Read an Excerpt of J.R.R. Tolkien’s 1926 Translation of Beowulf Before It’s Finally Published Next Month

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For the first time, J.R.R. Tolkien’s 1926 trans­la­tion of the 11th cen­tu­ry epic poem Beowulf will be pub­lished this May by Harper­Collins, edit­ed and with com­men­tary by his son Christo­pher. The elder Tolkien, says his son, “seems nev­er to have con­sid­ered its pub­li­ca­tion.” He left it along with sev­er­al oth­er unpub­lished man­u­scripts at the time of his death in 1973. The edi­tion will also include a sto­ry called Sel­l­ic Spell and excerpts from a series of lec­tures on Beowulf Tolkien deliv­ered at Oxford in the 1930s. Tolkien did pub­lish one of those lec­tures, “The Mon­ster and the Crit­ic,” in 1936. In this “epoch-mak­ing paper,” writes Sea­mus Heaney in the intro­duc­tion to his huge­ly pop­u­lar 1999 dual lan­guage verse edi­tion, Tolkien treat­ed the Beowulf poet as “an imag­i­na­tive writer,” not a his­tor­i­cal recon­struc­tion. His “bril­liant lit­er­ary treat­ment changed the way the poem was val­ued and ini­ti­at­ed a new era—and new terms—of appre­ci­a­tion.” This very same thing could be said of Heaney’s trans­la­tion which, true to his stat­ed goals, brought the poem out of aca­d­e­m­ic con­fer­ences and class­rooms and into liv­ing rooms and cof­fee shops every­where. (You can hear Heaney read from that trans­la­tion here.)

Nowhere in Heaney’s intro­duc­tion to his ver­sion does he men­tion Tolkien’s trans­la­tion of the poem, so we must pre­sume he did not know of it. Long before Tolkien’s lec­tures and trans­la­tion, Beowulf had been per­haps the most revered poem in the Eng­lish lan­guage, at least since the 18th cen­tu­ry, when the sole man­u­script was res­cued from fire and and trans­lat­ed and dis­sem­i­nat­ed wide­ly. Despite that sta­tus, Beowulf was not actu­al­ly writ­ten in English—not an Eng­lish we would recognize—but in Old Eng­lish, or Anglo-Sax­on. As read­ers of Heaney’s dual trans­la­tion will know, that dis­tant provin­cial ances­tor of the mod­ern glob­al lan­guage, named for the mix­ture of Ger­man­ic peo­ples who inhab­it­ed Eng­land 1000 years ago, appears most­ly alien to us now. (To add to the strange­ness, its unfa­mil­iar alpha­bet once con­sist­ed entire­ly of runes).

The poem, more­over, is not set in Eng­land, but where Shake­speare set his Ham­let, Den­mark. Its tit­u­lar hero, a prince from Geat (ancient Swe­den), stalks a mon­ster named Gren­del on behalf of Dan­ish king Hroð­gar, killing the monster’s moth­er along the way. Tolkien’s almost uni­ver­sal­ly beloved body of fic­tion was deeply influ­enced by Beowulf. Nev­er­the­less, his trans­la­tion may be less acces­si­ble than Heaney’s, though no less beau­ti­ful, per­haps, for dif­fer­ent rea­sons. In Heaney’s verse, one hears Ted Hugh­es, some echoes of Mil­ton, Heaney’s own voice. If we are to cred­it the red­di­tor who post­ed a now-defunct 2003 arti­cle from Cana­di­an news­pa­per Nation­al Post that quotes from Tolkien’s trans­la­tion, the Hob­bit author’s verse hews to a more direct cor­re­spon­dence with the Anglo Sax­on, a lan­guage made of giant rocks and tim­ber and crash­ing waves, not ele­gant, elab­o­rat­ed claus­es. The Nation­al Post arti­cle announces the dis­cov­ery at Oxford of the Tolkien trans­la­tion by Eng­lish Pro­fes­sor Michael Drout (a sto­ry he’s since debunked), and quotes from both Heaney and Tolkien. See the com­par­i­son below:

Heaney’s trans­la­tion:

Time went by, the boat was
on water,
in close under the cliffs.
Men climbed eager­ly up the
gang­plank,
sand churned in surf, war­riors
loaded
a car­go of weapons, shin­ing
war-gear
in the ves­sel’s hold, then
heaved out,
away with a will in their
wood-wreathed ship.

Tolkien’s trans­la­tion of Beowulf and his men set­ting sail:

On went the hours:
on
ocean afloat
under cliff was their craft.
Now climb blithe­ly
brave man aboard;
break­ers pound­ing
ground the shin­gle.
Gleam­ing har­ness
they hove to the bosom of the
bark, armour
with cun­ning forged then cast
her forth
to voy­age tri­umphant,
valiant-tim­bered
fleet foam twist­ed.

One won­ders what the recent­ly depart­ed Irish poet would have said had he lived to read this Tolkien edi­tion. Might it, as Heaney said of his lec­tures, change the way the poem is val­ued? Or might he see it resem­bling oth­er dif­fi­cult attempts to make mod­ern Eng­lish repli­cate the strong­ly inflect­ed built-in rhythms of Anglo-Saxon—a lan­guage, Tolkien once said, from “the dark hea­then ages beyond the mem­o­ry of song.”

You can pre-order a copy of Tolkien’s trans­la­tion of Beowulf here.

Relat­ed Con­tent:

Sea­mus Heaney Reads His Exquis­ite Trans­la­tion of Beowulf and His Mem­o­rable 1995 Nobel Lec­ture

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

“The Tolkien Pro­fes­sor” Presents Three Free Cours­es on The Lord of the Rings

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

Lists of the Best Sentences — Opening, Closing, and Otherwise — in English-Language Novels

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I go to encounter for the mil­lionth time the real­i­ty of expe­ri­ence and to forge in the smithy of my soul the uncre­at­ed con­science of my race.

— James Joyce, A Por­trait of the Artist as a Young Man

For what do we live, but to make sport for our neigh­bors, and laugh at them in our turn?

— Jane Austen, Pride and Prej­u­dice

There is noth­ing more atro­cious­ly cru­el than an adored child.

— Vladimir Nabokov, Loli­ta

You’ve almost cer­tain­ly read all three of these sen­tences before, or even if you don’t remem­ber the lines in par­tic­u­lar, you’ve prob­a­bly read the famous nov­els they come from. The Amer­i­can Schol­ar high­lights them as three of the ten finest in Eng­lish-lan­guage lit­er­a­ture, along­side oth­er sen­tences com­posed by the likes of F. Scott Fitzger­ald, John Hersey, and Ernest Hem­ing­way. Writ­ing at Poynter.org, Roy Peter Clark explains just what makes these sen­tences so great, from Joyce’s use of “forge” (“For the nar­ra­tor it means to strength­en met­al in fire. But it also means to fake, to coun­ter­feit, per­haps a gen­tle tug at [the pro­tag­o­nist’s] hubris”) to Austen’s struc­tur­al ele­gance (“Who could not admire a sen­tence with such a clear demar­ca­tion begin­ning, mid­dle, and end?”) to Nabokov’s reflec­tion of his nar­ra­tor’s self-delu­sion.

At The Atlantic, Joe Fassler has sep­a­rate­ly col­lect­ed 22 writ­ers’ own favorite nov­el-open­ing lines, a list that includes the one from Nabokov’s high­ly quotable nov­el and anoth­er from lat­er in Joyce’s oeu­vre:

Loli­ta, light of my life, fire of my loins.

— Vladimir Nabokov, Loli­ta, cho­sen by Jonathan Santofler

State­ly, plump Buck Mul­li­gan came from the stair­head, bear­ing a bowl of lath­er on which a mir­ror and a razor lay crossed.

— James Joyce, Ulysses, cho­sen by Lydia Davis

I have nev­er seen any­thing like it: two lit­tle discs of glass sus­pend­ed in front of his eyes in loops of wire.

— J.M. Coet­zee, Wait­ing for the Bar­bar­ians, cho­sen by Antho­ny Mar­ra

If all these don’t sati­ate your appetite for well-wrought sen­tences, the Amer­i­can Book Review has not just its own run­down of the 100 best first lines from nov­els, but of the 100 best last lines as well, a list that fea­tures Coet­zee’s grim colo­nial fable as well as the work of Franzen him­self:

This is not the scene I dreamed of. Like much else nowa­days I leave it feel­ing stu­pid, like a man who lost his way long ago but press­es on along a road that may lead nowhere.

— J.M. Coet­zee, Wait­ing for the Bar­bar­ians

She was sev­en­ty-five and she was going to make some changes in her life.

— Jonathan Franzen, The Cor­rec­tions

“You can trust me,” R.V. says, watch­ing her hand.” “I’m a man of my

— David Fos­ter Wal­lace, The Broom of the Sys­tem

Before you leave a com­ment point­ing out that appar­ent frag­ment of Wal­lace’s sen­tence just above, let me reas­sure you that it appears exact­ly like that in The Broom of the Sys­tem â€” the nov­el just stops there — and that, if you read all the way to that point, you’ll find it a pret­ty bril­liant choice. This just goes to show that the sen­tence, though undoubt­ed­ly the fun­da­men­tal unit for any writer (“All you have to do is write one true sen­tence,” Hem­ing­way would say), always needs a con­text. This meta-list of best-sen­tence lists at Metafil­ter has many more high-qual­i­ty sen­tences for you to admire, and a fair few intrigu­ing enough to send you right out to go read them in con­text.

You can find some of the great books men­tioned above in our col­lec­tion of 575 Free eBooks.

Relat­ed Con­tent:

Open­ing Sen­tences From Great Nov­els, Dia­grammed: Loli­ta, 1984 & More

Nabokov Reads Loli­ta, Names the Great Books of the 20th Cen­tu­ry

James Joyce Reads From Ulysses and Finnegans Wake In His Only Two Record­ings (1924/1929)

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.

Great Shakespeare Plays Retold with Stick Figures in Three Simple Drawings

MacbethComic

Oth­er than Romeo and Juli­et and pos­si­bly Ham­let,  Shake­speare does­n’t exact­ly lend him­self to the ele­va­tor pitch. The same creaky plot devices and unfath­omable jokes that con­found mod­ern audi­ences make for long wind­ed sum­maries.

Not to say it can’t be done. Mya Gosling, a South­east Asia Copy Cat­a­loger at the Uni­ver­si­ty of Michi­gan, has been amus­ing her­self, and more recent­ly oth­ers, with “Good Tick­le Brain,” a web com­ic that reduces each of the com­plete works to a mere three pan­els. (Titus Andron­i­cus’ blood­bath required but one.)

Those of us who are semi-versed in the Bard should delight in the way major char­ac­ters and com­plex side plots are glibly strick­en from the record.

(Methinks Lady Mac­Beth would not be pleased…)

And what high school­er won’t expe­ri­ence a per­verse thrill, when the obscure and bor­ing text his class has been pars­ing for weeks is dis­patched with the swift­ness of your aver­age Garfield? (The wise teacher will be in no rush to share these rev­e­la­tions…)

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Gosling, whose dad intro­duced her to Shake­speare at an ear­ly age, knows the mate­r­i­al well enough to sub­vert it. Who cares if her artis­tic tal­ent max­es out with stick fig­ures? Famil­iar­i­ty allows her to nail the end­ing of Troilus and Cres­si­da (“Home­r’s Ili­ad hap­pens”). The mid­dle pan­el of Win­ter’s Tale is devot­ed to “some poor guy” get­ting eat­en by a bear, and why should­n’t it be, when the author’s famous stage direc­tion is the only thing most peo­ple can dredge up with regard to that par­tic­u­lar play?

As for the title of her web com­ic, it’s an insult from one of her faves, Hen­ry IV, part 1. My kind of geek­ery, for­sooth.

H/T Michael Good­win, the author of Economix, a book that explains The His­to­ry of Eco­nom­ics & Eco­nom­ic The­o­ry with Comics. See a sam­ple by click­ing here.

Relat­ed Con­tent:

Free Course: A Sur­vey of Shakespeare’s Plays

Dis­cov­er What Shakespeare’s Hand­writ­ing Looked Like, and How It Solved a Mys­tery of Author­ship

The Bea­t­les Per­form a Fun Spoof of Shakespeare’s A Mid­sum­mer Night’s Dream (1964)

Ayun Hal­l­i­day’s 16-year-old daugh­ter plays a small part in Michael Almerey­da’s Cym­be­line. Fol­low her @AyunHalliday

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

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Ask an Amer­i­can or an Eng­lish­man who the best Russ­ian poet is, and they’ll gen­uine­ly con­sid­er the ques­tion. The same query, when posed to a Russ­ian, invari­ably yields a sin­gle answer: Alexan­der Pushkin. While his rep­u­ta­tion pos­sess­es a cer­tain renown amid some rar­efied lit­er­ary cir­cles in the West, in Rus­sia, Pushkin is wor­shipped: ele­men­tary school stu­dents mem­o­rize his vers­es, and one would be hard pressed to find a per­son igno­rant of Eugene Onegin’s plot.

By exten­sion, Pushkin’s sketch­es — so beloved in Rus­sia that they’ve been com­piled and pub­lished numer­ous times — remain almost unheard of else­where. Above we’ve includ­ed a sim­ple draw­ing that the poet sketched of the great Russ­ian writer, Niko­lai Gogol. In the fol­low­ing image, below, Pushkin depict­ed anoth­er autho­r­i­al con­tem­po­rary: Alek­sander Gri­boe­dov, whose Woe from Wit remains a Russ­ian clas­sic.

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Fur­ther down is the poet him­self, all curls and side­burns, in a self-por­trait that dates from some­where between 1827 and 1830.

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Pushkin would fre­quent­ly jot down these charm­ing black and white sketch­es both in his per­son­al writ­ings, and in the mar­gins of his man­u­scripts. The final image, a page from Eugene One­gin, is a ter­rif­ic exam­ple of his note­books. Along­side the text, Pushkin includ­ed a sketch of a well-known Russ­ian painter and aris­to­crat, with whom the author was cer­tain­ly acquaint­ed: Count Fyo­dor Petro­vich Tol­stoy (not to be con­fused with the Leo Tol­stoy).

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Ilia Blin­d­er­man is a Mon­tre­al-based cul­ture and sci­ence writer. Fol­low him at @iliablinderman, or read more of his writ­ing at the Huff­in­g­ton Post.

Relat­ed Con­tent:

The His­toric Meet­ing Between Dick­ens and Dos­to­evsky Revealed as a Great Lit­er­ary Hoax

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

Stephen Fry Pro­files Six Russ­ian Writ­ers in the New Doc­u­men­tary Russia’s Open Book

Read All of Shakespeare’s Plays Free Online, Courtesy of the Folger Shakespeare Library

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Just a few short years ago, the world of dig­i­tal schol­ar­ly texts was in its pri­mor­dial stages, and it is still the case that most online edi­tions are sim­ply basic HTML or scanned images from more or less arbi­trar­i­ly cho­sen print edi­tions. An exam­ple of the ear­li­est phas­es of dig­i­tal human­i­ties, MIT’s web edi­tion of the Com­plete Works of William Shake­speare has been online since 1993. The site’s HTML text of the plays is based on the pub­lic domain Moby Text, which—the Fol­ger Shake­speare Library informs us—“reproduces a late-nine­teenth cen­tu­ry ver­sion of the plays,” made “long before schol­ars ful­ly under­stood the prop­er grounds on which to make the thou­sands of deci­sions that Shake­speare edi­tors face.”

The schol­ar­ly Shake­speare edi­to­r­i­al process is far too Byzan­tine to get into, but suf­fice it to say that it mat­ters a great deal to seri­ous stu­dents which edi­tions they read and the new­er, often the bet­ter. And those edi­tions can become very cost­ly. Until recent­ly, the Moby Text was as good as it got for a free online edi­tion.

Oth­er online edi­tions of Shakespeare’s works had their own prob­lems. Bartleby.com has dig­i­tized the 1914 Oxford Com­plete Works, but this is not pub­lic-domain and is also out­dat­ed for schol­ar­ly use. Anoth­er online edi­tion from North­west­ern presents copy­right bar­ri­ers (and seems to have gone on indef­i­nite hia­tus). In light of these dif­fi­cul­ties, George Mason University’s Open Source Shake­speare project recent­ly pined for more: “per­haps some­day, a group of indi­vid­u­als will pro­duce a mod­ern, schol­ar­ly, free alter­na­tive to Moby Shake­speare.” Their wish has now been grant­ed. The Fol­ger Shake­speare Library has released all of Shakespeare’s plays as ful­ly search­able dig­i­tal texts, down­load­able as pdfs, in a free, schol­ar­ly edi­tion that makes all of its source code avail­able as well. Tak­en from 2010 Fol­ger Shake­speare Library edi­tions edit­ed by Bar­bara Mowat and Paul Wer­s­tine, the dig­i­tal plays con­sti­tute an invalu­able open resource.

You will still have to pur­chase Fol­ger print edi­tions for the com­plete “appa­ra­tus” (notes, crit­i­cal essays, tex­tu­al vari­ants, etc). But the Fol­ger promis­es new fea­tures in the near future. Cur­rent­ly, the dig­i­tal text is search­able by act/scene/line, key­word, and page and line num­ber (from the Fol­ger print edi­tions). Fol­ger touts its “metic­u­lous­ly accu­rate texts” as the “#1 Shake­speare text in U.S. class­rooms.” Per­haps some prick­ly expert will weigh in with a dis­par­age­ment, but for us non-spe­cial­ists, the free avail­abil­i­ty of these excel­lent online edi­tions is a great gift indeed.

As you know by now, Shake­speare’s plays can always be found in our col­lec­tion of Free eBooks.

Relat­ed Con­tent:

Free Course: A Sur­vey of Shakespeare’s Plays

What Shake­speare Sound­ed Like to Shake­speare: Recon­struct­ing the Bard’s Orig­i­nal Pro­nun­ci­a­tion

Dis­cov­er What Shakespeare’s Hand­writ­ing Looked Like, and How It Solved a Mys­tery of Author­ship

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

Aleister Crowley: The Wickedest Man in the World Documents the Life of the Bizarre Occultist, Poet & Mountaineer

Per­haps no one sin­gle per­son has had such wide­spread influ­ence on the coun­ter­cul­tur­al turns of the 20th cen­tu­ry as Cam­bridge-edu­cat­ed occultist and inven­tor of the reli­gion of Thele­ma, Aleis­ter Crow­ley. And accord­ing to Crow­ley, he isn’t fin­ished yet. “1000 years from now,” Crow­ley once wrote, “the world will be sit­ting in the sun­set of Crowlian­i­ty.” The self-aggran­diz­ing Crow­ley called him­self “the Great Beast 666” and many oth­er tongue-in-cheek apoc­a­lyp­tic titles. The British press dubbed him “The Wickedest Man in the World,” also the title of the above doc­u­men­tary, one of a four-part BBC 4 series on famous­ly sin­is­ter fig­ures called “Mas­ters of Dark­ness.” Crow­ley is per­haps most famous for his dic­tum “Do what thou wilt,” which, tak­en out of its con­text, seems to be a phi­los­o­phy of absolute, unfet­tered lib­er­tin­ism.

It’s no sur­prise that the par­tic­u­lar treat­ment of Crowley’s life above adopts the tabloid descrip­tion of the magi­cian. The documentary—with its omi­nous music and visu­al effects rem­i­nis­cent of Amer­i­can Hor­ror Sto­ry’s jar­ring open­ing cred­its—takes the sen­sa­tion­al­is­tic tone of true crime TV mixed with the dim light­ing and hand-held cam­er­a­work of para­nor­mal, post-Blair Witch enter­tain­ments. And it may indeed take some lib­er­ties with Crow­ley’s biog­ra­phy. When we’re told by the voice-over that Crow­ley was a “black magi­cian, drug fiend, sex addict, and trai­tor to the British peo­ple,” we are not dis­posed to meet a very lik­able char­ac­ter. Crow­ley would not wish to be remem­bered as one any­way. But despite his pro­nounced dis­dain for all social con­ven­tions and pieties, his sto­ry is much more com­pli­cat­ed and inter­est­ing than the card­board cutout vil­lain this descrip­tion sug­gests.

Born Edward Alexan­der Crow­ley in 1875 to wealthy British Ply­mouth Brethren brew­ers, Crow­ley very ear­ly set about replac­ing the reli­gion of his fam­i­ly and his cul­ture with a vari­ety of extreme endeav­ors, from moun­taineer­ing to sex mag­ic and all man­ner of prac­tices derived from a syn­the­sis of East­ern reli­gions and ancient and mod­ern demonolo­gy. The results were mixed. All but the most adept find most of his occult writ­ing incom­pre­hen­si­ble (though it’s laced with wit and some pro­fun­di­ty). His raunchy, hys­ter­i­cal poet­ry is fre­quent­ly amus­ing. Most peo­ple found his over­bear­ing per­son­al­i­ty unbear­able, and he squan­dered his wealth and lived much of life pen­ni­less. But his biog­ra­phy is inar­guably fascinating—creepy but also hero­ic in a Faus­t­ian way—and his pres­ence is near­ly every­where inescapable. Crow­ley trav­eled the world con­duct­ing mag­i­cal rit­u­als, writ­ing text­books on mag­ic (or “Mag­ick” in his par­lance), found­ing eso­teric orders, and inter­act­ing with some of the most sig­nif­i­cant artists and occult thinkers of his time.

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As a moun­taineer, Crow­ley co-lead the first British expe­di­tion to K2 in 1902 (the pho­to above shows him dur­ing the trek). As a poet, he pub­lished some of the most scan­dalous verse yet print­ed, under the name George Archibald Bish­op in 1898. Dur­ing his brief sojourn in the occult soci­ety Her­met­ic Order of the Gold­en Dawn, he exert­ed some influ­ence on William But­ler Yeats, if only through their mutu­al antipa­thy (Crow­ley may have inspired the “rough beast” of Yeats’ “The Sec­ond Com­ing”). He’s indi­rect­ly con­nect­ed to the devel­op­ment of the jet propul­sion system—through his Amer­i­can pro­tĂ©gĂ©e, rock­et sci­en­tist Jack Par­sons—and of Sci­en­tol­ogy, through Par­sons’ part­ner in mag­ic (and lat­er betray­er), L. Ron Hub­bard.

Though accused of betray­ing the British dur­ing the First World War, it appears he actu­al­ly worked as a dou­ble agent, and he had many ties in the British intel­li­gence com­mu­ni­ty. Crow­ley rubbed elbows with Aldous Hux­ley, Alfred Adler, Roald Dahl, and Ian Flem­ing. After his death in 1947, his life and thought played a role in the work of William S. Bur­roughs, The Bea­t­les, Led Zep­pelin, the Rolling Stones, David Bowie, Ozzy Osbourne, Robert Anton Wil­son, Tim­o­thy Leary, Gen­e­sis P‑Orridge, and count­less oth­ers. Crow­ley pops up in Hem­ing­way’s A Mov­able Feast and he has inspired a num­ber of lit­er­ary char­ac­ters, in for exam­ple Som­er­set Maugham’s The Magi­cian and Christo­pher Isherwood’s A Vis­it to Anselm Oakes.

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So who was Aleis­ter Crow­ley? A sex­u­al­ly lib­er­at­ed genius, a spoiled, ego­ma­ni­a­cal dilet­tante, a campy char­la­tan, a skep­ti­cal trick­ster, a cru­el and abu­sive manip­u­la­tor, a racist misog­y­nist, a Niet­zschean super­man and “icon of rebel­lion” as the nar­ra­tor of his sto­ry above calls him? Some part of all these, per­haps. A 1915 Van­i­ty Fair pro­file put it well: “a leg­end has been built up around his name. He is a myth. No oth­er man has so many strange tales told of him.”

As with all such noto­ri­ous, larg­er-than-life fig­ures, who Crow­ley was depends on whom you ask. The evan­gel­i­cal Chris­tians I was raised among whis­pered his name in hor­ror or pro­nounced it with a sneer as a staunch and par­tic­u­lar­ly insid­i­ous ene­my of the faith. Var­i­ous New Age groups utter his name in rev­er­ence or men­tion it as a mat­ter of course, as physi­cists ref­er­ence New­ton or Ein­stein. In some coun­ter­cul­tur­al cir­cles, Crow­ley is a hip sig­ni­fi­er, like Che Gue­vara, but not much more. Dig into almost any mod­ern occult or neo-pagan sys­tem of thought, from Theos­o­phy to Wic­ca, and you’ll find Crowley’s name and ideas. Whether one’s inter­est in “The Great Beast” is of the pruri­ent vari­ety, as in the inves­ti­ga­tion above, or of a more seri­ous or aca­d­e­m­ic bent, his lega­cy offers a boun­ti­ful plen­ty of bizarre, repul­sive, intrigu­ing, and com­plete­ly absurd vignettes that can beg­gar belief and com­pel one to learn more about the enig­mat­ic, pan-sex­u­al black magi­cian and self-appoint­ed Antichrist.

The Wickedest Man in the World will be added to our col­lec­tion of 200 Free Doc­u­men­taries, part of our larg­er col­lec­tion of 635 Free Movies Online.

Relat­ed Con­tent:

Rare 1930s Audio: W.B. Yeats Reads Four of His Poems

William S. Bur­roughs Teach­es a Free Course on Cre­ative Read­ing and Writ­ing (1979)

How to Oper­ate Your Brain: A User Man­u­al by Tim­o­thy Leary (1993)

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

Free Audio: Alice In Wonderland Read by Cory Doctorow

alice in wonderland doctorowMany of us came across our favorite book serendip­i­tous­ly. No sur­prise: it’s eas­i­est to be com­plete­ly blown away by a work of art or lit­er­a­ture when you approach it with­out any pre-exist­ing expec­ta­tions. For Boing­Bo­ing’s Cory Doc­torow, that book was Lewis Carroll’s Alice In Won­der­land. Doc­torow, now a promi­nent author, jour­nal­ist, and tech­nol­o­gy activist, first came across Carroll’s tale of a young girl who falls down a rab­bit hole in 1978:

“In 1978, I walked into my Crestview Pub­lic School grade two class­room in Wil­low­dale, a sub­urb of Toron­to, and, on the spur of the moment, took Alice in Won­der­land off the shelf. My teacher was Bev Pan­nikkar, who had the amaz­ing empa­thy and good sense to let me be after I hun­kered down behind the low book­shelf and start­ed read­ing. I spent the entire day back there, read­ing. I nev­er stopped.

Today, I am mar­ried to a woman named Alice.”

Below, we’ve includ­ed Doctorow’s lov­ing ren­di­tion of one of his most beloved books, which he ded­i­cates to “his Alice.” Being a staunch oppo­nent of copy­right laws that so often sti­fle inno­va­tion, Doc­torow has made the record­ing, which took place in his office, avail­able for free. You can stream it below, or down­load it at Archive.org.

If you’re look­ing for a ver­sion with a few more bells and whis­tles with regards to pro­duc­tion val­ue, we’ve includ­ed a 1996 audio ver­sion of the book, below. This one is nar­rat­ed by Susan Jame­son and James Sax­on, two actors and vet­er­an audio­book read­ers, who do a won­der­ful job of inject­ing the story’s tongue-in-cheek humor into the record­ing.

Ver­sions of Alice in Won­der­land can be found in our Free Audio Books and Free eBooks col­lec­tions.

Ilia Blin­d­er­man is a Mon­tre­al-based cul­ture and sci­ence writer. Fol­low him at @iliablinderman, or read more of his writ­ing at the Huff­in­g­ton Post.

Relat­ed Con­tent:

See Sal­vador Dali’s Illus­tra­tions for the 1969 Edi­tion of Alice’s Adven­tures in Won­der­land

See The Orig­i­nal Alice In Won­der­land Man­u­script, Hand­writ­ten & Illus­trat­ed By Lewis Car­roll (1864)

Alice in Won­der­land: The Orig­i­nal 1903 Film Adap­ta­tion

A Reading of Charles Bukowski’s First Published Story, “Aftermath of a Lengthy Rejection Slip” (1944)

BukowskiStoryCover

“Everyone’s got to start some­where,” a banal plat­i­tude that express­es a tru­ism worth repeat­ing: wher­ev­er you are, you’ve got to get start­ed. If you’re John Updike (who would have been 82 years old yes­ter­day), you start where so many oth­er accom­plished fig­ures have, the Har­vard Lam­poon. If you’re Charles Bukows­ki… believe it or not, you actu­al­ly start in an equal­ly renowned pub­li­ca­tion. Bukowski’s first fic­tion appeared in Sto­ry, a mag­a­zine that helped launch the careers of Cheev­er, Salinger, Saroy­an, Car­son McCullers and Richard Wright.

But if you’re Charles Bukows­ki, you come out swing­ing. Your first pub­lished work in 1944  is a non­sense sto­ry writ­ten as an eff you to the edi­tor, Whit Bur­nett. You fea­ture Mr. Bur­nett as a char­ac­ter, along with a cat who shakes hands (sort of), a pros­ti­tute named Mil­lie, a few card-play­ing drunks, an impe­ri­ous “short sto­ry instruc­tress,” and a mys­te­ri­ous “bleary-eyed tramp.” Oh, and you open the sto­ry by quot­ing ver­ba­tim one of Burnett’s rejec­tion let­ters:

Dear Mr. Bukows­ki:

Again, this is a con­glom­er­a­tion of extreme­ly good stuff and oth­er stuff so full of idol­ized pros­ti­tutes, morn­ing-after vom­it­ing scenes, mis­an­thropy, praise for sui­cide etc. that it is not quite for a mag­a­zine of any cir­cu­la­tion at all. This is, how­ev­er, pret­ty much the saga of a cer­tain type of per­son and in it I think you’ve done an hon­est job. Pos­si­bly we will print you some­time but I don’t know exact­ly when. That depends on you.

Sin­cere­ly yours,

Whit Bur­nett

I won’t spoil it for you—you must read (or lis­ten to below) “After­math of a Lengthy Rejec­tion Slip” for yourself—but the let­ter sets up a typ­i­cal­ly Bukowskian punch­line: wry and sar­cas­tic and wist­ful and lyri­cal all at once.

Bukows­ki was 24 and had only been writ­ing for two years by this time. He lat­er recalled being very unhap­py with the pub­li­ca­tion. For one, writes Book­tryst, “it had been buried in the End Pages sec­tion of the mag­a­zine as, Bukows­ki felt, a curios­i­ty rather than a seri­ous piece of writ­ing.” How­ev­er, Bukows­ki had already sent Sto­ry dozens of what he con­sid­ered seri­ous pieces of writ­ing before pen­ning “After­math,” which he admits he tamed for the sake of Burnett’s sen­si­bil­i­ties. In an inter­view near the end of his life, Bukows­ki remem­bered sub­mit­ting to the mag­a­zine â€śa cou­ple of short sto­ries a week for maybe a year and half. The sto­ry they final­ly accept­ed was mild in com­par­i­son to the oth­ers. I mean in terms of con­tent and style and gam­ble and explo­ration and all that.”

Bukows­ki may have been bit­ter, but his first pub­li­ca­tion, and last sub­mis­sion to Sto­ry, might deserve cred­it for inspir­ing a life­time of boozy mate­r­i­al: look­ing back, he recalls that after the per­ceived slight, he “drank and became one of the best drinkers any­where, which takes some tal­ent also.” Everybody’s got to start some­where.

Book­tryst has more to the sto­ry, as well as sev­er­al images of the rare 1944 Bukows­ki issue of Sto­ry. Above, in two parts, lis­ten to the sto­ry in the won­der­ful­ly dry bari­tone of Tom O’Bedlam, whom you may already know from our pre­vi­ous posts on Bukowski’s poems “Nir­vana” and “So You Want to Be a Writer?”

Relat­ed Con­tent:

Three Inter­pre­ta­tions of Charles Bukowski’s Melan­choly Poem “Nir­vana”

Lis­ten to Charles Bukows­ki Poems Being Read by Bukows­ki Him­self & the Great Tom Waits

So You Want to Be a Writer?: Charles Bukows­ki Explains the Dos & Don’ts

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

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