The First Color Portrait of Leo Tolstoy, and Other Amazing Color Photos of Czarist Russia (1908)

A good few peo­ple object­ed to a recent project that col­orized old pho­tos of Walt Whit­man, Char­lie Chap­lin, Helen Keller, Mark Twain, and oth­er his­tor­i­cal char­ac­ters. Leave them alone! they grumped. The past, they want­ed left in black and white. But this is not so eas­i­ly done when some photos—whether of august per­son­ages like Leo Tol­stoy above, or of ordi­nary anony­mous peas­ants below—were always processed in col­or. The Tol­stoy image dates from 1908, two years before his death, but the process is much old­er, and suc­cess­ful col­or pho­tographs, not sim­ply hand-paint­ed col­oriza­tions, go back at least to the Lumiere Broth­ers’ Autochromes from the late 19th cen­tu­ry.

Russian Workers

The method that gave us Tol­stoy in col­or involved tak­ing three photographs—with a red, a green, and a blue filter—then pro­ject­ing the result­ing prints through fil­ters of the same col­or. It’s a pro­ce­dure that dates to Scot­tish sci­en­tist James Clerk Maxwell’s 1861 exper­i­ments, which put to the test sev­er­al ear­li­er the­o­ries. The pho­tographs you see here are the work of sci­en­tist and inven­tor Sergei Prokudin-Gorsky, who had per­fect­ed the pro­jec­tion method to such a degree that—as he wrote in a let­ter to Tol­stoy ask­ing him to pose—he only need­ed “from 1 to 3 sec­onds to take the pho­to­graph.” Thus it would not be “over­ly tire­some” for the soon-to-be eighty-year-old nov­el­ist.

Tol­stoy, of course, was a nation­al insti­tu­tion, and had war­rant­ed an ear­li­er attempt at a col­or por­trait by an anony­mous ama­teur to whom Prokudin-Gorsky refers in his let­ter of request. The first attempt, the inven­tor implies, was a botched job. Billing him­self as a spe­cial­ist in “pho­tog­ra­phy ‘in nat­ur­al col­ors,’” the self-con­fi­dent entre­pre­neur assured the writer he could pro­duce “excel­lent results” with “accu­rate col­ors.” “My col­ored pro­jec­tions,” he wrote, “are known in both Europe and in Rus­sia.” Prokudin-Gorsky was received and giv­en two days to take sev­er­al col­or pho­tographs, though whether the oth­ers have sur­vived, I do not know. We do know that the por­trait appeared in the August, 1908 issue of The Pro­ceed­ings of the Russ­ian Tech­ni­cal Soci­ety as “the first Russ­ian col­or pho­to­por­trait.” The jour­nal offered the image in trib­ute to Tolstoy’s upcom­ing 80th birth­day cel­e­bra­tion, writ­ing:

Our peri­od­i­cal, as a pure­ly tech­ni­cal one, can­not hon­or this ven­er­a­ble rep­re­sen­ta­tive of Russ­ian thought and word with spe­cial arti­cles. Desir­ing, how­ev­er, to take part in the gen­er­al fes­tiv­i­ties, the edi­to­r­i­al staff […] decid­ed to pub­lish in this, its August issue, the newest por­trait of Tol­stoy, which is the dernier mot in pho­to­graph­ic tech­nol­o­gy. The por­trait was tak­en on loca­tion and in nat­ur­al col­ors, achieved through tech­ni­cal meth­ods alone, with­out any use of the artist’s brush or tool.

Prokudin-Gorsky expressed his grat­i­tude to the nov­el­ist by mail­ing him a pho­to­graph­ic peri­od­i­cal con­tain­ing “many pic­tures pro­duced in my work­shops from my pho­tographs.” Per­haps the oth­er pho­tos we see here were con­tained in that jour­nal. Prokudin-Gorsky had every rea­son to be proud of his work, and the Russ­ian Tech­ni­cal Soci­ety every rea­son to endorse it. The pic­tures are stun­ning.

1911 Cathedral

Some of the pho­tographs, like the Tol­stoy por­trait, have a painter­ly, almost impres­sion­is­tic qual­i­ty. Oth­ers, like the 1911 vil­lage scene with the Niko­laevskii Cathe­dral in the dis­tance, have almost the depth of field and fine-grained clar­i­ty of 35mm film. And some, like that of the already car­toon­ish struc­ture below, have an almost hal­lu­ci­na­to­ry CGI qual­i­ty. The method wasn’t perfect—even with such short expo­sures, sub­jects had to remain absolute­ly still. If they moved, the result was an eerie dou­ble expo­sure effect you see in the mid­dle dis­tance of the field work­ers pho­tographed above. But over­all, these pho­tographs sim­ply aston­ish in their crisp­ness and fideli­ty.

Russian Mill

You can see many more of Prokudin-Gorsky’s images at this online gallery, which includes over a dozen ear­ly-twen­ti­eth cen­tu­ry pho­tos of Russ­ian labor­ers, land­scapes, and self por­traits. Prokudin-Gorsky’s work also pre­serves images of var­i­ous East­ern Euro­pean peo­ples in tra­di­tion­al dress—like the final Emir of Bukhara, now Uzbek­istan, below in 1910. Many of these groups were on the verge of cul­tur­al extinc­tion in the com­ing years of Sovi­et impe­ri­al­ism. Unwit­ting­ly, Prokudin-Gorsky man­aged to beau­ti­ful­ly cap­ture the very end of tsarist Rus­sia, most poignant­ly sym­bol­ized for so many Rus­sians by their aged lit­er­ary hero, whose birth­day we cel­e­brate again today. Google decid­ed to do so in full col­or as well, with fan­cy doo­dles of his major works. You may accuse them of tam­per­ing with the past, but those who find these col­or pho­tographs too mod­ern may need to expand their def­i­n­i­tion of moder­ni­ty.

Last Emir

Relat­ed Con­tent:

Col­orized Pho­tos Bring Walt Whit­man, Char­lie Chap­lin, Helen Keller & Mark Twain Back to Life

Rare Record­ing: Leo Tol­stoy Reads From His Last Major Work in Four Lan­guages, 1909

Vin­tage Footage of Leo Tol­stoy: Video Cap­tures the Great Nov­el­ist Dur­ing His Final Days

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

Kafka’s Parable “Before the Law” Narrated by Orson Welles & Illustrated with Pinscreen Art

On Fri­day, we fea­tured Niko­lai Gogol’s “The Nose,” adapt­ed in 1963 through the work-inten­sive but aes­thet­i­cal­ly stun­ning means of “pin­screen ani­ma­tion” by Alexan­der Alex­eieff and Claire Park­er. But they had­n’t labored over it in total obscu­ri­ty; the year before, no less sol­id a pil­lar of Amer­i­can film than Orson Welles had com­mis­sioned their work for use in his adap­ta­tion of Franz Kafka’s The Tri­al, anoth­er work of lit­er­a­ture deeply con­cerned with the absurd. Crit­i­cal opin­ion varies about the film, which some con­sid­er Welles’ best work, oth­ers con­sid­er his worst, and oth­ers still con­sid­er a mix­ture of the two.

It cer­tain­ly remains one of his least-seen works, and yet it con­tains the most main­stream thing Alex­eieff and Park­er ever did. Very few deny the effec­tive­ness of the film’s pro­logue, which com­bines images straight from the hus­band-and-wife team’s pin­screen with Welles’ unmis­tak­able voice read­ing “Before the Law,” a para­ble from Kafka’s nov­el. Alex­eieff and Park­er’s images are still, rather than ani­mat­ed, which must have cut way down on the pro­duc­tion time.

“Before the law, there stands a guard,” Welles intones. “A man comes from the coun­try, beg­ging admit­tance to the law. But the guard can­not admit him. May he hope to enter at a lat­er time? That is pos­si­ble, said the guard. The man tries to peer through the entrance. He’d been taught that the law was to be acces­si­ble to every man. ‘Do not attempt to enter with­out my per­mis­sion,’ says the guard. I am very pow­er­ful. Yet I am the least of all the guards. From hall to hall, door after door, each guard is more pow­er­ful than the last. By the guard’s per­mis­sion, the man sits by the side of the door, and there he waits.” These words estab­lish the basis for not just The Tri­al, but seem­ing­ly Kafka’s own legal sen­si­bil­i­ty, and indeed world­view. The man waits for years, star­ing at the guard and lav­ish­ing him with bribes. He grows old and enfee­bled. Final­ly, he asks why, despite the fact that “every man strives to attain the law,” nobody else but him has ever come to attempt pas­sage through its doors. “Nobody else but you could ever have obtained admit­tance,” the guard replies. “This door was intend­ed only for you! And now, I’m going to close it.” Welles then com­ments that “the log­ic of this sto­ry is the log­ic of a dream… a night­mare.” One under­stands why the direc­tor, who endured so many futile and absurd expe­ri­ences in the enter­tain­ment indus­try, would feel drawn to such a fable. As for how he chose such appro­pri­ate imagery for it — well, maybe just good luck.

Relat­ed Con­tent:

Niko­lai Gogol’s Clas­sic Sto­ry, “The Nose,” Ani­mat­ed With the Aston­ish­ing Pin­screen Tech­nique (1963)

Watch Franz Kaf­ka, the Won­der­ful Ani­mat­ed Film by Piotr Dumala

Kafka’s Night­mare Tale, ‘A Coun­try Doc­tor,’ Told in Award-Win­ning Japan­ese Ani­ma­tion

Col­in Mar­shall hosts and pro­duces Note­book on Cities and Cul­ture 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.

Nikolai Gogol’s Classic Story, “The Nose,” Animated With the Astonishing Pinscreen Technique (1963)

A mild-look­ing bar­ber slices into his morn­ing loaf of bread to find a human nose embed­ded with­in. You might imag­ine this image open­ing the next David Lynch movie, but it actu­al­ly sets up a more light­heart­ed, much old­er, and much more Russ­ian sto­ry: Niko­lai Gogol’s “The Nose.” (Find it in our Free eBooks and Free Audio Books col­lec­tions.) The sto­ry soon intro­duces us to the man to whom the nose belongs, a gov­ern­ment offi­cial who wakes to find noth­ing but a smooth patch of flesh in the mid­dle of his face. The quest to reclaim his nose takes him to the archi­tec­tural­ly impos­ing, col­umn-inten­sive hall in which he works, where he finds that the organ through which he once breathed has not only grown a body of its own, but already risen above him in the ranks of the civ­il ser­vice. To find out how this increas­ing­ly bizarre, dream­like sce­nario resolves itself, you can either read Gogol’s sto­ry in the Eng­lish trans­la­tion free in Project Guten­berg’s copy of the Gogol Col­lec­tion The Man­tle and Oth­er Sto­ries, or you can watch Alexan­der Alex­eieff and Claire Park­er’s 1963 short above, which adapts “The Nose” by means of some­thing called pin­screen ani­ma­tion.

Ian Lums­den at Ani­ma­tion Blog describes Alex­eieff and Park­er’s par­tic­u­lar method as a form of “shad­ow ani­ma­tion in effect where­by Alexan­der works on the pos­i­tive side of a large black can­vas full of pins and Claire on the neg­a­tive side; the more the flat head­ed pins are pushed in the lighter is the effect, cre­at­ing the look of mez­zotint with its tex­tured shades of grey.” Lums­den adds that he “can scarce­ly con­ceive of a more labour inten­sive form of ani­ma­tion par­tic­u­lar­ly giv­en that pins num­bered in their hun­dreds of thou­sands are used.” Just try to pay close atten­tion to some of the effects The Nose achieves and try not to wince at how demand­ing and painstak­ing an effort the ani­ma­tors, push­ing these tiny pins in and out to adjust the visu­al tex­tures just so, must have put forth to achieve them. Russ­ian lit­er­ary his­to­ri­an D.S. Mirsky calls the orig­i­nal sto­ry “a piece of sheer play, almost sheer non­sense,” where “more than any­where else Gogol dis­plays his extra­or­di­nary mag­ic pow­er of mak­ing great com­ic art out of noth­ing.” In these fun­ny and daz­zling but no doubt hard-won eleven min­utes Alex­eieff and Park­er express that sheer play with the most inten­sive ani­mat­ing work pos­si­ble.

You can find “The Nose” on our list of Ani­mat­ed Films, part of our larg­er col­lec­tion called 4,000+ Free Movies Online: Great Clas­sics, Indies, Noir, West­erns, Doc­u­men­taries & More.

Relat­ed Con­tent:

Revered Poet Alexan­der Pushkin Draws Sketch­es of Niko­lai Gogol and Oth­er Russ­ian Artists

George Saun­ders’ Lec­tures on the Russ­ian Greats Brought to Life in Stu­dent Sketch­es

Two Beau­ti­ful­ly-Craft­ed Russ­ian Ani­ma­tions of Chekhov’s Clas­sic Children’s Sto­ry “Kash­tan­ka”

Three Ani­mat­ed Shorts by the Ground­break­ing Russ­ian Ani­ma­tor Fyo­dor Khitruk

Watch a Hand-Paint­ed Ani­ma­tion of Dostoevsky’s “The Dream of a Ridicu­lous Man”

Col­in Mar­shall hosts and pro­duces Note­book on Cities and Cul­ture 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.

Thomas Pynchon Edits His Lines on The Simpsons: “Homer is my role model and I can’t speak ill of him.”

pynchon simpsons edit

In 2002, the elu­sive nov­el­ist Thomas Pyn­chon made two cameo appear­ances on The Simp­sons. Of course, we did­n’t actu­al­ly get to see Pyn­chon. His car­toon depic­tion wore, rather humor­ous­ly, a bag over his head. But, we did get to hear Pyn­chon’s voice. And appar­ent­ly that, alone, was a first.

This past week, Matt Sel­man, an exec­u­tive pro­duc­er for The Simp­sons, shed some more light on those play­ful cameos. On Twit­ter, he post­ed a copy of the script Pyn­chon edit­ed and faxed back to the show’s writ­ers. (Click on the image above to see it in a larg­er for­mat.) In some cas­es, Pyn­chon, always the writer, tweaked the lan­guage to make it flow as he liked. In oth­er cas­es, he added his own mate­r­i­al to the script — new sound effects, jokes, and puns. (The word “Scrump­tious” gets turned into Vi-licious.) And, in one case, he removed a joke. Delet­ing the words “No won­der Homer is such a fat ass,” Pyn­chon scrawled the com­ment: “Sor­ry, guys. Homer is my role mod­el and I can’t speak ill of him.” Final­ly, Homer gets some respect.

Pynchon-simpsons

via The Wall Street Jour­nal

Relat­ed Con­tent:

Before The Simp­sons, Matt Groen­ing Illus­trat­ed a “Student’s Guide” for Apple Com­put­ers (1989)

Before The Simp­sons: Homer Groen­ing Directs a 1969 Short Film, The Sto­ry, Star­ring His Kids Mag­gie, Lisa & Matt 

Take a Cin­e­mat­ic Jour­ney into the Mind of Thomas Pyn­chon and His New Book, Bleed­ing Edge

 

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Extensive Archive of Avant-Garde & Modernist Magazines (1890–1939) Now Available Online

Surrealisme_1_Oct_1924

Hav­ing once been involved in the found­ing of an arts mag­a­zine, I have expe­ri­enced inti­mate­ly the ways in which such an endeav­or can depend upon a com­mu­ni­ty of equals pool­ing a diver­si­ty of skills. The process can be painful: egos com­pete, cer­tain ele­ments seek to dom­i­nate, but the suc­cess­ful prod­uct of such a col­lab­o­ra­tive effort will rep­re­sent a liv­ing com­mu­ni­ty of artists, writ­ers, edi­tors, and oth­er mas­ters of tech­nique who sub­or­di­nate their indi­vid­ual wills, tem­porar­i­ly, to the will of a col­lec­tive, cre­at­ing new gestalt iden­ti­ties from con­cep­tu­al atoms. As Mono­skop—“a wiki for col­lab­o­ra­tive stud­ies of art, media and the humanities”—points out, “the whole” of an arts mag­a­zine, “could become greater than the sum of its parts.” Often when this hap­pens, a pub­li­ca­tion can serve as the plat­form or nucle­us of an entire­ly new move­ment.

Mono­skop main­tains a dig­i­tal archive of print­ed avant-garde and mod­ernist mag­a­zines dat­ing from the late-19th cen­tu­ry to the late 1930s, pub­lished in locales from Arad to Bucharest, Copen­hagen to War­saw, in addi­tion to the expect­ed New York and Paris. From the lat­ter city comes the 1924 first issue of Sur­re­al­isme at the top of the post.

Periszkop_1_Mar_1925

From the much small­er city of Arad in Roma­nia comes the March, 1925 issue 1 of Periszkóp above, pub­lished in Hun­gar­i­an and fea­tur­ing works by Picas­so, Marc Cha­gall, and many less­er-known East­ern Euro­pean artists. Just below, see anoth­er Paris pub­li­ca­tion: the first, 1929 issue of Doc­u­ments, a sur­re­al­ist jour­nal edit­ed by Georges Bataille and fea­tur­ing such lumi­nar­ies as Cuban nov­el­ist Ale­jo Car­pen­tier and artists Georges Braque, Gior­gio De Chiri­co, Sal­vador Dali, Mar­cel Duchamp, Paul Klee, Joan Miro, and Pablo Picas­so. Fur­ther down, see the first, 1926, issue of the Bauhaus jour­nal, vehi­cle of the famous arts move­ment found­ed by Wal­ter Gropius in 1919.

Documents_Vol_1_1929_1991

The vari­ety of mod­ernist and avant garde pub­li­ca­tions archived at Mono­skop “pro­vide us with a his­tor­i­cal record of sev­er­al gen­er­a­tions of artists and writ­ers.” They also “remind us that our lens­es mat­ter.” In an age of “the relent­less lin­ear­i­ty of dig­i­tal bits and the UX of the glow­ing screen” we tend to lose sight of such crit­i­cal­ly impor­tant mat­ters as design, typog­ra­phy, lay­out, writ­ing, and the “tech­niques of print­ing and mechan­i­cal repro­duc­tion.” Any­one can build a web­site, fill it with “con­tent,” and prop­a­gate it glob­al­ly, giv­ing lit­tle or no thought to aes­thet­ic choic­es and edi­to­r­i­al fram­ing. But the mag­a­zines rep­re­sent­ed in Monoskop’s archive are spe­cial­ized cre­ations, the prod­ucts of very delib­er­ate choic­es made by groups of high­ly skilled indi­vid­u­als with very spe­cif­ic aes­thet­ic agen­das.

Bauhaus_1_1926

A major­i­ty of the pub­li­ca­tions rep­re­sent­ed come from the explo­sive peri­od of mod­ernist exper­i­men­ta­tion between the wars, but sev­er­al, like the jour­nal Rhythm: Art Music Lit­er­a­ture—first pub­lished in 1911—offer glimpses of the ear­ly stir­rings of mod­ernist inno­va­tion in the Anglo­phone world. Oth­ers like the 1890–93 Parisian Entre­tiens poli­tiques et lit­téraires show­case the work of pio­neer­ing ear­ly French mod­ernist fore­bears like Jules Laforgue (a great influ­ence upon T.S. Eliot) and also André Gide and Stéphane Mal­lar­mé. Some of the pub­li­ca­tions here are already famous, like The Lit­tle Review, many much less­er-known. Most pub­lished only a hand­ful of issues.

MAVO_1_Jul_1924

With a few exceptions—such as the 1923 Japan­ese pub­li­ca­tion MAVO shown above—almost all of the jour­nals rep­re­sent­ed at Monoskop’s archive hail from East­ern and West­ern Europe and the U.S.. While “only a few jour­nals had any sig­nif­i­cant impact out­side the avant-garde cir­cles in their time,” the rip­ples of that impact have spread out­ward to encom­pass the art and design worlds that sur­round us today. These exam­ples of the lit­er­ary and design cul­ture of ear­ly 20th cen­tu­ry mod­ernist mag­a­zines, like those of late 20th cen­tu­ry post­mod­ern ‘zines, pro­vide us with a dis­til­la­tion of minor move­ments that came to have major sig­nif­i­cance in decades hence.

via Hyper­al­ler­gic

Relat­ed Con­tent:

The ABCs of Dada Explains the Anar­chic, Irra­tional “Anti-Art” Move­ment of Dadaism

The Pulp Fic­tion Archive: The Cheap, Thrilling Sto­ries That Enter­tained a Gen­er­a­tion of Read­ers (1896–1946)

William S. Burrough’s Avant-Garde Movie ‘The Cut Ups’ (1966)

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

Roald Dahl, Who Lost His Daughter to Measles, Writes a Heartbreaking Letter about Vaccinations: “It Really Is Almost a Crime to Allow Your Child to Go Unimmunised”

dahl vaccine

Image by Carl Van Vechten/Library of Con­gress, via Wiki­me­dia Com­mons

Gen­er­a­tions of us know Roald Dahl as, first and fore­most, the author of pop­u­lar chil­dren’s nov­els like The BFGThe Witch­esChar­lie and the Choco­late Fac­to­ry (that book of the “sub­ver­sive” lost chap­ter), and James and the Giant Peach. We remem­ber read­ing those with great delight, and some of us even made it into the rumored lit­er­ary ter­ri­to­ry of his “sto­ries for grown-ups.” But few of us, at least if we grew up in the past few decades, will have famil­iar­ized our­selves with all the pur­pos­es to which Dahl put his pen. Like many fine writ­ers, Dahl always drew some­thing from his per­son­al expe­ri­ence, and few per­son­al expe­ri­ences could have had as much impact as the sud­den death of his measles-strick­en sev­en-year-old daugh­ter Olivia in 1962. A chap­ter of Don­ald Stur­rock­’s biog­ra­phy Sto­ry­teller: The Life of Roald Dahl, excerpt­ed at The Tele­graph, tells of both the event itself and Dahl’s sto­ic, writer­ly (accord­ing to some, per­haps too sto­ic and too writer­ly) way of han­dling it.

But good did come out of Dahl’s response to the tragedy. In 1986, he wrote a leaflet for the Sandwell Health Author­i­ty enti­tled Measles: A Dan­ger­ous Ill­ness, which tells Olivi­a’s sto­ry and pro­vides a swift and well-sup­port­ed argu­ment for uni­ver­sal vac­ci­na­tion against the dis­ease:

Olivia, my eldest daugh­ter, caught measles when she was sev­en years old. As the ill­ness took its usu­al course I can remem­ber read­ing to her often in bed and not feel­ing par­tic­u­lar­ly alarmed about it. Then one morn­ing, when she was well on the road to recov­ery, I was sit­ting on her bed show­ing her how to fash­ion lit­tle ani­mals out of coloured pipe-clean­ers, and when it came to her turn to make one her­self, I noticed that her fin­gers and her mind were not work­ing togeth­er and she could­n’t do any­thing.

“Are you feel­ing all right?” I asked her.

“I feel all sleepy,” she said.

In an hour, she was uncon­scious. In twelve hours she was dead.

The measles had turned into a ter­ri­ble thing called measles encephali­tis and there was noth­ing the doc­tors could do to save her. That was twen­ty-four years ago in 1962, but even now, if a child with measles hap­pens to devel­op the same dead­ly reac­tion from measles as Olivia did, there would still be noth­ing the doc­tors could do to help her.

On the oth­er hand, there is today some­thing that par­ents can do to make sure that this sort of tragedy does not hap­pen to a child of theirs. They can insist that their child is immu­nised against measles. I was unable to do that for Olivia in 1962 because in those days a reli­able measles vac­cine had not been dis­cov­ered. Today a good and safe vac­cine is avail­able to every fam­i­ly and all you have to do is to ask your doc­tor to admin­is­ter it.

It is not yet gen­er­al­ly accept­ed that measles can be a dan­ger­ous ill­ness. Believe me, it is. In my opin­ion par­ents who now refuse to have their chil­dren immu­nised are putting the lives of those chil­dren at risk. In Amer­i­ca, where measles immu­ni­sa­tion is com­pul­so­ry, measles like small­pox, has been vir­tu­al­ly wiped out.

Here in Britain, because so many par­ents refuse, either out of obsti­na­cy or igno­rance or fear, to allow their chil­dren to be immu­nised, we still have a hun­dred thou­sand cas­es of measles every year. Out of those, more than 10,000 will suf­fer side effects of one kind or anoth­er. At least 10,000 will devel­op ear or chest infec­tions. About 20 will die.

LET THAT SINK IN.

Every year around 20 chil­dren will die in Britain from measles.

So what about the risks that your chil­dren will run from being immu­nised?

They are almost non-exis­tent. Lis­ten to this. In a dis­trict of around 300,000 peo­ple, there will be only one child every 250 years who will devel­op seri­ous side effects from measles immu­ni­sa­tion! That is about a mil­lion to one chance. I should think there would be more chance of your child chok­ing to death on a choco­late bar than of becom­ing seri­ous­ly ill from a measles immu­ni­sa­tion.

So what on earth are you wor­ry­ing about? It real­ly is almost a crime to allow your child to go unim­mu­nised.

The ide­al time to have it done is at 13 months, but it is nev­er too late. All school-chil­dren who have not yet had a measles immu­ni­sa­tion should beg their par­ents to arrange for them to have one as soon as pos­si­ble.

Inci­den­tal­ly, I ded­i­cat­ed two of my books to Olivia, the first was ‘James and the Giant Peach’. That was when she was still alive. The sec­ond was ‘The BFG’, ded­i­cat­ed to her mem­o­ry after she had died from measles. You will see her name at the begin­ning of each of these books. And I know how hap­py she would be if only she could know that her death had helped to save a good deal of ill­ness and death among oth­er chil­dren.

Alas, this mes­sage has­n’t quite fall­en into irrel­e­vance. What with anti-vac­ci­na­tion move­ments hav­ing some­how picked up a bit of steam in recent years (and with the num­ber of cas­es of measles cas­es now climb­ing again), it might make sense to send Dahl’s leaflet back into print — or, bet­ter yet, to keep it cir­cu­lat­ing far and wide around the inter­net. Not that oth­ers haven’t made cogent pro-vac­ci­na­tion argu­ments of their own, in dif­fer­ent media, with dif­fer­ent illus­tra­tions of the data, and with dif­fer­ent lev­els of pro­fan­i­ty. Take, for instance, Penn and Teller’s seg­ment below, which, find­ing the per­fect tar­get giv­en its man­date against non-evi­dence-based beliefs, takes aim at the propo­si­tion that vac­ci­na­tions cause autism:

Relat­ed Con­tent:

Read a Nev­er Pub­lished, “Sub­ver­sive” Chap­ter from Roald Dahl’s Char­lie and the Choco­late Fac­to­ry

The Recipes of Icon­ic Authors: Jane Austen, Sylvia Plath, Roald Dahl, the Mar­quis de Sade & More

Col­in Mar­shall hosts and pro­duces Note­book on Cities and Cul­ture 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.

A 96-Song Playlist of Music in Haruki Murakami’s Novels: Miles Davis, Glenn Gould, the Beach Boys & More

murakami-playlist

Last month we fea­tured the par­tic­u­lars of nov­el­ist Haru­ki Murakami’s pas­sion for jazz, includ­ing a big Youtube playlist of songs select­ed from Por­trait in Jazz, his book of essays on the music. But we also allud­ed to Murakami’s admis­sion of run­ning to a sound­track pro­vid­ed by The Lovin’ Spoon­ful, which sug­gests lis­ten­ing habits not enslaved to purism. His books — one of the very best known of which takes its name straight from a Bea­t­les song (“Nor­we­gian Wood”) — tend to come pre-loaded with ref­er­ences to sev­er­al vari­eties of music, almost always West­ern and usu­al­ly Amer­i­can.  “The Fierce Imag­i­na­tion of Haru­ki Muraka­mi,” Sam Ander­son­’s pro­file of the writer on the occa­sion of the release of his pre­vi­ous nov­el 1Q84, name-checks not just Stan Getz but Janáček’s Sin­foni­et­ta, The Rolling Stones’ Sym­pa­thy for the Dev­il, Eric Clap­ton’s Rep­tile, Bruce Spring­steen’s ver­sion of “Old Dan Tuck­er,” and The Many Sides of Gene Pit­neyThe title of Murakami’s new Col­or­less Tsuku­ru Taza­ki and His Years of Pil­grim­age, writes The Week’s Scott Mes­low, ref­er­ences Franz Liszt’s ‘Years of Pil­grim­age’ suite, “which plays a cen­tral role in the nov­el­’s nar­ra­tive. The point­ed ref­er­ence isn’t exact­ly a major detour from Muraka­mi.”

Giv­en the writer’s increas­ing reliance on music and the notion of “songs that lit­er­al­ly have the pow­er to change the world,” to say noth­ing of his “abil­i­ty to sin­gle-hand­ed­ly dri­ve musi­cal trends,” it can prove an illu­mi­nat­ing exer­cise to assem­ble Muraka­mi playlists. Select­ing 96 tracks, Mes­low has cre­at­ed his own playlist (above) that empha­sizes the breadth of genre in the music incor­po­rat­ed into Murakami’s fic­tion: from Ray Charles to Bren­da Lee, Duke Elling­ton to Bob­by Darin, Glenn Gould to the Beach Boys. Each song appears in one of Murakami’s nov­els, and Mes­low even includes cita­tions for each track: “I had some cof­fee while lis­ten­ing to May­nard Fer­guson’s ‘Star Wars.’ ” “Her milk was on the house if she would play the Bea­t­les’ ‘Here Comes the Sun,’ said the girl.” Imag­ine The Great­est Hits of Bob­by Darin minus ‘Mack the Knife.’ That’s what my life would be like with­out you.” “The room begins to dark­en. In the deep­en­ing dark­ness, ‘I Can’t Go For That’ con­tin­ues to play.” It all coheres in some­thing to lis­ten to while explor­ing Murakami’s world: in your imag­i­na­tion, in real life, or in his trade­mark realms between. 

To lis­ten to the playlist above, you will first need to down­load Spo­ti­fy. Please note that once you mouse over the playlist, you can scroll through all 96 songs. Look for the ver­ti­cal scroll­bar along the right side of the playlist.

Pho­to above is attrib­uted to “wakari­m­a­sita of Flickr”

via The Week

Relat­ed Con­tent:

Read 5 Sto­ries By Haru­ki Muraka­mi Free Online (For a Lim­it­ed Time)

A Pho­to­graph­ic Tour of Haru­ki Murakami’s Tokyo, Where Dream, Mem­o­ry, and Real­i­ty Meet

Haru­ki Murakami’s Pas­sion for Jazz: Dis­cov­er the Novelist’s Jazz Playlist, Jazz Essay & Jazz Bar

In Search of Haru­ki Muraka­mi, Japan’s Great Post­mod­ernist Nov­el­ist

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

Col­in Mar­shall hosts and pro­duces Note­book on Cities and Cul­ture 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.

William S. Burroughs Sends Anti-Fan Letter to In Cold Blood Author Truman Capote: “You Have Sold Out Your Talent”

burroughs to capote

On July 23, 1970, William S. Bur­roughs wrote Tru­man Capote a let­ter. “This is not a fan let­ter in the usu­al sense — unless you refer to ceil­ing fans in Pana­ma.” Instead, Bur­rough­s’s mis­sive is a poi­son pen let­ter, blis­ter­ing even by the high stan­dards of New York lit­er­ary cir­cles. Of course, Capote, author of Break­fast at Tiffany’s and In Cold Blood, was no stranger to feuds. He often trad­ed wit­ty, ven­omous barbs with the likes of Gore Vidal and Nor­man Mail­er. Yet Burroughs’s let­ter comes off as much dark­er and, with the ben­e­fit of hind­sight, much more unnerv­ing.

As Thom Robin­son thor­ough­ly details in his arti­cle for Real­i­tyS­tu­dio, the two had a long and com­pli­cat­ed past filled with pro­fes­sion­al jeal­ousy and per­son­al dis­dain. They first met when Bur­roughs was a strug­gling writer and Capote was work­ing as a copy boy at The New York­er in the ear­ly 1940s. Bur­roughs was no doubt ran­kled by Capote’s mete­oric rise to lit­er­ary star­dom just after the war, thanks to some high­ly-praised short sto­ries that appeared in Harper’s Bazaar and oth­er pub­li­ca­tions. Bur­roughs and his fel­low Beat writ­ers ridiculed Capote in their pri­vate let­ters. In a let­ter to Allen Gins­berg, Jack Ker­ouac described Capote’s work as “full of bull on every page.” When Kerouac’s On the Road was pub­lished, Capote dis­missed the book by say­ing, “[it] isn’t writ­ing at all — it’s typ­ing.”

When Naked Lunch was final­ly released in Amer­i­ca in 1962, three years after its pub­li­ca­tion in France, William S. Bur­roughs became a lit­er­ary icon. (Hear Bur­roughs read Naked Lunch here.) At the same time, Capote was start­ing to devel­op a genre he called cre­ative non-fic­tion, which would even­tu­al­ly cul­mi­nate with In Cold Blood. When talk­ing about his book in a 1968 inter­view with Play­boy, Capote com­pared Burroughs’s writ­ing with his own. In Cold Blood “is real­ly the most avant-garde form of writ­ing exis­tent today […] cre­ative fic­tion writ­ing has gone as far as it can exper­i­men­tal­ly. […] Of course we have writ­ers like William Bur­roughs, whose brand of ver­bal sur­face triv­ia is amus­ing and occa­sion­al­ly fas­ci­nat­ing, but there’s no base for mov­ing for­ward in that area.” At anoth­er point, Capote quipped, “Nor­man Mail­er thinks [he] is a genius, which I think is ludi­crous beyond words. I don’t think William Bur­roughs has an ounce of tal­ent.”

So when Bur­roughs put pen to paper in 1970, he already had plen­ty of rea­sons to dis­like Capote. In the let­ter, though, Bur­rough­s’s ire was specif­i­cal­ly direct­ed at Capote’s dubi­ous ethics in writ­ing In Cold Blood, a book that Bur­roughs described as “a dull unread­able book which could have been writ­ten by any staff writer on The New York­er.” (Note: You can read an ear­ly ver­sion of In Cold Blood in The New York­er itself.)

The spine of In Cold Blood is the first-hand account of con­vict­ed killers Dick Hick­ock and Per­ry Smith. Capote spent hours inter­view­ing them and in the process grew close to them, espe­cial­ly Smith. In spite of this, Capote did lit­tle to help their defense. (This is the sub­ject of not one but two movies, by the way, Capote and Infa­mous.) Crit­ic Ken­neth Tynan, in a scathing review for The Observ­er, cried foul. “For the first time an influ­en­tial writer of the front rank has been placed in a posi­tion of priv­i­leged inti­ma­cy with crim­i­nals about to die, and–in my view–done less than he might have to save them,” he wrote. “An attempt to help (by sup­ply­ing new psy­chi­atric tes­ti­mo­ny) might eas­i­ly have failed: what one miss­es is any sign that it was ever con­tem­plat­ed.” The fact of the mat­ter was that the book worked bet­ter if they died. Though Capote’s biog­ra­ph­er Ger­ald Clarke argued that there was lit­tle that the writer could have done to save the two, he con­ced­ed that “Tynan was right when he sug­gest­ed that Tru­man did not want to save them.”

Seem­ing­ly repulsed by Capote’s entire project, Bur­roughs took the Tynan’s cri­tique one step fur­ther. He argued that Capote not only sold out his sub­jects but served as a mouth­piece for those in pow­er.

I feel that [Tynan] was much too lenient. Your recent appear­ance before a sen­a­to­r­i­al com­mit­tee on which occa­sion you spoke in favor of con­tin­u­ing the present police prac­tice of extract­ing con­fes­sions by deny­ing the accused the right of con­sult­ing con­sul pri­or to mak­ing a state­ment also came to my atten­tion. In effect you were speak­ing in approval of stan­dard police pro­ce­dure: obtain­ing state­ments through bru­tal­i­ty and duress, where­as an intel­li­gent police force would rely on evi­dence rather than enforced con­fes­sions. […] You have placed your ser­vices at the dis­pos­al of inter­ests who are turn­ing Amer­i­ca into a police state by the sim­ple device of delib­er­ate­ly fos­ter­ing the con­di­tions that give rise to crim­i­nal­i­ty and then demand­ing increased police pow­ers and the reten­tion of cap­i­tal pun­ish­ment to deal with the sit­u­a­tion they have cre­at­ed.

For some­one who had fre­quent­ly been on the wrong end of the law and for some­one who spent his life giv­ing voice to the mar­gin­al­ized, this was an anath­e­ma. Bur­roughs then deliv­ered a chill­ing, voodoo-style curse:

You have betrayed and sold out the tal­ent that was grant­ed you by this depart­ment. That tal­ent is now offi­cial­ly with­drawn. Enjoy your dirty mon­ey. You will nev­er have any­thing else. You will nev­er write anoth­er sen­tence above the lev­el of In Cold Blood. As a writer you are fin­ished. Over and out.

Bur­roughs’ curse seemed to have worked. 1970 was the high-water mark of Capote’s career. He nev­er wrote anoth­er nov­el after In Cold Blood, though he labored for years on a nev­er com­plet­ed book called Answered Prayers. He spent the rest of his life on a down­ward alco­holic spi­ral until his death in 1984.

You can read the entire let­ter, which is kept at the Bur­roughs Archive of the New York Pub­lic Library’s Berg Col­lec­tion, below:

July 23, 1970
My Dear Mr. Tru­man Capote
This is not a fan let­ter in the usu­al sense — unless you refer to ceil­ing fans in Pana­ma. Rather call this a let­ter from “the read­er” — vital sta­tis­tics are not in cap­i­tal let­ters — a selec­tion from mar­gin­al notes on mate­r­i­al sub­mit­ted as all “writ­ing” is sub­mit­ted to this depart­ment. I have fol­lowed your lit­er­ary devel­op­ment from its incep­tion, con­duct­ing on behalf of the depart­ment I rep­re­sent a series of inquiries as exhaus­tive as your own recent inves­ti­ga­tions in the sun flower state. I have inter­viewed all your char­ac­ters begin­ning with Miri­am — in her case with­hold­ing sug­ar over a peri­od of sev­er­al days proved suf­fi­cient induce­ment to ren­der her quite com­mu­nica­tive — I pre­fer to have all the facts at my dis­pos­al before tak­ing action. Need­less to say, I have read the recent exchange of genial­i­ties between Mr. Ken­neth Tynan and your­self. I feel that he was much too lenient. Your recent appear­ance before a sen­a­to­r­i­al com­mit­tee on which occa­sion you spoke in favor of con­tin­u­ing the present police prac­tice of extract­ing con­fes­sions by deny­ing the accused the right of con­sult­ing con­sul pri­or to mak­ing a state­ment also came to my atten­tion. In effect you were speak­ing in approval of stan­dard police pro­ce­dure: obtain­ing state­ments through bru­tal­i­ty and duress, where­as an intel­li­gent police force would rely on evi­dence rather than enforced con­fes­sions. You fur­ther cheap­ened your­self by reit­er­at­ing the banal argu­ment that echoes through let­ters to the edi­tor when­ev­er the issue of cap­i­tal pun­ish­ment is raised: “Why all this sym­pa­thy for the mur­der­er and none for his inno­cent vic­tims?” I have in line of duty read all your pub­lished work. The ear­ly work was in some respects promis­ing — I refer par­tic­u­lar­ly to the short sto­ries. You were grant­ed an area for psy­chic devel­op­ment. It seemed for a while as if you would make good use of this grant. You choose instead to sell out a tal­ent that is not yours to sell. You have writ­ten a dull unread­able book which could have been writ­ten by any staff writer on the New York­er — (an under­cov­er reac­tionary peri­od­i­cal ded­i­cat­ed to the inter­ests of vest­ed Amer­i­can wealth). You have placed your ser­vices at the dis­pos­al of inter­ests who are turn­ing Amer­i­ca into a police state by the sim­ple device of delib­er­ate­ly fos­ter­ing the con­di­tions that give rise to crim­i­nal­i­ty and then demand­ing increased police pow­ers and the reten­tion of cap­i­tal pun­ish­ment to deal with the sit­u­a­tion they have cre­at­ed. You have betrayed and sold out the tal­ent that was grant­ed you by this depart­ment. That tal­ent is now offi­cial­ly with­drawn. Enjoy your dirty mon­ey. You will nev­er have any­thing else. You will nev­er write anoth­er sen­tence above the lev­el of In Cold Blood. As a writer you are fin­ished. Over and out. Are you track­ing me? Know who I am? You know me, Tru­man. You have known me for a long time. This is my last vis­it.

The polaroids above were tak­en by Andy Warhol.

via: Fla­vor­wire/Let­ters of Note/Real­i­tyS­tu­dio

Relat­ed Con­tent: 

William S. Bur­roughs Reads His First Nov­el, Junky

William S. Bur­roughs on the Art of Cut-up Writ­ing

William S. Bur­roughs Explains What Artists & Cre­ative Thinkers Do for Human­i­ty: From Galileo to Cézanne and James Joyce

550 Free Audio Books: Down­load Great Books for Free

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 @jonccrowAnd check out his blog Veep­to­pus, fea­tur­ing one new draw­ing of a vice pres­i­dent with an octo­pus on his head dai­ly. 

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