Albert Camus, Editor of the French Resistance Newspaper Combat, Writes Movingly About Life, Politics & War (1944–47)

Image by Unit­ed Press Inter­na­tion­al, via Wiki­me­dia Com­mons

When total­i­tar­i­an regimes around the world are in pow­er, writ­ing that tells the truth—whether lit­er­ary, jour­nal­is­tic, sci­en­tif­ic, or legal—effectively serves as counter-pro­pa­gan­da. To write hon­est­ly is to expose: to uncov­er what is hid­den, stand apart from it, and observe. These actions are anath­e­ma to dic­ta­tor­ships. But they are inte­gral to resis­tance move­ments, which must devel­op their own press in order to dis­sem­i­nate ideas oth­er than offi­cial state dog­ma.

For the French Resis­tance dur­ing World War II, one such pub­li­ca­tion that served the pur­pose came from a cell called “Com­bat,” which gave its name to the under­ground news­pa­per to which Jean-Paul Sartre and Albert Camus both con­tributed dur­ing and after the war. Camus became Com­bat’s edi­tor and edi­to­r­i­al writer between 1944 and 1947. Dur­ing his tenure, he “was sus­pi­cious,” writes Michael McDon­ald, and he urged his read­ers to “be sus­pi­cious of those who speak the loud­est in defense of demo­c­ra­t­ic ideals and absolutes but whose goal is to instill fear in oppo­nents and to silence dis­sent.”

Camus wit­nessed and record­ed the lib­er­a­tion of France from the Nazi occu­pa­tion in mov­ing pas­sages like this one:

Paris is fir­ing all its ammu­ni­tion into the August night. Against a vast back­drop of water and stone, on both sides of a riv­er awash with his­to­ry, free­dom’s bar­ri­cades are once again being erect­ed. Once again jus­tice must be redeemed with men’s blood.

After the pre­vi­ous­ly unthink­able event that end­ed the war in the Pacif­ic, the 1945 bomb­ings of Hiroshi­ma and Nagasa­ki, Camus explic­it­ly cri­tiqued the “for­mi­da­ble con­cert” of opin­ion impressed with fact that “any aver­age city can be wiped out by a bomb the size of a foot­ball.” Against these “elo­quent essays,” he wrote dark­ly,

We can sum it up in one sen­tence: our tech­ni­cal civ­i­liza­tion has just reached its great­est lev­el of sav­agery. We will have to choose, in the more or less near future, between col­lec­tive sui­cide and the intel­li­gent use of our sci­en­tif­ic con­quests.

Camus heav­i­ly doc­u­ment­ed the ear­ly post-war years in France, as the coun­try slow­ly recon­sti­tut­ed itself, and as coali­tions for­mer­ly unit­ed in resis­tance col­lapsed into com­pet­ing fac­tions. He was alarmed by not only by the fas­cists on the right, but by the many French social­ists seduced by Stal­in­ism. The very next month after the lib­er­a­tion of Paris, Camus began address­ing the “prob­lem of gov­ern­ment” in an essay titled “To Make Democ­ra­cy.” Gov­ern­ment, writes Camus, “is, to a great extent our prob­lem, as it is indeed the prob­lem of every­one,” but he pref­aced his own posi­tion with, “we do not believe in pol­i­tics with­out clear lan­guage.”

By Decem­ber of 1944, a few months before the fall of Berlin, Camus had grown deeply reflec­tive, express­ing atti­tudes found in many eye­wit­ness accounts. “France has lived through many tragedies,” he wrote, and “will live through many more.” The tragedy of the war, he wrote, was “the tragedy of sep­a­ra­tion.”

Who would dare speak the word “hap­pi­ness” in these tor­tured times? Yet mil­lions today con­tin­ue to seek hap­pi­ness. These years have been for them only a pro­longed post­pone­ment, at the end of which they hope to find that the pos­si­bil­i­ty for hap­pi­ness has been renewed. Who could blame them? … We entered this war not because of any love of con­quest, but to defend a cer­tain notion of hap­pi­ness. Our desire for hap­pi­ness was so fierce and pure that it seemed to jus­ti­fy all the years of unhap­pi­ness. Let us retain the mem­o­ry of this hap­pi­ness and of those who have lost it.

These lucid, pas­sion­ate essays “include lit­tle that is obso­lete,” wrote Stan­ley Hoff­man at For­eign Affairs in 2006. “Indeed it is shock­ing to find how cur­rent Camus’ fears, exhor­ta­tions, and aspi­ra­tions still are.” Hoff­man par­tic­u­lar­ly found Camus’ demand “for moral­i­ty in pol­i­tics” com­pelling. Though “deemed naïve… [by] many oth­er philoso­phers and writ­ers of his time,” Camus’ insis­tence on clar­i­ty of thought and eth­i­cal choice made for what he called “a mod­est polit­i­cal phi­los­o­phy… free of all mes­sian­ic ele­ments and devoid of any nos­tal­gia for an earth­ly par­adise.” How sober­ing those words sound in our cur­rent moment.

Camus’ Com­bat essays have been col­lect­ed in Prince­ton Uni­ver­si­ty Press’s Camus at Com­bat: Writ­ing 1944–1947 and in Between Hell and Rea­son: Essays from the Resis­tance News­pa­per Com­bat, 1944–1947 from Wes­leyan.

Relat­ed Con­tent:

Albert Camus: The Mad­ness of Sin­cer­i­ty — 1997 Doc­u­men­tary Revis­its the Philosopher’s Life & Work

Albert Camus Talks About Nihilism & Adapt­ing Dostoyevsky’s The Pos­sessed for the The­atre, 1959

Albert Camus’ His­toric Lec­ture, “The Human Cri­sis,” Per­formed by Actor Vig­go Mortensen

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

Ian McKellen Reads a Passionate Speech by William Shakespeare, Written in Defense of Immigrants

The iden­ti­ty of William Shake­speare has been a lit­er­ary mys­tery for four hun­dred years, inspir­ing the­o­ry after the­o­ry, book after book. There has been, indeed, lit­tle bio­graph­i­cal evi­dence to work with, though pale­o­g­ra­ph­er and “lit­er­ary detec­tive” Heather Wolfe has very recent­ly filled in some crit­i­cal gaps. It was long thought that Shakespeare’s will, in which he bequeaths to his wife his “sec­ond best bed,” was the only doc­u­ment in his hand, aside from a few sig­na­tures here and there.

Since around the turn of the 20th cen­tu­ry, how­ev­er, schol­ars have come to agree that three pages of a man­u­script in an Eliz­a­bethan play called Sir Thomas More con­tain Shakespeare’s hand­writ­ing. The play, writes the British Library—who house the phys­i­cal pages and have dig­i­tal scans at their site—tells the sto­ry of “the Tudor lawyer and poly­math who was sen­tenced to death for refus­ing to recog­nise Hen­ry VIII as Supreme Head of the Church in Eng­land.”

Best known from A Man for All Sea­sons and for writ­ing the philo­soph­i­cal nov­el Utopia, More was a human­ist and a diplo­mat, and in this excerpt, he “deliv­ers a grip­ping speech” to a riot­ing mob, “who are bay­ing for so-called ‘strangers’ to be ban­ished.” In the video above, you can see Ian McK­ellen give a pas­sion­ate read­ing of More’s speech, in which he “relies on human empa­thy to make his point that if the riot­ers were sud­den­ly ban­ished to a for­eign land, they would become ‘wretched strangers’ too, and equal­ly vul­ner­a­ble to attack.”

The speech, McK­ellen says, “is sym­bol­ic and won­der­ful… so much at the heart of Shakespeare’s human­i­ty.” Read an excerpt below and more of the text at Quartz.

Say now the king
Should so much come too short of your great tres­pass
As but to ban­ish you, whith­er would you go?
What coun­try, by the nature of your error,
Should give you har­bour? go you to France or Flan­ders,
To any Ger­man province, to Spain or Por­tu­gal,
Nay, any where that not adheres to Eng­land,
Why, you must needs be strangers: would you be pleased
To find a nation of such bar­barous tem­per,
That, break­ing out in hideous vio­lence,
Would not afford you an abode on earth,
Whet their detest­ed knives against your throats,
Spurn you like dogs, and like as if that God
Owed not nor made not you, nor that the claimants
Were not all appro­pri­ate to your com­forts,
But char­tered unto them, what would you think
To be thus used? this is the strangers case;
And this your moun­tain­ish inhu­man­i­ty.

This scene refers to an actu­al event in Eng­lish his­to­ry, writes Anne Quito at Quartz, when “fever­ish xeno­pho­bia swept through the pop­u­la­tion.” In a peri­od between 1330 and 1550, “64,000 for­eign­ers, from wealthy Lom­bard bankers to Flem­ish labor­ers, arrived on Eng­lish shores… in search of bet­ter lives.”

The ten­sion came to head on May 1, 1517, when “riots broke out in Lon­don and a mob armed with stones, bricks, bats, boots and boil­ing water attacked the immi­grants and loot­ed their homes. Thomas More, then the city’s deputy sher­iff, tried to rea­son with the crowd.”

The day became known as “Evil May Day” and cast a grim shad­ow sev­er­al decades lat­er when the play was believed to have been writ­ten, between 1596 and 1601. Shake­speare was not its only author, though the 147 lines of More’s speech are his. Sir Thomas More was imme­di­ate­ly banned and nev­er per­formed in Shakespeare’s life­time. The queen’s cen­sor Edmund Tilney “thought it might incite riots dur­ing a time when Eng­land was once again besieged by anoth­er immi­grant cri­sis.” McKellen’s read­ing has become a “clar­i­on call,” writes Quito for refugee advo­cates in the midst of Europe’s cur­rent cri­sis.

Amer­i­cans might take this to heart as well, as vic­tims of war and ter­ror in coun­tries all over the Mid­dle East may soon be banned from find­ing refuge in the U.S. See a short­er read­ing of an excerpt from the speech just above by Har­ri­et Wal­ters.

via Quartz

Relat­ed Con­tent:

Sir Ian McK­ellen Puts on a Daz­zling One-Man Shake­speare Show

Sir Ian McK­ellen Releas­es New Apps to Make Shakespeare’s Plays More Enjoy­able & Acces­si­ble

A 68 Hour Playlist of Shakespeare’s Plays Being Per­formed by Great Actors: Giel­gud, McK­ellen & More

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

A Free Online Course on Dante’s Divine Comedy from Yale University

Over the years, we’ve fea­tured the many draw­ings that have adorned the pages of Dan­te’s Divine Com­e­dy, from medieval times to mod­ern. Illus­tra­tions by Bot­ti­cel­li, Gus­tave Doré, William Blake and Mœbius, they’ve all got­ten their due. Less has been said here, how­ev­er, about the actu­al text itself. Per­haps the most impor­tant work in Ital­ian lit­er­a­ture, Dante Alighieri (1265–1321) wrote the Divine Com­e­dy (con­sist­ing of Infer­no, Pur­ga­to­rio, and Par­adiso) between the years 1308 and 1320. And that text is large­ly the sub­ject of Dante in Trans­la­tion, a free online course taught by Yale’s Giuseppe Maz­zot­ta. The course descrip­tion reads as fol­lows:

The course is an intro­duc­tion to Dante and his cul­tur­al milieu through a crit­i­cal read­ing of the Divine Com­e­dy and select­ed minor works (Vita nuo­va, Con­viv­io, De vul­gari elo­quen­tia, Epis­tle to Can­grande). An analy­sis of Dan­te’s auto­bi­og­ra­phy, the Vita nuo­va, estab­lish­es the poet­ic and polit­i­cal cir­cum­stances of the Com­e­dy’s com­po­si­tion. Read­ings of Infer­no, Pur­ga­to­ry and Par­adise seek to sit­u­ate Dan­te’s work with­in the intel­lec­tu­al and social con­text of the late Mid­dle Ages, with spe­cial atten­tion paid to polit­i­cal, philo­soph­i­cal and the­o­log­i­cal con­cerns. Top­ics in the Divine Com­e­dy explored over the course of the semes­ter include the rela­tion­ship between ethics and aes­thet­ics; love and knowl­edge; and exile and his­to­ry.

You can watch the 24 lec­tures from the course above, or find them on YouTube and iTunes in video and audio for­mats. To get more infor­ma­tion on the course, includ­ing the syl­labus, vis­it this Yale web­site.

Pri­ma­ry texts used in this course include:

  • Dante. Divine Com­e­dy. Trans­lat­ed by John D. Sin­clair. New York: Oxford Uni­ver­si­ty Press, 1968.
  • Dante. Vita Nuo­va. Trans­lat­ed by Mark Musa. Bloom­ing­ton: Indi­ana Uni­ver­si­ty Press, 1973.

Dante in Trans­la­tion will be added to our list of Free Online Lit­er­a­ture cours­es, a sub­set of our col­lec­tion, 1,700 Free Online Cours­es from Top Uni­ver­si­ties.

If you would like to sign up for Open Culture’s free email newslet­ter, please find it here. It’s a great way to see our new posts, all bun­dled in one email, each day.

If you would like to sup­port the mis­sion of Open Cul­ture, con­sid­er mak­ing a dona­tion to our site. It’s hard to rely 100% on ads, and your con­tri­bu­tions will help us con­tin­ue pro­vid­ing the best free cul­tur­al and edu­ca­tion­al mate­ri­als to learn­ers every­where. You can con­tribute through Pay­Pal, Patre­on, and Ven­mo (@openculture). Thanks!

Relat­ed Con­tent:

Dante’s Divine Com­e­dy: A Free Course from Colum­bia Uni­ver­si­ty

William Blake’s Last Work: Illus­tra­tions for Dante’s Divine Com­e­dy (1827)

Botticelli’s 92 Illus­tra­tions of Dante’s Divine Com­e­dy

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

Hear Dante’s Infer­no Read Aloud by Influ­en­tial Poet & Trans­la­tor John Cia­r­di (1954)

Physics from Hell: How Dante’s Infer­no Inspired Galileo’s Physics

Watch L’Inferno (1911), Italy’s First Fea­ture Film and Per­haps the Finest Adap­ta­tion of Dante’s Clas­sic

by | Permalink | Make a Comment ( 9 ) |

George Orwell Explains How “Newspeak” Works, the Official Language of His Totalitarian Dystopia in 1984

As we not­ed yes­ter­day, and you like­ly noticed else­where, George Orwell’s clas­sic dystopi­an nov­el 1984 shot to the top of the charts—or the Ama­zon best­seller list—in the wake of “alter­na­tive facts,” the lat­est Orwellian coinage for bald-faced lying. The ridicu­lous phrase imme­di­ate­ly pro­duced a bar­rage of par­o­dies, hash­tags, and memes; healthy ways of vent­ing rage and dis­be­lief. But maybe there is a dan­ger there too, let­ting such words sink into the dis­course, lest they become what Orwell called “Newspeak.”

It’s easy to hear “Newspeak,” the “offi­cial lan­guage of Ocea­nia,” as “news speak.” This is per­fect­ly rea­son­able, but it gives us the impres­sion that it relates strict­ly to its appear­ance in mass media. Orwell obvi­ous­ly intend­ed the ambiguity—it is the lan­guage of offi­cial pro­pa­gan­da after all—but the port­man­teau actu­al­ly comes from the words “new speak”—and it has been cre­at­ed to super­sede “Old­speak,” Orwell writes, “or Stan­dard Eng­lish, as we should call it.”

In oth­er words, Newspeak isn’t just a set of buzz­words, but the delib­er­ate replace­ment of one set of words in the lan­guage for anoth­er. The tran­si­tion is still in progress in the fic­tion­al 1984, but is expect­ed to be com­plet­ed “by about the year 2050.” Stu­dents of his­to­ry and lin­guis­tics will rec­og­nize that this is a ludi­crous­ly accel­er­at­ed pace for the com­plete replace­ment of one vocab­u­lary and syn­tax by anoth­er. (We might call Orwell’s Eng­lish Social­ists “accel­er­a­tionsts.”) Newspeak appears not through his­to­ry or social change but through the will of the Par­ty.

The pur­pose of Newspeak was not only to pro­vide a medi­um of expres­sion for the world-view and men­tal habits prop­er to the devo­tees of Ing­soc, but to make all oth­er modes of thought impos­si­ble.

It’s entire­ly plau­si­ble that “alter­na­tive facts,” or “alt­facts,” would fit right into the “Ninth and Tenth Edi­tions of the Newspeak Dic­tio­nary,” though it might eas­i­ly fall out of favor and “be sup­pressed lat­er.” No telling if it would make the cut for “the final, per­fect­ed ver­sion” of Newspeak, “as embod­ied in the Eleventh Edi­tion of the Dic­tio­nary.”

These quo­ta­tions come not from the main text of 1984 but from an appen­dix called “The Prin­ci­ples of Newspeak,” which you can hear read at the top of the post. Here, Orwell dis­pas­sion­ate­ly dis­cuss­es the “per­fect­ed” form of Newspeak, includ­ing its gram­mat­i­cal “pecu­liar­i­ties,” such as “an almost com­plete inter­change­abil­i­ty between dif­fer­ent parts of speech” (an issue cur­rent trans­la­tors have encoun­tered). He then intro­duces its vocab­u­lary, divid­ed into “three dis­tinct class­es,” A, B, and C.

The A class con­tains “every­day life” words that have been mutat­ed with cum­ber­some pre­fix­es and inten­si­fiers: “uncold” for warm, “plus­cold and dou­ble­plus­cold” for “very cold” and “superla­tive­ly cold.” The B class con­tains the com­pound words: sin­is­ter dou­ble­think coinages like “joy­camp (forced-labor camp)” and “Mini­pax (Min­istry of Peace, i.e. Min­istry of War).” These, Orwell explains, are sim­i­lar to “the char­ac­ter­is­tic fea­tures of polit­i­cal lan­guage… in total­i­tar­i­an coun­tries” of the ear­ly 20th cen­tu­ry.

The cit­i­zen of Ocea­nia, Orwell tells us, must have “an out­look sim­i­lar to that of the ancient Hebrew who knew, with­out know­ing much else, that all nations oth­er than his own wor­shipped ‘false gods’.… His sex­u­al life, for exam­ple, was entire­ly reg­u­lat­ed by the two Newspeak words sex­crime (sex­u­al immoral­i­ty) and good­sex (chasti­ty).” The lat­ter includ­ed only “inter­course between man and wife, for the sole pur­pose of beget­ting chil­dren, and with­out phys­i­cal plea­sure on the part of he woman: all else was sex­crime.

The C class of words may be the most insid­i­ous of all. While it “con­sist­ed entire­ly of sci­en­tif­ic and tech­ni­cal terms” that “resem­bled the sci­en­tif­ic terms in use today,” the Par­ty took care “to define them rigid­ly and strip them of unde­sir­able mean­ings.” For exam­ple,

There was no vocab­u­lary express­ing the func­tion of Sci­ence as a habit of mind, or a method of thought irre­spec­tive of its par­tic­u­lar branch­es. There was, indeed, no word for ‘Sci­ence,’ any mean­ing that it could pos­si­bly bear being already suf­fi­cient­ly cov­ered by the word Ing­soc.

Orwell then goes on to dis­cuss the dif­fi­cul­ty of trans­lat­ing the work of the past into Newspeak. He uses as an exam­ple the Dec­la­ra­tion of Inde­pen­dence: “All mans are equal was a pos­si­ble Newspeak sen­tence,” but only in that “it expressed a pal­pa­ble untruth—i.e. that all men are of equal size, weight, or strength.” As for the rest of Thomas Jefferson’s rous­ing pre­am­ble, “it would have been quite impos­si­ble to ren­der this into Newspeak,” writes Orwell. “The near­est one could come to doing so would be to swal­low the whole pas­sage up in the sin­gle word crime­think.”

Relat­ed Con­tent:  

George Orwell’s 1984 Is Now the #1 Best­selling Book on Ama­zon

Han­nah Arendt Explains How Pro­pa­gan­da Uses Lies to Erode All Truth & Moral­i­ty: Insights from The Ori­gins of Total­i­tar­i­an­ism

Hux­ley to Orwell: My Hell­ish Vision of the Future is Bet­ter Than Yours (1949)

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

The American Novel Since 1945: A Free Yale Course on Novels by Nabokov, Kerouac, Morrison, Pynchon & More

Taught by pro­fes­sor Amy Hunger­ford, The Amer­i­can Nov­el Since 1945 offers an intro­duc­tion to the fer­tile lit­er­ary peri­od that fol­lowed World War II. The course descrip­tion reads:

In “The Amer­i­can Nov­el Since 1945” stu­dents will study a wide range of works from 1945 to the present. The course traces the for­mal and the­mat­ic devel­op­ments of the nov­el in this peri­od, focus­ing on the rela­tion­ship between writ­ers and read­ers, the con­di­tions of pub­lish­ing, inno­va­tions in the nov­el­’s form, fic­tion’s engage­ment with his­to­ry, and the chang­ing place of lit­er­a­ture in Amer­i­can cul­ture. The read­ing list includes works by Richard Wright, Flan­nery O’Con­nor, Vladimir Nabokov, Jack Ker­ouac, J. D. Salinger, Thomas Pyn­chon, John Barth, Max­ine Hong Kingston, Toni Mor­ri­son, Mar­i­lynne Robin­son, Cor­mac McCarthy, Philip Roth and Edward P. Jones. The course con­cludes with a con­tem­po­rary nov­el cho­sen by the stu­dents in the class.

You can watch the 26 lec­tures from the course above, or find them on YouTube and iTunes (videoaudio). To get more infor­ma­tion about the course, includ­ing the syl­labus, vis­it this Yale web­site.

The main texts used in this course include:

The Amer­i­can Nov­el Since 1945 will be added to our col­lec­tion, 1,700 Free Online Cours­es from Top Uni­ver­si­ties. There you can find a spe­cial­ized list of Free Online Lit­er­a­ture Cours­es.

Relat­ed Con­tent:

Vladimir Nabokov Names the Great­est (and Most Over­rat­ed) Nov­els of the 20th Cen­tu­ry

Flan­nery O’Connor Reads ‘A Good Man is Hard to Find’ in Rare 1959 Audio

Cor­mac McCarthy’s Three Punc­tu­a­tion Rules, and How They All Go Back to James Joyce

by | Permalink | Make a Comment ( 2 ) |

Franz Kafka’s Existential Parable “Before the Law” Gets Brought to Life in a Striking, Modern Animation

“Before the law sits a gate­keep­er. To this gate­keep­er comes a man from the coun­try who asks to gain entry into the law. But the gate­keep­er says that he can­not grant him entry at the moment. The man thinks about it and then asks if he will be allowed to come in lat­er on. ‘It is pos­si­ble,’ says the gate­keep­er, ‘but not now.’ ” So begins Franz Kafka’s “Before the Law,” a short sto­ry first pub­lished in 1915 but still res­o­nant just over a cen­tu­ry lat­er.

It takes no great inti­ma­cy with the work of the man who also wrote the likes of “The Meta­mor­pho­sis” and The Cas­tle, which ulti­mate­ly drove his name into the lex­i­con as a byword for absurd­ly intran­si­gent bureau­cra­cy and the irony of strug­gling against it, to fig­ure out whether the man ever does get to see the law. Most read­ers now first encounter the text of “Before the Law” when they read a priest telling it to Josef K, pro­tag­o­nist of Kafka’s posthu­mous­ly pub­lished 1925 nov­el The Tri­al. Some see it before they read it in the form of the pin­screen ani­ma­tion (by Alexan­der Alex­eieff and Claire Park­er, the mas­ters of that recher­ché art) that pre­cedes Orson Welles’ polar­iz­ing cin­e­mat­ic adap­ta­tion of the book.

A few years ago, the Barcelona-based ani­ma­tor Alessan­dro Nov­el­li cre­at­ed his own update of the para­ble, The Guardian. Using a mix­ture of two- and three-dimen­sion­al ani­ma­tion in a stark, line-drawn-look­ing black and white, it envi­sions the man (sport­ing a thor­ough­ly mod­ern beard and pair of severe­ly tapered pants) and his jour­ney through moun­tains, woods, and cities to the gate. Once he reach­es it, his life­long stand­off with the gate­keep­er opens up a num­ber of unex­pect­ed visu­al realms, tak­ing us atop a chess­board, inside an alarm clock, beside falling domi­nos, deep under­wa­ter, and up into the night sky.

Unlike Alex­eieff and Park­er’s straight adap­ta­tion, The Guardian extends the sto­ry: Kafka’s stern sen­tinel and his utter­ly impass­able por­tal turn into a chal­lenge aimed more at the man’s for­ti­tude. “Wher­ev­er it is you go to now,” says the gate­keep­er after he has final­ly giv­en the aged and weak­ened pro­tag­o­nist his chance, “remem­ber this gate, and that this gate exist­ed and was opened just for you. Yet you nev­er found the strength to cross it.” In Kafka’s orig­i­nal, when the gate clos­es, it clos­es with an exis­ten­tial final­i­ty; in Nov­el­li’s it re-opens “for the ones who will come. For the ones who will be brave.”

Relat­ed Con­tent:

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

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

Watch Franz Kaf­ka, the Won­der­ful Ani­mat­ed Film by Piotr Dumala

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

Franz Kaf­ka Sto­ry Gets Adapt­ed into an Award-Win­ning Aus­tralian Short Film: Watch Two Men

What Does “Kafkaesque” Real­ly Mean? A Short Ani­mat­ed Video Explains

Based in Seoul, Col­in Mar­shall writes and broad­casts on cities and cul­ture. He’s at work on a book about Los Ange­les, A Los Ange­les Primer, the video series The City in Cin­e­ma, the crowd­fund­ed jour­nal­ism project Where Is the City of the Future?, and the Los Ange­les Review of Books’ Korea Blog. Fol­low him on Twit­ter at @colinmarshall or on Face­book.

John Berger (RIP) and Susan Sontag Take Us Inside the Art of Storytelling (1983)

“Some­body dies,” says John Berg­er. “It’s not just a ques­tion of tact that one then says, well, per­haps it is pos­si­ble to tell that sto­ry,” but “it’s because, after that death, one can read that life. The life becomes read­able.” His inter­locu­tor, a cer­tain Susan Son­tag, inter­jects: “A per­son who dies at 37 is not the same as a per­son who dies at 77.” True, he replies, “but it can be some­body who dies at 90. The life becomes read­able to the sto­ry­teller, to the writer. Then she or he can begin to write.” Berg­er, the con­sum­mate sto­ry­teller as well as thinker about sto­ries, left behind these and mil­lions of oth­er mem­o­rable words, spo­ken and writ­ten, when he yes­ter­day passed away at age 90 him­self.

This con­ver­sa­tion aired 35 years ago as “To Tell a Sto­ry,” an hour­long episode of Chan­nel 4’s Voic­es, “a forum of debate about the key issues in the world of the arts and the life of the mind.” Though Berg­er and Son­tag sure­ly agreed in life on more than they dis­agreed (“not since [D.H.] Lawrence has there been a writer who offers such atten­tive­ness to the sen­su­al world with respon­sive­ness to the imper­a­tives of con­science,” the lat­ter once said of the for­mer), they here enter into a kind of debate about sto­ry­telling itself: why we do it, how we do it, when we can do it. Berg­er, for his part, char­ac­ter­izes all fic­tion as “a fight against the absurd,” against “that end­less, ter­ri­fy­ing space in which we live.”

Son­tag, in the words of Lily Dessau at Berg­er’s pub­lish­er Ver­so, “con­sid­ers the sto­ry­teller as inven­tor, in con­trol of the mate­r­i­al, out of which the ‘peo­ple come.’ Berg­er con­verse­ly takes the form of the sto­ry as the result of the lan­guage com­ing out of the peo­ple — but he does char­ac­ter­ize their dif­fer­ing views as arriv­ing at the same place — the scene of the text.” While both of them wrote fic­tion as well as essays, “Berg­er con­sid­ers the sto­ry and essay in one breath, both as a form of strug­gle to mod­el the unsayable,” while “for Son­tag the two are entire­ly sep­a­rate, although the strug­gle per­sists in both.”

Or, as Berg­er puts it in high­light­ing anoth­er aspect of the dif­fer­ence in their per­spec­tives, “You say you want to be car­ried away by the sto­ry. I want the sto­ry to stop things being car­ried away into obliv­ion, into indif­fer­ence.” The many trib­utes already paid to him, espe­cial­ly by influ­en­tial cre­ators formed in part by the influ­ence of his work, indi­cate that Berg­er’s lega­cy hard­ly finds itself now on the brink of an indif­fer­ent obliv­ion. Now that his long life has reached the end of its final chap­ter, well, per­haps we can begin to read, and to tell, his sto­ry.

Relat­ed Con­tent:

Til­da Swin­ton Gets a Por­trait Drawn by Art Crit­ic John Berg­er

Susan Sontag’s 50 Favorite Films (and Her Own Cin­e­mat­ic Cre­ations)

48 Hours of Joseph Camp­bell Lec­tures Free Online: The Pow­er of Myth & Sto­ry­telling

Based in Seoul, Col­in Mar­shall writes and broad­casts on cities and cul­ture. He’s at work on a book about Los Ange­les, A Los Ange­les Primer, the video series The City in Cin­e­ma, the crowd­fund­ed jour­nal­ism project Where Is the City of the Future?, and the Los Ange­les Review of Books’ Korea Blog. Fol­low him on Twit­ter at @colinmarshall or on Face­book.

Jim Jarmusch Lists His Favorite Poets: Dante, William Carlos Williams, Arthur Rimbaud, John Ashbery & More

jarmusch-poems

Wiki­me­dia Com­mons pho­to by Chrysoula Artemis

When it comes to Amer­i­can indie direc­tor Jim Jar­musch, we tend to think right away of the impor­tance of music in his films, what with his col­lab­o­ra­tions with Neil Young, Tom Waits, and Iggy Pop. (Jar­musch is him­self a musi­cian who has released two stu­dio albums and three EPs under the moniker Sqürl.) But Jarmusch’s most recent film, Pater­son, is an ode to poet­ry, drawn from his own love of New York School poets like Frank O’Hara and John Ash­bery. Set in Pater­son, New Jer­sey and fea­tur­ing a main char­ac­ter also named Pater­son (Adam Dri­ver), the film aims to show, writes Time mag­a­zine, “how art—maybe even espe­cial­ly art made in the margins—can fill up every­day life.”

Jar­musch was drawn to Pater­son, the town, by William Car­los Williams. The mod­ernist poet called the town home and pub­lished an epic poem called Pater­son in 1946. Although that dense, com­plex work is “not one of my favorite poems,” Jar­musch tells Time, he namechecks Williams as one of his favorite poets.

I think we can see the influ­ence of Williams’ spare visu­al imag­i­na­tion in Jar­musch films like Stranger than Par­adise, Down by Law, Ghost Dog, and Bro­ken Flow­ers. Jar­musch goes on in the course of his dis­cus­sion about Pater­son, the film, to name a hand­ful of oth­er poets he counts as inspi­ra­tions. In the list below, you can find Jarmusch’s favorites, along with links to some of their most-beloved poems.

–William Car­los Williams (“Aspho­del, That Gree­ny Flower,” “4th of July”)
–Wal­lace Stevens (“The Man with the Blue Gui­tar,” “The Snow Man,” “Thir­teen Ways of Look­ing at a Black­bird”)
–Dante Alighieri (Can­to I of the Infer­no)
–Arthur Rim­baud (“The Drunk­en Boat,” “Vagabonds”)
–John Ash­bery (“Self-Por­trait in a Con­vex Mirror”—read by Ash­bery)
–Ken­neth Koch (“In Love With You,” “One Train May Hide Anoth­er”)
–Frank O’Hara (“Steps,” Var­i­ous Poems)

As we read or re-read these poets, we might ask how they have informed Jar­musch’s styl­ish films in addi­tion to the influ­ence of his cin­e­mat­ic favorites. Sev­er­al great direc­tors have con­tributed to his pecu­liar visu­al aes­thet­ic. The only film­mak­er he men­tions as a hero in his Time inter­view is Bernar­do Bertol­luc­ci, but you can read about Jar­musch’s top ten films at our pre­vi­ous post–films direct­ed by such lumi­nar­ies as Yasu­jiro Ozu, Nicholas Ray, and Robert Bres­son.

via Austen Kleon’s week­ly newslet­ter

Relat­ed Con­tent:

Jim Jarmusch’s 10 Favorite Films: Ozu’s Tokyo Sto­ry, Kurosawa’s Sev­en Samu­rai and Oth­er Black & White Clas­sics

Jim Jar­musch: The Art of the Music in His Films

Wern­er Her­zog Cre­ates Required Read­ing & Movie View­ing Lists for Enrolling in His Film School

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

« Go BackMore in this category... »
Quantcast