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Explorer David Livingstone’s Diary (Written in Berry Juice) Now Digitized with New Imaging Technology

One of the 19th century’s most intrigu­ing fig­ures, the Scot­tish explor­er David Liv­ing­stone may be best known for words uttered by a reporter when the two men met on the shores of Lake Tan­ganyi­ka: “Dr. Liv­ing­stone, I pre­sume?”

David Liv­ing­stone dis­ap­peared in Africa for six years before meet­ing the famous­ly quot­ed Hen­ry Mor­ton Stan­ley. He was a hero in Vic­to­ri­an Eng­land for his rags-to-rich­es sto­ry of an impov­er­ished boy who went on to become a sci­en­tif­ic inves­ti­ga­tor and anti-slav­ery cru­sad­er. Liv­ing­stone became impas­sioned about the poten­tial of Chris­tian­i­ty to erad­i­cate the slave trade in Africa and took his mis­sion­ary work into the African inte­ri­or.

An avid chron­i­cler of his adven­tures, Liv­ing­stone left behind a num­ber of jour­nals, but one of his most vivid accounts—of a mas­sacre hit wit­nessed in 1871—has been inac­ces­si­ble until now. Liv­ing­stone’s 1871 Field Diary cap­tures a five-month peri­od when the explor­er was strand­ed in a vil­lage in the Con­go. He had run out of paper and ink to main­tain his usu­al jour­nal, so he impro­vised by writ­ing over an old copy of The Stan­dard news­pa­per using ink made from the seeds of a local berry.

In col­lab­o­ra­tion with British and Amer­i­can archivists, the UCLA Dig­i­tal Library Pro­gram used spec­tral imag­ing tech­nol­o­gy to dig­i­tize the del­i­cate mate­r­i­al. Over­all the site offers an inter­est­ing pre­sen­ta­tion of Livingstone’s work, though the diary pages them­selves aren’t too leg­i­ble. Crit­i­cal notes are abun­dant and intrigu­ing, and diary pages appear side-by-side with tran­scrip­tions. View­ers can zoom in to study Livingstone’s spi­dery script writ­ten per­pen­dic­u­lar to the news­pa­per copy. The spec­tral imag­ing process itself is worth a look. With­out this tech­nique, the diaries appear as noth­ing more than ghost­ly scrib­bles.

Pre­vi­ous to keep­ing this field diary, Liv­ing­stone embarked on a mis­sion to find the source of the Nile Riv­er, which he misiden­ti­fied. But his the­o­ries about cen­tral African water sys­tems are fas­ci­nat­ing. Liv­ing­stone was the first Euro­pean to see Mosi-oa-Tun­ya, “the smoke that thun­ders,” water­fall, which he renamed Vic­to­ria Falls after his monarch. His diaries pro­vide a peek into a time when explo­ration was dan­ger­ous, dif­fi­cult and even dead­ly. Liv­ing­stone died of Malar­ia in present-day Zam­bia, where his heart is buried under a tree. The rest of his remains were interred at West­min­ster Abbey.

Kate Rix is an Oak­land based free­lance writer. See more of her work at .

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Neil Young’s New Album, Americana, Electrifies the Folklore You Know and Love

Neil Young’s new album, his first with Crazy Horse in nine years, is a raw, heav­i­ly ampli­fied inter­pre­ta­tion of clas­sic Amer­i­can folk songs of the kind many of us learned in ele­men­tary school, like “She’ll Be Com­ing ‘Round the Moun­tain” and “Oh My Dar­ling, Clemen­tine.”

But while the gui­tar chords may be dis­tort­ed, the lyrics are not. As Young told Ter­ry Gross this week on NPR’s “Fresh Air,” he wants lis­ten­ers to hear the words as they were orig­i­nal­ly writ­ten. So, for exam­ple, he has restored the scathing protest-song ele­ments of Woody Guthrie’s “This Land is Your Land.” And in “Clemen­tine” he sings a verse teach­ers did­n’t want inno­cent lit­tle chil­dren to hear: “How I missed her, how I missed her, how I missed my Clemen­tine. So I kissed her lit­tle sis­ter, and for­got my Clemen­tine.”

One of the best tracks on the new album is a rol­lick­ing ver­sion of “She’ll Be Com­ing ‘Round the Moun­tain.” (See the video above.) In the “Fresh Air” inter­view, Young explains the ori­gin of his arrange­ment:

I heard that song back in 1964, and I was real­ly into the groove and the melody and the fact that it was an old song with a new melody and old lyrics. And then, when I did it in 2012, I start­ed relat­ing more to the lyrics and start­ed doing more research on the lyrics. I actu­al­ly got into what the lyrics were real­ly about more than I was in 1964. I chose a few vers­es that empha­sized a cer­tain dark­ness, but they were all the orig­i­nal vers­es.

Young was first exposed to a few of the songs on Amer­i­cana when he heard Tim Rose and The Thorns play in Cana­da in 1964. He was deeply impressed by Rose’s rock­ing arrange­ment of “Oh, Susan­na” (anoth­er song on the new album). “I saw what he did to ‘Oh, Susan­na,’ and thought, wow, I could do that to a lot of these songs,” Young told Gross. “And that’s a real­ly cool thing to do to them, because it gives them a new life. Plus I have drums in my band, and the Thorns did­n’t have drums, so I knew we could real­ly rock these things.”

You can lis­ten to Young’s inter­view with Ter­ry Gross, which includes more songs from the new album, at the NPR Web site. And you can get your copy of Amer­i­cana right here.

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Ray Bradbury Reads Moving Poem, “If Only We Had Taller Been,” on the Eve of NASA’s 1971 Mars Mission

Pow­er­ful. Sim­ply pow­er­ful. In Novem­ber, 1971, the Mariner 9 space orbiter was about to make his­to­ry. It was rapid­ly approach­ing Mars, mak­ing it the first space­craft to orbit anoth­er plan­et. There, it would pro­duce a glob­al map­ping of the Mar­t­ian sur­face and cap­ture “the first detailed views of the mar­t­ian vol­ca­noes, Valles Mariner­is, the polar caps, and the satel­lites Pho­bos and Deimos.” This marked a major mile­stone in the great era of space explo­ration. The excite­ment lead­ing up to the moment was pal­pa­ble.


Just days before the Mariner 9 reached Mars, two of our great­est sci-fi writ­ers, the dear­ly depart­ed Ray Brad­bury and Arthur C. Clarke, shared the stage with two emi­nent sci­en­tists, Carl Sagan and Bruce Mur­ray, at a sym­po­sium held at Cal­tech. At one point, Brad­bury cap­ti­vat­ed the audi­ence when he read his poem, “If Only We Had Taller Been,” and gave an almost spir­i­tu­al inflec­tion to the Mariner 9 mis­sion, remind­ing us of some­thing that Neil deGrasse Tyson once said: the line sep­a­rat­ing reli­gious epiphany and feel­ings cre­at­ed by space explo­ration is awful­ly, awful­ly thin.

The video, which comes to us via Boing­Bo­ing, was put online by NASA’s Jet Propul­sion Lab­o­ra­to­ry.

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The Transit of Venus in HD Video

We told you how to get ready for the great 2012 Tran­sit of Venus. Now it’s only fit­ting that we show you how it all went down. Cour­tesy of NASA’s Solar Dynam­ics Obser­va­to­ry, we have high def video of the “rarest pre­dictable solar event.” The good peo­ple at NASA have made this video free to down­load on their web site. Get it right here.

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Ray Bradbury Offers 12 Essential Writing Tips and Explains Why Literature Saves Civilization

We woke up today to learn about the sad pass­ing of Ray Brad­bury. Brad­bury now joins Isaac Asi­mov, Arthur C. Clarke, Robert A. Hein­lein, and Philip K. Dick in the pan­theon of sci­ence fic­tion. It’s a place well deserved, see­ing that he effec­tive­ly brought mod­ern sci­ence fic­tion into the lit­er­ary main­stream. His first short sto­ry, “Holler­bochen’s Dilem­ma,” appeared in 1938. And his last one, “Take Me Home,” was just pub­lished this week in The New York­er’s first spe­cial issue devot­ed to sci­ence fic­tion. Dur­ing the 74 years in between, Brad­bury pub­lished eleven nov­els, includ­ing the great Fahren­heit 451, and count­less short sto­ries. His books, now trans­lat­ed into 36 lan­guages, have sold over eight mil­lion copies.

To help cel­e­brate his lit­er­ary lega­cy, we want to revis­it two moments when Brad­bury offered his per­son­al thoughts on the art and pur­pose of writ­ing. Above, we start you off with a 1970s clip where Brad­bury explains why lit­er­a­ture serves more than an aes­thet­ic pur­pose — it’s actu­al­ly the safe­ty valve of civ­i­liza­tion. (See our orig­i­nal post here.) And below we bring you back to Brad­bury’s 2001 keynote address at Point Loma Nazarene University’s Writer’s Sym­po­sium By the Sea. There, he gives 12 essen­tial pieces of writ­ing advice to young writ­ers. You can find a nice list of his tips in our orig­i­nal post here. And, if you’re hun­ger­ing for more, let us direct you to anoth­er clip rec­om­mend­ed by one of our read­ers: a lengthy talk record­ed in 2005 at the Los Ange­les Times Fes­ti­val of Books.

Relat­ed Con­tent:

Free Sci­ence Fic­tion Clas­sics on the Web: Hux­ley, Orwell, Asi­mov, Gaiman & Beyond

Leonard Nimoy Reads Ray Brad­bury Sto­ries From The Mar­t­ian Chron­i­cles & The Illus­trat­ed Man (1975–76)

Watch Ray Brad­bury: Sto­ry of a Writer, a 1963 Film That Cap­tures the Para­dox­es of the Leg­endary Sci-Fi Author

 

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Salvador Dalí’s Illustrations of Dante’s The Divine Comedy

In 1957, the Ital­ian gov­ern­ment com­mis­sioned Sal­vador Dalí to paint a series of 100 water­col­or illus­tra­tions of Dante’s Divine Com­e­dy, the great­est lit­er­ary work writ­ten in the Ital­ian lan­guage. The illus­tra­tions were to be fin­ished by 1965, the 700th anniver­sary of the poet­’s birth, and then repro­duced and released in lim­it­ed print edi­tions. The deal fell apart, how­ev­er, when the Ital­ian pub­lic learned that their lit­er­ary pat­ri­mo­ny had been put in the hands of a Spaniard. Unde­terred, Dalí pushed for­ward on his own, paint­ing illus­tra­tions for the epic poem that col­lec­tive­ly recount Dante’s sym­bol­ic trav­els through Hell, Pur­ga­to­ry and Heav­en. After Dalí did his part, the project was hand­ed over to two wood engravers, who spent five years hand-carv­ing 3,500 blocks used to cre­ate the repro­duc­tions of Dalí’s mas­ter­piece. Almost 50 years lat­er, print edi­tions can still be pur­chased online. And the paint­ings them­selves still trav­el the globe, mak­ing their way to muse­ums large and small. You can view images from the col­lec­tion at this Cor­nell Uni­ver­si­ty web­site.

Relat­ed Con­tent 

Sal­vador Dalí’s Haunt­ing 1975 Illus­tra­tions for Shakespeare’s Romeo and Juli­et

The Most Com­plete Col­lec­tion of Sal­vador Dalí’s Paint­ings Pub­lished in a Beau­ti­ful New Book by Taschen: Includes Nev­er-Seen-Before Works

Alice’s Adven­tures in Won­der­land, Illus­trat­ed by Sal­vador Dalí in 1969, Final­ly Gets Reis­sued

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Talking Heads Live in Rome, 1980: The Concert Film You Haven’t Seen

Few bands can boast a per­for­mance so image-defin­ing as the one the Talk­ing Heads pulled off in Jonathan Dem­me’s Stop Mak­ing Sense. Giv­en its phys­i­cal metic­u­lous­ness, its seam­less edit­ing, and its refined aes­thet­ic sense — qual­i­ties rarely pri­or­i­tized in rock con­cert films — its place in the zeit­geist seems well earned. But that pic­ture opened in 1984, when the band had already released its most wide­ly respect­ed albums, and when they had only four years to go before effec­tive­ly dis­solv­ing. Live in Rome, which you can now watch uncut on YouTube, cap­tures the Heads in 1980, a less estab­lished moment in their his­to­ry. David Byrne and com­pa­ny express the same kind of off-kil­ter ener­gy on dis­play in Stop Mak­ing Sense — the enthu­si­asm of punks who also hap­pen to be musi­col­o­gy nerds — but here they express it in a sim­pler, more tra­di­tion­al­ly “rock con­cert-ish” set­ting.

Talk­ing Heads enthu­si­asts, note that Live in Rome fea­tures the group’s full “Afro-Funk Orches­tra” line­up. Addi­tion­al­ly, you’ll see on gui­tar a cer­tain Adri­an Belew, who would begin fronting King Crim­son the fol­low­ing year. (As he might, in anoth­er real­i­ty, have front­ed the Heads them­selves; in our real­i­ty, he turned down an offer to take Byrne’s place.) The songs not heard in Stop Mak­ing Sense include “Stay Hun­gry,” “Cities,” “I Zim­bra,” “Drugs,” “Hous­es in Motion,” “Born Under Punch­es,” and “The Great Curve.” No die-hard fan will feel com­plete­ly sat­is­fied with this con­cert, of course, until some­one remas­ters it on Blu-Ray with a com­plete sur­round sound mix. But if you sim­ply need a hit of a pack of art-school rock­ers unlike any oth­ers Amer­i­ca has pro­duced, this Remain in Light-era hour mer­its a per­ma­nent book­mark. H/T Bib­liok­lept

Relat­ed con­tent:

Talk­ing Heads’ “This Must Be the Place (Naive Melody)” Per­formed on Tra­di­tion­al Chi­nese Instru­ments

David Byrne Inter­views Him­self, Plays Sev­en Char­ac­ters, in Fun­ny Pro­mo for Stop Mak­ing Sense

David Byrne: From Talk­ing Heads Front­man to Lead­ing Urban Cyclist

Col­in Mar­shall hosts and pro­duces Note­book on Cities and Cul­ture. Fol­low him on Twit­ter at @colinmarshall.

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Great Violinists Playing as Kids: Itzhak Perlman, Anne-Sophie Mutter, & More

For most chil­dren the word “play­ing” brings to mind things like wif­fle­ball or hide-and-seek. But for a very few tal­ent­ed and ded­i­cat­ed kids it means Mozart, or Mendelssohn. Today we bring you four videos of famous vio­lin­ists play­ing when they were incred­i­bly young.

Itzhak Perl­man, age 13: “When I came to the Unit­ed States, ” Itzhak Perl­man told Pia Lind­strom of The New York Times in 1996, “I appeared on The Ed Sul­li­van Show as a 13-year-old and I played a Mendelssohn Con­cer­to and it sound­ed like a tal­ent­ed 13-year-old with a lot of promise. But it did not sound like a fin­ished prod­uct.” In the clip above, Perl­man plays from the third move­ment of Felix Mendelssohn’s Con­cer­to in E minor dur­ing his debut Sul­li­van Show appear­ance in 1958. The young boy was an instant hit with the audi­ence, and Sul­li­van invit­ed him back. Encour­aged by his sud­den celebri­ty, Perl­man’s par­ents decid­ed to move from Israel to New York and enroll him in Jul­liard. But despite his pre­coc­i­ty, Perl­man mod­est­ly asserts that he was no child prodi­gy. “A child prodi­gy is some­body who can step up to the stage of Carnegie Hall and play with an orches­tra one of the stan­dard vio­lin con­cer­tos with aplomb,” Perl­man told Lind­strom. “I could­n’t do that! I can name you five peo­ple who could do that at the age of 10 or 11, and did. Not five, maybe three. But I could­n’t do that.”

Anne-Sophie Mut­ter, age 13:

One vio­lin­ist who cer­tain­ly was able to per­form at a high lev­el at a very ear­ly age was the Ger­man vir­tu­oso Anne-Sophie Mut­ter, shown here per­form­ing the Médi­ta­tion from the Jules Massenet opera Thaïs with Her­bert von Kara­jan and the Berlin Phil­har­mon­ic in 1976, when she was 13. Mut­ter began play­ing the vio­lin at the age of five, and by nine she was per­form­ing Mozart’s Sec­ond Vio­lin Con­cer­to in pub­lic. Kara­jan took her under his wing when she was 13, call­ing her “the great­est musi­cal prodi­gy since the young Menuhin.”

Jascha Heifetz, age 11:

Jascha Heifetz was indis­putably one of the great­est vio­lin­ists of the 20th cen­tu­ry. His father, a music teacher, first put a vio­lin into his hands when Heifetz was only two years old. He entered music school in his home­town of Vil­nius, Lithua­nia, at the age of five, and by sev­en he was per­form­ing in pub­lic. At nine he entered the St. Peters­burg Con­ser­va­to­ry, where he stud­ied with Leopold Auer. In this very rare audio record­ing from Novem­ber 4, 1912, an 11-year-old Heifetz per­forms Auer’s tran­scrip­tion of Wolf­gang Amadeus Mozart’s Gavotte in G from the opera Idome­neo. It was made by Julius Block on a wax-cylin­der Edi­son phono­graph in Grünewald, Ger­many. Heifetz is accom­pa­nied by Walde­mar Lia­chowsky on piano. At the end of the per­for­mance the young boy’s voice can be heard speak­ing in Ger­man. Rough­ly trans­lat­ed, he says, “I, Jascha Heifetz of Peters­burg, played with Herr Block, Grünewald, Gavotte Mozart-Auer on the fourth of Novem­ber, nine­teen hun­dred and ten.” A week ear­li­er, Heifetz made his debut appear­ance with the Berlin Phil­har­mon­ic. In a let­ter of intro­duc­tion to the Ger­man man­ag­er Her­man Fer­now, Auer said of Heifetz: “He is only eleven years old, but I assure you that this lit­tle boy is already a great vio­lin­ist. I mar­vel at his genius, and I expect him to become world-famous and make a great career. In all my fifty years of vio­lin teach­ing, I have nev­er known such pre­coc­i­ty.”

Joshua Bell, age 12:

The Amer­i­can vio­lin­ist Joshua Bell began play­ing when he was four years old, and made his debut as a soloist with the Philadel­phia Orches­tra when he was 14. The video above is dif­fer­ent from the oth­ers, in that it does­n’t present a pol­ished per­for­mance. Instead, we watch as the leg­endary vio­lin teacher Ivan Galami­an con­ducts a les­son in 1980, when Bell was 12. Bell spent two sum­mers study­ing at Galami­an’s Mead­ow­mount School of Music in the Adiron­dack Moun­tains of upstate New York. In the video, the elder­ly teacher works with Bell as he plays from Pierre Rode’s Etude No. 1.

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Author Flannery O’Connor Captured on Film at Age 5, with Her Chickens


In 1961, Flan­nery O’Con­nor wrote an essay called “Liv­ing with a Pea­cock,” which begins like this:

When I was five, I had an expe­ri­ence that marked me for life. Pathé News sent a pho­tog­ra­ph­er from New York to Savan­nah to take a pic­ture of a chick­en of mine. This chick­en, a buff Cochin Ban­tam, had the dis­tinc­tion of being able to walk either for­ward or back­ward. Her fame has spread through the press and by the time she reached the at­tention of Pathé News, I sup­pose there was nowhere left for her to go—forward or back­ward. Short­ly after that she died, as now seems fit­ting.

If I put this infor­ma­tion in the begin­ning of an arti­cle on pea­cocks, it is because I am always being asked why I raise them, and I have no short or rea­son­able answer.

From that day with the Pathé man I began to col­lect chick­ens. What had been only a mild inter­est became a pas­sion, a quest. I had to have more and more chick­ens. I favored those with one green eye and one orange or with over-long necks and crooked combs. I want­ed one with three legs or three wings but noth­ing in that line turned up. I pon­dered over the pic­ture in Robert Ripley’s book, Believe It Or Not, of a roost­er that had sur­vived for thir­ty days with­out his head; but I did not have a sci­en­tif­ic tem­pera­ment . I could sew in a fash­ion and I began to make clothes for chick­ens. A gray ban­tam named Colonel Egg­bert wore a white piqué coat with a lace col­lar and two but­tons in the back. Appar­ent­ly Pathé News nev­er heard of any of these oth­er chick­ens of mine; it nev­er sent anoth­er pho­tog­ra­ph­er.

Now you have the back­sto­ry for the video above — the young girl caught on film, tend­ing to her chick­ens, many years before she wrote “A Good Man is Hard to Find” (lis­ten to her read it here) and oth­er sto­ries. Thanks goes to Josh for flag­ging this for us.…

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This is Coffee!: A 1961 Tribute to Our Favorite Stimulant

Water. Cof­fee. Time. It’s those three spe­cial ingre­di­ents that went into mak­ing the tra­di­tion­al cup of Amer­i­can cof­fee. In case you missed that, let me remind you: It’s water, cof­fee, and time. Don Drap­er had noth­ing to do with this 13-minute, nos­tal­gia-induc­ing infomer­cial from 1961. Rather, it’s the work of the Cof­fee Brew­ing Insti­tute, which turned the art of mak­ing cof­fee into a dis­mal sci­ence — that is, until glo­ri­ous Peet’s came around. This clip per­ma­nent­ly resides in the Prelinger Archive, and comes to us via The Atlantic.

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Relat­ed Con­tent:

Every­thing You Want­ed to Know About Cof­fee in Three Min­utes

Jim Henson’s Vio­lent Wilkins Cof­fee Com­mer­cials (1957–1961)

A Rol­lick­ing French Ani­ma­tion on the Per­ils of Drink­ing a Lit­tle Too Much Cof­fee

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