jects but also because—like so many avant-garde and not so avant-garde writ­ers after him—he had the audac­i­ty to present his own life and loves as lit­er­ary mate­r­i­al. Long before the mem­oir became the dom­i­nant force in Amer­i­can let­ters, with all of the atten­dant con­tro­ver­sies about truth-telling in the form, Miller blend­ed fact and fic­tion in ways that made it hard to tell where one end­ed and the oth­er began.

Miller’s rep­u­ta­tion for liv­ing his fiction—or fic­tion­al­iz­ing his life—may have led many read­ers with only a pass­ing famil­iar­i­ty with his books to regard him as a kind of shame­less self-mythol­o­giz­er. The char­ac­ter­i­za­tion isn’t nec­es­sar­i­ly wrong, but it only cap­tures part of the sto­ry. Like every seri­ous writer, Miller was also a seri­ous read­er, and his work is as much informed by the books he loved as by the women he loved.

Miller freely acknowl­edged the lit­er­ary rela­tion­ships in his life, the authors who exert­ed influ­ence on his work and whose styles and ideas he bor­rowed and made his own. He wrote an entire book on the sub­ject, The Books in My Life, which Maria Popo­va at Brain Pick­ings describes as “a sin­gu­lar lens on his approach to read­ing.” In the book, Miller’s “cen­tral con­cern is a kind of anato­my of influ­ence,” Popo­va writes, tak­ing a phrase from lit­er­ary crit­ic Harold Bloom.

In his med­i­ta­tion on “his sources of cre­ative spark,” Miller dis­cuss­es at length his ideas about edu­ca­tion, and its many fail­ings. And in the book’s appendix—as if antic­i­pat­ing our cur­rent mania for lists—he makes a com­pre­hen­sive record of “The 100 Books that Influ­enced Me Most.” See Miller’s com­plete list below, and read The Books in My Life free at the Open Library. A fair num­ber of the books on Miller’s list can be found in our col­lec­tion, 800 Free eBooks for iPad, Kin­dle & Oth­er Devices.

1 Ancient Greek Drama­tists
2 Ara­bi­an Nights (for chil­dren)
3 Eliz­a­bethan Play­wrights (except­ing Shake­speare)
4 Euro­pean Play­wrights of 19th Cen­tu­ry
5 Greek Myths and Leg­ends
6 Knights of King Arthur’s Court
7 Abèlard, Pierre, The Sto­ry of My Mis­for­tunes
8 Alain-Fournier, The Wan­der­er
9 Ander­sen, Hans Chris­t­ian, Fairy Tales
10 Anony­mous, Diary of a Lost One
11 Balzac, Hon­oré de, Seraphi­ta
12 Balzac, Hon­oré de, Louis Lam­bert
13 Bel­lamy, Edward, Look­ing Back­ward
14 Bel­loc, Hilaire, The Path to Rome
15 Blavatsky, Mme. H. P., The Secret Doc­trine
16 Boc­cac­cio, Gio­van­ni, The Decameron
17 Bre­ton, André, Nad­ja
18 Bronte, Emi­ly, Wuther­ing Heights
19 Bul­wyer-Lyt­ton, Edward, Last Days of Pom­peii
20 Car­roll, Lewis, Alice in Won­der­land
21 Céline, Louis-Fer­di­nand, Jour­ney to the End of the Night
22 Celli­ni, Ben­venu­to, Auto­bi­og­ra­phy
23 Cen­drars, Blaise, Vir­tu­al­ly the com­plete works
24 Chester­ton, G.K., Saint Fran­cis of Assisi
25 Con­rad, Joseph, His works in gen­er­al
26 Coop­er James Fen­i­more, Leather­stock­ing Tales
27 Defoe, Daniel, Robin­son Cru­soe
28 De Ner­val, Gérard, His works in gen­er­al
29 Dos­toievsky, Feodor, His works in gen­er­al
30 Dreis­er, Theodore, His works in gen­er­al
31 Duhamel, Geoges, Salavin Series
32 Du Mau­ri­er, George, Tril­by
33 Dumas, Alexan­der, The Three Mus­ke­teers
34 Eck­er­mann, Johann, Con­ver­sa­tions with Goethe
35 Eltzbach­er, Paul, Anar­chism
36 Emer­son, Ralph Wal­do, Rep­re­sen­ta­tive Men
37 Fab­re, Hen­ri, His works in gen­er­al
38 Fau­re, Elie, The His­to­ry of Art
39 Fenol­losa, Ernest, The Chi­nese Writ­ten Char­ac­ter as a Medi­um for Poet­ry
40 Gide, André, Dos­toievs­ki
41 Giono, Jean, Refus d’Obéis­sance
42 Giono, Jean, Que ma joie domeure
43 Giono, Jean, Jean le Bleu
44 Grimm Broth­ers, Fairy Tales
45 Gutkind, Erich, The Absolute Col­lec­tive
46 Hag­gard, Rid­er, She
47 Ham­sun, Knut, His works in gen­er­al
48 Hen­ty, G. A., His works in gen­er­al
49 Hesse, Her­mann, Sid­dhartha
50 Hud­son, W. H., His works in gen­er­al
51 Hugo, Vic­tor, Les Mis­érables
52 Huys­mans, Joris Karl, Against the Grain
53 Joyce, James, Ulysses
54 Key­ser­ling, Her­mann, South Amer­i­can Med­i­ta­tions
55 Kropotkin, Peter, Mutu­al Aid
56 Lao-tse, Tao Teh Ch’ing
57 Latzko, Andreas, Men in War
58 Long, Haniel, Inter­lin­ear to Cabeza de Vaca
59 M, Gospel of Ramakr­ish­na
60 Machen, Arthur, The Hill of Dreams
61 Maeter­linck, Mau­rice, His works in gen­er­al
62 Mann, Thomas, The Mag­ic Moun­tain
63 Menck­en, H. L., Prej­u­dices
64 Niet­zsche, His works in gen­er­al
65 Nijin­sky, Diary
66 Nord­hoff & Hall, Pit­cairn Island
67 Nos­tradamus, The Cen­turies
68 Peck, George Wilbur, Peck­’s Bad Boy
69 Per­ci­val, W. O., William Blake’s Cir­cle of Des­tiny
70 Petro­n­ius, The Satyri­con
71 Plutarch, Lives
72 Powys, John Cow­per, Visions and Revi­sions
73 Prescott, William H., Con­quest of Mex­i­co
74 Prescott, William H., Con­quest of Peru
75 Proust, Mar­cel, Remem­brance of Things Past
76 Rabelais, Gar­gan­tua and Pan­ta­gru­el
77 Rim­baud, Jean-Arthur, His works in gen­er­al
78 Rol­land, Romain, Jean-Christophe
79 Rol­land, Romain, Prophets of the New India
80 Rud­h­yar, Dane, Astrol­o­gy of Per­son­al­i­ty
81 Saltus, Edgar, The Impe­r­i­al Pur­ple
82 Scott, Sir Wal­ter, Ivan­hoe
83 Sienkiewicz, Hen­ry, Quo Vadis
84 Sike­lianos, Angh­e­los, Proanakrous­ma
85 Sin­nett, A. P., Eso­teric Bud­dhism
86 Spencer, Her­bert, Auto­bi­og­ra­phy
87 Spen­gler, Oswald, The Decline of the West
88 Strind­berg, August, The Infer­no
89 Suarès, Car­lo, Krish­na­mur­ti
90 Suzu­ki, Daisetz Teitaro, Zen Bud­dhism
91 Swift, Jonathan, Guil­liv­er’s Trav­els
92 Ten­nyson, Alfred, Idylls of the King
93 Thore­au, Hen­ry David, Civ­il Dis­obe­di­ence & Oth­er Essays
94 Twain, Mark, Adven­tures of Huck­le­ber­ry Finn
95 Van Gogh, Vin­cent, Let­ters to Theo
96 Wasser­mann, Jacob, The Mau­r­iz­ius Case (Tril­o­gy)
97 Weigall, Arthur, Akhna­ton
98 Welch, Gal­braith, The Unveil­ing of Tim­buc­too
99 Wer­fel, Franz, Star of the Unborn
100 Whit­man, Walt, Leaves of Grass

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:

Leo Tol­stoy Cre­ates a List of the 50+ Books That Influ­enced Him Most (1891)

28 Impor­tant Philoso­phers List the Books That Influ­enced Them Most Dur­ing Their Col­lege Days

Stephen King Cre­ates a List of 96 Books for Aspir­ing Writ­ers to Read

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

F. Scott Fitzgerald Has a Strange Dinner with James Joyce & Draws a Cute Sketch of It (1928)

fitzgerald drawings

The char­ac­ters in many of F. Scott Fitzgerald’s stories—rakish, drunk­en under­grad­u­ates and overe­d­u­cat­ed gadabouts—so resem­ble their cre­ator that it’s tempt­ing to read into all of his work some auto­bi­o­graph­i­cal intent. One episode in the writer’s life that didn’t make it into his fic­tion, Fitzgerald’s meet­ing with James Joyce in Paris, nev­er­the­less makes a fas­ci­nat­ing anec­dote all its own, and seems so per­fect­ly in char­ac­ter that it could have inspired an amus­ing short sto­ry for The Sat­ur­day Evening Post.

Accord­ing to Sylvia Beach, doyenne of the expat Amer­i­can lit­er­ary scene in Paris, founder of Shake­speare and Com­pa­ny Books, and pub­lish­er of Ulysses, Fitzger­ald “wor­shipped James Joyce, but was afraid to approach him.” In her mem­oir, Shake­speare and Com­pa­ny, Beach relates how in 1928 she and her friend, lover, and fel­low book­seller Adri­enne Mon­nier, “cooked a nice din­ner and invit­ed the Joyces, the Fitzger­alds, and André Cham­son and his wife Lucie.”

Scott drew a pic­ture in my copy of The Great Gats­by of the guests—with Joyce seat­ed at the table wear­ing a halo, Scott kneel­ing beside him, and Adri­enne and myself, at the head and foot, depict­ed as mer­maids (or sirens).

You can see Fitzgerald’s quirky lit­tle sketch above. Beach’s telling, it seems, omits many of the col­or­ful details of the meet­ing. Accord­ing to Her­bert Gor­man, anoth­er guest at the din­ner and Joyce’s first biog­ra­ph­er, Fitzgerald—so over­awed by the Irish author that he referred to the evening as the “Fes­ti­val of St. James”—“sank down on one knee before Joyce”—as in his drawing—“kissed his hand, and declared: ‘How does it feel to be a great genius, Sir? I am so excit­ed at see­ing you, Sir, that I could weep.’”

Most like­ly very drunk on cham­pagne, Fitzgerald’s antics appar­ent­ly quite alarmed Joyce. In her lit­er­ary his­to­ry, Noel Riley Fitch tells us that the Amer­i­can “offered to show his esteem for the Irish writer… by jump­ing out of the win­dow. An amazed Joyce is sup­posed to have pro­hib­it­ed the dis­play and exclaimed, ‘That young man must be mad—I’m afraid he’ll do him­self some injury.’” The bizarre inci­dent did not pre­vent Fitzger­ald from obtain­ing Joyce’s auto­graph in his copy of Ulysses. Nor did it pre­vent him, on a lat­er occa­sion, from threat­en­ing to jump from his apart­ment bal­cony onto the street, “drunk and depressed by his fail­ing mar­riage.” This time, he was stopped by French nov­el­ist André Cham­son, with whom he had struck up a friend­ship at the Joyce din­ner.

Beach’s mem­oir con­tains many oth­er charm­ing, and some­what dis­may­ing, sto­ries about the Fitzger­alds, most involv­ing prof­li­gate spend­ing and drink­ing of cham­pagne. We may not have the plea­sure of hear­ing these tales from the Gats­by author himself—save through his essays, let­ters, and many fic­tion­al­iza­tions of his life. But the genial Beach, who out­lived Joyce, Fitzger­ald, Hem­ing­way, and most every oth­er author of the “Lost Gen­er­a­tion,” appeared in sev­er­al filmed inter­views, in French and Eng­lish, and told sto­ries of 1920s Paris. In one such inter­view, above, hear her describe the found­ing of Shake­speare and Com­pa­ny, that Parisian lit­er­ary hub with­out which some of the great­est lit­er­a­ture of the 20th cen­tu­ry may nev­er have reached the read­ing pub­lic.

via Austin Kleon

Relat­ed Con­tent:

See F. Scott Fitzgerald’s Hand­writ­ten Man­u­scripts for The Great Gats­by, This Side of Par­adise & More

F. Scott Fitzger­ald in Drag (1916)

Ernest Hem­ing­way to F. Scott Fitzger­ald: “Kiss My Ass”

Begin­nings Pro­files Shake­speare and Company’s Sylvia Beach Whit­man

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

Günter Grass Takes On Facebook: “Someone Who Has 500 Friends, Has No Friends.”

Inci­sive social crit­ic, nov­el­ist, poet, sculp­tor, and inspi­ra­tion to such tren­chant fab­u­lists as John Irv­ing and Salman Rushdie, Ger­man writer Gün­ter Grass passed away this week with a well-defined lega­cy as “his country’s moral con­science.” Win­ner of the Nobel Prize in 1999, the author did not shy away from con­tro­ver­sial polit­i­cal stances—despite his own once-hid­den past as a teenage mem­ber of the Hitler Youth and Waf­fen-SS. In 2012, Grass caused an inter­na­tion­al stir with the pub­li­ca­tion of his poem “What Must Be Said,” a fierce cri­tique of Israel’s mil­i­tarism. The poem drew some rather pre­dictable charges, and its pub­li­ca­tion, wrote Der Spiegel, broached what many con­sid­ered a taboo sub­ject. The inci­dent rep­re­sents only one of Grass’s many pub­lic state­ments, woven through­out his art and life, against nation­al­ism and war.

Which brings us to the video inter­view above from 2013. While not exact­ly address­ing a mat­ter of dire geopo­lit­i­cal sig­nif­i­cance, Grass nonethe­less levies his char­ac­ter­is­tic crit­i­cal wit against a cor­po­rate enti­ty that threat­ens to swal­low the globe, vir­tu­al­ly—Face­book. Remark­ing on his chil­dren and grandchildren’s expe­ri­ence with the social net­work, Grass says he told one of them, “Some­one who has 500 friends, has no friends.” It’s some­thing of a famil­iar sen­ti­ment by now—we’ve all read numer­ous think-pieces more or less say­ing the same thing. But Grass goes on to define the val­ue of what he calls “direct expe­ri­ences” in spe­cif­ic terms—with the admis­sion that he feels like “a dinosaur” for writ­ing his man­u­scripts by hand and typ­ing them on an old Olivet­ti type­writer.

The idea of own­ing a mobile phone and being acces­si­ble at all times—and as I know now, under sur­veil­lance, is abhor­rent to me. With the lat­est find­ings in mind, it sur­pris­es me—that mil­lions of peo­ple do not dis­tance them­selves from Face­book and all that—and say “I want no part of it.”

Grass’ aver­sion to Facebook—and the online world in general—isn’t strict­ly polit­i­cal, but lit­er­ary as well. He acknowl­edges the ease and speed of the inter­net as a research tool, and yet… “lit­er­a­ture… You can’t speed it up when you work with it. If you do, you do so at the expense of qual­i­ty.” To hear more from Grass about the writ­ing process and his atti­tudes toward lit­er­a­ture and activism, read his inter­view in the Paris Review.

via Bib­liokept

Relat­ed Con­tent:

The Prob­lem with Face­book: “It’s Keep­ing Things From You”

Stephen Hawk­ing Starts Post­ing on Face­book: Join His Quest to Explain What Makes the Uni­verse Exist

Wittgen­stein Day-by-Day: Face­book Page Tracks the Philosopher’s Wartime Expe­ri­ence 100 Years Ago

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

T.S. Eliot, Edith Wharton & Gertrude Stein Tell F. Scott Fitzgerald That Gatsby is Great, While Critics Called It a Dud (1925)

gatsby cover

This month marks the 90th anniver­sary of the pub­li­ca­tion of F. Scott Fitzger­ald’s mas­ter­piece, The Great Gats­by. Per­haps no oth­er book so embod­ies the ide­al of the Great Amer­i­can Nov­el as Gats­by — and yet, when it first came out 90 years ago, it was regard­ed as a flop. As a head­line writer for the New York World put it, “F. SCOTT FITZGERALD’S LATEST A DUD.”

Fitzger­ald had a lot rid­ing on Gats­by. He and his wife Zel­da were liv­ing beyond their means, and he was des­per­ate­ly hop­ing the book would bring finan­cial secu­ri­ty as well as crit­i­cal respect. On April 10, 1925 he wrote a let­ter to his edi­tor, Maxwell Perkins:

Dear Max
The book comes out today and I am over­come with fears and fore­bod­ings. Sup­pos­ing women did­n’t like the book because it has no impor­tant woman in it, and crit­ics did­n’t like it because it dealt with the rich and and con­tained no peas­ants bor­rowed out of Tess in it and set to work in Ida­ho? Sup­pose it did­n’t even wipe out my debt to you — why it’ll have to sell 20,000 copies even to do that!

The author’s fears and fore­bod­ings were more or less real­ized. The first print run of 20,870 copies sold slow­ly. A sec­ond run of 3,000 was ordered a few months lat­er, but many of those copies were still gath­er­ing dust on the ware­house shelves when Fitzger­ald died in 1940. And while a few crit­ics rec­og­nized Gats­by’s bril­liance, many missed it. H.L. Menck­en, for exam­ple, praised Fitzger­ald’s matur­ing crafts­man­ship as a prose styl­ist but sav­aged the sto­ry itself, call­ing it “no more than a glo­ri­fied anec­dote.”

It must have cheered the author up, then, to receive let­ters of praise from sev­er­al of the most influ­en­tial writ­ers of his time. Fitzger­ald had sent inscribed copies of the book to Edith Whar­ton, Gertrude Stein and T.S. Eliot — all of whom respond­ed. Of the three, Whar­ton was the most tepid in her praise, with echoes of Menck­en run­ning through her com­ments:

Dear Mr. Fitzger­ald,
   I have been wan­der­ing for the last weeks and found your nov­el — with it’s friend­ly ded­i­ca­tion — await­ing me here on my arrival, a few days ago.
   I am touched at your send­ing me a copy, for I feel that to your gen­er­a­tion, which has tak­en such a fly­ing leap into the future, I must rep­re­sent the lit­er­ary equiv­a­lent of tuft­ed fur­ni­ture and gas chan­de­liers. So you will under­stand that it is in the spir­it of sin­cere dep­re­ca­tion that I shall ven­ture, in a few days, to offer you in return the last prod­uct of my man­u­fac­to­ry.
   Mean­while, let me say at once how much I like Gats­by, or rather His Book, & how great a leap I think you have tak­en this time — in advance upon your pre­vi­ous work. My present quar­rel with you is only this: that to make Gats­by real­ly Great, you ought to have giv­en us his ear­ly career (not from the cra­dle — but from his vis­it to the yacht, if not before) instead of a short résumé of it. That would have sit­u­at­ed him, and made his final tragedy a tragedy instead of a “fate divers” for the morn­ing papers.
   But you’ll tell me that’s the old way, and con­se­quent­ly not your way…

Whar­ton made it clear she thought of Gats­by as a lit­er­ary advance only in respect to Fitzger­ald’s own ear­li­er work. Gertrude Stein allowed only that the new book was “dif­fer­ent and old­er”:

My dear Fitzger­ald:
   Here we are and have read your book and it is a good book. I like the melody of your ded­i­ca­tion and it shows that you have a back­ground of beau­ty and ten­der­ness and that is a com­fort. The next good thing is that you write nat­u­ral­ly in sen­tences and that too is a com­fort. You write nat­u­ral­ly in sen­tences and one can read all of them and that among oth­er things is a com­fort. You are cre­at­ing the con­tem­po­rary world much as Thack­er­ay did his in Pen­den­nis and Van­i­ty Fair and this isn’t a bad com­pli­ment. You make a mod­ern world and a mod­ern orgy strange­ly enough it was nev­er done until you did it in This Side of Par­adise. My belief in This Side of Par­adise was alright. This is as good a book and dif­fer­ent and old­er and that is what one does, one does not get bet­ter but dif­fer­ent and old­er and that is always a plea­sure. Best of luck to you always, and thanks so much for the very gen­uine plea­sure you have giv­en me.

The strongest and least equiv­o­cal praise came from Eliot:

Dear Mr. Scott Fitzger­ald,
   The Great Gats­by with your charm­ing and over­pow­er­ing inscrip­tion arrived the very morn­ing I was leav­ing in some haste for a sea voy­age advised by my doc­tor. I there­fore left it behind and only read it on my return a few days ago. I have, how­ev­er, now read it three times. I am not in the least influ­enced by your remark about myself when I say that it has inter­est­ed and excit­ed me more than any new nov­el I have seen, either Eng­lish or Amer­i­can, for a num­ber of years.
   When I have more time I should like to write to you more ful­ly and tell you exact­ly why it seems to me such a remark­able book. In fact it seems to me to be the first step that Amer­i­can fic­tion has tak­en since Hen­ry James.

Fitzger­ald was espe­cial­ly pleased with that last line. “I can’t express just how good your let­ter made me feel,” he wrote back to Eliot “– it was eas­i­ly the nicest thing that’s hap­pened to me in con­nec­tion with Gats­by.”

Relat­ed Con­tent:

See F. Scott Fitzgerald’s Hand­writ­ten Man­u­scripts for The Great Gats­by, This Side of Par­adise & More

Sylvia Plath Anno­tates Her Copy of The Great Gats­by

Haru­ki Muraka­mi Trans­lates The Great Gats­by, the Nov­el That Influ­enced Him Most

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

Down­load 55 Free Online Lit­er­a­ture Cours­es: From Dante and Mil­ton to Ker­ouac and Tolkien

Kurt Vonnegut’s 8 Tips on How to Write a Good Short Story

When it came to giv­ing advice to writ­ers, Kurt Von­negut was nev­er dull. He once tried to warn peo­ple away from using semi­colons by char­ac­ter­iz­ing them as “trans­ves­tite her­maph­ro­dites rep­re­sent­ing absolute­ly noth­ing.” And, in a mas­ter’s the­sis reject­ed by The Uni­ver­si­ty of Chica­go, he made the tan­ta­liz­ing argu­ment that “sto­ries have shapes which can be drawn on graph paper, and that the shape of a giv­en society’s sto­ries is at least as inter­est­ing as the shape of its pots or spear­heads.” In this brief video, Von­negut offers eight essen­tial tips on how to write a short sto­ry:

  1. Use the time of a total stranger in such a way that he or she will not feel the time was wast­ed.
  2. Give the read­er at least one char­ac­ter he or she can root for.
  3. Every char­ac­ter should want some­thing, even if it is only a glass of water.
  4. Every sen­tence must do one of two things–reveal char­ac­ter or advance the action.
  5. Start as close to the end as pos­si­ble.
  6. Be a sadist. No mat­ter how sweet and inno­cent your lead­ing char­ac­ters, make awful things hap­pen to them–in order that the read­er may see what they are made of.
  7. Write to please just one per­son. If you open a win­dow and make love to the world, so to speak, your sto­ry will get pneu­mo­nia.
  8. Give your read­ers as much infor­ma­tion as pos­si­ble as soon as pos­si­ble. To heck with sus­pense. Read­ers should have such com­plete under­stand­ing of what is going on, where and why, that they could fin­ish the sto­ry them­selves, should cock­roach­es eat the last few pages.

Von­negut put down his advice in the intro­duc­tion to his 1999 col­lec­tion of mag­a­zine sto­ries, Bagom­bo Snuff Box. But for every rule (well, almost every rule) there is an excep­tion. “The great­est Amer­i­can short sto­ry writer of my gen­er­a­tion was Flan­nery O’Con­nor,” writes Von­negut. “She broke prac­ti­cal­ly every one of my rules but the first. Great writ­ers tend to do that.”

Now if you want to learn to write with style, that’s anoth­er sto­ry. And Von­negut has advice on that too here.

via Brain­Pick­ings

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:

“Wear Sun­screen”: The Sto­ry Behind the Com­mence­ment Speech That Kurt Von­negut Nev­er Gave

Kurt Von­negut Dia­grams the Shape of All Sto­ries in a Master’s The­sis Reject­ed by U. Chica­go

Kurt Von­negut Explains “How to Write With Style”

22-Year-Old P.O.W. Kurt Von­negut Writes Home from World War II: “I’ll Be Damned If It Was Worth It”

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Edgar Allan Poe Animated: Watch Four Animations of Classic Poe Stories

I can well imag­ine that the inser­tion of mod­ern tech­nol­o­gy into many of Edgar Allan Poe’s sto­ries would have a tremen­dous ben­e­fit for those sto­ries’ vic­tims, and a dele­te­ri­ous effect on their mono­ma­ni­a­cal plots. In one of the ironies of cul­tur­al trans­mis­sion, the time­less qual­i­ty of Poe’s work seems to depend upon its use of delib­er­ate­ly ancient meth­ods of sur­veil­lance and tor­ture. In a fur­ther para­dox of sorts, Poe’s work nev­er suf­fers, but only seems to shine, when tech­nol­o­gy is applied to it.

Film­mak­ers as esteemed as Roger Vadim, Louis Malle, and Fed­eri­co Felli­ni have adapt­ed him; sin­gu­lar dra­mat­ic tal­ents like James Earl Jones, Christo­pher Walken, Vin­cent Price, and Christo­pher Lee, and Lou Reed and Willem Dafoe have made fine record­ings of his most famous poem; The Alan Par­sons Project record­ed a pret­ty amaz­ing prog rock ver­sion of “The Raven,” the first rock song to fea­ture a dig­i­tal vocoder.

Poe also appears as an ani­mat­ed pup­pet, along­side Dick­ens and Dos­to­evsky, in a suc­cess­ful Frank Capra-direct­ed sci­ence edu­ca­tion film. This role belongs to a rich tra­di­tion of Poe in ani­mat­ed film. “The Raven” inspired one of Tim Burton’s first ani­mat­ed films, Vin­cent, at the top, about a boy who wants to be Vin­cent Price (nar­rat­ed of course by Vin­cent Price). The poem was also adapt­ed by The Simp­sons (above). South Park has fea­tured the mor­bid 19th cen­tu­ry writer, and Poe’s “The Pit and the Pen­du­lum” birthed an award-win­ning ani­mat­ed short, as well as an inter­ac­tive dig­i­tal com­ic book.

Even before his screen time in Capra’s film, shared with famous actor Eddie Albert, Poe appeared in ani­mat­ed film with movie stars. In the 1953 adap­ta­tion of “The Tell Tale Heart” above, a men­ac­ing­ly suave James Mason nar­rates the sto­ry. This take on Poe’s tale of mad­ness per­fect­ly cap­tures its near­ly gid­dy air of dread. The film, we wrote in 2011, “was giv­en a bizarre recep­tion” upon release, gar­ner­ing an “X” rating—the first ani­mat­ed film to do so—in the UK. The British Board of Film Cen­sors deemed the film “unsuit­able for adult audi­ences.” That said, it was nom­i­nat­ed for the Acad­e­my Award for Best Ani­mat­ed Short Film.

Above (with Span­ish sub­ti­tles) in a much lat­er work, a less famous but no less men­ac­ing, actor, Bil­ly Dra­go, nar­rates a stark retelling of “The Raven,” with a cen­tral char­ac­ter drawn like one of the homi­ci­dal creeps Dra­go typ­i­cal­ly plays on screen. Argen­tin­ian film­mak­er Mar­i­ano Cat­ta­neo remarks that he and fel­low direc­tor Nic Loreti focused on the idea that the speaker’s mys­te­ri­ous­ly lost love Lenore “might have been mur­dered and wants to come back,” cit­ing their influ­ences as “Ger­man expres­sion­ist films” and film­mak­ers like “Sam Rai­mi, George A. Romero, Tim Bur­ton, Robert Rodriguez, John Car­pen­ter and even Stephen King.” If not all of these cre­ators’ work is evi­dent, the influ­ence of Ger­man Expres­sion­ist film, par­tic­u­lar­ly The Cab­i­net of Dr. Cali­gari, cer­tain­ly is.

In anoth­er inter­na­tion­al adap­ta­tion, acclaimed Czech stop-motion ani­ma­tor Jan Svankma­jer uses high-con­trast, dra­mat­ic light­ing to very dif­fer­ent, impres­sion­ist effect to recre­ate the chill­ing despair of Poe’s The Fall of the House of Ush­er.  It is inter­est­ing that Poe’s work—obsessed with iso­la­tion and book­ish­ness and history—should have the effect it has on mod­ern media, par­tic­u­lar­ly on ani­ma­tion. But then again, Poe him­self was a tech­ni­cian, inter­est­ed not in the past for its own sake but in its use­ful­ness in achiev­ing a vivid “uni­ty of effect.” That his almost clock­work tales would make such excel­lent mate­r­i­al for such tech­ni­cal means of sto­ry­telling as ani­mat­ed film makes per­fect sense. But should you wish to return to the source of these humor­ous and grim adap­ta­tions, vis­it our list of the com­plete works of Edgar Allan Poe, in free eBook and audio book form.

Relat­ed Con­tent:

Down­load The Com­plete Works of Edgar Allan Poe: Macabre Sto­ries as Free eBooks & Audio Books

Sev­en Tips from Edgar Allan Poe on How to Write Vivid Sto­ries and Poems

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

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

Artists Illustrate Dante’s Divine Comedy Through the Ages: Doré, Blake, Botticelli, Mœbius & More

Dore Satan

For a book about medieval the­ol­o­gy and tor­ture, filled with learned clas­si­cal allu­sions and obscure char­ac­ters from 13th cen­tu­ry Flo­ren­tine soci­ety, Dante Alighieri’s Infer­no, first book of three in his Divine Com­e­dy, has had con­sid­er­able stay­ing pow­er, work­ing its way into pop cul­ture with a video game, sev­er­al films, and a bale­ful appear­ance on Mad Men. While the Mad Men ref­er­ence may be the more lit­er­ary, the for­mer two may hint at the more promi­nent rea­son the Infer­no has cap­ti­vat­ed read­ers, play­ers, and view­ers for ages: the lengthy poem’s intense­ly visu­al rep­re­sen­ta­tion of human extrem­i­ty makes for some unfor­get­table images. Like Achilles drag­ging Hec­tor behind his char­i­ot in Homer, who can for­get the lake of ice Dante encoun­ters in the ninth cir­cle of Hell, in which (in John Ciardi’s mod­ern trans­la­tion), he finds “souls of the last class,” which “shone below the ice like straws in glass,” and, frozen to his chest, “the Emper­or of the Uni­verse of Pain,” almost too enor­mous for descrip­tion and as hideous as he once was beau­ti­ful.

Like the rest of us, artists have been drawn to Dante’s extra­or­di­nary images and exten­sive fan­ta­sy geog­ra­phy since the Divine Com­e­dy first appeared (1308–1320). In pro­lif­ic French artist Gus­tave Doré’s ren­der­ing of the ninth cir­cle scene, above, Satan is a huge, beard­ed grump with wings and horns. Doré so des­per­ate­ly want­ed to illus­trate the Divine Com­e­dy (find in our col­lec­tion of 700 Free eBooks) that he financed the first book in 1861 with his own mon­ey.

After­wards, as Mike Springer wrote in a pre­vi­ous post on Dore’s illus­tra­tions, his pub­lish­er Louis Hachette agreed to put out the next two books with the telegram, “Suc­cess! Come quick­ly! I am an ass!” Doré’s eerie, beau­ti­ful draw­ings are just one such set of famous illus­tra­tions we’ve fea­tured on the site pre­vi­ous­ly.

Blake Inferno

Anoth­er artist per­fect­ly suit­ed to the task, William Blake, whose own poet­ry braved sim­i­lar heights and depths as Dante’s, took on the Infer­no at the end of his life. While he didn’t live to com­plete the engrav­ings, his unset­tling, yet high­ly clas­si­cal, ren­der­ings of the poet the Ital­ians call il Som­mo Poeta—“The Supreme Poet”—certainly do jus­tice to the vivid­ness and hor­ror of Dante’s descrip­tions. Above, see Blake’s 1827 inter­pre­ta­tion of the thief Agno­lo Brunelleschi attacked by a six-foot­ed ser­pent in Can­to twen­ty-five, a scene reprint­ed many times in col­or.

 

Boticelli Inferno

Cen­turies ear­li­er, Renais­sance mas­ter San­dro Bot­ti­cel­li made an attempt at all three books, though he fell short of fin­ish­ing them. See his “Pan­der­ers, Flat­ter­ers” above, the only draw­ing he made in col­or, and more black and white illus­tra­tions here.

Moebius-Paradiso

Like the mak­ers of films and video games, artists have main­ly cho­sen to focus on the most bizarre and har­row­ing of the three books, the Infer­no. One mod­ern artist who undoubt­ed­ly would have had a fas­ci­nat­ing take on Dante’s hell instead illus­trat­ed his heav­en, being cho­sen to imag­ine Par­adiso by the Milan’s Nuages Gallery in 1999. I refer to graph­ic artist Jean Giraud, known in the world of fan­ta­sy, sci-fi, and comics as Mœbius. Despite some arguable artis­tic mis­cast­ing (Mœbius did after all make films like Alien and Troneven weird­er”), the French artist took what may be the least visu­al­ly inter­est­ing of Dante’s three Divine Com­e­dy books and cre­at­ed some incred­i­bly strik­ing images. See one above, and more at our pre­vi­ous post.

Martini Inferno

Oth­er artists, like Alber­to Mar­ti­ni, who worked on his Divine Com­e­dy for over forty years, have pro­duced ter­ri­fy­ing images (above) and high­ly styl­ized ones—like these medieval illu­mi­na­tions from a 1450 man­u­script. The range of inter­pre­ta­tions all have one thing in common—their sub­ject mat­ter seems to allow artists almost unlim­it­ed free­dom to imag­ine Dante’s weird cos­mog­ra­phy. No vision of the Infer­no or the lofti­er realms above it can go too far, it seems, even in the absurd video game finale you real­ly have to see to believe. Some­how, I think Dante would approve… well… most­ly.

Relat­ed Con­tent:

Gus­tave Doré’s Exquis­ite Engrav­ings of Cer­vantes’ Don Quixote

William Blake’s Hal­lu­ci­na­to­ry Illus­tra­tions of John Milton’s Par­adise Lost

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

The Mad Men Reading List: 25 Revealing Books Read by the Characters on the Show

mad men reading list

Image cour­tesy of The New York Pub­lic Library.

The good peo­ple over at the New York Pub­lic Library com­piled a list of books read by the char­ac­ters of Mad Men, which just start­ed the last half of its sev­enth and final sea­son. Over the course of the series, the show’s char­ac­ters drank sev­er­al swim­ming pools worth of cock­tails, engaged in a host of ill-advised illic­it affairs and, on occa­sion, dreamed up a bril­liant adver­tis­ing cam­paign or two. As it turns out, they also read quite a bit.

All the books seem to say some­thing about the inner life of each char­ac­ter. The show’s enig­mat­ic main char­ac­ter, Don Drap­er, favored works like Dante’s Infer­no and William Faulkner’s The Sound and the Fury – books that point towards Draper’s series-long down­ward spi­ral. The whiny, inse­cure Pete Camp­bell read Thomas Pynchon’s para­noid clas­sic The Cry­ing of Lot 49. And Bert Coop­er, the aris­to­crat­ic bow-tie sport­ing patri­arch of Ster­ling Coop­er is appar­ent­ly an Ayn Rand fan; he’s seen read­ing Atlas Shrugged ear­ly in the series. You can see the full read­ing list below or here in a beau­ti­ful PDF designed by the NYPL.

A num­ber of the texts list­ed below also appear in our Free eBooks and Free Audio­Books col­lec­tions.

DON DRAPER’S PICKS:

  • EXODUS by Leon Uris (Episode 106 “Baby­lon”)
  • THE BEST OF EVERYTHING by Rona Jaffe
  • MEDITATIONS IN AN EMERGENCY by Frank O’Hara
  • THE SOUND AND THE FURY by William Faulkn­er
  • THE CHRYSANTHEMUM AND THE SWORD by Ruth Bene­dict
  • THE SPY WHO CAME IN FROM THE COLD by John Le Carre
  • THE FIXER by Bernard Mala­mud
  • ODDS AGAINST by Dick Fran­cis
  • THE INFERNO by Dante Alighieri
  • THE LAST PICTURE SHOW by Lar­ry McMurtry
  • PORTNOY’S COMPLAINT by Philip Roth

ROGER STERLING’S PICK:

  • CONFESSIONS OF AN ADVERTISING MAN by David Ogilvy

JOAN HARRIS’S PICK:

  • LADY CHATTERLEY’S LOVER by D. H. Lawrence

PETE CAMPBELL’S PICKS:

  • THE CRYING OF LOT 49 by Thomas Pyn­chon
  • GOODNIGHT MOON by Mar­garet Wise Brown

BETTY DRAPER’S PICKS:

  • BABYLON REVISITED AND OTHER STORIES by F. Scott Fitzger­ald
  • THE GROUP by Mary McCarthy

LANE PRYCE’S PICK:

  • THE ADVENTURES OF TOM SAWYER by Mark Twain

HENRY FRANCIS’S PICK:

  • THE ADVENTURES OF HUCKLEBERRY FINN by Mark Twain

BERT COOPER’S PICK:

  • ATLAS SHRUGGED by Ayn Rand

SALLY DRAPER’S PICKS:

  • THE HISTORY OF THE DECLINE AND FALL OF THE ROMAN EMPIRE by Edward Gib­bon
  • TWENTY ONE BALLOONS by William Pene Du Bois
  • NANCY DREW: THE CLUE OF THE BLACK KEYS by Car­olyn Keene
  • THE BLACK CAULDRON by Lloyd Alexan­der
  • ROSEMARY’S BABY by Ira Levin

via The New York Pub­lic Library

Relat­ed Con­tent:

W.H. Auden’s 1941 Lit­er­a­ture Syl­labus Asks Stu­dents to Read 32 Great Works, Cov­er­ing 6000 Pages

Neil deGrasse Tyson Lists 8 (Free) Books Every Intel­li­gent Per­son Should Read

Ernest Hemingway’s List for a Young Writer

Carl Sagan’s Under­grad Read­ing List: 40 Essen­tial Texts for a Well-Round­ed Thinker

David Fos­ter Wallace’s 1994 Syl­labus: How to Teach Seri­ous Lit­er­a­ture with Light­weight Books

Jonathan Crow is a Los Ange­les-based writer and film­mak­er whose work has appeared in Yahoo!, The Hol­ly­wood Reporter, and oth­er pub­li­ca­tions. You can fol­low him at @jonccrow. And check out his blog Veep­to­pus, fea­tur­ing lots of pic­tures of bad­gers and even more pic­tures of vice pres­i­dents with octo­pus­es on their heads.  The Veep­to­pus store is here.

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