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H.P. Lovecraft Gives Five Tips for Writing a Horror Story, or Any Piece of “Weird Fiction”

lovecraft hp

Image by Lucius B. Trues­dell, via Wiki­me­dia Com­mons

Though the term “weird fic­tion” came into being in the 19th century—originally used by Irish goth­ic writer Sheri­dan Le Fanu—it was picked up by H.P. Love­craft in the 20th cen­tu­ry as a way, pri­mar­i­ly, of describ­ing his own work. Love­craft pro­duced copi­ous amounts of the stuff, as you can see from our post high­light­ing online col­lec­tions of near­ly his entire cor­pus. He also wrote in depth about writ­ing itself. He did so in gen­er­al­ly pre­scrip­tive ways, as in his 1920 essay “Lit­er­ary Com­po­si­tion,” and in ways spe­cif­ic to his cho­sen mode—as in the 1927 “Super­nat­ur­al Hor­ror in Lit­er­a­ture,” in which he defined weird fic­tion very dif­fer­ent­ly than Le Fanu or mod­ern authors like Chi­na Miéville. For Love­craft,

The true weird tale has some­thing more than secret mur­der, bloody bones, or a sheet­ed form clank­ing chains accord­ing to rule. A cer­tain atmos­phere of breath­less and unex­plain­able dread of out­er, unknown forces must be present; and there must be a hint, expressed with a seri­ous­ness and por­ten­tous­ness becom­ing its sub­ject, of that most ter­ri­ble con­cep­tion of the human brain–a malign and par­tic­u­lar sus­pen­sion or defeat of those fixed laws of Nature which are our only safe­guard against the assaults of chaos and the dae­mons of unplumbed space.

Here we have, broad­ly, the tem­plate for a very Love­craft­ian tale indeed. Ten years lat­er, in a 1937 essay titled “Notes on Writ­ing Weird Fic­tion,” Love­craft would return to the theme and elab­o­rate more ful­ly on how to pro­duce such an arti­fact.

Weird Fic­tion, wrote Love­craft in that lat­er essay, is “obvi­ous­ly a spe­cial and per­haps a nar­row” kind of “sto­ry-writ­ing,” a form in which “hor­ror and the unknown or the strange are always close­ly con­nect­ed,” and one that “fre­quent­ly emphasize[s] the ele­ment of hor­ror because fear is our deep­est and strongest emo­tion.” Although Love­craft self-dep­re­cat­ing­ly calls him­self an “insignif­i­cant ama­teur,” he nonethe­less sit­u­ates him­self in the com­pa­ny of “great authors” who mas­tered hor­ror writ­ing of one kind or anoth­er: “[Lord] Dun­sany, Poe, Arthur Machen, M.R. James, Alger­non Black­wood, and Wal­ter de la Mare.” Even if you only know the name of Poe, it’s weighty com­pa­ny indeed.

But be not intimidated—Lovecraft wasn’t. As our tra­di­tion­al hol­i­day cel­e­bra­tion of fear approach­es, per­haps you’d be so inclined to try your hand at a lit­tle weird fic­tion of your own. You should cer­tain­ly, Love­craft would stress, spend some time read­ing these writ­ers’ works. But he goes fur­ther, and offers us a very con­cise, five point “set of rules” for writ­ing a weird fic­tion sto­ry that he says might be “deduced… if the his­to­ry of all my tales were ana­lyzed.” See an abridged ver­sion below:

  1. Pre­pare a syn­op­sis or sce­nario of events in the order of their absolute occur­rence—not the order of their nar­ra­tions.

This is a prac­tice adhered to by writ­ers from J.K. Rowl­ing and William Faulkn­er to Nor­man Mail­er. It seems an excel­lent gen­er­al piece of advice for any kind of fic­tion.

  1. Pre­pare a sec­ond syn­op­sis or sce­nario of events—this one in order of nar­ra­tion (not actu­al occur­rence), with ample full­ness and detail, and with notes as to chang­ing per­spec­tive, stress­es, and cli­max.
  1. Write out the story—rapidly, flu­ent­ly, and not too critically—following the sec­ond or nar­ra­tive-order syn­op­sis. Change inci­dents and plot when­ev­er the devel­op­ing process seems to sug­gest such change, nev­er being bound by any pre­vi­ous design.

It may be that the sec­ond rule is made just to be bro­ken, but it pro­vides the weird fic­tion prac­ti­tion­er with a begin­ning. The third stage here brings us back to a process every writer on writ­ing, such as Stephen King, will high­light as key—free, unfet­tered draft­ing, fol­lowed by…

  1. Revise the entire text, pay­ing atten­tion to vocab­u­lary, syn­tax, rhythm of prose, pro­por­tion­ing of parts, niceties of tone, grace and con­vinc­ing­ness of tran­si­tions…

And final­ly….

  1. Pre­pare a neat­ly typed copy—not hes­i­tat­ing to add final revi­so­ry touch­es where they seem in order.

You will notice right away that these five “rules” tell us noth­ing about what to put in our weird fic­tion, and could apply to any sort of fic­tion at all, real­ly. This is part of the admirably com­pre­hen­sive qual­i­ty of the oth­er­wise suc­cinct essay. Love­craft tells us why he writes, why he writes what he writes, and how he goes about it. The con­tent of his fic­tion­al uni­verse is entire­ly his own, a method of visu­al­iz­ing “vague, elu­sive, frag­men­tary impres­sions.” Your mileage, and your method, will indeed vary.

Love­craft goes on to describe “four dis­tinct types of weird sto­ry” that fit “into two rough categories—those in which the mar­vel or hor­ror con­cerns some con­di­tion or phe­nom­e­non, and those in which it con­cerns some action of per­sons in con­nec­tion with a bizarre con­di­tion or phe­non­menon.” If this doesn’t clear things up for you, then per­haps a care­ful read­ing of Lovecraft’s com­plete “Notes on Writ­ing Weird Fic­tion” will. Ulti­mate­ly, how­ev­er, “there is no one way” to write a sto­ry. But with some practice—and no small amount of imagination—you may find your­self join­ing the com­pa­ny of Poe, Love­craft, and a host of con­tem­po­rary writ­ers who con­tin­ue to push the bound­aries of weird fic­tion past the some­times parochial, often pro­found­ly big­ot­ed, lim­its that Love­craft  set out.

Relat­ed Con­tent:

H.P. Lovecraft’s Clas­sic Hor­ror Sto­ries Free Online: Down­load Audio Books, eBooks & More

Love­craft: Fear of the Unknown (Free Doc­u­men­tary)

Stephen King’s Top 20 Rules for Writ­ers

Writ­ing Tips by Hen­ry Miller, Elmore Leonard, Mar­garet Atwood, Neil Gaiman & George Orwell

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

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H.G. Wells, Arthur Conan Doyle & Other British Authors Sign Manifesto Backing England’s Role in WWI

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Thinkers have said a great deal about the rel­a­tive might of the pen and the sword—often one well-known phrase in particular—but still, the sub­ject of intel­lect ver­sus might remains a mat­ter of active inquiry. But what if might har­ness­es intel­lect? What if those who live by the pen pick up their writ­ing tool of choice to endorse the nation­al use of weapon­ry infi­nite­ly more pow­er­ful than all the swords ever forged? This very thing hap­pened in the Britain of 1914: “FAMOUS AUTHORS DEFEND ENGLAND’S WAR,” read the head­lines, and Uni­ver­si­ty of Ottawa Eng­lish pro­fes­sor Nick Milne has more his­tor­i­cal analy­sis of the event in the first post of “Pen and Sword,” a series focus­ing on British Pro­pa­gan­da at the open edu­ca­tion­al resource World War I Cen­te­nary: Con­tin­u­a­tions and Begin­nings.

“In Sep­tem­ber of 1914,” writes Milne in a ver­sion of the post up at Slate, “as the armies of Europe were engaged in the Race to the Sea and the stale­mate of the trench­es loomed, Rud­yard Kipling, Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, and oth­er British authors col­lab­o­rat­ed on a remark­able piece of war pro­pa­gan­da. Fifty-three of the lead­ing authors in Britain — a num­ber that includ­ed Thomas Hardy and H.G. Wells — append­ed their names to the ‘Authors’ Dec­la­ra­tion.’ This man­i­festo declared that the Ger­man inva­sion of Bel­gium had been a bru­tal crime, and that Britain ‘could not with­out dis­hon­our have refused to take part in the present war.’ ” Oth­er men of let­ters the War Pro­pa­gan­da Bureau could con­vince to sign on, in addi­tion to Kipling, a fel­low rarely called insuf­fi­cient­ly patri­ot­ic, includ­ed “defend­er of unortho­dox thought by unortho­dox meth­ods” G.K. Chester­ton.

You can take a close-up look at the com­plete list of sig­na­to­ries with their brief bios, as well as the sig­na­tures them­selves, by click­ing at the image of the New York Times page up above. (Then click again to zoom in.) Eng­land may not, in the event, have lost the First World War, but the buoy­an­cy its writ­ers pro­vid­ed its fight­ing spir­it had lit­tle to do with it. Ger­many “respond­ed to the dec­la­ra­tion by bring­ing togeth­er an even larg­er assort­ment of artists, authors, and sci­en­tists to sign the Man­i­festo of the Nine­ty-Three, an astound­ing doc­u­ment which denied any Ger­man wrong­do­ing in Bel­gium and bewil­der­ing­ly accused the Allies of ‘incit­ing Mon­go­lians and negroes against the white race.’ ”

Sev­er­al of the British writ­ers involved, most notably H.G. Wells, even­tu­al­ly devel­oped a pub­lic cyn­i­cism toward the war. “The uni­ty of vision and pur­pose the dec­la­ra­tion so strong­ly implied,” as Milne mild­ly puts it, “did not endure.”

via Slate

Relat­ed Con­tent:

The First Col­or Pho­tos From World War I, on the Ger­man Front

Watch World War I Unfold in a 6 Minute Time-Lapse Film: Every Day From 1914 to 1918

British Actors Read Poignant Poet­ry from World War I

Frank W. Buck­les, The Last U.S. Vet­er­an of World War I

Col­in Mar­shall hosts and pro­duces Note­book on Cities and Cul­ture and writes essays on cities, lan­guage, Asia, and men’s style. He’s at work on a book about Los Ange­les, A Los Ange­les Primer. Fol­low him on Twit­ter at @colinmarshall or on Face­book.

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The C.I.A.‘s “Bestiary of Intelligence Writing” Satirizes Spook Jargon with Maurice Sendak-Style Drawings

CIA 1

Ten years in acad­e­mia gave me a healthy dis­like of clichéd jar­gon, as well as an appre­ci­a­tion for jokes about it. There are a few, like the aca­d­e­m­ic sen­tence gen­er­a­tor and Ph.D. Comics, that cap­ture a bit of what it’s like to go to school and work in high­er ed. Cor­po­rate drones, of course, have Office Space and Dil­bert. But what about the spooks, those name­less, face­less agents who work tire­less­ly away in the base­ment of Lan­g­ley, doing who knows what to whom? Where does the C.I.A. go to laugh at its pecu­liar brand of hack­neyed dou­ble­s­peak? Not that we were sup­posed to know this, but per­haps many of them turn to an arti­cle called “the Bes­tiary of Intel­li­gence Writ­ing” in a 1982 copy of inter­nal agency newslet­ter Stud­ies in Intel­li­gence.

CIA 2

Medi­um describes this odd piece as a “zoo of fic­tion­al fau­na,” and like that strange lit­er­ary form, the medieval Euro­pean bes­tiary (often a source of satire and cri­tique), this 17-page arti­cle, with foot­notes, sin­gles out the most offen­sive spook buzz­words as though they were car­di­nal sins—naming 15 mem­bers of “the Col­lec­tion” in all, each one rep­re­sent­ed by its own Mau­rice Sendak-like pen­cil-drawn beast and a descrip­tion of its habits. The two-head­ed beast at the top, Mul­ti­dis­ci­pli­nary Analy­sis, is a “hybrid—the fruit of the casu­al mat­ing of stan­dard forms of Analy­sis.” Just above, we have Height­ened Ten­sions, “the adult form of Con­ven­tion­al Tensions—Tensions that have acquired stilts by thriv­ing on a rich diet of pover­ty, mal­nu­tri­tion and espe­cial­ly alien­ation.” Sounds like rough work, this spy game….

CIA 3

Most of the beasts are cud­dly enough, some mis­chie­vous, some per­haps dead­ly. Above, we have Dire Straits and below, Para­me­ters. “The Agency author and artist detailed 15 mon­sters in all—complete with illus­tra­tions,” writes Medi­um, “Both of their names are redact­ed in the doc­u­ment. We’ll nev­er know just which CIA agents turned their hand towards snarky polit­i­cal satire.” The doc­u­ment comes to us via a cache of records declas­si­fied in a law­suit filed by for­mer agency employ­ee Jef­fry Scud­der. We do know that the two anony­mous lam­poon­ists were inspired by A Polit­i­cal Bes­tiary, book by James Kil­patrick, car­toon­ist Jeff Mac­Nel­ly, and for­mer sen­a­tor and pres­i­den­tial can­di­date Eugene McCarthy. See the full, bone dry arti­cle here, and think about the work talk that might dri­ve you to such cre­ative extremes.

CIA 4

Relat­ed Con­tent:

The CIA’s Style Man­u­al & Writer’s Guide: 185 Pages of Tips for Writ­ing Like a Spy

How the CIA Secret­ly Fund­ed Abstract Expres­sion­ism Dur­ing the Cold War

How the CIA Turned Doc­tor Zhiva­go into a Pro­pa­gan­da Weapon Against the Sovi­et Union

Declas­si­fied CIA Doc­u­ment Reveals That Ben Franklin (and His Big Ego) Put U.S. Nation­al Secu­ri­ty at Risk

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

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Typed Portraits of Literary Legends: Kerouac, Saramago, Bukowski & More

Artists have used all sorts of odd media to cre­ate por­traits, every­thing from gui­tar picks to dice to wood­en eggs. Add to this list Brazil­ian type artist Álvaro Fran­ca, who uses the type­writer. Instead of com­pos­ing lit­er­ary por­traits of his heroes, Fran­ca types out lit­er­al por­traits. The prin­ci­ple of the pic­tures are the same grey-scale print­ing used in news­pa­pers or, if you spent time in the com­put­er lab in the 1990s, those dot matrix images that were such the rage among com­put­er nerds. Using a com­put­er, Fran­ca breaks the image down into dis­crete pix­els and adds one or more key­strokes to that pix­el. ‘I’ and ‘O’ seem to work for lighter greys while visu­al­ly dense let­ters like ‘x’and “m” are used for the dark­er end of the spec­trum.

As he writes in on his web­site:

Type­writ­ten Por­traits is an exper­i­men­tal art project. Dur­ing my exchange in the Cam­bridge School of Art, I devel­oped a tech­nique for imag­ing gray scale with the type­writer and, from there, I made por­traits of five of my favorite authors in lit­er­a­ture who worked on type­writ­ers. The series is still ongo­ing and there are plans for five more pic­tures.

You can see a time-lapse video of Fran­ca cre­at­ing a por­trait of beat icon Jack Ker­ouac above. And below you can see a few more pic­tures includ­ing Charles Bukows­ki and Jose Sara­m­a­go here.

bukowski typed

 

via Boing Boing

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 lots of pic­tures of vice pres­i­dents with octo­pus­es on their heads.  The Veep­to­pus store is here.

Relat­ed Con­tent:

The Draw­ings of Jean-Paul Sartre

James Joyce, With His Eye­sight Fail­ing, Draws a Sketch of Leopold Bloom (1926)

Jorge Luis Borges, After Going Blind, Draws a Self-Por­trait

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

It’s an old joke at this point—the hipster’s retro-obses­sion with vinyl is an affec­ta­tion as bogus as lou­vered sun­glass­es and high-waist­ed acid washed jeans, right? Well, there are plen­ty of peo­ple who buy records and lis­ten to them, too. There are even peo­ple who buy and lis­ten to cas­sette tapes, imag­ine that! You can count me in both camps, and it isn’t because—or only because—I love the look and feel of these ana­log cul­tur­al arti­facts or that I’m nos­tal­gic for sim­pler times. It’s because I love the sound. Even cheapo cas­sette tapes can often sound bet­ter to me than the medi­um of music we’ve all grown so accus­tomed to over the last decade or so—the MP3.

Begin­ning in the CD era, the so-called “Loud­ness Wars” more or less killed the dynam­ics of record­ed music, push­ing every sound to the absolute limit—from the most del­i­cate­ly plucked acoustic gui­tar string to a black met­al singer’s most demon­ic roar. With­out the pleas­ing push-pull of musi­cal dynam­ics, songs lose their depth and pow­er. Once the music is released as prod­uct, it suf­fers anoth­er indig­ni­ty in the data com­pres­sion of MP3s and stream­ing ser­vices, for­mats that—according to high-end audio com­pa­ny Harmon—“have dimin­ished the qual­i­ty and flat­tened the emo­tion” of music. In the short film above, The Dis­tor­tion of Sound, Har­mon brings togeth­er a num­ber of engi­neers, pro­duc­ers, and musi­cians, includ­ing big names like Quin­cy Jones, Slash, Hans Zim­mer, and Snoop Dogg to dis­cuss what Har­mon acoustic engi­neer Dr. Sean Olive, calls “the val­ley of sound qual­i­ty” we’ve sup­pos­ed­ly reached in the last five years.

Harmon’s Chief Engi­neer Chris Lud­wig claims that data com­pres­sion (not audio compression—a dif­fer­ent tech­nol­o­gy), “removes up to 90% of the orig­i­nal song.” With our low-qual­i­ty MP3s and cheap, tin­ny ear­buds and lap­top speak­ers, says Zim­mer, we’ve become “a McDonald’s gen­er­a­tion of music con­sumers.” It’s a depress­ing real­i­ty for audio­philes and musi­cians, but Har­mon has the solu­tion and Dis­tor­tion of Sound is essen­tial­ly an adver­tise­ment for it. Whether or not you buy in is your call, but along the way, you’ll get an inter­est­ing intro­duc­tion to the record­ing process and the his­to­ry of record­ed music. Scroll down to the bot­tom of the “Dis­tor­tion of Sound” page to see how Har­mon is “bring­ing sound qual­i­ty back.” They aren’t doing it with tape decks and turnta­bles.

Relat­ed Con­tent:

Neil Young Reveals the New Killer Gad­get That Will Save Music

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

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Declassified CIA Document Reveals That Ben Franklin (and His Big Ego) Put U.S. National Security at Risk

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Ben­jamin Franklin might have been a bril­liant author, pub­lish­er, sci­en­tist, inven­tor and states­man, but he was pret­ty lousy at keep­ing state secrets. That’s the find­ing from a recent­ly declas­si­fied CIA analy­sis of Franklin’s crit­i­cal­ly impor­tant diplo­mat­ic mis­sion to France dur­ing the Rev­o­lu­tion­ary War.

In Sep­tem­ber 1776, Franklin was dis­patched to Paris to enlist France’s sup­port for the Amer­i­can Rev­o­lu­tion. At the time, France was still smart­ing from los­ing the Sev­en Years’ War to Britain and was eager to do any­thing that could reduce its rival’s pow­er and pres­tige. Franklin’s Com­mis­sion ran all kinds of clan­des­tine oper­a­tions with tac­it French aid, includ­ing procur­ing weapons, sup­plies and mon­ey for the Amer­i­can Army; sab­o­tag­ing the Portsmouth Roy­al Navy Dock­yard; and nego­ti­at­ing a secret treaty between Amer­i­ca and France.

And accord­ing the CIA’s in-house pub­li­ca­tion, Stud­ies in Intel­li­gence, the British knew just about every­thing that was going on. “The British had a com­plete pic­ture of Amer­i­can-French activ­i­ties sup­port­ing the war in Amer­i­ca and of Amer­i­can inten­tions regard­ing an alliance with France. The British used this intel­li­gence effec­tive­ly against the Amer­i­can cause.”

Some of the prob­lems with the Com­mis­sion seem head-slap­ping­ly obvi­ous. “There was no real phys­i­cal secu­ri­ty at the Com­mis­sion itself. The pub­lic had access to the man­sion, doc­u­ments and papers were spread out all over the office, and pri­vate dis­cus­sions were held in pub­lic areas.”

One of Franklin’s fel­low com­mis­sion­ers, Arthur Lee, was out­raged over this lack of secu­ri­ty.

[Lee] wrote that a French offi­cial “had com­plained that every­thing we did was known to the Eng­lish ambas­sador, who was always plagu­ing him with the details. No one will be sur­prised at this who knows that we have no time or place appro­pri­ate to our con­sul­ta­tion, but that ser­vants, strangers, and every­one else was at lib­er­ty to enter and did con­stant­ly enter the room while we were talk­ing about pub­lic busi­ness and that the papers relat­ing to it lay open in rooms of com­mon and con­tin­u­al resort.

Not sur­pris­ing­ly, the Amer­i­can mis­sion was rid­dled with British spies; chief among them was Franklin’s long-time friend Edward Ban­croft, who, as the Commission’s sec­re­tary, had com­plete access to all of its papers. He was report­ed­ly paid a prince­ly sum of 1000 pounds a year by the British Empire to play the part of an Enlight­en­ment-era James Bond.

Lee sus­pect­ed Ban­croft of being a spy, but Franklin dis­missed his con­cerns large­ly because he great­ly dis­liked Lee. “[Franklin’s] atti­tude … is all too famil­iar among pol­i­cy­mak­ers and states­men,” writes the CIA. “His ego may have over­whelmed his com­mon sense.”

In the end, the ana­lyst lays the blame on these cat­a­stroph­ic laps­es in intel­li­gence on that inflat­ed ego.

“By the time [Franklin] arrived in Paris in late 1776, he was elder­ly and had lit­tle inter­est in the admin­is­tra­tive aspects of the Com­mis­sion. Franklin was wide­ly rec­og­nized as a states­man, sci­en­tist, and intel­lec­tu­al. While high­ly respect­ed, he was also vain, obsti­nate, and jeal­ous of his pre­rog­a­tives and rep­u­ta­tion. … The Com­mis­sion was “under pro­tec­tion” of the French Gov­ern­ment, and Franklin may have under­es­ti­mat­ed British capa­bil­i­ties to oper­ate in a third coun­try. In any event, he did noth­ing to cre­ate a secu­ri­ty con­scious­ness at the Com­mis­sion.”

The por­trait that the CIA paints is indeed a grim one that in dif­fer­ent cir­cum­stances could have lost the war. Thank­ful­ly, Britain proved whol­ly unable to use this wealth of infor­ma­tion to turn the tide of the war. As the CIA wry­ly notes: “Per­haps the great­est irony in the whole sto­ry of the pen­e­tra­tion of the Amer­i­can Com­mis­sion is that, while British intel­li­gence activ­i­ties were high­ly suc­cess­ful, British pol­i­cy was a total fail­ure.”

Via io9

Relat­ed Con­tent:

FBI’s “Vault” Web Site Reveals Declas­si­fied Files on Hem­ing­way, Ein­stein, Mar­i­lyn & Oth­er Icons

Albert Camus Writes a Friend­ly Let­ter to Jean-Paul Sartre Before Their Per­son­al and Philo­soph­i­cal Rift

How the CIA Secret­ly Fund­ed Abstract Expres­sion­ism Dur­ing the Cold War

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  vice pres­i­dents with octo­pus­es on their heads.  The Veep­to­pus store is here.

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Glenn Gould Gives Us a Tour of Toronto, His Beloved Hometown (1979)

I write this from Toron­to, hav­ing come to explore, record inter­views in, write about, and gen­er­al­ly try to under­stand this big, busy, famous­ly diverse, and some­times form­less-seem­ing metrop­o­lis Cana­di­ans appre­ci­ate and resent in equal mea­sure. Despite the dif­fi­cul­ty of defin­ing or even describ­ing it, the city has nur­tured impres­sive minds. If not Cana­di­an your­self, you might strug­gle to come up with a list of notable Toron­to­ni­ans, but sure­ly names like Mar­garet Atwood, David Cro­nen­berg, Frank Gehry, Joni Mitchell, and Mar­shall McLuhan ring bells. Despite hav­ing passed in 1982, pianist-com­pos­er Glenn Gould may still rank as the city’s best-known cul­tur­al ambas­sador. “I’m not real­ly cut out for city liv­ing, and giv­en my druthers I’d prob­a­bly avoid all cities and live in the coun­try,” he said in 1979. “Toron­to, how­ev­er, belongs on a very short list of cities which I’ve vis­it­ed and which seem to offer to me, at any rate, peace of mind — cities which, for want of a bet­ter def­i­n­i­tion, do not oppose their city­ness upon you.”

He says it at the very begin­ning of Glenn Gould’s Toron­to, which spends the rest of its 50 min­utes explor­ing not just the city itself but Gould’s ideas of its nature. The doc­u­men­tary, which orig­i­nal­ly aired as an episode of the CBC series Cities, fol­lows him from the CN Tow­er which looms over Toron­to to the water­front (on what he calls “the least great of the Great Lakes”) to the grounds of the Cana­di­an Nation­al Exhi­bi­tion (a siz­able event with a “spir­it out of a small-town fall fair”) to the then-new city hall. Along the way, his mono­logue touch­es on the peace and qui­et Toron­to offers him, the reflex­ive dis­taste it can inspire in oth­ers, the “cul­tur­al mosa­ic” to which it plays host (some­times insis­tent­ly), the way it sur­vived the 1960s with­out endur­ing the dis­as­trous hol­low­ing-out Amer­i­can cities did, and the friend­ly rival­ry it enjoys with Mon­tre­al. Gould’s clear, ana­lyt­i­cal man­ner of speech deliv­ers a stream of point­ed obser­va­tions, dry jokes, and child­hood mem­o­ries, reveal­ing his nuanced life­long rela­tion­ship with the city: not the sim­ple one of a boost­er, nor the even sim­pler one of a detrac­tor. But then, Gould nev­er had any­thing sim­ple about him — nor, as I’ve come to find out this past week, does Toron­to.

You can find Glenn Gould’s Toron­to in our col­lec­tion of Free Doc­u­men­taries.

Relat­ed Con­tent:

Watch Glenn Gould Per­form His Last Great Stu­dio Record­ing of Bach’s Gold­berg Vari­a­tions (1981)

Glenn Gould Explains the Genius of Johann Sebas­t­ian Bach (1962)

Glenn Gould Offers a Strik­ing­ly Uncon­ven­tion­al Inter­pre­ta­tion of 1806 Beethoven Com­po­si­tion

The Art of Fugue: Gould Plays Bach

Col­in Mar­shall hosts and pro­duces Note­book on Cities and Cul­ture and writes essays on cities, lan­guage, Asia, and men’s style. He’s at work on a book about Los Ange­les, A Los Ange­les Primer. Fol­low him on Twit­ter at @colinmarshall or on Face­book.

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Rare Footage of the “Human Be-In,” the Landmark Counter-Culture Event Held in Golden Gate Park, 1967

Inves­tiga­tive reporter Steve Sil­ber­man awe­some­ly flagged this video for us today. He writes:

This seems to have just sur­faced: the most com­plete record­ing of the Human Be-In in Gold­en Gate Park in 1967 that I have ever seen, by far. It opens with Allen Gins­berg and Gary Sny­der chant­i­ng, Michael McClure fol­lows, and the Grate­ful Dead (with adorable footage of Allen danc­ing) pop up at about 14:00. At 18:00, Dizzy Gille­spie is smil­ing in the audi­ence. So much myth­i­cal noumenon has piled up around these events over the decades it’s almost inevitable that the real thing seems a lit­tle banal com­pared to one’s imag­i­na­tion, but it’s still cool.

If you’re not quite famil­iar with what the Human Be-In, held on Jan­u­ary 14, 1967, was all about, let me refer you to this suc­cinct descrip­tion by a web site called Mag­ic Bus San Fran­cis­co: “Announced on the cov­er of the first edi­tion of the counter-cul­ture zine San Fran­cis­co Ora­cle, the ‘Gath­er­ing of the Tribes’ or ‘Human Be-In’ as it came to be known, was the pro­to­type of all 1960s counter cul­ture cel­e­bra­tions. The Human Be-In pre­cip­i­tat­ed the leg­endary Sum­mer of Love, and made San Francisco’s Haight-Ash­bury the epi­cen­ter of the bur­geon­ing hip­pie move­ment.

The Be-In fea­tured all the lumi­nar­ies of psy­che­del­ic counter-cul­ture, includ­ing Tim­o­thy Leary, Allen Gins­berg, Gary Sny­der, Richard Alpert (Ram Dass), Dick Gre­go­ry, Lenore Kan­del, and Jer­ry Ruben.  Many of the Haight’s best musi­cal acts also per­formed, includ­ing the Grate­ful Dead and Quick­sil­ver Mes­sen­ger Ser­vice.” As a curi­ous side note, the Dead did­n’t get a men­tion in the poster pro­mot­ing the event. Is that because they were a late addi­tion? I’m not sure.

Human_be-in_poster

Relat­ed Con­tent:

The His­toric LSD Debate at MIT: Tim­o­thy Leary v. Pro­fes­sor Jerome Lettvin (1967)

The Night When Miles Davis Opened for the Grate­ful Dead in 1970: Hear the Com­plete Record­ings

8,976 Free Grate­ful Dead Con­cert Record­ings in the Inter­net Archive

The Acid Test Reels: Ken Kesey & The Grate­ful Dead’s Sound­track for the 1960s Famous LSD Par­ties

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Philosopher Jacques Derrida Interviews Jazz Legend Ornette Coleman: Talk Improvisation, Language & Racism (1997)

Images of Der­ri­da and Cole­man, via Wiki­me­dia Com­mons

This most cer­tain­ly ranks as one of my favorite things on the inter­net, and I dear­ly wish we had audio to share with you, though I doubt any exists. What we do have is an Eng­lish trans­la­tion from the French of an inter­view that orig­i­nal­ly took place in Eng­lish between philoso­pher Jacques Der­ri­da and jazz great Ornette Cole­man.

Now there are those who dis­miss Der­ri­da—who con­sid­er his meth­ods fraud­u­lent. If you’re one of them, this is obvi­ous­ly not for you. For those who appre­ci­ate the turns of his thought, and the fas­ci­nat­ing pos­si­bil­i­ties inher­ent in a Der­rid­i­an approach to jazz impro­vi­sa­tion, not to men­tion the con­ver­gences and points of con­flict between these two dis­parate cul­tur­al fig­ures, read on.

The inter­view took place in 1997, “before and dur­ing Coleman’s three con­certs at La Vil­lette, a muse­um and per­form­ing arts com­plex north of Paris that hous­es, among oth­er things, the world-renowned Paris Con­ser­va­to­ry.” As I men­tioned, the two spoke in Eng­lish but, as trans­la­tor Tim­o­thy S. Murphy—who worked with a ver­sion pub­lished in the French mag­a­zine Les Inrock­upt­ibles—notes, “orig­i­nal tran­scripts could not be locat­ed.” Curi­ous­ly, at the heart of the con­ver­sa­tion is a dis­cus­sion about lan­guage, par­tic­u­lar­ly “lan­guages of ori­gin.” In answer to Derrida’s first ques­tion about a pro­gram Cole­man would present lat­er that year in New York called Civ­i­liza­tion, the sax­o­phon­ist replies, “I’m try­ing to express a con­cept accord­ing to which you can trans­late one thing into anoth­er. I think that sound has a much more demo­c­ra­t­ic rela­tion­ship to infor­ma­tion, because you don’t need the alpha­bet to under­stand music.”

As one exam­ple of this “demo­c­ra­t­ic rela­tion­ship,” Cole­man cites the rela­tion­ship between the jazz musi­cian and the composer—or his text: “the jazz musi­cian is prob­a­bly the only per­son for whom the com­pos­er is not a very inter­est­ing indi­vid­ual, in the sense that he prefers to destroy what the com­pos­er writes or says.” Cole­man goes on lat­er in the inter­view to clar­i­fy his ideas about impro­vi­sa­tion as demo­c­ra­t­ic com­mu­ni­ca­tion:

[T]he idea is that two or three peo­ple can have a con­ver­sa­tion with sounds, with­out try­ing to dom­i­nate or lead it. What I mean is that you have to be… intel­li­gent, I sup­pose that’s the word. In impro­vised music I think the musi­cians are try­ing to reassem­ble an emo­tion­al or intel­lec­tu­al puz­zle in which the instru­ments give the tone. It’s pri­mar­i­ly the piano that has served at all times as the frame­work in music, but it’s no longer indis­pens­able and, in fact, the com­mer­cial aspect of music is very uncer­tain. Com­mer­cial music is not nec­es­sar­i­ly more acces­si­ble, but it is lim­it­ed.

Trans­lat­ing Coleman’s tech­nique into “a domain that I know bet­ter, that of writ­ten lan­guage,” Der­ri­da ven­tures to com­pare impro­vi­sa­tion to read­ing, since it “doesn’t exclude the pre-writ­ten frame­work that makes it pos­si­ble.” For him, the exis­tence of a framework—a writ­ten composition—even if only loose­ly ref­er­enced in a jazz per­for­mance, “com­pro­mis­es or com­pli­cates the con­cept of impro­vi­sa­tion.” As Der­ri­da and Cole­man try to work through the pos­si­bil­i­ty of true impro­vi­sa­tion, the exchange becomes a fas­ci­nat­ing decon­struc­tive take on the rela­tion­ships between jazz and writ­ing. (For more on this aspect of their dis­cus­sion, see “Deconstructin(g) Jazz Impro­vi­sa­tion,” an arti­cle in the open access jour­nal Crit­i­cal Stud­ies in Impro­vi­sa­tion.)

The inter­view isn’t all phi­los­o­phy. It ranges all over the place, from Coleman’s ear­ly days in Texas, then New York, to the impact of tech­nol­o­gy on music, to Coleman’s com­plete­ly orig­i­nal the­o­ry of music, which he calls “har­molod­ics.” They also dis­cuss glob­al­iza­tion and the expe­ri­ence of grow­ing up as a racial minority—an expe­ri­ence Der­ri­da relates to very much. At one point, Cole­man observes, “being black and a descen­dent of slaves, I have no idea what my lan­guage of ori­gin was.” Der­ri­da responds in kind, ref­er­enc­ing one of his sem­i­nal texts, Mono­lin­gual­ism of the Oth­er:

JD: If we were here to talk about me, which is not the case, I would tell you that, in a dif­fer­ent but anal­o­gous man­ner, it’s the same thing for me. I was born into a fam­i­ly of Alger­ian Jews who spoke French, but that was not real­ly their lan­guage of ori­gin [… ] I have no con­tact of any sort with my lan­guage of ori­gin, or rather that of my sup­posed ances­tors.

OC: Do you ever ask your­self if the lan­guage that you speak now inter­feres with your actu­al thoughts? Can a lan­guage of ori­gin influ­ence your thoughts?

JD: It is an enig­ma for me.

Indeed. Der­ri­da then recalls his first vis­it to the Unit­ed States, in 1956, where there were “ ‘Reserved for Whites’ signs every­where.” “You expe­ri­enced all that?” he asks Cole­man, who replies:

Yes. In any case, what I like about Paris is the fact that you can’t be a snob and a racist at the same time here, because that won’t do. Paris is the only city I know where racism nev­er exists in your pres­ence, it’s some­thing you hear spo­ken of.

“That does­n’t mean there is no racism,” says Der­ri­da, “but one is oblig­ed to con­ceal it to the extent pos­si­ble.”

You real­ly should read the whole inter­view. The Eng­lish trans­la­tion was pub­lished in the jour­nal Genre and comes to us via Ubuweb, who host a pdf. For more excerpts, see posts at The New York­er and The Lib­er­a­tor Mag­a­zine. As inter­est­ing a read as this dou­bly-trans­lat­ed inter­view is, the live expe­ri­ence itself was a painful one for Der­ri­da. Though he had been invit­ed by the sax­o­phon­ist, Coleman’s impa­tient Parisian fans booed him, even­tu­al­ly forc­ing him off the stage. In a Time mag­a­zine inter­view, the self-con­scious philoso­pher recalled it as “a very unhap­py event.” But, he says, “it was in the paper the next day, so it was a hap­py end­ing.”

Hear more of Coleman’s thoughts on lan­guage, sound, and tech­nol­o­gy in the 2008 inter­view above (see here for Part 2). The year pre­vi­ous, in anoth­er con­junc­tion of the worlds of lan­guage and music, Cole­man was award­ed the Pulitzer Prize in music for his live album Sound Gram­mar, a title that suc­cinct­ly express­es Coleman’s belief in music as a uni­ver­sal lan­guage.

Image of Ornette Cole­man by Geert Van­de­poele

Relat­ed Con­tent:

Charles Min­gus Explains in His Gram­my-Win­ning Essay “What is a Jazz Com­pos­er?”

Der­ri­da: A 2002 Doc­u­men­tary on the Abstract Philoso­pher and the Every­day Man

1959: The Year that Changed Jazz

How to Pot­ty Train Your Cat: A Handy Man­u­al by Charles Min­gus

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

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Sigmund Freud Writes to Concerned Mother: “Homosexuality is Nothing to Be Ashamed Of” (1935)

Freud Letter

Hank Green, host­ing his Crash Course on Psy­chol­o­gy, put it best: when we think of the study of the mind, we think of an old, bespec­ta­cled beard­ed man puff­ing on a pipe. We think, in oth­er words, of Sig­mund Freud, whether we know any­thing about him or not. Despite pub­lish­ing such very real and still rea­son­ably well-known works as The Inter­pre­ta­tion of DreamsBeyond the Plea­sure Prin­ci­ple, and Civ­i­liza­tion and its Dis­con­tents, the man has some­how passed par­tial­ly into the realm of pop­u­lar myth: we think of him at once as an influ­en­tial pio­neer in a lit­tle-explored intel­lec­tu­al field, and as some­thing of an idée fixe-hob­bled char­la­tan as well. Per­haps, like many uni­ver­sal­ly rec­og­nized 20th-cen­tu­ry fig­ures, he com­bined right­ness and wrong­ness in some kind of irre­sistible pro­por­tion. But the let­ter above, fea­tured at Let­ters of Note, demon­strates that, at least on the issue of homo­sex­u­al­i­ty, he had indeed drawn a cor­rect con­clu­sion well before most any­one else.

In 1935, says that post, Freud “was con­tact­ed by a wor­ried moth­er who was seek­ing treat­ment for her son’s appar­ent homo­sex­u­al­i­ty. Freud, who believed that all humans are attract­ed to both sex­es in some capac­i­ty, respond­ed with the fol­low­ing let­ter of advice.”

Dear Mrs [Erased],

I gath­er from your let­ter that your son is a homo­sex­u­al. I am most impressed by the fact that you do not men­tion this term your­self in your infor­ma­tion about him. May I ques­tion you why you avoid it? Homo­sex­u­al­i­ty is assured­ly no advan­tage, but it is noth­ing to be ashamed of, no vice, no degra­da­tion; it can­not be clas­si­fied as an ill­ness; we con­sid­er it to be a vari­a­tion of the sex­u­al func­tion, pro­duced by a cer­tain arrest of sex­u­al devel­op­ment. Many high­ly respectable indi­vid­u­als of ancient and mod­ern times have been homo­sex­u­als, sev­er­al of the great­est men among them. (Pla­to, Michelan­ge­lo, Leonar­do da Vin­ci, etc). It is a great injus­tice to per­se­cute homo­sex­u­al­i­ty as a crime – and a cru­el­ty, too. If you do not believe me, read the books of Have­lock Ellis.

By ask­ing me if I can help, you mean, I sup­pose, if I can abol­ish homo­sex­u­al­i­ty and make nor­mal het­ero­sex­u­al­i­ty take its place. The answer is, in a gen­er­al way we can­not promise to achieve it. In a cer­tain num­ber of cas­es we suc­ceed in devel­op­ing the blight­ed germs of het­ero­sex­u­al ten­den­cies, which are present in every homo­sex­u­al in the major­i­ty of cas­es it is no more pos­si­ble. It is a ques­tion of the qual­i­ty and the age of the indi­vid­ual. The result of treat­ment can­not be pre­dict­ed.

What analy­sis can do for your son runs on a dif­fer­ent line. If he is unhap­py, neu­rot­ic, torn by con­flicts, inhib­it­ed in his social life, analy­sis may bring him har­mo­ny, peace of mind, full effi­cien­cy, whether he remains a homo­sex­u­al or gets changed. If you make up your mind he should have analy­sis with me — I don’t expect you will — he has to come over to Vien­na. I have no inten­tion of leav­ing here. How­ev­er, don’t neglect to give me your answer.

Sin­cere­ly yours with best wish­es,

Freud

While main­stream west­ern thought no longer expects that homo­sex­u­als might, under any cir­cum­stances, “get changed,” it has aligned to Freud’s view in the sense of regard­ing their ori­en­ta­tion as “noth­ing to be ashamed of, no vice, no degra­da­tion.” And from what I can see, human­i­ty now enjoys the pres­ence of more such “high­ly respectable indi­vid­u­als” who pub­licly acknowl­edge their own non-het­ero­sex­u­al­i­ty than ever before. Freud’s let­ter to this con­cerned Amer­i­can moth­er of the 1930s, in any case, brings nuance to the car­toon image we all have of him — the obses­sion with dreams, the insis­tence on diag­nos­ing repres­sion, the whole deal with cig­ar sym­bol­ism — just as his view of homo­sex­u­als would have brought nuance to the car­toon image this and oth­er con­cerned Amer­i­can moth­ers of the 1930s might have had of them.

Relat­ed Con­tent:

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

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

Jean-Paul Sartre Writes a Script for John Huston’s Film on Freud (1958)

Sig­mund Freud Speaks: The Only Known Record­ing of His Voice, 1938

Free Online Psy­chol­o­gy Cours­es

Col­in Mar­shall hosts and pro­duces Note­book on Cities and Cul­ture and writes essays on cities, lan­guage, Asia, and men’s style. He’s at work on a book about Los Ange­les, A Los Ange­les Primer. Fol­low him on Twit­ter at @colinmarshall or on Face­book.

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