The Letter Between Stanley Kubrick & Arthur C. Clarke That Sparked the Greatest SciFi Film Ever Made (1964)

Clarke and Kubrick

Image cour­tesy of 2001Italia

Ori­gin sto­ries are all the rage these days giv­en the ubiq­ui­ty of super­hero films and tele­vi­sion series. But for all their smash-em-up spec­ta­cle and break­neck pac­ing, they gen­er­al­ly feel over­stuffed and dis­pos­able. As with the Age of Ultron, there is an age, every sum­mer, of some Mar­vel or DC hero or oth­er. Or all of them at once, at this point, in a per­pet­u­al onslaught. On the oth­er hand, we still have the qui­et­ly omi­nous, thought­ful sci­ence fic­tion film, the off­spring of Nico­las Roeg and Andrei Tarkovsky, in movies like Ex Machi­na. These come and go, some bet­ter than oth­ers, but also always with us. Dif­fer­ent as these two types of films can be, in style and tone, nei­ther would like­ly look and feel the way they do with­out Stan­ley Kubrick’s intense­ly intro­spec­tive and pro­found­ly epic 2001: A Space Odyssey.

The ori­gin sto­ry of this incred­i­ble 1968 film begins on March 31, 1964 when Kubrick wrote the let­ter below to Arthur C. Clarke, propos­ing that the two col­lab­o­rate on “the prover­bial ‘real­ly good’ sci­ence fic­tion film.” “I had been a great admir­er of your books for quite a time,” writes Kubrick, and gives Clarke three “broad areas” of inter­est, “nat­u­ral­ly assum­ing great plot and char­ac­ter.” Nat­u­ral­ly.

“Clarke’s response,” writes BFI, “was imme­di­ate­ly enthu­si­as­tic, express­ing a mutu­al admi­ra­tion.” Kubrick, Clarke told their mutu­al friend Roger Caras, “is obvi­ous­ly an aston­ish­ing man.” In his response to the direc­tor him­self, Clarke wrote on April 8, ““For my part, I am absolute­ly dying to see Dr. Strangelove; Loli­ta is one of the few films I have seen twice – the first time to enjoy it, the sec­ond time to see how it was done.” The two met in New York and talked for hours, and from Clarke’s short sto­ry “The Sen­tinel of Eter­ni­ty” was born per­haps the best “real­ly good” sci­ence fic­tion film ever made.

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Clarke would com­pare the dif­fer­ences between the sto­ry and the film to those between an acorn and an oak tree, accord­ing to Ital­ian Kubrick site 2001Italia. After that meet­ing, the two would spend almost four years writ­ing the screen­play togeth­er and envi­sion­ing the har­row­ing voy­age to Jupiter that ends so tragically—and strangely—for the two astro­nauts left to expe­ri­ence it. It’s a col­lab­o­ra­tive suc­cess Kubrick clear­ly fore­saw when he approached Clarke, but in his let­ter, above, with tran­script below—cour­tesy of Let­ters of Note—he plays it cool, using the pre­text of a tele­scope Clarke owned to slip in dis­cus­sion about the film project. We are almost led to believe,” writes 2001Italia, “that the movie was an excuse” to dis­cuss the gad­get. But of course we know bet­ter.

Dear Mr Clarke:

It’s a very inter­est­ing coin­ci­dence that our mutu­al friend Caras men­tioned you in a con­ver­sa­tion we were hav­ing about a Ques­tar tele­scope. I had been a great admir­er of your books for quite a time and had always want­ed to dis­cuss with you the pos­si­bil­i­ty of doing the prover­bial “real­ly good” sci­ence-fic­tion movie.

My main inter­est lies along these broad areas, nat­u­ral­ly assum­ing great plot and char­ac­ter:

  1. The rea­sons for believ­ing in the exis­tence of intel­li­gent extra-ter­res­tri­al life.
  2. The impact (and per­haps even lack of impact in some quar­ters) such dis­cov­ery would have on Earth in the near future.
  3. A space probe with a land­ing and explo­ration of the Moon and Mars.

Roger [Caras ]tells me you are plan­ning to come to New York this sum­mer. Do you have an inflex­i­ble sched­ule? If not, would you con­sid­er com­ing soon­er with a view to a meet­ing, the pur­pose of which would be to deter­mine whether an idea might exist or arise which could suf­fi­cient­ly inter­est both of us enough to want to col­lab­o­rate on a screen­play?

Inci­den­tal­ly, “Sky & Tele­scope” adver­tise a num­ber of scopes. If one has the room for a medi­um size scope on a pedestal, say the size of a cam­era tri­pod, is there any par­tic­u­lar mod­el in a class by itself, as the Ques­tar is for small portable scopes?

Best regards,

Kubrick pur­sued his projects very delib­er­ate­ly and pas­sion­ate­ly, moti­vat­ed by great per­son­al inter­est. Though his films can feel detached and cold, and he him­self seems like a very aloof char­ac­ter, the oppo­site was true, accord­ing to those who knew him best. Below, see a short video from The Uni­ver­si­ty of the Arts London’s Stan­ley Kubrick Archive pro­fil­ing the way Kubrick went about choos­ing his films, best summed up by Jan Har­lon, Kubrick’s broth­er-in-law and pro­duc­er: “No love, no qual­i­ty, and in Stanley’s case, no love, no film.”

via BFI

Relat­ed Con­tent:

Stan­ley Kubrick’s Anno­tat­ed Copy of Stephen King’s The Shin­ing

Stan­ley Kubrick’s Rare 1965 Inter­view with The New York­er

Arthur C. Clarke Pre­dicts the Future in 1964 … And Kind of Nails It

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

Salvador Dalí Takes His Anteater for a Stroll in Paris, 1969

dali anteater

Sal­vador Dalí had a thing for anteaters. They made for good schtick, espe­cial­ly in Europe, and Dalí nev­er saw schtick that he did­n’t like.

And yet maybe there’s some­thing a lit­tle more to this pic­ture tak­en in Paris, in 1969. Maybe there’s some kind of sym­bol­ism, or even a play­ful trib­ute, tak­ing place in the pho­to above.

Sur­re­al­ism offi­cial­ly came into being in 1924, when André Bre­ton wrote Le Man­i­feste du Sur­réal­isme (read an Eng­lish trans­la­tion here). First a lit­er­ary move­ment, Sur­re­al­ism lat­er embraced painters, includ­ing fig­ures like Dalí.

LeTamanoir

In 1930, Dalí cre­at­ed a book­plate for Bre­ton called, “André Bre­ton le tamanoir.” That trans­lates to “André Bre­ton the Anteater,” the nick­name giv­en to Bre­ton by his fel­low sur­re­al­ists. Now con­sid­er the fact that the 1969 pho­to was tak­en three short years after Bre­ton’s death, and per­haps we can read an homage into it.

What nick­name did Bre­ton give to Dalí, you might ask? “Avi­da Dol­lars.” An ana­gram for “Sal­vador Dalí,” “Avi­da Dol­lars” trans­lates to “eager for dol­lars.” Pret­ty apt.

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Relat­ed Con­tent:

Sal­vador Dalí Illus­trates Don Quixote: Two Spaniards with Unique World Views

Sal­vador Dalí Sketch­es Five Span­ish Immor­tals: Cer­vantes, Don Quixote, El Cid, El Gre­co & Velázquez

Sal­vador Dalí’s Haunt­ing 1975 Illus­tra­tions for Shakespeare’s Romeo and Juli­et

Sal­vador Dalí Illus­trates Shakespeare’s Mac­beth

Chris Burden (R.I.P.) Turns Late-Night TV Commercials Into Conceptual Art

Chris Bur­den got shot with a rifle, closed up in a lock­er for five days, made to crawl across fifty feet of bro­ken glass, cru­ci­fied on a Volk­swa­gen Bee­tle, and wedged for an extend­ed peri­od under a large piece of non-bro­ken glass. But he did it all vol­un­tar­i­ly, sur­viv­ing these and oth­er threats to life and limb, all under­tak­en in the name of art, only dying this past Sun­day. That con­clud­ed a long and aston­ish­ing­ly var­ied career in which Bur­den pro­duced work not just of the grim trapped-in-a-box and bul­let-in-the-arm vari­ety, but elab­o­rate, even whim­si­cal sculp­tures, mod­els, and machines that cap­ti­vate their view­ers to this day.

Bur­den also, between the years of 1973 and 1977 (a peri­od after the shoot­ing and the lock­er entrap­ment), worked in the medi­um of tele­vi­sion com­mer­cials, pro­duc­ing work that, aired late at night, sure­ly cap­ti­vat­ed their own view­ers (who, giv­en the era, may have already entered their own states of altered con­scious­ness). At the top of the post, you can watch all of them in a row, a pro­gram accom­pa­nied by tex­tu­al com­men­tary from Bur­den him­self which details the nature of his self-assigned mis­sion “to break the omnipo­tent stran­gle­hold of the air­waves that broad­cast tele­vi­sion held.”

The 2013 video from the Muse­um of Con­tem­po­rary Art just above fea­tures Bur­den remem­ber­ing this dar­ing project of buy­ing and artis­ti­cal­ly repur­pos­ing Los Ange­les com­mer­cial air­time. But Bur­den’s inter­est in tele­vi­sion did­n’t stop, or indeed start, with these com­mer­cials. At East of Bor­neo, Nick Still­man has an essay putting all the artist’s TV-relat­ed work in con­text. “By sit­u­at­ing the tele­vi­sion set and by using the com­mer­cial form as implic­it ves­sels of author­i­ty,” Still­man writes, “Burden’s work about how tele­vi­sion influ­ences behav­ior asked the most pen­e­trat­ing and eth­i­cal ques­tion of any artist I can think of who used the medi­um: Do you believe in tele­vi­sion?”

Though Bur­den’s com­mer­cials haven’t seen reg­u­lar broad­cast in near­ly forty years, his spir­it nev­er­the­less enjoys strong prospects of liv­ing on through his lat­er work, which reflects and inhab­its not the medi­at­ed world around us, but the con­crete one. In 2011, we fea­tured his Metrop­o­lis II, a kinet­ic sculp­ture mod­el­ing the city of the future in swoop­ing ramps, archi­tec­tural­ly fan­tas­ti­cal tow­ers, and count­less toy cars on dis­play at the Los Ange­les Coun­ty Muse­um of Art.

And if you so much as pass by the muse­um on Wilshire Boule­vard, you’ll see his instal­la­tion of vin­tage lamp­posts known as Urban LightOdds are you’ll also take a pic­ture with it; from what I’ve seen, it has to rank has the most pho­tographed place in the city. “Heat is life,” Bur­den blankly intoned in his 1975 com­mer­cial Poem for L.A. — but light seems to have a pret­ty fair claim as well.

Relat­ed Con­tent:

Metrop­o­lis II: Chris Burden’s Amaz­ing, Fre­net­ic Mini-City

Sal­vador Dalí Goes Com­mer­cial: Three Strange Tele­vi­sion Ads

Fellini’s Fan­tas­tic TV Com­mer­cials

Col­in Mar­shall writes on cities, lan­guage, Asia, and men’s style. He’s at work on a book about Los Ange­les, A Los Ange­les Primer, and the video series The City in Cin­e­maFol­low him on Twit­ter at @colinmarshall or on Face­book.

Mark Twain & Helen Keller’s Special Friendship: He Treated Me Not as a Freak, But as a Person Dealing with Great Difficulties

twain-keller-stormfield-visit

Some­times it can seem as though the more we think we know a his­tor­i­cal fig­ure, the less we actu­al­ly do. Helen Keller? We’ve all seen (or think we’ve seen) some ver­sion of The Mir­a­cle Work­er, right?—even if we haven’t actu­al­ly read Keller’s auto­bi­og­ra­phy. And Mark Twain? He can seem like an old fam­i­ly friend. But I find peo­ple are often sur­prised to learn that Keller was a rad­i­cal social­ist fire­brand, in sym­pa­thy with work­ers’ move­ments world­wide. In a short arti­cle in praise of Lenin, for exam­ple, Keller once wrote, “I cry out against peo­ple who uphold the empire of gold…. I am per­fect­ly sure that love will bring every­thing right in the end, but I can­not help sym­pa­thiz­ing with the oppressed who feel dri­ven to use force to gain the rights that belong to them.”

Twain took a more pes­simistic, iron­ic approach, yet he thor­ough­ly opposed reli­gious dog­ma, slav­ery, and impe­ri­al­ism. “I am always on the side of the rev­o­lu­tion­ists,” he wrote, “because there nev­er was a rev­o­lu­tion unless there were some oppres­sive and intol­er­a­ble con­di­tions against which to rev­o­lute.” While a great many peo­ple grow more con­ser­v­a­tive with age, Twain and Keller both grew more rad­i­cal, which in part accounts for anoth­er lit­tle-known fact about these two nine­teenth cen­tu­ry Amer­i­can celebri­ties: they formed a very close and last­ing friend­ship that, at least in Keller’s case, may have been one of the most impor­tant rela­tion­ships in either figure’s life.

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Twain’s impor­tance to Keller, and hers to him, begins in 1895, when the two met at a lunch held for Keller in New York. Accord­ing to the Mark Twain Library’s exten­sive doc­u­men­tary exhib­it, Keller “seemed to feel more at ease with Twain than with any of the oth­er guests.” She would lat­er write, “He treat­ed me not as a freak, but as a hand­i­capped woman seek­ing a way to cir­cum­vent extra­or­di­nary dif­fi­cul­ties.” Twain was tak­en as well, sur­prised by “her quick­ness and intel­li­gence.” After the meet­ing, he wrote to his bene­fac­tor Hen­ry H. Rogers, ask­ing Rogers to fund Keller’s edu­ca­tion. Rogers, the Mark Twain Library tells us, “per­son­al­ly took charge of Helen Keller’s for­tunes, and out of his own means made it pos­si­ble for her to con­tin­ue her edu­ca­tion and to achieve for her­self the endur­ing fame which Mark Twain had fore­seen.”

Twain wrote to his wealthy friend, “It won’t do for Amer­i­ca to allow this mar­velous child to retire from her stud­ies because of pover­ty. If she can go on with them she will make a fame that will endure in his­to­ry for cen­turies.” There­after, the two would main­tain a “spe­cial friend­ship,” sus­tained not only by their polit­i­cal sen­ti­ments, but also by a love of ani­mals, trav­el, and oth­er per­son­al sim­i­lar­i­ties. Both writ­ers came to live in Fair­field Coun­ty, Con­necti­cut at the end of their lives, and she vis­it­ed him at his Red­ding home, Storm­field, in 1909, the year before his death (see them there at the top of the post, and more pho­tos here). Twain was espe­cial­ly impressed by Keller’s auto­bi­og­ra­phy, writ­ing to her, “I am charmed with your book—enchanted.” (See his endorse­ment in a 1903 adver­tise­ment, below.)

HelenKellerAd2

Twain also came to Keller’s defense, ten years lat­er, after read­ing in her book about a pla­gia­rism scan­dal that occurred in 1892 when, at only twelve years old, she was accused of lift­ing her short sto­ry “The Frost King” from Mar­garet Canby’s “Frost Fairies.” Though a tri­bunal acquit­ted Keller of the charges, the inci­dent still piqued Twain, who called it “unspeak­ably fun­ny and owlish­ly idi­ot­ic and grotesque” in a 1903 let­ter in which he also declared: “The ker­nel, the soul—let us go fur­ther and say the sub­stance, the bulk, the actu­al and valu­able mate­r­i­al of all human utterance—is pla­gia­rism.” What dif­fers from work to work, he con­tends is “the phras­ing of a sto­ry”; Keller’s accusers, he writes pro­tec­tive­ly, were “solemn don­keys break­ing a lit­tle child’s heart.” (The exquis­ite­ly-word­ed let­ter is well worth read­ing in full at Let­ters of Note).

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We also have Twain—not play­wright William Gib­son—to thank for the “mir­a­cle work­er” title giv­en to Keller’s teacher, Anne Sul­li­van. (See Keller, Sul­li­van, Twain, and Sullivan’s hus­band John Macy above at Twain’s home). As a trib­ute to Sul­li­van for her tire­less work with Keller, he pre­sent­ed her with a post­card that read, “To Mrs. John Sul­li­van Macy with warm regard & with lim­it­less admi­ra­tion of the won­ders she has per­formed as a ‘mir­a­cle-work­er.’” In his 1903 let­ter to Keller, he called Sul­li­van “your oth­er half… for it took the pair of you to make com­plete and per­fect whole.”

Twain praised Sul­li­van effu­sive­ly for “her bril­lian­cy, pen­e­tra­tion, orig­i­nal­i­ty, wis­dom, char­ac­ter, and the fine lit­er­ary com­pe­ten­cies of her pen.” But he reserved his high­est praise for Keller her­self. “You are a won­der­ful crea­ture,” he wrote, “The most won­der­ful in the world.” Keller’s praise of her friend Twain was no less lofty. “I have been in Eden three days and I saw a King,” she wrote in his guest­book dur­ing her vis­it to Storm­field, “I knew he was a King the minute I touched him though I had nev­er touched a King before.” The last words in Twain’s auto­bi­og­ra­phy, the first vol­ume anyway—which he only allowed to be pub­lished in 2010—are Keller’s; “You once told me you were a pes­simist, Mr. Clemons,” he quotes her as say­ing, “but great men are usu­al­ly mis­tak­en about them­selves. You are an opti­mist.”

Relat­ed Con­tent:

The Only Footage of Mark Twain: The Orig­i­nal & Dig­i­tal­ly Restored Films Shot by Thomas Edi­son

Mark Twain Writes a Rap­tur­ous Let­ter to Walt Whit­man on the Poet’s 70th Birth­day (1889)

Helen Keller Speaks About Her Great­est Regret — Nev­er Mas­ter­ing Speech

Helen Keller & Annie Sul­li­van Appear Togeth­er in Mov­ing 1930 News­reel

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

10 Writing Tips from Legendary Writing Teacher William Zinsser

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Image used with per­mis­sion by Mark Ostow/Yale Alum­ni Mag­a­zine

Author William Zinss­er died at his Man­hat­tan home on Tues­day, May 12, 2015. The 92-year-old left behind one of the clas­sics of writ­ing instruc­tion man­u­als as his lega­cy, On Writ­ing Well. Since its first print­ing in 1976, the book has sold 1.5 mil­lion copies, and Zinss­er made sure to update the book often. He loved the rev­o­lu­tion in writ­ing that com­put­ers brought, call­ing it a mir­a­cle.

Nev­er have so many Amer­i­cans writ­ten so pro­fuse­ly and with so few inhi­bi­tions. Which means that it wasn’t a cog­ni­tive prob­lem after all. It was a cul­tur­al prob­lem, root­ed in that old buga­boo of Amer­i­can edu­ca­tion: fear.

Zinss­er stressed sim­plic­i­ty and effi­cien­cy, but also style and enthu­si­asm. Here are 10 of his many tips for improv­ing your writ­ing.

1. Don’t make lazy word choic­es: “You’ll nev­er make your mark as a writer unless you devel­op a respect for words and a curios­i­ty about their shades of mean­ing that is almost obses­sive. The Eng­lish lan­guage is rich in strong and sup­ple words. Take the time to root around and find the ones you want.”

2. On the oth­er hand, avoid jar­gon and big words: “Clear think­ing becomes clear writ­ing; one can’t exist with­out the oth­er. It’s impos­si­ble for a mud­dy thinker to write good Eng­lish.”

3. Writ­ing is hard work: “A clear sen­tence is no acci­dent. Very few sen­tences come out right the first time, or even the third time. Remem­ber this in moments of despair. If you find that writ­ing is hard, it’s because it is hard.”

4. Write in the first per­son: “Writ­ing is an inti­mate trans­ac­tion between two peo­ple, con­duct­ed on paper, and it will go well to the extent that it retains its human­i­ty.”

5. And the more you keep in first per­son and true to your­self, the soon­er you will find your style: “Sell your­self, and your sub­ject will exert its own appeal. Believe in your own iden­ti­ty and your own opin­ions. Writ­ing is an act of ego, and you might as well admit it.

6. Don’t ask who your audi­ence is…you are the audi­ence: “You are writ­ing pri­mar­i­ly to please your­self, and if you go about it with enjoy­ment you will also enter­tain the read­ers who are worth writ­ing for.”

7. Study the mas­ters but also your con­tem­po­raries: “Writ­ing is learned by imi­ta­tion. If any­one asked me how I learned to write, I’d say I learned by read­ing the men and women who were doing the kind of writ­ing I want­ed to do and try­ing to fig­ure out how they did it.”

8. Yes, the the­saurus is your friend: “The The­saurus is to the writer what a rhyming dic­tio­nary is to the songwriter–a reminder of all the choices–and you should use it with grat­i­tude. If, hav­ing found the scalawag and the scape­grace, you want to know how they dif­fer, then go to the dic­tio­nary.”

9. Read every­thing you write out loud for rhythm and sound: “Good writ­ers of prose must be part poet, always lis­ten­ing to what they write.”

10. And don’t ever believe you are going to write any­thing defin­i­tive: “Decide what cor­ner of your sub­ject you’re going to bite off, and be con­tent to cov­er it well and stop.”

Zinss­er fol­lows his own advice, in that this book (pick up a copy here) is a joy to read, with a rol­lick­ing humor and an infec­tious enthu­si­asm. May he rest in peace!

Final­ly, as some­one who can’t stand to hear the word ‘unique’ mod­i­fied, Zinss­er has this to say: “…being ‘rather unique’ is no more pos­si­ble than being rather preg­nant.’”

Relat­ed Con­tent

David Ogilvy’s 1982 Memo “How to Write” Offers 10 Pieces of Time­less Advice

Ray Brad­bury Offers 12 Essen­tial Writ­ing Tips and Explains Why Lit­er­a­ture Saves Civ­i­liza­tion

Writ­ing Tips by Hen­ry Miller, Elmore Leonard, Mar­garet Atwood, Neil Gaiman & George Orwell

Ted Mills is a free­lance writer on the arts who cur­rent­ly hosts the FunkZone Pod­cast. You can also fol­low him on Twit­ter at @tedmills, read his oth­er arts writ­ing at tedmills.com and/or watch his films here.

The Death Masks of Great Authors: Dante, Goethe, Tolstoy, Joyce & More

joyce death mask

Charles Gui­teau, the man who assas­si­nat­ed James Garfield, tried to argue in court that he just shot the pres­i­dent — the doc­tors actu­al­ly killed him. Though Gui­teau was ulti­mate­ly hanged for his crime in 1882, he did have a point. Garfield’s doc­tor, William Bliss, jammed his unster­il­ized fin­gers in the pres­i­den­tial wound in an attempt to pull out the bul­let. So did a host of oth­er spe­cial­ists. Pres­i­dent Garfield died 80 days lat­er of, among oth­er things, sep­sis. It was lat­er con­clud­ed that the pres­i­dent would have like­ly sur­vived if the doc­tors had kept their hands to them­selves.

goethe deathmask

Garfield’s death was one of the cat­a­lysts that helped pop­u­lar­ize Joseph Lister’s ideas about bac­te­ria, a con­cept that vast­ly improved the qual­i­ty of med­ical care. A hun­dred years lat­er, for exam­ple, Ronald Rea­gan suf­fered from almost an iden­ti­cal bul­let wound and was back to work with­in weeks.

tolstoy death mask

In the 19th cen­tu­ry and cen­turies before, dis­eases weren’t well under­stood and death was mys­te­ri­ous and divine. In the evan­gel­i­cal revivals of the mid-19th cen­tu­ry, the end of life was seen as some­thing to embrace. After all, God was call­ing his believ­ers back home. Then with a grow­ing under­stand­ing of germs, that sense of won­der with our mor­tal­i­ty changed. “God hadn’t called the indi­vid­ual to him,” writes Deb­o­rah Lutz, schol­ar of Vic­to­ri­an cul­ture, in The New York Times this week. “Rather, a mal­a­dy had over­tak­en the body. Rather than dying at home, the sick were cart­ed off to hos­pi­tals.” Death, in oth­er words, became divorced from every­day life.

coleridge death mask

So from our 21st cen­tu­ry view­point, the Vic­to­ri­ans’ (and their pre­de­ces­sors’) ten­den­cy to col­lect memen­tos of the dead, like death masks, might seem grue­some. But from their point of view, our pan­icked denial of death would prob­a­bly seem fool­ish and per­verse. Mor­tal­i­ty, after all, is a fact of life.

dante death mask

Prince­ton University’s Lau­rence Hut­ton Col­lec­tion has dozens of death masks of famous politi­cians, philoso­phers and authors. Peo­ple like Isaac New­ton, Abra­ham Lin­coln and Leo Tol­stoy. There’s some­thing hum­bling about see­ing these titans of West­ern cul­ture cap­tured at such an inti­mate moment. Stripped of all the mark­ers of class and rank, they look like peo­ple you might see on the street.

wordsworth death mask

Aside from a rather uncon­vinc­ing effi­gy of Queen Eliz­a­beth, the col­lec­tion fea­tures few masks of great women. No Jane Austens or Emi­ly Dick­in­sons here. The col­lec­tion also, sad­ly, lacks a mask of James Garfield.

Above you can find death masks of lit­er­ary fig­ures from the 14th to ear­ly 20th cen­turies. From top to bot­tom, you will see James Joyce, Goethe, Leo Tol­stoy, Samuel Tay­lor Coleridge, Dante and William Wordsworth.

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. And check out his blog Veep­to­pus, fea­tur­ing lots of pic­tures of vice pres­i­dents with octo­pus­es on their heads.  

Hear Samuel Beckett’s Avant-Garde Radio Plays: All That Fall, Embers, and More

Think of radio plays, and you most like­ly think (or I most like­ly think) of the for­m’s Amer­i­can “gold­en age” in the first half of the 20th cen­tu­ry. That time and place in radio dra­ma con­jures up a cer­tain more or less defined set of sen­si­bil­i­ties: rock­et­ships hurtling toward unknown worlds, hard-bit­ten detec­tives stick­ing to their cas­es, sub­ur­ban cou­ples bick­er­ing about the behav­ior of their jalopy-dri­ving chil­dren. By the 1950s, the con­ven­tions of radio plays had ossi­fied too much even for old-time radio audi­ences. Who best to call to tear up the form and start it over again? Why, Samuel Beck­ett, of course.

“In 1955 the BBC, intrigued by the inter­na­tion­al atten­tion being giv­en to the Paris pro­duc­tion of Samuel Beckett’s Wait­ing for Godot (see a ver­sion here), invit­ed the author to write a radio play,” says the short his­to­ry pro­vid­ed in the pro­gram of the Beck­ett fes­ti­val of Radio Plays. Though hes­i­tant, Beck­ett nev­er­the­less wrote the fol­low­ing to a friend: “Nev­er thought about radio play tech­nique but in the dead of t’other night got a nice grue­some idea full of cart­wheels and drag­ging of feet and puff­ing and pant­i­ng which may or may not lead to some­thing.’ ” That “grue­some idea” led, accord­ing to the pro­gram, not just to Beck­et­t’s 1956 radio-play debut All That Fall, but four more to fol­low over the next twen­ty years.

At the top of the post, you can lis­ten to that first 70-minute son­ic tale of an old, obese Irish house­wife, the blind hus­band she meets at the train sta­tion as a birth­day sur­prise, and all the chil­dren, eccentrics, weath­er, and thor­ough­ly Beck­et­t­ian dia­logue that give tex­ture to the death-obsessed jour­neys from home and back to it. All That Fall received crit­i­cal acclaim, but the lat­er radio play just above, the next year’s 45-minute Embers, found a more mixed recep­tion — to the delight, one imag­ines, of most Beck­ett fans, who tend to pre­fer the divi­sive stuff to an agreed-upon canon any­way.

Built out of two mono­logues, a dia­logue, and the sounds of the sea, Embers’ “rather ragged” script (in the words of Beck­ett him­self, who lat­er took the blame for the“too dif­fi­cult” text) presents us with an inar­tic­u­late pro­tag­o­nist who leaves us with many more ques­tions than answers. But just as in the work acknowl­edged as Beck­et­t’s best, the ques­tions we come away with send us in more inter­est­ing direc­tions than do the answers pro­vid­ed in main­stream radio dra­ma — or in main­stream any­thing else, for that mat­ter. And amid all this writ­ing for tape rather than stage, what not­ed work did he come with in 1958 for the stage? Why, Krap­p’s Last Tape, of course.

Samuel Beck­et­t’s radio plays avail­able online:

Relat­ed Con­tent:

Samuel Beck­ett Directs His Absur­dist Play Wait­ing for Godot (1985)

Mon­ster­piece The­ater Presents Wait­ing for Elmo, Calls BS on Samuel Beck­ett

Rare Audio: Samuel Beck­ett Reads Two Poems From His Nov­el Watt

Col­in Mar­shall writes on cities, lan­guage, Asia, and men’s style. He’s at work on a book about Los Ange­les, A Los Ange­les Primer, and the video series The City in Cin­e­maFol­low him on Twit­ter at @colinmarshall or on Face­book.

Nietzsche, Wittgenstein & Sartre Explained with Monty Python-Style Animations by The School of Life

Angst. Nau­sea. Selb­stüber­win­dung. All, sure­ly, words we’ve used before, but have we paid atten­tion to their prop­er philo­soph­i­cal con­texts? The well-known and wide­ly-read philoso­phers Lud­wig Wittgen­stein, Jean-Paul Sartre, and Friedrich Niet­zsche used those words and oth­ers in very spe­cif­ic ways to express con­cepts essen­tial to their cer­tain­ly eccen­tric but even more cer­tain­ly impor­tant philo­soph­i­cal writ­ings. These brief, Alain de Bot­ton-nar­rat­ed video primers from The School of Life’s series on phi­los­o­phy will get you start­ed on com­ing to grips with just what these 19th- and 20th-cen­tu­ry thinkers had to tell us about our own lives.

The new video on Wittgen­stein con­cen­trates on its sub­jec­t’s life­long grap­pling with the prob­lems of lin­guis­tic com­mu­ni­ca­tion, from his first con­clu­sion that “lan­guage works by trig­ger­ing with­in us pic­tures of how things are in the world” to his sec­ond that “lan­guage is like a kind of tool that we use to play dif­fer­ent ‘games.’ ” The video on Sartre deals with the exis­ten­tial­ist’s con­tentions that “things are weird­er than we think,” that “we are free,” that “we should­n’t live in bad faith,” and that “we are free to dis­man­tle cap­i­tal­ism.” The video on Niet­zsche explains just what it means to become an Über­men­sch — a goal achiev­able, for exam­ple, by using your capac­i­ty for selb­stüber­win­dung to over­come your sklaven­moral.

Though watch­ing these philo­soph­ic primers might well make you ever so slight­ly con­ver­sant in Wittgen­stein, Sartre, and Niet­zsche, The School of Life has clear­ly craft­ed them (using goofy cut-up visu­als and a healthy rate of quips per minute) pri­mar­i­ly as an enter­tain­ing means of whet­ting your intel­lec­tu­al appetite. If you’d like to know more about these mod­ern philoso­phers, have a look at our links to oth­er relat­ed posts below. And if you’d like to go broad­er before you go deep­er, do watch the rest of the series, which will get you start­ed on every­one from Aris­to­tle and the Sto­ics to La Rochefou­cauld and Hei­deg­ger.

Relat­ed Con­tent:

140 Free Online Phi­los­o­phy Cours­es 

135 Free Phi­los­o­phy eBooks

Human, All Too Human: 3‑Part Doc­u­men­tary Pro­files Niet­zsche, Hei­deg­ger & Sartre

A Guide to Hap­pi­ness: Alain de Bot­ton Shows How Six Great Philoso­phers Can Change Your Life

Down­load Wal­ter Kaufmann’s Lec­tures on Niet­zsche, Kierkegaard, Sartre & Mod­ern Thought (1960)

Bertrand Rus­sell on His Stu­dent Lud­wig Wittgen­stein: Man of Genius or Mere­ly an Eccen­tric?

Lud­wig Wittgenstein’s Trac­ta­tus Gets Adapt­ed Into an Avant-Garde Com­ic Opera

Col­in Mar­shall writes on cities, lan­guage, Asia, and men’s style. He’s at work on a book about Los Ange­les, A Los Ange­les Primer, and the video series The City in Cin­e­maFol­low him on Twit­ter at @colinmarshall or on Face­book.

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