James Joyce’s Finnegans Wake Gets Turned into an Interactive Web Film, the Medium It Was Destined For


Two rad­i­cal mod­ernists, James Joyce and Sergei Eisen­stein, once met in Paris in 1929 and, “depend­ing on who you read,” writes Dan McGinn, “are pur­port­ed to have dis­cussed a film ver­sion of ‘Ulysses’ and how Karl Marx’s ‘Das Kap­i­tal’ could be depict­ed onscreen.” For many years, an adap­ta­tion of Marx’s dense polit­i­cal-eco­nom­ic cri­tique seemed about as plau­si­ble as a film ver­sion of Joyce’s famous­ly dense nov­el, which takes place on a sin­gle day, June 16th—forever after known as Blooms­day.

A great admir­er of Joyce’s cin­e­mat­ic imag­i­na­tion, Eisen­stein once remarked that “for­mal­ly Joyce went as far as lit­er­a­ture could go.” Giv­en the con­ven­tion­al­ly nar­ra­tive, real­ist route film even­tu­al­ly trav­eled, Ulysses, with its recur­sive digres­sions and hyper­al­lu­sive inte­ri­or­i­ty, seemed unfilmable until Joseph Strick’s admirable effort in 1967.

Just as Eisen­stein admired Joyce’s lit­er­ary exper­i­men­ta­tion, Joyce was a lover of Eisen­stein’s exper­i­ments in film. He found­ed Ireland’s first movie house, the Vol­ta, in 1909, and though the ven­ture flopped a year lat­er, Joyce’s invest­ment in the aes­thet­ics of film sur­vived. Colm McAu­li­ffe observes that Ulysses “deployed a whole range of tech­niques such as mon­tage and rapid scene dis­solves which are more com­mon­ly asso­ci­at­ed with the cin­e­ma.” Eisen­stein “raved about the way Joyce had adopt­ed a sci­en­tif­ic approach to the sto­ry of a day in the life of one man,” writes McGinn, “putting almost every aspect of that day under the micro­scope.” After Joyce, Eisen­stein said, “the next leap is to film.”

But if Ulysses went as far as the nov­el could go, Finnegans Wake explod­ed the form alto­geth­er, dis­solv­ing the bound­aries between prose and poet­ry, sub­ject and object, his­to­ry and myth. Ulysses employed the tech­niques of film; Finnegans Wake imag­ined tech­nol­o­gy which did not even exist. It is a novel—if we are to call it such—written for the 21st cen­tu­ry, and per­haps the only way it can be adapt­ed in oth­er media is through the internet’s non­lin­ear, labyrinthine struc­tures; the online project First We Feel Then We Fall does just that, cre­at­ing a mul­ti­me­dia adap­ta­tion of Finnegans Wake that “trans­fers” the nov­el “to audio­vi­su­al lan­guage,” and demon­strates the nov­el as—in the words of The Guardian’s Bil­ly Mills—“the book the web was invent­ed for.”

Con­ceived and exe­cut­ed by Pol­ish artist Jakub Wróblews­ki and schol­ar Katarzy­na Bazarnik, the project’s “main goal,” its press release announces, “is to show com­plex­i­ty of nar­ra­tion, lan­guage and mean­ings includ­ed in this mas­ter­piece. Based on an inter­dis­ci­pli­nary analy­sis, the work trans­lates the text into the cin­e­mat­ic form.” As you can see in the short clips here, it’s a form much like we might imag­ine Eisen­stein adopt­ing to film Finnegans Wake, had Eisen­stein had access to web tech­nol­o­gy. Cen­tral to the project is “an inter­ac­tive video app… designed in order to enhance an expe­ri­ence of Joycean stream of con­scious­ness.”

Select­ed pas­sages and with­in them spe­cif­ic words, phras­es or sen­tences serve as the basis for video sequences. Shots illus­trat­ing a pas­sage are divid­ed into four sep­a­rate chan­nels. The view­ers have the oppor­tu­ni­ty to choose in real time which chan­nel they would like to watch…. This sys­tem is sup­posed to reflect the tenets of Joyce’s fic­tion: that the book can be read in dif­fer­ent ways, while the read­ers can solve its ver­bal puz­zles, yield to the melo­di­ous rhythm or look for hid­den mean­ings.

The project’s cre­ators base their adap­ta­tion on the novel’s con­cep­tu­al prin­ci­ples: “Based on a cycli­cal vision of his­to­ry, the book is a tex­tu­al mer­ry-go-round, too: it begins mid sen­tence and ends with anoth­er one bro­ken in the mid­dle, which finds it con­tin­u­a­tion on the first page: the same anew.” And although they don’t say so explic­it­ly, they also employ Eisen­stein’s the­o­ret­i­cal prin­ci­ples of mon­tage: “Pri­mo: pho­to-frag­ments of nature are record­ed; secun­do: these frag­ments are com­bined in var­i­ous ways.”

In addi­tion to a jum­ble of abstract images, the project’s short videos—as you can see in these excerpts—incorporate a wide range of voic­es, accents, and musi­cal and son­ic accom­pa­ni­ment. The only way to expe­ri­ence the full effect of First We Feel Then We Fall is to vis­it the site’s play­er and spend some time cycling through its dizzy­ing col­lec­tion of images and voic­es read­ing from the text, using the up and down arrows on your key­board to move from video to video. As a key to under­stand­ing Joyce’s work and their own adap­ta­tion, the project’s artists chose the Joycean words “Mean­der­tale” and “Meanderthalltale,”—“two of innu­mer­able puns mak­ing up the tex­tu­al labyrinth of Finnegans Wake,” neol­o­gisms that nudge us to read the book “as a ‘tall tale” wan­der­ing way­ward­ly, loop­ing back­ward and flash­ing for­ward, into the pre-his­toric past, and the ori­gins of the human species.”

If Ulysses seemed unfilmable, Finnegans Wake tru­ly is—at least in the con­ven­tion­al nar­ra­tive lan­guage film has set­tled into since Eisenstein’s time. But in using the abstract vocab­u­lary of avant-garde film and the post-mod­ern tech­nol­o­gy of the inter­net, First We Feel Then We Fall has cre­at­ed an adap­ta­tion that seems wor­thy of the book’s inno­va­tions, and that authen­ti­cal­ly trans­lates its ver­tig­i­nous­ly play­ful poet­ic strange­ness to the screen. Enter First We Feel Then We Fall here.

Relat­ed Con­tent:

Hear James Joyce’s Finnegans Wake Read Unabridged & Set to Music By 17 Dif­fer­ent Artists

Sci­en­tists Dis­cov­er That James Joyce’s Finnegans Wake Has an Amaz­ing­ly Math­e­mat­i­cal “Mul­ti­frac­tal” Struc­ture

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

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

Discover the First Horror & Fantasy Magazine, Der Orchideengarten, and Its Bizarre Artwork (1919–1921)

Der_Orchideengarten,_1920_cover_(Leidlein)

From the 18th cen­tu­ry onward, the gen­res of Goth­ic hor­ror and fan­ta­sy have flour­ished, and with them the sen­su­al­ly vis­cer­al images now com­mon­place in film, TV, and com­ic books. These gen­res per­haps reached their aes­thet­ic peak in the 19th cen­tu­ry with writ­ers like Edgar Allan Poe and illus­tra­tors like Gus­tave Dore. But it was in the ear­ly twen­ti­eth cen­tu­ry that a more pop­ulist sub­genre tru­ly came into its own: “weird fic­tion,” a term H.P. Love­craft used to describe the pulpy brand of super­nat­ur­al hor­ror cod­i­fied in the pages of Amer­i­can fan­ta­sy and hor­ror mag­a­zine Weird Talesfirst pub­lished in 1923. (And still going strong!)

Orchid_2

A pre­cur­sor to EC Comics’ many lurid titles, Weird Tales is often con­sid­ered the defin­i­tive ear­ly twen­ti­eth cen­tu­ry venue for weird fic­tion and illus­tra­tion.

But we need only look back a few years and to anoth­er con­ti­nent to find an ear­li­er pub­li­ca­tion, serv­ing Ger­man-speak­ing fans — Der Orchideen­garten (“The Gar­den of Orchids”), the very first hor­ror and fan­ta­sy mag­a­zine, which ran 51 issues from Jan­u­ary 1919 to Novem­ber 1921.

Orchid_3

The mag­a­zine fea­tured work from its edi­tors Karl Hans Strobl and Alfons von Czibul­ka, from bet­ter-known con­tem­po­raries like H.G. Wells and Karel Capek, and from fore­fa­thers like Dick­ens, Pushkin, Guy de Mau­pas­sant, Poe, Voltaire, Wash­ing­ton Irv­ing, Nathaniel Hawthorne, and oth­ers. “Although two issues of Der Orchideen­garten were devot­ed to detec­tive sto­ries,” writes 50 Watts, “and one to erot­ic sto­ries about cuck­olds, it was a gen­uine fan­ta­sy mag­a­zine.” And it was also a gallery of bizarre and unusu­al art­work.

04-Der-Orchideengarten--1919--German-magazine-cover_900

50 Watts quotes from Franz Rottensteiner’s descrip­tion of the magazine’s art, which ranged “from rep­re­sen­ta­tions of medieval wood­cuts to the work of mas­ters of the macabre such as Gus­tave Dore or Tony Johan­not, to con­tem­po­rary Ger­man artists like Rolf von Hoer­schel­mann, Otto Lenneko­gel, Karl Rit­ter, Hein­rich Kley, or Alfred Kubin.” These artists cre­at­ed the cov­ers and illus­tra­tions you see here, and many more you can see at 50 Watts, the black sun, and John Coulthart’s {feuil­leton}.

Orchid_5

“What strikes me about these black-and-white draw­ings,” like the dense, fren­zied pen-and-ink scene above, Coulthart com­ments, “is how dif­fer­ent they are in tone to the pulp mag­a­zines which fol­lowed short­ly after in Amer­i­ca and else­where. They’re at once far more adult and fre­quent­ly more orig­i­nal than the Goth­ic clichés which padded out Weird Tales and less­er titles for many years.” Indeed, though the for­mat may be sim­i­lar to its suc­ces­sors, Der Orchideen­garten’s cov­ers show the influ­ence of Sur­re­al­ism, “some are almost Expres­sion­ist in style,” and many of the illus­tra­tions show “a dis­tinct Goya influ­ence.”

Orchid_1

Pop­u­lar fan­ta­sy and hor­ror illus­tra­tion has often leaned more toward the soft-porn of sev­en­ties air­brushed vans, pulp-nov­el cov­ers, or the gris­ly kitsch of the comics. Rot­ten­stein­er writes in his 1978 Fan­ta­sy Book that this “large-for­mat mag­a­zine… must sure­ly rank as one of the most beau­ti­ful fan­ta­sy mag­a­zines ever pub­lished.” It’s hard to argue with that assess­ment. View, read (in Ger­man), and down­load orig­i­nal scans of the magazine’s first sev­er­al issues over on this Prince­ton site.

via 50 Watts

Relat­ed Con­tent:

Exten­sive Archive of Avant-Garde & Mod­ernist Mag­a­zines (1890–1939) Now Avail­able Online

The Pulp Fic­tion Archive: The Cheap, Thrilling Sto­ries That Enter­tained a Gen­er­a­tion of Read­ers (1896–1946)

The First Illus­tra­tions of H.G. Wells’ War of the Worlds: The Sur­re­al & Hor­ri­fy­ing Art of Hen­rique Alvim Cor­rêa (1906)

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

Bertrand Russell Lists His 20 Favorite Words in 1958 (and What Are Some of Yours?)

Russell_in_1938

Image via Wiki­me­dia Com­mons

Is it pos­si­ble to ful­ly sep­a­rate a word’s sound from its meaning—to val­ue words sole­ly for their music? Some poets come close: Wal­lace Stevens, Sylvia Plath, John Ash­bery. Rare pho­net­ic meta­physi­cians. Sure­ly we all do this when we hear words in a lan­guage we do not know. When I first encoun­tered the Span­ish word entonces, I thought it was the most beau­ti­ful three syl­la­bles I’d ever heard.

I still thought so, despite some dis­ap­point­ment, when I learned it was a com­mon­place adverb mean­ing “then,” not the rar­i­fied name of some mag­i­cal being. My rev­er­ence for entonces will not impress a native Span­ish speak­er. Since I do not think in Span­ish and strug­gle to find the right words when I speak it—always translating—the sound and sense of the lan­guage run on two dif­fer­ent tracks in my mind.

An exam­ple from my native tongue: the word obdu­rate, which I adore, became an instant favorite for its sound the first time I said it aloud, before I’d ever used it in a sen­tence or parsed its mean­ing. It’s not a com­mon Eng­lish word, how­ev­er, and maybe that makes it spe­cial. A word like always, which has a pret­ty sound, rarely strikes me as musi­cal or inter­est­ing, though non-Eng­lish speak­ers may find it so.

Every writer has favorite words. Some of those words are ordi­nary, some of them not so much. David Fos­ter Wallace’s lists of favorite words con­sist of obscu­ri­ties and archaisms unlike­ly to ever fea­ture in the aver­age con­ver­sa­tion. “James Joyce thought cus­pi­dor the most beau­ti­ful word in the Eng­lish lan­guage,” writes the blog Futil­i­ty Clos­et,” Arnold Ben­net chose pave­ment. J.R.R. Tolkien felt the phrase cel­lar door had an espe­cial­ly beau­ti­ful sound.”

Who’s to say how much these authors could sep­a­rate sound from sense? Futil­i­ty Clos­et illus­trates the prob­lem with a humor­ous anec­dote about Max Beer­bohm, and brings us the list below of philoso­pher Bertrand Russell’s 20 favorite words, offered in response to a reader’s ques­tion in 1958. Though Rus­sell him­self had a fas­ci­nat­ing the­o­ry about how we make words mean things, he sup­pos­ed­ly made this list with­out regard for these words’ mean­ings.

  1. wind
  2. heath
  3. gold­en
  4. begrime
  5. pil­grim
  6. quag­mire
  7. dia­pa­son
  8. alabaster
  9. chryso­prase
  10. astro­labe
  11. apoc­a­lyp­tic
  12. ineluctable
  13. ter­raque­ous
  14. inspis­sat­ed
  15. incar­na­dine
  16. sub­lu­nary
  17. choras­mean
  18. alem­bic
  19. ful­mi­nate
  20. ecsta­sy

So, what about you, read­er? What are some of your favorite words in English—or what­ev­er your native lan­guage hap­pens to be? And do you, can you, choose them for their sound alone? Please let us know in the com­ments below.

Relat­ed Con­tent:

David Fos­ter Wal­lace Cre­ates Lists of His Favorite Words: “Mau­gre,” “Taran­tism,” “Ruck,” “Prima­para” & More

“Tsun­doku,” the Japan­ese Word for the New Books That Pile Up on Our Shelves, Should Enter the Eng­lish Lan­guage

5 Won­der­ful­ly Long Lit­er­ary Sen­tences by Samuel Beck­ett, Vir­ginia Woolf, F. Scott Fitzger­ald & Oth­er Mas­ters of the Run-On

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

Hear a BBC Radio Drama of Dostoyevsky’s The Brothers Karamazov: Streaming Free for a Limited Time

Dostoyevsky - The Brothers Karamazov

A quick heads up: For the next two weeks, you can stream a BBC Radio 4 drama­ti­za­tion of Fyo­dor Dos­toyevsky’s final nov­el, The Broth­ers Kara­ma­zov. Pub­lished between Jan­u­ary 1879 and Novem­ber 1880, the philo­soph­i­cal nov­el has influ­enced gen­er­a­tions of readers–certainly me, maybe you, and then some oth­er notable fig­ures like Ein­stein, Wittgen­stein, Hei­deg­ger, Freud and more. The radio drama­ti­za­tion is trun­cat­ed, just 5 hours, where­as most com­plete ver­sions run 34 hours. (Find those in our col­lec­tion of Free Audio Books. Or get a pro­fes­sion­al­ly-read ver­sion on Audible.com, by check­ing out Audi­ble’s 30-day free tri­al pro­gram.) Below, you can find the install­ments of the BBC radio dra­ma.

  • Episode 1: Rus­sia, 1880: The unpre­dictable Fyo­dor Kara­ma­zov and his sons are reunit­ed to dis­cuss Dmit­ry’s inher­i­tance. Stars Roy Mars­den.
  • Episode 2: As Alyosha attends to dying Father Zosi­ma, rela­tions between Dmit­ry and his father turn ever more dan­ger­ous. Stars Paul Hilton.
  • Episode 3: Fol­low­ing a vio­lent encounter at the Kara­ma­zov home, Dmit­ry flees the town in search of Grushen­ka. Stars Paul Hilton.
  • Episode 4: As Dmit­ry goes on tri­al for mur­der, Alyosha des­per­ate­ly seeks proof of his inno­cence. Stars Paul Hilton and Carl Prekopp.
  • Episode 5: Fol­low­ing Ivan’s dra­mat­ic appear­ance at his broth­er’s tri­al, Kate­ri­na pre­pares to deal Dmit­ry a fatal blow. Stars Paul Hilton.

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.

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Relat­ed Con­tent:

800 Free eBooks for iPad, Kin­dle & Oth­er Devices

Fyo­dor Dostoyevsky’s Life & Lit­er­a­ture Intro­duced in a Mon­ty Python-Style Ani­ma­tion

Fyo­dor Dos­to­evsky Draws Elab­o­rate Doo­dles In His Man­u­scripts

Free Online Lit­er­a­ture Cours­es

The Bizarre, Surviving Scene from the 1933 Soviet Animation Based on a Pushkin Tale and a Shostakovich Score

Hot dumplings! Mar­i­nat­ed apples! A bar­rel of cucum­bers!

Want to add some quick col­or to your per­for­mance or film? Slip in a quick non-nar­ra­tive ven­dor scene. No need for char­ac­ter or plot devel­op­ment. The audi­ence will be quite con­tent with the hawk­ers’ musi­cal recita­tion of their wares.

The Gersh­win / Hey­ward opera Por­gy and Bess’ com­ic “Ven­dor’s Trio” makes a nice break from the tragedy.

The live­ly mar­ket num­ber Who Will Buy? tem­porar­i­ly side­lines Oliv­er’s orphans to show­case the tal­ents of the adult cho­rus mem­bers.

When the Simp­sons’ 179th episode took Homer to New York City back in 1997, he was able to pur­chase such exot­ic del­i­ca­cies as Khlav Kalash and canned crab juice from a col­lec­tion of push­carts at the base of the World Trade Cen­ter.

Less well known is the above bazaar sequence from The Tale of the Priest and of His Work­man Bal­da (1933), a clas­sic of Sovi­et ani­ma­tion. This short clip is the only part of direc­tor Mikhail Tsekhanovsky’s unfin­ished fea­ture-length work to sur­vive. The rest was destroyed in a fire at the LenFilm archives in World War II, the seem­ing­ly final chap­ter in its trou­bled his­to­ry.

The film was based on Alexan­der Pushkin’s poet­ic retelling of a Russ­ian folk tale about a greedy priest, who strikes an ill-advised bar­gain with a brawny work­er. It was pub­lished posthu­mous­ly, and only after cen­sors had changed the priest into a mer­chant.

As he began work on the pro­duc­tion, Tsekhanovsky invit­ed Dim­it­ry Shostakovich to com­pose the score, an inno­va­tion at a time when musi­cal accom­pa­ni­ment was added to com­plet­ed silent films. Shostakovich start­ed, but was derailed by Prav­da’s 1936 denun­ci­a­tion of his work in an arti­cle titled “Mud­dle Instead of Music.”

Even­tu­al­ly Tsekhanovskiy threw in the tow­el, too.

It does not end there, how­ev­er.

After Shostakovich’s death, his wid­ow got his stu­dent, Vadim Biber­ga, to com­plete work on the unfin­ished score. The Russ­ian Phil­har­mon­ic Orches­tra released it in 2006, as part of a Shostakovich cen­ten­ni­al.

A com­mem­o­ra­tive live per­for­mance that same year drew fire from the local dio­cese of the Russ­ian Ortho­dox Church, who object­ed to the mock­ing por­tray­al of the priest. The the­ater bowed to pres­sure, stag­ing sev­en priest-free num­bers from the opera.

This recent his­to­ry adds an air of defi­ance to the grotes­queries of the sur­viv­ing clip, with top hon­ors going to the smut ped­dler enter­ing at the one minute mark, to extol the virtues of “a Venus with no gar­ments and fat thighs.”

You can lis­ten to Shostakovich’s full score here.

Relat­ed Con­tent:

Three Ani­mat­ed Shorts by the Ground­break­ing Russ­ian Ani­ma­tor Fyo­dor Khitruk

Sovi­et Ani­ma­tions of Ray Brad­bury Sto­ries: ‘Here There Be Tygers’ & ‘There Will Come Soft Rain’

Watch Sovi­et Ani­ma­tions of Win­nie the Pooh, Cre­at­ed by the Inno­v­a­tive Ani­ma­tor Fyo­dor Khitruk

Ayun Hal­l­i­day is an author, illus­tra­tor, and Chief Pri­ma­tol­o­gist of the East Vil­lage Inky zine. Fol­low her @AyunHalliday

The First Biopic of Edgar Allan Poe: 1909 Film by D.W. Griffith Shows the Horror Master Writing “The Raven”

The film indus­try knows that movie­go­ers love watch­ing genius­es at work, and they may have known it for more than a cen­tu­ry, ever since the release of 1909’s Edgar Allan Poe above. The sev­en-minute silent short, made for the cen­te­nary of the tit­u­lar lit­er­ary fig­ure’s birth (and sub­ti­tled, back in those days before the word biopic, “a Pic­ture Sto­ry Found­ed on Events in His Career”) depicts the 19th-cen­tu­ry pio­neer of psy­cho­log­i­cal hor­ror com­pos­ing his best-known work, “The Raven,” even as his wife lays dying of tuber­cu­lo­sis. In real life, the young Vir­ginia Eliza Clemm Poe passed away two years after the poem’s pub­li­ca­tion, but D.W. Grif­fith, like a true crafts­man of his medi­um, knew the poten­tial for extra dra­ma when he saw it.

Grif­fith, who did hun­dreds of such shorts in the late 1900s and ear­ly 1910s, would of course go on to direct two of the most inno­v­a­tive and influ­en­tial works in cin­e­ma his­to­ry: 1915’s The Birth of a Nation and the fol­low­ing year’s Intol­er­ance. But just before that, in 1914, he fur­ther pur­sued his inter­est in Poe with a fea­ture called The Aveng­ing Con­science: or, Thou Shalt Not Kill, mov­ing beyond a sim­ple depic­tion of the author and his work­ing process (or at least his work­ing process as inter­pret­ed through the dis­tinc­tive dra­mat­ic style of ear­ly silent film) to draw direct inspi­ra­tion from the work itself.

Even if you’ve nev­er actu­al­ly read any of Poe’s writ­ing, you’ll sure­ly have absorbed enough of “The Raven” (even if just from The Simp­sons) to quote it now and again, just as you’ll sure­ly have heard enough about his 1843 sto­ry “The Tell-Tale Heart” to know the plot has some­thing to do with a man tor­ment­ed by his guilty con­science — and so you’ll prob­a­bly know which sto­ry Grif­fith chose for this ear­ly exam­ple of adap­ta­tion even before you see its first title card. Just as the film­mak­er uses strik­ing light and shad­ow to evoke Poe’s inner world in the ear­li­er film, here he, in the words of Edgar Allan Poe author Kevin J. Hayes, “bril­liant­ly repli­cates Poe’s psy­cho­log­i­cal ten­sion in visu­al terms.”

Grif­fith’s sec­ond Poe film incor­po­rates not just the stuff of his work, but more of the stuff of his life as well: “Some aspects of the plot, in which the cen­tral char­ac­ter is an orphan as well as an author, are also rem­i­nis­cent of Poe’s life,” writes Hayes in The Cam­bridge Com­pan­ion to Edgar Allan Poe. “The sto­ry includes echoes of oth­er writ­ing includ­ing ‘Three Sun­days in a Week,’ ‘The Pit and the Pen­du­lum,’ ‘The Black Cat,’ and ‘Annabel Lee,’ ” all “spun togeth­er in a sto­ry of love, mur­der, and vengeance, which nonethe­less ends hap­pi­ly.” Which brings us to anoth­er piece of com­mon cin­e­mat­ic wis­dom, appar­ent­ly known as well by Grif­fith as by any of his Hol­ly­wood suc­ces­sors: every­body loves a hap­py end­ing — appar­ent­ly, once they get in front of the sil­ver screen, even read­ers of Edgar Allan Poe.

Both films will be added to our col­lec­tion of Silent Films, a sub­set of our meta col­lec­tion, 4,000+ Free Movies Online: Great Clas­sics, Indies, Noir, West­erns, Doc­u­men­taries & More.

Relat­ed Con­tent:

Down­load The Com­plete Works of Edgar Allan Poe: Macabre Sto­ries as Free eBooks & Audio Books

Edgar Allan Poe & The Ani­mat­ed Tell-Tale Heart

New Film Extra­or­di­nary Tales Ani­mates Edgar Poe Sto­ries, with Nar­ra­tions by Guiller­mo Del Toro, Christo­pher Lee & More

Edgar Allan Poe Ani­mat­ed: Watch Four Ani­ma­tions of Clas­sic Poe Sto­ries

The Simp­sons Present Edgar Allan Poe’s “The Raven,” and Teach­ers Now Use It to Teach Kids the Joys of Lit­er­a­ture

The Mys­tery of Edgar Allan Poe’s Death: 19 The­o­ries on What Caused the Poet’s Demise

Based in Seoul, Col­in Mar­shall writes and broad­casts on cities, lan­guage, and style. 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.

1,000-Year-Old Manuscript of Beowulf Digitized and Now Online

Beowulf

One out­come of the upcom­ing “Brex­it” vote, we’re told, might free the UK to pur­sue its own unfet­tered des­tiny, or might plunge it into iso­la­tion­ist decline. The eco­nom­ic issues are beyond my ken, but as a read­er and stu­dent of Eng­lish lit­er­a­ture, I’ve always been struck by the fact that the old­est poem in Eng­lish, Beowulf, shows us an already inter­na­tion­al­ized Britain absorb­ing all sorts of Euro­pean influ­ences. From the Ger­man­ic roots of the poem’s Anglo-Sax­on lan­guage to the Scan­di­na­vian roots of its nar­ra­tive, the ancient epic reflects a Britain tied to the con­ti­nent. With pagan, native tra­di­tions min­gled with lat­er Chris­t­ian echoes, and local leg­ends with those of the Danes and Swedes, Beowulf pre­serves many of the island nation’s poly­glot, mul­ti-nation­al ori­gins.

Irish poet Sea­mus Heaney—whose work engaged with the ironies and com­pli­ca­tions of trib­al­ism and nationalism—had a deep respect for Beowulf; in the intro­duc­tion to his trans­la­tion of the poem, Heaney describes it as a tale “as elab­o­rate as the beau­ti­ful con­trivances of its lan­guage. Its nar­ra­tive ele­ments may belong to a pre­vi­ous age but as a work of art it lives in its own con­tin­u­ous present, equal to our knowl­edge of real­i­ty in the present time.” Though we’ve come to think of it as an essen­tial work of Eng­lish lit­er­a­ture, Beowulf might have dis­ap­peared into the mists of his­to­ry had not the only man­u­script of the poem sur­vived “more or less by chance.” The “unique copy,” writes Heaney, “(now in the British Library) bare­ly sur­vived a fire in the eigh­teenth cen­tu­ry and was then tran­scribed and titled, retran­scribed and edit­ed, trans­lat­ed and adapt­ed, inter­pret­ed and taught, until it has become an acknowl­edged clas­sic.”

Now, the British Library’s dig­i­ti­za­tion of that sole man­u­script allows us to peel back the lay­ers of can­on­iza­tion and see how the poem first entered a lit­er­ary tra­di­tion. Orig­i­nal­ly “passed down oral­ly over many gen­er­a­tions, and mod­i­fied by each suc­ces­sive bard,” writes the British Library, Beowulf took this fixed form when “the exist­ing copy was made at an unknown loca­tion in Anglo-Sax­on Eng­land.” Not only is the loca­tion unknown, but the date as well: “its age has to be cal­cu­lat­ed by ana­lyz­ing the scribes’ hand­writ­ing. Some schol­ars have sug­gest­ed that the man­u­script was made at the end of the 10th cen­tu­ry, oth­ers in the ear­ly decades of the 11th, per­haps as late as the reign of King Cnut, who ruled Eng­land from 1016 until 1035.”

These schol­ar­ly debates may not inter­est the aver­age read­er much. The poem sur­vived long enough to be writ­ten down, then became known as great lit­er­a­ture these many cen­turies lat­er, because the rich poet­ic lan­guage and the com­pelling sto­ry it tells cap­ti­vate us still. Nonethe­less, though we may all know the gen­er­al out­lines of its hero’s con­test with the mon­ster Gren­del and his moth­er, many of the cul­tur­al con­cepts from the world of Beowulf strike mod­ern read­ers as total­ly alien. Like­wise the poem’s lan­guage, Old Eng­lish, resem­bles no form of Eng­lish we’ve encoun­tered before. Schol­ars like J.R.R. Tolkien and poets like Heaney have done much to shape our appre­ci­a­tion for the ancient work, and we might say that with­out their inter­ven­tions, it would not live, as Heaney writes, “in its own con­tin­u­ous present” but in a dis­tant, unrec­og­niz­able past.

You can hear Heaney read his trans­la­tion of the poem on Youtube. Read Tolkien’s famous essay on the poem here, and hear it read in its orig­i­nal lan­guage at our pre­vi­ous post. Learn more about the sin­gle man­u­script that pre­served the epic poem for pos­ter­i­ty at the British Library’s web­site.

Find Beowulf list­ed in our col­lec­tion, 800 Free eBooks for iPad, Kin­dle & Oth­er Devices.

Relat­ed Con­tent:

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

Hear Beowulf Read In the Orig­i­nal Old Eng­lish: How Many Words Do You Rec­og­nize?

Dante’s Divine Com­e­dy Illus­trat­ed in a Remark­able Illu­mi­nat­ed Medieval Man­u­script (c. 1450)

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

The British Library Digitizes 300 Literary Treasures from 20th Century Authors: Virginia Woolf, T.S. Eliot, James Joyce & More

First Edition Ulysses

As a young col­lege stu­dent, I spent hours wan­der­ing through my university’s library, look­ing in a state of awe at the num­ber of books con­tained there­in by writ­ers whose names I knew or who seemed vague­ly famil­iar, and by hun­dreds, thou­sands, more I’d nev­er heard of. Always con­tent to immerse myself in seclud­ed cor­ners for days on end with a good book, I could­n’t have felt more at home.

The inter­net was in its infan­cy, and my online life at the time con­sist­ed of awk­ward, plain-text emails sent once or twice a week and the occa­sion­al clunky, slow-load­ing web­site, promis­ing much but deliv­er­ing lit­tle. Excitable futur­ists made extrav­a­gant pre­dic­tions about how hyper­text and inter­ac­tiv­i­ty would rev­o­lu­tion­ize the book. These seemed like intrigu­ing but unnec­es­sary solu­tions in search of a prob­lem.

To the book­ish, the book is a per­fect­ed tech­nol­o­gy that can­not be improved upon except by the pub­lish­ing of more books. While inter­ac­tive texts—with linked anno­ta­tions, biogra­phies, his­tor­i­cal pre­cis, crit­i­cal essays, and the like—have much enhanced life for stu­dents, they have not in any way improved upon the sim­ple act of read­ing for plea­sure and edification—an activ­i­ty, wrote Vir­ginia Woolf, requir­ing noth­ing more than “the rarest qual­i­ties of imag­i­na­tion, insight, and judg­ment.”

Though Woolf would like­ly have been unim­pressed with all that talk of hyper­tex­tu­al inno­va­tion, I imag­ine she would have mar­veled at the online world for offer­ing some­thing to the read­er we have nev­er had until the past cou­ple decades: free and instant access to thou­sands of books, from lit­er­ary clas­sics to biogra­phies to his­to­ries to poetry—all gen­res upon which Woolf offered advice about how to read on their own terms. With­out the anx­ious admis­sions process and cost­ly tuition, any­one with a com­put­er now has access to a sig­nif­i­cant por­tion of the aver­age col­lege library.

And now any­one with a com­put­er has access to a sig­nif­i­cant por­tion of the British Library’s rare col­lec­tions as well, thanks to the ven­er­a­ble institution’s new online col­lec­tion: “Dis­cov­er­ing Lit­er­a­ture: 20th Cen­tu­ry.”

orwell rejection

Read­ers of our site will know of Open Culture’s affin­i­ty for 20th cen­tu­ry mod­ernist lit­er­a­ture, like that of Vir­ginia Woolf, and for the dystopi­an fic­tion of George Orwell. These authors and greats of more recent vin­tage are all well-rep­re­sent­ed in the British Library col­lec­tion. You’ll find such trea­sures as a scanned first edi­tion of James Joyce’s Ulysses, first Amer­i­can edi­tion of Antho­ny Burgess’ A Clock­work Orange, and first edi­tion of Woolf’s A Room of One’s Own. These are just a few of the clas­sic nov­els avail­able in the “over 300 trea­sures” of the col­lec­tion, writes the British Library.

woolf cover

The online library offers a par­adise for read­ers, cer­tain­ly. And also a heav­en for schol­ars. Includ­ed among the rare first edi­tions and crit­i­cal essays and inter­views on the site’s main page are “online for the first time… lit­er­ary drafts… note­books, let­ters, diaries, news­pa­pers and pho­tographs from Vir­ginia Woolf, Ted Hugh­es, Angela Carter and Hanif Kureishi among oth­ers.”

Some incred­i­ble high­lights include:

And as if all this—and so many more 20th cen­tu­ry lit­er­ary treasures—weren’t enough, the col­lec­tion also tucks in some won­der­ful arti­facts from pre­vi­ous eras, such as a col­lec­tion of man­u­script poems by John Keats, includ­ing the Odes and Robert Burton’s ency­clo­pe­dic 1628 study of depres­sion, The Anato­my of Melan­choly.

“Until now,” says Anna Lobben­berg, the Library’s Dig­i­tal Pro­grammes Man­ag­er, “these trea­sures could only be viewed in the British Library Read­ing Rooms or on dis­play in exhibitions—now Dis­cov­ery Lit­er­a­ture: 20th Cen­tu­ry will bring these items to any­one in the world with an inter­net con­nec­tion.” It tru­ly is, for the lover of books, a brave new world (a book whose 1932 orig­i­nal dust jack­et you can see here).

Relat­ed Con­tent:

The British Library Puts Over 1,000,000 Images in the Pub­lic Domain: A Deep­er Dive Into the Col­lec­tion

The British Library’s “Sounds” Archive Presents 80,000 Free Audio Record­ings: World & Clas­si­cal Music, Inter­views, Nature Sounds & More

Vir­ginia Woolf Offers Gen­tle Advice on “How One Should Read a Book”

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

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