Cartoonist R. Crumb Assesses 21 Cultural Figures, from Dylan & Hitchcock, to Kafka & The Beatles

alex&crumb

Any fan of “under­ground” com­ic artist Robert Crumb knows that the man has no shy­ness about his pref­er­ences: not in jazz music, not in pol­i­tics, and cer­tain­ly not in the female form. Alex Wood, co-oper­a­tor of the offi­cial R. Crumb site (pic­tured with Crumb above), has dis­cov­ered that the artist’s opin­ions offer a vivid win­dow into the artist’s mind. “Over the years, talk­ing with Robert about many dif­fer­ent things, I’ve been sur­prised by some of the things he likes and dis­likes,” Wood writes. “We all know he loves old music from the ear­ly part of the last cen­tu­ry, and does­n’t like rock music. But then he says he likes Tom­my James and the Shon­dells, and Sam the Sham and the Pharaohs? So in a dis­cus­sion in May, 2011, I asked his opin­ion on a list of peo­ple in the news past and present.” This became part one of the series “Crumb on Oth­ers,” which has at this point grown to sev­en full pages.

Below, we offer you a selec­tion of the rough­ly 150 fig­ures from music, film, visu­al art, and let­ters Crumb has so far assessed, his reac­tions rang­ing from high praise to out­right dis­missal to amus­ing anec­dotes of his own encoun­ters with the lumi­nar­ies in ques­tion. With these, you can see how your notes on the likes of Bob Dylan, Alfred Hitch­cock, Philip K. Dick, and Charles Dar­win com­pare with those of the cre­ator of Fritz the Cat and Mr. Nat­ur­al, the hand that gave us “Keep on Truckin’,” and the lead­ing light of of Zap Comix — a lumi­nary who has gen­er­at­ed no small amount of high praise, out­right dis­missal, and amus­ing anec­dote him­self. Here are the remain­ing parts. Part 2, Part 3, Part 4, Part 5, Part 6, and Part 7.

On Mark Twain: “Tom Sawyer and Huck­le­ber­ry Finn don’t do that much for me. But his lat­er stuff, he gets more cranky as he gets old­er. His cri­tique gets more inter­est­ing. When I was 15, I read What Is Man? and it made a pro­found impres­sion on me. It changed my life. It’s all about pre­des­ti­na­tion ver­sus freewill. He was a big believ­er in pre­des­ti­na­tion. He didn’t think we had any free will.”

On Bob Dylan: “I hate his voice. I can’t stand to hear him sing. I thought some of the songs that he wrote in the mid-60s were kind of clever, with clever lyrics. But I just can’t stand to hear him or see him per­form. And I think his heart is in the right place a lot of times, you know. Some­one told me he was an afi­ciona­do of old 20s, old time music, and that he lis­tens to the same kind of stuff I like.”

On Walt Dis­ney: “When I was a lit­tle kid in the 50s, we were pro­found­ly enthralled by Dis­ney, and pro­found­ly affect­ed by the Dis­ney vision. But to my taste, the whole thing starts to decline in the ear­ly 1950s. The last one that I think is a tru­ly vision­ary work is Alice In Won­der­land. Begin­ning with Peter Pan cir­ca 1953 it starts to slide into some­thing too cor­po­rate.”

On Janis Joplin: “Sad case, very sad case. She tried to act like she was hard and tough, but she wasn’t at all. She was soft and vul­ner­a­ble. She drank a lot, and got a lot of bad advice. She was sur­round­ed by vul­tures and vam­pires and scoundrels, and they just did her in. She final­ly end­ed up face-down in her own vom­it alone in some hotel room; too much hero­in and alco­hol, 27 years old.”

On Alfred Hitch­cock: “I talked to some­body who knew Kim Novak, some old­er woman, and Kim Novak told her shock­ing things about Alfred Hitch­cock and his sex­u­al pro­cliv­i­ties. That kind of sur­prised me. I don’t know why. I guess when you look at Hitch­cock you don’t see a guy with an aggres­sive sex­u­al libido. Just goes to show you can nev­er tell a book by its cov­er. I ought to know that by now.”

On The Bea­t­les: “Some of the last stuff they did, you know, it kind of gets dark, and that’s more inter­est­ing to me, the last stuff they did before they broke up. Well, that and the music they did before they actu­al­ly start­ed record­ing under Bri­an Epstein. The only way you can hear that, I think, is to see the doc­u­men­taries where it shows them play­ing in Ham­burg and the Cav­ern Club. Before Bri­an Epstein got ahold of them and cleaned them up and made them over into those cute mop-tops and put them in those mod suits. Before that, they were greas­er guys – leather jack­ets and greasy hair. And they just played this sort of dri­ving, hard rock-a-bil­ly music. And they were real­ly good at that.”

On Pablo Picas­so: “I once wrote that I envied Picas­so, because he was the type of artist who didn’t let any­thing stand in the way of his art. He would just slam the door on his wives, his girl­friends, his chil­dren – any­body, when it was time to do his art. I always envied that about him. Also his pow­er­ful, pen­e­trat­ing, hyp­not­ic way with women. I envied that about him too.”

On Franz Kaf­ka: “Before I did that book on Kaf­ka, I had nev­er read him and didn’t know any­thing about him. But once I took that book project on, then I had to read all his stuff. And then I real­ly got to like him. And while work­ing on that project, I felt a very close kin­ship with Kaf­ka. It was very strange. I start­ed feel­ing deeply con­nect­ed to Kaf­ka some­how. Some­thing I hadn’t expect­ed at all.”

On Charles Bukows­ki: “Love ’im, love his writ­ing. He was a very dif­fi­cult guy to hang out with in per­son, but on paper he was great. One of the great Amer­i­can writ­ers of the late 20th Cen­tu­ry. [ … ] The last time I saw Bukows­ki, he came to this par­ty in San Fran­cis­co, it was a poet­ry read­ing. And these two women that I knew  they just kind of closed in on Bukows­ki. One was talk­ing to him in one ear and the oth­er was talk­ing to him in his oth­er ear. He was stand­ing there with a beer bot­tle in each hand and get­ting drunk as fast as he could. And the last moment I saw him, they were lead­ing him off to the bed­room.”

On William Bur­roughs: “He was a very eccen­tric char­ac­ter; very eccen­tric ideas and thoughts. He tried all kinds of strange, avant-garde psy­chother­a­pies. He was into psy­chic exper­i­men­ta­tion. He built him­self an orgone box based upon the the­o­ries of Wil­helm Reich. He lat­er got involved in Sci­en­tol­ogy and had this E‑meter and used it as a way to psy­chi­cal­ly clear him­self. He said it was his elec­tri­cal Oui­ja board. He tried oth­er stuff too, like out of body expe­ri­ence. I can relate to all that stuff because I’m inter­est­ed in all that fringe, psy­chic exper­i­men­ta­tion also. But he was very seri­ous about that stuff.”

On Bet­tie Page: “She had the most per­fect body and the cutest face of all in that pin­up era of the 1940s and 1950s. She was the gold stan­dard. There was nobody supe­ri­or to her phys­i­cal­ly. And her pos­es, she always looked cheer­ful and whole­some, she nev­er looked sleazy. It didn’t mat­ter if she was pos­ing in a sado­masochis­tic set­up with those high heel boots and whips, it always looks like it’s just a fun­ny game to her, you know? She could have a ball-gag in her mouth and she looks like the girl next door just hav­ing fun.”

On Woody Allen: One of my favorite movies of his was Crimes and Mis­de­meanors. It was a great movie. In that movie, there was an esteemed oph­thal­mol­o­gist, very respect­ed in his pro­fes­sion. He has this mis­tress, this neu­rot­ic woman and she’s threat­en­ing to expose him and the secret affair he’s hav­ing. She threat­ens to come over to his house and make a big scene and ruin his life. He also has a broth­er who’s involved in the crime syn­di­cate. So he goes to the broth­er and the broth­er has her killed by a pro­fes­sion­al. All the main male char­ac­ters in the movie, I’ve come to sus­pect that they’re all parts of Woody Allen’s per­son­al­i­ty. The respect­ed oph­thal­mol­o­gist is part of him; this nerdy, ide­al­is­tic doc­u­men­tary film-mak­er — that’s part of him. And there’s this real­ly arro­gant com­e­dy writer/director played by Alan Alda who plays such a jerk, and that’s part of Woody Allen also; very inter­est­ing. And I sus­pect that movie is kind of — and I don’t even know how aware of it he was — a con­fes­sion. It was right around the time that whole scan­dal with Mia Far­row’s daugh­ter hap­pened — maybe right before — because Mia Far­row was in it. But, the oph­thal­mol­o­gist gets away with it.”

On Philip K. Dick: “I’ve actu­al­ly nev­er read any of his books. All I ever read was inter­views with him and that account he gave of his reli­gious expe­ri­ence — his mys­ti­cal expe­ri­ence. The whole expe­ri­ence… the way he described it, it was great. I should read his books but I nev­er got around to it. I was nev­er big on sci­ence fic­tion, but he was always more inter­est­ing and imag­i­na­tive than a lot of sci­ence fic­tion writ­ers.” (Crumb illus­trat­ed Dick­’s “meet­ing with God.”)

On Charles Dar­win: “I nev­er real­ly read Dar­win or stud­ied much about him. I have the most broad, gen­er­al idea about his the­o­ries of nat­ur­al selec­tion and evo­lu­tion. But I do know that when a lot of upper class Eng­lish peo­ple start­ed read­ing his books, and his the­o­ries began to be wide­ly known in the 1870s, it cre­at­ed a huge change that has­n’t been wide­ly rec­og­nized by his­to­ri­ans, to my knowl­edge. Peo­ple’s atti­tudes toward reli­gion changed due to his book, par­tic­u­lar­ly in the upper class­es in Eng­land, they stopped con­sid­er­ing it their absolute duty to go to church and be a good church-going per­son. A lot of the upper class dropped out, let their church mem­ber­ship lapse. Before that. they all went to church, for appear­ance sake if noth­ing else. But after Dar­win, that all changed.”

On Jack Ker­ouac: “When I was 17, I read On The Road, and it sick­ened me, because my reac­tion was, ‘Oh God, these guys are out there hav­ing so much fun. I’m not hav­ing any fun at all. I’m just sit­ting here in my par­ents house. But them — the girls, the adven­tures, they’re just like hav­ing a fuckin’ lark On The Road.’ ”

On Jean-Paul Sartre: “A fun­ny guy, Sarte’s a fun­ny guy. You know, peo­ple don’t think of him as fun­ny because he was so seri­ous about exis­ten­tial­ism and com­mu­nism and stuff like that. [ … ] He wrote a book about his child­hood that was pret­ty fun­ny. It’s very self-dep­re­cat­ing, and he writes about what a lit­tle bour­geois, arro­gant shit he was as a kid. Fun­ny guy, I like Sarte.”

On Michelan­ge­lo: “The guy is just like glo­ri­fy­ing the male body. It’s all about writhing, mus­cu­lar male bod­ies. And even the women, they have male bod­ies with tits past­ed on. The guy’s not into women, you can tell. He’s not into fem­i­nine at all. He’s not inter­est­ed in the round, ellip­ti­cal charms of the female form. No, he’s inter­est­ed in the lumpy, mus­cu­lar male body. And the whole [Sis­tine] Chapel is noth­ing but that.”

On Hen­ry Miller:  “Just like Ker­ouac, I was about nine­teen when I read him, and again, I was dev­as­tat­ed because he was hav­ing too much fuck­ing fun. He was fuck­ing so many women. He was so suc­cess­ful with women, it made me sick. He’d brag about how he came on to some woman on the street and end­ed up fuck­ing her in the bush­es. I thought, ‘God, how does he do that?’ It made me sick with envy. But try­ing to read him lat­er, I thought he was way, way, too long-wind­ed. I thought he need­ed seri­ous edit­ing.”

On Orson Welles: “I don’t under­stand why some peo­ple are so impressed by that guy. The most enter­tain­ing Orson Welles thing I’ve ever heard was some out­takes from a radio com­mer­cial that he was doing. And he’s real­ly in a bad mood and he’s insult­ing the pro­duc­ers and tech­ni­cians in the stu­dio and telling them, ‘This is a lot of shit I hope you know.’ ”

On Hunter Thomp­son: “I met him a cou­ple of times. He used to hang out at that Mitchell Broth­ers The­ater on O’Far­rell Street in San Fran­cis­co, which was a strip joint run by the Mitchell Broth­ers. There was this kind of like Irish-Jour­nal­ist-Mafia that used to hang around there. He and these oth­er Irish char­ac­ters from San Fran­cis­co who were into jour­nal­ism there, news­pa­per guys, they hung around there for some rea­son, I don’t know why. But Thomp­son did a lot of cocaine and drank, and then he would go on these long ‘cocaine raps,’ rant­i­ng and rav­ing. But by the time I met him, y’ know, he was already well-advanced to being real­ly fuck­ing out of his mind.”

On Mar­tin Scors­ese: “I think Good­fel­las is prob­a­bly the best film about the mod­ern Amer­i­can crime syn­di­cates. Casi­no was kind of a fol­low-up to Good­fel­las, and I did­n’t think it was quite as good. Prob­a­bly Good­fel­las got so much praise it kind of went to his head so every­body got togeth­er and made this indul­gent film. It had it’s good parts, it was good, it just was­n’t as good as Good­fel­las. For one thing, there were too many close ups on DeNiro’s face. I just kept want­i­ng the cam­era to back-off. OK, you think the guy’s great look­ing, but Jesus, OK, it’s enough, back-off!”

Relat­ed Con­tent:

The Con­fes­sions of Robert Crumb: A Por­trait Script­ed by the Under­ground Comics Leg­end Him­self (1987)

Record Cov­er Art by Under­ground Car­toon­ist Robert Crumb

A Short His­to­ry of Amer­i­ca, Accord­ing to the Irrev­er­ent Com­ic Satirist Robert Crumb

R. Crumb’s Heroes of Blues, Jazz & Coun­try Fea­tures 114 Illus­tra­tions of the Artist’s Favorite Musi­cians

Robert Crumb Illus­trates Philip K. Dick’s Infa­mous, Hal­lu­ci­na­to­ry Meet­ing with God (1974)

Col­in Mar­shall hosts and pro­duces Note­book on Cities and Cul­ture and writes essays on cities, Asia, film, lit­er­a­ture, and aes­thet­ics. He’s at work on a book about Los Ange­les, A Los Ange­les Primer. Fol­low him on Twit­ter at @colinmarshall or on his brand new Face­book page.

Read 9 Free Articles by Hunter S. Thompson That Span His Gonzo Journalist Career (1965–2005)

Image  via Wiki­me­dia Com­mons

Most read­ers know Hunter S. Thomp­son for his 1971 book Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas: A Sav­age Jour­ney to the Heart of the Amer­i­can Dream. But in over 45 years of writ­ing, this pro­lif­ic observ­er of the Amer­i­can scene wrote volu­mi­nous­ly, often hilar­i­ous­ly, and usu­al­ly with decep­tive­ly clear-eyed vit­ri­ol on sports, pol­i­tics, media, and oth­er vicious­ly addic­tive pur­suits. (“I hate to advo­cate drugs, alco­hol, vio­lence, or insan­i­ty to any­one,” he famous­ly said, “but they’ve always worked for me.”) His dis­tinc­tive style, often imi­tat­ed but nev­er repli­cat­ed, all but forced the coin­ing of the term “gonzo” jour­nal­ism. But what could define it? One clue comes in Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas itself, when Thomp­son reflects on his expe­ri­ence in the city, osten­si­bly as a reporter: “What was the sto­ry? Nobody had both­ered to say. So we would have to drum it up on our own. Free Enter­prise. The Amer­i­can Dream. Hor­a­tio Alger gone mad on drugs in Las Vegas. Do it now: pure Gonzo jour­nal­ism.”

You’ll find out more in the Paris Review’s inter­view with Thomp­son, in which he recounts once feel­ing that “jour­nal­ism was just a tick­et to ride out, that I was basi­cal­ly meant for high­er things. Nov­els.” Sit­ting down to begin his prop­er lit­er­ary career, Thomp­son took a quick job writ­ing up the Hel­l’s Angels, which let him get over “the idea that jour­nal­ism was a low­er call­ing. Jour­nal­ism is fun because it offers imme­di­ate work. You get hired and at least you can cov­er the f&cking City Hall. It’s excit­ing.” And then came the real epiphany, after he went to cov­er the Ken­tucky Der­by for Scan­lan’s: “Most depress­ing days of my life. I’d lie in my tub at the Roy­al­ton. I thought I had failed com­plete­ly as a jour­nal­ist. Final­ly, in des­per­a­tion and embar­rass­ment, I began to rip the pages out of my note­book and give them to a copy­boy to take to a fax machine down the street. When I left I was a bro­ken man, failed total­ly, and con­vinced I’d be exposed when the stuff came out.”

Indeed, the expo­sure came, but not in the way he expect­ed. Below, we’ve col­lect­ed ten of Thomp­son’s arti­cles freely avail­able online, from those ear­ly pieces on the Hel­l’s Angels and the Ken­tucky Der­by to oth­ers on the 1972 Pres­i­den­tial race, the Hon­olu­lu Marathon, Richard Nixon, and wee-hour con­ver­sa­tions with Bill Mur­ray. But don’t take these sub­jects too lit­er­al­ly; Thomp­son always had a way of find­ing some­thing even more inter­est­ing in exact­ly the oppo­site direc­tion from what­ev­er he’d ini­tial­ly meant to write about. And that, per­haps, reveals more about the gonzo method than any­thing else.

The Motor­cy­cle Gangs: Losers and Out­siders” (The Nation, 1965) The arti­cle that would become the basis for Thomp­son’s first book, Hel­l’s Angels: The Strange and Ter­ri­ble Saga of the Out­law Motor­cy­cle Gangs. “When you get in an argu­ment with a group of out­law motor­cy­clists, you can gen­er­al­ly count your chances of emerg­ing unmaimed by the num­ber of heavy-hand­ed allies you can muster in the time it takes to smash a beer bot­tle. In this league, sports­man­ship is for old lib­er­als and young fools.”

Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas (Rolling Stone, 1971) The Gonzo jour­nal­ism clas­sic first appeared as a two-part series in Rolling Stone mag­a­zine in Novem­ber 1971, com­plete with illus­tra­tions from Ralph Stead­man, before being pub­lished as a book in 1972.  Rolling Stone has post­ed the orig­i­nal ver­sion on its web site.

Fear and Loathing on the Cam­paign Trail in ’72″ (Rolling Stone, 1973) Excerpts from Thomp­son’s book of near­ly the same name, an exam­i­na­tion of Demo­c­ra­t­ic Par­ty can­di­date George McGov­ern’s unsuc­cess­ful bid for the Pres­i­den­cy that McGov­ern’s cam­paign man­ag­er Frank Mankiewicz called “the least fac­tu­al, most accu­rate account” in print. “My own the­o­ry, which sounds like mad­ness, is that McGov­ern would have been bet­ter off run­ning against Nixon with the same kind of neo-‘radical’ cam­paign he ran in the pri­maries. Not rad­i­cal in the left/right sense, but rad­i­cal in a sense that he was com­ing on with a new… a dif­fer­ent type of politi­cian… a per­son who actu­al­ly would grab the sys­tem by the ears and shake it.”

The Curse of Lono” (Play­boy, 1983) Thomp­son and Stead­man’s assign­ment from Run­ning mag­a­zine to cov­er the Hon­ololu marathon turns into a char­ac­ter­is­ti­cal­ly “ter­ri­ble mis­ad­ven­ture,” this one even involv­ing the old Hawai­ian gods. “It was not easy for me, either, to accept the fact that I was born 1700 years ago in an ocean-going canoe some­where off the Kona Coast of Hawaii, a prince of roy­al Poly­ne­sian blood, and lived my first life as King Lono, ruler of all the islands, god of excess, unde­feat­ed box­er. How’s that for roots?”

He Was a Crook” (Rolling Stone, 1994) Thomp­son’s obit­u­ary of, and per­son­al his­to­ry of his hatred for, Pres­i­dent Richard M. Nixon. “Some peo­ple will say that words like scum and rot­ten are wrong for Objec­tive Jour­nal­ism — which is true, but they miss the point. It was the built-in blind spots of the Objec­tive rules and dog­ma that allowed Nixon to slith­er into the White House in the first place.

Doomed Love at the Taco Stand” (Time, 2001) Thomp­son’s adven­tures in Cal­i­for­nia, to which he has returned for the pro­duc­tion of Ter­ry Gilliam’s film adap­ta­tion of Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas star­ring John­ny Depp. “I had to set­tle for half of Dep­p’s trail­er, along with his C4 Porsche and his wig, so I could look more like myself when I drove around Bev­er­ly Hills and stared at peo­ple when we rolled to a halt at stop­lights on Rodeo Dri­ve.”

Fear & Loathing in Amer­i­ca” (ESPN.com, 2001) In the imme­di­ate after­math of 9/11, Thomp­son looks out onto the grim and para­noid future he sees ahead. “This is going to be a very expen­sive war, and Vic­to­ry is not guar­an­teed — for any­one, and cer­tain­ly not for any­one as baf­fled as George W. Bush.”

“Pris­on­er of Den­ver” (Van­i­ty Fair, 2004) A chron­i­cle of Thomp­son’s (posthu­mous­ly suc­cess­ful) involve­ment in the case of Lisl Auman, a young woman he believed wrong­ful­ly impris­oned for the mur­der of a police offi­cer. “ ‘We’ is the most pow­er­ful word in pol­i­tics. Today it’s Lisl Auman, but tomor­row it could be you, me, us.”

Shot­gun Golf with Bill Mur­ray” (ESPN.com, 2005) Thomp­son’s final piece of writ­ing, in which he runs an idea for a new sport —com­bin­ing golf, Japan­ese mul­ti­sto­ry dri­ving ranges, and the dis­charg­ing of shot­guns — by the com­e­dy leg­end at 3:30 in the morn­ing. “It was Bill Mur­ray who taught me how to mor­ti­fy your oppo­nents in any sport­ing con­test, hon­est or oth­er­wise. He taught me my humil­i­at­ing PGA fade­away shot, which has earned me a lot of mon­ey… after that, I taught him how to swim, and then I intro­duced him to the shoot­ing arts, and now he wins every­thing he touch­es.”

Relat­ed Con­tent:

Hunter S. Thompson’s Har­row­ing, Chem­i­cal-Filled Dai­ly Rou­tine

Hunter S. Thomp­son Calls Tech Sup­port, Unleash­es a Tirade Full of Fear and Loathing (NSFW)

John­ny Depp Reads Let­ters from Hunter S. Thomp­son (NSFW)

Hunter S. Thomp­son Remem­bers Jim­my Carter’s Cap­ti­vat­ing Bob Dylan Speech (1974)

Col­in Mar­shall hosts and pro­duces Note­book on Cities and Cul­ture and writes essays on cities, Asia, film, lit­er­a­ture, and aes­thet­ics. He’s at work on a book about Los Ange­les, A Los Ange­les Primer. Fol­low him on Twit­ter at @colinmarshall or on his brand new Face­book page.

Sherlock Holmes Is Now in the Public Domain, Declares US Judge

sherlock_holmes_in_public domain

Chief Judge Rubén Castil­lo of the Unit­ed States Dis­trict Court of the North­ern Dis­trict of Illi­nois has ruled that the char­ac­ters and sto­ry lines used in 50 Sher­lock Holmes texts pub­lished by Arthur Conan Doyle before Jan. 1, 1923 “are no longer cov­ered by Unit­ed States copy­right law and can be freely used by cre­ators with­out pay­ing any licens­ing fee to the Conan Doyle estate,” reports The New York Times. This gives con­tem­po­rary authors the abil­i­ty to write their own Sher­lock Holmes mys­tery sto­ries and keep con­tribut­ing to a rich tra­di­tion of detec­tive fic­tion. It would also seem­ing­ly put pre-1923 texts firm­ly in the pub­lic domain. (You can find The Adven­tures of Sher­lock Holmes and oth­er relat­ed sto­ries in our Free eBooks and Free Audio Books col­lec­tions. ) Leslie S. Klinger, the edi­tor of The Com­plete Anno­tat­ed Sher­lock Holmes, who filed the civ­il suit, praised the judge’s deci­sion, say­ing “Peo­ple want to cel­e­brate Holmes and Wat­son, and now they can do that with­out fear.” Now it’s time for them to write some­thing that can hold a can­dle to what Conan Doyle cre­at­ed those many years ago.

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via Arts Beat

Relat­ed Con­tent:

Arthur Conan Doyle Dis­cuss­es Sher­lock Holmes and Psy­chics in a Rare Filmed Inter­view (1927)

Arthur Conan Doyle & The Cot­tin­g­ley Fairies: How Two Young Girls Fooled Sher­lock Holmes’ Cre­ator

Arthur Conan Doyle Fills Out the Ques­tion­naire Made Famous By Mar­cel Proust (1899)

Watch John Cleese as Sher­lock Holmes in The Strange Case of the End of Civ­i­liza­tion as We Know It

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

When I saw William Blake’s illus­tra­tions for the book of Job and for John Milton’s L’Allegro and Il Penseroso at the Mor­gan Library a few years ago, I was first struck by how small the intri­cate water­col­ors are. This should not have been surprising—these are book illus­tra­tions, after all. But William Blake (1757–1827) is such a tremen­dous force, his work so mon­u­men­tal­ly strange and beau­ti­ful, that one expects to be over­pow­ered by it. In per­son, his draw­ings are indeed impres­sive, but they are equal­ly so for their care­ful atten­tion to design and com­po­si­tion as for their heavy, often quite ter­ri­fy­ing sub­jects.

Look, for exam­ple, at the play of pat­terns behind the fig­ures in the illus­tra­tion above, from an edi­tion of Milton’s Par­adise Lost. The fig­ure in the cen­ter depicts Milton’s grotesque­ly graph­ic alle­gor­i­cal con­struc­tion of Sin. In Mil­ton, this char­ac­ter “seemed woman to the waist, and fair,”

But end­ed foul in many a scaly fold
Volu­mi­nous and vast, a ser­pent armed
With mor­tal sting: about her mid­dle round
A cry of hell hounds nev­er ceas­ing barked
With wide Cer­ber­ian mouths full loud, and rung
A hideous peal: yet, when they list, would creep,
If ought dis­turbed their noise, into her womb,
And ken­nel there, yet there still barked and howled,
With­in unseen.

Blake spares us the hor­ror of the lat­ter image—in fact he gets a lit­tle vague on the details of the creature’s nether­parts, which were always dif­fi­cult to imag­ine, and empha­sizes the “fair” parts above (in the ver­sion below, the serpent/dog thing looks like a cos­tume prop). Milton’s descrip­tion always seemed to me one of the cru­elest, most misog­y­nis­tic ren­der­ings of the female body in lit­er­a­ture. Blake’s por­trait relieves Milton’s nas­ti­ness, mak­ing Sin sym­pa­thet­ic and, well, kin­da hot, a Blakean feat for sure. The char­ac­ters to her left and right are Satan and Death, respec­tive­ly.

 

Blake loved Mil­ton, and illus­trat­ed his work more than any oth­er author. And he illus­trat­ed Par­adise Lost more than any oth­er Mil­ton, in three sep­a­rate com­mis­sions (peruse them all here).  The first set dates from 1807, com­mis­sioned by Joseph Thomas. (The Satan, Sin, and Death scene above comes from the Thomas set.) The sec­ond set, from which the image at the top comes, was com­mis­sioned in 1808 by Thomas Butts. Blake patron John Lin­nell com­mis­sioned the third set of illus­tra­tions in 1822. Only three of the Lin­nell paint­ings survive—none of the scene above. In one of the 1822 illus­tra­tions (below), Satan spies on Adam and Eve as they canoo­dle in the gar­den.

Blake’s obses­sion with Par­adise Lost inspired his own cracked the­o­log­i­cal fable, Mil­ton: a Poem in Two Books, with its bizarre pre­am­ble in which Blake promis­es to “buil[d] Jerusalem / In England’s green and pleas­ant land.” One writer calls Blake’s Mil­ton “a lengthy and dif­fi­cult apoc­a­lyp­tic poem with a fas­ci­nat­ing hal­lu­ci­na­to­ry qual­i­ty.” The poem caused many of Blake’s con­tem­po­raries to con­clude that “he was quite mad.” But I think his work shows us a man with all of his fac­ul­ties, and maybe a few extra besides, although his paint­ings, like his weird­er poet­ry, can also seem like crazed hal­lu­ci­na­tions. He meant his var­i­ous Par­adise Lost illus­tra­tions to cor­rect ear­li­er ren­der­ings by oth­er artists, includ­ing a polit­i­cal satire by car­toon­ist James Gill­ray in 1792 and a 1740 paint­ing by William Hog­a­rth that today resem­bles the cov­er of a bad fan­ta­sy nov­el. See both of those ear­li­er ver­sions here.

via Bib­liokept

Relat­ed Con­tent:

Gus­tave Doré’s Dra­mat­ic Illus­tra­tions of Dante’s Divine Com­e­dy

Alber­to Martini’s Haunt­ing Illus­tra­tions of Dante’s Divine Com­e­dy (1901–1944)

Spenser and Mil­ton (Free Course)

Find Works by Mil­ton in our Free Audio Books and Free eBooks Col­lec­tions

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

Try George Orwell’s Recipe for Christmas Pudding, from His Essay “British Cookery” (1945)

OrwellsPudding1

British cook­ing has been the butt of many jokes, and seri­ous thought-pieces have been devot­ed to “why British food was so bad for so long.” While that arti­cle blames WWI for the decline of Eng­lish Cui­sine, the stig­ma long pre­cedes the 20th cen­tu­ry. In his unpub­lished essay “British Cook­ery,” for exam­ple, George Orwell opens with a quote from Voltaire, who wrote that Britain has “a hun­dred reli­gions and only one sauce.” This, Orwell writes, “was untrue” and “is equal­ly untrue today.” His “today” was 1945, before the best British cui­sine was Indi­an. And though he does defend his country’s cook­ing, and did so in anoth­er essay pub­lished that year in the Evening Stan­dard, Orwell also makes some crit­i­cal com­ments that con­firm some of the stereo­types, call­ing the British diet “a sim­ple, rather heavy, per­haps slight­ly bar­barous diet” and writ­ing: “Cheap restau­rants in Britain are almost invari­ably bad, while in expen­sive restau­rants the cook­ery is almost always French, or imi­ta­tion French.”

OrwellsPudding2

The essay is an exhaus­tive sur­vey of the British palate of the time, and it con­cludes with some of Orwell’s own recipes for sweets, includ­ing trea­cle tart, orange mar­malade, plum cake, and, last­ly, Christ­mas pud­ding. You can see the stained type­script of the last two recipes above, and read the full tran­script of Orwell’s “British Cook­ery” here (the recipes are at the end). Hav­ing no expe­ri­ence with the strange world of British sweets and pies, I’ll have to take The Guardian’s Alex Renton’s word when he tells us that “the Orwell Christ­mas pud­ding is noth­ing rad­i­cal.” Nonethe­less, I’m tempt­ed to try this recipe more than any of the oth­ers Ren­ton men­tions, even if I may not get my hands on real suet or sul­tanas. Read a tran­script of Orwell’s Christ­mas pud­ding recipe below.

CHRISTMAS PUDDING.

Ingre­di­ents:

1 lb each of cur­rants, sul­tanas & raisins


2 ounces sweet almonds


1 ounces sweet almonds


1 ounces bit­ter almonds


4 ounces mixed peel


½ lb brown sug­ar


½ lb flour


¼ lb bread­crumbs


½ tea­spoon­ful salt


½ tea­spoon­ful grat­ed nut­meg


¼ tea­spoon­ful pow­dered cin­na­mon


6 ounces suet


The rind and juice of 1 lemon


5 eggs


A lit­tle milk


1/8 of a pint of brandy, or a lit­tle beer

 Method. Wash the fruit. Chop the suet, shred and chop the peel, stone and chop the raisins, blanch and chop the almonds. Pre­pare the bread­crumbs. Sift the spices and salt into the flour. Mix all the dry ingre­di­ents into a basin. Heat the eggs, mix them with the lemon juice and the oth­er liq­uids. Add to the dry ingre­di­ents and stir well. If the mix­ture is too stiff, add a lit­tle more milk. Allow the mix­ture to stand for a few hours in a cov­ered basin. Then mix well again and place in well-greased basins of about 8 inch­es diam­e­ter. Cov­er with rounds of greased paper. Then tie the tops of the basins over the floured cloths if the pud­dings are to be boiled, or with thick greased paper if they are to be steamed. Boil or steam for 5 or 6 hours. On the day when the pud­ding is to be eat­en, re-heat it by steam­ing it for 3 hours. When serv­ing, pour a large spoon­ful of warm brandy over it and set fire to it.

In Britain it is unusu­al to mix into each pud­ding one or two small coins, tiny chi­na dolls or sil­ver charms which are sup­posed to bring luck.

via Bib­liok­lept

Relat­ed Con­tent:

George Orwell and Dou­glas Adams Explain How to Make a Prop­er Cup of Tea

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

Pre­pare Mar­i­lyn Monroe’s Per­son­al, Hand­writ­ten Turkey-and-Stuff­ing Recipe on Thanks­giv­ing

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

Charles Dickens’ Hand-Edited Copy of His Classic Holiday Tale, A Christmas Carol

CCarolEdited1

Click for larg­er image

No hol­i­day sea­son can seem to pro­voke as much anx­i­ety, or even out­right dis­cord, as Christ­mas. But there are at least a few things most every­one can agree on. I would like to think one of them is A Char­lie Brown Christ­mas (and its sound­track). Anoth­er, I’m sure, is Charles Dick­ens’ A Christ­mas Car­ol (1843). Some read­ers might object to the tale’s maudlin sen­ti­men­tal­i­ty. But few would say it isn’t a great sto­ry, and well told. And in Dick­ens’ day, you might be lucky enough to catch the author him­self read­ing it aloud. Accord­ing to cura­tor Issac Gewirtz, Dick­ens gave some­where around 150 read­ings of A Christ­mas Car­ol. This, at a time, Gewirtz tells us, when “pub­lic read­ings of fic­tion or poet­ry [were] not done; it was con­sid­ered a des­e­cra­tion of one’s art and a low­er­ing of one’s dig­ni­ty.” Nev­er­the­less, while Dick­ens may have let his own chil­dren down, he would not dis­ap­point his loy­al read­ers.

CCarolEdited2

As is gen­er­al­ly the case when a work of prose goes to the stage, the text need­ed prun­ing. NPR’s All Things Con­sid­ered brings us these images of Dick­ens’ “prompt­book” for his per­for­mances, a copy of the text great­ly abridged by Dick­ens’ own hand and now resid­ing at the New York Pub­lic Library. While Dick­ens’ first per­for­mance ran three hours, lat­er ver­sions took about half that time. In-between, he slashed out whole para­graphs, sim­pli­fied words and phras­es, and removed entire pages. “What’s inter­est­ing to see,” says Gewirtz, “is how much of the atmos­pher­ics have been delet­ed.” Instead, Dick­ens con­veys the mood with mar­gin­al stage cues like “soft­en very much” and “tone to mys­tery.” It is intrigu­ing to imag­ine Dick­ens tak­ing on the roles of Scrooge, Mar­ley, and Cratch­et père and fils, but alas we’ll nev­er get to hear him. We can, how­ev­er, hear the voice of Dick­ens’ great-grandaugh­ter, nov­el­ist Mon­i­ca Dick­ens (below), who in 1950 record­ed her ver­sion of the fam­i­ly Christ­mas fable.

Monica’s daugh­ter Mary Dan­by, also a nov­el­ist, tells the BBC that her mother’s ren­di­tion is faith­ful to the Dick­ens’ fam­i­ly tra­di­tion of read­ings, begun by Charles him­self. There­fore, Monica’s phras­ing is as much like Charles Dick­ens’ as we’re like­ly to hear. Dick­en­sian­ism is still some­thing of a fam­i­ly busi­ness, as is writ­ing. “In my fam­i­ly,” says Dick­ens’ great-great-grandaugh­ter Mary, “they think you are a bit odd if you haven’t writ­ten a book.” Still, I doubt their Christ­mases are any bet­ter, or any worse, than the rest of ours.

Relat­ed Con­tent:

A Christ­mas Car­ol Pre­sent­ed in a Thomas Edi­son Film (1910)

A Christ­mas Car­ol, A Vin­tage Radio Broad­cast by Orson Welles and Lionel Bar­ry­more (1939)

Cel­e­brate the 200th Birth­day of Charles Dick­ens with Free Movies, eBooks and Audio Books

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

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

Toni Morrisson: Forget Writing About What You Know; Write About What You Don’t Know

On Decem­ber 12th, the New York Pub­lic Library host­ed a live pro­gram fea­tur­ing Pulitzer Prize-win­ning author Junot Díaz in con­ver­sa­tion with the writer who most deeply influ­enced his career, Toni Mor­ri­son, win­ner of the 1993 Nobel Prize in Lit­er­a­ture. The talk was orig­i­nal­ly streamed live on the web (includ­ing our site), and now you can watch a record­ed ver­sion below, plus some high­lights above. Intro­duc­tions by Paul Hold­en­gräber and friends begin at the 40:09 mark, and every­thing gets real­ly going at the 49:35 time­stamp in the video below. Despite some nerves, Díaz engages his now 82 year-old lit­er­ary idol in a con­ver­sa­tion that’s engag­ing, col­or­ful, some­times even amus­ing­ly off-col­or — like when he tells Mor­ri­son “you can out­write every motherf#cker on the plan­et sen­tence for sen­tence.” The inter­view touch­es on her for­ma­tive years as a writer and edi­tor, and then her years writ­ing her mas­ter­ful nov­els — Song of Solomon, Beloved and the rest. Com­men­tary on the craft of writ­ing is sprin­kled through­out. If you’d like to get Mor­rison’s writ­ing advice in a neat­ly-pack­aged for­mat, please see our pre­vi­ous posts: Toni Mor­ri­son Dis­pens­es Writ­ing Wis­dom in 1993 Paris Review Inter­view and Toni Mor­ri­son, Nora Ephron, and Dozens More Offer Advice in Free Cre­ative Writ­ing “Mas­ter Class”.

Relat­ed Con­tent:

Writ­ing Tips by Hen­ry Miller, Elmore Leonard, Mar­garet Atwood, Neil Gaiman & George Orwell

Ray Brad­bury Gives 12 Pieces of Writ­ing Advice to Young Authors (2001)

Sev­en Tips From F. Scott Fitzger­ald on How to Write Fic­tion

New Art Edition of James Joyce’s Ulysses Features All 265,000 Words Written by Hand on Big Wooden Poles

ulysses art book

This week, Stephen Gertz, the edi­tor of Book Tryst, has on dis­play an Incred­i­ble Art Edi­tion of James Joyce’s Ulysses. Here’s how he describes the ambi­tious project:

James Joyce com­plet­ed his nov­el, Ulysses, on Octo­ber 30, 1921. Nine­ty years lat­er, on Octo­ber 30, 2011, Char­lene Matthews, the Los Ange­les-based book artist and book­binder recent­ly the sub­ject of a pro­file in Stu­dios mag­a­zine, began work on an extra­or­di­nary edi­tion of the book, based upon Sylvia Beach’s true first edi­tion with all its typos includ­ed.

Two years lat­er, on Octo­ber 30, 2013, she com­plet­ed it: the entire text of Ulysses — all of its approx­i­mate­ly 265,000 words in eigh­teen episodes — tran­scribed by hand onto thir­ty-eight sev­en-foot tall, two-inch diam­e­ter poles: Ulysses as a land­scape to phys­i­cal­ly move through; the nov­el as lit­er­ary grove, Ulysses as trees of of life with lan­guage as fra­grant, hal­lu­ci­na­to­ry bark, and trunks reach­ing toward the sky.

Head over to Book­tryst to look over a gallery of images and learn more about Matthews’ grand under­tak­ing. And if you’d like a nice intro­duc­tion to Ulysses, please see some of the instruc­tive mate­r­i­al we’ve list­ed below.

Don’t miss any­thing from Open Cul­ture. Sign up for our Dai­ly Email orRSS Feed. And we’ll send qual­i­ty cul­ture your way, every day.

Relat­ed Con­tent:

James Joyce’s Ulysses: Down­load the Free Audio Book

Read Joyce’s Ulysses Line by Line, for the Next 22 Years, with Frank Delaney’s Pod­cast

Hear James Joyce Read a Pas­sage From Ulysses, 1924

The Very First Reviews of James Joyce’s Ulysses: “A Work of High Genius” (1922)

Vir­ginia Woolf Writes About Joyce’s Ulysses, “Nev­er Did Any Book So Bore Me,” and Quits at Page 200

Vladimir Nabokov Cre­ates a Hand-Drawn Map of James Joyce’s Ulysses

 

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