Umberto Eco’s Personal Library Opens to the Public: More Than 32,000 Books, Exactly as He Left Them

Umber­to Eco’s The Name of the Rose sold so well that its Eng­lish trans­la­tor William Weaver could add an exten­sion onto his Tus­can vil­la, which he called the “Eco Cham­ber.” The Bib­liote­ca Eco, or Eco Library, whose rib­bon-cut­ting ear­li­er this month you can see in the Ital­ian news clip just above, may not be as wit­ti­ly named, but it’s a much more ambi­tious project. It was opened this year, the tenth anniver­sary of the famed philoso­pher, semi­oti­cian, nov­el­ist, and crit­ic’s death, at the Uni­ver­si­ty of Bologna, where he was a pro­fes­sor from 1971 to 2007. Hous­ing more than 32,000 books from his per­son­al library in Milan (pre­vi­ous­ly fea­tured here on Open Cul­ture, and the sub­ject of its own fea­ture-length doc­u­men­tary), it stands as an explorable con­crete rep­re­sen­ta­tion of his capa­cious mind.

So capa­cious was that mind, in fact, that the Eco Library actu­al­ly com­pris­es sev­er­al libraries, chiefly the Rare Book Library and the much-sub­di­vid­ed Work­ing Library. In them, one encoun­ters sec­tions “ded­i­cat­ed to lit­er­ary gen­res, comics and pop­u­lar cul­ture, works by and about Umber­to Eco” — includ­ing more than 2,000 edi­tions and trans­la­tions of his own books — “ancient and medieval phi­los­o­phy, the his­to­ry of ideas, semi­otics, trans­la­tion and the­o­ries of lan­guage,” says the Uni­ver­si­ty of Bolog­na’s mag­a­zine Uni­bo.

There are “Ital­ian, French, Eng­lish-lan­guage, Ger­man, Cen­tral Euro­pean, Slav­ic, Latin Amer­i­can and many oth­er lit­er­a­tures,” includ­ing works of “detec­tive fic­tion and sci­ence fic­tion, pop­u­lar lit­er­a­ture and the feuil­leton.” As any­one who’s read Eco’s essay on Peanuts might imag­ine, “his com­ic book col­lec­tion is also of great impor­tance.”

Indeed, as any fan would expect, Eco’s name­sake library reflects not just the vast sweep of his human­is­tic inter­ests and knowl­edge, but also his play­ful sense of eccen­tric­i­ty, and even grotes­querie. Accord­ing to the Fon­dazione Umber­to Eco, most of the vol­umes it con­tains “are marked by a dis­tinc­tive ex lib­ris,” an adap­ta­tion of a six­teenth-cen­tu­ry wood­cut that depicts a don­key on a cor­nu­copia-topped latrine. “The ani­mal plays a small pipe, set­ting in motion a mer­ry dance of a dozen cavort­ing mon­keys.” The books them­selves have been painstak­ing­ly arranged just as Eco shelved them, in accor­dance with the “good neigh­bor” prin­ci­ple of plac­ing seem­ing­ly unre­lat­ed titles in close prox­im­i­ty in order to reveal unex­pect­ed intel­lec­tu­al con­nec­tions between them. The vol­umes from Eco’s coun­try house in Monte Cerignone will also be incor­po­rat­ed into the col­lec­tion, but as the man him­self knew, the best libraries, like the best minds, are nev­er tru­ly com­plete.

Relat­ed con­tent:

Watch Umber­to Eco Walk Through His Immense Pri­vate Library: It Goes On, and On, and On!

Umber­to Eco Explains Why We Make Lists

The Virtue of Own­ing Books You Haven’t Read: Why Umber­to Eco Kept an “Antili­brary”

Dis­cov­er the 1126 Books in John Cage’s Per­son­al Library: Fou­cault, Joyce, Wittgen­stein, Vir­ginia Woolf, Buck­min­ster Fuller & More

Darwin’s Per­son­al Library Goes Dig­i­tal: 330 Books Online

The Largest Book­shelf Tour Ever Filmed: Inside a Classicist’s 20,000-Volume Library

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.

Jimi Hendrix Plays “Sgt. Pepper’s Lonely Hearts Club Band” for The Beatles, Just Three Days After the Album’s Release (1967)

There are many ways to cel­e­brate a new album from a band you admire. You can have a lis­ten­ing par­ty alone. You can have a lis­ten­ing par­ty with friends. You can learn the title track in a cou­ple of days and play it onstage while the band you admire sits in the audi­ence. That last one might be overkill. Unless you’re Jimi Hen­drix. Hen­drix was so excit­ed after the UK release of Sgt. Pepper’s Lone­ly Hearts Club Band in 1967 that he opened a set at London’s Sav­ille The­atre with his own, Hen­drix-ified ren­di­tion of the album’s McCart­ney-penned title song. In the audi­ence: Paul McCart­ney and George Har­ri­son.

It’s a loose, good-natured trib­ute that, as you might imag­ine, made quite an impres­sion on the Bea­t­les in atten­dance. “It’s still obvi­ous­ly a shin­ing mem­o­ry for me,” McCart­ney recalled many years lat­er, “because I admired him so much any­way, he was so accom­plished.”

To think that that album had meant so much to him as to actu­al­ly do it by the Sun­day night, three days after the release. He must have been so into it, because nor­mal­ly it might take a day for rehearsal and then you might won­der whether you’d put it in, but he just opened with it. It’s a pret­ty major com­pli­ment in any­one’s book. I put that down as one of the great hon­ours of my career.

McCart­ney fre­quent­ly rem­i­nisces about that night. See him do so in the clip above from an August, 2010 con­cert. Mac­ca gush­es over Hendrix’s solo, then tells the audi­ence how Jimi—having thrown his gui­tar out of tune dur­ing the solo with his wham­my bar dive-bombing—asked Eric Clap­ton to come onstage and retune for him.

Clap­ton, who McCart­ney says was actu­al­ly in the audi­ence, demurred. It’s a sto­ry he con­tin­ues to tell—in fact.

One lin­ger­ing ques­tion is whether or not Hen­drix knew there were Bea­t­les present that night. NME and the BBC both say he did not. In a recre­ation of the moment, above, from the 2013 fic­tion­al­ized biopic Jimi: All Is by My Side, Hen­drix (played by André Ben­jamin) knows. Not only that, but he decides to open with “Sgt. Pepper’s” right before the gig, with no rehearsal, over the stren­u­ous objec­tions of Noel Red­ding, who thinks the Bea­t­les might be insult­ed. It’s high­ly doubt­ful things went down that way at all. (The scene takes oth­er licenses—note the Fly­ing V instead of the white Stra­to­cast­er Hen­drix actu­al­ly played). But it makes for some inter­est­ing back­stage dra­ma in the film.

In any case, I’d guess that Hendrix—“the coolest guy in the world,” as Ben­jamin called him—would have pulled off the cov­er with panache, whether he knew McCart­ney was watch­ing or not. There may be lit­tle left to say about Hen­drix’s bril­liant gui­tar the­atrics, com­plete­ly inno­v­a­tive play­ing style, onstage swag­ger, and pow­er­ful song­writ­ing. But his “Sgt. Pepper’s” cov­er is an exam­ple of one of his less-dis­cussed, but high­ly admirable qual­i­ties: his gen­uine­ly awe­some rock and roll col­le­gial­i­ty.

Note: An ear­li­er ver­sion of this post appeared on our site in 2016. 

Relat­ed Con­tent:

Jimi Hen­drix Opens for The Mon­kees on a 1967 Tour; Then After 8 Shows, Flips Off the Crowd and Quits

Jimi Hen­drix Plays the Delta Blues on a 12-String Acoustic Gui­tar in 1968, and Jams with His Blues Idols, Bud­dy Guy & B.B. King

Jimi Hen­drix Wreaks Hav­oc on the Lulu Show, Gets Banned From BBC (1969)

Jimi Hendrix’s Final Inter­view on Sep­tem­ber 11, 1970: Lis­ten to the Com­plete Audio

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

Hear the Haunting Sound of an Ancient Celtic War Trumpet: Silent for 2,000 Years, It Now Sounds Again

Nor­folk is known for its net­work of rivers and lakes, its stock of medieval church­es, and for being the home coun­ty of Alan Par­tridge. Last year, it quite lit­er­al­ly unearthed anoth­er mark of dis­tinc­tion in the form of an iron age war trum­pet. “The bronze trum­pet or carnyx is only the third ever found in Britain, and the most com­plete exam­ple dis­cov­ered any­where in the world,” writes the Guardian’s Esther Addley. “Fash­ioned in the shape of a snarling wild ani­mal, the object would have been mount­ed on a long mouth­piece high above the heads of war­riors, allow­ing it to be sound­ed to intim­i­date the ene­my in bat­tle.” One could hard­ly hope for a more pow­er­ful sym­bol of Celtic fear­some­ness.

Yet “there are many con­tra­dic­tions” in the longer sto­ry of the carnyx, says envi­ron­men­tal sci­en­tist Paul Whitewick in his new video, “from where it’s been found to its intend­ed use, its depic­tion on art and coins: none of those seem to make sense.” The most famous head of a carnyx was uncov­ered in a Scot­tish peat bog; anoth­er came out of the Riv­er With­am in Lin­colnshire.

In addi­tion to those recov­er­ies from non-bat­tle­field set­tings, one detailed iron­work pan­el com­mon­ly ref­er­enced in carnyx recon­struc­tion presents its use in more of a pro­ces­sion. It also became a sym­bol on Roman-era coinage, and with an appar­ent­ly wide range of mean­ing. Per­haps the carnyx was a war horn; per­haps it was much more.

Wher­ev­er the ancients typ­i­cal­ly broke them out, carnyces aren’t for dis­cussing, but for hear­ing. None was sound­ed for two mil­len­nia, until the recon­struc­tion of the one found in the peat bog, known as the Desk­ford Carnyx. The first musi­cian to give it a blow, in 1993, was John Ken­ny, who’s been known as the world’s fore­most carnyx play­er ever since. He does so in the video just above from Nation­al Muse­ums Scot­land, which offers not just the instru­men­t’s haunt­ing sound, but a close-up view of its wag­ging tongue. Ken­ny, too, believes that carnyces have uses beyond war, and even that “they are more impres­sive when they are played less loud­ly.” Still, just imag­ine how intim­i­dat­ed an ene­my army would feel upon hear­ing a whole line of them sound­ed at once — to say noth­ing of see­ing all those tongues.

Relat­ed Con­tent:

Hear the Haunt­ing Aztec “Death Whis­tle,” the Instru­ment That Made Sounds Resem­bling a Human Scream

Bronze Age Britons Turned Bones of Dead Rel­a­tives into Musi­cal Instru­ments & Orna­ments

Hear a Pre­his­toric Conch Shell Musi­cal Instru­ment Played for the First Time in 18,000 Years

Hear the World’s Old­est Instru­ment, the “Nean­derthal Flute,” Dat­ing Back Over 43,000 Years

Dis­cov­er the Appre­hen­sion Engine: Bri­an Eno Called It “the Most Ter­ri­fy­ing Musi­cal Instru­ment of All Time”

Hear the Trip­py Mys­ti­cal Sounds of Giant Gongs

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.

Getting Dressed During World War I: A Fascinating Look at How Soldiers, Nursers & Others Dressed During the Great War

Not to dimin­ish the night­mare of mor­tars and shrap­nel, but as evi­denced by Crow’s Eye Pro­duc­tions’ peri­od-accu­rate dress­ing video above, one of the great­est hor­rors of WWI was wet wool.

Decades before the inven­tion of Gore-Tex, Polar Fleece, and oth­er high-per­for­mance, all-weath­er gear, British sol­diers relied on their woolies from head to toe.

An army of female knit­ters sent gloves, scarves, bal­a­clavas, and oth­er such “com­forts” to the front, in addi­tion to seam­less socks designed to last their boys three whole march­ing days inside their ankle-high leather boots.

Alas, no amount of wax­ing and oil­ing could keep the trench­es’ freez­ing cold pud­dles from seep­ing through those boots.

Nothing’s worse than the scent of three lay­ers of wet wool when you’re catch­ing your death in sod­den put­tees.

The reg­i­ments whose uni­form bot­toms con­sist­ed of kilts had it par­tic­u­lar­ly rough, as the wet mate­r­i­al would freeze, cut­ting across the wear­ers’ legs like knives.

Pre­vent­ed from join­ing the com­bat on the front­lines, British women helped out where they could, achiev­ing a more com­fort­able lev­el of dress than they’d known before the war.

Tor­so-smash­ing corsets were scrapped to pre­serve steel for the war effort, though deco­rum decreed that British Red Cross Soci­ety Vol­un­tary Aid Detach­ment nurs­es, such as Down­ton Abbey’s fic­tion­al Lady Sybil Craw­ley, main­tain a tidy fig­ure with lighter, front-fas­ten­ing corsets from hips to just below the bust.

Many of the upper-class women swelling the vol­un­teer nurs­ing ranks were unac­cus­tomed to dress­ing in such util­i­tar­i­an fashion—cotton dress­es, black flat rub­ber-soled shoes, aprons and sleeve pro­tec­tors.

Their fig­ures found com­par­a­tive lib­er­a­tion, while their van­i­ty found hum­bler out­lets in dust­ing pow­der and the flat­ter­ing army-style pro­fes­sion­al nurs­ing veils they pre­ferred to The Handmaid’s Tale-ish Sis­ter Dora caps.

The greater phys­i­cal free­dom of the nurs­es’ uni­forms extend­ed to ordi­nary young women as well. Their underwear—a midriff-bar­ing chemise, knick­ers and petticoat—allowed for eas­i­er move­ment, as short­er skirts led to glam­orous stock­ings and—gasp!—shaved legs!

Trendy cardi­gans, jumpers and waist­coats weren’t just cute, they helped make up for the lost warmth of those oh-so-restric­tive corsets.

View more of Crow’s Eye Pro­duc­tions’ short films on the his­to­ry of dress here.

Knit­ters, you can find over 70 pat­terns for WW1 com­forts and neces­si­ties in the book Cen­te­nary Stitch­es: Telling the Sto­ry of One WW1 Fam­i­ly Through Vin­tage Knit­ting and Cro­chet.

Note: An ear­li­er ver­sion of this post appeared on our site in 2018.

Relat­ed Con­tent:

How Women Got Dressed in the 14th & 18th Cen­turies: Watch the Very Painstak­ing Process Get Cin­e­mat­i­cal­ly Recre­at­ed

The Dress­er: The Con­trap­tion That Makes Get­ting Dressed an Adven­ture

How to Make and Wear Medieval Armor: An In-Depth Primer

Ayun Hal­l­i­day is an author, illus­tra­tor, and the­ater mak­er in NYC. 

The World’s Greatest Song That Simply Shouldn’t Exist: The Making of The Beatles’ “A Day in the Life”

Were we to take bets on the sin­gle most wide­ly heard alarm clock, the one includ­ed on the Bea­t­les’ “A Day in the Life” would sure­ly be a pop­u­lar choice. It comes, you’ll recall, at the begin­ning of the song’s mid­dle sec­tion, when Paul takes over from John and sings about wak­ing up, comb­ing his hair, catch­ing a bus, and hav­ing a smoke. Giv­en the lyrics’ sub­ject mat­ter, its inclu­sion seems nat­ur­al, and even like one of the most straight­for­ward­ly explic­a­ble choic­es in the entire record­ing. In fact, the alarm clock was nev­er meant to stay in the mix: the band’s assis­tant Mal Evans set it off as a gag after doing a place­hold­er count of 24 mea­sures in the mid­dle of the ses­sions, but it just hap­pened to work per­fect­ly with the form the song even­tu­al­ly took.

That’s just one of the for­tu­itous acci­dents music YouTu­ber David Hart­ley recounts in the video above, on the com­plete mak­ing of “A Day in the Life.” As most Bea­t­les fans know, John real­ly did take his ini­tial inspi­ra­tion from the news­pa­per, and in par­tic­u­lar a cou­ple of arti­cles about a Guin­ness heir’s fatal car crash and 4,000 holes in Black­burn, Lan­cashire.

But after he wrote his vers­es, he found him­self at a loss as to how to devel­op the song from there. Paul offered the bit he’d already writ­ten about falling out of bed and drag­ging a comb across his head. It was­n’t long before the Bea­t­les began record­ing — and doing so for the first time, Hart­ley notes, before hav­ing fin­ished writ­ing the song. They had dis­parate pieces of music to join togeth­er, but no idea, yet, of how they’d do it.

Hence those 24 emp­ty bars. Play­ing a series of ear­ly takes, Hart­ley shows how they got to be filled in, draw­ing heav­i­ly on Here, There, and Every­where: My Life Record­ing the Music of the Bea­t­les, the mem­oir of engi­neer Geoff Emer­ick. John’s idea of “a sound that began real­ly small, and then grad­u­al­ly expand­ed into some­thing huge” inspired Paul’s sug­ges­tion of a sym­pho­ny orches­tra, in response to which pro­duc­er George Mar­tin expressed con­cerns about the cost of hir­ing one. Ringo, in turn, jok­ing­ly pro­posed hir­ing half the orches­tra and hav­ing them play the part twice, which turned out to be a prag­mat­ic solu­tion. As for how to end a song like this, the use of “maybe the most famous sin­gle chord in record­ed his­to­ry” — fol­lowed by “a high-fre­quen­cy tone only dogs could hear and a short loop of non­sense sound” — came as the result of a process we can only call Beat­lesque.

Relat­ed Con­tent:

How John Lennon Wrote the Bea­t­les’ Best Song, “A Day in the Life”

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.

Where Did the Monk’s Haircut Come From? A Look at the Rich and Contentious History of the Tonsure

One might assume from a mod­ern view­point that the hair­styles worn by monks arose to deal with male pat­tern bald­ness anx­i­ety. As in the school uni­form approach, you can’t sin­gle out one person’s bald­ness when every­one is bald. But this, again, would be a mod­ern view, full of the van­i­ty the tonsured—those with reli­gious­ly shaven heads—ostensibly vowed to renounce. Accord­ing to the Catholic Ency­clo­pe­dia, the ton­sure (from the Latin verb for “to shear”) began as a “badge of slav­ery” among Greeks and Romans. It was adopt­ed “on this very account” by ear­ly monas­tic orders, to mark the total sur­ren­der of the will.

Would it sur­prise you, then, to learn that there were ton­sure wars? Prob­a­bly not if you know any­thing about church his­to­ry. Every arti­cle of cloth­ing and of faith has sparked some major con­tro­ver­sy at one time or anoth­er. So too with the ton­sure, of which—we learn in the Vox video above—there were three styles. The first, the coro­nal (or Roman or Petrine) ton­sure, is the one we see in count­less Medieval and Renais­sance paint­ings: a bald pate at the crown sur­round­ed by a fringe of hair, pos­si­bly meant to evoke the crown of thorns. Next is the Pauline, a ful­ly shaved head, seen much less in West­ern art since it was “used more com­mon­ly in East­ern Ortho­doxy.”

The third style of ton­sure caused all the trou­ble. Or rather, it was this style that served as a vis­i­ble sign of reli­gious dif­fer­ences between the Roman Catholic Church and the church­es in Britain and Ire­land. “Celtic Catholi­cism was ‘out of sync’ with the Roman Catholic Church,” notes Vox. “Roman Catholics would use the dif­fer­ences between them to por­tray Celtic Catholi­cism as pagan, or even as an off­shoot, cel­e­brat­ing the pow­er-hun­gry magi­cian, Simon Magus.” The Celtic ton­sure fell under a cloud, but how exact­ly did it dif­fer from the oth­ers? Since it dis­ap­peared in the ear­ly Mid­dle Ages and few images seem to have sur­vived, no one seems sure.

Daniel McCarthy, fel­low emer­i­tus at Trin­i­ty Col­lege, Dublin set out to solve the mys­tery. He spec­u­lates that the Celtic ton­sure, as you’ll see on a com­put­er-sim­u­lat­ed monk’s head, was a tri­an­gu­lar shape, with the apex at the front. When the Roman Catholics took over Ire­land, all of the vest­ments, dates, and hair­cuts were slow­ly brought into line with the dom­i­nant view. The prac­tice of ton­sure offi­cial­ly end­ed in 1972, and fell out of favor in Eng­lish-speak­ing coun­tries cen­turies ear­li­er, accord­ing to the Catholic Ency­clo­pe­dia. But in any case, McCarthy sees the ton­sure not as a spurn­ing of fash­ion, but as a cult-like devo­tion to style. In that sense, we can see peo­ple who adopt sim­i­lar hair­cuts around the world as still visu­al­ly sig­nal­ing their mem­ber­ship in some kind of order, reli­gious or oth­er­wise.

Note: An ear­li­er ver­sion of this post appeared on our site in 2018.

Relat­ed Con­tent:

How a Bal­ti­more Hair­dress­er Became a World-Renowned “Hair Archae­ol­o­gist” of Ancient Rome

Ani­mat­ed: Stephen Fry & Ann Wid­de­combe Debate the Catholic Church

50 Years of Chang­ing David Bowie Hair Styles in One Ani­mat­ed GIF

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

The Radical, Unclassifiable Art of William Blake

William Blake is a house­hold name, or not far from it, but things get more com­pli­cat­ed when it comes to pro­fes­sion­al descrip­tion. He was a poet, a painter, and a print­mak­er, at least inso­far as he wrote poet­ry, paint­ed paint­ings, and made prints. But we can’t hope to attain even a basic under­stand­ing of his lega­cy if we regard him as one man who hap­pened to have the ener­gy to do three dif­fer­ent things. In fact, the osten­si­bly sep­a­rate artis­tic pur­suits in which he engaged were but three aspects of a uni­fied act of cre­ation, result­ing in the likes of Songs of Inno­cence and of Expe­ri­ence and his illu­mi­nat­ed “prophet­ic books”: unclas­si­fi­able works by “the patron saint of unclas­si­fi­able artists.”

So Evan Puschak, bet­ter known as the Nerd­writer, labels him in his new video above. Blake made books, “which he designed, wrote, etched, col­ored, and print­ed him­self, using a tech­nique that he invent­ed.” They “mix and syn­the­size cat­e­gories, and as a result, the art­work of the late sev­en­teen- and ear­ly eigh­teen-hun­dreds did­n’t real­ly know what to make of them.”

It did­n’t help that the Roy­al Acad­e­my of Arts, found­ed when Blake was in ado­les­cence, had laid down its own strict aes­thet­ic, gener­ic, and for­mal stan­dards. Offi­cial­ly an engraver and accord­ed the low­ly sta­tus there­of, Blake devot­ed his labors to real­iz­ing his elab­o­rate­ly idio­syn­crat­ic visions using images and words togeth­er in ways that no artist had done before.

This choice “to work as mak­er of words, mak­er of images, and cross­breed­er of both, amount­ed to a deci­sion to live in incom­men­su­rable neigh­bor­hoods of mean­ing,” writes The Cam­bridge Com­pan­ion to William Blake author Mor­ris Eaves as quot­ed by Puschak. Blake swam against the cur­rent “of mod­ern human under­stand­ing, whose bedrock is the prin­ci­ple of spe­cial­iza­tion.” Today, near­ly two cen­turies after his death, that prin­ci­ple still obtains, and in some ways more rigid­ly than ever. But his work remains, from the Songs and the prophet­ic books to his illus­tra­tions of clas­sics like the Divine Com­e­dyPar­adise Lost, and even the Bib­li­cal Book of Job, which he read as “the sto­ry of a man who believes, mis­tak­en­ly, that sal­va­tion requires a slav­ish obe­di­ence to words writ­ten in a book.” With his rules, divi­sions, and cat­e­gories, man has cut real­i­ty apart; through his art, Blake sought to make it whole again.

Relat­ed con­tent:

The Rad­i­cal Artis­tic & Philo­soph­i­cal World of William Blake: A Short Intro­duc­tion

William Blake’s Hal­lu­ci­na­to­ry Illus­tra­tions of John Milton’s Par­adise Lost

The Oth­er­world­ly Art of William Blake: An Intro­duc­tion to the Vision­ary Poet and Painter

William Blake: The Remark­able Print­ing Process of the Eng­lish Poet, Artist & Vision­ary

Enter an Archive of William Blake’s Fan­tas­ti­cal “Illu­mi­nat­ed Books”: The Images Are Sub­lime, and in High Res­o­lu­tion

William Blake’s 102 Illus­tra­tions of the Divine Com­e­dy Col­lect­ed in a Beau­ti­ful Book from Taschen

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.

A Walk Through Homer’s Odyssey: A Guide to the Epic Before Seeing Christopher Nolan’s Film

You’re gear­ing up to see Christo­pher Nolan’s Odyssey, but you haven’t read the Home­r­ic work. Or you read it so long ago that it feels like you’ve nev­er read it at all. No wor­ries. Above, Tom Hol­land and Dominic Sand­brook, the hosts of The Rest Is His­to­ry pod­cast, take you through the major plot lines of the Odyssey, unpack­ing the lit­er­ary and his­tor­i­cal mean­ing of the epic’s dif­fer­ent tales. It’s a good primer—just what you need to get ready for one of the big­ger cin­e­ma releas­es this year. Enjoy!

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!

Relat­ed Con­tent 

Watch the First Spec­tac­u­lar Film Adap­ta­tion of the Odyssey (1911)

Archae­ol­o­gists Think They’ve Dis­cov­ered the Old­est Greek Copy of Homer’s Odyssey: 13 Vers­es on a Clay Tablet

The His­to­ry of Ancient Greece in 18 Min­utes: A Brisk Primer Nar­rat­ed by Bri­an Cox

 

 

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The Origins of the Monsters in Homer’s Odyssey: The Cyclops, Sirens, Scylla & More

Despite hav­ing been com­posed about two and a half mil­len­nia before the inven­tion of cin­e­ma, Home­r’s Odyssey has offered tempt­ing mate­r­i­al to gen­er­a­tion after gen­er­a­tion of film­mak­ers. Part of the appeal is, of course, the work’s age, which obvi­ates the need for poten­tial­ly frus­trat­ing rights nego­ti­a­tions. But what real­ly cap­tures a direc­tor’s imag­i­na­tion about retelling the sto­ry of Odysseus’ long jour­ney back to Itha­ca must have a great deal to do with the host of mon­sters he encoun­ters along the way. The giant can­ni­bal Laestry­go­ni­ans; the sirens, whose call forces Odysseus to lash him­self to the mast of his ship; Scyl­la and Charyb­dis, guardians of the Strait of Messi­na; and per­haps most mem­o­rably of all, the tow­er­ing cyclops Polyphe­mus.

Many or most of these fear­some char­ac­ters are famil­iar to us even if we’ve nev­er read the Odyssey, or indeed seen any of its adap­ta­tions. In every­day speech, we invoke the sirens’ call when describ­ing an irre­sistible temp­ta­tion, or Scyl­la and Charyb­dis when describ­ing any set of equal and oppo­site pit­falls. And it would be a rare man, woman, or even suf­fi­cient­ly edu­cat­ed child who can’t iden­ti­fy the defin­ing fea­ture of a cyclops.

But long before all of these could enter the mod­ern lex­i­con, they had to be invent­ed in antiq­ui­ty. In the new Hochela­ga video above, host Tom­mie Trelawny inves­ti­gates their ori­gins, going over the­o­ries that sug­gest that some or all of these mon­sters had already made fair­ly long cul­tur­al jour­neys of their own before Homer put them in Odysseus’ path.

The myth of the cyclops could have been inspired by ele­phant skulls with large cen­tral nasal cav­i­ties, or per­haps by a brutish inver­sion of eyes as a sig­nal of intel­li­gence. It could have been a series of colos­sal Bronze Age stone stat­ues on the island of Sar­dinia that con­sti­tut­ed the basis for the Laestry­go­ni­ans. As for the sirens, which we imag­ine as beau­ti­ful women, the pre-Chris­t­ian ancient Greeks envi­sioned them as strange winged crea­tures mak­ing promis­es of knowl­edge. Scyl­la and Charyb­dis, rep­re­sen­ta­tions of the destruc­tive forces of nature, were a way of reify­ing the Strait of Messi­na’s inher­ent per­ils. What­ev­er their ori­gins, all these chal­lengers to Odysseus’ home­com­ing still fire up the imag­i­na­tions of film­mak­ers, espe­cial­ly film­mak­ers inclined to high-tech spec­ta­cle: Christo­pher Nolan, for instance, the the­atri­cal release of whose Odyssey begins tomor­row. We all know that the hero gets home in the end, but we’ll buy tick­ets for the mon­sters.

Relat­ed con­tent:

Watch the First Spec­tac­u­lar Film Adap­ta­tion of the Odyssey (1911)

Hear What Homer’s Odyssey Sound­ed Like When Sung in the Orig­i­nal Ancient Greek

The Ghosts and Mon­sters of Hoku­sai: See the Famed Wood­block Artist’s Fear­some & Amus­ing Visions of Strange Appari­tions

How Many Lives Does God Take in the Bible: An Inves­ti­ga­tion into a Sur­pris­ing­ly High Body Count

Memen­to Mori: How Smil­ing Skele­tons Have Remind­ed Us to Live Ful­ly Since Ancient Times

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.

Hear Hours of Lectures by Michel Foucault: Recorded in English & French Between 1961 and 1983

Tucked in the after­ward of the sec­ond, 1982 edi­tion of Hubert Drey­fus and Paul Rabinow’s Michel Fou­cault: Beyond Struc­tural­ism and Hermeneu­tics, we find an impor­tant, but lit­tle-known essay by Fou­cault him­self titled “The Sub­ject and Pow­er.” Here, the French the­o­rist offers what he con­strues as a sum­ma­ry of his life’s work: span­ning 1961’s Mad­ness and Civ­i­liza­tion up to his three-vol­ume, unfin­ished His­to­ry of Sex­u­al­i­ty, still in progress at the time of his death in 1984. He begins by telling us that he has not been, pri­mar­i­ly, con­cerned with pow­er, despite the word’s appear­ance in his essay’s title, its argu­ments, and in near­ly every­thing else he has writ­ten. Instead, he has sought to dis­cov­er the “modes of objec­ti­fi­ca­tion which trans­form human beings into sub­jects.”

This dis­tinc­tion may seem abstruse, a need­less­ly wordy mat­ter of seman­tics. It is not so for Fou­cault. In this key crit­i­cal dif­fer­ence lies the orig­i­nal­i­ty of his project, in all its var­i­ous stages of devel­op­ment. “Pow­er,” as an abstrac­tion, an objec­tive rela­tion of dom­i­nance, is sta­t­ic and con­cep­tu­al, the image of a tyrant on a coin, of Thomas Hobbes’ Leviathan seat­ed on his throne.

Sub­jec­tion, sub­jec­ti­fi­ca­tion, objec­tiviz­ing, indi­vid­u­al­iz­ing, on the oth­er hand—critical terms in Foucault’s vocabulary—are active process­es, dis­ci­plines, and prac­tices, rela­tion­ships between indi­vid­u­als and insti­tu­tions that deter­mine the char­ac­ter of both. These rela­tion­ships can be locat­ed in his­to­ry, as Fou­cault does in exam­ple after exam­ple, and they can also be crit­i­cal­ly stud­ied in the present, and thus, per­haps, resist­ed and changed in what he terms “anar­chis­tic strug­gles.”

Fou­cault calls for a “new econ­o­my of pow­er rela­tions,” and a crit­i­cal the­o­ry that takes “forms of resis­tance against dif­fer­ent forms of pow­er as a start­ing point.” For exam­ple, in approach­ing the carcer­al state, we must exam­ine the process­es that divide “the crim­i­nals and the ‘good boys,’” process­es that func­tion inde­pen­dent­ly of rea­son. How is it that a sys­tem can cre­ate class­es of peo­ple who belong in cages and peo­ple who don’t, when the stan­dard ratio­nal justification—the pro­tec­tion of soci­ety from violence—fails spec­tac­u­lar­ly to apply in mil­lions of cas­es? From such excess­es, Fou­cault writes, come two “‘dis­eases of power’—fascism and Stal­in­ism.” Despite the “inner mad­ness” of these “patho­log­i­cal forms” of state pow­er, “they used to a large extent the ideas and the devices of our polit­i­cal ratio­nal­i­ty.”

Peo­ple come to accept that mass incar­cer­a­tion, or inva­sive med­ical tech­nolo­gies, or eco­nom­ic depri­va­tion, or mass sur­veil­lance and over-polic­ing, is nec­es­sary and ratio­nal. They do so through the agency of what Fou­cault calls “pas­toral pow­er,” the sec­u­lar­iza­tion of reli­gious author­i­ty as inte­gral to the West­ern state.

This form of pow­er can­not be exer­cised with­out know­ing the inside of people’s minds, with­out explor­ing their souls, with­out mak­ing them reveal their inner­most secrets. It implies a knowl­edge of the con­science and an abil­i­ty to direct it.

In the last years of Foucault’s life, he shift­ed his focus from insti­tu­tion­al dis­cours­es and mechanisms—psychiatric, carcer­al, medical—to dis­ci­pli­nary prac­tices of self-con­trol and the gov­ern­ing of oth­ers by “pas­toral” means. Rather than ignor­ing indi­vid­u­al­i­ty, the mod­ern state, he writes, devel­oped “as a very sophis­ti­cat­ed struc­ture, in which indi­vid­u­als can be inte­grat­ed, under one con­di­tion: that this indi­vid­u­al­i­ty would be shaped in a new form and sub­mit­ted to a set of very spe­cif­ic pat­terns.” While writ­ing his mon­u­men­tal His­to­ry of Sex­u­al­i­ty, he gave a series of lec­tures at Berke­ley that explore the mod­ern polic­ing of the self.

In his lec­tures on “Truth and Sub­jec­tiv­i­ty” (1980), Fou­cault looks at forms of inter­ro­ga­tion and var­i­ous “truth ther­a­pies” that func­tion as sub­tle forms of coer­cion. Fou­cault returned to Berke­ley in 1983 and deliv­ered the lec­ture “Dis­course and Truth,” which explores the con­cept of par­rhe­sia, the Greek term mean­ing “free speech,” or as he calls it, “truth-telling as an activ­i­ty.” Through analy­sis of the tragedies of Euripi­des and con­tem­po­rary demo­c­ra­t­ic crises, he reveals the prac­tice of speak­ing truth to pow­er as a kind of tight­ly con­trolled per­for­mance. Final­ly, in his lec­ture series “The Cul­ture of the Self,” Fou­cault dis­cuss­es ancient and mod­ern prac­tices of “self care” or “the care of the self” as tech­nolo­gies designed to pro­duce cer­tain kinds of tight­ly bound­ed sub­jec­tiv­i­ties.

You can hear parts of these lec­tures or vis­it our posts with full audio above. Also, over at Ubuweb, down­load the lec­tures as mp3s, and hear sev­er­al ear­li­er talks from Fou­cault in French, dat­ing all the way back to 1961.

When he began his final series of talks in 1980, the philoso­pher was asked in an inter­view with the Dai­ly Cal­i­forn­ian about the moti­va­tions for his crit­i­cal exam­i­na­tions of pow­er and sub­jec­tiv­i­ty. His reply speaks to both his prac­ti­cal con­cern for resis­tance and his almost utopi­an belief in the lim­it­less poten­tial for human free­dom. “No aspect of real­i­ty should be allowed to become a defin­i­tive and inhu­man law for us,” Fou­cault says.

We have to rise up against all forms of power—but not just pow­er in the nar­row sense of the word, refer­ring to the pow­er of a gov­ern­ment or of one social group over anoth­er: these are only a few par­tic­u­lar instances of pow­er.

Pow­er is any­thing that tends to ren­der immo­bile and untouch­able those things that are offered to us as real, as true, as good.

Read Foucault’s state­ment of intent, his essay “The Sub­ject and Pow­er,” and learn more about his life and work in the 1993 doc­u­men­tary below.

Fou­cault’s lec­ture series will be added to our col­lec­tion, 1,700 Free Online Cours­es from Top Uni­ver­si­ties.

Note: An ear­li­er ver­sion of this post appeared on our site in 2018.

Relat­ed Con­tent:

Watch a “Lost Inter­view” With Michel Fou­cault: Miss­ing for 30 Years But Now Recov­ered

Michel Fou­cault and Alain Badiou Dis­cuss “Phi­los­o­phy and Psy­chol­o­gy” on French TV (1965)

Clash of the Titans: Noam Chom­sky & Michel Fou­cault Debate Human Nature & Pow­er on Dutch TV, 1971

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

Explore 1,300+ Beautiful Wildlife Illustrations from the 19th Century, Now Restored and Available Online

Today, if you want to know about any of the flo­ra or fau­na that sur­round us, you have only to look it up online. After you get your fill of knowl­edge, you can decide whether or not you want to ven­ture out into the world and see your object of inter­est in its nat­ur­al envi­ron­ment (or a con­trolled sim­u­la­tion there­of). In the Vic­to­ri­an era, things worked a bit dif­fer­ent­ly. Ide­al­ly, you’d have grown up in a house­hold, or at least had access to an insti­tu­tion, with the com­plete set of The Nat­u­ral­ist’s Library, a series of more than 40 vol­umes on every­thing from the birds and the bees to the quadrupeds and the mar­su­pi­alia. Print­ed in a rel­a­tive­ly small for­mat and priced at six shillings each, they brought the intel­lec­tu­al fruits of the nat­u­ral­ist’s enter­prise clos­er to the reach of the every­man than ever before.

While these books offered a good deal of infor­ma­tive text, includ­ing mem­oirs from var­i­ous famous nat­u­ral­ists of the time, their imme­di­ate attrac­tion had more to do with their glo­ri­ous illus­tra­tions, in which col­ored exam­ples of each species popped right out of its black-and-white habi­tat. These more than 1,300 col­or plates, some of the finest that could be seen in any pub­li­ca­tion of sim­i­lar scale in the mid-nine­teenth cen­tu­ry, pre­sent­ed an attrac­tive project to the design­er Nicholas Rougeux, whose work we’ve pre­vi­ous­ly fea­tured here on Open Cul­ture.

Hav­ing already restored and cre­at­ed dig­i­tal ver­sions of Euclid­’s Ele­ments, Pierre-Joseph Red­outé’s Les Ros­es and Les Lil­i­acées, Eliz­a­beth Twin­ing’s Illus­tra­tions of the Nat­ur­al Orders of Plants, and Daniel Berke­ley Updike’s Print­ing Types, among oth­er books, he’s now put online a com­plete repro­duc­tion of the Nat­u­ral­ist’s Library — with, as usu­al, a blog post about the painstak­ing restora­tion and dig­i­tal re-cre­ation process.

This time, Rougeux has includ­ed a sec­tion about his use of arti­fi­cial intel­li­gence, which actu­al­ly did its part to bring The Nat­u­ral­ist’s Library to his atten­tion in the first place. Not only did AI tools then help him unearth need­ed sources and fill in visu­al gaps, they also came in handy when he was brain­storm­ing cov­er con­cepts for a print­ed ver­sion. Though Rougeux’s restora­tion is pri­mar­i­ly a web site, free to all to explore, you can also buy your own hand­some, large-for­mat phys­i­cal copy of Plates of the Nat­u­ral­ist’s Library for $295.11 USD.

Eas­i­er on the wal­let is the series of posters he’s made with the same illus­tra­tions, each of which presents one of these cat­e­gories of crea­tures great or small at a glance. The orig­i­nal Nat­u­ral­ist’s Library inspired gen­er­a­tions to ded­i­cate them­selves to under­stand­ing the nat­ur­al world; these new ver­sions, whether in print, online, or on the wall, will no doubt encour­age the enthu­si­asm of more than a few bud­ding nat­u­ral­ists in the gen­er­a­tions to come. Vis­it the repro­duc­tion of the Nat­u­ral­ist’s Library here.

Relat­ed Con­tent:

A Lav­ish­ly Illus­trat­ed Cat­a­log of All Hum­ming­bird Species Known in the 19th Cen­tu­ry Gets Restored & Put Online

Behold an Inter­ac­tive Online Edi­tion of Eliz­a­beth Twining’s Illus­tra­tions of the Nat­ur­al Orders of Plants (1868)

Ernst Haeckel’s Sub­lime Draw­ings of Flo­ra & Fau­na: The Beau­ti­ful Sci­en­tif­ic Draw­ings That Influ­enced Europe’s Art Nou­veau Move­ment (1889)

300,000 Won­drous Nature Illus­tra­tions Put Online by The Bio­di­ver­si­ty Her­itage Library

Explore a New Archive of 2,200 His­tor­i­cal Wildlife Illus­tra­tions (1916–1965): Cour­tesy of The Wildlife Con­ser­va­tion Soci­ety

Explore an Inter­ac­tive, Online Ver­sion of the Beau­ti­ful­ly Illus­trat­ed, 200-Year-Old British & Exot­ic Min­er­al­o­gy

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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