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.

The Little Albert Experiment: The Perverse 1920 Study That Made a Baby Afraid of Santa Claus & Bunnies

The field of psy­chol­o­gy is very dif­fer­ent than it used to be. Nowa­days, the Amer­i­can Psy­cho­log­i­cal Asso­ci­a­tion has a code of con­duct for exper­i­ments that ensures a subject’s con­fi­den­tial­i­ty, consent,and gen­er­al men­tal well-being. In the old days, it was­n’t the case.

Back then, you could, for instance, con sub­jects into think­ing that they were elec­tro­cut­ing a man to death, as they did in the infa­mous 1961 Mil­gram exper­i­ment, which left peo­ple trau­ma­tized and hum­bled in the knowl­edge that deep down they are lit­tle more than weak-willed pup­pets in the face of author­i­ty. You could also try to turn a group of unsus­pect­ing orphans into stut­ter­ers by method­i­cal­ly under­min­ing their self-esteem as the folks who ran the apt­ly named Mon­ster Study of 1939 tried to do. But, if you real­ly want to get into the swamp of moral dubi­ous­ness, look no fur­ther than the Lit­tle Albert exper­i­ments, which trau­ma­tized a baby into hat­ing dogs, San­ta Claus, and all things fuzzy.

Albert-and-rabbit-1024x718

In 1920, Johns Hop­kins pro­fes­sor John B. Wat­son was fas­ci­nat­ed with Ivan Pavlov’s research on con­di­tioned stim­u­lus. Pavlov famous­ly rang a bell every time he fed his dogs. At first the food caused the dogs to sali­vate, but after a spell of pair­ing the bell with din­ner, the dogs would even­tu­al­ly sali­vate at just the sound of the bell. That’s called a con­di­tioned response. Wat­son want­ed to see if he could cre­ate a con­di­tioned response in a baby.

Enter 9‑month-old Albert B., AKA Lit­tle Albert. At the begin­ning of the exper­i­ment, Albert was pre­sent­ed with a white rat, a dog, a white rab­bit, and a mask of San­ta Claus among oth­er things. The lad was unafraid of every­thing and was, in fact, real­ly tak­en with the rat. Then every time the baby touched the ani­mals, sci­en­tists struck a met­al bar behind him, cre­at­ing a star­tling­ly loud bang. The sound freaked out the child and soon, like Pavlov’s dogs, Lit­tle Albert grew ter­ri­fied of the rat and the mask of San­ta and even a fur coat. The par­tic­u­lar­ly messed up thing about the exper­i­ment was that Wat­son didn’t even both­er to reverse the psy­cho­log­i­cal trau­ma he inflict­ed.

Little-albert

What hap­pened to poor baby Albert is hard to say, in part because no one is real­ly sure of the child’s true iden­ti­ty. He might have been Dou­glas Mer­ritte, as psy­chol­o­gists Hall P. Beck and Shar­man Levin­son argued in 2009. If that’s the case, then the child died at the age of 6 in 1925 of hydro­cephalus. Or he might have been William Albert Barg­er, as Russ Pow­ell and Nan­cy Dig­don argued in 2012. He passed away in 2007 at the age of 87. He report­ed­ly had a life­long aver­sion to dogs, though it can­not be deter­mined if it was a last­ing effect of the exper­i­ment.

Lat­er in life, Wat­son left aca­d­e­mi­cia for adver­tis­ing. You can watch a video of the exper­i­ment above.

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

Relat­ed Con­tent:

Watch Footage from the Psy­chol­o­gy Exper­i­ment That Shocked the World: Milgram’s Obe­di­ence Study (1961)

The Pow­er of Con­for­mi­ty: 1962 Episode of Can­did Cam­era Reveals the Strange Psy­chol­o­gy of Rid­ing Ele­va­tors

Her­mann Rorschach’s Orig­i­nal Rorschach Test: What Do You See? (1921)

Carl Gus­tav Jung Explains His Ground­break­ing The­o­ries About Psy­chol­o­gy in Rare Inter­view (1957)

Free Online Cours­es Psy­chol­o­gy

Jonathan Crow is a writer and film­mak­er whose work has appeared in Yahoo!, The Hol­ly­wood Reporter, and oth­er pub­li­ca­tions. 

How Else Marie Pade, a Prisoner in World War II, Became Denmark’s First Female Electronic Composer

Before she became a com­pos­er of elec­tron­ic music, Else Marie Pade was a sick child lis­ten­ing to the radio. Fre­quent kid­ney inflam­ma­tions con­signed her to bed for long peri­ods of time, which would con­sti­tute nei­ther her last nor her harsh­est expe­ri­ence of con­fine­ment. She was still young when the Nazis occu­pied her home­land of Den­mark dur­ing World War II, and per­haps her youth explains her deci­sion to spit on a col­umn of march­ing Ger­man sol­diers. She escaped cap­ture that day, run­ning right into the Dan­ish Resis­tance, for which she dis­trib­uted under­ground news­pa­pers and trained in the use of explo­sives to cut off the ene­my’s tele­phone lines in the event of an Allied inva­sion. Arrest­ed by the Gestapo in 1944, she nev­er did get to exe­cute that plan, but her real ambi­tions turned out to be much larg­er.

“I screamed out loud in fear and help­less­ness in my soli­tary cell — but no one came,” Pade wrote in an essay pub­lished in The Wire. “It was then I promised myself that if I sur­vived this I would work with music for the rest of my life. And then I felt a strange calm: light, warmth and love were all around me. I was no longer alone. This was the turn­ing point in my life.” The very next day, “I start­ed scratch­ing staves on the prison wall with my garter belt fas­ten­er, and wrote out the theme that had come to me, inspired by the vision of the night.” Though infu­ri­at­ed at first, the Com­man­dant in charge told her he would “make sure that the Red Cross brought me music paper and writ­ing uten­sils so I would refrain from vio­lence and would not dirty the wall any more.”

Pade did all she could to com­pose dur­ing her time as a pris­on­er of war. After her trans­fer to the Frøslevle­jren intern­ment camp, she was reunit­ed with her piano teacher Karen Brieg, who’d brought her into the Resis­tance in the first place. “Karen wrote out Dan­ish songs for a three-part women’s choir, and I wrote schlagers — with which I want­ed to earn mon­ey for music stud­ies when we were released.” Her com­pa­tri­ots in the wom­en’s bar­racks promised to give her the oppor­tu­ni­ty to study at the Roy­al Dan­ish Acad­e­my of Music after the war’s end, which is exact­ly what she did. Though she entered the school with thoughts of becom­ing a pianist, a 1952 Dan­marks Radio broad­cast on Pierre Scha­ef­fer­’s musique con­crète per­ma­nent­ly changed the course of her artis­tic life.

Those sound col­lages turned musi­cal expe­ri­ences sent Pade back to her bouts of child­hood sick­ness, dur­ing which her chief plea­sures came from lis­ten­ing to the world around her. The result of this inspi­ra­tion was the first work of elec­tron­ic musique con­crète com­posed in Den­mark, A Day at Dyre­havs­bakken. Learn­ing from Scha­ef­fer, and lat­er from oth­er elec­tron­ic-music pio­neers like Karl­heinz Stock­hausen, Györ­gy Ligeti and Pierre Boulez, Pade devel­oped the abil­i­ty to real­ize the musi­cal worlds she’s been explor­ing in her head all along. Their aus­tere sound­scapes could hard­ly be far­ther from the sen­ti­men­tal schlager bal­lads she’d writ­ten to keep spir­its up in the bar­racks, but as you can hear in the selec­tion from 1985 to 1995 pre­sent­ed in the com­pi­la­tion above, the son­ic imag­i­na­tion that heard an ambi­ent sym­pho­ny in drip­ping sponges, whistling ket­tles, singing birds, and trot­ting hors­es remains exhil­a­rat­ing today.

Relat­ed con­tent:

Hear Sev­en Hours of Women Mak­ing Elec­tron­ic Music (1938–2014)

Daphne Oram Cre­at­ed the BBC’s First-Ever Piece of Elec­tron­ic Music (1957)

The Fas­ci­nat­ing Sto­ry of How the Elec­tric Music Pio­neer Delia Der­byshire Cre­at­ed the Orig­i­nal Doc­tor Who Theme (1963)

What is Elec­tron­ic Music?: Pio­neer­ing Elec­tron­ic Musi­cian Daphne Oram Explains (1969)

New Doc­u­men­tary Sis­ters with Tran­sis­tors Tells the Sto­ry of Elec­tron­ic Music’s Female Pio­neers

Hear Elec­tron­ic Lady­land, a Mix­tape Fea­tur­ing 55 Tracks from 35 Pio­neer­ing Women in Elec­tron­ic Music

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 Long, Strange History of Tarot Cards: From the 14th Century to Modern Times

We have any num­ber of rea­sons for dif­fi­cul­ty get­ting to sleep, not least wor­ries about the future. This is hard­ly a recent phe­nom­e­non, and indeed prac­tices meant to clar­i­fy the nature of events to come may be old­er than civ­i­liza­tion itself. In fact, many of us mod­erns trust the old ways of for­tune-telling more than the new. Take the cards of the Tarot, often fea­tured here on Open Cul­ture, whose rec­og­niz­able Euro­pean form dates back to at least the four­teenth cen­tu­ry. But as explained in the new video above from YouTube chan­nel Bed­time & His­to­ri­an, their pre-his­to­ry begins longer ago and far­ther away, with the inven­tion of the play­ing card itself in Tang-Dynasty Chi­na. For Tarot decks weren’t orig­i­nal­ly a means of glimps­ing the future, but of pass­ing time in the present.

In the 400 years or so between the civ­i­liza­tion­al jour­ney play­ing cards made along the Silk Road and their first employ­ment as a div­ina­tion tool by French occultists, many a game of Tarot — or taroc­chi, Tarock, and so on — took place in Europe. Mon­e­tary stakes, and some­times con­sid­er­able ones, were not unknown, which drew the ire of both state and Church author­i­ties.

Yet not only did the cards sur­vive these attempts at repres­sion, they evolved along numer­ous long and wind­ing cul­tur­al paths, tak­ing artis­ti­cal­ly elab­o­rate and evoca­tive forms that still cap­ture the imag­i­na­tion today. At the same time, the struc­ture of the Tarot deck used by eso­teri­cists has remained remark­ably sta­ble, with its 78 cards con­sist­ing of 22 Major Arcana and 56 Minor Arcana, the lat­ter divid­ed into four suits (like the stan­dard deck used for pok­er or black­jack).

If you aren’t sure what some of those terms mean, know that all is clar­i­fied over the course of the video’s near­ly three-hour run­time, the final third of which is ded­i­cat­ed to explain­ing the iden­ti­ties, char­ac­ter­is­tics, and mean­ings of the cards them­selves. It’s worth a lis­ten as a kind of advance prepa­ra­tion if you’ve con­sid­ered going in to get a Tarot read­ing done by one of the pro­fes­sion­als who still ply their trade all around the world. (In Korea, where I live, they even work out of booths set up on the side­walk, a true con­ve­nience for com­muters in need of spir­i­tu­al guid­ance on the way home.) True to Bed­time & His­to­ri­an’s con­cept, the nar­ra­tor speaks as slow­ly and calm­ly as pos­si­ble, with a fire crack­ling in the back­ground. You’ll learn a lot about Tarot, cer­tain­ly, but you may also find that your sleep trou­bles have been solved before you’ve drawn your first card.

Relat­ed con­tent:

Behold the Sola-Bus­ca Tarot Deck, the Ear­li­est Com­plete Set of Tarot Cards (1490)

The Artis­tic & Mys­ti­cal World of Tarot: See Decks by Sal­vador Dalí, Aleis­ter Crow­ley, H.R. Giger & More

Ale­jan­dro Jodor­owsky Explains How Tarot Cards Can Give You Cre­ative Inspi­ra­tion

Carl Jung on the Pow­er of Tarot Cards: They Pro­vide Door­ways to the Uncon­scious & Per­haps a Way to Pre­dict the Future

Divine Decks: A Visu­al His­to­ry of Tarot: The First Com­pre­hen­sive Sur­vey of Tarot Gets Pub­lished by 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.

How to Memorize an Entire Chapter from “Moby Dick”: The Art and Science of Remembering Everything

Some­times, when I can’t sleep, I men­tal­ly revis­it the var­i­ous homes of my child­hood, wan­der­ing from room to room, turn­ing on lights and peer­ing in clos­ets until I conk out.

Turns out these imag­i­nary tours are also handy mnemon­ic tools, as Vox’s Dean Peter­son explains above.

Hey, that’s good news… isn’t the sub­con­scious rumored to do some heavy lift­ing in terms of pro­cess­ing infor­ma­tion?

Peter­son con­quered a self-described bad mem­o­ry, at least tem­porar­i­ly, by traips­ing around his apart­ment, deposit­ing vivid sen­tence-by-sen­tence clues that would even­tu­al­ly help him recite by heart one of his favorite chap­ters in Moby Dick.

In truth, he was plant­i­ng these clues in his hip­pocam­pus, the rel­a­tive­ly small struc­ture in the brain that’s a crit­i­cal play­er when it comes to mem­o­ry, includ­ing the spa­tial mem­o­ries that allow us to nav­i­gate famil­iar loca­tions with­out seem­ing to give the mat­ter any thought.

What made it stick was pair­ing his every­day coor­di­nates to extra­or­di­nary visu­als.

Chap­ter 37, for those keep­ing track at home, is a mono­logue for Cap­tain Ahab in which he describes him­self as not just mad but “mad­ness mad­dened.” Here’s the first sen­tence:

I leave a white and tur­bid wake; pale waters, paler cheeks, where’er I sail.

Not the eas­i­est text for 21st-cen­tu­ry heads to wrap around, though with a lit­tle effort, most of us get the gist.

Let’s not get hung up on lit­er­ary inter­pre­ta­tion here, though, folks. Hav­ing set­tled on his front stoop as the first stop of his mem­o­ry palace Peter­son refrained from pic­tur­ing frothy spume lap­ping at the low­er­most step. Instead he plunked down a funer­al wreath and direc­tor John Waters, pale of suit and cheek, weep­ing. Get it? White? Wake? Pale cheeks?

After which Peter­son moved on to the next sen­tence.

There are 38 in all, and after sev­er­al days of prac­tice in which he men­tal­ly walked the image-strewn course of his apart­ment-cum-Mem­o­ry Palace, Peter­son was able to regale his cowork­ers with an off-book recita­tion.

The time fac­tor will def­i­nite­ly be a let­down for those hop­ing for a low-com­mit­ment par­ty trick.

Peter­son spent three-to-four hours a day pac­ing his spa­tial mem­o­ry, admir­ing the odd­i­ties he him­self had placed there.

The incred­u­lous com­ments from those ques­tion­ing the effi­cien­cy of giv­ing up half a day to mem­o­rize a page and a half are bal­anced by tes­ti­mo­ni­als from those who’ve met with suc­cess, using the Mem­o­ry Palace method to retain vast amounts of data pri­or to an exam.

That may, ulti­mate­ly, be a bet­ter use of the Mem­o­ry Palace. Peter­son gets an A for spit­ting out the lines as writ­ten, but his expres­sion is that of an actor audi­tion­ing with mate­r­i­al he has not yet mas­tered. (No shade on Peterson’s act­ing tal­ent or lack thereof—even great actors get this face when their lines are shaky. One friend doesn’t con­sid­er her­self off book until she can get all the way through her mono­logue whilst hop­ping on one foot.)

For more infor­ma­tion on build­ing a Mem­o­ry Palace, refer, as Peter­son did, to author Joshua Foer’s Moon­walk­ing With Ein­stein: The Art and Sci­ence of Remem­ber­ing Every­thing, or to his appear­ance on Adam Grant’s TED Work Life pod­cast. Stream it here:

If you would like to go whale to whale with Peter­son, below is the text that he installed in his Mem­o­ry Palace, com­pli­ments of Her­man Melville:

I leave a white and tur­bid wake; pale waters, paler cheeks, where’er I sail. The envi­ous bil­lows side­long swell to whelm my track; let them; but first I pass.

Yon­der, by ever-brim­ming goblet’s rim, the warm waves blush like wine. The gold brow plumbs the blue. The div­er sun- slow dived from noon- goes down; my soul mounts up! she wea­ries with her end­less hill. Is, then, the crown too heavy that I wear? this Iron Crown of Lom­bardy. Yet is it bright with many a gem; I the wear­er, see not its far flash­ings; but dark­ly feel that I wear that, that daz­zling­ly con­founds. ‘Tis iron- that I know- not gold. ‘Tis split, too- that I feel; the jagged edge galls me so, my brain seems to beat against the sol­id met­al; aye, steel skull, mine; the sort that needs no hel­met in the most brain-bat­ter­ing fight!

Dry heat upon my brow? Oh! time was, when as the sun­rise nobly spurred me, so the sun­set soothed. No more. This love­ly light, it lights not me; all love­li­ness is anguish to me, since I can ne’er enjoy. Gift­ed with the high per­cep­tion, I lack the low, enjoy­ing pow­er; damned, most sub­tly and most malig­nant­ly! damned in the midst of Par­adise! Good night-good night! (wav­ing his hand, he moves from the win­dow.)

‘Twas not so hard a task. I thought to find one stub­born, at the least; but my one cogged cir­cle fits into all their var­i­ous wheels, and they revolve. Or, if you will, like so many ant-hills of pow­der, they all stand before me; and I their match. Oh, hard! that to fire oth­ers, the match itself must needs be wast­ing! What I’ve dared, I’ve willed; and what I’ve willed, I’ll do! They think me mad- Star­buck does; but I’m demo­ni­ac, I am mad­ness mad­dened! That wild mad­ness that’s only calm to com­pre­hend itself! The prophe­cy was that I should be dis­mem­bered; and- Aye! I lost this leg. I now proph­esy that I will dis­mem­ber my dis­mem­ber­er. Now, then, be the prophet and the ful­filler one. That’s more than ye, ye great gods, ever were. I laugh and hoot at ye, ye crick­et-play­ers, ye pugilists, ye deaf Burkes and blind­ed Bendi­goes! I will not say as school­boys do to bul­lies- Take some one of your own size; don’t pom­mel me! No, ye’ve knocked me down, and I am up again; but ye have run and hid­den. Come forth from behind your cot­ton bags! I have no long gun to reach ye. Come, Ahab’s com­pli­ments to ye; come and see if ye can swerve me. Swerve me? ye can­not swerve me, else ye swerve your­selves! man has ye there. Swerve me? The path to my fixed pur­pose is laid with iron rails, where­on my soul is grooved to run. Over unsound­ed gorges, through the rifled hearts of moun­tains, under tor­rents’ beds, unerr­ing­ly I rush! Naught’s an obsta­cle, naught’s an angle to the iron way!

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

Relat­ed Con­tent:

Hear Moby Dick Read in Its Entire­ty by Til­da Swin­ton, Stephen Fry, John Waters & Oth­ers

Play Mark Twain’s “Mem­o­ry-Builder,” His Game for Remem­ber­ing His­tor­i­cal Facts & Dates

How to Prac­tice Effec­tive­ly: Lessons from Neu­ro­science Can Help Us Mas­ter Skills in Music, Sports & Beyond

The Neu­ro­science & Psy­chol­o­gy of Pro­cras­ti­na­tion, and How to Over­come It

Ayun Hal­l­i­day is an author, illus­tra­tor, the­ater mak­er and Chief Pri­ma­tol­o­gist of the East Vil­lage Inky zine.  

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