Discover the Lost Horror Series Deemed Too Shocking for BBC Television (1967)

High cul­ture and new tech­nol­o­gy have nev­er been a nat­ur­al pair­ing. As our dig­i­tal era has often under­scored, media inno­va­tions tend to be adopt­ed ear­li­est to deliv­er the most puerile, sen­sa­tion-dri­ven con­tent, with the more respectable stuff ben­e­fit­ing only lat­er. When the BBC was intro­duc­ing col­or broad­cast­ing in the mid-nine­teen-six­ties, for instance, it was used for the likes of Thun­der­birds, The Avengers, and The Ben­ny Hill Show, respectable though those pro­grams may now seem com­pared to what main­stream tele­vi­sion would become in lat­er decades. No col­or pro­duc­tion of that peri­od aimed quite as low as the anthol­o­gy series Late Night Hor­ror — or has since been raised so high in the minds of those who remem­ber it.

“We must do every­thing we can from the very begin­ning to stim­u­late sus­pense, ten­sion, atmos­phere, poten­tial hor­ror and HORROR!” the show’s pro­duc­er Har­ry Moore wrote in a memo to his staff in 1967. “If there is blood, let’s see the blood.” Just a few years before choco­late syrup cir­cled the drain in Alfred Hitch­cock­’s Psy­cho, whose faint­ly anachro­nis­tic black-and-white cin­e­matog­ra­phy only inten­si­fied its scari­ness, Late Night Hor­ror had a man­date to paint the small screen red. As cul­tur­al leg­end has it, only six episodes were broad­cast before com­plaints about its pow­er to shock and dis­turb, or per­haps con­cerns about its increas­ing extrem­i­ty, got it the axe from BBC man­age­ment.

The idea that Late Night Hor­ror was sim­ply too scary for tele­vi­sion — or British pub­lic tele­vi­sion of the late six­ties, in any case — has become more com­pelling over the decades in part because so lit­tle of the series itself has sur­vived to receive the judg­ment of lat­er gen­er­a­tions of view­ers. Only in 2016 did archivists dis­cov­er a film copy of “The Corpse Can’t Play,” a sto­ry set at a chil­dren’s par­ty that takes a dead­ly turn. Writ­ten by the pro­lif­ic Eng­lish nov­el­ist John Burke, the episode’s slow burn leads up to a grotesque fin­ish that con­trasts almost cheek­i­ly with the mun­dane domes­tic­i­ty of its set­ting. Alas, the recov­ered print was in black-and-white, so we don’t get to see the col­ors, san­guineous and oth­er­wise, that would have made such an impact on view­ers of near­ly six decades ago.

Just this year, anoth­er episode was redis­cov­ered: “No Such Thing as a Vam­pire” by Richard Math­e­son, author of I Am Leg­end and no few­er than six­teen Twi­light Zone episodes. As of now, the oth­er four episodes remain miss­ing, and pre­sum­ably erased under the per­pet­u­al­ly cash-strapped BBC’s pol­i­cy of eras­ing tapes for re-use in the mid-twen­ti­eth cen­tu­ry. One of them, “William and Mary,” was based on a Roald Dahl sto­ry that had been pre­vi­ous­ly adapt­ed in 1961 for the series Way Out, and would be adapt­ed again in 1979 for Tales of the Unex­pect­ed. At this point, even if a com­plete set of Late Night Hor­ror tapes were to turn up in some­one’s shed, the real­i­ty of the show could hard­ly be expect­ed to com­pete with what its scat­tered frag­ments — espe­cial­ly its still-chill­ing open­ing sequence — inspire us to imag­ine. As every seri­ous hor­ror fan knows, it’s what we don’t see that scares us most.

via Men­tal Floss

Relat­ed con­tent:

Watch The Twi­light Zone’s Pilot Episode, Pitched by Rod Ser­ling Him­self (1959)

Alfred Hitch­cock Presents a Chill­ing Tale by Roald Dahl (1960)

When Roald Dahl Host­ed His Own Creepy TV Show Way Out, a Com­pan­ion to Rod Serling’s Twi­light Zone (1961)

Alfred Hitch­cock Presents Ghost Sto­ries for Kids (1962)

Watch the Sesame Street Episode Banned for Being Too Scary, Fea­tur­ing The Wiz­ard of Oz’s Wicked Witch of the West (1976)

Based in Seoul, Col­in Marshall writes and broad­casts on cities, lan­guage, and cul­ture. He’s the author of the newslet­ter Books on Cities as well as the books 한국 요약 금지 (No Sum­ma­riz­ing Korea) and Kore­an Newtro. Fol­low him on the social net­work for­mer­ly known as Twit­ter at @colinmarshall.

In 1704, Isaac Newton Predicted That the World Will End in 2060

We have become quite used to pro­nounce­ments of doom, from sci­en­tists pre­dict­ing the sixth mass extinc­tion due to the mea­sur­able effects of cli­mate change, and from reli­gion­ists declar­ing the apoc­a­lypse due to a sur­feit of sin. It’s almost impos­si­ble to imag­ine these two groups of peo­ple agree­ing on any­thing oth­er than the omi­nous por­tent of their respec­tive mes­sages. But in the ear­ly days of the sci­en­tif­ic revolution—the days of Shake­speare’s con­tem­po­rary Fran­cis Bacon, and lat­er 17th cen­tu­ry Descartes—it was not at all unusu­al to find both kinds of rea­son­ing, or unrea­son­ing, in the same per­son, along with beliefs in mag­ic, div­ina­tion, astrol­o­gy, etc.

Yet even in this mael­strom of het­ero­dox thought and prac­tices, Sir Isaac New­ton stood out as a par­tic­u­lar­ly odd co-exis­tence of eso­teric bib­li­cal prophe­cy, occult beliefs, and a rigid, for­mal math­e­mat­ics that not only adhered to the induc­tive sci­en­tif­ic method, but also expand­ed its poten­tial by apply­ing gen­er­al axioms to spe­cif­ic cas­es.

Yet many of Newton’s gen­er­al prin­ci­ples would seem total­ly inim­i­cal to the nat­u­ral­ism of most physi­cists today. As he was for­mu­lat­ing the prin­ci­ples of grav­i­ty and three laws of motion, for exam­ple, New­ton also sought the leg­endary Philosopher’s Stone and attempt­ed to turn met­al to gold. More­over, the devout­ly reli­gious New­ton wrote the­o­log­i­cal trea­tis­es inter­pret­ing Bib­li­cal prophe­cies and pre­dict­ing the end of the world. The date he arrived at? 2060.

New­ton seems, writes sci­ence blog Anoth­er Pale Blue Dot, “as con­fi­dent of his pre­dic­tions in this realm as he was in the ratio­nal world of sci­ence.” In a 1704 let­ter exhib­it­ed at Jerusalem’s Hebrew Uni­ver­si­ty, above, New­ton describes his “rec­coning”:

So then the time times & half a time are 42 months or 1260 days or three years & an half, rec­coning twelve months to a yeare & 30 days to a month as was done in the Cal­en­dar of the prim­i­tive year. And the days of short lived Beasts being put for the years of lived [sic] king­doms, the peri­od of 1260 days, if dat­ed from the com­plete con­quest of the three kings A.C. 800, will end A.C. 2060. It may end lat­er, but I see no rea­son for its end­ing soon­er.

New­ton fur­ther demon­strates his con­fi­dence in the next sen­tence, writ­ing that his intent, “though not to assert” an answer, should in any event “put a stop the rash con­jec­tures of fan­ci­full men who are fre­quent­ly pre­dict­ing the time of the end.” Indeed. So how did he arrive at this num­ber? New­ton applied a rig­or­ous method, that is to be sure.

If you have the patience for an exhaus­tive descrip­tion of how he worked out his pre­dic­tion using the Book of Daniel, you may read one here by his­to­ri­an of sci­ence Stephen Sno­be­len, who also points out how wide­spread the inter­est in Newton’s odd beliefs has become, reach­ing across every con­ti­nent, though schol­ars have known about this side of the Enlight­en­ment giant for a long time.

For a sense of the exact­ing, yet com­plete­ly bizarre fla­vor of Newton’s prophet­ic cal­cu­la­tions, see anoth­er New­ton let­ter at the top of the post, tran­scribed below.

Prop. 1. The 2300 prophet­ick days did not com­mence before the rise of the lit­tle horn of the He Goat.

2 Those day [sic] did not com­mence a[f]ter the destruc­tion of Jerusalem & ye Tem­ple by the Romans A.[D.] 70.

3 The time times & half a time did not com­mence before the year 800 in wch the Popes suprema­cy com­menced

4 They did not com­mence after the re[ig]ne of Gre­go­ry the 7th. 1084

5 The 1290 days did not com­mence b[e]fore the year 842.

6 They did not com­mence after the reigne of Pope Greg. 7th. 1084

7 The dif­f­ence [sic] between the 1290 & 1335 days are a parts of the sev­en weeks.

There­fore the 2300 years do not end before ye year 2132 nor after 2370.

The time times & half time do n[o]t end before 2060 nor after [2344]

The 1290 days do not begin [this should read: end] before 2090 [New­ton might mean: 2132] nor after 1374 [sic; New­ton prob­a­bly means 2374]

The edi­to­r­i­al inser­tions are Pro­fes­sor Snobelen’s, who thinks the let­ter dates “from after 1705,” and that “the shaky hand­writ­ing sug­gests a date of com­po­si­tion late in Newton’s life.” What­ev­er the exact date, we see him much less cer­tain here; New­ton push­es around some oth­er dates—2344, 2090 (or 2132), 2374. All of them seem arbi­trary, but “giv­en the nice round­ness of the num­ber,” writes Moth­er­board, “and the fact that it appears in more than one let­ter,” 2060 has become his most mem­o­rable dat­ing for the apoc­a­lypse.

It’s impor­tant to note that New­ton didn’t believe the world would “end” in the sense of cease to exist or burn up in holy flames. His end times phi­los­o­phy resem­bles that of a sur­pris­ing num­ber of cur­rent day evan­gel­i­cals: Christ would return and reign for a mil­len­ni­um, the Jew­ish dias­po­ra would return to Israel and would, he wrote, set up “a flour­ish­ing and ever­last­ing King­dom.” We hear such state­ments often from tel­e­van­ge­lists, school boards, gov­er­nors, and pres­i­den­tial can­di­dates.

As many peo­ple have argued, despite Newton’s con­cep­tion of his sci­en­tif­ic work as a bul­wark against oth­er the­olo­gies, it ulti­mate­ly became a foun­da­tion for Deism and Nat­u­ral­ism, and has allowed sci­en­tists to make accu­rate pre­dic­tions for hun­dreds of years. 20th cen­tu­ry physics may have shown us a much more rad­i­cal­ly unsta­ble uni­verse than New­ton ever imag­ined, but his the­o­ries are, as Isaac Asi­mov would put it, “not so much wrong as incom­plete,” and still essen­tial to our under­stand­ing of cer­tain fun­da­men­tal phe­nom­e­na. But as fas­ci­nat­ing and curi­ous as Newton’s oth­er inter­ests may be, there’s no more rea­son to cred­it his prophet­ic cal­cu­la­tions than those of the Mil­lerites, Harold Camp­ing, or any oth­er apoc­a­lyp­tic dooms­day sect.

Note: An ear­li­er ver­sion of this post appeared on our site in 2015.

Relat­ed Con­tent:

M.I.T. Com­put­er Pro­gram Pre­dicts in 1973 That Civ­i­liza­tion Will End by 2040

Isaac New­ton Cre­ates a List of His 57 Sins (Cir­ca 1662)

Isaac New­ton Con­ceived of His Most Ground­break­ing Ideas Dur­ing the Great Plague of 1665

Videos Recre­ate Isaac Newton’s Neat Alche­my Exper­i­ments: Watch Sil­ver Get Turned Into Gold

The Icon­ic Design of the Dooms­day Clock Was Cre­at­ed 75 Years Ago: It Now Says We’re 100 Sec­onds to Mid­night

Josh Jones is a writer and musi­cian based in Durham, NC. 

300 Years Before ChatGPT, Jonathan Swift’s Gulliver’s Travels Imagined Machines Writing Books and Producing Knowledge (1726)

The print­ing press was invent­ed in the mid­dle of the fif­teenth cen­tu­ry, and it’s been down­hill for the writ­ten word ever since. Even before then, argu­ments that the vol­ume of writ­ing being done far out­stripped the val­ue of that writ­ing sure­ly weren’t unheard of. What­ev­er the era, the most inci­sive remarks on the appar­ent vic­to­ry of ver­bal quan­ti­ty over ver­bal qual­i­ty tend to have come from writ­ers them­selves. No less a satirist than Jonathan Swift made it one of his many tar­gets in Gul­liv­er’s Trav­els (1726), imag­in­ing an elab­o­rate machine of wood and wire called “the Engine” (see illus­tra­tion above) that auto­mat­i­cal­ly gen­er­ates text, though few remem­ber it — or rather, few remem­bered it until the rise of large lan­guage mod­els in the real world.

Gul­liv­er encoun­ters that tech­no­log­i­cal mar­vel, the Engine, at an insti­tu­tion called the Acad­e­my of Pro­jec­tors in the city of Laga­do. Swift’s pro­tag­o­nist records its cre­ator’s expla­na­tion as fol­lows: “Every one knew how labo­ri­ous the usu­al method is of attain­ing to arts and sci­ences; where­as, by his con­trivance, the most igno­rant per­son, at a rea­son­able charge, and with a lit­tle bod­i­ly labor, might write books in phi­los­o­phy, poet­ry, pol­i­tics, laws, math­e­mat­ics, and the­ol­o­gy, with­out the least assis­tance from genius or study.” The Engine’s oper­a­tion, with its unwieldy, clack­ing com­po­nents and a scram­bling staff of young crankers, read­ers, and scribes, may strike us as bizarre, just as it did audi­ences in the eigh­teenth cen­tu­ry. But in our time, when stu­dents can write their papers lit­er­al­ly with­out giv­ing it a thought (to say noth­ing of what their pro­fes­sors may be get­ting up to), its con­cept now sounds all too plau­si­ble.

“This is one of the ear­li­est known men­tions of a machine that could be con­sid­ered as a com­put­er in lit­er­a­ture, more than a hun­dred years pri­or to the first cal­cu­lat­ing engine designs by Charles Bab­bage,” writes Chris Gar­cia at the web site of the Com­put­er His­to­ry Muse­um. “The Engine might be seen as a com­put­er, but per­haps it’s bet­ter thought of as a sort of ran­dom-num­ber gen­er­a­tor,” spout­ing out whichev­er words of the local lan­guage that cor­re­spond with the dig­its. That post dates from ten years, near­ly to the day, before the launch of Chat­G­PT, which changed the gen­er­al pub­lic’s ideas about what com­put­ers can and can’t do. We may dis­agree about whether a machine can tru­ly gen­er­ate “a com­plete body of all arts and sci­ences,” as the Engine’s inven­tor intends, but it no longer sounds like sheer­est fan­ta­sy.

Swift had in mind not engi­neers of arti­fi­cial intel­li­gence but the Roy­al Soci­ety, whose enthu­si­asm for sci­en­tif­ic knowl­edge and exper­i­men­ta­tion he saw as insuf­fi­cient­ly teth­ered to real­i­ty, or at least prac­ti­cal­i­ty. In addi­tion to the Engine, writes lit­er­a­ture pro­fes­sor Robin Bates, “Swift imag­ines sci­en­tists attempt­ing to extract sun­beams from cucum­bers, soft­en mar­ble into pil­lows and pin­cush­ions, replace silk­worms with spi­ders (and hav­ing them eat bright­ly col­ored flies so the threads will be pre-dyed), mix paint by smell, reassem­ble orig­i­nal food stuffs from excre­ment, and build hous­es from the top down (in imi­ta­tion of the bee and the spi­der).” His satire holds up today thanks to his under­stand­ing that, “for all the promis­es of the Enlight­en­ment, the Age of Rea­son, and the Sci­en­tif­ic and Tech­no­log­i­cal Rev­o­lu­tions,” our attempts to change the world “founder the moment we start ignor­ing human nature.” But who needs human nature, the Pro­jec­tors of today might argue, when you’ve got enough com­pute?

Relat­ed con­tent:

How George Orwell Pre­dict­ed the Rise of “AI Slop” in Nine­teen Eighty-Four (1949)

When Roald Dahl Wrote a Sto­ry Pre­dict­ing the Rise of Chat­G­PT and Oth­er AI Large Lan­guage Mod­els (1954)

Sci-Fi Writer Arthur C. Clarke Pre­dict­ed the Rise of Arti­fi­cial Intel­li­gence & the Exis­ten­tial Ques­tions We Would Need to Answer (1978)

Why AI Com­pa­nies Are Buy­ing — And Then Destroy­ing — Old Books

George Orwell Got a B- at Har­vard, When Michael Crich­ton Sub­mit­ted an Orwell Essay as His Own

A Busy Person’s Intro­duc­tion to Large Lan­guage Mod­els (LLMs)

Based in Seoul, Col­in Marshall writes and broad­casts on cities, lan­guage, and cul­ture. He’s the author of the newslet­ter Books on Cities as well as the books 한국 요약 금지 (No Sum­ma­riz­ing Korea) and Kore­an Newtro. Fol­low him on the social net­work for­mer­ly known as Twit­ter at @colinmarshall.

Artists Frida Kahlo & Diego Rivera Visit Leon Trotsky in Mexico: Vintage Footage from 1938

Here’s some rare footage of the great Mex­i­can painters Diego Rivera and Fri­da Kahlo pay­ing a vis­it to exiled Sovi­et rev­o­lu­tion­ary Leon Trot­sky and his wife, Natalia Sedo­va, in Coyoacán, Mex­i­co, in 1938.

The Trot­skys had arrived the year before, after Rivera peti­tioned the gov­ern­ment of Pres­i­dent Lázaro Cár­de­nas to grant the con­tro­ver­sial Marx­ist leader and the­o­rist sanc­tu­ary in Mex­i­co. When the Trot­skys arrived on a Nor­we­gian oil tanker at the port city of Tampi­co in Jan­u­ary of 1937, Rivera was not well, but Kahlo board­ed the ship to wel­come the Trot­skys and accom­pa­nied them on an armored train to Mex­i­co City. She invit­ed the Trot­skys to stay at her fam­i­ly home, La Casa Azul (the Blue House) in Coyoacán, now a sec­tion of Mex­i­co City. By the time this footage was tak­en by a vis­it­ing Amer­i­can named Ivan Heisler, Trot­sky and Kahlo had either had, or were about to have, a brief affair, and the friend­ship between the two cou­ples would soon fall apart. In ear­ly 1939 Trot­sky moved to anoth­er house in the same neigh­bor­hood, where he was assas­si­nat­ed in August of 1940.

If you would like to sup­port the mis­sion of Open Cul­ture, con­sid­er mak­ing a dona­tion to our site. It’s hard to rely 100% on ads, and your con­tri­bu­tions will help us con­tin­ue pro­vid­ing the best free cul­tur­al and edu­ca­tion­al mate­ri­als to learn­ers every­where. You can con­tribute through Pay­Pal, Patre­on, and Ven­mo (@openculture). Thanks!

Note: An ear­li­er ver­sion of this post appeared on our site in 2013.

Relat­ed Con­tent:

Vis­it the Largest Col­lec­tion of Fri­da Kahlo’s Work Ever Assem­bled: 800 Arti­facts from 33 Muse­ums, All Free Online

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

Fri­da Kahlo’s Ven­omous Love Let­ter to Diego Rivera: “I’m Ampu­tat­ing You. Be Hap­py and Nev­er Seek Me Again”

A 1933 Pro­file of Fri­da Kahlo: “Wife of the Mas­ter Mur­al Painter Glee­ful­ly Dab­bles in Works of Art”

This post was orig­i­nal­ly writ­ten in 2013.

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When Buckminster Fuller Proposed Putting a Dome Over Manhattan (1960)

Image via Buck­min­ster Fuller Estate

The nov­els of John Brun­ner have become a niche taste, even with­in his genre of sci­ence fic­tion. A more soci­o­log­i­cal­ly mind­ed ver­sion of Philip K. Dick at his best, he could write with what now looks like a simul­ta­ne­ous pre­science about the civ­i­liza­tion to come and an apoc­a­lyp­ti­cal­ly anx­ious con­cern with the issues of his day. His undis­put­ed mas­ter­piece Stand on Zanz­ibar came out in 1968, the same year as the late Paul R. Ehrlich’s The Pop­u­la­tion Bomb. Both books deal with the dire con­se­quences of what, at the time, looked like the run­away mul­ti­pli­ca­tion of human­i­ty, though ele­ments of the dystopi­an sci-fi writer’s vision now look rather more cred­i­ble than the pre­dic­tions of the Stan­ford biol­o­gist — apart from the giant geo­des­ic dome cov­er­ing Man­hat­tan, any­way.

In a sense, Brun­ner was actu­al­ly behind the times, since Buck­min­ster Fuller him­self had sug­gest­ed dom­ing Man­hat­tan near­ly a decade ear­li­er. In their ambi­tious pro­pos­al for a “two-mile-wide Dome Over Man­hat­tan” from the turn of the nine­teen-six­ties, Fuller and long­time col­lab­o­ra­tor Sho­ji Sadao “imag­ined a mas­sive archi­tec­tur­al sur­face that would reg­u­late the city’s ecosys­tems,” write Next City’s Janette Kim and Erik Carv­er. “They deliv­ered this design along with a series of sur­pris­ing cal­cu­la­tions: the Dome would reduce heat loss by scal­ing the city to one eighty-fifth of its sur­face area; the elim­i­na­tion of snow­plow­ing alone would pay for heat; build­ings inside the Dome could be built lighter and cheap­er with­out need for weath­er­proof­ing; and inte­ri­or air could be heat­ed by remote plants.”

Fuller and Sadao did bring some num­bers to back up their claims, but even more impor­tant­ly, they made assur­ances that the dome’s glass would be one-way, a defense against pry­ing non-Man­hat­tan­ite eyes, and would keep res­i­dents’ cars and lawns in prime con­di­tion. How­ev­er out­landish­ly for­ward-think­ing Fuller could be, he nev­er for­got that he need­ed to appeal to the wor­ries and aspi­ra­tions of mid-cen­tu­ry Amer­i­ca. As a per­son­al­i­ty, he also fit in well with the era’s enthu­si­asm for sweep­ing infra­struc­tur­al fix­es. “It was a time when peo­ple real­ly believed in the pow­er of tech­nol­o­gy,” says Nev­er Built New York co-author Sam Lubell. “We’re build­ing space­ships that go to the moon. Why can’t we build a dome over Man­hat­tan to get rid of all this pol­lu­tion, get rid of all the prob­lems of weath­er?”

Still, as eccen­tric as he was, Fuller was­n’t delu­sion­al. “It’d be very worth­while to have cities under geo­des­ic domes, but New York City, if you think about all the dif­fer­ent own­ers of dif­fer­ent lands, the con­tro­ver­sy about ‘this is my air rights, I don’t want a thing over my thing here,’ I just don’t think it’s going to hap­pen,” he admit­ted. But “it can hap­pen where you start out in places where ener­gy is a real­ly fan­tas­tic prob­lem.” At the time, the ever-increas­ing demand for resources of all kinds by a rapid­ly grow­ing pop­u­la­tion appeared to be not just a but the fan­tas­tic prob­lem. Today, once-unfore­see­able devel­op­ments like ris­ing ener­gy effi­cien­cy and an appar­ent­ly inex­orable decline in glob­al birthrates have direct­ed our ner­vous gazes else­where. Yet dat­ed visions of tech­no­log­i­cal utopia and dystopia still strike us as odd­ly famil­iar — and indeed, as strange­ly sim­i­lar to one anoth­er.

Relat­ed con­tent:

The Life & Times of Buck­min­ster Fuller’s Geo­des­ic Dome: A Doc­u­men­tary

A Brief Intro­duc­tion to Buck­min­ster Fuller and His Tech­no-Opti­mistic Ideas

The Eden Project Built a Rain­for­est Ecosys­tem Inside Buck­min­ster Fuller-Inspired Geo­des­ic Domes

Bet­ter Liv­ing Through Buck­min­ster Fuller’s Utopi­an Designs: Revis­it the Dymax­ion Car, House, and Map

When Frank Lloyd Wright Designed a Plan to Turn Ellis Island Into a Futur­is­tic Jules Verne-Esque City (1959)

Based in Seoul, Col­in Marshall writes and broad­casts on cities, lan­guage, and cul­ture. He’s the author of the newslet­ter Books on Cities as well as the books 한국 요약 금지 (No Sum­ma­riz­ing Korea) and Kore­an Newtro. Fol­low him on the social net­work for­mer­ly known as Twit­ter at @colinmarshall.

LEGO Lets You Build Gaudí’s Sagrada Família in Its Largest Set Ever

When work on the Sagra­da Família first began in 1882, the orig­i­nal archi­tect could hard­ly have imag­ined that, 144 years lat­er, the ambi­tious under­tak­ing would still be under­way. Yet here we are. Famous­ly, the Cata­lan archi­tect Antoni Gaudí (1852–1926) spent the last four decades of his life design­ing and build­ing the Goth­ic-inspired basil­i­ca in Barcelona. Then came the Span­ish Civ­il War (1936–1939), which destroyed many of his archi­tec­tur­al plans, leav­ing suc­ces­sive gen­er­a­tions of archi­tects to piece togeth­er Gaudí’s vision and move the project for­ward. At long last, ear­li­er this year, builders com­plet­ed the cen­tral Tow­er of Jesus Christ, which stands 566 feet high, mak­ing the Sagra­da Família the tallest church in the world.

Although work on the Glo­ry façade still remains, the basil­i­ca has reached a near-com­plete state—complete enough for Lego to roll out the offi­cial Sagra­da Família Lego set. At 12,060 pieces, it’s the largest Lego set ever made, and it lets you build the Sagra­da Família sec­tion by sec­tion, fol­low­ing the same order as the orig­i­nal archi­tects. “Your build­ing jour­ney begins with the Apse with Crypt, the Nativ­i­ty façade and the Pas­sion façade. It then moves on to the naves and the West­ern Sac­risty. Com­plete the 6 tow­ers and fin­ish the basil­i­ca with the East­ern Sac­risty and the Glo­ry façade.” With the video above, you can watch the build­ing of the Lego basil­i­ca, com­press­ing hours of work into 10 min­utes. The Lego set will be avail­able on Novem­ber 1, 2026.

via Kot­tke

Relat­ed Con­tent 

An Archi­tec­tur­al Tour of Sagra­da Família, Antoni Gaudí’s Auda­cious Church That’s Been Under Con­struc­tion for 142 Years

Down­load Instruc­tions for More Than 6,800 LEGO Kits at the Inter­net Archive

The Incred­i­ble Engi­neer­ing of Anto­nio Gaudí’s Sagra­da Famil­ia, the 137 Year Con­struc­tion Project

The Japan­ese Sculp­tor Who Ded­i­cat­ed His Life to Fin­ish­ing Gaudí’s Mag­num Opus, the Sagra­da Família

With 9,036 Pieces, the Roman Colos­se­um Is the Largest Lego Set Ever

The Cable that Changed the World: How Instant Global Communication Began in 1858

The word wire­less is going the way of com­put­er­ized and portable, and for much the same rea­sons. We no longer regard wire­less devices that require no phys­i­cal con­nec­tions to any­thing else as mar­vels, but as some­thing close to neces­si­ties. But our age, with its increas­ing­ly com­mon assump­tions that infor­ma­tion just trav­els through the air, owes its exis­tence to wires — and, in a his­tor­i­cal sense, to one set of wires in par­tic­u­lar, whose sto­ry is told in the Pri­mal Space video above. Woven into a mighty 2,000-mile-long cable, it was laid across the Atlantic Ocean 168 years ago, enabling the first direct com­mu­ni­ca­tion link between North Amer­i­ca and Europe. Not that inter­con­ti­nen­tal video shar­ing was just around the cor­ner.

No, the height of com­mu­ni­ca­tion tech­nol­o­gy at the time was the tele­graph: the Vic­to­ri­an Inter­net, if you like, to bor­row the title of the book by Econ­o­mist edi­tor Tom Standage that inspired the video. As a tech­nol­o­gy, teleg­ra­phy itself is quite a bit old­er than the afore­men­tioned transat­lantic cable. One pos­si­ble start­ing point is 1746, when sci­en­tist Jean-Antoine Nol­let man­aged to send a jolt of sta­t­ic elec­tric­i­ty all the way down a line of 200 monks.

Anoth­er is 1792, when inven­tor Claude Chappe’s sys­tem of sem­a­phor­ic tow­ers was first imple­ment­ed. Though described as a tele­graph, it used no elec­tric­i­ty: if a human oper­a­tor up in one of the tow­ers spot­ted a change in the sig­nal of the pre­vi­ous one, he’d rearrange his own sem­a­phores to match it, and so on down the line. In 1800, Alessan­dro Vol­ta’s chem­i­cal bat­tery helped make the elec­tric tele­graph viable, but nobody was sure how best to trans­mit intel­li­gi­ble mes­sages in the form of elec­tri­cal puls­es.

Nobody was sure, that is, until the eigh­teen-thir­ties, when a painter named Samuel Morse came up with the dot-and-dash code that now bears his name, as well as the devices used to encode and decode com­mu­ni­ca­tions made with it. At the same time, Eng­lish inven­tors William Cooke and Charles Wheat­stone had come up with their own tele­graph sys­tem that did­n’t require a code­book, though its five wires made it more expen­sive and tech­no­log­i­cal­ly com­plex. With­in a few years, the U.S. and the U.K. had inde­pen­dent­ly built thou­sands of miles of tele­graph lines, mak­ing the next step of link­ing them togeth­er obvi­ous, if eas­i­er said than done. Though the cable laid in 1858 failed with­in months, its basic con­cept has proven unusu­al­ly robust. With­out the rough­ly 600 under­sea cables through which glob­al inter­net traf­fic now flows, after all, you would­n’t be read­ing this post — to say noth­ing of watch­ing the video.

Relat­ed Con­tent:

Dis­cov­er the Mun­da­neum, an Ear­ly 20th-Cen­tu­ry “Inter­net” That Put the World’s Knowl­edge on Mil­lions of Index Cards

What the Entire Inter­net Looked Like in 1973: An Old Map Gets Found in a Pile of Research Papers

A Fas­ci­nat­ing 3D Ani­ma­tion Shows the Depths of the Ocean

Mark Twain Pre­dicts the Inter­net in 1898: Read His Sci-Fi Crime Sto­ry, “From The ‘Lon­don Times’ in 1904”

Based in Seoul, Col­in Marshall writes and broad­casts on cities, lan­guage, and cul­ture. He’s the author of the newslet­ter Books on Cities as well as the books 한국 요약 금지 (No Sum­ma­riz­ing Korea) and Kore­an Newtro. Fol­low him on the social net­work for­mer­ly known as Twit­ter at @colinmarshall.

The Oldest Book Printed with Movable Type is Not The Gutenberg Bible: Jikji, a Collection of Korean Buddhist Teachings, Predated It By 78 Years and It’s Now Digitized Online

The his­to­ry of the print­ed word is full of bib­li­o­graph­ic twists and turns, major his­tor­i­cal moments, and the sig­nif­i­cant print­ing of books now so obscure no one has read them since their pub­li­ca­tion. Most of us have only the sketchi­est notion of how mass-pro­duced print­ed books came into being—a few scat­tered dates and names. But every school­child can tell you the first book ever print­ed, and every­one knows the first words of that book: “In the begin­ning….”

The first Guten­berg Bible, print­ed in 1454 by Johannes Guten­berg, intro­duced the world to mov­able type, his­to­ry tells us. It is “uni­ver­sal­ly acknowl­edged as the most impor­tant of all print­ed books,” writes Mar­garet Leslie Davis, author of the 2019 book, The Lost Guten­berg: The Astound­ing Sto­ry of One Book’s Five-Hun­dred-Year Odyssey. In 1900, Mark Twain expressed the sen­ti­ment in a let­ter “com­ment­ing on the open­ing of the Guten­berg Muse­um,” writes M. Sophia New­man at Lithub. “What the world is to-day,” he declared, “good and bad, it owes to Guten­berg. Every­thing can be traced to this source.”

There is kind of an over­sim­pli­fied truth in the state­ment. The print­ed word (and the print­ed Bible, at that) did, in large part, deter­mine the course of Euro­pean his­to­ry, which, through empire, deter­mined the course of glob­al events after the “Guten­berg rev­o­lu­tion.” But there is anoth­er sto­ry of print entire­ly inde­pen­dent of book his­to­ry in Europe, one that also deter­mined world his­to­ry with the preser­va­tion of Bud­dhist, Chi­nese dynas­tic, and Islam­ic texts. And one that begins “before Johannes Guten­berg was even born,” New­man points out.

The old­est extant text ever print­ed with mov­able type pre­dates Guten­berg him­self (born in 1400) by 23 years, and pre­dates the print­ing of his Bible by 77 years. It is the Jikji, print­ed in Korea, a col­lec­tion of Bud­dhist teach­ings by Seon mas­ter Bae­gun and print­ed in mov­able type by his stu­dents Seok-chan and Dai­jam in 1377. (Seon is a Kore­an form of Chan or Zen Bud­dhism.) Only the sec­ond vol­ume of the print­ing has sur­vived, and you can see sev­er­al images from it here.

Impres­sive as this may be, the Jikji does not have the hon­or of being the first book print­ed with mov­able type, only the old­est sur­viv­ing exam­ple. The tech­nol­o­gy could go back two cen­turies ear­li­er. Mar­garet Davis nods to this his­to­ry, New­man con­cedes, writ­ing that “mov­able type was an 11th cen­tu­ry Chi­nese inven­tion, refined in Korea in 1230, before meet­ing con­di­tions in Europe that would allow it to flour­ish.” This is more than most pop­u­lar accounts of the print­ed word say on the mat­ter, but it’s still an inac­cu­rate and high­ly cur­so­ry sum­ma­ry of the evi­dence.

New­man her­self says quite a lot more. In essays at Lithub and Tri­cy­cle, she describes how print­ing tech­niques devel­oped in Asia and were tak­en up in Korea in the 1200s by the Goryeo dynasty, who com­mis­sioned a print­er named Choe Yun-ui to recon­struct a wood­block print of the mas­sive col­lec­tion of ancient Bud­dhist texts called the Tip­i­ta­ka after the Mon­gols burned the only Kore­an copy. By cast­ing “indi­vid­ual char­ac­ters in met­al” and arrang­ing them in a frame—the same process Guten­berg used—he was able to com­plete the project by 1250, 200 years before Gutenberg’s press.

This text, how­ev­er, did not sur­vive, nor did the count­less num­ber of oth­ers print­ed when the tech­nol­o­gy spread across the Mon­gol empire on the Silk Road and took root with the Mus­lim Uyghurs. It is pos­si­ble, though “no clear his­tor­i­cal evi­dence” yet sup­ports the con­tention, that mov­able type spread to Europe from Asia along trade routes. “If there was any con­nec­tion,” wrote Joseph Need­ham in Sci­ence and Civ­i­liza­tion in Chi­na, “in the spread of print­ing between Asia and the West, the Uyghurs, who used both block print­ing and mov­able type, had good oppor­tu­ni­ties to play an impor­tant role in this intro­duc­tion.”

With­out sur­viv­ing doc­u­men­ta­tion, this ear­ly his­to­ry of print­ing in Asia relies on sec­ondary sources. But “the entire his­to­ry of the print­ing press” in Europe” is like­wise “rid­dled with gaps,” New­man writes. What we do know is that Jikji, a col­lec­tion of Kore­an Zen Bud­dhist teach­ings, is the world’s old­est extant book print­ed with mov­able type. The myth of Johannes Guten­berg as “a lone genius who trans­formed human cul­ture,” as Davis writes, “endures because the sweep of what fol­lowed is so vast that it feels almost myth­ic and needs an ori­gin sto­ry to match.” But this is one inven­tive indi­vid­ual in the his­to­ry of print­ing, not the orig­i­nal, god­like source of mov­able type.

Guten­berg makes sense as a con­ve­nient start­ing point for the growth and world­wide spread of cap­i­tal­ism and Euro­pean Chris­tian­i­ty. His inno­va­tion worked much faster than ear­li­er sys­tems, and oth­ers that devel­oped around the same time, in which frames were pressed by hand against the paper. Flows of new cap­i­tal enabled the rapid spread of his machine across Europe. The achieve­ment of the Guten­berg Bible is not dimin­ished by a fuller his­to­ry. But “what gets left out” of the usu­al sto­ry, as New­man tells us in great detail, “is star­tling­ly rich.”

“Only very recent­ly” has the long his­to­ry of print­ing in Asia been “acknowl­edged at all” in pop­u­lar cul­ture, though schol­ars in both the East and West have long known it. Korea has regard­ed Jikji “and oth­er ancient vol­umes as nation­al points of pride that rank among the most impor­tant of books.” Yet UNESCO only cer­ti­fied Jikji as the “old­est mov­able met­al type print­ing evi­dence” in 2001. The recog­ni­tion may be late in com­ing, but it mat­ters a great deal, nonethe­less. Learn much more about the his­to­ry, con­tent, and prove­nance of Jikji at this site cre­at­ed by “cyber diplo­mats” in Korea after UNESCO bestowed World Her­itage sta­tus on the book. And see a ful­ly dig­i­tized copy of the book here.

Note: An ear­li­er ver­sion of this post appeared on our site in 2019.

via Lithub

Relat­ed Con­tent:

The World’s Old­est Mul­ti­col­or Book, a 1633 Chi­nese Cal­lig­ra­phy & Paint­ing Man­u­al, Now Dig­i­tized and Put Online

1,000+ His­toric Japan­ese Illus­trat­ed Books Dig­i­tized & Put Online by the Smith­son­ian: From the Edo & Meji Eras (1600–1912)

See How The Guten­berg Press Worked: Demon­stra­tion Shows the Old­est Func­tion­ing Guten­berg Press in Action

Oxford Uni­ver­si­ty Presents the 550-Year-Old Guten­berg Bible in Spec­tac­u­lar, High-Res Detail

Josh Jones is a writer and musi­cian based in Durham, NC. F

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How to Explain Complicated Things

You may remem­ber a time when it was dif­fi­cult to make it through the day with­out hear­ing some­one cite a TED Talk. A major tech­no­log­i­cal rea­son for that was stream­ing video’s new acces­si­bil­i­ty on prac­ti­cal­ly every­one’s com­put­er (espe­cial­ly those of peo­ple bored at work). A major cul­tur­al rea­son was there was a con­sid­er­able demo­graph­ic over­lap between those who knew their way around the new video-shar­ing realms of the inter­net and those like­ly to want to hear a “thought leader” speak for eigh­teen min­utes or less. Whether schools kill cre­ativ­i­ty, the mechan­ics of pro­cras­ti­na­tion, what hap­pens when you reply to spam e‑mail: these are just a few of the sub­jects that most aggres­sive­ly cap­ti­vat­ed the minds of the sud­den­ly large and chat­ty TED Talk audi­ence of the late two-thou­sands and ear­ly twen­ty-tens.

Since those days, some of the most pop­u­lar TED Talks ever giv­en have under­gone rep­u­ta­tion­al re-eval­u­a­tion. The robust­ness of the sci­ence under­gird­ing Amy Cud­dy’s “Your Body Lan­guage May Shape Who You Are” has been called into ques­tion, while Bill Gates’ “The Next Out­break? We’re Not Ready,” from 2015, start­ed to look a whole lot more pre­scient four or five years after it was uploaded.

But what makes a lec­ture peo­ple enjoy — and desire to get oth­ers watch­ing — has less to do with its con­tent than with its form and deliv­ery. That’s one les­son we can take from the new ani­mat­ed video above, “How to Explain Some­thing Com­pli­cat­ed,” the eighth and most recent in TED-Ed’s series “Pub­lic Speak­ing 101”: some­thing most of us, even if we’ve nev­er dreamed of step­ping onto TED’s (or mere­ly TEDx’s) stage, have to face doing soon­er or lat­er.

When explain­ing any com­plex mat­ter, from your star­tup’s mis­sion to just how your broth­er met his bride, it helps to draw on famil­iar exam­ples. This les­son does that using, nat­u­ral­ly, a TED Talk, iden­ti­fy­ing and break­ing down the ways in which social psy­chol­o­gist Daniel Gilbert’s “The Sur­pris­ing Sci­ence of Hap­pi­ness” exem­pli­fies a suite of tech­niques in the pub­lic speak­er’s arse­nal. These include spark­ing your lis­ten­er’s curios­i­ty right away; intro­duc­ing them to the first con­cept you’ll be dis­cussing while doing so, as the base of a “tow­er” to be built one by one with sub­se­quent con­cepts; and lead­ing the audi­ence to a “knowl­edge gap” that you lat­er fill in with the “big idea” at the cen­ter of your talk. Sur­prise is impor­tant, and so are metaphors, the more vivid the bet­ter. In our age con­sumed with visions of smart­phone addic­tion, glob­al pan­demics, and the AI apoc­a­lypse, TED Talks may seem a quaint arti­fact of a more naïve­ly tech­no-opti­mistic time. But the day will nev­er come when we need no longer explain things — least of all our­selves.

Relat­ed Con­tent:

How to Speak: Watch the Lec­ture on Effec­tive Com­mu­ni­ca­tion That Became an MIT Tra­di­tion for Over 40 Years

How to Get Over the Anx­i­ety of Pub­lic Speak­ing?: Watch the Stan­ford Video, “Think Fast, Talk Smart,” Viewed Already 15 Mil­lion Times

Make Body Lan­guage Your Super­pow­er: A 15-Minute Primer on Body Lan­guage & Pub­lic Speak­ing from Stan­ford Busi­ness School

How to Tell a Good Sto­ry, as Explained by George Saun­ders, Ira Glass, Ken Burns, Scott Simon, Cather­ine Burns & Oth­ers

Lit­er­ary The­o­rist Stan­ley Fish Offers a Free Course on Rhetoric, or the Pow­er of Argu­ments

Based in Seoul, Col­in Marshall writes and broad­casts on cities, lan­guage, and cul­ture. He’s the author of the newslet­ter Books on Cities as well as the books 한국 요약 금지 (No Sum­ma­riz­ing Korea) and Kore­an Newtro. Fol­low him on the social net­work for­mer­ly known as Twit­ter at @colinmarshall.

Mick Jagger Tells the Story Behind ‘Gimme Shelter’ and Merry Clayton’s Haunting Background Vocals

In the fall of 1969 the Rolling Stones were in a Los Ange­les record­ing stu­dio, putting the final touch­es on their album Let It Bleed. It was a tumul­tuous time for the Stones. They had been strug­gling with the album for the bet­ter part of a year as they dealt with the per­son­al dis­in­te­gra­tion of their founder and mul­ti-instru­men­tal­ist Bri­an Jones, whose drug addic­tion and per­son­al­i­ty prob­lems had reached a crit­i­cal stage. Jones was fired from the band in June of that year. He died less than a month lat­er. And although the Stones could­n’t have known it at the time, the year would end on anoth­er cat­a­stroph­ic note, as vio­lence broke out at the noto­ri­ous Alta­mont Free Con­cert just a day after Let It Bleed was released.

It was also a grim time around the world. The assas­si­na­tions of Mar­tin Luther King and Robert F. Kennedy, the Tet Offen­sive, the bru­tal sup­pres­sion of the Prague Spring—all of these were recent mem­o­ries. Not sur­pris­ing­ly, Let It Bleed was not the most cheer­ful of albums. As Stephen Davis writes in his book Old Gods Almost Dead: The 40-Year Odyssey of the Rolling Stones, “No rock record, before or since, has ever so com­plete­ly cap­tured the sense of pal­pa­ble dread that hung over its era.”

And no song on Let It Bleed artic­u­lates this dread with greater force than the apoc­a­lyp­tic “Gimme Shel­ter,” in which Mick Jag­ger sings of a fire “sweepin’ our very street today,” like a “Mad bull lost his way.”

Rape, mur­der!
It’s just a shot away
It’s just a shot away

In an inter­view with Melis­sa Block for the NPR pro­gram All Things Con­sid­ered, Jag­ger talked about those lyrics, and the mak­ing of the song:

One of the most strik­ing moments in the inter­view is when Jag­ger describes the cir­cum­stances sur­round­ing soul singer Mer­ry Clay­ton’s pow­er­ful back­ground vocals. “When we got to Los Ange­les and we were mix­ing it, we thought, ‘Well, it’d be great to have a woman come and do the rape/murder verse,’ or cho­rus or what­ev­er you want to call it,” said Jag­ger. “We ran­dom­ly phoned up this poor lady in the mid­dle of the night, and she arrived in her curlers and pro­ceed­ed to do that in one or two takes, which is pret­ty amaz­ing. She came in and knocked off this rather odd lyric. It’s not the sort of lyric you give anyone–‘Rape, murder/It’s just a shot away’–but she real­ly got into it, as you can hear on the record.”

The daugh­ter of a Bap­tist min­is­ter, Mer­ry Clay­ton grew up singing in her father’s church in New Orleans. She made her pro­fes­sion­al debut at age 14, record­ing a duet with Bob­by Darin. She went on to work with The Supremes, Elvis Pres­ley and many oth­ers, and was a mem­ber of Ray Charles’s group of back­ing singers, The Raelettes. She is one of the singers fea­tured in the doc­u­men­tary film, 20 Feet From Star­dom. In an inter­view with Ter­ry Gross on NPR’s Fresh Air, Clay­ton talked about the night she was asked to sing on “Gimme Shel­ter”:

Well, I’m at home at about 12–I’d say about 11:30, almost 12 o’clock at night. And I’m hun­kered down in my bed with my hus­band, very preg­nant, and we got a call from a dear friend of mine and pro­duc­er named Jack Nitzsche. Jack Nitzsche called and said you know, Mer­ry, are you busy? I said No, I’m in bed. he says, well, you know, There are some guys in town from Eng­land. And they need some­one to come and sing a duet with them, but I can’t get any­body to do it. Could you come? He said I real­ly think this would be some­thing good for you.

At that point, Clay­ton recalled, her hus­band took the phone out of her hand and said, “Man, what is going on? This time of night you’re call­ing Mer­ry to do a ses­sion? You know she’s preg­nant.” Nitzsche explained the sit­u­a­tion, and just as Clay­ton was drift­ing back to sleep her hus­band nudged her and said, “Hon­ey, you know, you real­ly should go and do this date.” Clay­ton had no idea who the Rolling Stones were. When she arrived at the stu­dio, Kei­th Richards was there and explained what he want­ed her to do.

I said, Well, play the track. It’s late. I’d love to get back home. So they play the track and tell me that I’m going to sing–this is what you’re going to sing: Oh, chil­dren, it’s just a shot away. It had the lyrics for me. I said, Well, that’s cool. So  I did the first part, and we got down to the rape, mur­der part. And I said, Why am I singing rape, mur­der? …So they told me the gist of what the lyrics were, and I said Oh, okay, that’s cool. So then I had to sit on a stool because I was a lit­tle heavy in my bel­ly. I mean, it was a sight to behold. And we got through it. And then we went in the booth to lis­ten, and I saw them hoot­ing and hol­ler­ing while I was singing, but I did­n’t know what they were hoot­ing and hol­ler­ing about. And when I got back in the booth and lis­tened, I said, Ooh, that’s real­ly nice. They said, well, You want to do anoth­er?  I said, well, I’ll do one more, I said and then I’m going to have to say thank you and good night. I did one more, and then I did one more. So it was three times I did it, and then I was gone. The next thing I know, that’s his­to­ry.

Clay­ton sang with such emo­tion­al force that her voice cracked. (“I was just grate­ful that the crack was in tune,” she told Gross.) In the iso­lat­ed vocal track above, you can hear the oth­ers in the stu­dio shout­ing in amaze­ment. Despite giv­ing what would become the most famous per­for­mance of her career, it turned out to be a trag­ic night for Clay­ton. Short­ly after leav­ing the stu­dio, she lost her baby in a mis­car­riage. It has gen­er­al­ly been assumed that the stress from the emo­tion­al inten­si­ty of her per­for­mance and the late­ness of the hour caused the mis­car­riage. For many years Clay­ton found the song too painful to hear, let alone sing. “That was a dark, dark peri­od for me,” she told the Los Ange­les Times in 1986, “but God gave me the strength to over­come it. I turned it around. I took it as life, love and ener­gy and direct­ed it in anoth­er direc­tion, so it does­n’t real­ly both­er me to sing ‘Gimme Shel­ter’ now. Life is short as it is and I can’t live on yes­ter­day.”

Note: An ear­li­er ver­sion of this post appeared on our site in 2013.

Relat­ed Con­tent:

The Rolling Stones Jam with Mud­dy Waters for the First and Only Time at Chicago’s Leg­endary Checker­board Lounge (1981)

The Rolling Stones Intro­duce Blues­man Howl­in’ Wolf on US TV, One of the “Great­est Cul­tur­al Moments of the 20th Cen­tu­ry” (1965)

Hear the First Live Per­for­mance of the Rolling Stones’ “Brown Sug­ar:” Record­ed at the Fate­ful Alta­mont Free Con­cert in 1969

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

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Read the CIA’s Manual of Trickery and Deception, Written by a Professional Stage Magician

The idea of a young­ster vac­il­lat­ing between whether to become a magi­cian or join the Cen­tral Intel­li­gence Agency may sound implau­si­ble, but those two work­ing envi­ron­ments have deep­er com­mon­al­i­ties than it would seem. So, in any case, believes John McLaugh­lin, whose more than 30 years at the CIA includ­ed peri­ods as its deputy direc­tor and act­ing direc­tor. He also describes him­self as a life­long ama­teur magi­cian, an avo­ca­tion that owes much to his boy­hood dis­cov­ery of Quick­er Than the Eye, a mag­ic man­u­al from 1932 by one John Mul­hol­land. Around the same time the young McLaugh­lin came across that book in the library, Mul­hol­land was writ­ing the more spe­cial­ized guide­books Some Oper­a­tional Appli­ca­tions of the Art of Decep­tion and Recog­ni­tion Sig­nals — though nobody with­out a seri­ous secu­ri­ty clear­ance would have known it.

In 1953, Mul­hol­land left his posi­tion as edi­tor of the magi­cians’ trade mag­a­zine The Sphinx, osten­si­bly for health rea­sons, but actu­al­ly to go to work for the CIA. Formed just six years before, the orga­ni­za­tion was still deter­min­ing what its mis­sion of pre­vent­ing sur­prise for­eign attacks against the U.S. and coun­ter­ing the glob­al advance of com­mu­nism would entail on the ground. To any­one who’s made enough of a habit of nov­els and films deal­ing with Cold War espi­onage, it may come as no sur­prise that the arts of dis­guise, mis­di­rec­tion, and sleight of hand prac­ticed by mas­ter magi­cians would look use­ful indeed to the CIA. “Just as a magician’s meth­ods must elude detec­tion in front of a close­ly atten­tive audi­ence,” writes McLaugh­lin, “so an intel­li­gence offi­cer doing espi­onage work must elude close sur­veil­lance and pass mes­sages and materiel with­out detec­tion.”

Addi­tion­al­ly, “ana­lysts must be as famil­iar as magi­cians with meth­ods of decep­tion, because ana­lysts are almost always work­ing with incom­plete infor­ma­tion and in cir­cum­stances where an adver­sary is seek­ing to mis­lead them — or in the magician’s term, mis­di­rect them.” The Com­pa­ny’s spe­cial­ists in coun­ter­in­tel­li­gence described their sub­field as a “wilder­ness of mir­rors,” an expres­sion pro­fes­sion­al illu­sion­ists must find espe­cial­ly evoca­tive. Com­mis­sioned in the time of the CIA’s human-exper­i­men­ta­tion pro­gram MKULTRA, pre­vi­ous­ly fea­tured here on Open Cul­ture, Mul­hol­land’s man­u­als were long assumed offi­cial­ly destroyed along with many oth­er of its doc­u­ments in 1973. After they unex­pect­ed­ly resur­faced dur­ing declas­si­fi­ca­tion in the two-thou­sands, they were pub­lished in The Offi­cial CIA Man­u­al of Trick­ery and Decep­tion by Agency his­to­ri­ans H. Kei­th Melton and Robert Wal­lace. You can find a copy over at the Inter­net Archive.

At that time, the Boston Globe pub­lished illus­trat­ed expla­na­tions of some of Mul­hol­land’s tech­niques, such as trans­port­ing spies using a mech­a­nism sim­i­lar to the one that con­ceals an appar­ent­ly sawed-in-half stage­hand, or sur­rep­ti­tious­ly drop­ping into a drink a pill affixed to the back of a book of match­es. Amid “the super­pow­er strug­gle for pow­er and influ­ence around the world,” writes Tom Scoc­ca, “both the ideas and tech­niques of secret war per­vad­ed the cul­ture — the cor­ro­sive belief in hid­den con­spir­a­cy and the nifty thrill of spy­craft itself, the codes and dis­guis­es and minia­ture cam­eras.” Today, “Mulholland’s account of real-world stage­craft amounts to an eti­quette man­u­al for a lost moment of his­to­ry. The match­book trick depends on peo­ple smok­ing and drink­ing. There is a sur­vey of the many pock­ets found in every man’s suit, and which ones are most nat­ur­al for casu­al­ly slip­ping objects into.” How­ev­er much of the romance has drained out of espi­onage — as it has from so much else since the mid-twen­ti­eth cen­tu­ry — the best magi­cians know that old tricks can always be re-enchant­ed for a new world. You can read The Offi­cial CIA Man­u­al of Trick­ery and Decep­tion here.

Relat­ed con­tent:

12 Mil­lion Declas­si­fied CIA Doc­u­ments Now Free Online: Secret Tun­nels, UFOs, Psy­chic Exper­i­ments & More

Dis­cov­er the CIA’s Sim­ple Sab­o­tage Field Man­u­al: A Time­less Guide to Sub­vert­ing Any Orga­ni­za­tion with “Pur­pose­ful Stu­pid­i­ty” (1944)

The CIA’s For­mer Chief of Dis­guise Show How Spies Use Cos­tumes in Under­cov­er Oper­a­tions

Inside MKUl­tra, the CIA’s Secret Pro­gram That Used LSD to Achieve Mind Con­trol (1953–1973)

When the CIA Stud­ied Psy­chic Tech­niques to Alter Human Con­scious­ness & Unlock Time Trav­el: Dis­cov­er “The Gate­way Process”

The CIA’s Rec­tal Tool Kit for Spies — Cre­at­ed for Tru­ly Des­per­ate Sit­u­a­tions Dur­ing The Cold War

Based in Seoul, Col­in Marshall writes and broad­casts on cities, lan­guage, and cul­ture. He’s the author of the newslet­ter Books on Cities as well as the books 한국 요약 금지 (No Sum­ma­riz­ing Korea) and Kore­an Newtro. Fol­low him on the social net­work for­mer­ly known as Twit­ter at @colinmarshall.


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