The ‘Tractate on the Steppenwolf’: Max Von Sydow Narrates Animated Scene from Hermann Hesse’s Novel

Her­mann Hes­se’s 1927 nov­el Step­pen­wolf is a curi­ous mix­ture of mys­ti­cism and exis­ten­tial angst. It’s the sto­ry of a strange man who appears one day in an unnamed town and rents an attic apart­ment. By day he stays alone in his rooms, read­ing Goethe and Novalis. By night he wan­ders the dark alley­ways of the Old Town, like “a wolf of the steppes that had lost its way and strayed into the towns and the life of the herd.”

Despite a strong ele­ment of mag­ic in the sto­ry, Step­pen­wolf is essen­tial­ly an auto­bi­o­graph­i­cal book. Hesse wrote it dur­ing a time of acute per­son­al cri­sis, when he had entered mid­dle age and was deal­ing with the fail­ure of his mar­riage to a younger woman. Strug­gling against thoughts of sui­cide, the book­ish Hesse sought to over­come his sense of iso­la­tion and estrange­ment from soci­ety by going out at night to the tav­erns and dance halls. For a sense of his men­tal state, here is a pas­sage from Step­pen­wolf in which the pro­tag­o­nist Har­ry Haller talks in a dream to his “immor­tal” hero, Johann Wolf­gang von Goethe:

Like all great spir­its, Herr von Goethe, you have clear­ly rec­og­nized and felt the rid­dle and the hope­less­ness of human life, with its moments of tran­scen­dence that sink again to wretched­ness, and the impos­si­bil­i­ty of ris­ing to one fair peak of feel­ing except at the cost of many days’ enslave­ment to the dai­ly round; and, then, the ardent long­ing for the realm of the spir­it in eter­nal and dead­ly war with the equal­ly ardent and holy love of the lost inno­cence of nature, the whole fright­ful sus­pense in vacan­cy and uncer­tain­ty, this con­dem­na­tion to the tran­sient that can nev­er be valid, that is ever exper­i­men­tal and dilet­tan­tish; in short, the utter lack of pur­pose to which the human state is condemned–to its con­sum­ing despair.

But Hesse saw Step­pen­wolf as an opti­mistic book. It’s about a man’s jour­ney to self-aware­ness and spir­i­tu­al lib­er­a­tion. As he wrote in the intro­duc­tion, “The ‘Trea­tise’ [see above] and all those spots in the book deal­ing with mat­ters of the spir­it, of the arts and the ‘immor­tal’ men oppose the Step­pen­wolf’s world of suf­fer­ing with a pos­i­tive, serene, super-per­son­al and time­less world of faith. This book, no doubt, tells of griefs and needs; still it is not a book of a man despair­ing, but of a man believ­ing.”

The ani­mat­ed sequence above is from the rarely seen 1974 film of Step­pen­wolf by Fred Haines, in which the Har­ry Haller char­ac­ter played by Max von Sydow reads from the “Trac­tate on the Step­pen­wolf,” a mys­te­ri­ous text that was giv­en to Haller and then left behind by him, describ­ing the Step­pen­wolf’s divid­ed nature. The scene fea­tures imagery by the Czech artist Jaroslav Bradác.

Relat­ed con­tent:

Franz Kaf­ka: The Ani­mat­ed Short Film

The Real Alice in Wonderland Circa 1862, and Our Favorite Culture Links on the Web

Over at The Retro­naut they’re fea­tur­ing a gallery of images of Alice Lid­dell cir­ca 1862. Who is that you may ask? Well, it’s only the young girl who inspired Lewis Car­rol­l’s clas­sic sto­ry Alice’s Adven­tures in Won­der­land (a text that you can down­load from our col­lec­tions of Free eBooks and Free Audio Books). If the men­tion of the great children’s tale warms your heart, we’d encour­age you to re-vis­it Maria Popo­va’s guest-authored post, Alice in Open­land, which has all kinds of great relat­ed mate­r­i­al — read­ings of Alice by Cory Doc­torow, film adap­ta­tions of the sto­ry from 1903 and 1915, and much more.

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

If you need some­one to host a mul­ti-decade pod­cast on James Joyce’s Ulysses, then why set­tle for less than the most elo­quent man in the world? Vis­it Frank Delaney’s site, and you’ll find it less than shy about pro­claim­ing that Nation­al Pub­lic Radio once dubbed him just that. A pro­lif­ic man of let­ters, Delaney has in his 42-year-long career logged time as a news­read­er, book jour­nal­ist, inter­view­er, Edin­burgh Fes­ti­val Lit­er­a­ture Direc­tor, talk show host, Man Book­er Prize judge, radio broad­cast­er, nov­el­ist, and his­to­ri­an. In 1981, his book James Joyce’s Odyssey brought his sur­pass­ing enthu­si­asm for Joyce schol­ar­ship to pub­lic atten­tion, and it took a whole new form on, appro­pri­ate­ly enough, Blooms­day 2010, when Delaney added the title of pod­cast­er to his résumé by launch­ing Re: Joyce (iTunes — RSS). The show oper­ates on a sim­ple con­cept: each Wednes­day, Delaney decon­structs a piece of Ulysses, usu­al­ly for four to fif­teen min­utes. This will run, so the plan goes, for the next twen­ty-two years.

An ambi­tious project, cer­tain­ly, but I find that pod­cast­ing, espe­cial­ly lit­er­ary pod­cast­ing, could always use a lit­tle more ambi­tion. “Why?” Delaney asks of the show on its debut episode. “Well, why not? You could say, ‘Why both­er?’ And I would say, for the sheer fun of it. Because this is a book that has engrossed and delight­ed me for most of my adult life, and I know the enjoy­ment to be had from it. And I also know that such enjoy­ment has been denied to many, many peo­ple who would read Ulysses if they weren’t so daunt­ed by it, and indeed, who tried to read it but had to give up. How do I know this? Because I was one of them.” If this sounds a lit­tle like the script of an infomer­cial, Delaney embraces the sen­si­bil­i­ty, label­ing Re: Joyce his “infomer­cial for Ulysses.” As far as elo­quence — and eru­di­tion, not to men­tion rich­ness of sub­ject mat­ter — he’s cer­tain­ly sur­passed Ron Popeil.

You can down­load the pod­cast from iTunes for free or fol­low the RSS feed here. Copies of Joyce’s Ulysses can be found in our col­lec­tions of Free eBooks and Free Audio Books. The first episode of Re:Joyce appears below:

Relat­ed con­tent:

James Joyce Man­u­scripts Online, Free Cour­tesy of The Nation­al Library of Ire­land

Stephen Fry Explains His Love for James Joyce’s Ulysses

James Joyce’s Ulysses: Down­load the Free Audio Book

Hen­ri Matisse Illus­trates 1935 Edi­tion of James Joyce’s Ulysses

Col­in Mar­shall hosts and pro­duces Note­book on Cities and Cul­ture. Fol­low him on Twit­ter at @colinmarshall.

William Faulkner Quits His Post Office Job in Splendid Fashion with a 1924 Resignation Letter

Long before William Faulkn­er got his big break in lit­er­a­ture, he, like many of us, had a good old-fash­ioned day job. Faulkn­er had a series of odd jobs in fact. But, most famous­ly, he worked from 1921 to 1924 as the post­mas­ter at the Uni­ver­si­ty of Mis­sis­sip­pi, where, accord­ing to leg­end, he did the fol­low­ing: some­times threw mail in the garbage, oth­er times read mag­a­zines before bring­ing them to peo­ple’s homes, often played cards and wrote fic­tion dur­ing work­ing hours, occa­sion­al­ly went golf­ing instead of deliv­er­ing mail, and gen­er­al­ly ignored his col­leagues and cus­tomers. But, who could blame him? Espe­cial­ly when he earned $20,000 in today’s mon­ey and had great lit­er­ary ambi­tions to pur­sue. Even­tu­al­ly, when a postal inspec­tor came to inves­ti­gate, Faulkn­er resigned. The res­ig­na­tion let­ter, recent­ly high­light­ed by Let­ters of Note, is short (a mere 56 words) and cut­ting. But, scathing as it was, it did­n’t stop the US postal sys­tem from issu­ing a com­mem­o­ra­tive Faulkn­er stamp in 1987.

Octo­ber, 1924

As long as I live under the cap­i­tal­is­tic sys­tem, I expect to have my life influ­enced by the demands of mon­eyed peo­ple. But I will be damned if I pro­pose to be at the beck and call of every itin­er­ant scoundrel who has two cents to invest in a postage stamp.

This, sir, is my res­ig­na­tion.

(Signed by Faulkn­er)

Relat­ed Con­tent:

Drink­ing with William Faulkn­er

William Faulkn­er Audio Archive Goes Online

William Faulkn­er Reads from As I Lay Dying

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Norman Mailer: Strong Writer, Weak Actor, Brutally Wrestles Actor Rip Torn

“Gorg­ing on the man’s image and voice is a reminder of his strength as a writer that’s eas­i­est to over­look: an aware­ness of his own lim­i­ta­tions. This is a qual­i­ty that his act­ing lacks.” This Chris­tine Small­wood writes of the nov­el­ist Nor­man Mail­er after hav­ing watched the late-six­ties/ear­ly-sev­en­ties tril­o­gy of films he direct­ed and starred in: Wild 90, Beyond the Law, and Maid­stone. Her post on the New York­er’s blog Page-Turn­er con­sid­ers these pic­tures, recent­ly released as a box set in the Cri­te­ri­on Col­lec­tion’s Eclipse Series, ulti­mate­ly find­ing them huge­ly flawed but not unin­ter­est­ing­ly so. They have cin­e­matog­ra­phy by a young D.A. Pen­nebak­er, they fore­shad­ow real­i­ty tele­vi­sion in their own skewed way, and they cap­ture the spec­ta­cle of Nor­man Mail­er rev­el­ing in, essen­tial­ly, the role of him­self. Not that this counts as an act­ing tech­nique: “Mail­er lurch­es, lum­bers, rants, reels,” writes Small­wood. “He doesn’t both­er with a sto­ry that would drum up inter­est or fix atten­tion, because he knows, and you know, that you’re watch­ing because he’s Nor­man Mail­er.”

But a force fiercer than Mail­er’s will to impose his own real­i­ty rips into the very end of Maid­stone, and the result has become a pop­u­lar clip on the inter­net. That force’s name is Rip Torn. He plays the broth­er-in-law and would-be assas­sin of Mail­er’s char­ac­ter, an icon­o­clas­tic auteur run­ning for Pres­i­dent of the Unit­ed States. On cam­era, Torn sud­den­ly attacks Mail­er, and the two launch into what looks like an actu­al brawl, involv­ing tech­niques up to and includ­ing a ham­mer to the ear. “The intru­sion of bald ‘real life’ means that Mail­er has to reck­on with anoth­er per­son,” writes Small­wood. “This, I think, is what moti­vat­ed his inter­est in vio­lence more gen­er­al­ly: it inter­rupt­ed the con­stant pre­oc­cu­pa­tion of being Nor­man Mail­er, forc­ing him out of him­self. In his writ­ing, he could some­times dis­ci­pline him­self into achiev­ing those moments, as when he imag­ined the mind-set of a police­man in ‘Armies of the Night,’ but onscreen he need­ed to get hit.”

Relat­ed con­tent:

Nor­man Mail­er & Mar­tin Amis, No Strangers to Con­tro­ver­sy, Talk in 1991

Nor­man Mail­er & Mar­shall McLuhan Debate the Elec­tron­ic Age

Col­in Mar­shall hosts and pro­duces Note­book on Cities and Cul­ture. Fol­low him on Twit­ter at @colinmarshall.

F. Scott Fitzgerald Reads From Shakespeare’s Othello (c.1940)

When F. Scott Fitzger­ald died in 1940, his New York Times obit­u­ary claimed, “the promise of his bril­liant career was nev­er ful­filled.” This is a sen­tence that may puz­zle mod­ern-day lovers of Fitzgerald’s endur­ing­ly-rel­e­vant fic­tion, but it was the judg­ment of the time on the exhaust­ed, alco­holic writer’s career. And it was a judg­ment he often applied to him­self, as he demon­strat­ed pub­licly in his 1936 essay “The Crack-Up,” about his depres­sion. Reduced at the end of his life to writ­ing film scripts for mon­ey, a task he found degrad­ing for a “suc­cess­ful lit­er­ary man” such as him­self, Fitzger­ald also, at some time near his final year, made record­ings of him­self read­ing the work of Shake­speare, Keats, and oth­ers, pre­sum­ably also for mon­ey, though it’s not exact­ly clear who pro­duced the record­ings or why.

In the first video (above), lis­ten to Fitzger­ald deliv­er a dig­ni­fied read­ing of Othello’s speech to the Venet­ian Sen­a­tors from Act 1, Scene 3 of Oth­el­lo. Fitzger­ald stum­bles and slurs occa­sion­al­ly, and the speech may in fact be com­posed of sev­er­al dif­fer­ent takes edit­ed togeth­er, sug­gest­ing that he may have had dif­fi­cul­ty mak­ing it through. Nonethe­less, his voice is seduc­tive and sonorous; he reads the speech as a lit­er­ary mono­logue, rather than a dec­la­ra­tion. Hear more of him below, read­ing an edit­ed ver­sion of John Masefield’s “On Grow­ing Old,” a poem which may have had par­tic­u­lar poignan­cy to the man who wrote in 1936, “of course all life is in a process of break­ing down.” But even in decline, Fitzger­ald was worth lis­ten­ing to. You can find major works by F. Scott Fitzger­ald in our Free eBooks and Free Audio Books col­lec­tions.

Josh Jones is a doc­tor­al can­di­date in Eng­lish at Ford­ham Uni­ver­si­ty and a co-founder and for­mer man­ag­ing edi­tor of Guer­ni­ca / A Mag­a­zine of Arts and Pol­i­tics.

Relat­ed Con­tent:

F. Scott Fitzger­ald Cre­ates a List of 22 Essen­tial Books, 1936

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

Rare Footage of Scott and Zel­da Fitzger­ald From the 1920s

The Big Ernest Hemingway Photo Gallery: The Novelist in Cuba, Spain, Africa and Beyond

We asso­ciate Ernest Hem­ing­way with for­eign locales: Spain, Italy, Paris, Africa and Cuba. He may be the defin­i­tive peri­patet­ic writer, famous­ly haul­ing his man­u­scripts-in-progress around the world while soak­ing in enough mate­r­i­al for the next book.

Lucky for us Hem­ing­way may also be one of the most pho­tographed writ­ers of his gen­er­a­tion. The pho­tographs in the Ernest Hem­ing­way Col­lec­tion take us into a mid-cen­tu­ry world where writ­ers, actors, polit­i­cal lead­ers and beau­ti­ful jet-set­ters min­gled on patios and yachts at ease before the cam­era. These were the days before paparazzi start­ed hid­ing in bush­es.

The col­lec­tion is avail­able to us with a typ­i­cal Her­ming­way-esque sto­ry attached. When he died in 1961 in Ida­ho, most of his per­son­al effects were still in Cuba. Hem­inway lived for 20 years in the Fin­ca Vigia, a home he bought with the roy­al­ties from For Whom the Bell Tolls. It was at Fin­ca Vigia that he wrote The Old Man and the Sea. Rather than writ­ing in the work­shop that his wife Mary had built for him there, he used the bed­room, leav­ing the new room for his numer­ous pet cats to use.

At the time of his death, Amer­i­can trav­el into Cuba was banned. How­ev­er Pres­i­dent Kennedy made spe­cial arrange­ments for Hemingway’s wid­ow Mary to return to Fin­ca Vigia and retrieve his per­son­al belong­ings. Years lat­er, the John F. Kennedy Pres­i­den­tial Library and Muse­um received the mate­ri­als, includ­ing more than 10,000 pho­tographs, books from Hemingway’s pri­vate library (includ­ing A Draft of XVI Can­tos signed by Ezra Pound) and the hand-writ­ten sail­ing log Hem­ing­way kept of his trav­els aboard Pilar. The pho­tographs are now orga­nized chrono­log­i­cal­ly and geo­graph­i­cal­ly: Ear­ly Years 1899–21; Paris Years 1922–1930; Wars 1917–1945; Key West Years 1928–1939; Ida­ho Years 1939–1960; Africa 1933–1934 and Africa 1953–1954; Europe 1948–1959; Cuba Years 1939–1960; and Spain 1953–1960.

Hem­ing­way was in Paris when he sat for this por­trait in March, 1928. The pho­tog­ra­ph­er, Helen Pierce Break­er, was a friend and had been a brides­maid in Hemingway’s wed­ding to his first wife, Hadley.

 

By the ear­ly 1950s, Hem­ing­way was liv­ing in Cuba. The paint­ing behind him here at Fin­ca Vigia is a por­trait of him­self by Wal­do Peirce titled Kid Balzac.

Kate Rix is an Oak­land-based free­lance writer. Find more of her work at .

Allen Ginsberg Recordings Brought to the Digital Age. Listen to Eight Full Tracks for Free

Today marks the release of the final vol­ume in the Allen Gins­berg box set Holy Soul Jel­ly Roll: Poems & Songs 1949–1993, a col­lec­tion of pre­vi­ous­ly released and unre­leased record­ings. For what­ev­er rea­son, Gins­berg Record­ings decid­ed to stag­ger the dig­i­tal release of the set over the month of Sep­tem­ber, begin­ning with Vol­ume Four (Ash­es & Blues), fol­lowed by Three (Ah!), Two (Caw! Caw!), and final­ly, today, Vol­ume One (Moloch!). The last vol­ume “con­tains the stun­ning 1956 Berke­ley Town Hall read­ing of Ginsberg’s sem­i­nal poem ‘Howl,’ as well as oth­er impor­tant his­toric ear­ly poems.” You can pre­view and buy all four vol­umes on iTunes, but you needn’t pay to hear some full tracks: Gins­berg Record­ings made the “8 song sam­pler” avail­able on Sound­cloud for us. Here is the track list­ing:

1. A Super­mar­ket In Cal­i­for­nia
2. Green Valen­tine Blues
3. Kral Majales (King Of May)
4. CIA Dope Calyp­so
5. Laugh­ing Song
6. First Par­ty at Ken Kesey’s With Hel­l’s Angels
7. Vom­it Express

Lis­ten­ing to these poems brings a cou­ple things to mind. One, the real­iza­tion, too often lost, that “There was a time when not every moment of our lives was record­ed, pho­tographed, tweet­ed, face­booked, or oth­er­wise made instant­ly avail­able to the glob­al bil­lions of the con­nect­ed,” in the words of Gins­berg friend and archivist Stephen Tay­lor. In those ancient days, record­ings mat­tered and the things peo­ple chose to put on tape or film or what­ev­er medi­um they chose were pre­cious because of their rar­i­ty and their frag­ile phys­i­cal­i­ty. Two, these record­ings under­score the per­fect pitch of the collection’s title, which takes in all at once the com­ple­men­tary natures of Gins­berg the holy fool—mystic, trick­ster, and sen­su­al “white Negro” (to take Nor­man Mailer’s snide 50s term for hip­ster bohemi­ans).  Gins­berg was all these things, usu­al­ly in the same poem. His voice can slide in sub­tle or star­tling turns from bathos to pathos, from the fan­tas­tic imag­i­nary to keen­ly-observed social cri­tique.

In the first record­ed poem above, “A Super­mar­ket in Cal­i­for­nia,” Gins­berg imag­ines him­self shop­ping for gro­ceries at night with Walt Whit­man, an elab­o­rate extend­ed excur­sion into the poet’s process. In an intro, he calls this a “com­ing down” poem after writ­ing “a lot of great poet­ry.” Rem­i­nis­cent of Wal­lace Stevens’ “The Man on the Dump,” Gins­berg describes “shop­ping for images” in a “hun­gry fatigue… dream­ing of your enu­mer­a­tions.” The “you” here is Whit­man, and in the poem the two stroll down store aisles, sam­pling the “neon fruit” with­out pay­ing. In a fun­ny image, Gins­berg asks his muse, “which way are we going? Which way does your beard point tonight?” Maybe Gins­berg thought it a minor poem, but I’d call it a tiny del­i­ca­cy next to the sprawl­ing mon­ster “Howl.”

Anoth­er short auto­bi­o­graph­i­cal poem above—well-stocked with images as pre­cise, but not so neon, as “Supermarket”—is “First Par­ty at Ken Kesey’s with Hell’s Angels.” I can only imag­ine this is an accu­rate account of events not much embell­ished but per­cep­tive­ly edit­ed to give us an ellip­ti­cal suc­ces­sion of loose­ly con­nect­ed vignettes. None of the images sur­prise so much as con­firm exact­ly what one expects to find at Ken Kesey’s (with Hell’s Angels): “Cool black night through the red woods,” “a few tired souls hunched over in black leather jack­ets,” “a yel­low chan­de­lier at three a.m.,” “twen­ty youths danc­ing through the vibra­tion in the floor,” “a lit­tle mar­i­jua­na in the bath­room,” and, of course, “four police cars parked out­side the paint­ed gate.” It’s not a mas­ter­piece, but it’s a lit­tle show­case of Ginsberg’s tal­ent for com­pres­sion and, to use the word he applies to his hero Walt Whit­man, “enu­mer­a­tions” of jazz-inflect­ed lines that pop into focus with pleas­ing imme­di­a­cy.

“CIA Dope Calyp­so” is also true to its title, an upbeat island-style dit­ty with con­gas, gui­tar and maracas–a song about the South­east Asian hero­in trade  (alleged­ly!), Gins­berg sings, “sup­port­ed by the C‑I-A.” Nev­er afraid to hurl ver­bal Molo­tovs at his impe­ri­al­ist foes, Gins­berg does so here with strained and sil­ly rhymes and a good deal of tongue-in-cheek in-jok­ing. It’s a “jel­ly roll” performance—wickedly sub­ver­sive.

All of these record­ings are great fun, but Gins­berg seems best known for the “Holy Soul” part of his per­sona, the thun­der­ing prophet mys­tic war­rior of “Howl,” and that’s here in the box set too, with “Howl” and oth­er poems. We’ve pre­vi­ous­ly fea­tured Ginsberg’s riv­et­ing 1955 read­ing of the epic “Howl” at San Francisco’s Six Gallery, dra­ma­tized in Rob Epstein and Jef­frey Fried­man’s semi-biopic Howl, with James Fran­co as Gins­berg. Below, see the poem’s apoc­a­lyp­tic “Moloch” sec­tion set to some ter­ri­fy­ing ani­mat­ed images from the 2010 film:

If Holy Soul Jel­ly Roll does­n’t ful­ly sate your taste for Gins­berg’s voice, nev­er fear: there is much more to come from Gins­berg Record­ings.

Josh Jones is a doc­tor­al can­di­date in Eng­lish at Ford­ham Uni­ver­si­ty and a co-founder and for­mer man­ag­ing edi­tor of Guer­ni­ca / A Mag­a­zine of Arts and Pol­i­tics.

 

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