Read 18 Lost Stories From Hunter S. Thompson’s Forgotten Stint As a Foreign Correspondent

hst

Image by Steve Ander­son, via Wiki­me­dia Com­mons

At 24, some five years before pub­lish­ing his break­out book, Hell’s Angels, and near­ly a decade before brand­ing him­self a “gonzo jour­nal­ist,” the young Hunter S. Thomp­son was an anony­mous free­lancer look­ing to make a name for him­self. The year was 1962. Fidel Cas­tro had marched into Havana three years ear­li­er, and the sto­ry of the decade — the expand­ing fron­tier of the Cold War — was play­ing out in Latin Amer­i­ca. It occurred to Thomp­son that a hun­gry cub reporter could build a rep­u­ta­tion cov­er­ing it.

Thompson’s epiphany coin­cid­ed with the launch of the Nation­al Observ­er, a mild­ly exper­i­men­tal week­ly news­pa­per pub­lished by the Dow Jones Com­pa­ny. Thomp­son sent a let­ter intro­duc­ing him­self, said he was head­ed to South Amer­i­ca, and got an invite to sub­mit any sto­ries he wrote along the way. He arrived in Colom­bia in May of 1962 and, over the course of the next year, trav­eled through Ecuador, Peru, Bolivia, Paraguay, Argenti­na, Uruguay, and Brazil. The Observ­er pub­lished some 20 of his sto­ries from or about South Amer­i­ca, most of which focused on the continent’s cul­ture and pol­i­tics, and on how these were affect­ed by a Cold War–era U.S. for­eign pol­i­cy cen­tered around aid and con­tain­ment.

Six of Thompson’s South Amer­i­ca pieces were anthol­o­gized in his 1979 col­lec­tion The Great Shark Hunt (some in a slight­ly altered form); the rest have been essen­tial­ly lost for more than 50 years, read­able only in a few libraries’ micro­form col­lec­tions of the Observ­er, which fold­ed in 1977. I dug up the whole series while research­ing my book, The Foot­loose Amer­i­can: Fol­low­ing the Hunter S. Thomp­son Trail Across South Amer­i­ca (get a copy here). From the out­set, I intend­ed to post the arti­cles online some­where fol­low­ing the book’s pub­li­ca­tion, so that oth­er read­ers and researchers can eas­i­ly access them — and now that the book’s been on shelves for a year, it seemed like time to make good.

As I write in the book — and as I’ve described in The Atlantic and else­where — Thompson’s South Amer­i­can reportage offers a glimpse at his emerg­ing style. This is sharp, wit­ty par­tic­i­pa­to­ry jour­nal­ism with a keen eye for the absur­di­ties of South Amer­i­can life in the 1960s . The pieces are a mix of straight­for­ward news report­ing and more nar­ra­tive, fea­ture-style arti­cles. The depth of insight into Cold War for­eign pol­i­cy is impres­sive, and the sto­ries con­tain some mem­o­rable prose: the taxis in Quito, Ecuador, “rolled back and forth like ani­mals look­ing for meat.” Asun­cion, Paraguay, is “an O. Hen­ry kind of place … about as live­ly as Atlantis, and near­ly as iso­lat­ed.” La Paz, Bolivia, mean­while, offers “steep hills and high prices, sun­ny days and cold nights, demon­stra­tions by wild-eyed oppo­si­tion groups, drunk­en Indi­ans reel­ing and shout­ing through the streets at night — a man­ic atmos­phere.”

The Com­mu­ni­ty Texts col­lec­tion at archive.org now hosts a doc­u­ment with 18 of Thompson’s Nation­al Observ­er sto­ries from South Amer­i­ca, as well as host­ing each piece for indi­vid­ual read­ing or down­load. Find them all right below.

Note: If you find that the font is small, just click the plus (+) sign at the bot­tom of the screen to increase the font size.

1) ‘Leery Opti­mism’ at Home for Kennedy Vis­i­tor (June 24, 1962)

A pro­file of Colom­bi­a’s U.S.-friendly pres­i­dent-elect.

2) Nobody is Neu­tral Under Aruba’s Hot Sun (July 16, 1962)

On the divi­sive pol­i­tics of sun­ny Aru­ba.

3) A Foot­loose Amer­i­can in a Smuggler’s Den (August 6, 1962)

Thomp­son is marooned in Gua­ji­ra, Colom­bia, smug­gling cap­i­tal of the Caribbean.

4) Democ­ra­cy Dies in Peru, But Few Seem to Mourn Its Pass­ing (August 27, 1962)

On the results of a sur­pris­ing Peru­vian elec­tion — and the mil­i­tary takeover that fol­lowed.

5) How Democ­ra­cy is Nudged Ahead in Ecuador (Sep­tem­ber 17, 1962)

A day in the life of the Amer­i­can pro­pa­gan­da bureau in Ecuador.

6) Bal­lots in Brazil Will Mea­sure the Allure of Left­ist Nation­al­ism (Octo­ber 1, 1962)

On a piv­otal Brazil­ian elec­tion and the lure of the pop­ulist left.

7) Oper­a­tion Tri­an­gu­lar: Bolivia’s Fate Rides With It (Octo­ber 15, 1962)

On tin min­ers’ grave­yards, vio­lent strik­ers, and Bolivi­a’s crip­pling reliance on resource extrac­tion.

8) Uruguay Goes to the Polls with Econ­o­my Sag­ging (Novem­ber 19, 1962) 

The Blan­cos and Col­orados clash at the polls in South Amer­i­ca’s most devel­oped democ­ra­cy.

9) Chat­ty Let­ters Dur­ing a Jour­ney From Aru­ba to Rio (Decem­ber 31, 1962)

A selec­tion of Thomp­son’s (some­times des­per­ate) let­ters from South Amer­i­ca to his edi­tor.

10) Trou­bled Brazil Holds Key Vote (Jan­u­ary 7, 1963) — Text 1Text 2

Brazil­ians vote with the specter of rev­o­lu­tion on the hori­zon.

11) It’s a Dic­ta­tor­ship, But Few Seem to Care Enough to Stay and Fight (Jan­u­ary 28, 1963)

Report­ing on the belea­guered oppo­si­tion to Paraguay’s dic­ta­tor, Alfre­do Stroess­ner.

12) Brazil­ian Sol­diers Stage Raid in Revenge (Feb­ru­ary 11, 1963)

Report­ing on a grudge, a rogue mil­i­tary, and a mur­der in a Rio de Janeiro bar.

13) Left­ist Trend and Emp­ty Trea­sury Plague the Latin Amer­i­can Giant (March 11, 1963)

Hyper­in­fla­tion, labor strikes, and grow­ing insta­bil­i­ty in Brazil.

14) A Nev­er-Nev­er Land High Above the Sea (April 15, 1963)

On mad­ness, para­noia, and bizarre hap­pen­ings in the streets of La Paz.

15) Elec­tion Watched as Barom­e­ter Of Country’s Eco­nom­ic Trend (May 20, 1963) 

Report­ing on the mil­i­tary jun­ta from gloomy Lima.

16) He Haunts the Ruins of His Once-Great Empire (June 10, 1963)

On the plight — and latent polit­i­cal pow­er — of indige­nous Andeans.

17) Why Anti-Gringo Winds Often Blow South of the Bor­der (August 19, 1963)

On cyn­i­cism and dis­il­lu­sion­ment (and drink­ing) among Amer­i­can expats in South Amer­i­ca.

18) Can Brazil Hold Out Until the Next Elec­tion? (Octo­ber 28, 1963)

Hyper-infla­tion threat­ens to sink the Brazil­ian gov­ern­ment.

This is a guest post from Bri­an Kevin, a writer based in Maine and the author of The Foot­loose Amer­i­can. Fol­low him on Twit­ter at @BrianMT.

Relat­ed Con­tent:

Hunter S. Thomp­son, Exis­ten­tial­ist Life Coach, Gives Tips for Find­ing Mean­ing in Life

Read 10 Free Arti­cles by Hunter S. Thomp­son That Span His Gonzo Jour­nal­ist Career (1965–2005)

Hunter S. Thomp­son Inter­views Kei­th Richards

by | Permalink | Make a Comment ( 1 ) |

An Introduction to the Literary Philosophy of Marcel Proust, Presented in a Monty Python-Style Animation

Those who know the name Mar­cel Proust, if not his work itself, know it as that of the most soli­tary and intro­spec­tive of writers—a name become an adjec­tive, describ­ing an almost painful­ly del­i­cate vari­ety of sen­so­ry rem­i­nis­cence verg­ing on tantric solip­sism. Proust has earned the rep­u­ta­tion for writ­ing what Alain de Bot­ton above tells us in his Proust intro­duc­tion is “offi­cial­ly the longest nov­el in the world,” A la recher­ché du temps per­du (In Search of Lost Time). The book—or books, rather, total­ing dou­ble the num­ber of words as Tolstoy’s War and Peace—recounts the main­ly con­tem­pla­tive tra­vails of a “thin­ly veiled” ver­sion of the author. It is, in one sense, a very long, mas­ter­ful­ly styl­ized diary of the author’s loves, lusts, likes, moods, and tastes of every kind.

Those who know the iPhone app, “Proust”—a far few­er num­ber, I’d wager—know it as a game that har­ness­es the com­bined pow­er of social net­work­ing, instant online opin­ion, and sur­vey tech­nol­o­gy in a relent­less­ly repet­i­tive exer­cise in face­less col­lec­tiv­i­ty. These two enti­ties are per­haps vague­ly relat­ed by the Proust ques­tion­naire, but the dis­tance between them is more sig­nif­i­cant, stand­ing as an iron­ic emblem of the dis­tance between Proust’s refined lit­er­ary uni­verse and that of our con­tem­po­rary mass cul­ture.

Proust, a con­sti­tu­tion­al­ly frag­ile elit­ist born to wealthy Parisian par­ents in 1871, con­clud­ed that a life worth liv­ing requires the unique­ly sen­si­tive, fine­ly-tuned appre­ci­a­tion of every­day life that chil­dren and artists pos­sess, uncol­ored by the spoils of habit and dead­en­ing rou­tine. “Proust” the game—as the host of its vicious­ly satir­i­cal video pro­claims in an ambigu­ous­ly Euro­pean accent—concludes “It’s fun to judge”… in iden­ti­cal, rain­bow-col­ored screens that reduce every con­sid­er­a­tion to a vapid con­test with no stakes or effort. It too rep­re­sents, through par­o­dy, a kind of phi­los­o­phy of life. And one might broad­ly say we all live some­where in-between the hyper-aes­theti­cism of Proust the writer and the mind­less rapid-fire swipe-away triv­i­al­iz­ing of Proust the app.

De Bot­ton, con­sis­tent with the mis­sion of his very mis­sion­ary School of Life, would like us to move clos­er to the lit­er­ary Proust’s phi­los­o­phy, a “project of rec­on­cil­ing us to the ordi­nary cir­cum­stances of life” and the “charm of the every­day.” As he does with all of the fig­ures he con­scripts for his lessons, De Bot­ton pre­sumes that Proust’s pri­ma­ry intent in his inter­minable work was to “help us” real­ize this charm—and Proust did in fact say as much. But read­ers and schol­ars of the reclu­sive French writer may find this state­ment, its author, and his writ­ing, much more com­pli­cat­ed and dif­fi­cult to make sense of than we’re giv­en to believe.

Nonethe­less, this School of Life video, like many of the oth­ers we’ve fea­tured here, does give us a way of approach­ing Proust that is much less daunt­ing than so many oth­ers, com­plete with clever cut-out ani­ma­tions that illus­trate Proust’s the­o­ry of mem­o­ry, occa­sioned by his famed, fate­ful encounter with a cup of tea and a madeleine. The teatime epiphany caused Proust to observe:

The rea­son why life may be judged to be triv­ial, although at cer­tain moments it seems to us so beau­ti­ful, is that we form our judg­ment ordi­nar­i­ly not on the evi­dence of life itself, but of those quite dif­fer­ent images which pre­serve noth­ing of life, and there­fore we judge it dis­parag­ing­ly.

We may take or leave De Botton’s inter­pre­ta­tion of Proust’s work, but it seems more and more imper­a­tive that we give the work itself our full attention—or as much of it as we can spare.

Relat­ed Con­tent:

Watch Mon­ty Python’s “Sum­ma­rize Proust Com­pe­ti­tion” on the 100th Anniver­sary of Swann’s Way

Mar­cel Proust Fills Out a Ques­tion­naire in 1890: The Man­u­script of the ‘Proust Ques­tion­naire’

What Are Lit­er­a­ture, Phi­los­o­phy & His­to­ry For? Alain de Bot­ton Explains with Mon­ty Python-Style Videos

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

Christopher Lee Reads Edgar Allan Poe’s “The Raven,” and From “The Fall of the House of Usher”

Sir Christo­pher Lee died on Sun­day at the age of 93, bring­ing to a close a long and dis­tin­guished act­ing career — though one for­tu­nate­ly not con­fined only to the heights of respectabil­i­ty. Lee could get schlocky with the best of them, ele­vat­ing oth­er­wise clunky, broad, or over­ly lurid genre films with his inim­itable com­bi­na­tion of stature, bear­ing, and (espe­cial­ly) voice, most notably as Ham­mer Hor­ror’s go-to Count Drac­u­la in the 1950s and 60s, as a James Bond vil­lain in 1974, and as var­i­ous sin­is­ter gray emi­nences in more recent Star Wars and Lord of the Rings movies.

But Lee made him­self equal­ly at home in projects involv­ing the “bet­ter” class­es of genre as well. His famous voice did supreme jus­tice to the works of Edgar Allan Poe, the 19th-cen­tu­ry writer whose work did so much to define mod­ern hor­ror lit­er­a­ture.

At the top of the post, you can hear Lee give a read­ing of Poe’s well-known 1845 poem “The Raven”; just below, we have the trail­er for Raúl Gar­cía’s ani­mat­ed adap­ta­tion of Poe’s 1839 sto­ry “The Fall of the House of Ush­er,” over which Lee intones suit­ably omi­nous nar­ra­tion straight from the text.

If you’d like to hold your own trib­ute to the late Sir Lee, you’ll want to lis­ten to all his Poe-relat­ed work, watch his per­for­mances in such films as the thor­ough­ly cult-clas­sic The Wick­er Man and the founder-of-Pak­istan biopic Jin­nah (in which he played the title role, his per­son­al favorite), and play aloud a selec­tion from his stint as a heavy-met­al Christ­mas vocal­ist. Most artists who began their careers in the 1940s got pub­licly cat­e­go­rized as “high­brow” or “low­brow”; Lee’s career, with its many for­ays right up to the end into the con­ven­tion­al and uncon­ven­tion­al, the straight-ahead and the bizarre, exist­ed in a real­i­ty beyond brows — the one, in oth­er words, that we all live in now.

Relat­ed Con­tent:

Christo­pher Lee Nar­rates a Beau­ti­ful Ani­ma­tion of Tim Burton’s Poem, Night­mare Before Christ­mas

Hor­ror Leg­end Christo­pher Lee Presents a Heavy Met­al Ver­sion of The Lit­tle Drum­mer Boy

Edgar Allan Poe’s “The Raven,” Read by Christo­pher Walken, Vin­cent Price, and Christo­pher Lee

Col­in Mar­shall writes on cities, lan­guage, Asia, and men’s style. He’s at work on a book about Los Ange­les, A Los Ange­les Primer, and the video series The City in Cin­e­ma. Fol­low him on Twit­ter at @colinmarshall or on Face­book.

A Creepy Cut Out Animation of Samuel Beckett’s 1953 Novel, The Unnamable

Morn­ing, friend! Ready to kick off your week with a Beck­et­t­ian night­mare vision?

Samuel Beck­ett schol­ar Jen­ny Trig­gs was earn­ing a mas­ters in Visu­al Com­mu­ni­ca­tions at the Edin­burgh Col­lege of Art when she cre­at­ed the unset­tling, cut out ani­ma­tion for his 1953 nov­el, The Unnam­able, above. (Her PhD exhi­bi­tion, a decade lat­er, was a mul­ti-screen video response to Beckett’s short sto­ry, Ping.)

The wretched crea­tures haunt­ing the film con­jure Bosch and Gilliam, in addi­tion to Ire­land’s best known avant-garde play­wright.

Trig­gs seem to have drawn inspi­ra­tion from the name­less narrator’s phys­i­cal self-assess­ment:

I of whom I know noth­ing, I know my eyes are open because of the tears that pour from them unceas­ing­ly. I know I am seat­ed, my hands on my knees, because of the pres­sure against my rump, against the soles of my feet? I don’t know. My spine is not sup­port­ed. I men­tion these details to make sure I am not lying on my back, my legs raised and bent, my eyes closed.

Despite the narrator’s effort to keep track of his parts, Trig­gs ensures that some­thing will always be miss­ing. Her char­ac­ters make do with rods, bits of chess pieces or noth­ing at all in places where limbs should be.

Are these birth defects or some sort of wartime dis­abil­i­ty that pre­cludes pros­thet­ics?

One char­ac­ter is described as “noth­ing but a shape­less heap… with a wild equine eye.”

The nar­ra­tor steels him­self “to invent anoth­er fairy tale with heads, trunks, arms, legs and all that fol­lows.” Mean­while, he’s tor­ment­ed by a spir­i­tu­al push-me-pull-you that feels very like the one afflict­ing Vladimir and Estragon in Wait­ing for Godot:

Where I am, I don’t know, I’ll nev­er know, in the silence you don’t know, you must go on, I can’t go on, I’ll go on.

Trig­gs describes The Unnam­able as a book that begs to be read aloud, and her nar­ra­tors Louise Milne and Chris Noon are deserv­ing of praise for pars­ing the mean­der­ing text in such a way that it makes sense, at least atmos­pher­i­cal­ly.

To go on means going from here, means find­ing me, los­ing me, van­ish­ing and begin­ning again, a stranger first, then lit­tle by lit­tle the same as always, in anoth­er place, where I shall say I have always been, of which I shall know noth­ing, being inca­pable of see­ing, mov­ing, think­ing, speak­ing, but of which lit­tle by lit­tle, in spite of these hand­i­caps, I shall begin to know some­thing, just enough for it to turn out to be the same place as always, the same which seems made for me and does not want me, which I seem to want and do not want, take your choice, which spews me out or swal­lows me up, I’ll nev­er know, which is per­haps mere­ly the inside of my dis­tant skull where once I wan­dered, now am fixed, lost for tini­ness, or strain­ing against the walls, with my head, my hands, my feet, my back, and ever mur­mur­ing my old sto­ries, my old sto­ry, as if it were the first time.

Relat­ed Con­tent:

Rare Audio: Samuel Beck­ett Reads From His Nov­el Watt

Take a “Breath” and Watch Samuel Beckett’s One-Minute Play

Hear Samuel Beckett’s Avant-Garde Radio Plays: All That Fall, Embers, and More

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

Hear the Enchanting Jorge Luis Borges Read “The Art of Poetry”

Very few peo­ple can offer us a sat­is­fy­ing def­i­n­i­tion of poet­ry. Enu­mer­at­ing the tech­ni­cal qual­i­ties of lit­er­ary verse, as Eng­lish teach­ers do each day, seems like a pal­try expla­na­tion of what poet­ry is and does. Even the poets them­selves have strug­gled might­i­ly to find the con­tours of their art, only to end in gnom­ic koans or exas­per­at­ed sighs. “A poem should not mean / But be,” con­cludes Archibald MacLeish’s “ Ars Poéti­ca,” after telling us a poem should be “dumb,” “silent,” and “word­less.” MacLeish’s con­tem­po­rary Mar­i­anne Moore famous­ly spent five decades revis­ing her attempt, “Poet­ry.” Final­ly, she reduced it to three irri­ta­ble lines in which she con­fess­es her “dis­like” and “per­fect con­tempt” for her own art, how­ev­er “gen­uine” it may be.

These pinched mod­ernists not only resist­ed didac­tic con­cep­tions of poet­ry put forth by the ancients, but they also turned away from the grandiose rhetoric of the Roman­tics, who saw poets, in Per­cy Shelley’s unfor­get­table phrase, as the “unac­knowl­edged leg­is­la­tors of the world.” Per­haps they were right to do so. Per­haps also, there is anoth­er way to approach the sub­ject, a way open to one poet only—Jorge Luis Borges. No one but Borges could make the claims for poet­ry as he does in his “Arte Poéti­ca” in such a mov­ing and per­sua­sive way: Poet­ry, he tells us, is the knowl­edge of time, of death, of infin­i­ty, and of our very selves. “Hum­ble and immor­tal,” poet­ry allows us “To see in every day and year a sym­bol”

Of all the days of man and his years
And con­vert the out­rage of the years
Into a music, a sound, and a sym­bol

To see in death a dream, in the sun­set
A gold­en sad­ness, such is poet­ry

With ref­er­ence to the mys­ti­cal pre-Socrat­ic philoso­pher Her­a­cli­tus in the first and last stan­za, Borges makes his case with state­ments that seem the very oppo­site of humil­i­ty, and yet feel utter­ly right; poet­ry is immor­tal, it is “a green eter­ni­ty,” like Ulysses’ Itha­ca, it is “end­less like a riv­er flow­ing.” Or at least we feel it should be. Borges gives us a Pla­ton­ic ide­al of poet­ry, and it is one he might say, humbly, every poet should aspire to.

At the top of the post, you can hear Borges him­self read his poem, in Span­ish with Eng­lish titles, in a video shot in Uruguay and Borges’ native Argenti­na and fea­tur­ing a stir­ring Span­ish gui­tar score aug­ment­ing Borges’ solemn voice. Be sure to read the full text of Borges’ poem. As read­ers often do after fin­ish­ing one of the Argen­tine master’s pro­found­ly poet­ic works, you may find your­self for some time after­wards under a kind of spell, from an incan­ta­tion that seems, at last, to unlock the secrets of art, of poet­ry, and of so much more.

Relat­ed Con­tent:

Borges Explains The Task of Art

Jorge Luis Borges’ 1967–8 Nor­ton Lec­tures On Poet­ry (And Every­thing Else Lit­er­ary)

New Jorge Luis Borges-Inspired Project Will Test Whether Robots Can Appre­ci­ate Poet­ry

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

Eugène Delacroix Illustrates Goethe’s Faust, “One of the Very Greatest of All Illustrated Books”

faust9

Did our post last month on Édouard Manet’s illus­tra­tions of Stephane Mal­lar­mé’s trans­la­tion of Edgar Allan Poe’s The Raven get you excit­ed enough to track down Dover Pub­li­ca­tions’ col­lec­tion of those haunt­ing images? If so, you’ll notice that the book also con­tains Eugène Delacroix’s illus­tra­tions of Johann Wolf­gang von Goethe’s Faust, a bold set of art­works that earned high praise, at least from Goethe him­self: “Delacroix,” said the writer upon view­ing the lith­o­graphs made for the tex­t’s 1828 edi­tion, “has sur­passed my own vision.” You can see/read a com­plete ver­sion online here.

faust princeton

Prince­ton Uni­ver­si­ty Library’s Julie L. Mell­by uses that line to open a post on Delacroix’s Faust, “con­sid­ered by most his­to­ri­ans to be one of the finest pub­li­ca­tions of the nine­teenth cen­tu­ry. Gor­don Ray calls Delacroix’s illus­tra­tions ‘the high point of Roman­tic book illus­tra­tion,’ and David Bland called the vol­ume ‘one of the very great­est of all illus­trat­ed books.’ ” On that Prince­ton page you’ll find images scanned straight from Prince­ton’s copy of the book, and here we offer a select few to get you start­ed appre­ci­at­ing how Delacroix inter­pret­ed Goethe’s oft-told tale of divine wagers, pacts with the dev­il, and the temp­ta­tions of infi­nite knowl­edge.

faust3

“Every time I look at the engrav­ings of Faust I am seized with a long­ing to use an entire­ly new style of paint­ing that would con­sist, so to speak, in mak­ing a lit­er­al trac­ing of nature.” Delacroix wrote that in his jour­nal before tak­ing on the project of illus­trat­ing Faust him­self.

faust2

Maria Popo­va at Brain­Pick­ings quotes it in her own post on the work that result­ed in “a mes­mer­iz­ing dia­logue across dis­ci­plines between these two genius­es, half a cen­tu­ry apart in age.” (You can see more images on her site.) Whether or not Goethe knew he had writ­ten a work that would still res­onate with human­i­ty cen­turies lat­er, he did seem to under­stand that no one who saw Delacroix’s visions of it would ever for­get them.

faust8

H/T Prince­ton Uni­ver­si­ty / Brain­Pick­ings

Relat­ed Con­tent:

Goethe’s The­o­ry of Col­ors: The 1810 Trea­tise That Inspired Kandin­sky & Ear­ly Abstract Paint­ing

Watch Goethe’s Haunt­ing Poem, “Der Erlkönig,” Pre­sent­ed in an Art­ful Sand Ani­ma­tion

Édouard Manet Illus­trates Edgar Allan Poe’s The Raven, in a French Edi­tion Trans­lat­ed by Stephane Mal­lar­mé (1875)

Baude­laire, Balzac, Dumas, Delacroix & Hugo Get a Lit­tle Baked at Their Hash Club (1844–1849)

The Death Masks of Great Authors: Dante, Goethe, Tol­stoy, Joyce & More

Col­in Mar­shall writes on cities, lan­guage, Asia, and men’s style. He’s at work on a book about Los Ange­les, A Los Ange­les Primer, and the video series The City in Cin­e­ma. Fol­low him on Twit­ter at @colinmarshall or on Face­book.

My First Time: Paris Review Video Series Features Writers Talking About Getting Started as Writers

Do you spend your days sweat­ing blood over a lap­top, work­ing on a nov­el or poem or screen­play that always seems to fall short of the bril­liant ver­sion that is in your head? Are you ter­ri­fied that if you don’t squeeze out a first nov­el that will instant­ly make you the toast of the New York lit­er­ary estab­lish­ment you will be an abject fail­ure? Do you feel com­pelled to work on a book but are still plagued with the slow cor­ro­sive drip of doubt? Well, take heart. Every­one feels like that when he or she starts out.

The Paris Review, one of the most impor­tant lit­er­ary mag­a­zines around, made its name with long, in-depth inter­views with lit­er­ary fig­ures. Now they are launch­ing a video series called “My First Time,” where they inter­view authors, car­toon­ists and play­wrights about the begin­ning of their careers.

“This is a chance to see how suc­cess­ful authors got their start, in their own words,” as the Paris Review’s Dan Piepen­bring writes. “It’s a por­trait of the artist as a begin­ner and a look at the cre­ative process, in all its joy, abjec­tion, delu­sion, and eupho­ria.”

It’s strange­ly com­fort­ing to watch these peo­ple talk about strug­gling with all the psy­cho­log­i­cal crap that con­fronts any­one who has the audac­i­ty to try to cre­ate. They suc­ceed­ed. Maybe you can too.

Above is the trail­er for the series and low­er down are inter­views with author J. Robert Lennon, car­toon­ist Gabrielle Bell and play­wright Bran­den Jacobs-Jenk­ins.

Relat­ed Con­tent:

The Paris Review Inter­views Now Online

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

H.P. Love­craft High­lights the 20 “Types of Mis­takes” Young Writ­ers Make

Jonathan Crow is a Los Ange­les-based writer and film­mak­er whose work has appeared in Yahoo!, The Hol­ly­wood Reporter, and oth­er pub­li­ca­tions. You can fol­low him at @jonccrow. And check out his blog Veep­to­pus, fea­tur­ing pic­tures of vice pres­i­dents with octo­pus­es on their heads.  The Veep­to­pus store is here.

 

The Animated Franz Kafka Rock Opera

“The Franz Kaf­ka Rock Opera” comes from Sea­son 1 of a 1999 video series called Home Movies. In this episode, we find the char­ac­ter Dwayne writ­ing a rock opera based on Kafka’s famous novel­la The Meta­mor­pho­sis. It’s not Tom­my or Quadrophe­nia — two of the great­est rock operas ever made. But it does, true to form, fea­ture lyrics and song. You can watch a seg­ment of the rock opera above.

· Kaf­ka Song #1: Intro­duc­tion
He is Franz Kaf­ka!
Franz Kaf­ka!
Be care­ful if you get him pissed…
Franz! Franz Kaf­ka!
He’ll smite you with metaphor fists!
Writ­ing all he can, he’s just a man
A war­rior of words tak­ing a stand
He is Franz Kaf­ka!
Spo­ken: Oh look, but there he is, what will he say?
I’m a lone­ly German…a lone­ly Ger­man from Prague!
Kaf­ka! Kaf­ka! Kaf­ka!

· Kaf­ka Song #2: Turn­ing into a bug
I don’t know what’s wrong with me I think I’m turn­ing into a bug
I see dou­ble what I see I think I’m turn­ing into a bug
I ain’t got no self-esteem I think I’m turn­ing into a bug
Bet you fifty dol­lars I’m a man, I’m a schol­ar and I’m turn­ing into a bug
Mom­ma like a dad­dy like a baby like a baby like I’ll turn into a bug
Yeah! Yeah!
He is Franz Kaf­ka!

· Kaf­ka Song #3: Liv­ing like a bug ain’t easy
Liv­ing like a bug ain’t easy
My old clothes don’t seem to fit me
I got lit­tle tiny bug feet
I don’t real­ly know what bugs eat
Don’t want no one step­ping on me
Now I’m sym­pa­thiz­ing with fleas
Liv­ing like a bug ain’t easy…

· Kaf­ka Song #4: End­ing
Spo­ken: Wel­come to heav­en Franz! My name is God! I think you’re going to like it here!
He is Franz Kaf­ka!

· Louis, Louis End Rap
Well, I’m, cur­ing dis­ease
Help­ing blind peo­ple read
Don’t drink that milk with­out talk­ing to me (Oh yeah!)
I’m sav­ing those who can’t see with their eyes
Don’t mess with me you’ll get pas­teur­ized!
Yeah! Come on! Come on! Louis Louis in the house! Break it down!

(Jason does a human beat­box)

· Kaf­ka End Song
Right now he can
He’s just a man
A war­rior of words
Tak­ing a stand
He grew up very poor
He’s steel, it’s to the core
Born in 1883 died in 1924
He is Franz Kaf­ka!

Relat­ed Con­tent:

Four Franz Kaf­ka Ani­ma­tions: Enjoy Cre­ative Ani­mat­ed Shorts from Poland, Japan, Rus­sia & Cana­da

Franz Kafka’s Kafkaesque Love Let­ters

Vladimir Nabokov Makes Edi­to­r­i­al Tweaks to Franz Kafka’s Novel­la The Meta­mor­pho­sis

The Art of Franz Kaf­ka: Draw­ings from 1907–1917

by | Permalink | Make a Comment ( 2 ) |

« Go BackMore in this category... »
Quantcast