Dennis Hopper Reads From Rainer Maria Rilke’s Timeless Guide to Creativity, Letters to a Young Poet

For almost a cen­tu­ry, writ­ers and oth­er cre­ative peo­ple have found inspi­ra­tion and a pro­found sense of val­i­da­tion in the Bohemi­an-Aus­tri­an poet Rain­er Maria Rilke’s posthu­mous­ly pub­lished Let­ters to a Young Poet. Many a sen­si­tive soul has felt as if Rilke’s let­ters, writ­ten to a young man who had asked him for advice on whether to become a poet, were addressed direct­ly to him or her. One of those peo­ple was the actor Den­nis Hop­per.

“Rilke’s Let­ters to a Young Poet is a great book,” Hop­per says in this short film from 2007. “For me the let­ters are a cre­do of cre­ativ­i­ty and a source of inspi­ra­tion. After read­ing Rilke it became clear to me that I had no choice in the mat­ter. I had to cre­ate.” The ten-minute film, Must I Write?, was direct­ed by Her­mann Vaske and pho­tographed by Rain Li. Hop­per reads the first of the book’s ten let­ters, in which Rilke tells the young man to stop seek­ing approval from oth­ers:

You are look­ing out­ward, and that above all you should not do now. Nobody can help and coun­sel you, nobody. There is only one sin­gle way. Go into your­self. Search for the rea­son that bids you write; find out whether it is spread­ing out its roots in the deep­est places in your heart, acknowl­edge to your­self whether you would have to die if it were denied you to write. This above all–ask your­self in the stillest hour of your night: must I write? Delve into your­self for a deep answer. And if this should be affir­ma­tive, if you may meet this earnest ques­tion with a strong and sim­ple “I must,” then build your life accord­ing to this neces­si­ty; your life even into its most indif­fer­ent and slight­est hour must be a sign of this urge and a tes­ti­mo­ny to it.

Hop­per is read­ing from the 1934 trans­la­tion by M.D. Hert­er Nor­ton. There are a few minor slips, in which Hop­per devi­ates slight­ly from the text. Most seri­ous­ly, he inverts the mean­ing of a pas­sage near the end by adding (at the 7:23 mark) the word “not” to Rilke’s phrase, “Per­haps it will turn out that you are called to be an artist.” That pas­sage, one of the most mem­o­rable in the book, reads:

A work of art is good if it has sprung from neces­si­ty. In this nature of its ori­gin lies the judge­ment of it: there is no oth­er. There­fore, my dear sir, I know no oth­er advice for you save this: to go into your­self and test the deeps in which your life takes rise; at its source you will find the answer to the ques­tion whether you must cre­ate. Accept it, just as it sounds, with­out inquir­ing into it. Per­haps it will turn out that you are called to be an artist. Then take that des­tiny upon your­self and bear it, its bur­den and its great­ness, with­out ever ask­ing what rec­om­pense might come from out­side. For the cre­ator must be a world for him­self and find every­thing in him­self and in Nature to whom he has attached him­self.

Relat­ed con­tent:

Den­nis Hop­per Reads Rud­yard Kipling on the John­ny Cash Show

Read and Hear Famous Writers (and Armchair Sportsmen) J.M. Coetzee and Paul Auster’s Correspondence

“Why waste my time slumped in front of a tele­vi­sion screen watch­ing young men at play?” writes one man. “I have an expe­ri­ence (a sec­ond­hand expe­ri­ence), but it does me no good that I can detect. I learn noth­ing. I come away with noth­ing.” From the oth­er man comes a reply: “I agree with you that it is a use­less activ­i­ty, an utter waste of time. And yet how many hours of my life have I wast­ed in pre­cise­ly this way, how many after­noons have I squan­dered just as you did?” This epis­to­lary con­ver­sa­tion about sports con­tin­ues, touch­ing on the pow­er of famil­iar­i­ty to endure bore­dom, per­for­mance art, hero­ism, ethics ver­sus aes­thet­ics, activ­i­ty ver­sus pas­siv­i­ty, the “big busi­ness” of the NFL against the sub­si­diza­tion of bal­let, child­hood sex­u­al iden­ti­fi­ca­tion, the vis­i­b­li­ty of the human ide­al, chess mania, the plea­sure of max­i­mum effort, and genre lit­er­a­ture ver­sus “the kinds of books you and I try to write.” What kind of books do these men try to write? Being the nov­el­ists Paul Auster and J.M. Coet­zee, they write books, we can safe­ly say, in their very own gen­res.

We now have a new vol­ume from both Auster and Coet­zee called Here and Now: Let­ters (2008–2011), from which a sub­stan­tial sports-relat­ed excerpt appears on the New York­er. Though not sui gener­is like the con­trib­u­tors’ own nov­els, the book does its part for the cur­rent mini-revival of col­lec­tions of let­ters between men of let­ters. (2011 saw a sim­i­lar French project from Michel Houelle­becq and  Bernard-Hen­ri Lévy. “Who would we end up with?” asked the Observ­er’s Tim Adams, imag­in­ing a British equiv­a­lent. “Irvine Welsh and Alain de Bot­ton?”) Fans of the laud­ed, pri­vate Auster and the high­ly laud­ed, intense­ly pri­vate Coet­zee sure­ly feel grate­ful for these new pieces of direct insight into the authors’ per­son­al­i­ties, and they can get a lit­tle more by watch­ing the read­ing of Here and Now at the New York State Writ­ers Insti­tute at the top of the post. Do see also Auster’s Big Think clips on what keeps him up at night, the fate of the nov­el, and how he stares down the chal­lenges of writ­ing (above). As for a solo per­for­mance from Coet­zee, could we do any bet­ter than his Nobel lec­ture?

Relat­ed Con­tent:

Nobel Prize Win­ner Reads From His New Nov­el

Hear Paul Auster Read the Entire­ty of The Red Note­book, an Ear­ly Col­lec­tion of Sto­ries

Paul Auster Reads from New Nov­el, Sun­set Park

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

Frank Zappa Reads NSFW Passage From William Burroughs’ Naked Lunch (1978)

You may strug­gle to find two more icon­o­clas­tic coun­ter­cul­tur­al fig­ures than William S. Bur­roughs and Frank Zap­pa. The well-known names con­ceal often less well-known and at times inac­ces­si­ble or down­right infu­ri­at­ing work and per­son­al­i­ties. Despite their some­times too-easy asso­ci­a­tion with the move­ments they helped birth, nei­ther Bur­roughs nor Zap­pa fits com­fort­ably with free-wheel­ing Beat sen­si­bil­i­ties or flow­ery Cal­i­for­nia hip­pie cul­ture. They were both sim­ply too con­trary, cul­ti­vat­ed or, at times, too weird and anti­so­cial for that.

But these con­found­ing ten­den­cies make both artists peren­ni­al­ly inter­est­ing. Despite their differences—in medi­um, age, and background—both share at least two sig­nif­i­cant traits: a wry, blas­phe­mous sense of humor and descent from fam­i­lies inte­gral to U.S. tech­no­crat­ic suprema­cy: Bur­roughs the grand­son of the inven­tor of the adding machine and Zap­pa the son of a chemist and math­e­mati­cian who helped make chem­i­cal weapons. Maybe it’s his­tor­i­cal irony that the Bur­roughs and Zap­pa fam­i­lies pro­duced such errant off­spring, maybe it’s a dialec­ti­cal inevitabil­i­ty. But it’s cer­tain­ly fit­ting that the two come togeth­er in the audio above, where Zap­pa reads a par­tic­u­lar­ly fun­ny and pro­fane pas­sage from Bur­roughs’ most famous nov­el Naked Lunch.

The occa­sion of this read­ing was the Nova Con­ven­tion in 1978, three days and nights of read­ings, pan­el dis­cus­sions, film screen­ings, and per­for­mances that, The New York Times wrote at the time, “sought to grap­ple with some of the impli­ca­tions of the writ­ing” of Bur­roughs. In addi­tion to Bur­roughs and Zap­pa, the con­ven­tion fea­tured such notable coun­ter­cul­tur­al names as Ter­ry South­ern, Pat­ti Smith, Philip Glass, Brion Gysin, John Cage, Tim­o­thy Leary, and Robert Anton Wil­son. A good bit of the hap­pen­ing (includ­ing the audio above) was record­ed for pos­ter­i­ty and released as a dou­ble-LP by Giorno Poet­ry Sys­tems.

Relat­ed Con­tent:

Beat Writer William S. Bur­roughs Spreads Coun­ter­cul­ture Cool on Nike Sneak­ers, 1994

William S. Bur­roughs Shows You How to Make “Shot­gun Art”

Frank Zap­pa Debates Cen­sor­ship on CNN’s Cross­fire (1986)

Josh Jones is a writer, edi­tor, and musi­cian based in Wash­ing­ton, DC. Fol­low him @jdmagness

House of Earth: Hear Woody Guthrie’s Lost Novel, Published by Johnny Depp, as an Audio Book

House of earth

Woody Guthrie may have writ­ten as many as 3,000 folk songs, but he did­n’t lim­it him­self there. He also man­aged to write a nov­el called House of Earth, which only last month saw the light of day. To whom do we owe the plea­sure of read­ing this pre­vi­ous­ly unknown adden­dum to the pro­lif­ic singer-song­writer’s career? Why, to his­to­ri­an Dou­glas Brink­ley, actor John­ny Depp, and Guthrie’s daugh­ter Nora. Research­ing a forth­com­ing biog­ra­phy of Bob Dylan, Brink­ley spot­ted a men­tion of House of Earth some­where deep in the files of famous folk-music recordist Alan Lomax. He traced the man­u­script to the Uni­ver­si­ty of Tul­sa library, which had it in stor­age. Depp had recent­ly start­ed his own pub­lish­ing imprint, Infini­tum Nihil, and Brink­ley passed along this promis­ing piece of mate­r­i­al. (The two had known each oth­er for years, hav­ing ini­tial­ly met through that great lit­er­ary con­nec­tor, Dr. Hunter S. Thomp­son.)

With House of Earth, Guthrie wrote a Dust Bowl nov­el, but one very much in tune with his own sen­si­bil­i­ties. Unlike John Stein­beck­’s The Grapes of Wrath, Guthrie’s sto­ry fol­lows not the farm fam­i­lies who fled west, but those who remained on the Texas plains. “Pitched some­where between rur­al real­ism and pro­le­tar­i­an protest,” write Brink­ley and Depp in a New York Times Book Review essay, “some­what sta­t­ic in terms of nar­ra­tive dri­ve, ‘House of Earth’ nonethe­less offers a sear­ing por­trait of the Pan­han­dle and its mar­gin­al­ized Great Depres­sion res­i­dents. Guthrie suc­cess­ful­ly mix­es Steinbeck’s nar­ra­tive verve with D. H. Lawrence’s open­ness to erot­ic explo­ration.” As of this week, you can read and also now hear the book, as read by Will Pat­ton, in an audio ver­sion released by Audible.com. (Find info on how to get it for free below.) At the top of this post, you’ll find a short clip of Pat­ton deliv­er­ing the singer’s prose. Though Guthrie will remain best known for his polit­i­cal­ly-charged songs, his nov­el, which launch­es broad­sides against big finance, big lum­ber, and big agri­cul­ture, should car­ry charge enough for any of his enthu­si­asts.

Note: Do you want to down­load House of Earth from Audi­ble for free? Here’s one way to do it. Just head over to Audible.com and reg­is­ter for a 30-day free tri­al. You can down­load any audio book for free. Then, when the tri­al is over, you can con­tin­ue your Audi­ble sub­scrip­tion, or can­cel it, and still keep the audio book. The choice is yours. And, in full dis­clo­sure, let me tell you that we have a nice arrange­ment with Audi­ble. When­ev­er some­one signs up for a free tri­al, it helps sup­port Open Cul­ture. That’s cool. But frankly, we work with them because I per­son­al­ly use the ser­vice noth­ing short of reli­gious­ly. 

Relat­ed Con­tent:

Woody Guthrie at 100: Cel­e­brate His Amaz­ing Life with a BBC Film

Woody Guthrie’s Fan Let­ter To John Cage and Alan Hov­haness (1947)

375 Free eBooks: Down­load to Kin­dle, iPad/iPhone & Nook

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

Oscar Wilde Offers Practical Advice on the Writing Life in a Newly-Discovered Letter from 1890

Oscar-Wilde_LetterAccord­ing to The Tele­graph, experts rum­mag­ing through a dusty box recent­ly uncov­ered a let­ter penned by Oscar Wilde in 1890 (or there­abouts). Addressed to a “Mr. Mor­gan,” the let­ter runs 13 pages, and it offers what amounts to prac­ti­cal advice for an aspir­ing writer. Details on the let­ter’s con­tents remain scarce, although we will prob­a­bly know more when the doc­u­ment gets auc­tioned off in two weeks time. But, so far, we know that Wilde offered Mr. Mor­gan two points to con­sid­er:

“Make some sac­ri­fice for your art, and you will be repaid, but ask of art to sac­ri­fice her­self for you and a bit­ter dis­ap­point­ment may come to you,”

“The best work in lit­er­a­ture is always done by those who do not depend on it for their dai­ly bread and the high­est form of lit­er­a­ture, Poet­ry, brings no wealth to the singer.”

It’s essen­tial­ly the nine­teenth cen­tu­ry ver­sion of what Charles Bukows­ki lat­er said in much more sim­ple terms: “if you’re doing it for mon­ey or fame, don’t do it.”

Relat­ed Con­tent:

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

William Faulkn­er Explains Why Writ­ing is Best Left to Scoundrels … Prefer­ably Liv­ing in Broth­els (1956)

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

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Ingrid Bergman Remembers How Ernest Hemingway Helped Her Get the Part in For Whom the Bell Tolls

Ernest Hem­ing­way took a dim view of Hol­ly­wood. He once said that the best way for a writer to deal with the movie busi­ness was to arrange a quick meet­ing at the Cal­i­for­nia state line. “You throw them your book, they throw you the mon­ey,” he said.“Then you jump into your car and dri­ve like hell back the way you came.”

But Hem­ing­way became a lit­tle more involved when it was time to film his 1940 nov­el For Whom the Bell Tolls, as this 1971 CBC inter­view with Ingrid Bergman reveals. Hem­ing­way sold the film rights to Para­mount Pic­tures in part because he want­ed his good friend Gary Coop­er, who had starred in A Farewell to Arms (which you can find in our col­lec­tion of 500 Free Movies Online), to play the lead role of Robert Jor­dan, an Amer­i­can vol­un­teer in the Span­ish Civ­il War who is giv­en a dan­ger­ous mis­sion to blow up a bridge. Coop­er was under con­tract with Para­mount.

Bergman first came to Hem­ing­way’s atten­tion when he saw the young Swedish actress in the 1939 Hol­ly­wood remake of Inter­mez­zo. Despite her Nordic appear­ance, Hem­ing­way thought Bergman would be per­fect for the role of the young Span­ish woman Maria in For Whom the Bell Tolls. As Bergman explains in the inter­view, Hem­ing­way sent her a copy of the book with the inscrip­tion, “You are the Maria in this book.”

The prob­lem was that Bergman was under con­tract with anoth­er stu­dio, Selznick Inter­na­tion­al Pic­tures. But stu­dios occa­sion­al­ly made arrange­ments with one anoth­er to share actors, and David O. Selznick became con­vinced that the high-pro­file Hem­ing­way project would be great for his young pro­tégé’s career. So in typ­i­cal fash­ion, Selznick pulled out all the stops. On Jan­u­ary 31, 1941 Selznick sent a note to Kay Brown, his tal­ent scout who had dis­cov­ered Bergman in Swe­den, describ­ing his efforts to win Bergman the part. In a pas­sage quot­ed by Don­ald Spo­to in Noto­ri­ous: The Life of Ingrid Bergman, Selznick writes:

I pinned Hem­ing­way down today and he told me clear­ly and frankly that he would like to see her play the part. He also said this to the press today. How­ev­er, he tells me also that at Para­mount he was told she was wood­en, untal­ent­ed, and var­i­ous oth­er things. Need­less to say, I answered these var­i­ous charges.… I am also per­son­al­ly super­vis­ing a pub­lic­i­ty cam­paign to try to jock­ey Para­mount into a posi­tion where they will almost have to use her. You will be see­ing these items from time to time. Inci­den­tal­ly, Ingrid was­n’t in town today, or I could have brought her togeth­er with Hem­ing­way. How­ev­er, we are arrang­ing for her to fly today to see Hem­ing­way in San Fran­cis­co before he sails for Chi­na. If he likes her, I am ask­ing him to go to town with Para­mount on it. If she does­n’t get the part, it won’t be because there has­n’t been a sys­tem­at­ic cam­paign to get it for her!

As part of Selznick­’s sys­tem­at­ic cam­paign, he invit­ed Life mag­a­zine to pho­to­graph Bergman’s lunch with Hem­ing­way and his wife, Martha Gell­horn, at Jack­’s Restau­rant in San Fran­cis­co. The mag­a­zine pub­lished a series of pho­tos along with a cap­tion quot­ing Hem­ing­way as say­ing, “If you don’t act in the pic­ture, Ingrid, I won’t work on it.”

Despite Selznick­’s machi­na­tions, Para­mount gave the part to one of its own con­tract actress­es, the bal­let dancer Vera Zori­na. Bergman had to con­tent her­self with the female lead in a lit­tle black-and-white film called Casablan­ca. But after sev­er­al weeks of shoot­ing the Hem­ing­way film in the Sier­ra Neva­da, Para­mount became unhap­py with Zori­na’s per­for­mance. Just as Bergman was wrap­ping up Casablan­ca, her wish came through and she was giv­en the role of Maria. For Whom the Bell Tolls became the block­buster hit of 1943, and Bergman received an Oscar nom­i­na­tion for her per­for­mance. Iron­i­cal­ly, though, it was her role in the low-pro­file Casablan­ca that sealed Bergman’s fate as a film icon.

Relat­ed Con­tent:

Sev­en Tips From Ernest Hem­ing­way on How to Write Fic­tion

Six Post­cards From Famous Writ­ers: Hem­ing­way, Kaf­ka, Ker­ouac & More

Hemingway’s Old Man and the Sea Ani­mat­ed Not Once, But Twice

Three Raymond Carver Stories, Read by Richard Ford, Anne Enright, and David Means

Raymond_CarverBeloved of 80s MFA stu­dents and New York­er fic­tion edi­tors, Ray­mond Carv­er belonged to nei­ther world. He suf­fered and drank his way from work­ing-class obscu­ri­ty to lit­er­ary fame like anoth­er under­dog poet and writer, Charles Bukows­ki (though Bukows­ki nev­er had, and maybe nev­er want­ed, Carver’s cachet). Carv­er pub­lished his first col­lec­tion of grit­ty real­ist sto­ries—Will You Please Be Qui­et, Please?in 1976, when short fic­tion was large­ly dom­i­nat­ed by the baroque exper­i­men­tal­ism of writ­ers like Don­ald Barthelme and John Barth.

But while Carv­er per­haps lacked the imag­i­na­tive exu­ber­ance, and ear­ly edu­ca­tion­al oppor­tu­ni­ties, of a Barthelme, his fic­tion gave read­ers some­thing they craved, maybe with­out even know­ing it. A Publisher’s Week­ly review­er of the first col­lec­tion not­ed that Carv­er voiced the “inar­tic­u­late worlds of Amer­i­cans,” the dim ache in the non­de­script lives of aspir­ing stu­dents, down-and-out­ers, din­er wait­ress­es, sales­men, and unhap­pi­ly hitched blue-col­lar cou­ples. Carver’s approach to qui­et des­per­a­tion is poet­ic, eschew­ing flashy post­mod­ernist con­trap­tions for pow­er­ful­ly direct and evoca­tive images. As writer and crit­ic Bri­an A. Oard puts it:

The Carveresque image allows the read­er to glimpse the ter­ri­ble waste of his char­ac­ters’ lives (some­thing the char­ac­ters them­selves can some­times feel but rarely see) and forces the read­er to recon­sid­er the entire sto­ry in the image’s dark light.

In the audio at the top, you can hear Carver’s friend, writer Richard Ford, read “The Student’s Wife,” from Will You Please Be Qui­et Please?, as part of The Guardian’s short sto­ry pod­cast. Ford describes the sto­ry as “spare, direct, rarely poly­syl­lab­ic, restrained, intense, nev­er melo­dra­mat­ic, and real-sound­ing while being obvi­ous­ly lit­er­ary in intent.”

“Fat,” anoth­er of Carver’s sto­ries from his first col­lec­tion, con­flates two arche­typ­i­cal images of dis­qui­et in the Amer­i­can psy­che: obe­si­ty and bad mar­i­tal sex. In a sto­ry about excess and long­ing, Carver’s min­i­mal­ist restraint lends these com­mon­places near-totemic sta­tus. Above, lis­ten to the sto­ry read by Irish author and mem­oirist Anne Enright.

Carv­er, a man of self-destruc­tive appetites, under­stood the crav­ing of char­ac­ters like Rita, the wait­ress in “Fat.” His own desires drove an alco­holism that near­ly killed him. Sev­er­al of his char­ac­ters share this flaw, includ­ing Wes in Carver’s sto­ry “Chef’s House,” read above by cel­e­brat­ed short sto­ry-ist David Means. Pub­lished in The New York­er in 1981, “Chef’s House” marks the begin­ning of Carver’s long rela­tion­ship with the tony mag­a­zine.

In 2007, The New York­er also broke open the myth of the hyper-min­i­mal­ist Carv­er, inspi­ra­tion to thou­sands of cre­ative writ­ing stu­dents, by show­ing how his stream­lined prose was per­haps as much the prod­uct of Alfred A. Knopf edi­tor Gor­don Lish as of the author. The mag­a­zine pub­lished Lish’s edit of Carver’s “Begin­ners,” which became in Lish’s hands the sig­na­ture sto­ry “What We Talk About When We Talk About Love.”

I do not think lovers of Carv­er need be too dis­mayed by these rev­e­la­tions. Sev­er­al well-known works of lit­er­a­ture are close col­lab­o­ra­tive efforts between edi­tor and author. See, for exam­ple, T.S. Eliot’s The Waste Land, which we’d nev­er know by that name with­out Ezra Pound (the famous foot­notes were not Eliot’s idea either). And the glit­ter­ing sen­tences of Fitzger­ald would not shine so bright­ly with­out edi­tor Mal­colm Cow­ley. But as The New York­er alleges, Carv­er felt forced to accept Lish’s edits. Once he had gained more con­fi­dence and suc­cess, his prose took on much more expan­sive qual­i­ties, as you can see in the 1983 sto­ry “Cathe­dral.”

The read­ings above can be oth­er­wise found in our col­lec­tion of Free Audio Books.

Relat­ed Con­tent:

Rare Audio: John Stein­beck Reads Two Short Sto­ries, “The Snake” and “John­ny Bear” in 1953

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

Don­ald Barthelme’s Syl­labus High­lights 81 Books Essen­tial for a Lit­er­ary Edu­ca­tion

Josh Jones is a writer, edi­tor, and musi­cian based in Wash­ing­ton, DC. Fol­low him @jdmagness

Ralph Ellison Reads from His Novel-in-Progress, Juneteenth, in Rare Video Footage (1966)

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Per­haps you haven’t giv­en Ralph Elli­son any thought since read­ing Invis­i­ble Man in high school. Watch the inter­view above, and you’ll have no choice but to con­sid­er his work and opin­ions again. Just past twen­ty min­utes into this short doc­u­men­tary called USA: The Nov­el, he reads an excerpt from a work of his that you may not have read: June­teenth, the book that would fol­low up Invis­i­ble Man — 47 years lat­er. It saw pub­li­ca­tion only in 1999, 33 years after this film on Ellison’s “work in progress,” and five years after his death. He’d writ­ten over 2000 pages, and even then claimed to have lost por­tions of the man­u­script in a fire. One of Ellison’s biog­ra­phers, John F. Calla­han, cut down and orga­nized the remain­ing mate­r­i­al. Anoth­er of his biog­ra­phers, Arnold Ram­per­sad, doubts that the fire destroyed much of the trou­bled nov­el at all.

Though Ellison’s work remains read­i­ly avail­able — even June­teenth reap­peared in 2012 in the 1101-page expan­sion Three Days Before the Shoot­ing… — the writer left behind few­er direct reflec­tions than his fans and schol­ars might like. That makes footage like this all the more valu­able, and, in it, he even address­es his ten­den­cy to not to speak pub­licly: “I’m fas­ci­nat­ed by how the inter­view­er’s mind works, and I’m also aware that, for all my shun­ning of a pub­lic role which is divorced from my iden­ti­ty as a writer, any kind of state­ment I make, any time my face appears, there are a lot of peo­ple who are going to be inter­pret­ing my face, my state­ments in terms of my racial iden­ti­ty rather than in terms of the qual­i­ty of what I have to say. Pow­er for the writer, it seems to me, lies in his abil­i­ty to reveal only a lit­tle bit more about the com­plex­i­ty of human­i­ty.”

Relat­ed Con­tent:

James Bald­win Bests William F. Buck­ley in 1965 Debate at Cam­bridge Uni­ver­si­ty

Robert Penn War­ren Archive Brings Ear­ly Civ­il Rights to Life

Don­ald Barthelme’s Syl­labus High­lights 81 Books Essen­tial for a Lit­er­ary Edu­ca­tion

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

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