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Bo Diddley’s Essential Tips for Surviving Life & the Music Business

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Some peo­ple think Chuck Berry invent­ed rock and roll. Chuck Berry sure thinks so. But I say it was Bo Did­dley. At least Did­dley invent­ed the rock and roll I love—throbbing, dirty, hyp­not­ic, hov­er­ing in some space between the blues, gospel and African rhythms but also with its feet firm­ly plant­ed on any indus­tri­al city street­corner. Bo Did­dley invent­ed irony in rock (his first band was called “The Hip­sters”). Bo Did­dley nev­er pan­dered to the teeny­bop­per crowd (though he did go com­mer­cial in the 80s). Even his biggest hits have about them an oth­er­world­ly air of echo‑y weird­ness, with their sig­na­ture beat and one-note drone.  Also some­thing vague­ly sleazy and maybe a lit­tle sin­is­ter, essen­tial ele­ments of rock and roll wor­thy of the name.

So, as a man who made his own rhythm, his own tones, his own stu­dio, and his own gui­tar—who was so much his own man that one of his best known songs is named after him—it stands to rea­son that he would also make his own set of rules for sur­viv­ing the music busi­ness. Called “Bo Diddley’s Guide to Sur­vival,” the list cov­ers all the bases: drugs and booze (“NO!”), food (“any­thing you can get your hands on”), health, mon­ey, defense, cows, women, and hear­ing. What more is there, real­ly?

The list, clear­ly part of a mag­a­zine fea­ture, has cir­cu­lat­ed on the inter­net for some time, but no one has man­aged to track down the source. It’s prob­a­bly gen­uine, though; it sounds like the per­fect mix of the down-to-earth and far-out fun­ny that was Bo Did­dley. I’m par­tic­u­lar­ly intrigued by his very spe­cif­ic defense tech­niques (Elvis obvi­ous­ly took notes). It is true, by the way, that Did­dley once served as a sher­iff in New Mex­i­co, a fact that adds so much to the mys­tique. Where “Defense” and “Women” get lengthy (and respect­ful) treat­ments, his suc­cinct take on “Hear­ing” is as prac­ti­cal as it gets.

See the orig­i­nal list at the top and read the full tran­script below. As you do, lis­ten to the time­less weird­ness of “Bo Did­dley” above. There’s noth­ing else like it.

Alco­hol and Drugs  Only drink Grand Marnier, and that’s to keep the throat from dry­ing up in a place where there’s a lot of smoke. As for drugs: a big NO!

Food  Eat any­time, any­thing you can get your hands on. I mean it!

Health  When­ev­er you get to feel­ing weird, take Bay­er aspirin. I can’t stand tak­ing all that oth­er bull­shit.

Mon­ey  Always take a lawyer with you, and then bring anoth­er lawyer to watch him.

Defense  I can’t go around slap­ping peo­ple with my hands or else I’d go broke. So I take karate, and kick when I fight. Of course, I got plen­ty of guns — one real big one. But guns are for peo­ple try­ing to take your home, not some guy who makes you mad. I used to be a sher­iff down in New Mex­i­co for two and a half years, so I know not to pull it right away.

Cows  If they wan­na play, and you don’t wan­na make pets out of ‘em, and you can’t eat ‘em — then get rid of ‘em!

Women  If you wan­na meet a nice young lady, then you try to smell your best. A girl don’t like nobody walk­ing up in her face smelling like a goat. Then, you don’t say crap like “Hey, don’t I know you?” The first thing you ask her is: “Are you alone?” If she tells you that she’s with her boyfriend, then you see if the cat’s as big as you. If you don’t have no mon­ey, just smell right. And for God’s sake don’t be pulling on her and slap­ping on her. You don’t hit the girls! If you do this, you can’t miss.

Hear­ing  Just don’t put your ears in the speak­ers.

via Dan­ger­ous Minds

Relat­ed Con­tent:

Chuck Berry Takes Kei­th Richards to School, Shows Him How to Rock (1987)

Kei­th Richards Wax­es Philo­soph­i­cal, Plays Live with His Idol, the Great Mud­dy Waters

A His­to­ry of Rock ‘n’ Roll in 100 Riffs

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

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Watch Dating Dos and Don’ts: An Old-School Instructional Guide to Teenage Romance (1949)

From the mid-1940s to the mid-1970s, Coro­net Instruc­tion­al Media, that for­mi­da­ble fac­to­ry of class­room edu­ca­tion­al films, taught Amer­i­ca’s school­child­ren how to study, how to land a job, how to per­form their soci­etal and fil­ial duties, how to bathe. Cer­tain gen­er­a­tions no doubt retain vivid mem­o­ries, fond or oth­er­wise, of such 16-mil­lime­ter stand­bys as Good Eat­ing Habits, Joan Avoids a Cold, Are You Pop­u­lar? and Com­mu­nism. In 1949, Coro­net came up with a short sub­ject rather clos­er to the eter­nal inter­ests of the teenag­er: Dat­ing: Do’s and Don’ts. This twelve-minute film, direct­ed Gilbert Altschul with the assis­tance of Reuben Hill, Research Pro­fes­sor of Fam­i­ly Life at the Uni­ver­si­ty of North Car­oli­na, nav­i­gates the gar­den of fork­ing paths formed by all the choic­es, from ide­al­ly gen­tle­man-like to poten­tial­ly dis­as­trous, that con­front young Woody on his very first date.

Who, for instance, should Woody ask to join him at Cen­tral High­’s Hi-Teen Car­ni­val? “Whose com­pa­ny would you enjoy?” asks the voice-of-mid­cen­tu­ry-author­i­ty nar­ra­tor.” “Well, one thing you can con­sid­er is looks. Woody thought of Jan­ice, and how good-look­ing she was. He real­ly had to rate to date some­body like her.” Still: “It’s too bad Jan­ice always acts so supe­ri­or and bored. She’d make a fel­low feel awk­ward and infe­ri­or.” Per­haps the more ground­ed Bet­ty? “And yet, it just does­n’t seem as if she’d be much fun. What about Anne? She knows how to have a good time.” Even 64 years on, I dare­say fel­lows would still do well to cleave to the Annes of the world. But giv­en how far the pen­du­lum of sex­u­al pol­i­tics has swung since Coro­net’s hey­day, oth­er pieces of of Dat­ing: Do’s and Don’ts advice seems more quaint than cur­rent. For a more mod­ern per­spec­tive, see also How to Be a “Mr. Good-Date,” a Looney Tunes par­o­dy star­ring Bugs Bun­ny as the hope­ful suit­or Reg­gie Geran­de­vu and Elmer Fudd as the pro­tec­tive home­own­er of whom he runs afoul.

When you’re done watch­ing Dat­ing: Do’s and Don’ts, don’t miss Coro­net’s 1951 sequel of sorts “Going Steady.”

Relat­ed Con­tent:

The Sto­ry Of Men­stru­a­tion: Walt Disney’s Sex Ed Film from 1946

Duck and Cov­er, or: How I Learned to Elude the Bomb

How to Spot a Com­mu­nist Using Lit­er­ary Crit­i­cism: A 1955 Man­u­al from the U.S. Mil­i­tary

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

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The 10 Greatest Books Ever, According to 125 Top Authors (Download Them for Free)

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Ear­li­er this month, we high­light­ed The 10 Great­est Films of All Time Accord­ing to 846 Film Crit­ics. Fea­tur­ing films by Hitch­cock, Kubrick, Welles and Felli­ni, this mas­ter list came togeth­er in 2012 when Sight & Sound (the cin­e­ma jour­nal of the British Film Insti­tute) asked con­tem­po­rary crit­ics and direc­tors to name their 12 favorite movies. Near­ly 900 cinephiles respond­ed, and, from those sub­mis­sions, a meta list of 10 was culled.

So how about some­thing sim­i­lar for books, you ask? For that, we can look back to 2007, when J. Ped­er Zane, the book edi­tor of the Raleigh News & Observ­er, asked 125 top writ­ers to name their favorite books — writ­ers like Nor­man Mail­er, Annie Proulx, Stephen King, Jonathan Franzen, Claire Mes­sud, and Michael Chabon. The lists were all com­piled in an edit­ed col­lec­tion, The Top Ten: Writ­ers Pick Their Favorite Books, and then pref­aced by one uber list, “The Top Top Ten.”

Zane explained the method­ol­o­gy behind the uber list as fol­lows: “The par­tic­i­pants could pick any work, by any writer, by any time peri­od.… After award­ing ten points to each first-place pick, nine to sec­ond-place picks, and so on, the results were tab­u­lat­ed to cre­ate the Top Top Ten List — the very best of the best.”

The short list appears below, along with links to elec­tron­ic ver­sions of the works (and tra­di­tion­al pub­lished edi­tions). There’s one notable excep­tion, Vladimir Nabokov’s Loli­ta. We could­n’t pro­vide that elec­tron­ic text, but we do have some­thing spe­cial — an audio record­ing of Nabokov read­ing a chap­ter from his con­tro­ver­sial 1955 nov­el.

The texts list­ed below are per­ma­nent­ly housed in our col­lec­tion of Free eBooks, along with many oth­er clas­sics. In many cas­es, you’ll find audio ver­sions of the same works in our ever-grow­ing col­lec­tion of Free Audio Books. If you have ques­tions about how to load files onto your Kin­dle, please see this relat­ed instruc­tion­al video.

Got an issue with any of the selec­tions? Tell us all about it in the com­ments sec­tion below.

1. Anna Karen­i­na, by Leo Tol­stoy

iPad/iPhone — Kin­dle + Oth­er For­mats

2. Madame Bovary, by Gus­tave Flaubert

3. War and Peace, by Leo Tol­stoy

4. Loli­ta, by Vladimir Nabokov

5. The Adven­tures of Huck­le­ber­ry Finn, by Mark Twain

6. Ham­let, by William Shake­speare

7. The Great Gats­by, by F. Scott Fitzger­ald

8. In Search of Lost Time, by Mar­cel Proust

9. The Sto­ries of Anton Chekhov

10. Mid­dle­march, by George Eliot

Relat­ed Con­tent:

1,700 Free Online Cours­es from Top Uni­ver­si­ties.

The Ten Great­est Films of All Time Accord­ing to 358 Film­mak­ers

1,000 Free Audio Books: Down­load Great Books for Free.

Nabokov Reads Loli­ta, Names the Great Books of the 20th Cen­tu­ry

18 (Free) Books Ernest Hem­ing­way Wished He Could Read Again for the First Time

Neil deGrasse Tyson Lists 8 (Free) Books Every Intel­li­gent Per­son Should Read

F. Scott Fitzger­ald Cre­ates a List of 22 Essen­tial Books, 1936

Down­load 55 Free Online Lit­er­a­ture Cours­es: From Dante and Mil­ton to Ker­ouac and Tolkien

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Portraits of Virginia Woolf, James Joyce, Walter Benjamin & Other Literary Legends by Gisèle Freund

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“Gisèle Fre­und, the Ger­man-born pho­tog­ra­ph­er who died in 2000 at 91, is both famous and not famous enough,” writes Kather­ine Knorr in the New York Times. “She was some­times cha­grined to be best known for some of her por­traits,” whose lumi­nary sub­jects includ­ed artists, film stars, and writ­ers. At the top, we have Fre­und’s 1938 shot of James Joyce with his grand­son in Paris. Just below, her pho­to­graph of a pen­sive Wal­ter Ben­jamin from that same year. At the bot­tom, her 1939 por­trait of a smok­ing Vir­ginia Woolf. (French nov­el­ist, the­o­rist and, Min­is­ter for Cul­tur­al Affairs André Mal­raux also sport­ed a cig­a­rette in his 1935 por­trait by Fre­und, an image which made it to a postage stamp in 1996, though with his smoke care­ful­ly removed.) For­mer Pres­i­dent Jacques Chirac pub­licly praised Fre­und’s abil­i­ty to “reveal the essence of beings through their expres­sions.” In Woolf’s case, Fre­und pro­duced the being in ques­tion’s first-ever col­or por­trait.

Walter_Benjamin_Paris_1938

“[Fre­und] was an ear­ly adapter to col­or, in 1938, and her first exhi­bi­tion was in fact a pro­jec­tion of col­or por­traits giv­en in Monnier’s book shop,” Knorr writes. She goes on to describe anoth­er exhi­bi­tion, in 2011, that “sim­i­lar­ly projects the por­traits with­in its mock book­shop, turn­ing the show into a guess­ing game since some of those pho­tographed have enor­mous­ly famous faces,” while oth­ers “are a lot of French intel­lec­tu­als that most young French peo­ple today would not rec­og­nize.” While we nat­u­ral­ly assume that you, as an Open Cul­ture read­er, rec­og­nize a fair few more French intel­lec­tu­als than the aver­age gallery-goer, we can’t help but focus on the fact that so many of the writ­ers of whom Fre­und’s eye saw the defin­i­tive images — not just Joyce, Ben­jamin, and Woolf, but Beck­ett, Eliot, Hesse, the list goes on — became the defin­ing writ­ers of their era. Fre­und her­self had just one ques­tion: “Explain to me why writ­ers want to be pho­tographed like stars,” she wrote, “and the lat­ter like writ­ers.”

Images by Fre­und have been col­lect­ed in the book, Gisèle Fre­und: Pho­tographs & Mem­oirs. You can also vis­it the Fre­und web­site to view a col­lec­tion of por­traits.

Virginia_Woolf_smoking_London_1939

via A Piece of Mono­logue

Relat­ed Con­tent:

Philoso­pher Por­traits: Famous Philoso­phers Paint­ed in the Style of Influ­en­tial Artists

A‑List Authors, Artists & Thinkers Draw Self Por­traits

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

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The Evolution of the Rock Guitar Solo: 28 Solos, Spanning 50 Years, Played in 6 Fun Minutes

In this fun new video from CDZA, gui­tarist Mark Sid­ney John­son takes us on an enter­tain­ing romp through more than fifty years of the rock gui­tar solo, from Chuck Berry to John May­er.

Along the way John­son rips through a suc­ces­sion of famous riffs and solos by Kei­th Richards, Jimi Hen­drix, Car­los San­tana, Jim­my Page, Eric Clap­ton, Mark Knopfler, Randy Rhoads, Eddie Van Halen, Slash … and those are only a few from the first half of the video.

John­son is an Eng­lish mul­ti-instru­men­tal­ist and song­writer based in New York. He works reg­u­lar­ly as a ses­sion gui­tarist and plays with The Brit Pack as well as the exper­i­men­tal music video group CDZA, short for Col­lec­tive Caden­za. For more exam­ples of their off­beat and inno­v­a­tive work, vis­it the CDZA Web site.

via That Eric Alper

Relat­ed Con­tent:

Eric Clapton’s Iso­lat­ed Gui­tar Track From the Clas­sic Bea­t­les Song, ‘While My Gui­tar Gen­tly Weeps’ (1968)

Gui­tar Sto­ries: Mark Knopfler on the Six Gui­tars That Shaped His Career

The Sto­ry of the Gui­tar: The Com­plete Three-Part Doc­u­men­tary

Here Comes The Sun: The Lost Gui­tar Solo by George Har­ri­son

A His­to­ry of Rock ‘n’ Roll in 100 Riffs

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Discover Thomas Jefferson’s Cut-and-Paste Version of the Bible, and Read the Curious Edition Online

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Had he lived dur­ing the Inqui­si­tion, Thomas Jef­fer­son would have been burned at the stake. His ideas about Jesus and Chris­tian­i­ty were far from ortho­dox. A prod­uct of the Enlight­en­ment, Jef­fer­son believed that every­thing, includ­ing reli­gion, should be exam­ined in the light of rea­son.

When Jef­fer­son exam­ined the Gospels he came away with a strong­ly divid­ed opin­ion. “I find many pas­sages of fine imag­i­na­tion, cor­rect moral­i­ty, and of the most love­ly benev­o­lence,” he wrote in an 1820 let­ter to William Short, “and oth­ers again of so much igno­rance, so much absur­di­ty, so much untruth, char­la­tanism, and impos­ture, as to pro­nounce it impos­si­ble that such con­tra­dic­tions should have pro­ceed­ed from the same being.”

As ear­ly as 1804, when he was still pres­i­dent, Jef­fer­son began sep­a­rat­ing “the dia­mond from the dunghill,” as he lat­er put it, to assem­ble his own ver­sion of the Bible. He con­tin­ued the project in earnest dur­ing his lat­er years at Mon­ti­cel­lo, por­ing over var­i­ous edi­tions in Greek, Latin, French and King James Eng­lish. He clipped the pas­sages he thought were gen­uine teach­ings of Jesus and past­ed them, in the four lan­guages side by side, onto pages.

In 1820 — six years before his death at the age of 83 — Jef­fer­son pro­duced a leather-bound, 84-page vol­ume titled The Life and Morals of Jesus of Nazareth, Extract­ed Tex­tu­al­ly From the Gospels in Greek, Latin, French & Eng­lish. Jef­fer­son elim­i­nat­ed every­thing in the Bible con­cern­ing mir­a­cles. He end­ed the Gospel sto­ry with the exe­cu­tion and bur­ial of Jesus, omit­ting the res­ur­rec­tion. The retained pas­sages, Jef­fer­son explained in an 1813 let­ter to John Adams, con­tain “the most sub­lime and benev­o­lent code of morals which has ever been offered to man.”

You can exam­ine and read Jef­fer­son­’s com­plete 1820 Bible online by vis­it­ing the Smith­son­ian Insti­tu­tion’s inter­ac­tive Web dis­play.

Repro­duc­tions of Jef­fer­son­’s Bible can be pur­chased online.

The images above come cour­tesy of The Smith­son­ian.

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Watch The Surreal 1960s Films and Commercials of Jim Henson

Today marks the 77th anniver­sary of Jim Hen­son’s birth. To cel­e­brate the pup­peteer, film­mak­er, and Mup­pet inven­tor’s life and career, we offer here three of his ear­ly short works. Most of us know only cer­tain high-pro­file pieces of Hen­son’s oeu­vre: The Mup­pet Show, the Mup­pet movies, Sesame Street, or per­haps such pic­tures now much attend­ed on the camp revival cir­cuit as Labyrinth and The Dark Crys­tal. But even by the Mup­pet Show’s 1974 debut, Hen­son (1936–1990) had already put in decades devel­op­ing his dis­tinc­tive aes­thet­ic of pup­pets and pup­petry. We’ve pre­vi­ous­ly fea­tured the unchar­ac­ter­is­ti­cal­ly vio­lent com­mer­cials he pro­duced for Wilkins Cof­fee between 1957 and 1961 and Lim­bo, the Orga­nized Mind, his sev­en­ties trip of a John­ny Car­son seg­ment. But unless you count your­self as a seri­ous Hen­son, fan, you prob­a­bly haven’t yet seen the likes of Mem­o­ries, The Paper­work Explo­sion, and Rip­ples. Cre­at­ing each of these shorts, the young Hen­son col­lab­o­rat­ed with pianist, jazz com­pos­er, and sound engi­neer Ray­mond Scott, now remem­bered as a pio­neer in mod­ern elec­tron­ic music.

The par­tic­u­lar sound of Scott, no stranger to scor­ing car­toons (we’ve by now heard it in every­thing from Looney Tunes to Ren and Stimpy to The Simp­sons), also suit­ed the sorts of visions Hen­son real­ized for his var­i­ous projects of the six­ties. Mem­o­ries, which plunges into a man’s mind as he remem­bers (with nar­ra­tion by Hen­son him­self) one par­tic­u­lar­ly pleas­ant after­noon near­ly ruined by a headache, appeared in 1967 as a con­tin­u­a­tion of Hen­son’s com­mer­cial career; the pain reliev­er Bufferin, you see, lit­er­al­ly saved the day. That same year, the com­mer­cial (and in form, almost mini-doc­u­men­tary) The Paper­work Explo­sion illus­trates the time- space‑, and labor-sav­ing advan­tages of IBM’s then-new word-pro­cess­ing sys­tem, the MT/ST. Rip­ples Hen­son and Scott put togeth­er for Mon­tre­al’s Expo 1967. It takes place, like Mem­o­ries and Lim­bo, inside human con­scious­ness: an archi­tect (Sesame Street writer-pro­duc­er Jon Stone) drops a sug­ar cube in his cof­fee, and its rip­ples trig­ger a mem­o­ry of throw­ing peb­bles into a pond, which itself sends rip­ples through a host of his oth­er poten­tial thoughts. You’ve got to watch to under­stand how Hen­son and Scott pulled this off; con­ve­nient­ly, they only take one minute to do it.

For more ear­ly works by Hen­son, see this Metafil­ter post.

Relat­ed Con­tent:

Jim Henson’s Ani­mat­ed Film, Lim­bo, the Orga­nized Mind, Pre­sent­ed by John­ny Car­son (1974)

Jim Henson’s Orig­i­nal, Spunky Pitch for The Mup­pet Show

Jim Hen­son Pilots The Mup­pet Show with Adult Episode, “Sex and Vio­lence” (1975)

Jim Henson’s Zany 1963 Robot Film Uncov­ered by AT&T: Watch Online

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

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F. Scott Fitzgerald Tells His 11-Year-Old Daughter What to Worry About (and Not Worry About) in Life, 1933

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Born 117 years ago today in St. Paul, Min­neso­ta, F. Scott Fitzger­ald, that some­what louche denizen—some might say inventor—of the “Jazz Age,” has been immor­tal­ized as the ten­der young man we see above: Prince­ton dropout, writer of The Great Gats­by, boozy com­pan­ion to beau­ti­ful South­ern belle flap­per Zel­da Sayre. Amidst all the glam­or­iza­tion of his best and worst qual­i­ties, it’s easy to for­get that Fitzger­ald was also the father of a daugh­ter, Frances Scott Fitzger­ald, who went on to have her own suc­cess­ful career as a writer. Unlike the chil­dren of some of Fitzgerald’s con­tem­po­raries, Frances thrived, which must be some tes­ta­ment to her father’s par­ent­ing (and to Zelda’s as well, though she alleged­ly hoped, like Daisy Buchanan, that her daugh­ter would become a “beau­ti­ful lit­tle fool”).

We get more than a hint of Fitzgerald’s father­ly char­ac­ter in a won­der­ful lit­tle let­ter that he sent to her in August of 1933, when Frances was away at sum­mer camp. Fitzger­ald, renowned for his extremes, coun­sels an almost Epi­cure­an mid­dle way—distilling, per­haps, hard lessons learned dur­ing his decline in the thir­ties (which he wrote of can­did­ly in “The Crack Up”). He con­cludes with a list of things for his daugh­ter to wor­ry and not wor­ry about. It’s a very touch­ing mis­sive that I look for­ward to shar­ing with my daugh­ter some day. I’ll have my own advice and sil­ly in-jokes for her, but Fitzger­ald pro­vides a very wise lit­er­ary sup­ple­ment. Below is the full let­ter, pub­lished in the New York Times in 1958. The typos, we might assume, are all sic, giv­en Fitzgerald’s pen­chant for such errors:

AUGUST 8, 1933
LA PAIX RODGERS’ FORGE
TOWSON, MATYLAND

DEAR PIE:

I feel very strong­ly about you doing duty. Would you give me a lit­tle more doc­u­men­ta­tion about your read­ing in French? I am glad you are hap­py– but I nev­er believe much in hap­pi­ness. I nev­er believe in mis­ery either. Those are things you see on the stage or the screen or the print­ed page, they nev­er real­ly hap­pen to you in life.

All I believe in in life is the rewards for virtue (accord­ing to your tal­ents) and the pun­ish­ments for not ful­fill­ing your duties, which are dou­bly cost­ly. If there is such a vol­ume in the camp library, will you ask Mrs. Tyson to let you look up a son­net of Shake­speare’s in which the line occurs Lilies that fes­ter smell far worse than weeds…

I think of you, and always pleas­ant­ly, but I am going to take the White Cat out and beat his bot­tom hard, six times for every time you are imper­ti­nent. Do you react to that?…

Half-wit, I will con­clude. Things to wor­ry about:

Wor­ry about courage
Wor­ry about clean­li­ness
Wor­ry about effi­cien­cy
Wor­ry about horse­man­ship…
Things not to wor­ry about:
Don’t wor­ry about pop­u­lar opin­ion
Don’t wor­ry about dolls
Don’t wor­ry about the past
Don’t wor­ry about the future
Don’t wor­ry about grow­ing up
Don’t wor­ry about any­body get­ting ahead of you
Don’t wor­ry about tri­umph
Don’t wor­ry about fail­ure unless it comes through your own fault
Don’t wor­ry about mos­qui­toes
Don’t wor­ry about flies
Don’t wor­ry about insects in gen­er­al
Don’t wor­ry about par­ents
Don’t wor­ry about boys
Don’t wor­ry about dis­ap­point­ments
Don’t wor­ry about plea­sures
Don’t wor­ry about sat­is­fac­tions
Things to think about:
What am I real­ly aim­ing at?
How good am I real­ly in com­par­i­son to my con­tem­po­raries in regard to:
(a) Schol­ar­ship
(b) Do I real­ly under­stand about peo­ple and am I able to get along with them?
© Am I try­ing to make my body a use­ful intru­ment or am I neglect­ing it?

With dear­est love,

Relat­ed Con­tent:

F. Scott Fitzger­ald Cre­ates a List of 22 Essen­tial Books, 1936

“Noth­ing Good Gets Away”: John Stein­beck Offers Love Advice in a Let­ter to His Son (1958)

Read F. Scott Fitzgerald’s Sto­ry “May Day,” and Near­ly All of His Oth­er Work, Free Online

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

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The Recipes of Iconic Authors: Jane Austen, Sylvia Plath, Roald Dahl, the Marquis de Sade & More

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It comes as no sur­prise that Roald Dahl, author of Char­lie and the Choco­late Fac­to­ry, pos­sessed a sweet tooth. Hav­ing daz­zled young read­ers with visions of Cav­i­ty-Fill­ing Caramels, Ever­last­ing Gob­stop­pers, and snozzber­ry-fla­vored wall­pa­per, Dahl’s can­dy of choice was the more pedes­tri­an Kit-Kat bar. In addi­tion to savor­ing one dai­ly (a lux­u­ry lit­tle Char­lie Buck­et could but dream of, pri­or to win­ning that most gold­en of tick­ets) he invent­ed a frozen con­fec­tion called “Kit-Kat Pud­ding.”

The orig­i­nal recipe is, appro­pri­ate­ly, sim­ple enough for a child to make. Stack as many Kit-Kats as you like into a tow­er, using whipped cream for mor­tar, then shove the entire thing into the freez­er, and leave it there until sol­id.

Book pub­li­cist and self-described lit­er­ary fan­girl Nicole Vil­leneuve does him one bet­ter on Paper and Salt, a food blog devot­ed to the recipes of icon­ic authors. Her re-imag­ined and renamed Frozen Home­made Kit-Kat Cake adds bit­ter­sweet choco­late ganache, replac­ing Dahl’s beloved can­dy bars with high qual­i­ty wafer cook­ies. It remains a pret­ty straight-for­ward prepa­ra­tion, not quite as deca­dent as the Mar­quis de Sade’s Molten Choco­late Espres­so Cake with Pome­gran­ate, but sure­ly more to Dahl’s lik­ing than Jane Austen’s Brown But­ter Bread Pud­ding Tarts would have been. (The author once wrote that he pre­ferred his choco­late straight.)

Vil­leneuve spices her entry with his­tor­i­cal con­text and anec­dotes regard­ing ear­ly 20th-cen­tu­ry can­dy mar­ket­ing, Dahl’s hatred of the Cad­bury Crème Egg, and his dog’s han­ker­ing for Smar­ties. Details such as these make Paper and Salt, which fea­tures plen­ty of savories to go with the sweet, a deli­cious read even for non-cooks.

Mean­while, dessert chefs unwill­ing to source their ingre­di­ents from Rite-Aid’s Hal­loween aisle might try Sylvia Plath’s Lemon Pud­ding Cakes (“Is it taboo to write about bak­ing and Sylvia Plath?” Vil­leneuve won­ders), C.S. Lewis’ Cin­na­mon Bour­bon Rice Pud­ding, Willa Cather’s Spiced Plum Kolache or Wal­lace Stevens’ Coconut Caramel Gra­ham Cook­ies.

Relat­ed Con­tent:

Ernest Hemingway’s Favorite Ham­burg­er Recipe

Allen Ginsberg’s Per­son­al Recipe for Cold Sum­mer Borscht

How to Make Instant Ramen Com­pli­ments of Japan­ese Ani­ma­tion Direc­tor Hayao Miyza­ki

Ayun Hal­l­i­day  doc­u­ment­ed her own sweet tooth in Dirty Sug­ar Cook­ies: Culi­nary Obser­va­tions, Ques­tion­able Taste. Fol­low her @AyunHallliday

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Frida Kahlo Writes a Personal Letter to Georgia O’Keeffe After O’Keeffe’s Nervous Breakdown (1933)

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Impor­tant twen­ti­eth-cen­tu­ry painters, as every stu­dent of art his­to­ry learns, did­n’t tend to sail smooth­ly through exis­tence. Those even a lit­tle inter­est­ed in famed Mex­i­can self-por­traitist Fri­da Kahlo have heard much about the tra­vails both roman­tic and phys­i­cal she endured in her short life. But in this less­er-known instance, anoth­er artist suf­fered, and Kahlo offered the solace. Avail­able to view from Yale’s Bei­necke Rare Book & Man­u­script Library, we have here a let­ter Kahlo sent to Geor­gia O’Ke­effe, painter of blos­soms and south­west Amer­i­can land­scapes (and more besides), on March 1st, 1933. At that time, O’Ke­effe, who the year before had strug­gled and failed to com­plete a mur­al project for Radio City Music Hall on time, lived through the after­math of a ner­vous break­down which had hos­pi­tal­ized her (diag­no­sis: “psy­choneu­ro­sis”), sent her to no less remote a locale than Bermu­da to recu­per­ate, and pre­vent­ed her from paint­ing again until 1934.

Kahlo’s let­ter, sent from Detroit where her mural­ist hus­band Diego Rivera had tak­en a com­mis­sion for 27 fres­coes at the Insti­tute of the Arts, runs as fol­lows:

Geor­gia,

Was won­der­ful to hear your voice again. Every day since I called you and many times before months ago I want­ed to write you a let­ter. I wrote you many, but every one seemed more stu­pid and emp­ty and I torn them up. I can’t write in Eng­lish all that I would like to tell, espe­cial­ly to you. I am send­ing this one because I promised it to you. I felt ter­ri­ble when Sybil Brown told me that you were sick but I still don’t know what is the mat­ter with you. Please Geor­gia dear if you can’t write, ask Stieglitz to do it for you and let me know how are you feel­ing will you ? I’ll be in Detroit two more weeks. I would like to tell you every thing that hap­pened to me since the last time we saw each oth­er, but most of them are sad and you must­n’t know sad things now. After all I should­n’t com­plain because I have been hap­py in many ways though. Diego is good to me, and you can’t imag­ine how hap­py he has been work­ing on the fres­coes here. I have been paint­ing a lit­tle too and that helped. I thought of you a lot and nev­er for­get your won­der­ful hands and the col­or of your eyes. I will see you soon. I am sure that in New York I will be much hap­pi­er. If you still in the hos­pi­tal when I come back I will bring you flow­ers, but it is so dif­fi­cult to find the ones I would like for you. I would be so hap­py if you could write me even two words. I like you very much Geor­gia.

Frie­da

“Clear­ly Kahlo hoped for a deep­er friend­ship, or per­haps more, with O’Ke­effe, when she and Diego went to New York a few weeks lat­er,” writes Sharyn Rohlf­sen Udall in Carr, O’Ke­effe, Kahlo: Places of Their Own. “From there, she wrote to a friend on 11 April (by which time O’Ke­effe had gone to Bermu­da to con­va­lesce) that because of O’Ke­ef­fe’s ill­ness there had been no love­mak­ing between them that time. A boast­ful exag­ger­a­tion of their close­ness? Know­ing Kahlo’s predilec­tion for sex­u­al hyper­bole, this seems like­ly.”

via A Piece of Mono­logue, A Writer’s Rumi­na­tions

Relat­ed Con­tent:

The Art of Hand­writ­ing as Prac­ticed by Famous Artists: Geor­gia O’Keeffe, Jack­son Pol­lock, Mar­cel Duchamp, Willem de Koon­ing & More

The Real Geor­gia O’Keeffe: The Artist Reveals Her­self in Vin­tage Doc­u­men­tary Clips

Watch Mov­ing Short Films of Fri­da Kahlo and Diego Rivera at the “Blue House”

Fri­da Kahlo and Diego Rivera Vis­it Leon Trot­sky in Mex­i­co, 1938

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

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