Theodor Adorno’s Philosophy of Punctuation

Adorno

Ger­man crit­i­cal the­o­rist Theodor Adorno is known for many things, but a light touch isn’t one of them. His work includes despair­ing post-fas­cist ethics and a study on the soci­ol­o­gy and psy­chol­o­gy of fas­cism. Those who dig deep­er into his cat­a­log may know his rig­or­ous­ly philo­soph­i­cal Neg­a­tive Dialec­tics or dense, opaque Aes­thet­ic The­o­ry. Giv­en the seri­ous­ly heavy nature of these books, you might be sur­prised, as I was, to read the para­graph below:

An excla­ma­tion point looks like an index fin­ger raised in warn­ing; a ques­tion mark looks like a flash­ing light or the blink of an eye. A colon, says Karl Kraus, opens its mouth wide: woe to the writer who does not fill it with some­thing nour­ish­ing. Visu­al­ly, the semi­colon looks like a droop­ing mous­tache; I am even more aware of its gamey taste. With self-sat­is­fied peas­ant cun­ning, Ger­man quo­ta­tion marks («> >) lick their lips.

The skill­ful deploy­ment of apho­rism seems typ­i­cal; the play­ful­ness not so much. But Adorno’s short essay, “punc­tu­a­tion marks,” takes a sober turn short­ly there­after, and for good rea­son. Punc­tu­a­tion is seri­ous busi­ness. Sound­ing much more like the Adorno I know, the dour Marx­ist writes, “His­to­ry has left its residue in punc­tu­a­tion marks, and it is his­to­ry, far more than mean­ing or gram­mat­i­cal func­tion, that looks out at us, rigid­i­fied and trem­bling slight­ly, from every mark of punc­tu­a­tion.” Okay.

Well, Adorno would just hate what I’m about to do, but—hey—this is the inter­net; who has the time and con­cen­tra­tion to tra­verse the rocky course of thought he carves out in his work? Maybe you? Good, read the full essay. Not you? See below for some bite-sized high­lights.

Punc­tu­a­tion as music: “punc­tu­a­tion marks,” Adorno writes, “are marks of oral deliv­ery.” As such, they func­tion like musi­cal nota­tion. “The com­ma and the peri­od cor­re­spond to the half-cadence and the authen­tic cadence.” Excla­ma­tion points are “like silent cym­bal clash­es, ques­tion marks like musi­cal upbeats.” Colons are like “dom­i­nant sev­enth chords.” Adorno, a musi­col­o­gist and com­pos­er him­self, heard things in these sym­bols most of us prob­a­bly don’t.

The semi­colon: There is no mark of punc­tu­a­tion that Adorno rejects out­right. All have their place and pur­pose. He does decry the mod­ernist ten­den­cy to most­ly leave them out, since “then they sim­ply hide.” But Adorno reserves a spe­cial pride of place for the semi­colon. He claims that “only a per­son who can per­ceive the dif­fer­ent weights of strong and weak phras­ings in musi­cal form” can under­stand the dif­fer­ence between semi­colon and com­ma. He dif­fer­en­ti­ates between the Greek and Ger­man semi­colon. And he express­es alarm “that the semi­colon is dying out.” This, he claims, is due to a fear of “page-long paragraphs”—the kind he often writes. It is “a fear cre­at­ed by the marketplace—by the con­sumer who does not want to tax him­self.” Right, I told you, he would hate the inter­net, though he seems to thrive—posthumously—on Twit­ter.

Quo­ta­tion marks: While Adorno accepts every punc­tu­a­tion mark as mean­ing­ful, he does not accept all uses of them. In the case of the quo­ta­tion mark, his advice is pre­cise­ly what I have received, and have passed on to over­ly glib and thought­less stu­dents. Quo­ta­tion marks, he writes, should only be used for direct quotes, “and if need be when the text wants to dis­tance itself from a word it is refer­ring to.” This can include writ­ing words as words (the word “word” is a word…). Adorno rejects quo­ta­tion marks as an “iron­ic device.” This usage presents “a pre­de­ter­mined judg­ment on the sub­ject”; it offers a “blind ver­dict.”

The ellip­sis: On this mark, Adorno becomes very prick­ly, par­tic­u­lar, and, well… ellip­ti­cal. Three dots “sug­gests an infini­tude of thoughts and asso­ci­a­tions.” Two is the mark of a hack. I leave it to you to parse his rea­son­ing.

The dash: First, we have “the seri­ous dash,” in which “thought becomes aware of its frag­men­tary char­ac­ter.” Dash­es may sig­nal “mute lines into the past, wrin­kles on the brow” of the text, ”uneasy silence.” Dash­es need not con­nect thoughts. The “desire to con­nect every­thing,” Adorno writes, is the mark of “lit­er­ary dilet­tantes.” Thus the “mod­ern dash” is debased, a symp­tom of “the pro­gres­sive degen­er­a­tion of lan­guage.” It pre­pares us “in a fool­ish way for sur­pris­es that by that very token are no longer sur­pris­ing.” Adorno also prefers anoth­er use of dashes—more below.

Paren­the­ses: Par­en­thet­i­cal phras­es (like this) cre­ate “enclaves” and admit the “super­flu­ous­ness” of their con­tents, which is why many style­books frown upon them. Their use in this way “capitulate[s] to pedan­tic philis­tin­ism.” The “cau­tious writer”—writes punc­til­ious­ly cau­tious Adorno—will place par­en­thet­i­cals between dash­es, “which block off par­en­thet­i­cal mate­r­i­al from the flow of the sen­tence with­out shut­ting it up in a prison.” The paren­the­ses do have their place, as do all marks of punc­tu­a­tion in Adorno’s lex­i­cal the­o­ry. But prob­a­bly only if you are Proust.

Read­ing Adorno—on punc­tu­a­tion and any­thing else—can be intim­i­dat­ing. His eru­di­tion, his dis­dain for care­less­ness, mid­dle­brow expe­di­en­cy, and the crude forms of expres­sion giv­en birth by com­merce of all kinds: these are atti­tudes that can seem at times like over­bear­ing elit­ism. And yet, Adorno under­stands the bur­den­some nature of writ­ing pre­scrip­tions. “The writer,” he admits, “is in a per­ma­nent predica­ment when it comes to punc­tu­a­tion marks: if one were ful­ly aware while writ­ing, one would sense the impos­si­bil­i­ty of ever using a mark of punc­tu­a­tion cor­rect­ly and would give up writ­ing alto­geth­er.” Far too many have done so. We “can­not trust in the rules,” nor can we ignore them. What to do? Err on the side of the abstemious says our pok­er-faced Ger­man Strunk; to avoid slop­pi­ness or rote mis­use, fol­low an Epi­cure­an mean: “bet­ter too few than too many.”

Relat­ed Con­tent:

Cor­mac McCarthy’s Three Punc­tu­a­tion Rules, and How They All Go Back to James Joyce

The Curi­ous His­to­ry of Punc­tu­a­tion: Author Reveals the Begin­nings of the #, ¶, ☞, and More

Hear Theodor Adorno’s Avant-Garde Musi­cal Com­po­si­tions

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

The Baffler Makes Its Back Issues All Free to Read Online

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The New York­er was­n’t the only mag­a­zine that relaunched its web site this week. The Baf­fler did the same. They got a new look and feel. And they made plen­ty of loy­al read­ers hap­py by mak­ing 25 years of back issues freely avail­able online. The edi­tors of the mag­a­zine — that “loose col­lec­tive of dis­af­fil­i­at­ed cul­ture crit­ics, knowl­edge work­ers, poets, illus­tra­tors, and clos­et utopi­ans” — write:

Well, when The Baf­fler was born in 1988, we nev­er could have fore­seen this #inno­va­tion, but here we are. Please enjoy this new and unchar­ac­ter­is­ti­cal­ly shiny iter­a­tion of The Baf­fler online—featuring not only our new issue (no. 25, “The None and the Many”), but also, for the first time ever, all of our dig­i­tized archives in one place.

That’s 25 issues, 432 con­trib­u­tors, 277 salvos, 450 graph­ics, 172 poems, 73 sto­ries, 3,396 pages made of 1,342,785 words. You can click on indi­vid­ual pieces or flip through entire issues page by page, if you so desire.

You can flip through the spo­rad­i­cal­ly-pub­lished back issues and rev­el in the icon­o­clas­tic mag­a­zine that “ridicules respectable busi­ness lead­ers, laughs at pop­u­lar con­sumer brands as sou­venirs of the cul­tur­al indus­try, and debunks the ide­ol­o­gy of free-mar­ket nin­com­poops in the media and on the cam­pus­es.” Or, if you’re look­ing for some more direc­tion, you can head to the The Paris Review, where Dan Piepen­bring makes some rec­om­men­da­tions, start­ing with his “per­son­al favorite, Steve Albini’s “The Prob­lem with Music,” a terse, caus­tic cri­tique of the record indus­try at the height of yup­pie-ism and major-label excess.”

Relat­ed Con­tent:

The New York­er Web Site is Entire­ly Free This Sum­mer (Until It Goes Behind a Pay­wall This Fall)

The Pop­u­lar Sci­ence Dig­i­tal Archive Lets You Explore Every Sci­ence and Tech­nol­o­gy-Filled Edi­tion Since 1872

The Entire Archives of Rad­i­cal Phi­los­o­phy Go Online: Read Essays by Michel Fou­cault, Alain Badiou, Judith But­ler & More (1972–2018)

Read 15,000 Marvel Comics Online for 99 Cents (for a Limited Time)

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Right now, Mar­vel is run­ning a pro­mo­tion where if you join Mar­vel Unlim­it­ed, using the pro­mo code SDCC14, you can pay 99 cents for your first month, dur­ing which time you can access “over 15,000 Dig­i­tal Comics, fea­tur­ing Earth­’s Might­i­est Heroes and the galaxy’s vilest vil­lains – all span­ning Mar­vel’s 75 year his­to­ry!” Yes, that includes the Incred­i­ble Hulk, Cap­tain Amer­i­ca, The Mighty Thor & many oth­er favorites.

Accord­ing to Wired, the “comics can be viewed on PC and Mac, as well as iOS and Android devices through a Mar­vel Unlim­it­ed app. Read­ers can down­load up to 12 comics at a time for offline read­ing.”

A Mar­vel Unlim­it­ed sub­scrip­tion usu­al­ly costs 69 dol­lars a year or $9.99 a month, but the terms and con­di­tions say that “Sub­scribers can can­cel their sub­scrip­tion at any time by access­ing My account or e‑mailing Mar­vel cus­tomer ser­vice.” In oth­er words, you can sub­scribe for one month, pay 99 cents, read a heck of a lot of comics, then decide if you want to con­tin­ue the sub­scrip­tion — or not — before the end of 30 days. (Just as an fyi, Audible.com offers a sim­i­lar arrange­ment with audio books. You can join their 30-day free tri­al, down­load a free audio book, then decide whether you want to stick with the pro­gram before the mon­th’s end. No mat­ter what you decide, you can keep the free audio book. Find more details here.)

If you pre­fer to just pay zero cents for comics, please see our two pri­or posts.

Down­load 15,000+ Free Gold­en Age Comics from the Dig­i­tal Com­ic Muse­um

Down­load Over 22,000 Gold­en & Sil­ver Age Com­ic Books from the Com­ic Book Plus Archive

A Quick Animated Tour of Iconic Modernist Houses

From Ital­ian graph­ic design­er Mat­teo Muci comes “a two-minute ani­mat­ed voy­age through some of the most icon­ic mas­ter­pieces of mod­ern archi­tec­ture: Ville Savoye by Le Cor­busier, Rietveld Schröder House by Ger­rit Rietveld, Farnsworth House by Lud­wig Mies van der Rohe, Glass House by Philip John­son and Falling­wa­ter by Frank Lloyd Wright.” Illus­tra­tions of the hous­es can be viewed and freely down­loaded here.

H/t goes to Ian M. for send­ing this quick visu­al treat our way.

Relat­ed Con­tent:

An Ani­mat­ed Tour of Falling­wa­ter, One of Frank Lloyd Wright’s Finest Cre­ations

Alain de Botton’s Quest for The Per­fect Home and Archi­tec­tur­al Hap­pi­ness

The His­to­ry of West­ern Archi­tec­ture: From Ancient Greece to Roco­co (A Free Online Course)

Bauhaus, Mod­ernism & Oth­er Design Move­ments Explained by New Ani­mat­ed Video Series

Ice Cube & Charles Eames Rev­el in L.A. Archi­tec­ture

Free: The Guggen­heim Puts 99 Mod­ern Art Books Online

Stanley Kubrick Faked the Apollo 11 Moon Landing in 1969, Or So the Conspiracy Theory Goes

This week is the anniver­sary of the Apol­lo 11 jour­ney to the moon. And while most peo­ple will cel­e­brate the event by acknowl­edg­ing the abil­i­ties and courage of Neil Arm­strong and com­pa­ny in this land­mark of human endeav­or, a small, though vocal, group of peo­ple will decry the moon land­ing as a fraud.

In that spir­it, French film­mak­er William Karel spins an elab­o­rate tale of intrigue in Dark Side of the Moon. (See out­takes above.) The 2002 film posits that the Apol­lo 11 moon land­ing was staged by none oth­er than Stan­ley Kubrick. How else did the direc­tor get his hands on a super advanced lens from NASA to shoot those gor­geous can­dle-lit scenes in Bar­ry Lyn­don? The film is slick­ly pro­duced and fea­tures an impres­sive array of inter­vie­wees from Hen­ry Kissinger, to Buzz Aldrin to Chris­tiane Kubrick. Some of the oth­er peo­ple inter­viewed include Jack Tor­rance and David Bow­man. If that’s not a tip off that the whole movie is fake, then the bloop­er reel at the end dri­ves the point home. Only a lot of peo­ple didn’t get the joke. Con­spir­a­cy enthu­si­asts Wayne Green cit­ed the movie as fur­ther proof that the moon land­ing was faked.

Moon hoax­ers like to point to The Shin­ing as a con­fes­sion by Kubrick that he was forced into a Big Lie. In the doc­u­men­tary Room 237, Jay Wei­d­ner claims as much. And Michael Wys­mier­s­ki argues the same in The Shin­ing Code 2.0, a fea­ture length video that you can watch below. Or get right to the meat of things here.

And just in case you get swept up in Wysmierski’s loony log­ic, film­mak­er S. G. Collins makes the very com­pelling argu­ment that the tech­nol­o­gy sim­ply didn’t exist to fake the moon land­ing in 1969. Case closed.

Relat­ed Con­tent:

Stan­ley Kubrick’s Very First Films: Three Short Doc­u­men­taries

Room 237: New Doc­u­men­tary Explores Stan­ley Kubrick’s The Shin­ing and Those It Obsess­es

Rare 1960s Audio: Stan­ley Kubrick’s Big Inter­view with The New York­er

Jonathan Crow is a Los Ange­les-based writer and film­mak­er whose work has appeared in Yahoo!, The Hol­ly­wood Reporter, and oth­er pub­li­ca­tions. You can fol­low him at @jonccrow.

 

Dante’s Divine Comedy Illustrated in a Remarkable Illuminated Medieval Manuscript (c. 1450)

YT 36

Few writ­ers have inspired so many artists, so deeply and for so long, as Dante Alighieri. His epic poem the Divine Com­e­dy (find in our col­lec­tion of Free eBooks) has received strik­ing illu­mi­na­tions at the hands of Gus­tave Doré, San­dro Bot­ti­cel­li, Alber­to Mar­ti­ni, and Sal­vador Dalí — to name only those we’ve fea­tured before here on Open Cul­ture. The names Pri­amo del­la Quer­cia and Gio­van­ni di Pao­lo may mean rel­a­tive­ly lit­tle to you right now, but they’ll mean much more once you’ve tak­en a look at the illus­tra­tions fea­tured here and at The World of Dante, which come from an illu­mi­nat­ed man­u­script of the Divine Com­e­dy at the British Library known as Yates Thomp­son 36. Pro­duced in Siena around 1450 for an unknown orig­i­nal patron, “the codex belonged to Alfon­so V, king of Aragon, Naples, and Sici­ly,” and includes “110 large minia­tures and three his­to­ri­at­ed ini­tials.” (See all here.) Del­la Quer­cia illus­trat­ed the Infer­no and Pur­ga­to­rio and all three his­to­ri­at­ed ini­tials; di Pao­lo illus­trat­ed Par­adiso.

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“This makes for two dis­tinct­ly dif­fer­ent styles,” con­tin­ues The World of Dan­te’s page. “Pri­amo’s work reflects the more real­is­tic style of late fif­teenth-cen­tu­ry Flo­ren­tine paint­ing, an influ­ence which is par­tic­u­lar­ly notice­able in his use of con­tours and out­lines in the depic­tion of nudes. Gio­van­ni di Paolo’s style is clos­er to that of late four­teenth-cen­tu­ry Sienese artists,” pro­duc­ing results “great­ly admired for their visu­al inter­pre­ta­tion of the poem: the artist does­n’t just tran­scribe Dan­te’s words but seeks to ren­der their mean­ing.”

The British Library’s medieval man­u­scripts blog describes it as “cer­tain­ly a lav­ish pro­duc­tion” that “must have been an expen­sive under­tak­ing,” giv­en the sta­tus of the men doing the illu­mi­nat­ing as “two of the pre­em­i­nent artists of the day.” But when it came to visu­al­iz­ing Dan­te’s jour­ney, quite lit­er­al­ly, to hell and back in 15th-cen­tu­ry Italy, no artist ranked too high­ly. Even today, I can’t imag­ine any artist read­ing the Divine Com­e­dy, illu­mi­nat­ed or no, with­out get­ting a few vivid ideas of their own.

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More images can be found on the British Library web site (scroll down the page). A Yale course entire­ly ded­i­cat­ed to Dante appears in our col­lec­tion, 1,700 Free Online Cours­es from Top Uni­ver­si­ties.

Relat­ed Con­tent:

Botticelli’s 92 Illus­tra­tions of Dante’s Divine Com­e­dy

Gus­tave Doré’s Dra­mat­ic Illus­tra­tions of Dante’s Divine Com­e­dy

Alber­to Martini’s Haunt­ing Illus­tra­tions of Dante’s Divine Com­e­dy (1901–1944)

Sal­vador Dalí’s 100 Illus­tra­tions of Dante’s The Divine Com­e­dy

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

Listen to The Night When Miles Davis Opened for the Grateful Dead in 1970

What’s that, you ask? Did Miles Davis open for the Grate­ful Dead at the Fill­more West? In what world could such a thing hap­pen? In the world of the late sixties/early sev­en­ties, when jazz fused with acid rock, acid rock with coun­try, and pop cul­ture took a long strange trip. The “inspired pair­ing” of the Dead with Davis’ elec­tric band on April 9–12, 1970, “rep­re­sent­ed one of [pro­mot­er] Bill Graham’s most leg­endary book­ings,” writes the blog Cryp­ti­cal Devel­op­ments. I’ll say. Davis had just released the ground­break­ing dou­ble-LP Bitch­es Brew and was “at some­what of an artis­tic and com­mer­cial cross­roads,” exper­i­ment­ing with new, more flu­id com­po­si­tions.

Aggres­sive and dom­i­nat­ed by rock rhythms and elec­tric instru­ments, the album became Davis’ best sell­er and brought him before young, white audi­ences in a way his ear­li­er work had not.  The band that Davis brought into the Fill­more West, com­pris­ing [Chick] Corea, [Dave] Hol­land, sopra­no sax play­er Steve Gross­man, drum­mer Jack Dejohnette, and per­cus­sion­ist Air­to Mor­eira, was ful­ly versed in this new music, and stood the Fill­more West audi­ences on their ears.

I can only imag­ine what it would have been like to see that per­for­mance live. But we don’t have to imag­ine what it sound­ed like. You can hear all of Davis’s set below.

In his auto­bi­og­ra­phy, Davis described it as “an eye-open­ing con­cert for me.” “The place was packed with these real spa­cy, high white peo­ple,” he wrote, “and when we first start­ed play­ing, peo­ple were walk­ing around and talk­ing.” Once the band got into the Bitch­es Brew mate­r­i­al, though, “that real­ly blew them out. After that con­cert, every time I would play out there in San Fran­cis­co, a lot of young white peo­ple showed up at the gigs.”

Did the Dead become a crossover hit with jazz fans? Not exact­ly, but Davis real­ly hit it off with them, espe­cial­ly with Jer­ry Gar­cia. “I think we all learned some­thing,” Davis wrote: “Jer­ry Gar­cia loved jazz, and I found out that he loved my music and had been lis­ten­ing to it for a long time.” In his auto­bi­og­ra­phy, the Dead’s Phil Lesh remem­bered hav­ing his mind blown by Davis and band: “As I lis­tened, lean­ing over the amps with my jaw hang­ing agape, try­ing to com­pre­hend the forces that Miles was unleash­ing onstage, I was think­ing What’s the use. How can we pos­si­bly play after this? […] With this band, Miles lit­er­al­ly invent­ed fusion music. In some ways it was sim­i­lar to what we were try­ing to do in our free jam­ming, but ever so much more dense with ideas – and seem­ing­ly con­trolled with an iron fist, even at its most alarm­ing­ly intense moments.” You can stream the Dead­’s full per­for­mance from that night below. Think what must have been run­ning through their minds as they took the stage after watch­ing Miles Davis invent a new form of music right before their eyes.

Relat­ed Con­tent:

Miles Davis Plays Music from Kind of Blue Live in 1959, Intro­duc­ing a Com­plete­ly New Style of Jazz

Jer­ry Gar­cia Talks About the Birth of the Grate­ful Dead & Play­ing Kesey’s Acid Tests in New Ani­mat­ed Video

In 1969 Telegram, Jimi Hen­drix Invites Paul McCart­ney to Join a Super Group with Miles Davis

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

The First Animations of Mike Judge, Creator of Beavis and Butt-head & Office Space (1991)

Mike Judge first became famous for cre­at­ing the crude and crude­ly drawn car­toon series Beav­is and Butt-head (find com­plete episodes online here). The show was about two high school burnouts whose run­ning com­men­tary on the lat­est music videos was so bone­head­ed and bald­ly vul­gar that you couldn’t help but laugh. Pris­sy cul­ture war­riors point­ed to the show as yet anoth­er symp­tom of America’s decline while legions of stoned col­lege stu­dents glee­ful­ly tuned in. In 1998, Judge made the jump to live action fea­tures with Office Space, a hilar­i­ous, if uneven, take on the banal­i­ties of Amer­i­can cor­po­rate cul­ture. It’s one of those movies that no one saw in the the­ater but, thanks to cable, every­one of a cer­tain age can quote. (“If you can come in on Sat­ur­day, that would be great.”) Cur­rent­ly, he is the cre­ator for the hit HBO series Sil­i­con Val­ley.

Judge start­ed in ani­ma­tion after work­ing for a spell as first a com­put­er pro­gram­mer and then a blues bassist. After see­ing an ani­ma­tion cel on dis­play in a local movie the­ater in 1989, he ran out and bought a Bolex 16mm cam­era and start­ed mak­ing movies. Two years lat­er, he was pro­duc­ing odd, thor­ough­ly unpol­ished ani­mat­ed shorts that made the rounds in film fes­ti­vals, even­tu­al­ly launch­ing a career in Hol­ly­wood.

Above is a short about Mil­ton, the neb­bish sta­pler-obsessed cubi­cle dweller who was the gen­e­sis for Office Space. Stephen Root played him in the movie. His boss is the same pas­sive-aggres­sive prick as in the movie though played with less unc­tu­ous zeal as Gary Cole’s per­for­mance. The short proved to be such a suc­cess that MTV’s Liq­uid Tele­vi­sion ordered more.

Next is The Honky Prob­lem, about an emo­tion­al­ly unbal­anced coun­try singer named ‘Inbred Jed.’ He wants you to know that he is real­ly, real­ly, real­ly hap­py to be play­ing at a remote trail­er park­er pop­u­lat­ed by a bunch of char­ac­ters out of a David Lynch movie. In fact, if it weren’t for the jokey voice over at the end, this short is creepy enough to almost pass for an episode of Lynch’s own ani­mat­ed series, Dum­b­land.

And there’s this short also from 1991 called sim­ply Huh?, which pits the shrill against the obliv­i­ous.

You can find more Ani­ma­tions in our col­lec­tion, 4,000+ Free Movies Online: Great Clas­sics, Indies, Noir, West­erns, Doc­u­men­taries & More.

Relat­ed Con­tent:

Dum­b­land, David Lynch’s Twist­ed Ani­mat­ed Series (NSFW)

Watch All of Ter­ry Gilliam’s Mon­ty Python Ani­ma­tions in a Row

Tim Burton’s The World of Stain­boy: Watch the Com­plete Ani­mat­ed Series

Jonathan Crow is a Los Ange­les-based writer and film­mak­er whose work has appeared in Yahoo!, The Hol­ly­wood Reporter, and oth­er pub­li­ca­tions. You can fol­low him at @jonccrow.

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