Two Haruki Murakami Stories Adapted into Short Films: Watch Attack on a Bakery (1982) and A Girl, She Is 100% (1983)

At this year’s Cannes Film Fes­ti­val, the Award for Best Screen­play went to Ryusuke Ham­aguchi’s Dri­ve My Car, an adap­ta­tion of a sto­ry by Haru­ki Muraka­mi. So did FIPRESCI Prize, the Prize of the Ecu­meni­cal Jury, and no small amount of crit­i­cal acclaim, sug­gest­ing that the code for trans­lat­ing Muraka­mi onto the screen might final­ly have been cracked. Every now and again over the past forty years, a bold film­mak­er has tak­en on the chal­lenge of turn­ing a work of that most world-famous Japan­ese nov­el­ist into a fea­ture. But until recent­ly, the results have for the most part not been received as espe­cial­ly con­se­quen­tial in and of them­selves.

In gen­er­al, short fic­tion tends to pro­duce more sat­is­fy­ing adap­ta­tions than full-fledged nov­els, and Murakami’s work seems not to be an excep­tion (as under­scored a few years ago by Kore­an auteur Lee Chang-dong’s Burn­ing). Ham­aguchi’s film spins some 40 pages into a run­ning time of near­ly three hours, doing the oppo­site of what oth­er Japan­ese film­mak­ers have done with Murakami’s short sto­ries. In 1982, Nao­to Yamakawa made one of them into Attack on a Bak­ery, a short film run­ning less than twen­ty min­utes; the fol­low­ing year, he made anoth­er into the even short­er A Girl, She is 100%, run­ning less than fif­teen. Today Muraka­mi fans every­where can watch them both on Youtube, com­plete with Eng­lish sub­ti­tles.

The mate­r­i­al will feel famil­iar to Eng­lish-lan­guage Muraka­mi read­ers. A main char­ac­ter of the sto­ry “The Sec­ond Bak­ery Attack” rem­i­nisces about a rob­bery he attempt­ed as a hun­gry young man that went com­i­cal­ly off the rails, in a man­ner sim­i­lar to the one in Yamakawa’s first short. (In 2010 “The Sec­ond Bak­ery Attack,” where­in the now-mar­ried nar­ra­tor robs a fast-food joint with his new bride, itself became a short film direct­ed by Car­los Cuarón, broth­er of Alfon­so.) Though “The Bak­ery Attack” has nev­er been offi­cial­ly pub­lished in Eng­lish, “On See­ing the 100% Per­fect Girl One Beau­ti­ful April Morn­ing” has, and it now stands as one of Murakami’s rep­re­sen­ta­tive short works in that lan­guage; it also, in the orig­i­nal, pro­vides the basis for A Girl, She Is 100%.

“She doesn’t stand out in any way,” Murakami’s nar­ra­tor says of the tit­u­lar fig­ure. “Her clothes are noth­ing spe­cial. The back of her hair is still bent out of shape from sleep. She isn’t young, either — must be near thir­ty, not even close to a ‘girl,’ prop­er­ly speak­ing. But still, I know from fifty yards away: She’s the 100% per­fect girl for me.” Yamakawa dra­ma­tizes a sim­i­lar fleet­ing encounter and the roman­tic spec­u­la­tions that res­onate in the man’s mind. Like the half-baked philo­soph­i­cal and polit­i­cal con­vic­tions of the would-be rob­bers, these inspire the direc­tor to the kind of visu­al and for­mal inven­tive­ness one would expect giv­en his back­ground in Godard and Scors­ese schol­ar­ship. But the only film­mak­er name-checked is Woody Allen, which fans will rec­og­nize as a char­ac­ter­is­tic Muraka­mi ref­er­ence. So as are the inclu­sions of Wag­n­er, D.H. Lawrence, jazz music — and of course, an unex­pect­ed cat.

Relat­ed Con­tent:

Read 12 Sto­ries By Haru­ki Muraka­mi Free Online

Dis­cov­er Haru­ki Murakami’s Adver­to­r­i­al Short Sto­ries: Rare Short-Short Fic­tion from the 1980s

Haru­ki Murakami’s Pas­sion for Jazz: Dis­cov­er the Novelist’s Jazz Playlist, Jazz Essay & Jazz Bar

A 3,350-Song Playlist of Music from Haru­ki Murakami’s Per­son­al Record Col­lec­tion

Mem­o­ran­da: Haru­ki Murakami’s World Recre­at­ed as a Clas­sic Adven­ture Video Game

Based in Seoul, Col­in Mar­shall writes and broad­casts on cities, lan­guage, and cul­ture. His projects include the Sub­stack newslet­ter Books on Cities, the book The State­less City: a Walk through 21st-Cen­tu­ry Los Ange­les and the video series The City in Cin­e­ma. Fol­low him on Twit­ter at @colinmarshall or on Face­book.

An 18-Year-Old Spends a Year Alone Building a Log Cabin in the Swedish Wilderness: Watch from Start to Finish

Hen­ry David Thore­au has at times been upbraid­ed by crit­ics for “everyone’s favorite incrim­i­nat­ing bio­graph­i­cal fac­toid,” writes Dono­van Hohn at The New Repub­lic: “Dur­ing the two years he spent at Walden Pond, his moth­er some­times did his laun­dry.” The author who became “America’s orig­i­nal nature boy “played at rugged self-suf­fi­cien­cy,” it is said, “while squat­ting on bor­rowed land, in a house built with a bor­rowed axe”; he played at rugged indi­vid­u­al­ism while rely­ing on friends and fam­i­ly to sup­port him.

Who did Erik Grankvist’s laun­dry, we might won­der, while he built a log cab­in alone dur­ing the year he record­ed in the edit­ed video above? Grankvist shows how, at 18, he “ven­tured out alone with only a back­pack full of sim­ple hand tools to actu­al­ize my dream… [to] build my own tra­di­tion­al off grid log cab­in by hand from the mate­ri­als of the Swedish wilder­ness. Just like our Fore­fa­thers did.” You may notice, or not, the clean­li­ness of Grankvist’s cloth­ing. You may won­der, “who washed his fore­fa­thers’ clothes?”…

Or, you might say, “this isn’t a video about laun­dry but about build­ing a log cab­in!” And you would be cor­rect. As an exper­i­ment in build­ing a log cab­in from scratch with (most­ly) just a few hand tools, it is an extra­or­di­nary doc­u­ment: “I had no pre­vi­ous expe­ri­ence in build­ing, gath­er­ing mate­ri­als or film­ing,” Grankvist writes. “So I start­ed study­ing myself the old arts and learn­ing from my grand­fa­ther and men­tor Åke Nils­son. I began to cut down trees and film with my phone, learn­ing as I go.”

The project real­ly picked up steam once Grankvist grad­u­at­ed high school, he writes, sug­gest­ing he did not actu­al­ly live full time in the woods but that some­one fed, housed, and clothed him while he worked. We see none of this in the video. We do see a trac­tor at one point, and Grankvist admits he’d rather the mod­ern extrav­a­gance have been a horse.

Does it ruin the mag­ic a lit­tle to won­der about the mun­dane details of the builder’s life — food, cloth­ing, health­care, etc. — while watch­ing him cut his own tim­ber, clear the land, build a stone foun­da­tion and, on top of it, a rus­tic lit­tle cab­in? Maybe a lit­tle. But as extra­or­di­nary as it is to watch an 18-year-old Swede build a log cab­in by him­self, one also can’t help but remem­ber it takes a vil­lage worth of fore­fa­thers, and moth­ers, to make an 18-year-old Swede. But Grankvist does not present his visu­al Walden as a how-to guide (any more than Thore­au did), but as his own state­ment of inde­pen­dence, one worth mak­ing even if it does­n’t tell the full truth about self-suf­fi­cien­cy.

Relat­ed Con­tent: 

Japan­ese Car­pen­ters Unearth 100-Year-Old Wood Joiner­ies While Tak­ing Apart a Tra­di­tion­al House

How Frank Lloyd Wright’s Son Invent­ed Lin­coln Logs, “America’s Nation­al Toy” (1916)

How to Sur­vive the Com­ing Zom­bie Apoc­a­lypse: An Online Course by Michi­gan State

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

Vintage Public Health Posters That Helped People Take Smart Precautions During Past Crises


We sub­scribe to the the­o­ry that art saves lives even in the best of times.

In the midst of a major pub­lic health cri­sis, art takes a front line posi­tion, com­mu­ni­cat­ing best prac­tices to cit­i­zens with eye catch­ing, easy to under­stand graph­ics and a few well cho­sen words.

In March of 2020, less than 2 weeks after COVID-19 brought New York to its knees, Angeli­na Lip­pert, the Chief Cura­tor of Poster House, one of the city’s new­er muse­ums shared a blog post, con­sid­er­ing the ways in which the CDC’s basic hygiene rec­om­men­da­tions for help­ing stop the spread had been tout­ed to pre­vi­ous gen­er­a­tions.

As she not­ed in a lec­ture on the his­to­ry of the poster as Pub­lic Ser­vice Announce­ment the fol­low­ing month, “mass pub­lic health action… is how we stopped tuber­cu­lo­sis, polio, and oth­er major dis­eases that we don’t even think of today:”

And a major part of erad­i­cat­ing them was edu­cat­ing the pub­lic. That’s real­ly what PSAs are—a means of inform­ing and teach­ing the pub­lic en masse. It goes back to that idea … of not hav­ing to seek out infor­ma­tion, but just being pre­sent­ed with it. Keep­ing the bar­ri­er for entry low means more peo­ple will see and absorb the infor­ma­tion.

The Office of War Infor­ma­tion and the Dis­trict of Colum­bia Soci­ety for the Pre­ven­tion of Blind­ness used an approach­able look­ing rac­coon to con­vince the pub­lic to wash hands in WWII.

Artist Sey­mour Nydorf swapped the rac­coon for a blonde wait­ress with glam­orous red nails in a series of six posters for the U.S. Pub­lic Health Ser­vice of the Fed­er­al Secu­ri­ty Agency

Cough­ing and sneez­ing took posters into some­what gross­er ter­rain.

The New Zealand Depart­ment of Health’s 50s era poster shamed care­less sneez­ers into using a han­kie, and might well have giv­en those in their vicin­i­ty a per­sua­sive rea­son to bypass the buf­fet table.

Great Britain’s Cen­tral Coun­cil for Health Edu­ca­tion and Min­istry of Health col­lab­o­rat­ed with

Her Majesty’s Sta­tionery Office to teach the pub­lic some basic infec­tion math in WWII.

Children’s well­be­ing can be a very per­sua­sive tool. The WPA Fed­er­al Art Project was not play­ing in 1941 when it paired an image of a cheru­bic tot with stern warn­ings to par­ents and oth­er fam­i­ly mem­bers to curb their affec­tion­ate impuls­es, as well as the trans­mis­sion of tuber­cu­lo­sis.

The arrest­ing image packs more of a wal­lop than this earnest and far wordier, ear­ly 20s poster by the Nation­al Child Wel­fare Asso­ci­a­tion and the Nation­al Asso­ci­a­tion for the Study and Pre­ven­tion of Tuber­cu­lo­sis.

Read Poster House Chief Cura­tor Angeli­na Lippert’s Brief His­to­ry of PSA Posters here.

Down­load the free anti-xeno­pho­bia PSAs Poster House com­mis­sioned from design­er Rachel Gin­grich ear­ly in the pan­dem­ic here.

Relat­ed Con­tent: 

Down­load Beau­ti­ful Free Posters Cel­e­brat­ing the Achieve­ments of Liv­ing Female STEM Lead­ers

The First Muse­um Ded­i­cat­ed Exclu­sive­ly to Poster Art Opens Its Doors in the U.S.: Enter the Poster House

Sal­vador Dalí Cre­ates a Chill­ing Anti-Vene­re­al Dis­ease Poster Dur­ing World War II

Down­load 2,000 Mag­nif­i­cent Turn-of-the-Cen­tu­ry Art Posters, Cour­tesy of the New York Pub­lic Library

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

MoMA’s Online Courses Let You Study Modern & Contemporary Art and Earn a Certificate

The labels “mod­ern art” and “con­tem­po­rary art” don’t eas­i­ly pull apart from one anoth­er. In a strict­ly his­tor­i­cal sense, the for­mer refers to art pro­duced in the era we call moder­ni­ty, begin­ning in the mid-19th cen­tu­ry. And accord­ing to its ety­mol­o­gy, the lat­ter refers to art pro­duced at the same time as some­thing else: there is art “con­tem­po­rary” with, say, the Ital­ian Renais­sance, but also art “con­tem­po­rary” with our own lives. You’ll have a much clear­er idea of this dis­tinc­tion — and of what peo­ple mean when they use the rel­e­vant terms today — if you take the Mod­ern and Con­tem­po­rary Art and Design Spe­cial­iza­tion, a set of cours­es from the Muse­um of Mod­ern Art (aka MoMA) in New York.

Offered on the online edu­ca­tion plat­form Cours­era, the Mod­ern and Con­tem­po­rary Art and Design Spe­cial­iza­tion promis­es to “intro­duce you to the art of our time.” In its first course, Mod­ern Art & Ideas, you’ll learn “how artists have tak­en inspi­ra­tion from their envi­ron­ment and respond­ed to social issues over the past 150 years.”

In the sec­ond, See­ing through Pho­tographs (whose trail­er appears above), you’ll explore pho­tog­ra­phy “from its ori­gins in the mid-1800s through the present.” The third, What Is Con­tem­po­rary Art?, intro­duces works of the past four decades “rang­ing from 3‑D-print­ed glass and fiber sculp­tures to per­for­mances in a fac­to­ry.” The final course, Fash­ion as Design, affords the oppor­tu­ni­ty to “learn from mak­ers work­ing with cloth­ing every day — and, in some cas­es, rein­vent­ing it for the future.”

You can view the entire Con­tem­po­rary Art and Design Spe­cial­iza­tion for free, by “audit­ing” its cours­es. Alter­na­tive­ly, you can join the paid track, which costs $39 USD per month, which at Cours­er­a’s sug­gest­ed pace of sev­en months to com­plete (includ­ing a “hands-on project” for each course) comes out to $273 over­all. Then, when you fin­ish the spe­cial­iza­tion, you’ll “earn a Cer­tifi­cate that you can share with prospec­tive employ­ers and your pro­fes­sion­al net­work.” Whet­her you go the audit or cer­tifi­cate route, you’ll earn an under­stand­ing of “mod­ern art” and “con­tem­po­rary art” as they’re cre­at­ed and regard­ed here in the 21st cen­tu­ry: the era deep into moder­ni­ty in which we live, and one in which the bound­aries of art itself — not just the adjec­tives pre­ced­ing it — show no sign of ceas­ing to expand.

Note: Open Cul­ture has a part­ner­ship with Cours­era. If read­ers enroll in cer­tain Cours­era cours­es and pro­grams, it helps sup­port Open Cul­ture.

Relat­ed Con­tent:

Take Sev­en Free Cours­es From the Muse­um of Mod­ern Art (aka MoMA)

What Is Con­tem­po­rary Art?: A Free Online Course from The Muse­um of Mod­ern Art

The Muse­um of Mod­ern Art (MoMA) Presents a Free Online Class on Fash­ion: Enroll in Fash­ion as Design Today

How to Make a Sav­ile Row Suit: A Short Doc­u­men­tary from the Muse­um of Mod­ern Art

Art His­to­ri­an Pro­vides Hilar­i­ous & Sur­pris­ing­ly Effi­cient Art His­to­ry Lessons on Tik­Tok

Based in Seoul, Col­in Mar­shall writes and broad­casts on cities, lan­guage, and cul­ture. His projects include the Sub­stack newslet­ter Books on Cities, the book The State­less City: a Walk through 21st-Cen­tu­ry Los Ange­les and the video series The City in Cin­e­ma. Fol­low him on Twit­ter at @colinmarshall or on Face­book.

17th Century Scientist Gives First Description of Alien Life: Hear Passages from Christiaan Huygens’ Cosmotheoros (1698)

Astro­bi­ol­o­gists can now extrap­o­late the evo­lu­tion­ary char­ac­ter­is­tics of pos­si­ble alien life, should it exist, giv­en the wealth of data avail­able on inter­plan­e­tary con­di­tions. But our ideas about aliens have drawn not from sci­ence but from what Adri­an Hor­ton at The Guardian calls “an engross­ing feed­back loop” of Hol­ly­wood films, comics books, and sci-fi nov­els. A lit­tle over three-hun­dred years ago — hav­ing nev­er heard of H.G. Wells or the X‑Files — Dutch sci­en­tist Chris­ti­aan Huy­gens answered the ques­tion of what alien life might look like in his work Cos­moth­e­o­ros, pub­lished after his death in 1698.

Every­one knows the names Galileo and Isaac New­ton, and near­ly every­one knows their major accom­plish­ments, but we find much less famil­iar­i­ty with Huy­gens, even though his achieve­ments “make him the great­est sci­en­tist in the peri­od between Galileo and New­ton,” notes the Pub­lic Domain Review.

Those achieve­ments include the dis­cov­ery of Saturn’s rings and its moon, Titan, the inven­tion of the first refract­ing tele­scope, a detailed map­ping of the Ori­on Neb­u­la, and some high­ly notable advance­ments in math­e­mat­ics. (Maybe we — Eng­lish speak­ers, that is — find his last name hard to pro­nounce?)

Huy­gens was a rev­o­lu­tion­ary thinker. After Coper­ni­cus, it became clear to him that “our plan­et is just one of many,” as schol­ar Hugo A. van den Berg writes, “and not set apart by any spe­cial con­sid­er­a­tion oth­er than the acci­den­tal fact that we hap­pen to be its inhab­i­tants.” Using the pow­ers of obser­va­tion avail­able to him, he the­o­rized that the inhab­i­tants of Jupiter and Sat­urn (he used the term “Plan­e­tar­i­ans”) must pos­sess “the Art of Nav­i­ga­tion,” espe­cial­ly “in hav­ing so many Moons to direct their Course…. And what a troop of oth­er things fol­low from this allowance? If they have Ships, they must have Sails and Anchors, Ropes, Pil­lies, and Rud­ders…”

“We may well laugh at Huy­gens,” van den Berg writes, “But sure­ly in our own cen­tu­ry, we are equal­ly parochial in our own way. We invari­ably fail to imag­ine what we fail to imag­ine.” Our ideas of aliens fly­ing space­craft already seem quaint giv­en mul­ti­ver­sal and inter­di­men­sion­al modes of trav­el in sci­ence fic­tion. Huy­gens had no cul­tur­al “feed­back loop.” He was mak­ing it up as he went. “In con­trast to Huy­gens’ astro­nom­i­cal works, Cos­moth­e­o­ros is almost entire­ly spec­u­la­tive,” notes van den Berg — though his spec­u­la­tions are through­out informed and guid­ed by sci­en­tif­ic rea­son­ing.

To under­mine the idea of Earth as spe­cial, cen­tral, and unique, “a thing that no Rea­son will per­mit,” Huy­gens wrote — meant pos­ing a poten­tial threat to “those whose Igno­rance or Zeal is too great.” There­fore, he willed his broth­er to pub­lish Cos­moth­e­o­ros after his death so that he might avoid the fate of Galileo. Already out of favor with Louis XIV, whom Huy­gens had served as a gov­ern­ment sci­en­tist, he wrote the book while back at home in The Hague, “fre­quent­ly ill with depres­sions and fevers,” writes the Pub­lic Domain Review. What did Huy­gens see in his cos­mic imag­i­na­tion of the sail­ing inhab­i­tants of Jupiter and Sat­urn? Hear for your­self above in a read­ing of Huy­gens’ Cos­moth­e­o­ros from Voic­es of the Past.

Huy­gens’ descrip­tions of intel­li­gent alien life derive from his lim­it­ed obser­va­tions about human and ani­mal life, and so he pro­pos­es the neces­si­ty of human-like hands and oth­er appendages, and rules out such things as an “elephant’s pro­boscis.” (He is par­tic­u­lar­ly fix­at­ed on hands, though some alien humanoids might also devel­op wings, he the­o­rizes.) Like all alien sto­ries to come, Huy­gens’ spec­u­la­tions, how­ev­er log­i­cal­ly he presents them, say “more about our­selves,” as Hor­ton writes, “our fears, our anx­i­eties, our hope, our adapt­abil­i­ty — than any poten­tial out­side vis­i­tor.” His descrip­tions show that while he did not need to place Earth at the cen­ter of the cos­mos, he mea­sured the cos­mos accord­ing to a very human scale.

Relat­ed Con­tent:

What Do Aliens Look Like? Oxford Astro­bi­ol­o­gists Draw a Pic­ture, Based on Dar­win­ian The­o­ries of Evo­lu­tion

Carl Sagan Sent Music & Pho­tos Into Space So That Aliens Could Under­stand Human Civ­i­liza­tion (Even After We’re Gone)

Richard Feyn­man: The Like­li­hood of Fly­ing Saucers

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

Benedict Cumberbatch Reads “the Best Cover Letter Ever Written”

In the 1930s, many a writer jour­neyed to Hol­ly­wood in order to make his for­tune. The screen­writer’s life did­n’t sit well with some of them — just ask F. Scott Fitzger­ald or William Faulkn­er — but a fair few made more than a go of it out West. Take the Bal­ti­more-born Robert Pirosh, whose stud­ies at the Sor­bonne and the Uni­ver­si­ty of Berlin land­ed him a job as a copy­writer in New York. This work seems to have proven less than sat­is­fac­to­ry, as evi­denced by the piece of cor­re­spon­dence that, still in his ear­ly twen­ties, he wrote and sent to “as many direc­tors, pro­duc­ers and stu­dio exec­u­tives as he could find.” It was­n’t just a request for work; it was what Let­ters Live today calls “the best cov­er let­ter ever writ­ten.”

Pirosh’s impres­sive mis­sive, which you can hear read aloud by favorite Let­ters Live per­former Bene­dict Cum­ber­batch in the video above, runs, in full, as fol­lows:

Dear Sir:

I like words. I like fat but­tery words, such as ooze, turpi­tude, gluti­nous, toady. I like solemn, angu­lar, creaky words, such as strait­laced, can­tan­ker­ous, pecu­nious, vale­dic­to­ry. I like spu­ri­ous, black-is-white words, such as mor­ti­cian, liq­ui­date, ton­so­r­i­al, demi-monde. I like suave “V” words, such as Sven­gali, svelte, bravu­ra, verve. I like crunchy, brit­tle, crack­ly words, such as splin­ter, grap­ple, jos­tle, crusty. I like sullen, crabbed, scowl­ing words, such as skulk, glow­er, scab­by, churl. I like Oh-Heav­ens, my-gra­cious, land’s‑sake words, such as tricksy, tuck­er, gen­teel, hor­rid. I like ele­gant, flow­ery words, such as esti­vate, pere­gri­nate, ely­si­um, hal­cy­on. I like wormy, squirmy, mealy words, such as crawl, blub­ber, squeal, drip. I like snig­gly, chuck­ling words, such as cowlick, gur­gle, bub­ble and burp.

I like the word screen­writer bet­ter than copy­writer, so I decid­ed to quit my job in a New York adver­tis­ing agency and try my luck in Hol­ly­wood, but before tak­ing the plunge I went to Europe for a year of study, con­tem­pla­tion and hors­ing around.

I have just returned and I still like words.

May I have a few with you?

Though not known as an unsub­tle actor, Cum­ber­batch seizes the oppor­tu­ni­ty to deliv­er each and every one of these choice words with its own vari­ety of exag­ger­at­ed rel­ish. Though none of these terms is espe­cial­ly recher­ché on its own, they must col­lec­tive­ly have giv­en the impres­sion of a for­mi­da­ble mas­tery of the Eng­lish lan­guage, espe­cial­ly to the ear of the aver­age Hol­ly­wood big-shot. One way or anoth­er, Pirosh’s let­ter did the trick: accord­ing to Let­ters of Note, it “secured him three inter­views, one of which led to his job as a junior writer at MGM. Fif­teen years lat­er,” he “won an Acad­e­my Award for Best Orig­i­nal Screen­play for his work on the war film Bat­tle­ground.”

A World War II pic­ture, Bat­tle­ground was writ­ten at least in part from Pirosh’s own expe­ri­ence: a few years into his Hol­ly­wood career, he enlist­ed and made a return to Europe, this time as a Mas­ter Sergeant in the 320th Reg­i­ment, 35th Infantry Divi­sion, see­ing action in France and Ger­many. After the war he went right back to writ­ing and pro­duc­ing, remain­ing active in the enter­tain­ment indus­try until at least the 1970s (and in fact, his writ­ing cred­its include con­tri­bu­tions to such pro­grams that defined that decade as Man­nixBarn­a­by Jones, and Hawaii Five‑O). Pirosh’s was an envi­able 20th-cen­tu­ry career, and one that began with a suit­ably brazen — and still con­vinc­ing — 20th-cen­tu­ry adver­tise­ment for him­self.

Relat­ed Con­tent:

Hunter S. Thompson’s Ball­sy Job Appli­ca­tion Let­ter (1958)

Bene­dict Cum­ber­batch Reads Kurt Vonnegut’s Incensed Let­ter to the High School That Burned Slaugh­ter­house-Five

Bene­dict Cum­ber­batch Reads Kurt Vonnegut’s Let­ter of Advice to Peo­ple Liv­ing in the Year 2088

Bene­dict Cum­ber­batch Reads a Let­ter Alan Tur­ing Wrote in “Dis­tress” Before His Con­vic­tion For “Gross Inde­cen­cy”

Bene­dict Cum­ber­batch Reads Albert Camus’ Touch­ing Thank You Let­ter to His Ele­men­tary School Teacher

“Stop It and Just DO”: Bene­dict Cum­ber­batch Reads Advice on Over­com­ing Cre­ative Blocks, Writ­ten by Sol LeWitt to Eva Hesse (1965)

Based in Seoul, Col­in Mar­shall writes and broad­casts on cities, lan­guage, and cul­ture. His projects include the Sub­stack newslet­ter Books on Cities, the book The State­less City: a Walk through 21st-Cen­tu­ry Los Ange­les and the video series The City in Cin­e­ma. Fol­low him on Twit­ter at @colinmarshall or on Face­book.

Medieval Scribes Discouraged Theft of Manuscripts by Adding Curses Threatening Death & Damnation to Their Pages

I’ve con­clud­ed that one shouldn’t lend a book unless one is pre­pared to part with it for good. But most books are fair­ly easy to replace. Not so in the Mid­dle Ages, when every man­u­script count­ed as one of a kind. Theft was often on the minds of the scribes who copied and illus­trat­ed books, a labo­ri­ous task requir­ing lit­er­al hours of blood, sweat and tears each day.

Scrib­al copy­ing took place “only by nat­ur­al light — can­dles were too big a risk to the books,” Sarah Laskow writes at Atlas Obscu­ra. Bent over dou­ble, scribes could not let their atten­tion wan­der. The art, one scribe com­plained, “extin­guish­es the light from the eyes, it bends the back, it crush­es the vis­cera and the ribs, it brings forth pain to the kid­neys, and weari­ness to the whole body.”

The results deserved high secu­ri­ty, and Medieval monks “did not hes­i­tate to use the worst pun­ish­ments they knew” for man­u­script theft, writes Laskow, name­ly threats of “excom­mu­ni­ca­tion from the church and hor­ri­ble, painful death.”

 

Theft deter­rence came in the form of inge­nious curs­es, writ­ten into the man­u­scripts them­selves, going “back to the 7th cen­tu­ry BCE,” Rebec­ca Rom­ney writes at Men­tal Floss. Appear­ing “in Latin, ver­nac­u­lar Euro­pean lan­guages, Ara­bic, Greek, and more,” they came in such cre­ative fla­vors as death by roast­ing, as in a Bible copied in Ger­many around 1172: “If any­one steals it: may he die, may he be roast­ed in a fry­ing pan, may the falling sick­ness [epilep­sy] and fever attack him, and may he be rotat­ed [on the break­ing wheel] and hanged. Amen.”

A few hun­dred years lat­er, a man­u­script curse from 15th-cen­tu­ry France also promis­es roast­ing, or worse:

Who­ev­er steals this book
Will hang on a gal­lows in Paris,
And, if he isn’t hung, he’ll drown,
And, if he doesn’t drown, he’ll roast,
And, if he doesn’t roast, a worse end will befall him.

The pluck­ing out of eyes also appears to have been a theme. “Who­ev­er to steal this vol­ume tries, Out with his eyes, out with his eyes!” warns the final cou­plet in a 13th-cen­tu­ry curse from a Vat­i­can Library man­u­script. Anoth­er curse in verse, found by author Marc Dro­gin, author of Anath­e­ma! Medieval Scribes and the His­to­ry of Book Curs­es, gets espe­cial­ly graph­ic with the eye goug­ing:

To steal this book, if you should try,
It’s by the throat you’ll hang high.
And ravens then will gath­er ’bout
To find your eyes and pull them out.
And when you’re scream­ing ‘oh, oh, oh!’
Remem­ber, you deserved this woe.

The hoped-for con­se­quences were not always so grim­ly humor­ous. “Grue­some as these pun­ish­ments seem,” the British Library writes, “to most medieval read­ers the worst curs­es were those that put the eter­nal fate of their souls at risk rather than their bod­i­ly health.” These would often be marked with the Greek word “Anath­e­ma,” some­times “fol­lowed by the Ara­ma­ic for­mu­la ‘Maranatha’ (‘Come, Lord!’).” Both appear in a curse added to a man­u­script of let­ters and ser­mons from Lesnes Abbey. Yet, unlike most medieval curs­es, here the thief is giv­en a chance to make resti­tu­tion. “Any­one who removes it or does dam­age to it: if the same per­son does not repay the church suf­fi­cient­ly, may he be cursed.”

Curs­es were not the only secu­ri­ty solu­tions of man­u­script cul­ture. Medieval monks also used book chains and locked chests to secure the fruit of their hard labor. As the old say­ing goes, “trust in God, but tie your camel.” But if locks and divine prov­i­dence should fail, scribes trust­ed that the fear of pun­ish­ment – even eter­nal damna­tion — down the road would be enough to make would-be book thieves think again.

Relat­ed Con­tent:

160,000+ Medieval Man­u­scripts Online: Where to Find Them

The Illu­mi­nat­ed Man­u­scripts of Medieval Europe: A Free Online Course from the Uni­ver­si­ty of Col­orado

Why Butt Trum­pets & Oth­er Bizarre Images Appeared in Illu­mi­nat­ed Medieval Man­u­scripts

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

The Life & Music of the Godmother of Rock and Roll, Sister Rosetta Tharpe

When I was a wee lad I was inter­est­ed in the his­to­ry of rock and roll. Where did it come from? Who start­ed it? But also when I was wee, there didn’t seem to be a lot of infor­ma­tion around, cer­tain­ly not in my library down­town. But when Mud­dy Waters died in 1983, I start­ed to under­stand that rock and roll was sped-up blues, and pieces start­ed to slot togeth­er. How­ev­er, women weren’t part of the equa­tion. (Blame Rolling Stone Mag­a­zine).

That’s a long way of say­ing the Sis­ter Roset­ta Tharpe should be bet­ter known than she is, espe­cial­ly as one dubbed the God­moth­er of Rock and Roll. Play­ing scratchy, dis­tort­ed elec­tric gui­tar and singing as if on a direct line to heav­en, Tharpe would go on to influ­ence every­body from Elvis Pres­ley to Chuck Berry, and every­body who came after her. So why is she not more of a house­hold name?

The 2011 BBC doc­u­men­tary above (split into four 15-minute chunks) resus­ci­tates a leg­end who not only played a mean gui­tar but set the stan­dard for the gospel-crossover artist, mak­ing a name on the gospel cir­cuit, but mak­ing her fame in the sec­u­lar night­clubs of Amer­i­ca. Tharpe’s dis­tinc­tion is that she returned to gospel with­out los­ing any of her edge.

A pre­co­cious young­ster in Arkansas dur­ing the ear­ly 1920s, she became the star of her Pen­te­costal church start­ing at four years old. Raised by her moth­er, then forced into an arranged mar­riage at 19-years-old to an old­er preach­er, Thomas Tharpe, she kept his name when she left their abu­sive mar­riage. She and her moth­er relo­cat­ed to Chica­go, where blues and jazz were inter­min­gling in a hot­house cul­ture. Dec­ca signed her, and although she told her church­go­ing friends that she had to sing these sec­u­lar songs because of that darned sev­en-year con­tract, Tharpe rose to fame quick­ly. The footage of her singing in front of the Cot­ton Club band led by Lucky Millinder is one of a cheeky, charm­ing 23 year old.

As the doc makes clear, Tharpe had a rebel­lious streak, didn’t do what she was told, and pushed bound­aries in a very seg­re­gat­ed Amer­i­ca. She invit­ed the all-white Jor­danaires to tour with her, sur­pris­ing house man­agers and book­ing agents alike. And she car­ried on a love affair and cre­ative part­ner­ship with fel­low gospel singer Marie Knight for decades, very much on the down low.

So per­haps this is the rea­son Tharpe has not been on our col­lec­tive radar—we’ve been slow to admit that rock gui­tar was cre­at­ed by a queer black woman devot­ed to the Lord. Nobody in the audi­ence knew this, though, at the aban­doned rail­way sta­tion at Wilbra­ham Road, Man­ches­ter, in May 1964. On one side of the station’s tracks, British teenagers were gath­ered to hear raw, rock and roll from Amer­i­ca. On the oth­er side, Tharpe stands with her gui­tar, wear­ing a thick coat to pro­tect her from the spring rain. Backed by her band, she chan­nels a holy force and sings about the rain of the Great Flood, the lyrics abstract and repet­i­tive, as if in a trance. The footage opens the doc­u­men­tary and makes as good a case as any of why Tharpe should be part of the pan­theon of rock roy­al­ty. (You can see the whole clip here.) Back in the States, Tharpe had been eclipsed by Mahalia Jack­son, but the Brits didn’t know any of that. They just sense they’ve tapped into one of the sources for the music explod­ing around them.

It took until 2018 for Tharpe to be induct­ed into the Rock & Roll Hall of Fame, years after all those white boy copy­cats. Now is the time to re-dis­cov­er her and hear what you’ve been miss­ing.

Relat­ed Con­tent:

New Web Project Immor­tal­izes the Over­looked Women Who Helped Cre­ate Rock and Roll in the 1950s

An Intro­duc­tion to Sis­ter Roset­ta Tharpe

Mud­dy Waters and Friends on the Blues and Gospel Train, 1964

Watch the Hot Gui­tar Solos of Sis­ter Roset­ta Tharpe

Revis­it The Life & Music of Sis­ter Roset­ta Tharpe: ‘The God­moth­er of Rock and Roll’

The Women of Rock: Dis­cov­er an Oral His­to­ry Project That Fea­tures Pio­neer­ing Women in Rock Music

Ted Mills is a free­lance writer on the arts who cur­rent­ly hosts the Notes from the Shed pod­cast and is the pro­duc­er of KCR­W’s Curi­ous Coast. You can also fol­low him on Twit­ter at @tedmills, and/or watch his films here.

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