How Vladimir Nabokov Wrote Lolita, “My Most Difficult Book”: A 1989 Documentary

How many of us could write a book with the impact of Loli­ta? The task, as revealed in the BBC Omnibus doc­u­men­tary above, lay almost beyond even the for­mi­da­ble lit­er­ary pow­ers of Vladimir Nabokov — almost, but obvi­ous­ly not quite. It did push him into new aes­thet­ic, cul­tur­al, and com­po­si­tion­al realms, as evi­denced by his mem­o­ries of draft­ing the nov­el on index cards in road­side motels (and when faced with espe­cial­ly noisy or drafty accom­mo­da­tions, in the back­seat of the parked car) while road-trip­ping though the Unit­ed States. The doc­u­men­tary’s sub­ject is the exiled aris­to­crat nov­el­ist’s expe­ri­ence writ­ing and pub­lish­ing Loli­ta, the book that would make him world-famous — as well as the expe­ri­ence that brought him to the time and place that made such a cul­tur­al coup pos­si­ble.

Aired in 1989, a dozen years after Nabokov’s death, My Most Dif­fi­cult Book fea­tures inter­views with the nov­el­ist’s Fer­rari-dri­ving son and trans­la­tor Dmitri, his schol­ar-biog­ra­ph­er Bri­an Boyd, and his younger admir­er-col­leagues includ­ing Mar­tin Amis, A.S. Byatt, and Edmund White. That last describes Nabokov’s nov­els as “great sys­tems of mean­ing in which every ele­ment refers to every oth­er one,” and Loli­ta marked a new height in his achieve­ment in that form.

But the book’s pop­u­lar­i­ty, or at least its ini­tial wave of pop­u­lar­i­ty, may be bet­ter explained by the con­tro­ver­sy sur­round­ing the ele­ments of its by now well-known premise: the refined mid­dle-aged Euro­pean nar­ra­tor, the coarse twelve-year-old step­daugh­ter whom he con­trives to sex­u­al­ly pos­sess — and suc­ceeds in sex­u­al­ly pos­sess­ing — as they dri­ve across Amer­i­ca, a vast land whose look, feel, and lan­guage Nabokov took pains to cap­ture and repur­pose.

“There are a lot of lit­er­al­ists out there,” says Amis, “who will think that you can’t write a nov­el like Loli­ta with­out being a secret slaver after young girls.” That was as true in 1989 as it was in 1955, when the book was first pub­lished, and indeed as true as it is today. Well into mid­dle age, we learn in the doc­u­men­tary, strangers would ask Dmitri what it was like to be the son of a “dirty old man,” and in archive inter­view footage we see Nabokov address the pub­lic con­fla­tion of him­self and Hum­bert Hum­bert, Loli­ta’s pedophil­i­ac nar­ra­tor. A seri­ous chess enthu­si­ast, Nabokov describes him­self as writ­ing nov­els as he would solve chess prob­lems he posed to him­self. What could present a more rig­or­ous chal­lenge than to tell a sto­ry, at a high artis­tic lev­el, from the per­spec­tive of a mon­ster? But Nabokov, as he admit­ted to one inter­view­er, was indeed a mon­ster, at least accord­ing to one def­i­n­i­tion offered by his much-con­sult­ed Eng­lish dic­tio­nary: “A per­son of unnat­ur­al excel­lence.”

Relat­ed Con­tent:

Nabokov Reads Loli­ta, and Names the Great­est Books of the 20th Cen­tu­ry

Hear Vladimir Nabokov Read From the Penul­ti­mate Chap­ter of Loli­ta

Vladimir Nabokov on Loli­ta: Just Anoth­er Great Love Sto­ry?

The Note­cards on Which Vladimir Nabokov Wrote Loli­ta: A Look Inside the Author’s Cre­ative Process

Vladimir Nabokov’s Script for Stan­ley Kubrick’s Loli­ta: See Pages from His Orig­i­nal Draft

Vladimir Nabokov Mar­vels Over Dif­fer­ent Loli­ta Book Cov­ers

Based in Seoul, Col­in Mar­shall writes and broad­casts on cities, lan­guage, and cul­ture. His projects include 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, on Face­book, or on Insta­gram.

29 Free Short Stories from Some of Today’s Most Acclaimed Writers: Margaret Atwood, David Mitchell & More

Let us call your atten­tion to 29 free short sto­ries, writ­ten by some of today’s most acclaimed writ­ers. They come cour­tesy of The New York Times’ Decameron Project. They write:

Inspired by Gio­van­ni Boccaccio’s “The Decameron,” a 14th-cen­tu­ry col­lec­tion of tales told by a group of 10 char­ac­ters tak­ing shel­ter in an Ital­ian vil­la dur­ing the Black Plague, this [col­lec­tion] fea­tures sto­ries from Mar­garet Atwood, David Mitchell, Téa Obre­ht, Karen Rus­sell, Tom­my Orange, Yiyun Li and oth­ers. The so-called Decameron Project is the first time in the magazine’s mod­ern his­to­ry that an entire issue is devot­ed to new fic­tion.

You can read the sto­ries online here. And if you pre­fer audio, hear two sto­ries read aloud by Tom­my Orange and Edwidge Dan­ti­cat here.

If you would like to sign up for Open Culture’s free email newslet­ter, please find it here. It’s a great way to see our new posts, all bun­dled in one email, each day.

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:

1,000 Free Audio Books: Down­load Great Books for Free

Audi­ble Pro­vid­ing Free Audio Books to Kids & Teens: Intro­duc­ing the New Ser­vice, Audi­ble Sto­ries

Read 9 Sto­ries By Haru­ki Muraka­mi Free Online

10 Free Sto­ries by George Saun­ders, Author of Tenth of Decem­ber, “The Best Book You’ll Read This Year”

 

Orson Welles Narrates Animations of Plato’s Cave and Kafka’s “Before the Law,” Two Parables of the Human Condition

You’re held cap­tive in an enclosed space, only able faint­ly to per­ceive the out­side world. Or you’re kept out­side, unable to cross the thresh­old of a space you feel a des­per­ate need to enter. If both of these sce­nar­ios sound like dreams, they must do so because they tap into the anx­i­eties and sus­pi­cions in the depths of our shared sub­con­scious. As such, they’ve also proven reli­able mate­r­i­al for sto­ry­tellers since at least the fourth cen­tu­ry B.C., when Pla­to came up with his alle­go­ry of the cave. You know that sto­ry near­ly as sure­ly as you know the ancient Greek philoso­pher’s name: a group of human beings live, and have always lived, deep in a cave. Chained up to face a wall, they have only ever seen the images of shad­ow pup­pets thrown by fire­light onto the wall before them.

To these iso­lat­ed beings, “the truth would be lit­er­al­ly noth­ing but the shad­ows of the images.” So Orson Welles tells it in this 1973 short film by ani­ma­tor Dick Oden. In his time­less­ly res­o­nant voice that com­ple­ments the pro­duc­tion’s haunt­ing­ly retro aes­thet­ic, Wells then speaks of what would hap­pen if a cave-dweller were to be unshack­led.

“He would be much too daz­zled to see dis­tinct­ly those things whose shad­ows he had seen before,” but as he approach­es real­i­ty, “he has a clear­er vision.” Still, “will he not be per­plexed? Will he not think that the shad­ows which he for­mer­ly saw are truer than the objects which are now shown to him?” And if brought out of the cave to expe­ri­ence real­i­ty in full, would he not pity his old cave­mates? “Would he not say, with Homer, bet­ter to be the poor ser­vant of a poor mas­ter and to endure any­thing rather than think as they do and live after their man­ner?”

Pla­to’s cave was­n’t the first para­ble of the human con­di­tion Welles nar­rat­ed. Just over a decade ear­li­er, he engaged pin­screen ani­ma­tor Alexan­dre Alex­eieff (he of Night on Bald Moun­tain and and “The Nose,” pre­vi­ous­ly fea­tured here on Open Cul­ture) to illus­trate his read­ing of Franz Kafka’s sto­ry “Before the Law.” The law, in Kafka’s telling, is a build­ing, and before that build­ing stands a guard. “A man comes from the coun­try, beg­ging admit­tance to the law,” says Welles. “But the guard can­not admit him. May he hope to enter at a lat­er time? That is pos­si­ble, said the guard.” Yet some­how that time nev­er comes, and he spends the rest of his life await­ing admis­sion to the law. “Nobody else but you could ever have obtained admit­tance,” the guard admits to the man, not long before the man expires of old age. “This door was intend­ed only for you! And now, I’m going to close it.”

“Before the Law” describes a grim­ly absurd sit­u­a­tion, as does Welles’ The Tri­al, the film to which it serves as an intro­duc­tion. Adapt­ed from anoth­er work of Kafka’s, specif­i­cal­ly his best-known nov­el, it also con­cerns itself with the legal side of human affairs, at least on the sur­face. But when it becomes clear that the crime with which its bureau­crat pro­tag­o­nist Josef K. has been charged will nev­er be spec­i­fied, the sto­ry plunges into an alto­geth­er more trou­bling realm. We’ve all, at one time or anoth­er, felt to some degree like Joseph K., per­se­cut­ed by an ulti­mate­ly incom­pre­hen­si­ble sys­tem, legal, social, or oth­er­wise. And can we help but feel, espe­cial­ly in our high­ly medi­at­ed 21st cen­tu­ry, like Pla­to’s immo­bi­lized human, raised in dark­ness and made to build a world­view on illu­sions? As for how to escape the cave — or indeed to enter the law — it falls to each of us indi­vid­u­al­ly to fig­ure out.

Relat­ed Con­tent:

Hear John Malkovich Read Plato’s “Alle­go­ry of the Cave,” Set to Music Mixed by Ric Ocasek, Yoko Ono & Sean Lennon, OMD & More

Plato’s Cave Alle­go­ry Ani­mat­ed Mon­ty Python-Style

Plato’s Cave Alle­go­ry Brought to Life with Clay­ma­tion

The Phi­los­o­phy of The Matrix: From Pla­to and Descartes, to East­ern Phi­los­o­phy

Franz Kafka’s Exis­ten­tial Para­ble “Before the Law” Gets Brought to Life in a Strik­ing, Mod­ern Ani­ma­tion

Kafka’s Night­mare Tale, “A Coun­try Doc­tor,” Told in Award-Win­ning Japan­ese Ani­ma­tion

Based in Seoul, Col­in Mar­shall writes and broad­casts on cities, lan­guage, and cul­ture. His projects include 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, on Face­book, or on Insta­gram.

The Only Surviving Script Written by Shakespeare Is Now Online

Four years ago, when the world com­mem­o­rat­ed the 400th anniver­sary of William Shakespeare’s death, some marked the event with ref­er­ence to a dra­mat­ic work hard­ly anyone’s ever read, and few­er have ever seen per­formed. Called The Booke of Sir Thomas More, “this late 16th or ear­ly 17th-cen­tu­ry play,” the British Library notes, “is not always includ­ed among the Shake­speare­an canon, and it was not until the 1800s that it was even asso­ci­at­ed with the Bard of Avon.”

Since then, Sir Thomas More has become famous, at least among lit­er­ary schol­ars, as the only sur­viv­ing exam­ple of Shakespeare’s hand­writ­ing next to his will. It also became briefly inter­net famous in 2016 when Sir Ian McK­ellen reprised the title role he first played in 1964 for a dra­mat­ic read­ing in Lon­don that spoke elo­quent­ly, cen­turies lat­er, to the moment. The play itself is the work of sev­er­al drama­tists, and the orig­i­nal text, from some­time between 1590 and 1605, is a patch­work of pages of inser­tions and six dif­fer­ent scrib­al hands, Shakespeare’s very like­ly among them.

That same year, the British Library put a scan of the Shake­speare-penned pages of the play online and put the phys­i­cal man­u­script on dis­play in an exhib­it called Shake­speare in Ten Acts. Now, they have uploaded the full, scanned man­u­script to their Dig­i­tized Man­u­scripts page and you can view it here. “In these pages we can per­haps see the mas­ter play­wright at work, mus­ing, com­pos­ing and cor­rect­ing his text: a win­dow into Shake­speare’s dra­mat­ic art, as it were.” We can hear what McK­ellen calls the “human empa­thy” in a speech “sym­bol­ic and won­der­ful… so much at the heart of Shakespeare’s human­i­ty.”

The speech, which McK­ellen dis­cuss­es above, has the human­ist More pas­sion­ate­ly address­ing a mob who are attempt­ing to vio­lent­ly deport French protes­tant refugees. More did indeed address a riot­ing mob on May 1, 1517, what came to be known as “Evil May Day” (he was lat­er exe­cut­ed in 1535 for trea­son when he refused to back Hen­ry VIII against the Catholic Church). The play, which shows his actions as espe­cial­ly hero­ic, was cen­sored by Edwin Tilney, Mas­ter of the Rev­els, and nev­er per­formed until McK­ellen took the role. (He has joked that he may be “the last actor who can say ‘I cre­at­ed a part writ­ten by William Shake­speare.’”)

Read a tran­scrip­tion of the full, 147-line More speech thought to be by Shake­speare, and writ­ten in his own hand, at Quartz. “Prov­ing that More’s words were indeed writ­ten by Shake­speare is not straight­for­ward,” the British Library notes, though schol­ars have gen­er­al­ly agreed on the author­ship since the late 19th cen­tu­ry, based on evi­dence you can read about here. But “in their keen sym­pa­thy for the plight of the alien­at­ed and dis­pos­sessed,” these lines “seem to pre­fig­ure the insights of great dra­mas of race such as The Mer­chant of Venice and Oth­el­lo.”

One can see, giv­en Shake­speare’s sym­pa­thy for social out­siders, why he would be drawn to More’s speech, or why he might have been hand­picked among oth­er drama­tists at the time to write the philosopher’s broad-mind­ed plea for tol­er­ance. See the full man­u­script of The Booke of Sir Thomas More here at the British Library’s Dig­i­tized Man­u­scripts.

Relat­ed Con­tent:

Ian McK­ellen Reads a Pas­sion­ate Speech by William Shake­speare, Writ­ten in Defense of Immi­grants

What Shakespeare’s Hand­writ­ing Looked Like

What Shake­speare Sound­ed Like to Shake­speare: Recon­struct­ing the Bard’s Orig­i­nal Pro­nun­ci­a­tion

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

Behold Octavia Butler’s Motivational Notes to Self

Hand­writ­ten notes on the inside cov­er of one of Octavia E. Butler’s com­mon­place books, 1988

I was attract­ed to sci­ence fic­tion because it was so wide open. I was able to do any­thing and there were no walls to hem you in and there was no human con­di­tion that you were stopped from exam­in­ing. —Octavia E. But­ler

Like many authors, the late Octavia E. But­ler took up writ­ing at a young age.

At 11, she was churn­ing out tales about hors­es and romance.

At 12, she saw Dev­il Girl from Mars, and fig­ured (cor­rect­ly) she could tell a bet­ter sto­ry than that, using 2 fin­gers to peck out sto­ries on the Rem­ing­ton type­writer her moth­er bought at her request.

At 13, she found a copy of The Writer mag­a­zine aban­doned on a bus seat, and learned that it was pos­si­ble to sub­mit her work for pub­li­ca­tion.

After a decade’s worth of rejec­tion slips, she sold her first two sto­ries, thanks in part to her asso­ci­a­tion with the Clar­i­on Sci­ence Fic­tion Writ­ing Work­shop, which she became involved with on the rec­om­men­da­tion of her men­tor, sci­ence fic­tion writer Har­lan Elli­son.

She went on to become the first sci­ence fic­tion writer to receive a pres­ti­gious MacArthur “genius” award, gar­ner­ing mul­ti­ple Hugo and Neb­u­la awards for her work.

An aster­oid is named after her, as is a moun­tain on Pluto’s moon.

Hailed as the Moth­er of Afro Futur­ism, she won the PEN Amer­i­can Cen­ter life­time achieve­ment award in writ­ing.

But pro­fes­sion­al suc­cess nev­er cloud­ed her view of her­self as the 10-year-old writer who was unsure if library-lov­ing black kids like her would be allowed inside a book­store.

Iden­ti­fy­ing as a writer helped her move beyond her crip­pling shy­ness and dyslex­ia. As she wrote in an auto­bi­o­graph­i­cal essay, “Pos­i­tive Obses­sion”:

I believed I was ugly and stu­pid, clum­sy, and social­ly hope­less. I also thought that every­one would notice these faults if I drew atten­tion to myself. I want­ed to dis­ap­pear. Instead, I grew to be six feet tall. Boys in par­tic­u­lar seemed to assume that I had done this grow­ing delib­er­ate­ly and that I should be ridiculed for it as often as pos­si­ble.

I hid out in a big pink notebook—one that would hold a whole ream of paper. I made myself a uni­verse in it. There I could be a mag­ic horse, a Mar­t­ian, a telepath….There I could be any­where but here, any time but now, with any peo­ple but these.

She devel­oped a life­long habit of cheer­ing her­self on with moti­va­tion­al notes, writ­ing them in her jour­nals, on lined note­book paper, in day plan­ners and on repur­posed pages of an old wall cal­en­dar.

She held her­self account­able by writ­ing out demand­ing sched­ules to accom­pa­ny her lofty, doc­u­ment­ed goals.

And though she wea­ried of the con­stant invi­ta­tions to serve on lit­er­ary pan­els devot­ed to sci­ence fic­tion writ­ers of col­or, at which she’d be asked the same ques­tions she’d answered dozens of times before, she was res­olute about pro­vid­ing oppor­tu­ni­ties for young black writ­ers … and read­ers, who found reflec­tions of them­selves in her char­ac­ters. As she remarked in an inter­view with The New York Times

When I began writ­ing sci­ence fic­tion, when I began read­ing, heck, I wasn’t in any of this stuff I read. The only black peo­ple you found were occa­sion­al char­ac­ters or char­ac­ters who were so fee­ble-wit­ted that they couldn’t man­age any­thing, any­way. I wrote myself in, since I’m me and I’m here and I’m writ­ing.

Her brand of sci­ence fic­tiona label she often tried to duck, iden­ti­fy­ing her­self on her busi­ness card sim­ply as “writer”serves as a lens for con­sid­er­ing con­tem­po­rary issues: sex­u­al vio­lence, gun vio­lence, cli­mate change, gen­der stereo­types, the prob­lems of late-stage cap­i­tal­ism, the plight of undoc­u­ment­ed immi­grants, and, not least, racism.

She side­stepped utopi­an sci­ence fic­tion, believ­ing that imper­fect humans are inca­pable of  form­ing a per­fect soci­ety. “Nobody is per­fect,” she told Vibe:

One of the things I’ve dis­cov­ered even with teach­ers using my books is that peo­ple tend to look for ‘good guys’ and ‘bad guys,’ which always annoys the hell out of me. I’d be bored to death writ­ing that way. But because that’s the only pat­tern they have, they try to fit my work into it.

Learn more about the life and work of Octavia E. But­ler (1947–2006) here.

I shall be a best­selling writer. After Ima­go, each of my books will be on the best­seller lists of LAT, NYT, PW, WP, etc. My nov­els will go onto the above lists whether pub­lish­ers push them hard or not, whether I’m paid a high advance or not, whether I ever win anoth­er award or not.

This is my life. I write best­selling nov­els. My nov­els go onto the best­seller lists on or short­ly after pub­li­ca­tion. My nov­els each trav­el up to the top of the best­seller lists and they reach the top and they stay on top for months . Each of my nov­els does this.

So be it! I will find the way to do this. See to it! So be it! See to it!

My books will be read by mil­lions of peo­ple!

I will buy a beau­ti­ful home in an excel­lent neigh­bor­hood

I will send poor black young­sters to Clar­i­on or oth­er writer’s work­shops

I will help poor black young­sters broad­en their hori­zons

I will help poor black young­sters go to col­lege

I will get the best of health care for my moth­er and myself

I will hire a car when­ev­er I want or need to.

I will trav­el when­ev­er and wher­ev­er in the world that I choose

My books will be read by mil­lions of peo­ple!

So be it! See to it!

via Austin Kleon

Relat­ed Con­tent: 

Why Should We Read Pio­neer­ing Sci-Fi Writer Octavia But­ler? An Ani­mat­ed Video Makes the Case

Octavia Butler’s 1998 Dystopi­an Nov­el Fea­tures a Fascis­tic Pres­i­den­tial Can­di­date Who Promis­es to “Make Amer­i­ca Great Again”

Watch a 5‑Part Ani­mat­ed Primer on Afro­fu­tur­ism, the Black Sci-Fi Phe­nom­e­non Inspired by Sun Ra

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

 

Martin Amis Explains His Method for Writing Great Sentences

Why does Mar­tin Amis writes sen­tences well? As a nov­el­ist, he nat­u­ral­ly has a high degree of pro­fes­sion­al inter­est in the mat­ter. But why does he write sen­tences so well? One might put forth the influ­ence of his father Kings­ley Amis, author of Lucky Jim, an endur­ing con­tender for the title of the fun­ni­est nov­el in the Eng­lish lan­guage. But giv­en how sel­dom one acclaimed nov­el­ist sires anoth­er — an event, in fact, near­ly unheard of — the her­i­tabil­i­ty of lit­er­ary tal­ent remains unknow­able. As for the direct influ­ence of Amis père on Amis fils, we can almost entire­ly rule it out: not only did Kings­ley nev­er encour­age Mar­tin to fol­low in his foot­steps, only once did he offer any kind of writer­ly advice.

“We sat in high-bour­geois splen­dor, my father and I,” writes the younger Amis in his mem­oir Expe­ri­ence, “hav­ing a pre-lunch drink and talk­ing about his first pub­lished sto­ry, ‘The Sacred Rhi­no of Ugan­da’ (1932: he was ten).” The father-son dia­logue runs as fol­lows:

— It was awful in all the usu­al ways. And full of false quan­ti­ties. Things like: ‘Rag­ing and curs­ing in the blaz­ing heat …’

— What’s wrong with that? I mean I can see it’s old fash­ioned …

— You can’t have three ings like that.

— Can’t you?

— No. It would have to be: ‘Rag­ing and curs­ing in the … intol­er­a­ble heat.’

You couldn’t have three ings like that. And some­times you couldn’t even have two. The same went for -ics, -ives, -lys and -tions. And the same went for all pre­fix­es too.

43 years lat­er, Mar­tin Amis would find him­self in the role of lit­er­ary advice-giv­er, deliv­er­ing his father’s prin­ci­ple of writ­ing onstage at the Chica­go Human­i­ties Fes­ti­val. The process of imbu­ing every sen­tence with “min­i­mum ele­gance and eupho­ny,” he says in the clip above (drawn from a longer inter­view view­able here) involves “say­ing the sen­tence, sub­vo­cal­iz­ing it in your head until there’s noth­ing wrong with it. This means not repeat­ing in the same sen­tence suf­fix­es and pre­fix. If you’ve got a con­found, you can’t have a con­form. If you’ve got invi­ta­tion, you can’t have exe­cu­tion. You can’t repeat those, or an -ing, or a -ness: all that has to be one per sen­tence. I think the prose will give a sort of plea­sure with­out you being able to tell why.”

Clear­ly writ­ing a sen­tence that has “noth­ing wrong with it” goes well beyond adher­ing to the rules of spelling and gram­mar. And even after you’ve elim­i­nat­ed all ungain­ly rep­e­ti­tion, you may still have con­sid­er­able work to do before the sen­tence ris­es to a stan­dard worth uphold­ing. There are oth­er ques­tions to ask: do you, for exam­ple, tru­ly pos­sess each and every one of the words you’ve used, not just in mean­ing but sound and rhythm? In order to do so, Amis rec­om­mends acquaint­ing your­self more inti­mate­ly with the dic­tio­nary and the­saurus. If all this makes the task of the aspir­ing writer sound need­less­ly daunt­ing, fol­low instead the much sim­pler advice Amis pro­vides in the clip just above: “Get to the end of the nov­el, then wor­ry, because you’ve got some­thing in front of you that you can work on. Save the anx­i­ety for the end.”

Relat­ed Con­tent:

Mar­tin Amis Explains How to Use a The­saurus to Actu­al­ly Improve Your Writ­ing

Nor­man Mail­er & Mar­tin Amis, No Strangers to Con­tro­ver­sy, Talk in 1991

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

V.S. Naipaul Cre­ates a List of 7 Rules for Begin­ning Writ­ers

Nietzsche’s 10 Rules for Writ­ing with Style (1882)

5 Won­der­ful­ly Long Lit­er­ary Sen­tences by Samuel Beck­ett, Vir­ginia Woolf, F. Scott Fitzger­ald & Oth­er Mas­ters of the Run-On

Based in Seoul, Col­in Mar­shall writes and broad­casts on cities, lan­guage, and cul­ture. His projects include 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, on Face­book, or on Insta­gram.

Why James Baldwin’s Writing Stays Powerful: An Artfully Animated Introduction to the Author of Notes of a Native Son

Every writer hopes to be sur­vived by his work. In the case of James Bald­win, the 32 years since his death seem only to have increased the rel­e­vance of the writ­ing he left behind. Con­sist­ing of nov­els, essays, and even a chil­dren’s book, Bald­win’s body of work offers dif­fer­ent points of entry to dif­fer­ent read­ers. Many begin with with Go Tell it on the Moun­tain, the semi-auto­bi­o­graph­i­cal debut nov­el in which he mounts a cri­tique of the Pen­te­costal Church. Oth­ers may find their gate­way in Bald­win’s fic­tion­al treat­ment of desire and love under adverse cir­cum­stances: among men in Paris in Gio­van­ni’s Room, for exam­ple, or teenagers in Mem­phis in If Beale Street Could Talk. But unlike most nov­el­ists, Bald­win’s name con­tin­ues to draw just as many acco­lades — if not more of them — for his non­fic­tion.

Those look­ing to read Bald­win’s essays would do well to start with his first col­lec­tion of them, 1955’s Notes of a Native Son. In assem­bling pieces he orig­i­nal­ly pub­lished in mag­a­zines like Harper’s and the Par­ti­san Review, the book reflects the impor­tance to the young Bald­win of what would become the major themes of his career, like race and expa­tri­ate life.

Though res­i­dent at dif­fer­ent times in Turkey, Switzer­land, and (right up until his dying day) France, he nev­er took his eyes off his home­land of the Unit­ed States of Amer­i­ca for long. Nor, in fact, did the Unit­ed States of Amer­i­ca take its eyes off him. “Over the course of the 1960s,” says Ford­ham Uni­ver­si­ty polit­i­cal sci­ence pro­fes­sor Christi­na Greer in the ani­mat­ed TED-Ed intro­duc­tion to Bald­win above, “the FBI amassed almost 2,000 doc­u­ments” as they inves­ti­gat­ed his back­ground and activ­i­ties.

That the U.S. gov­ern­ment saw Bald­win as so polit­i­cal­ly dan­ger­ous is rea­son enough to read his books. But as one of Amer­i­ca’s most promi­nent men of let­ters, he could hard­ly be writ­ten off as a sim­ple fire­brand. Though known for his inci­sive views of white and black Amer­i­ca, he believed that every­one, what­ev­er their race, “was inex­tri­ca­bly enmeshed in the same social fab­ric,” that “peo­ple are trapped in his­to­ry, and his­to­ry is trapped in them.” As he found recep­tive audi­ences for his argu­ments in print and on tele­vi­sion, “his fac­ul­ty with words led the FBI to view him as a threat.” But that very fac­ul­ty with words — insep­a­ra­ble, as in all the great­est essay­ists, from the astute­ness of the per­cep­tions they express — has assured him a still-grow­ing read­er­ship in the 21st cen­tu­ry. Con­tend­ing with the most volatile social and polit­i­cal issues of his time cer­tain­ly did­n’t low­er Bald­win’s pro­file, but any giv­en page of his prose sug­gests that what­ev­er he’d cho­sen to write about, we’d still be read­ing him today.

Relat­ed Con­tent:

Great Cul­tur­al Icons Talk Civ­il Rights: James Bald­win, Mar­lon Bran­do, Har­ry Bela­fonte & Sid­ney Poiti­er (1963)

James Bald­win Bests William F. Buck­ley in 1965 Debate at Cam­bridge Uni­ver­si­ty

James Baldwin’s One & Only, Delight­ful­ly Illus­trat­ed Children’s Book, Lit­tle Man Lit­tle Man: A Sto­ry of Child­hood (1976)

James Bald­win: Wit­ty, Fiery in Berke­ley, 1979

Chris Rock Reads James Baldwin’s Still Time­ly Let­ter on Race in Amer­i­ca: “We Can Make What Amer­i­ca Must Become”

Based in Seoul, Col­in Mar­shall writes and broad­casts on cities, lan­guage, and cul­ture. His projects include 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, on Face­book, or on Insta­gram.

Why Should We Read Melville’s Moby-Dick? A TED-Ed Animation Makes the Case

Her­man Melville’s Moby-Dick is a major 19th epic and a “Great Amer­i­can Nov­el” that rou­tine­ly appears on best-of-all-time lists next to Homer and Dante. This grand lit­er­ary judg­ment descends from ear­ly 20th cen­tu­ry crit­ics who res­cued the nov­el from obscu­ri­ty after decades of scorn and neglect. When the book first appeared in 1851, no one knew what to make of Melville’s cos­mic whal­ing revenge tale. Reviews were high­ly mixed, sales dis­mal, the book flopped.

This Moby-Dick revival hap­pened to coin­cide with a peri­od of mod­ernist exper­i­men­ta­tion with nar­ra­tive struc­ture in the work of writ­ers like James Joyce and Vir­ginia Woolf. Sud­den­ly, Moby-Dick didn’t seem so strange any­more. More like a bril­liant, pro­to-mod­ernist tragedy. But if you expect straight­for­ward sea­far­ing adven­ture, as the ani­mat­ed TED-Ed les­son above by Sascha Mor­rell points out, it’s a hard slog. The exhaus­tive lessons on whales and whal­ing, chap­ter-length solil­o­quies, lan­guage so dense, col­or­ful, and allu­sive.… Leonard Woolf became so frus­trat­ed in a 1929 review, he called the book’s prose “the most exe­crable Eng­lish.”

Melville wrote bad sen­tences, Woolf pro­nounced. “His sec­ond great­est vice is rant or rhetoric…. I can­not see the slight­est point in this kind of bom­bast, and, when it raves on for page after page, I almost pitch the book into the waste-paper bas­ket and swear that I will not read anoth­er line, how­ev­er many peo­ple vouch for the author’s genius.” This con­trar­i­an­ism sounds an awful like Vir­ginia Woolf’s take on Joyce’s Ulysses. Like that book, Moby-Dick inspires wide­spread guilt among those who have been told they should read it, but who can’t bring them­selves to fin­ish or even begin.

Who was right: Melville’s ear­ly crit­ics and read­ers (and Leonard Woolf)? Or the mil­lions who have since seen in the nov­el some­thing pro­found and prophet­ic, though no one can say exact­ly what that is? Why should we read Moby-Dick? For many, many rea­sons, but most of all the lan­guage. The word “rich” doesn’t begin to describe the lay­er­ing of images: “A moun­tain sep­a­rat­ing two lakes,” Mor­rell says in a strik­ing exam­ple, “a room papered floor to ceil­ing with bridal satins, the lid of an immense snuff box. These seem­ing­ly unre­lat­ed images take us on a tour of a sperm whale’s head.”

The sym­bols them­selves invite us into oth­er cryp­tic alle­gories. Chap­ter 99, “The Dou­bloon,” com­petes with Achilles’ shield in The Ili­ad for metaphor­ic den­si­ty, yet like a mod­ernist nov­el, it frag­ments into mul­ti­ple per­spec­tives, each one exam­in­ing ideas of cur­ren­cy, con­quest, myth, rit­u­al, etc., as Ahab bul­lies and pro­vokes the crew into inter­pret­ing a coin nailed to the Pequod’s mast.

If the White Whale be raised, it must be in a month and a day, when the sun stands in some one of these signs. I’ve stud­ied signs, and know their marks; they were taught me two score years ago, by the old witch in Copen­hagen. Now, in what sign will the sun then be? The horse-shoe sign; for there it is, right oppo­site the gold. And what’s the horse-shoe sign? The lion is the horse-shoe sign- the roar­ing and devour­ing lion. Ship, old ship! my old head shakes to think of thee.

What Woolf saw as exces­sive bom­bast seems to me more like form mir­ror­ing func­tion. Melville writes sen­tences that must echo over the squalls and talk through mad­den­ing lulls that bring on strange hal­lu­ci­na­tions. Like Joyce’s, his lan­guage mir­rors the dis­cur­sive tics of Ahab and Ish­mael’s modes of thought—nautical, the­o­log­i­cal, polit­i­cal, soci­o­log­i­cal, myth­ic, his­toric, nat­u­ral­ist, sym­bol­ist: explo­rations into a bloody, cru­el, eco­log­i­cal­ly dev­as­tat­ing enter­prise that dri­ves its dement­ed captain—violently obsessed with a great white beast that has crip­pled and enraged him—to wreck the ship and kill every­one aboard except our nar­ra­tor.

Learn about Melville and Moby-Dick in the addi­tion­al resources at the TED-Ed les­son page.

Relat­ed Con­tent:   

Hear Moby Dick Read in Its Entire­ty by Til­da Swin­ton, Stephen Fry, John Waters & Oth­ers

How to Mem­o­rize an Entire Chap­ter from “Moby Dick”: The Art and Sci­ence of Remem­ber­ing Every­thing

An Illus­tra­tion of Every Page of Her­man Melville’s Moby Dick

A View From the Room Where Melville Wrote Moby Dick (Plus a Free Celebri­ty Read­ing of the Nov­el)

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

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