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10 Digital Editions of Surrealist Journals from Argentina, Chile & Spain (1928–67)

surrealist journals

Fans of mag­i­cal real­ism know that Latin Amer­i­can writ­ers seem to pos­sess a unique mas­tery of the tra­di­tion, and any­one who thinks of sur­re­al­ism in visu­al art will soon think of Sal­vador Dalí, who began and end­ed his dis­tinc­tive career in his native Spain. Why have Span­ish-speak­ing cul­tures proven so con­ducive to the kinds of cre­ativ­i­ty that bend real­i­ty just enough to make a deep and last­ing impact on their audi­ence? Those search­ing for answers would do well to look through the Autonomous Uni­ver­si­ty of Madrid’s dig­i­tal trove of Span­ish, Chilean, and Argen­tine sur­re­al­ist jour­nals from 1928–76.

Surrealism 2

They all appear as part of an inves­tiga­tive project whose name trans­lates to “Toward a Char­ac­ter­i­za­tion of His­pan­ic Sur­re­al­ism.” The archive includes, from Argenti­na:

From Chile:

And from Spain:

Surrealism 1

When you click on one of the mag­a­zines in the archive, the site will take you to a page with more infor­ma­tion describ­ing the mag­a­zine as well as plac­ing it in the prop­er his­tor­i­cal and cul­tur­al con­text of sur­re­al­is­m’s his­to­ry. (Non-Span­ish-speak­ers can get some trans­la­tion if they view the page with Google Chrome.) From there, you can click on an indi­vid­ual issue to read it.

Surrealism 3

As you flip through these records of an artis­ti­cal­ly fas­ci­nat­ing time in a series of places well suit­ed to it, you’ll get a sense of how much the dis­course var­ied even just with­in the realm of Span­ish-speak­ing sur­re­al­ists: some have a more play­ful tone while oth­ers have a more seri­ous one (though mix­ing the two did become some­thing of a sur­re­al­ist spe­cial­ty); some look out to the rest of the world while oth­ers look inward; and some come filled with strik­ing illus­tra­tions while oth­ers stick to the analy­sis of rel­e­vant ideas through text — and lots of it.

OC surrealist journals 3

Even though the most recent of these pub­li­ca­tions came off the press­es near­ly half a cen­tu­ry ago, any vis­i­tor to Spain, Argen­tine, or Chile, as well as oth­er coun­tries in the His­panophone world, will find they still have a cer­tain sur­re­al­is­tic sen­si­bil­i­ty to them. Long may they retain it.

via Mono­skop, an always inter­est­ing resource that you can fol­low on Twit­ter.

Relat­ed Con­tent:

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

Restored Ver­sion of Un Chien Andalou: Luis Buñuel & Sal­vador Dalí’s Sur­re­al Film (1929)

David Lynch Presents the His­to­ry of Sur­re­al­ist Film (1987)

Sal­vador Dalí’s Avant-Garde Christ­mas Cards

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.

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Can You Pass This Test Originally Given to 8th Graders Living in Kentucky in 1912?

bcschoolexam1912sm--1-

Can you spell “con­ceive”?

Of course you can! All it takes is a device with a built-in spelling app, an inno­va­tion of which no eighth grad­er in the far west­ern reach­es of blue­grass area Ken­tucky could have con­ceived back in 1912.

They were, how­ev­er, expect­ed to be able to name the waters though which an Eng­lish ves­sel would pass en route to Mani­la via the Suez Canal.

Can you?

While we’re at it, how much do you real­ly know about the human liv­er? Enough to locate it, iden­ti­fy its secre­tions, and dis­course on its size rel­a­tive to oth­er bod­i­ly glands?

If you answered yes, con­grat­u­la­tions. There’s a good chance you’d be pro­mot­ed to high school back in 1912. Not bad for a kid attend­ing a one-room school in rur­al Bul­lit Coun­ty.

And now for some extra cred­it, name the last bat­tles of the Civ­il War, the War of 1812, and the French and Indi­an War. Com­mand­ing offi­cers, too…

That’s the sort of mul­ti­part ques­tion that await­ed the eighth graders con­verg­ing on the Bul­lit Coun­ty cour­t­house for 1912’s com­mon exam, above. The very same cour­t­house in which the mod­ern day Bul­litt Coun­ty His­to­ry Muse­um is locat­ed. A civic-mind­ed indi­vid­ual donat­ed a copy of the test to this insti­tu­tion, and the staff put it online, think­ing it might be fun for lat­ter-day spec­i­mens like you and me to see how we mea­sure up.

So—just for fun—try typ­ing the phrase “com­mand­ing offi­cer last bat­tle french & indi­an war” into your search engine of choice. For­get instant grat­i­fi­ca­tion. Embrace the anx­i­ety!

Com­mon wis­dom holds that stan­dard­ized tests are a lot hard­er than they used to be. But look­ing at the sort of stuff your aver­age eighth grad­er had to regur­gi­tate two years pri­or to the start of WW1, I’m not so sure…

Thank god the Inter­net was there to define “kalso­min­ing” for me. Even with the aid of a cal­cu­la­tor, math is not my strong suit. That said, I’m usu­al­ly good enough with words to get the nar­ra­tive gist of any sto­ry prob­lem.

Usu­al­ly.

I con­fess, I was so demor­al­ized by my igno­rance, I couldn’t have dreamed of attempt­ing to fig­ure out how much it would cost to “kalsomine” a 20 x 16 x 9 foot room, espe­cial­ly with a door and win­dow involved.

For­tu­nate­ly, the Bul­lit Coun­ty Genealog­i­cal Soci­ety has seen fit to pro­vide an online answer sheet, a dig­i­tal lux­u­ry that would have gob­s­macked their fore­bears.

SPOILER: $8.01. That’s the amount it would’ve cost to kalsomine your room at 1912 prices. (A steal, con­sid­er­ing that a quart of White Wash Pick­ling Water Based Stain will run you $12.37 a quart at a nation­al­ly known hard­ware super­store today.)

Go ahead, take that test.

If you quail at the prospect of far­ing poor­ly against a rur­al 1912 eighth grad­er, just imag­ine how well he or she would do, tele­port­ed to 2016, and forced to con­tend with such mys­ter­ies as cyber bul­ly­ing, gen­der pol­i­tics, and offen­sive egg­plant emo­jis

via The Paris Review.

Relat­ed Con­tent:

The Open Syl­labus Project Gath­ers 1,000,000 Syl­labi from Uni­ver­si­ties & Reveals the 100 Most Fre­quent­ly-Taught Books

Take the 146-Ques­tion Knowl­edge Test Thomas Edi­son Gave to Prospec­tive Employ­ees (1921)

Take The Near Impos­si­ble Lit­er­a­cy Test Louisiana Used to Sup­press the Black Vote (1964)

Ayun Hal­l­i­day is an author, illus­tra­tor, and Chief Pri­ma­tol­o­gist of the East Vil­lage Inky zine. She lives in fear that her youngest child will pen a mem­oir titled I Was a Home­schooled 8th Grad­er and Oth­er Chillling True Life Tales. Fol­low her @AyunHalliday

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Hear the Greatest Hits of Isao Tomita (RIP), the Father of Japanese Electronic Music

Dur­ing his child­hood in the Japan of the 1930s, Isao Tomi­ta would have bare­ly had the chance to hear West­ern music. But when the Sec­ond World War came to an end, the intro­duc­tion of local U.S. Army broad­casts must have felt like the open­ing of a son­ic flood­gate: “I thought I was lis­ten­ing to music from out­er space,” remem­bered the man that child grew up to become a respect­ed com­pos­er as well as a pio­neer of elec­tron­ic music known for his cut­ting-edge, inter­galac­ti­cal­ly-mind­ed inter­pre­ta­tions of the work of such West­ern pre­de­ces­sors as Claude Debussy, Igor Stravin­sky, and Gus­tav Holst.

That telling quote comes from Tomi­ta’s New York Times obit­u­ary of this past Wednes­day, which describes some of the com­poser’s strug­gles to not just mas­ter but press into a new kind of artis­tic ser­vice the prac­ti­cal­ly exper­i­men­tal ana­log syn­the­siz­ers with which he made his best-known albums, like 1974’s Snowflakes Are Danc­ing and The Plan­ets. Just get­ting his first Moog syn­the­siz­er past Japan­ese cus­toms proved a strug­gle (“I told them that it was an instru­ment, and they didn’t believe me”), let alone fig­ur­ing out how to use the new device “to even gen­er­ate some­thing that’s not just noise.”

Tomi­ta had lit­tle in the way of prece­dent besides Wendy Car­los’ Switched-On Bach, which had come out in 1968 (and whose cov­er Tomi­ta had held up before those cus­toms inspec­tors, try­ing in vain to pro­vide evi­dence of his strange import­ed machine’s nature). He fol­lowed suit in 1972 with his own first album Elec­tric Samu­rai: Switched on Rock, on which he elec­tron­i­cal­ly cov­ered songs like “Let It Be,” “Jail House Rock,” and “Bridge Over Trou­bled Water.” Then came his Gram­my-nom­i­nat­ed best­selling Debussy trib­ute Snowflakes Are Danc­ing, which showed the lis­ten­ing world what he could do: specif­i­cal­ly, rein­ter­pret­ing the clas­si­cal canon with sounds few had ever heard before.

You can dis­cov­er some of his music by lis­ten­ing to albums avail­able on Spo­ti­fy, one Tomi­ta’s 1978 album Kos­mos and the oth­er a great­est-hits col­lec­tion. (Find both above. If you don’t have Spo­ti­fy’s free soft­ware, you can down­load it here.) Or peruse an even wider-rang­ing Youtube playlist. We have, of course, now had around half a cen­tu­ry to get used to elec­tron­ic music, and the gear has made enor­mous evo­lu­tion­ary leaps since Tomi­ta first sat down amid his unwieldy “thick­et” of fil­ters, oscil­la­tors, gen­er­a­tors, ampli­fiers, con­trollers, mod­u­la­tors, recorders, mix­ers, echo units, and phasers. But his music still retains its fas­ci­na­tion, espe­cial­ly now in our dig­i­tal world where its ana­log sounds seem to come from the past, the future, and out­er space all at once.

Relat­ed Con­tent:

How the Moog Syn­the­siz­er Changed the Sound of Music

Meet the Dr. Who Com­pos­er Who Almost Turned The Bea­t­les’ “Yes­ter­day” Into Ear­ly Elec­tron­i­ca

Hear Sev­en Hours of Women Mak­ing Elec­tron­ic Music (1938- 2014)

The His­to­ry of Elec­tron­ic Music in 476 Tracks (1937–2001)

Dis­cov­er­ing Elec­tron­ic Music: 1983 Doc­u­men­tary Offers a Fun & Edu­ca­tion­al Intro­duc­tion to Elec­tron­ic Music

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.

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Monty Python’s Philosopher’s Football Match: The Epic Showdown Between the Greeks & Germans (1972)

Last year, we wit­nessed a very tense, unpleas­ant show­down between Ger­many and Greece as the top­most nation in the Euro­pean Union drove its most indebt­ed coun­try to make painful, per­haps pun­ish­ing com­pro­mis­es. In one analy­sis of this hard-to-watch eco­nom­ic humiliation—for Greece, that is—The Wash­ing­ton Post made use of a much more light­heart­ed con­test between the two coun­tries, one in which Greece emerged the vic­tor after scor­ing the only goal of the match.

The soc­cer match, that is, or, if you must, football—played between Ger­man and Greek philoso­phers in 1972 and staged by Mon­ty Python. On one side, Hegel, Leib­niz, Kant, Marx, Niet­zsche, Wittgen­stein, and more (includ­ing actu­al foot­baller Franz Beck­en­bauer, a “sur­prise inclu­sion”)… on the oth­er, Socrates, Archimedes, Her­a­cli­tus, Pla­to, Dem­ocri­tus, Epicte­tus, etc…. On the side­lines of this show­down between West­ern schools of thought, Con­fu­cius served as the ref­er­ee. Even after that sin­gle goal, scored after two full halves of mean­der­ing, the two teams came into conflict—in heat­ed argu­ments about the nature of exis­tence….

I won’t con­tin­ue to bore you by explain­ing the gags—watch the sketch above. It’s great fun, if by some chance you haven’t seen it, and great fun to watch again if you have.

Filmed at the Grün­walder Sta­dion in Munich (pre­sum­ably giv­ing the Ger­mans home field advan­tage), the sketch, Ter­ry Jones recalled many years lat­er, is about the “clash of oppo­sites.” No, not the two Euro­pean coun­tries, but the oppo­sites of sports and intel­lec­tu­al exer­cise. “You can’t think about foot­ball too much,” said Jones, “you just have to do it.” This proves chal­leng­ing for our deep thinkers.

Why foot­ball? Because it’s “a team activ­i­ty,” Jones answered, “which phi­los­o­phy, as a gen­er­al rule, isn’t.” Well, most­ly. The Pythons weren’t the first to make the “incon­gru­ous” con­nec­tion. Albert Camus played the game, as a goal­keep­er, and played it quite well by all accounts. He once wrote, “all I know most sure­ly about moral­i­ty and oblig­a­tions, I owe to foot­ball.”

The injunc­tion to “just do it” wouldn’t present too much of a chal­lenge for an exis­ten­tial­ist, one would think. Philoso­pher Julian Bag­gi­ni puts the Pythons firm­ly in that school of thought, their take on it a “coher­ent, Anglo-Sax­on” one. Indeed, like Camus, the British come­di­ans rec­og­nized the absur­di­ty of life, and showed us that “the right response is to laugh at it.” They also showed us that phi­los­o­phy could be hilar­i­ous, and made a clas­sic sketch aca­d­e­mics could use to refute charges they’re a dour, humor­less lot.

It should come as no sur­prise that the Python “most inter­est­ed in the sub­ject” of phi­los­o­phy and com­e­dy was John Cleese—whom we’ve fea­tured here many times for his tal­ents in com­bin­ing the two. Cleese, writes Bag­gi­ni, is “on record as say­ing that com­e­dy and deep thought can go hand in hand. ‘You and I could talk about the mean­ing of life, or edu­ca­tion, or mar­riage,’ Cleese once told a jour­nal­ist, ‘and we could be laugh­ing a lot, and it doesn’t mean that what we’re talk­ing about isn’t seri­ous.’”

Inspired by the Pythons’ serio-com­ic love of learn­ing, Bag­gi­ni, and oth­er philoso­phers like A.C. Grayling and Nigel War­bur­ton, along with come­di­ans, his­to­ri­ans, and jour­nal­ists, decid­ed to restage the Ger­many-Greek match in 2010. Where the Pythons indi­rect­ly boost­ed intel­lec­tu­al pur­suits in the course of mock­ing them, the par­tic­i­pants in this “game”—such as it was—explicitly sought to pro­mote “Rea­son­ing,” the “fourth R” in “Read­ing, W®iting, and A®ithmetic.”

See them bum­ble around on the pitch here and gen­er­al­ly have a good time mak­ing philo­soph­i­cal fools of them­selves to the strains of Mon­ty Python’s row­dy anthem “The Philoso­pher’s Song.”

Relat­ed Con­tent:

Mon­ty Python Sings “The Philosopher’s Song,” Reveal­ing the Drink­ing Habits of Great Euro­pean Thinkers

John Cleese Touts the Val­ue of Phi­los­o­phy in 22 Pub­lic Ser­vice Announce­ments for the Amer­i­can Philo­soph­i­cal Asso­ci­a­tion

Mon­ty Python and the Holy Grail Re-Imag­ined as an Epic, Main­stream Hol­ly­wood Film

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

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Edward Snowden & Jean-Michel Jarre Record a Techno Protest Song, “Exit”

For his new album, Elec­tron­i­ca Vol­ume II: The Heart Of Noise, Jean-Michel Jarre, a pio­neer in elec­tron­ic and ambi­ent music, col­lab­o­rat­ed on a record­ing with Edward Snow­den, the for­mer CIA com­put­er ana­lyst-turned-whistle­blow­er. Cue up their song, “Exit,” above.

At first glance, it per­haps seems like an unlike­ly pair­ing. But if you give Jarre, the son of a French resis­tance fight­er, a chance to explain, it all makes per­fect sense. Recent­ly, he told The Guardian:

The whole Elec­tron­i­ca project is about the ambigu­ous rela­tion­ship we have with tech­nol­o­gy: on the one side we have the world in our pock­et, on on the oth­er, we are spied on con­stant­ly. There are tracks about the erot­ic rela­tion­ship we have with tech­nol­o­gy, the way we touch our smart­phones more than our part­ners, about CCTV sur­veil­lance, about love in the age of Tin­dr. It seemed quite appro­pri­ate to col­lab­o­rate not with a musi­cian but some­one who lit­er­al­ly sym­bol­is­es this crazy rela­tion­ship we have with tech­nol­o­gy.

A lot of what Jarre and Snow­den were try­ing to accom­plish with the song–musically, con­cep­tu­al­ly, ide­o­log­i­cal­ly, etc.–gets explained in the video below. Lis­ten­ing to Snow­den talk about the mean­ing of the song’s title (“Exit” means “things have to change,” “it’s time to leave, it’s time to do some­thing else, it’s time to find a bet­ter way”), you’ll get the sense that “Exit” is an elec­tron­ic protest song befit­ting our dig­i­tal age. Out with the folk music, in with the tech­no.

Elec­tron­i­ca Vol­ume II: The Heart Of Noise also fea­tures songs with the Pet Shop Boys, Gary Numan and the rap­per Peach­es.

Relat­ed Con­tent:

Whistle­blow­ing Is Not Just Leak­ing — It’s an Act of Polit­i­cal Resis­tance. Read Snow­den’s first long form essay, released just last week.

Recall­ing Albert Camus’ Fash­ion Advice, Noam Chom­sky Pans Glenn Greenwald’s Shiny, Pur­ple Tie

The His­to­ry of Elec­tron­ic Music in 476 Tracks (1937–2001)

Hear Sev­en Hours of Women Mak­ing Elec­tron­ic Music (1938- 2014)

How the Moog Syn­the­siz­er Changed the Sound of Music

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Download Sigmund Freud’s Great Works as Free eBooks & Free Audio Books: A Digital Celebration on His 160th Birthday

free freud ebooks and audiobooks

Image by Max Hal­ber­stadt via Wiki­me­dia Com­mons

Any­one with a pass­ing famil­iar­i­ty with the work of Sig­mund Freud—which is just about everyone—knows at least a hand­ful of things about his famous psy­cho­an­a­lyt­ic the­o­ry: Ego, Super-ego, and Id, sex and death dri­ves, Oedi­pal com­plex, “Freudi­an slip,” “some­times a cig­ar is just a cig­ar”… (a quote that didn’t come from Freud). Most of these terms, except that cig­ar thing, orig­i­nate from Freud’s lat­er period—from about 1920 to his death in 1939—perhaps his most pro­duc­tive from a lit­er­ary stand­point, start­ing with Beyond the Plea­sure Prin­ci­ple, in which he began to devel­op his well-known struc­tur­al mod­el of the mind.

Dur­ing these lat­er years Freud built on ideas from 1913’s Totem and Taboo and ful­ly expand­ed his psy­cho­log­i­cal analy­sis into a philo­soph­i­cal and cul­tur­al the­o­ry in books like The Future of an Illu­sion, Civ­i­liza­tion and its Dis­con­tents, and Moses and Monothe­ism. For those who have pri­mar­i­ly encoun­tered Freud in intro to psych class­es, these works can seem strange indeed, giv­en the sweep­ing spec­u­la­tive claims the Vien­nese doc­tor makes about reli­gion, war, ancient his­to­ry, and even pre­his­to­ry. Though pep­pered with ter­mi­nol­o­gy from psy­cho­analy­sis, Freud’s more philo­soph­i­cal works roam far afield of his med­ical spe­cial­iza­tions and direct obser­va­tions.

When and how did Freud’s psy­chi­a­try become phi­los­o­phy, and what pos­sessed him to apply his psy­cho­log­i­cal the­o­ries to analy­ses of broad social and his­tor­i­cal dynam­ics? We see hints of Freud the philoso­pher through­out his career, but it’s dur­ing his mid­dle period—when his tri­par­tite mod­el of the psy­che still con­sist­ed of the con­scious, pre­con­scious, and unconscious—that he began to move more ful­ly from case stud­ies of indi­vid­ual psy­cho­sex­u­al devel­op­ment and inter­pre­ta­tions of dreams to stud­ies of human devel­op­ment writ large. These books are almost Dar­win­ian expan­sions of what Freud called “metapsychology”—which includ­ed his the­o­ries of Oedi­pal neu­roses, nar­cis­sism, and sado­masochism.

From 1914 to 1915, after his break with Jung, Freud worked on a series of papers on “metapsy­chol­o­gy,” intend­ed, he wrote “to clar­i­fy and car­ry deep­er the the­o­ret­i­cal assump­tions on which a psy­cho-ana­lyt­ic sys­tem could be found­ed.” Sev­en of the man­u­scripts from this peri­od van­ished, seem­ing­ly lost for­ev­er. In 1983, psy­cho­an­a­lyst Ilse Gru­bich-Simi­tis dis­cov­ered one of these essays in an old trunk belong­ing to a friend and col­league of Freud. Pub­lished as A Phy­lo­ge­net­ic Fan­ta­sy, this fas­ci­nat­ing, unfin­ished work points the way for­ward for Freud, pro­vid­ing some con­nec­tive tis­sue between his “ontoge­ny,” the devel­op­ment of the indi­vid­ual, and “phy­loge­ny,” the devel­op­ment of the species.

It is here, his trans­la­tors write in their intro­duc­tion to this rare work, that Freud “con­cludes that each indi­vid­ual con­tains some­where with­in him­self or her­self the his­to­ry of all mankind; fur­ther, that men­tal ill­ness can use­ful­ly be under­stood as a ves­tige of respons­es once nec­es­sary and high­ly adap­tive to the exi­gen­cies of each era. Accord­ing­ly, men­tal ill­ness can be under­stood as a set of for­mer­ly adap­tive respons­es that have become mal­adap­tive as the cli­mat­ic and soci­o­log­i­cal threats to the sur­vival of mankind have changed.”

These basic, yet rad­i­cal, ideas may be said to form a back­drop against which we might read so much of Freud’s mature work as a means for decod­ing what seems puz­zling, irra­tional, and down­right mad­den­ing about human behav­ior. Freud’s sci­en­tif­ic work has long been super­seded, and many of the specifics of his psy­cho­an­a­lyt­ic the­o­ry deemed unwork­able, irrel­e­vant, or even dam­ag­ing. But there are very good rea­sons why his work has thrived in lit­er­ary the­o­ry and phi­los­o­phy. There is even a case to be made the Freud was the first evo­lu­tion­ary psy­chol­o­gist, rough­ly bring­ing Dar­win­ian con­cepts of adap­ta­tion to bear on the devel­op­ment of the human psy­che from pre­his­to­ry to moder­ni­ty.

For all the neg­a­tive crit­i­cism his work has endured, Freud dared to explain us to our­selves, draw­ing on every resource at his disposal—including our most foun­da­tion­al nar­ra­tives in mythol­o­gy and ancient poet­ry. For that rea­son, his rel­e­vance, writes Jane Cia­bat­tari, as a “the­o­ret­i­cal cat­a­lyst” in the 21st cen­tu­ry remains potent, and his work remains well worth read­ing and pon­der­ing, for any stu­dent of human behav­ior.

Today, on the 160th birth­day of the father of psy­cho­analy­sis, we bring you a col­lec­tion of Freud’s major works avail­able free to read online or down­load as ebooks in the links below. Fur­ther down, find a list of Freud audio­books to down­load as mp3s or stream.

Whether root­ed in clin­i­cal study and research, detec­tive-like case stud­ies, philo­soph­i­cal spec­u­la­tions, or poet­ic flights of fan­cy, Freud’s writ­ing draws us deep­er into strange, obses­sive, pro­found, and dis­turb­ing ways of think­ing about our uneasy rela­tion­ships with our­selves, our fam­i­lies, and our unsta­ble social order.

eBooks

Audio Books

Relat­ed Con­tents:

Sig­mund Freud’s Psy­cho­an­a­lyt­ic Draw­ings Show How He First Visu­al­ized the Ego, Super­ego, Id & More

The Famous Let­ter Where Freud Breaks His Rela­tion­ship with Jung (1913)

Sig­mund Freud Appears in Rare, Sur­viv­ing Video & Audio Record­ed Dur­ing the 1930s

How a Young Sig­mund Freud Researched & Got Addict­ed to Cocaine, the New “Mir­a­cle Drug,” in 1894

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

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How Japanese Things Are Made in 309 Videos: Bamboo Tea Whisks, Hina Dolls, Steel Balls & More

The Japan­ese term kaizen, which just means some­thing like “good change,” has come to sig­ni­fy in glob­al man­age­ment cul­ture a process of con­tin­u­ous small-scale improve­ment — an ele­ment of the “Japan­ese busi­ness phi­los­o­phy” so envi­ous­ly scru­ti­nized dur­ing that coun­try’s post­war eco­nom­ic boom. Toy­ota has done the most to asso­ciate them­selves with the idea of kaizen-as-con­tin­u­ous-improve­ment, but it has made its way to count­less oth­er busi­ness­es, includ­ing for­eign ones sell­ing com­plete­ly dif­fer­ent prod­ucts; even the Amer­i­can gro­cery store Trad­er Joe’s has worked the word into their inter­nal cus­tomer-ser­vice lex­i­con.

But the nature of kaizen comes most clear­ly into view in the sys­tems of Japan­ese man­u­fac­tur­ing. Japan has long pos­sessed a strong cul­ture of hand-crafts­man­ship, and, for almost as long, a strong cul­ture of automa­tion as well. You can see both at work in The Mak­ing, a series of videos from the Japan Sci­ence and Tech­nol­o­gy Agen­cy’s Sci­ence Chan­nel on Youtube. “There are from 2 to 150, and 151 to 309 videos to choose from,” writes Metafil­ter user arowe­of­shale, who high­lights the episodes on may­on­naise, “the mak­ing of steel balls (avail­able in Eng­lish), the con­struc­tion and test­ing of sewing machines, how rice crack­ers are made, a ther­mos fac­to­ry, the recy­cling of PET bot­tles, a matcha tea fac­to­ry and the cre­ation of bam­boo whisks.”

These mini-doc­u­men­taries take in-depth looks at the nuts and bolts (some­times lit­er­al­ly) of pro­duc­tion sys­tems that have evolved, small improve­ment after small improve­ment, over decades or indeed cen­turies. You can see in action every stage of these hybrid process­es of advanced and high­ly spe­cial­ized tech­nol­o­gy with skilled and some­times even arti­sanal human labor, some­how at once elab­o­rate and ele­gant. This goes for every prod­uct fea­tured, no mat­ter how impor­tant or triv­ial it may seem. (I got hooked myself after watch­ing one on chick­en-shaped sweets.)

Even non-Japan­ese-speak­ers can enjoy all of The Mak­ing’s clear and almost com­plete­ly visu­al-dri­ven episodes, but the JST has also made select ones avail­able with Eng­lish sub­ti­tles (see top playlist) in order to tell the world all about what it takes to make what it has come to see as quin­tes­sen­tial­ly Japan­ese, like urban rail­road cars, steel balls (of many uses, includ­ing but not lim­it­ed to pachinko machines), and Hina dolls.

Any Amer­i­can old-timer will tell you that, back in their day — a time when the Unit­ed States’ for­mer ene­my had yet to ful­ly rebuild its econ­o­my, let alone to become a tech­no­log­i­cal leader — the “made in Japan” stamp sig­ni­fied a piece of junk. These videos show us, in detail, what it took to refute that notion for good.

via metafil­ter

Relat­ed Con­tent:

Dis­cov­er Japan’s Earth­quake Proof Under­ground Bike Stor­age Sys­tem: The Future is Now

Watch a Japan­ese Crafts­man Lov­ing­ly Bring a Tat­tered Old Book Back to Near Mint Con­di­tion

Cook­pad, the Largest Recipe Site in Japan, Launch­es New Site in Eng­lish

Let’s Learn Japan­ese: Two Clas­sic Video Series to Get You Start­ed in the Lan­guage

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.

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The Poetic Harmony of Andrei Tarkovsky’s Filmmaking: A Video Essay

“What words would best describe a Tarkovsky film?” asks Lewis Bond, cre­ator of the cinephile video-essay Youtube chan­nel Chan­nel Criswell. He offers a few right away: “Haunt­ing, ethe­re­al, hyp­not­ic, serene.” But appre­ci­a­tors, schol­ars, and even crit­ics of the work of Andrei Tarkovsky, the Sovi­et direc­tor of such aus­tere yet visu­al­ly rich, seri­ous-mind­ed yet dream­like, and long artis­ti­cal­ly scru­ti­nized pic­tures as Andrei RublevSolarisStalk­er, and The Mir­ror (watch them all free online here), could come up with many more. And though the man him­self may have denied draw­ing any inspi­ra­tion from sim­i­lar­ly respect­ed film­mak­ers — Bres­son, Anto­nioni, Bergman, Kuro­sawa, Mizoguchi, “I have no desire to imi­tate any of them” — few could avoid expo­sure to his own wide­spread and last­ing influ­ence on cin­e­ma.

Why has Tarkovsky’s work made such an impact? One might argue that the answer has do to with his com­mit­ment to “pure cin­e­ma,” or in Bond’s words, “to do with film that which could­n’t be done with oth­er art forms.” Solaris may have emerged, exten­sive­ly rethought, out of the source mate­r­i­al of Stanis­law Lem’s epony­mous sci­ence fic­tion nov­el, and Stalk­er may have more recent­ly pro­vid­ed the ele­ments of a video game (which went on to become a series of nov­els itself), but none of Tarkovsky’s works can tru­ly exist out­side the medi­um, with all its emo­tion­al and expe­ri­en­tial pow­er, in which he and his col­lab­o­ra­tors made them.

In this video essay called “Poet­ic Har­mo­ny,” Bond iden­ti­fies the pure­ly cin­e­mat­ic qual­i­ties of Tarkovsky’s films: from the tex­tures of their visu­al com­po­si­tion to their selec­tive use of sound (and quiet­ness as well) to build moods and the resis­tance of their abstrac­tion and ambi­gu­i­ty to intel­lec­tu­al analy­sis (despite how much view­ers con­tin­ue to fling at them); from their lack of sym­bol­ism to their build­ing of char­ac­ters through not words but action, the con­nec­tion of scenes through metaphor (as in Nos­tal­ghia, which cuts from a man who lights him­self on fire to a man who strug­gles to light a can­dle), and their use of long takes to build the “pres­sure of time.” Tarkovsky enthu­si­asts could hard­ly dis­agree, though the time soon comes to put away what The Sac­ri­fice’s cen­tral char­ac­ter calls “words, words, words” and sim­ply watch.

When you’re done watch­ing Bond’s video, you can watch many of Tarkovsky’s major films free online, thanks to Russ­ian film stu­dio Mos­film.

Relat­ed Con­tent:

A Poet in Cin­e­ma: Andrei Tarkovsky Reveals the Director’s Deep Thoughts on Film­mak­ing and Life

“Auteur in Space”: A Video Essay on How Andrei Tarkovsky’s Solaris Tran­scends Sci­ence Fic­tion

Andrei Tarkovsky’s Solaris Shot by Shot: A 22-Minute Break­down of the Director’s Film­mak­ing

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.

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How Steely Dan Wrote “Deacon Blues,” the Song Audiophiles Use to Test High-End Stereos

Every Steely Dan fan remem­bers the first time they lis­tened to their music — not just heard it, but lis­tened to it, active­ly tak­ing notice of Wal­ter Beck­er and Don­ald Fagen’s com­plex­ly anachro­nis­tic lyrics (long scru­ti­nized by the band’s exegetes), jazz-and-rock-span­ning com­po­si­tion­al tech­nique, ultra-dis­cern­ing selec­tion of ses­sion musi­cians, and immac­u­late stu­dio craft which, by the stan­dards of the 1970s, raised pop­u­lar music’s bar through the ceil­ing.

Often, that first real lis­ten­ing ses­sion hap­pens in the neigh­bor­hood of a high-end stereo deal­er. For me, the album was Two Against Nature, their turn-of-the-21st cen­tu­ry come­back, but for many more, the album was Aja, which came out in 1977 and soon claimed the sta­tus of Steely Dan’s mas­ter­piece. At the end of side one comes “Dea­con Blues,” one of their best-loved songs as well as a pro­duc­tion that puts audio­phile lis­ten­ing equip­ment to the test. You can see a break­down of what went into it in Nerd­writer’s new video “How Steely Dan Com­pos­es a Song” above.

“There’s a rea­son why audio­philes use Steely Dan records to test the sound qual­i­ty of new speak­ers,” says host Evan Puschak. “The band is among the most son­i­cal­ly sophis­ti­cat­ed pop acts of the 20th and 21st cen­turies,” in both the tech­ni­cal and artis­tic sens­es. He goes on to iden­ti­fy some of the sig­na­ture ele­ments in the mix, includ­ing some­thing called the “mu major cord”; the record­ing meth­ods that allow “every instru­ment its own life” (espe­cial­ly those played by mas­ters like gui­tarist Lar­ry Carl­ton and drum­mer Bernard Pur­die); the strik­ing effect of “mid­dle reg­is­ter horns slid­ing against each oth­er”; and even sax­o­phone soloist Pete Christlieb, whom Beck­er and Fagen dis­cov­ered by chance on a Tonight Show broad­cast.

Puschak does­n’t ignore the lyrics, with­out a thor­ough analy­sis of which no dis­cus­sion of Steely Dan’s work would be com­plete. He men­tions the band’s typ­i­cal­ly wry, sar­don­ic tone, their detached per­spec­tive and notes of uncer­tain­ty, but in the case of this par­tic­u­lar song, it all comes with a “hid­den earnest­ness” that makes it one of the most poignant in their entire cat­a­log. “ ‘Dea­con Blues’ is about as close to auto­bi­og­ra­phy as our tunes get,” admits Fagen in the tele­vi­sion doc­u­men­tary clip just above, which puts him and Beck­er back into the stu­dio to look back at the song track by iso­lat­ed track.

“We’re both kids who grew up in the sub­urbs. We both felt fair­ly alien­at­ed. Like a lot of kids in the fifties, we were look­ing for some kind of alter­na­tive cul­ture — some kind of escape, real­ly — from where we found our­selves.” Beck­er describes the song’s epony­mous pro­tag­o­nist, who dreams of learn­ing to “work the sax­o­phone” in order to play just how he feels, “drink Scotch whiskey all night long, and die behind the wheel,” as not a musi­cian but some­one who “just sort of imag­ines that would be one of the myth­ic forms of loser­dom to which he might aspire. Who’s to say that he’s not right?”

You can learn even more about the mak­ing (and the mag­ic) of “Dea­con Blues” in Marc Myers’ inter­view with Beck­er and Fagen in the Wall Street Jour­nal last year. “It’s the only time I remem­ber mix­ing a record all day and, when the mix was done, feel­ing like I want­ed to hear it over and over again,” says Beck­er. “It was the com­pre­hen­sive sound of the thing.” Fagen acknowl­edges “one thing we did right” in the mak­ing of the song: “We nev­er tried to accom­mo­date the mass mar­ket. We worked for our­selves and still do.”

Relat­ed Con­tent:

Pro­duc­er Tony Vis­con­ti Breaks Down the Mak­ing of David Bowie’s Clas­sic “Heroes,” Track by Track

The Dis­tor­tion of Sound: A Short Film on How We’ve Cre­at­ed “a McDonald’s Gen­er­a­tion of Music Con­sumers”

Neil Young on the Trav­es­ty of MP3s

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.

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What Makes the Stradivarius Special? It Was Designed to Sound Like a Female Soprano Voice, With Notes Sounding Like Vowels, Says Researcher

What makes vio­lins made by the Stradi­vari and Guarneri fam­i­lies as valu­able to musi­cians as they are to col­lec­tors? And how do we mea­sure the opti­mal sound qual­i­ty of a vio­lin? One answer comes from vio­lin mak­er Anton Krutz, who spec­u­lates that these high­ly-prized clas­si­cal instru­ments sing so sweet­ly because they are “made with pro­por­tions and spi­rals based on Gold­en Ratio geom­e­try.”

Per­haps. But Joseph Nagy­vary, a pro­fes­sor emer­i­tus in bio­chem­istry at Texas A&M Uni­ver­si­ty, dis­cov­ered anoth­er, less lofty rea­son for the dis­tinc­tive sound of these cov­et­ed instru­ments. As Texas A&M Today reports, dur­ing his 25 years of research on Stradi­var­ius and Guarneri vio­lins, Nagy­vary found that the two mak­ers “soaked their instru­ments in chem­i­cals such as borax and brine to pro­tect them from a worm infes­ta­tion that was sweep­ing through Italy in the 1700s. By pure acci­dent the chem­i­cals used to pro­tect the wood had the unin­tend­ed result of pro­duc­ing the unique sounds that have been almost impos­si­ble to dupli­cate in the past 400 years.”

Though vio­lins have always been made to imi­tate the human voice, the unique­ness of the Stradi­vari and Guarneri vio­lins, Nagy­vary set out to prove, results in espe­cial­ly human­like tones. In a recent 2013 study pub­lished in the stringed instru­ment sci­ence peri­od­i­cal Savart Jour­nal, Nagy­vary pre­sent­ed research show­ing, writes Live Sci­ence, that these prized Ital­ian instru­ments “pro­duced sev­er­al vow­el sounds, includ­ing the Ital­ian ‘i’ and ‘e’ sounds and sev­er­al vow­el sounds from French and Eng­lish.” Whether by chem­i­cal acci­dent or grand geo­met­ric design, “the great vio­lin mas­ters were mak­ing vio­lins with more human­like voic­es than any oth­ers of the time.”

Seek­ing, as Nagy­vary says in the short video above, to “define what was the stan­dard of excel­lence for the vio­lin sound,” he decid­ed to mea­sure the Stradi­vari and Guarneri-made instru­ments against the orig­i­nal mod­el for their tim­bre: the female sopra­no voice. To com­pare the two, he had Itzhak Perl­man record a scale on a 1743 Guarneri vio­lin, then asked Met­ro­pol­i­tan Opera sopra­no Emi­ly Pul­ley to record her voice while she sang var­i­ous vow­el sounds. Nagy­vary ana­lyzed the har­mon­ic con­tent of both record­ings with a com­put­er pro­gram and mapped the results against each oth­er.

His project, writes Texas A&M Today, effec­tive­ly “proved that the sounds of Pulley’s voice and the violin’s could be locat­ed on the same map… and their respec­tive graph­ic images can be direct­ly com­pared.” The Guarneri vio­lin does indeed exact­ly mim­ic the tones of the singing human voice, repli­cat­ing vow­el sounds from Old Ital­ian and oth­er Euro­pean lan­guages.

Nagy­vary thinks his find­ings “could change how vio­lins may be valued”—for their sound rather than for the label inside the instru­ment. A vio­lin mak­er him­self, the for­mer bio­chem­istry pro­fes­sor also sug­gests a more prac­ti­cal appli­ca­tion for his research find­ings: they might teach vio­lin mak­ers how to improve the qual­i­ty of their instru­ments. Nagyvary’s sci­en­tif­ic approach may offer luthiers the exact chem­i­cal com­po­si­tion and the mea­sur­able tonal qual­i­ties of the Stradi­var­ius, enabling them to final­ly dupli­cate these beloved Renais­sance instru­ments.

Relat­ed Con­tent:

Why Vio­lins Have F‑Holes: The Sci­ence & His­to­ry of a Remark­able Renais­sance Design

Musi­cian Plays the Last Stradi­var­ius Gui­tar in the World, the “Sabionari” Made in 1679

The Art and Sci­ence of Vio­lin Mak­ing

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

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