The Theater Dictionary: A Free Video Guide to Theatre Lingo

It’s 11 o’clock. Do you know where your show­stop­pers are? Or, more to the point, do you know why a musi­cal-com­e­dy writ­ing team seeks to ori­ent its show­stop­ping num­ber at “eleven o’clock”?

The The­ater Devel­op­ment Fund’s The­atre Dic­tio­nary is an ongo­ing attempt to define and doc­u­ment the­ater terms for both the rab­ble and any bud­ding prac­ti­tion­ers who’ve yet to mas­ter the lin­go.

Each term is accom­pa­nied by a loopy slap­dash skit. Not all of the per­form­ers exhib­it the pedi­gree Veron­i­ca J. Kuehn and Nick Kohn of Avenue Q bring to “Eleven O’Clock Num­ber,” above, but cast­ing admin­is­tra­tors and tick­et booth reps in star­ring roles lend a homey egal­i­tar­i­an­ism, such as when stu­dents from the Yale School of Drama’s Depart­ment of Dra­matur­gy and Dra­mat­ic Crit­i­cism are giv­en free license to explore the ori­gins of “vom.”

(This loosey goosey approach also allows for uncred­it­ed appear­ances by oth­er the­atri­cal tropes—the marathon rehearsals where pop­corn con­sti­tutes lunch and one actor repeat­ed­ly com­plains that his work has been insuf­fi­cient­ly acknowl­edged.)

A “What Does This Word Mean” tab for each term anchors the video silli­ness, pro­vid­ing his­tor­i­cal and anec­do­tal con­text. It’s in keep­ing with the Dictionary’s greater goal of bring­ing the­ater to the peo­ple, let­ting every­one play with the toys.

Some of the def­i­n­i­tions are prac­ti­cal short­hand…

Oth­ers are couched in long­time, pos­si­bly archa­ic the­ater lore…

I’d exer­cise cau­tion with some of this lin­go. Even though many of these terms are born of prac­ti­cal­i­ty, overus­ing them may cause oth­ers to view you as the most obnox­ious of self-declared Triple Threats, the kid in the com­e­dy-tragedy mask sweat­shirt, prone to belt­ing out the entire sound­track of CATS at the slight­est provo­ca­tion. (“Thanks, 5!!!”)

Some of these terms have unex­pect­ed crossover appeal, most recent­ly Ghost Light, above. Know­ing the mean­ing of the term will help you bet­ter appre­ci­ate the pow­er of the Ghost­light Project, a post-elec­tion com­ing togeth­er of the­ater artists and audi­ences in defense and sup­port of vul­ner­a­ble com­mu­ni­ties.

You can browse the The­ater Dic­tio­nary com­plete glos­sary here or watch the videos on TDF’s Youtube chan­nel.

The The­ater Dictionary’s FAQ con­tains infor­ma­tion on how pro­fes­sion­al the­atre com­pa­nies and orga­ni­za­tions and col­lege-lev­el the­atre pro­grams can apply to con­tribute a video.

Relat­ed Con­tent:

100,000+ Won­der­ful Pieces of The­ater Ephemera Dig­i­tized by The New York Pub­lic Library

Young Orson Welles Directs “Voodoo Mac­beth,” the First Shake­speare Pro­duc­tion With An All-Black Cast: Footage from 1936

Take a “Breath” and Watch Samuel Beckett’s One-Minute Play

Ayun Hal­l­i­day is an author, illus­tra­tor, the­ater mak­er and Chief Pri­ma­tol­o­gist of the East Vil­lage Inky zine.  Her play Zam­boni Godot is open­ing in New York City in March 2017. Fol­low her @AyunHalliday.

Carl Sagan Predicts the Decline of America: Unable to Know “What’s True,” We Will Slide, “Without Noticing, Back into Superstition & Darkness” (1995)

Image by NASA, via Wiki­me­dia Com­mons

There have been many the­o­ries of how human his­to­ry works. Some, like Ger­man thinker G.W.F. Hegel, have thought of progress as inevitable. Oth­ers have embraced a more sta­t­ic view, full of “Great Men” and an immutable nat­ur­al order. Then we have the counter-Enlight­en­ment thinker Giambat­tista Vico. The 18th cen­tu­ry Neapoli­tan philoso­pher took human irra­tional­ism seri­ous­ly, and wrote about our ten­den­cy to rely on myth and metaphor rather than rea­son or nature. Vico’s most “rev­o­lu­tion­ary move,” wrote Isa­iah Berlin, “is to have denied the doc­trine of a time­less nat­ur­al law” that could be “known in prin­ci­ple to any man, at any time, any­where.”

Vico’s the­o­ry of his­to­ry includ­ed inevitable peri­ods of decline (and heav­i­ly influ­enced the his­tor­i­cal think­ing of James Joyce and Friedrich Niet­zsche). He describes his con­cept “most col­or­ful­ly,” writes Alexan­der Bert­land at the Inter­net Ency­clo­pe­dia of Phi­los­o­phy, “when he gives this axiom”:

Men first felt neces­si­ty then look for util­i­ty, next attend to com­fort, still lat­er amuse them­selves with plea­sure, thence grow dis­solute in lux­u­ry, and final­ly go mad and waste their sub­stance.

The descrip­tion may remind us of Shakespeare’s “Sev­en Ages of Man.” But for Vico, Bert­land notes, every decline her­alds a new begin­ning. His­to­ry is “pre­sent­ed clear­ly as a cir­cu­lar motion in which nations rise and fall… over and over again.”

Two-hun­dred and twen­ty years after Vico’s 1774 death, Carl Sagan—another thinker who took human irra­tional­ism seriously—published his book The Demon Haunt­ed World, show­ing how much our every­day think­ing derives from metaphor, mythol­o­gy, and super­sti­tion. He also fore­saw a future in which his nation, the U.S., would fall into a peri­od of ter­ri­ble decline:

I have a fore­bod­ing of an Amer­i­ca in my chil­dren’s or grand­chil­dren’s time — when the Unit­ed States is a ser­vice and infor­ma­tion econ­o­my; when near­ly all the man­u­fac­tur­ing indus­tries have slipped away to oth­er coun­tries; when awe­some tech­no­log­i­cal pow­ers are in the hands of a very few, and no one rep­re­sent­ing the pub­lic inter­est can even grasp the issues; when the peo­ple have lost the abil­i­ty to set their own agen­das or knowl­edge­ably ques­tion those in author­i­ty; when, clutch­ing our crys­tals and ner­vous­ly con­sult­ing our horo­scopes, our crit­i­cal fac­ul­ties in decline, unable to dis­tin­guish between what feels good and what’s true, we slide, almost with­out notic­ing, back into super­sti­tion and dark­ness…

Sagan believed in progress and, unlike Vico, thought that “time­less nat­ur­al law” is dis­cov­er­able with the tools of sci­ence. And yet, he feared “the can­dle in the dark” of sci­ence would be snuffed out by “the dumb­ing down of Amer­i­ca…”

…most evi­dent in the slow decay of sub­stan­tive con­tent in the enor­mous­ly influ­en­tial media, the 30 sec­ond sound bites (now down to 10 sec­onds or less), low­est com­mon denom­i­na­tor pro­gram­ming, cred­u­lous pre­sen­ta­tions on pseu­do­science and super­sti­tion, but espe­cial­ly a kind of cel­e­bra­tion of igno­rance…

Sagan died in 1996, a year after he wrote these words. No doubt he would have seen the fine art of dis­tract­ing and mis­in­form­ing peo­ple through social media as a late, per­haps ter­mi­nal, sign of the demise of sci­en­tif­ic think­ing. His pas­sion­ate advo­ca­cy for sci­ence edu­ca­tion stemmed from his con­vic­tion that we must and can reverse the down­ward trend.

As he says in the poet­ic excerpt from Cos­mos above, “I believe our future depends pow­er­ful­ly on how well we under­stand this cos­mos in which we float like a mote of dust in the morn­ing sky.”

When Sagan refers to “our” under­stand­ing of sci­ence, he does not mean, as he says above, a “very few” tech­nocrats, aca­d­e­mics, and research sci­en­tists. Sagan invest­ed so much effort in pop­u­lar books and tele­vi­sion because he believed that all of us need­ed to use the tools of sci­ence: “a way of think­ing,” not just “a body of knowl­edge.” With­out sci­en­tif­ic think­ing, we can­not grasp the most impor­tant issues we all joint­ly face.

We’ve arranged a civ­i­liza­tion in which most cru­cial ele­ments pro­found­ly depend on sci­ence and tech­nol­o­gy. We have also arranged things so that almost no one under­stands sci­ence and tech­nol­o­gy. This is a pre­scrip­tion for dis­as­ter. We might get away with it for a while, but soon­er or lat­er this com­bustible mix­ture of igno­rance and pow­er is going to blow up in our faces.

Sagan’s 1995 pre­dic­tions are now being her­ald­ed as prophet­ic. As Direc­tor of Pub­lic Radio International’s Sci­ence Fri­day, Charles Bergquist recent­ly tweet­ed, “Carl Sagan had either a time machine or a crys­tal ball.” Matt Novak cau­tions against falling back into super­sti­tious think­ing in our praise of Demon Haunt­ed World. After all, he says, “the ‘accu­ra­cy’ of pre­dic­tions is often a Rorschach test” and “some of Sagan’s con­cerns” in oth­er parts of the book “sound rather quaint.”

Of course Sagan could­n’t pre­dict the future, but he did have a very informed, rig­or­ous under­stand­ing of the issues of twen­ty years ago, and his pre­dic­tion extrap­o­lates from trends that have only con­tin­ued to deep­en. If the tools of sci­ence education—like most of the coun­try’s wealth—end up the sole prop­er­ty of an elite, the rest of us will fall back into a state of gross igno­rance, “super­sti­tion and dark­ness.” Whether we might come back around again to progress, as Giambat­tista Vico thought, is a mat­ter of sheer con­jec­ture. But per­haps there’s still time to reverse the trend before the worst arrives. As Novak writes, “here’s hop­ing Sagan, one of the smartest peo­ple of the 20th cen­tu­ry, was wrong.”

via Charles Bergquist

Relat­ed Con­tent:

Carl Sagan Presents His “Baloney Detec­tion Kit”: 8 Tools for Skep­ti­cal Think­ing

Carl Sagan & the Dalai Lama Meet in 1991 and Dis­cuss When Sci­ence Can Answer Big Ques­tions Bet­ter Than Reli­gion

An Intro­duc­tion to Hegel’s Phi­los­o­phy of His­to­ry: The Road to Progress Runs First Through Dark Times

Philoso­pher Richard Rorty Chill­ing­ly Pre­dicts the Results of the 2016 Elec­tion … Back in 1998

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

A Free Online Course on Dante’s Divine Comedy from Yale University

Over the years, we’ve fea­tured the many draw­ings that have adorned the pages of Dan­te’s Divine Com­e­dy, from medieval times to mod­ern. Illus­tra­tions by Bot­ti­cel­li, Gus­tave Doré, William Blake and Mœbius, they’ve all got­ten their due. Less has been said here, how­ev­er, about the actu­al text itself. Per­haps the most impor­tant work in Ital­ian lit­er­a­ture, Dante Alighieri (1265–1321) wrote the Divine Com­e­dy (con­sist­ing of Infer­no, Pur­ga­to­rio, and Par­adiso) between the years 1308 and 1320. And that text is large­ly the sub­ject of Dante in Trans­la­tion, a free online course taught by Yale’s Giuseppe Maz­zot­ta. The course descrip­tion reads as fol­lows:

The course is an intro­duc­tion to Dante and his cul­tur­al milieu through a crit­i­cal read­ing of the Divine Com­e­dy and select­ed minor works (Vita nuo­va, Con­viv­io, De vul­gari elo­quen­tia, Epis­tle to Can­grande). An analy­sis of Dan­te’s auto­bi­og­ra­phy, the Vita nuo­va, estab­lish­es the poet­ic and polit­i­cal cir­cum­stances of the Com­e­dy’s com­po­si­tion. Read­ings of Infer­no, Pur­ga­to­ry and Par­adise seek to sit­u­ate Dan­te’s work with­in the intel­lec­tu­al and social con­text of the late Mid­dle Ages, with spe­cial atten­tion paid to polit­i­cal, philo­soph­i­cal and the­o­log­i­cal con­cerns. Top­ics in the Divine Com­e­dy explored over the course of the semes­ter include the rela­tion­ship between ethics and aes­thet­ics; love and knowl­edge; and exile and his­to­ry.

You can watch the 24 lec­tures from the course above, or find them on YouTube and iTunes in video and audio for­mats. To get more infor­ma­tion on the course, includ­ing the syl­labus, vis­it this Yale web­site.

Pri­ma­ry texts used in this course include:

  • Dante. Divine Com­e­dy. Trans­lat­ed by John D. Sin­clair. New York: Oxford Uni­ver­si­ty Press, 1968.
  • Dante. Vita Nuo­va. Trans­lat­ed by Mark Musa. Bloom­ing­ton: Indi­ana Uni­ver­si­ty Press, 1973.

Dante in Trans­la­tion will be added to our list of Free Online Lit­er­a­ture cours­es, a sub­set of our col­lec­tion, 1,700 Free Online Cours­es from Top Uni­ver­si­ties.

If you would like to sign up for Open Culture’s free email newslet­ter, please find it here. Or fol­low our posts on Threads, Face­book, BlueSky or Mastodon.

If you would like to sup­port the mis­sion of Open Cul­ture, con­sid­er mak­ing a dona­tion to our site. It’s hard to rely 100% on ads, and your con­tri­bu­tions will help us con­tin­ue pro­vid­ing the best free cul­tur­al and edu­ca­tion­al mate­ri­als to learn­ers every­where. You can con­tribute through Pay­Pal, Patre­on, and Ven­mo (@openculture). Thanks!

Relat­ed Con­tent:

Dante’s Divine Com­e­dy: A Free Course from Colum­bia Uni­ver­si­ty

William Blake’s Last Work: Illus­tra­tions for Dante’s Divine Com­e­dy (1827)

Botticelli’s 92 Illus­tra­tions of Dante’s Divine Com­e­dy

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

Hear Dante’s Infer­no Read Aloud by Influ­en­tial Poet & Trans­la­tor John Cia­r­di (1954)

Physics from Hell: How Dante’s Infer­no Inspired Galileo’s Physics

Watch L’Inferno (1911), Italy’s First Fea­ture Film and Per­haps the Finest Adap­ta­tion of Dante’s Clas­sic

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Why Time Seems to Speed Up as We Get Older: What the Research Says

No mat­ter what age we’ve attained, we can think back to child­hood and feel just how ago­niz­ing­ly long it then took for Christ­mas to come, for the school day to end, for a tray of cook­ies to come out of the oven. Mys­te­ri­ous as this appar­ent change in the speed of time may at first seem, it actu­al­ly makes a kind of intu­itive sense: one day rep­re­sents, at the age of fifty, a tenth of the pro­por­tion of the time we’ve expe­ri­enced so far than it does at the age of five. As our time­line length­ens, our per­cep­tion of cer­tain fixed units on that time­line — a minute, a year, a decade — short­ens.

But there are oth­er fac­tors in play as well. “Indi­vid­ual per­cep­tions of time are strong­ly influ­enced by our lev­el of focus, phys­i­cal state and mood,” write The Inde­pen­dent’s Muire­ann Irish and Claire O’Callaghan. “Just as ‘a watched pot nev­er boils,’ when we are con­cen­trat­ing on an event, time occa­sion­al­ly appears to pass more slow­ly than usu­al. This is also the case when we’re bored; time can seem to drag end­less­ly.” This might well con­tribute to the child­hood per­cep­tion of slow time, since kids have to spend so many of their days in the class­room, an envi­ron­ment that strikes most of them as express­ly designed to induce bore­dom.

In addi­tion, accord­ing to Sci­en­tif­ic Amer­i­can, “our brain encodes new expe­ri­ences, but not famil­iar ones, into mem­o­ry, and our ret­ro­spec­tive judg­ment of time is based on how many new mem­o­ries we cre­ate over a cer­tain peri­od. In oth­er words, the more new mem­o­ries we build on a week­end get­away, the longer that trip will seem in hind­sight.” The rel­a­tive­ly high fre­quen­cy of dis­tinc­tive mem­o­ries cre­at­ed ear­li­er in life and low fre­quen­cy of dis­tinc­tive mem­o­ries cre­at­ed lat­er in life means that “our ear­ly years tend to be rel­a­tive­ly over­rep­re­sent­ed in our auto­bi­o­graph­i­cal mem­o­ry and, on reflec­tion, seem to have last­ed longer.”

You can see some of the ideas and the­o­ries behind this almost uni­ver­sal­ly agreed-on sense that time speeds up as we grow old­er in the video from the Nation­al Geo­graph­ic Chan­nel show Brain Games above. It also intro­duces a few new ones into the mix, con­nect­ing them all with how much ener­gy the brain uses to record which kinds of expe­ri­ences, sug­gest­ing that even a sense as fun­da­men­tal as the one we use to mark time has a great deal more com­plex­i­ty to it than we under­stand. Ulti­mate­ly, though, it all comes back to the words of no less a thinker on rel­a­tiv­i­ty than Albert Ein­stein: “Put your hand on a hot stove for a minute, and it seems like an hour. Sit with a pret­ty girl for an hour, and it seems like a minute.”

Relat­ed Con­tent:

How Clocks Changed Human­i­ty For­ev­er, Mak­ing Us Mas­ters and Slaves of Time

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

The Secret Pow­ers of Time

Free Online Psy­chol­o­gy & Neu­ro­science Cours­es

Based in Seoul, Col­in Mar­shall writes and broad­casts on cities and cul­ture. He’s at work on a book about Los Ange­les, A Los Ange­les Primer, the video series The City in Cin­e­ma, the crowd­fund­ed jour­nal­ism project Where Is the City of the Future?, and the Los Ange­les Review of Books’ Korea Blog. Fol­low him on Twit­ter at @colinmarshall or on Face­book.

Read Prince’s First Interview, Printed in His High School Newspaper (1976)

Two years before Prince released his first album For You and before he began his ascent into the funk-rock-pop pan­theon, he was a very tal­ent­ed, very ambi­tious, and occa­sion­al­ly frus­trat­ed high school senior at Cen­tral High in Min­neapo­lis. That’s where the school news­pa­per got him to sit for an inter­view, more of a char­ac­ter sketch, to talk about his hopes for a musi­cal career. You can read it below.

If Prince was charis­mat­ic enough to be picked up on the high school paper’s radar, he doesn’t let it show in the arti­cle.

Most­ly, he rues the loca­tion of his home town.

“I think it is very hard for a band to make it in this state, even if they’re good. Main­ly because there aren’t any big record com­pa­nies or stu­dios in this state. I real­ly feel that if we would have lived in Los Ange­les or New York or some oth­er big city, we would have got­ten over by now.”

By the ‘80s, of course, he had made Min­neapo­lis the cen­ter of his own musi­cal empire, and Pais­ley Park became his home, com­pound, and music stu­dio, the place where he would even­tu­al­ly pass away.

But he did like high school, accord­ing to him, because the music teach­ers let him do his own thing. Already a mul­ti-instru­men­tal­ist, the arti­cle finds Prince just start­ing to explore singing. This might be the most sur­pris­ing part of the piece. Prince’s range and the amount of char­ac­ter (and lit­er­al­ly char­ac­ters, male, female, or a mix) in his songs would lead you to believe that his voice came first.

Maybe some of the humil­i­ty came from his sta­tus in the high school band. The name Grand Cen­tral was inspired by Prince’s obses­sion with Gra­ham Cen­tral Sta­tion, whose bass play­er Lar­ry Gra­ham would lat­er join Prince’s ‘90s band and also con­vert him to become a Jehovah’s Wit­ness. Com­pet­ing for atten­tion was Mor­ris Day and André Cymone, who Prince would write for and pro­duce after he got his record con­tract. It was friend­ly but seri­ous com­pe­ti­tion.

To round out the arti­cle, Prince—who plays by ear—gets asked if he has any advice for fel­low stu­dents: “I advise any­one who wants to learn gui­tar to get a teacher unless they are very musi­cal­ly inclined. One should learn all their scales too. That is very impor­tant.”

You can read the full arti­cle below:

Nel­son Finds It “Hard To Become Known”

“I play with Grand Cen­tral Cor­po­ra­tion. I’ve been play­ing with them for two years,” Prince Nel­son, senior at Cen­tral, said. Prince start­ed play­ing piano at age sev­en and gui­tar when he got out of eighth grade.

Prince was born in Min­neapo­lis. When asked, he said, “I was born here, unfor­tu­nate­ly.” Why? “I think it is very hard for a band to make it in this state, even if they’re good. Main­ly because there aren’t any big record com­pa­nies or stu­dios in this state. I real­ly feel that if we would have lived in Los Ange­les or New York or some oth­er big city, we would have got­ten over by now.”

He likes Cen­tral a great deal, because his music teach­ers let him work on his own. He now is work­ing with Mr. Bick­ham, a music teacher at Cen­tral, but has been work­ing with Mrs. Doep­kes.

He plays sev­er­al instru­ments, such as gui­tar, bass, all key­boards, and drums. He also sings some­times, which he picked up recent­ly. He played sax­o­phone in sev­enth grade but gave it up. He regrets he did. He quit play­ing sax when school end­ed one sum­mer. He nev­er had time to prac­tice sax any­more when he went back to school. He does not play in the school band. Why? “I real­ly don’t have time to make the con­certs.”

Prince has a broth­er that goes to Cen­tral whose name is Duane Nel­son, who is more ath­let­i­cal­ly enthu­si­as­tic. He plays on the bas­ket­ball team and played on the foot­ball team. Duane is also a senior.

Prince plays by ear. “I’ve had about two lessons, but they didn’t help much. I think you’ll always be able to do what your ear tells you, so just think how great you’d be with lessons also,” he said.

“I advise any­one who wants to learn gui­tar to get a teacher unless they are very musi­cal­ly inclined. One should learn all their scales too. That is very impor­tant,” he con­tin­ued.

Prince would also like to say that his band is in the process of record­ing an album con­tain­ing songs they have com­posed. It should be released dur­ing the ear­ly part of the sum­mer.

“Even­tu­al­ly I would like to go to col­lege and start lessons again when I’m much old­er.”

via That Eric Alper

Relat­ed Con­tent:

Hear Prince and Miles Davis’ Rarely-Heard Musi­cal Col­lab­o­ra­tions

Prince Plays Mind-Blow­ing Gui­tar Solos On “While My Gui­tar Gen­tly Weeps” and “Amer­i­can Woman”

Prince (RIP) Per­forms Ear­ly Hits in a 1982 Con­cert: “Con­tro­ver­sy,” “I Wan­na Be Your Lover” & More

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.

George Orwell Explains How “Newspeak” Works, the Official Language of His Totalitarian Dystopia in 1984

As we not­ed yes­ter­day, and you like­ly noticed else­where, George Orwell’s clas­sic dystopi­an nov­el 1984 shot to the top of the charts—or the Ama­zon best­seller list—in the wake of “alter­na­tive facts,” the lat­est Orwellian coinage for bald-faced lying. The ridicu­lous phrase imme­di­ate­ly pro­duced a bar­rage of par­o­dies, hash­tags, and memes; healthy ways of vent­ing rage and dis­be­lief. But maybe there is a dan­ger there too, let­ting such words sink into the dis­course, lest they become what Orwell called “Newspeak.”

It’s easy to hear “Newspeak,” the “offi­cial lan­guage of Ocea­nia,” as “news speak.” This is per­fect­ly rea­son­able, but it gives us the impres­sion that it relates strict­ly to its appear­ance in mass media. Orwell obvi­ous­ly intend­ed the ambiguity—it is the lan­guage of offi­cial pro­pa­gan­da after all—but the port­man­teau actu­al­ly comes from the words “new speak”—and it has been cre­at­ed to super­sede “Old­speak,” Orwell writes, “or Stan­dard Eng­lish, as we should call it.”

In oth­er words, Newspeak isn’t just a set of buzz­words, but the delib­er­ate replace­ment of one set of words in the lan­guage for anoth­er. The tran­si­tion is still in progress in the fic­tion­al 1984, but is expect­ed to be com­plet­ed “by about the year 2050.” Stu­dents of his­to­ry and lin­guis­tics will rec­og­nize that this is a ludi­crous­ly accel­er­at­ed pace for the com­plete replace­ment of one vocab­u­lary and syn­tax by anoth­er. (We might call Orwell’s Eng­lish Social­ists “accel­er­a­tionsts.”) Newspeak appears not through his­to­ry or social change but through the will of the Par­ty.

The pur­pose of Newspeak was not only to pro­vide a medi­um of expres­sion for the world-view and men­tal habits prop­er to the devo­tees of Ing­soc, but to make all oth­er modes of thought impos­si­ble.

It’s entire­ly plau­si­ble that “alter­na­tive facts,” or “alt­facts,” would fit right into the “Ninth and Tenth Edi­tions of the Newspeak Dic­tio­nary,” though it might eas­i­ly fall out of favor and “be sup­pressed lat­er.” No telling if it would make the cut for “the final, per­fect­ed ver­sion” of Newspeak, “as embod­ied in the Eleventh Edi­tion of the Dic­tio­nary.”

These quo­ta­tions come not from the main text of 1984 but from an appen­dix called “The Prin­ci­ples of Newspeak,” which you can hear read at the top of the post. Here, Orwell dis­pas­sion­ate­ly dis­cuss­es the “per­fect­ed” form of Newspeak, includ­ing its gram­mat­i­cal “pecu­liar­i­ties,” such as “an almost com­plete inter­change­abil­i­ty between dif­fer­ent parts of speech” (an issue cur­rent trans­la­tors have encoun­tered). He then intro­duces its vocab­u­lary, divid­ed into “three dis­tinct class­es,” A, B, and C.

The A class con­tains “every­day life” words that have been mutat­ed with cum­ber­some pre­fix­es and inten­si­fiers: “uncold” for warm, “plus­cold and dou­ble­plus­cold” for “very cold” and “superla­tive­ly cold.” The B class con­tains the com­pound words: sin­is­ter dou­ble­think coinages like “joy­camp (forced-labor camp)” and “Mini­pax (Min­istry of Peace, i.e. Min­istry of War).” These, Orwell explains, are sim­i­lar to “the char­ac­ter­is­tic fea­tures of polit­i­cal lan­guage… in total­i­tar­i­an coun­tries” of the ear­ly 20th cen­tu­ry.

The cit­i­zen of Ocea­nia, Orwell tells us, must have “an out­look sim­i­lar to that of the ancient Hebrew who knew, with­out know­ing much else, that all nations oth­er than his own wor­shipped ‘false gods’.… His sex­u­al life, for exam­ple, was entire­ly reg­u­lat­ed by the two Newspeak words sex­crime (sex­u­al immoral­i­ty) and good­sex (chasti­ty).” The lat­ter includ­ed only “inter­course between man and wife, for the sole pur­pose of beget­ting chil­dren, and with­out phys­i­cal plea­sure on the part of he woman: all else was sex­crime.

The C class of words may be the most insid­i­ous of all. While it “con­sist­ed entire­ly of sci­en­tif­ic and tech­ni­cal terms” that “resem­bled the sci­en­tif­ic terms in use today,” the Par­ty took care “to define them rigid­ly and strip them of unde­sir­able mean­ings.” For exam­ple,

There was no vocab­u­lary express­ing the func­tion of Sci­ence as a habit of mind, or a method of thought irre­spec­tive of its par­tic­u­lar branch­es. There was, indeed, no word for ‘Sci­ence,’ any mean­ing that it could pos­si­bly bear being already suf­fi­cient­ly cov­ered by the word Ing­soc.

Orwell then goes on to dis­cuss the dif­fi­cul­ty of trans­lat­ing the work of the past into Newspeak. He uses as an exam­ple the Dec­la­ra­tion of Inde­pen­dence: “All mans are equal was a pos­si­ble Newspeak sen­tence,” but only in that “it expressed a pal­pa­ble untruth—i.e. that all men are of equal size, weight, or strength.” As for the rest of Thomas Jefferson’s rous­ing pre­am­ble, “it would have been quite impos­si­ble to ren­der this into Newspeak,” writes Orwell. “The near­est one could come to doing so would be to swal­low the whole pas­sage up in the sin­gle word crime­think.”

Relat­ed Con­tent:  

George Orwell’s 1984 Is Now the #1 Best­selling Book on Ama­zon

Han­nah Arendt Explains How Pro­pa­gan­da Uses Lies to Erode All Truth & Moral­i­ty: Insights from The Ori­gins of Total­i­tar­i­an­ism

Hux­ley to Orwell: My Hell­ish Vision of the Future is Bet­ter Than Yours (1949)

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

81-Year-Old Man Walks into a Guitar Shop & Starts Playing a Sublime Solo: Ignore the Talents of the Elderly at Your Own Peril

Last spring, I caught a Who con­cert in Oak­land, Cal­i­for­nia, on what hap­pened to be songwriter/guitarist Pete Town­shend’s 71st birth­day. Five songs into their set, the band played “My Generation”–yes, the song best known for the line “I hope I die before I get old”–and I could­n’t help but think: Town­shend’s play­ing with more inspi­ra­tion now than when I first saw The Who play in 1982. Bio­log­i­cal­ly, he’s sup­posed to be over the hill. Musi­cal­ly, he’s still play­ing a very fine rock gui­tar.

The same thought crossed my mind at Desert Trip, the Octo­ber mega con­cert held in Indio, Cal­i­for­nia. Fea­tur­ing The Rolling Stones, The Who (again), Paul McCart­ney, Neil Young and Roger Waters–in short, musi­cians all over the age of 70–Desert Trip became more col­lo­qui­al­ly known as “Old­chel­la.”

Even, Mick Jag­ger called it “the come and see us before we die tour.” And yet. And yet. Despite the jokes, they’re all still play­ing with verve, putting on tight, rous­ing shows. (I’ll admit that Bob Dylan is the notable excep­tion.)

So what’s the take­away? We can’t stop the clock. Even­tu­al­ly, we get old. Noth­ing we can do about that. But if you’ve got your health, if you’ve got the desire, if you’ve spent decades refin­ing your craft, then there’s no rea­son you can’t still do great work. That applies to musi­cians. (Wit­ness 81-year-old Bob Wood above). It also applies to oth­er parts of life, includ­ing our pro­fes­sion­al lives. Our cul­ture hasti­ly writes off the tal­ents and accu­mu­lat­ed expe­ri­ence of an entire gen­er­a­tion of peo­ple. But stop for a sec­ond. Watch the video above and extrap­o­late it to oth­er parts of life. Then think about all that gets need­less­ly lost.

If you would like to sign up for Open Culture’s free email newslet­ter, please find it here. Or fol­low our posts on Threads, Face­book, BlueSky or Mastodon.

If you would like to sup­port the mis­sion of Open Cul­ture, con­sid­er mak­ing a dona­tion to our site. It’s hard to rely 100% on ads, and your con­tri­bu­tions will help us con­tin­ue pro­vid­ing the best free cul­tur­al and edu­ca­tion­al mate­ri­als to learn­ers every­where. You can con­tribute through Pay­Pal, Patre­on, and Ven­mo (@openculture). Thanks!

Relat­ed Con­tent:

How to Age Grace­ful­ly: No Mat­ter What Your Age, You Can Get Life Advice from Your Elders

This Is Your Brain on Exer­cise: Why Phys­i­cal Exer­cise (Not Men­tal Games) Might Be the Best Way to Keep Your Mind Sharp

Demen­tia Patients Find Some Eter­nal Youth in the Sounds of AC/DC

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Hear Jeremy Irons Read the Poetry of T.S. Eliot (Available for a Limited Time)

We may have come near­ly to the end of Jan­u­ary already, but we can still call 2017 a new year — at least until we’ve lis­tened to the poet­ry of T.S. Eliot to prop­er­ly ring it in. “There’s sure­ly no bet­ter poet than Eliot to help us con­front the prob­lem of find­ing mean­ing in a world where old cer­tain­ties are being trou­bled,” says Martha Kear­ney, host of BBC Radio 4’s New Year’s series cel­e­brat­ing his work.

“Our lives are so busy now that we need some help from the sea­son to just take stock, both of where we’ve been and where we might like to go to,” says the first episode’s guest, nov­el­ist Jeanette Win­ter­son. We need to inhab­it “that inward moment that poet­ry’s so good at,” and that Eliot made entire­ly his own. The bulk of that broad­cast com­pris­es a read­ing of Eliot’s “The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock” by Jere­my Irons, sure­ly one of the poet­’s ide­al liv­ing inter­preters. (Note: you can stream all of the episodes in the series here.)

Irons reads more in the sec­ond, which includes a dis­cus­sion with Win­ter­son and Antho­ny Julius, Chair of Law and the Arts and Uni­ver­si­ty Col­lege Lon­don, about the open­ing of “Geron­tion” and the “ugly ref­er­ences” made in Eliot’s oth­er poems. The dis­cus­sion in the third, in which Irons takes on Eliot’s immor­tal “The Waste Land,” looks for the source of the pow­er of its “poet­ry of frag­ments” with for­mer Arch­bish­op of Can­ter­bury Rowan Williams and Scots Makar (some­thing like a Poet Lau­re­ate of Scot­land) Jack­ie Kay.

“The Waste Land” con­tin­ues as a sub­ject in part four, as its guest, the actress Fiona Shaw, has drawn acclaim for her own read­ing of the poem, but the Irons sec­tion of the broad­cast offers var­i­ous oth­er selec­tions, includ­ing “The Hol­low Men,” “Ash Wednes­day,” and “Jour­ney of the Magi.” Final­ly, in part five, Kear­ney and Rory Stew­art, Mem­ber of Par­lia­ment and man of let­ters, talk about and hear Irons deliv­er Eliot’s “Four Quar­tets,” whose lan­guage Stew­art mem­o­rized on a walk through Nepal and which he lat­er used dur­ing his polit­i­cal cam­paign.

This poet­ic, con­ver­sa­tion­al, and per­for­ma­tive radio feast comes to near­ly four hours (lis­ten to all of the episodes here), but you’ve got only the next six days to stream it. Oth­er­wise you’ll have to wait until Radio 4’s next, as yet announced cal­en­dar-appro­pri­ate cel­e­bra­tion of Eliot. They’ve used his work to refresh audi­ences after a trou­bling year; per­haps they’ll use it again to get us through the cru­elest month of this one.

Relat­ed Con­tent:

T.S. Eliot Reads From “The Waste Land,” “The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock” & “The Hol­low Men”: His Apoc­a­lyp­tic Post WWI Poems

Lis­ten to T.S. Eliot Recite His Late Mas­ter­piece, the Four Quar­tets

Bob Dylan Reads From T.S. Eliot’s Great Mod­ernist Poem The Waste Land

Hear Alec Guin­ness (The Leg­end Behind Obi-Wan Keno­bi) Read T.S. Eliot’s Four Quar­tets & The Waste Land

Based in Seoul, Col­in Mar­shall writes and broad­casts on cities and cul­ture. He’s at work on a book about Los Ange­les, A Los Ange­les Primer, the video series The City in Cin­e­ma, the crowd­fund­ed jour­nal­ism project Where Is the City of the Future?, and the Los Ange­les Review of Books’ Korea Blog. Fol­low him on Twit­ter at @colinmarshall or on Face­book.

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