Lars von Trier’s Animated Movie Made When He Was 11 Years Old

Words like “adorable” and “cute” don’t come read­i­ly to mind when talk­ing about Dan­ish direc­tor Lars von Tri­er, but that’s exact­ly how you can describe the stop motion ani­mat­ed film he made when he was 11 years old. Sure, you can also describe the two-minute short — Turen til Squash­land: En Super Pølse Film (The Trip to Squash Land: A Super Sausage Film) — as creepy and vague­ly unset­tling, adjec­tives much more com­mon­ly applied to the film­mak­er.

Von Tri­er is, of course, cinema’s reign­ing bad boy. His Antichrist is a scar­ring descent into mad­ness filled with bad sex, talk­ing fox­es and hor­rif­i­cal­ly graph­ic self-muti­la­tion. Any­one who’s seen the movie will nev­er look at a pair of scis­sors in the same way. His 2011 movie Melan­cho­lia is a glo­ri­ous ode to depres­sion and glob­al anni­hi­la­tion; a beau­ti­ful anti-rev­el­ry on how much every­thing in the world sucks. And his most recent movie, Nympho­ma­ni­ac, is a 4‑hour long movie — divid­ed in two, Kill Bill style — fea­tur­ing some of the most joy­less unsim­u­lat­ed onscreen cou­plings this side of the Paris Hilton sex tape.

Turen til Squash­land, on the oth­er hand, is about a sen­tient sausage who rides a black whale to res­cue a bun­ny rab­bit. The film was shot by the tweenaged Tri­er (he added the ‘von’ to his name in film school) on his Super 8mm cam­era in 1967. In terms of tech­nique and design, it is shock­ing­ly good. The short has a naïve sweet­ness that Wes Ander­son often aspires to while hav­ing the uncan­ny dream-like qual­i­ty of an ear­ly David Lynch movie.

It’s tempt­ing to parse Turen til Squash­land to gain some insight into von Tri­er’s lat­er auteurist obses­sions. Does von Trier’s ten­den­cy to place the vul­ner­a­ble and the love­able in the clutch­es of a cru­el and heart­less vil­lain start here? While the ever-adorable Björk ends up dan­gling from the end of a rope in Dancer in the Dark, the bun­ny in this movie thank­ful­ly makes it out alive. Cas­tra­tion is anoth­er reoc­cur­ring theme in von Trier’s work. Does that have any­thing to do with the free-range sausage pro­tag­o­nist? And does the talk­ing fox in Antichrist have its ori­gins in this movie’s trio of head spin­ning rab­bits?

The one ele­ment, how­ev­er, that has no con­nec­tion to his lat­er work is the short’s end, which shows a plac­ard read­ing “Slut.” That has noth­ing to do with his lat­est movie or von Tri­er’s com­pli­cat­ed rela­tion­ship with women. The word “slut” means “The End” in Dan­ish.

More ani­mat­ed films can be found in our col­lec­tion, 4,000+ Free Movies Online: Great Clas­sics, Indies, Noir, West­erns, Doc­u­men­taries & More.

Via Dan­ger­ous Minds

Relat­ed Con­tent:

Watch Steven Spielberg’s Debut: Two Films He Direct­ed as a Teenag­er

Tim Burton’s Ear­ly Stu­dent Films: King and Octo­pus & Stalk of the Cel­ery Mon­ster

See Carl Sagan’s Child­hood Sketch­es of The Future of Space Trav­el

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.

The Oldest Known Illustration of Circumcision (2400 B.C.E.)

What do we have here? Just the old­est known illus­tra­tion of cir­cum­ci­sion being per­formed. Actu­al­ly, it’s a col­or­ful re-cre­ation of a bas-relief (see orig­i­nal here) found in an Egypt­ian tomb built for Ankhma­bor in Sakkara, Egypt. It dates back to around 2400 B.C.E.

The ori­gins of cir­cum­ci­sion remain unclear. Accord­ing to this online essay, a stele (carv­ing on stone) from the 23rd cen­tu­ry B.C.E. sug­gests that an author named “Uha” was cir­cum­cised in a mass rit­u­al. He wrote:

“When I was cir­cum­cised, togeth­er with one hun­dred and twen­ty men, there was none there­of who hit out, there was none there­of who was hit, and there was none there­of who scratched and there was none there­of who was scratched.”

By the time you get to 4,000 B.C.E., you start to find exhumed Egypt­ian bod­ies that show signs of cir­cum­ci­sion. And then come the artis­tic depic­tions. The Sakkara depic­tion comes with the per­haps help­ful writ­ten warn­ing,“Hold him and do not allow him to faint.”

via Elif Batu­man

Relat­ed Con­tent:

How the Egypt­ian Pyra­mids Were Built: A New The­o­ry in 3D Ani­ma­tion

Louis Arm­strong Plays Trum­pet at the Egypt­ian Pyra­mids; Dizzy Gille­spie Charms a Snake in Pak­istan

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Hear Roger Waters’ Early, Work-in-Progress Recordings of Pink Floyd’s The Wall

My first expo­sure to Pink Floyd’s rock opera The Wall left me feel­ing noth­ing less than aston­ish­ment. And though I nev­er had the chance to see the out­ra­geous stage show, with its very lit­er­al wall and giant inflat­able pig, the film has always struck me as a suit­ably dark piece of psy­chodra­ma. Over a great many sub­se­quent lis­tens, the melo­dra­mat­ic dou­ble-album can still blow my mind, but I’ve come to feel that some of the strongest mate­r­i­al are those songs penned joint­ly by Roger Waters and David Gilmour, and those are rel­a­tive­ly few. (Mark Blake quotes Gilmour as say­ing “things like ‘Com­fort­ably Numb’ were the last embers of mine and Roger’s abil­i­ty to work col­lab­o­ra­tive­ly togeth­er.) The bulk of the album belongs to Waters, its auto­bi­o­graph­i­cal details and per­son­al themes, and the album and film can some­times feel as sti­fled and claus­tro­pho­bic as its pro­tag­o­nist does. This is either a cre­ative fail­ing or a bril­liant meld­ing of form and con­tent.

Inspired by an inci­dent in which an exas­per­at­ed Waters spat on a row­dy fan at a sta­di­um show in Mon­tre­al dur­ing the band’s 1977 “In the Flesh Tour,” The Wall doc­u­ments the painful rise and even more painful fall of a fic­tive rock star named, of course, Pink (played by Bob Geld­of in the film ver­sion), whose life close­ly par­al­lels Waters’, down to the spit­ting. It has always seemed an odd irony that Waters respond­ed to the alien­ation of tour­ing mas­sive sta­di­ums by cre­at­ing a sta­di­um show big­ger than any­thing the band had yet done, but it speaks to the bassist and singer’s grandiose per­son­al­i­ty and obses­sive desire to turn his angst into the­ater. Often­times the results were spec­tac­u­lar, oth­er times bom­bas­tic and con­fus­ing (at least to crit­ics, some of whom are eas­i­ly con­fused). The record­ing of the album, as many well know, strained the band almost to break­ing, and by many accounts, Waters’ impe­ri­ous­ness didn’t help mat­ters, to say the least.

All of the behind-the-scenes dra­ma may or may not eclipse the dra­ma of the album itself, depend­ing on your lev­el of fan­dom and inter­est in Pink Floyd biog­ra­phy. Lovers of Waters’ epic rock dra­matur­gy will find edi­fi­ca­tion at the exten­sive online crit­i­cal com­men­tary Pink Floyd The Wall: A Com­plete Analy­sis, an online work in progress that deliv­ers on its title. For a very brief account of the sto­ry behind the sto­ry, co-pro­duc­er Bob Ezrin’s inter­view with Grammy.com offers per­spec­tive from some­one involved in the project who wasn’t a mem­ber of what came to seem like The Roger Waters’ Band. Ezrin describes The Wall as “Roger’s own project and not a group effort,” and his own role as “a kind of ref­er­ee between him and the rest of the band.”

In the begin­ning we had a very long demo that Roger had writ­ten. We start­ed to sep­a­rate out the pieces, and when we looked at the sto­ry­line we real­ized what we need­ed was a through line, some­thing to get us from start to fin­ish.

Ezrin recounts that he “closed [his] eyes and wrote out the movie that would become The Wall,” hand­ed the script out to the band, and marked songs miss­ing from Waters’ demo as “’TBW’—‘to be writ­ten.’” (Among those songs was “Com­fort­ably Numb.”)

The record­ings at the top of the post—which sur­faced in 2001 with the title Under Con­struc­tion—rep­re­sent a step in The Wall’s evo­lu­tion­ary devel­op­ment between Waters’ rudi­men­ta­ry demos (short excerpts above) and the com­plet­ed album. (See the Youtube page for a com­plete track­list. Con­trary to the upload­er’s descrip­tion, Roger Waters cer­tain­ly does not play all the instru­ments.) While Under Con­struc­tion has gen­er­al­ly been referred to as a “demo,” Rick Karhu of Pink Floyd fanzine Spare Bricks express­es his doubts about the use of a term he takes to denote “a fair­ly pol­ished record­ing”: “Demos are not rough record­ings or works-in-progress […]. I doubt very much that Under Con­struc­tion is a demo of The Wall.”

It’s too rough around the edges—at times shock­ing­ly so—to be strict­ly con­sid­ered a demo record­ing. At points, things are hap­haz­ard­ly edit­ed togeth­er. Songs cut off abrupt­ly, fade unex­pect­ed­ly or drop out entire­ly for a moment as if some­one at the mix­ing desk hit the wrong but­ton at some point. Vocal tracks peak-out, often caus­ing anguish to the lis­ten­er’s ear drums. Some instru­ment lines (most­ly the bass gui­tar) mean­der through the back­ground as if the per­son play­ing is mak­ing up the part as they go. Equal­iza­tion is nonex­is­tent on most tracks. Over­all, most of it sounds like a 4‑track record­ing by a band who has only the vaguest notion of how the equip­ment works.

Lest we take this descrip­tion as dis­par­age­ment, Karhu clar­i­fies: “It is pre­cise­ly for those rea­sons […] that I love them dear­ly and con­sid­er them one of the most valu­able, unau­tho­rized Floyd record­ings to be unearthed. Ever.” Many Youtube com­menters agree, some even argu­ing that these rough sketch­es are supe­ri­or to the final pol­ished prod­uct. It’s a debate I won’t weigh in on, though I will say that like Karhu, I enjoy the lo-fi ragged­ness of this ver­sion of The Wall. It seems to con­vey the emo­tion­al­ly frayed edges of these songs in a way the slick pro­duc­tion of the stu­dio album may not at times. Either as a mere doc­u­ment of the album’s ear­ly his­to­ry or an alter­nate, fragmented—and hence more traumatized—take on The Wall, this unof­fi­cial ver­sion is haunt­ing and strange. Does it per­haps bet­ter rep­re­sent Waters’ desire to make his psy­chic unease into art? We invite you to judge for your­selves. And if, like me, you can lis­ten to “Com­fort­ably Numb” (and that incred­i­ble gui­tar solo) on repeat for hours on end, you may be inter­est­ed to hear David Gilmour dis­cuss the song’s com­po­si­tion in the inter­view below.

Hear more demo tracks on YouTube here.

Relat­ed Con­tent:

David Gilmour & David Bowie Sing “Com­fort­ably Numb” Live (2006)

Watch Doc­u­men­taries on the Mak­ing of Pink Floyd’s Dark Side of the Moon and Wish You Were Here

Hear Lost Record­ing of Pink Floyd Play­ing with Jazz Vio­lin­ist Stéphane Grap­pel­li on “Wish You Were Here”

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

The Famous Letter Where Freud Breaks His Relationship with Jung (1913)

FreudJung

Freud and Jung. Jung and Freud. His­to­ry has close­ly asso­ci­at­ed these two who did so much exam­i­na­tion of the mind in ear­ly 20th-cen­tu­ry Europe, but the sim­ple con­nec­tion of their names belies a much more com­pli­cat­ed rela­tion­ship between the men them­selves. At the top of the post, you can see the let­ter that Sig­mund Freud, father of psy­cho­analy­sis, wrote to Carl Gus­tav Jung, founder of ana­lyt­i­cal psy­chol­o­gy, in order to end that rela­tion­ship entire­ly. “At first Freud saw in Jung a suc­ces­sor who might lead the psy­cho­an­a­lyt­ic move­ment into the future,” say the cura­tor’s com­ments at the Library of Con­gress’ web site, “but by 1913 rela­tions between the two men had soured.

While Freud claims in his let­ter that it is ‘demon­stra­bly untrue’ that he treats his fol­low­ers as patients, in the very same let­ter we find him allud­ing to Jung’s ‘ill­ness.’ ” Freud calls it “a con­ven­tion among us ana­lysts that none of us need feel ashamed of his own neu­ro­sis. But one [mean­ing Jung] who while behav­ing abnor­mal­ly keeps shout­ing that he is nor­mal gives ground for the sus­pi­cion that he lacks insight into his ill­ness. Accord­ing­ly, I pro­pose that we aban­don our per­son­al rela­tions entire­ly.”

“I shall lose noth­ing by it,” he con­tin­ues, “for my only emo­tion­al tie with you has been a long thin thread — the lin­ger­ing effect of past dis­ap­point­ments — and you have every­thing to gain, in view of the remark you recent­ly made to the effect that an inti­mate rela­tion­ship with a man inhib­it­ed your sci­en­tif­ic free­dom.” This rela­tion­ship, writes Lionel Trilling in a review of The Cor­re­spon­dence Between Sig­mund Freud and C.G. Jung, “had its bright begin­ning in 1906 and came to its embit­tered end in 1913,” when Freud wrote this let­ter.  “Freud and Jung were not good for one anoth­er; their con­nec­tion made them sus­cep­ti­ble to false atti­tudes and ambigu­ous tones. [ … ] The intel­lec­tu­al and pro­fes­sion­al dif­fer­ences between the two men, pro­found as these even­tu­al­ly became, would per­haps not of them­selves have brought about a break so dras­tic as did take place had not their alien­at­ing ten­den­cy been rein­forced by per­son­al con­flicts.” Only a com­par­a­tive study of Freud and Jung’s meth­ods would yield a com­plete under­stand­ing of their roles in the strug­gle for the soul of psy­cho­analy­sis. But on a more basic lev­el, this hard­ly counts as the first nor the last col­lapse, in any field of human endeav­or, of a per­haps overde­ter­mined suc­ces­sion between an emi­nence and his would-be pro­tege — though it may count as one of the most elo­quent­ly doc­u­ment­ed ones.

Relat­ed Con­tent:

Sig­mund Freud Speaks: The Only Known Record­ing of His Voice, 1938

Face to Face with Carl Jung: ‘Man Can­not Stand a Mean­ing­less Life’

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

Carl Gus­tav Jung Pon­ders Death

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.

Ultra Violet — Artist and Friend of Salvador Dalí and Andy Warhol — Dies at 78

“When I got off the boat from France years ago, the first per­son I met was Sal­vador Dalí, and I real­ized I was born sur­re­al­ist,” said Isabelle Collin Dufresne, bet­ter known by her artis­tic nom-de-plume Ultra Vio­let. Dufresne died Sat­ur­day in New York City after years of bat­tling can­cer. She may have been inspired by Dalí, but she was also a legit­i­mate artist in her own right.

Though per­haps not as well known as oth­er “super­stars” linked to Andy Warhol such as Edie Sedg­wick or the Vel­vet Under­ground, Ultra Vio­let worked in a sim­i­lar pop style. Her cre­ations were sym­bol­ic, approach­able and vibrant. Of course, she asso­ci­at­ed strong­ly with the col­or in her namesake—violet was one of the most impor­tant col­ors in her palette.

“It’s in my col­or, my sig­na­ture, but it’s also in the col­or of mourn­ing, the roy­al col­or,” she said of a vio­let memo­ri­am to the events of Sep­tem­ber 11.

A New York­er by choice, Ultra Vio­let was one of prob­a­bly thou­sands to cre­ate art after the Sep­tem­ber 11, 2001 ter­ror­ist attacks. “IXXI” was dis­tinct­ly non-polit­i­cal. It nei­ther attacks nor defends; it only memo­ri­al­izes. It por­trays the Roman numer­als for nine and 11. A palin­drome, she not­ed.

Once alleged­ly “exor­cised” in her home­town in France, Dufresne grew up in a con­ser­v­a­tive, reli­gious house­hold. It wasn’t until she came to the Unit­ed States that she became a seri­ous par­tic­i­pant in the art world.

She is prob­a­bly best known for her 1988 life reflec­tion, Famous for 15 Min­utes: My Years with Andy Warhol.

The youth­ful ener­gy around many of the Fac­to­ry artists didn’t always age well. As an old­er woman, Ultra Vio­let some­times looked strange with her vio­let hair and flam­boy­ant cloth­ing, and she was some­times crit­i­cized for pro­duc­ing slop­py work instead of devel­op­ing a tighter style with age.

Pieces like 2007’s “Elec­tric Love Chair” even ref­er­ence the glo­ry days of Pop Art, but Ultra Vio­let spent most of her life exper­i­ment­ing with new ideas and tech­nolo­gies for the pro­duc­tion of art.

“I’m inter­est­ed more in the future than in the past,” she told Ernie Manouse in a 2005 inter­view.

 This is a guest post from Zach Lind­sey, an Eng­lish as a Sec­ond Lan­guage Teacher liv­ing in Austin, Texas. He’s writ­ten about artists’ mus­es before, for Lehigh Val­ley Style and Be About It.

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The Making of Queen and David Bowie’s 1981 Hit “Under Pressure”: Demos, Studio Sessions & More

Before “Ice Ice Baby” became the most ubiq­ui­tous ear­worm of 1989, its sam­pled groove drove a song record­ed 8 years ear­li­er, Queen and David Bowie’s bril­liant col­lab­o­ra­tion “Under Pres­sure.” Sty­lus mag­a­zine—who declared Queen bassist John Deacon’s three-note riff the num­ber one bassline of all time—called the song “pos­sessed of under­stat­ed cool […] min­i­mal and pre­cise.” And if some­how you’ve nev­er heard it, have a lis­ten; you’ll sure­ly agree. Bowie and Fred­die Mercury’s trad­ed lines and melod­ic scat­ting build to pow­er­ful crescen­dos then pull back into deeply mov­ing har­monies. Lyri­cal­ly the song com­petes with any­thing writ­ten by either artist. As it turns out, Queen and Bowie wrote the song in a day, or as Bowie has it, “one evening flat.” “Quite a feat,” “for what is actu­al­ly a fair­ly com­pli­cat­ed song,” he wrote in response to a fan’s ques­tion on his offi­cial web­site.

Bowie remem­bers that “the riff had already been writ­ten by Fred­die and the oth­ers” when he joined them in the stu­dio in Mon­treux, Switzer­land. In fact, “Under Pres­sure” evolved out of anoth­er song entire­ly, “Feel Like,” writ­ten by drum­mer Roger Tay­lor, which you can hear above in a very rough demo record­ing. A great many of the ele­ments are there—Brian May’s restrained gui­tar work, Taylor’s midtem­po clock­work drum­ming, and many of the vocal melodies that would end up on “Under Pres­sure.” But that icon­ic bassline is miss­ing, as is, of course, the lat­er song’s oth­er big star. You can see the influ­ence Bowie had on the the­mat­ic direc­tion of the new song. “Feel Like” is a clas­sic Queen lament over lost love, “Under Pres­sure” an apoc­a­lyp­tic cry of both fear and empa­thy.

And that bassline? Every­one recalls that John Dea­con him­self came up with it. But Dea­con, ever mod­est, cred­it­ed it to Bowie in a 1984 inter­view. In either case, Dea­con appar­ent­ly for­got the riff, and May had to remind him of it—a fun­ny moment you can hear above in a record­ing of stu­dio ses­sions for the song. Bri­an May recalls that Bowie lived near the stu­dio and that they “went out for a meal or some drinks or some­thing.” This may well be, but he doesn’t tell us that Bowie orig­i­nal­ly joined the band in the stu­dio to sing back­ing vocals for an even­tu­al­ly scrapped R&B song called “Cool Cat.” An ear­li­er Open Cul­ture post fea­tur­ing the iso­lat­ed vocal tracks from “Under Pres­sure” (below) quotes both Tay­lor and May’s descrip­tions of what was, some­what con­trary to Bowie’s under­state­ment, actu­al­ly a 24-hour-long ses­sion, pow­ered by wine and cocaine.

Their rem­i­nisces, record­ed in Mark Blake’s book Is This the Real Life?: The Untold Sto­ry of Fred­die Mer­cury and Queen, also inform us that Bowie and Mer­cury “swap[ped] vers­es blind, which helped give the song its cut-and-paste feel.” Though the band sounds light­heart­ed enough in the stu­dio ses­sions, the song­writ­ing, May remem­bers, was fraught with ten­sion. “It was very hard,” he said in 2008, “because you already had four pre­co­cious boys and David, who was pre­co­cious enough for all of us.” Bowie, says May, “took over the song lyri­cal­ly” and insist­ed on pre­sid­ing over the final mix ses­sion, which “didn’t go well,” accord­ing to Queen engi­neer Rein­hold Mack. For his part, May has said he would “love to sit down qui­et­ly on my own and re-mix it.”

While he hasn’t nec­es­sar­i­ly fol­lowed through on that desire, May and Roger Tay­lor did con­tribute a dance mix of “Under Pressure”—the so-called “Rah Mix”—to 1999’s Great­est Hits III (hear it above). The remix was a top 20 hit, but I, for one, think it’s impos­si­ble to improve on the orig­i­nal.

Relat­ed Con­tent:

Lis­ten to Fred­die Mer­cury and David Bowie on the Iso­lat­ed Vocal Track for the Queen Hit ‘Under Pres­sure,’ 1981

Gui­tarist Bri­an May Explains the Mak­ing of Queen’s Clas­sic Song, ‘Bohemi­an Rhap­sody’

The Sto­ry of Zig­gy Star­dust: How David Bowie Cre­at­ed the Char­ac­ter that Made Him Famous

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

Restored Footage from the First World Cup: Uruguay, 1930

The 19th FIFA World Cup is now under­way in Brazil, and that gives us an excuse to revis­it the first World Cup, played in July, 1930 in Uruguay. Only 13 teams par­tic­i­pat­ed in the tour­na­ment, and all match­es were played in Mon­te­v­ideo, Uruguay’s cap­i­tal. In the semi-finals, the Unit­ed States lost to Argenti­na, 6–1. Uruguay crushed Yugoslavia by the same score. In the end, Uruguay, the favorites all along, tri­umphed over Argenti­na (4–2) before a home crowd of 93,000, to become the win­ner of the inau­gur­al FIFA World Cup.

Recent­ly restored by FIFA, the 13-minute video above lets you revis­it the action from the 1930 tour­na­ment, and par­tic­u­lar­ly from the cham­pi­onship game. Argenti­na led going into half­time, but then José Pedro Cea, Vic­to­ri­ano San­tos Iri­arte (aka “El Canario”), and Héc­tor Cas­tro went to work and sealed the deal for Uruguay. The footage is bit­ter­sweet to watch — sweet, because it’s fun to watch the moves of those his­toric foot­ballers; bit­ter, because it’s hard not to think wist­ful­ly about those ath­letes, then in their prime, who have long since passed.

via When Sat­ur­day Comes

Relat­ed Con­tent:

Ter­ry Gilliam, Guy Ritchie & Ale­jan­dro González Iñár­ritu Direct Soc­cer Ads for Nike

Stephen Hawk­ing Reveals the Con­di­tions That Could Lead to England’s Vic­to­ry at The World Cup

Rare Video Shows FDR Walk­ing: Filmed at the 1937 All-Star Game

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Everything You Need to Enjoy Reading James Joyce’s Ulysses on Bloomsday

ulysses first edition

Since its pub­li­ca­tion in 1922, James Joyce’s Ulysses has enjoyed a sta­tus, in var­i­ous places and in var­i­ous ways, as The Book to Read. Alas, this Mod­ernist nov­el of Dublin on June 16, 1904 has also attained a rep­u­ta­tion as The Book You Prob­a­bly Can’t Read — or at least not with­out a whole lot of work on the side. In truth, nobody needs to turn them­selves into a Joyce schol­ar to appre­ci­ate it; the unini­ti­at­ed read­er may not enjoy it on every pos­si­ble lev­el, but they can still, with­out a doubt, get a charge from this piece of pure lit­er­a­ture.

Today, on this Blooms­day 2014, we offer you every­thing that may help you get that charge, start­ing with Ulysses as a free eBook (iPad/iPhone — Kin­dle + Oth­er For­mats — Read Online Now). Or per­haps you’d pre­fer to lis­ten to the nov­el as a free audio book; you can even hear a pas­sage read by Joyce him­self.

The work may stand as a remark­ably rich tex­tu­al achieve­ment, but it also has a visu­al his­to­ry: we’ve pre­vi­ous­ly fea­tured, for instance, Hen­ri Matis­se’s illus­trat­ed 1935 edi­tion of the bookJoyce’s own sketch of pro­tag­o­nist Leopold Bloom (below), and Ulysses “Seen,” a graph­ic nov­el adap­ta­tion-in-progress.

James-Joyce-Leopold-Bloom-Sketch--e1360049021427

 

Even Vladimir Nabokov, obvi­ous­ly a for­mi­da­ble lit­er­ary pow­er him­self, added to all this when he sketched out a map of the paths Bloom and Stephen Dedalus (pre­vi­ous­ly seen in Joyce’s A Por­trait of the Artist as a Young Man) take through Dublin in the book.

UllysesMap

Oth­er high-pro­file Ulysses appre­ci­a­tors include Stephen Fry, who did a video expound­ing upon his love for it, and Frank Delaney, whose pod­cast Re: Joyce, as enter­tain­ing as the nov­el itself, will exam­ine the entire text line-by-line over 22 years. Still, like any vital work of art, Ulysses has drawn detrac­tors as well. Irv­ing Bab­bitt, among the nov­el­’s ear­ly review­ers, said it evi­denced “an advanced stage of psy­chic dis­in­te­gra­tion”; Vir­ginia Woolf, hav­ing quit at page 200, wrote that “nev­er did any book so bore me.” But bored or thrilled, each read­er has their own dis­tinct expe­ri­ence with Ulysses, and on this Blooms­day we’d like to send you on your way to your own. (Or maybe you have a dif­fer­ent way of cel­e­brat­ing, as the first Blooms­day rev­el­ers did in 1954.) Don’t let the tow­er­ing nov­el­’s long shad­ow dark­en it. Remem­ber the whole thing comes down to an Irish­man and his man­u­scripts — many of which you can read online.

Relat­ed Con­tent:

James Joyce’s Ulysses: Down­load the Free Audio Book

James Joyce Reads From Ulysses and Finnegans Wake In His Only Two Record­ings (1924/1929)

Hen­ri Matisse Illus­trates 1935 Edi­tion of James Joyce’s Ulysses

Read Joyce’s Ulysses Line by Line, for the Next 22 Years, with Frank Delaney’s Pod­cast

The First Blooms­day: Watch Dublin’s Literati Cel­e­brate James Joyce’s Ulysses in Drunk­en Fash­ion, 1954

James Joyce, With His Eye­sight Fail­ing, Draws a Sketch of Leopold Bloom (1926)

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.

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Open Culture was founded by Dan Colman.