Pandemic Literature: A Meta-List of the Books You Should Read in Coronavirus Quarantine

Describ­ing con­di­tions char­ac­ter­is­tic of life in the ear­ly 21st cen­tu­ry, future his­to­ri­ans may well point to such epi­dem­ic viral ill­ness­es as SARS, MERS, and the now-ram­pag­ing COVID-19. But those focused on cul­ture will also have their pick of much more benign recur­ring phe­nom­e­na to explain: top­i­cal book lists, for instance, which crop up in the 21st-cen­tu­ry press at the faintest prompt­ing by cur­rent events. As the coro­n­avirus has spread through the Eng­lish-speak­ing world over the past month, pan­dem­ic-themed read­ing lists have appeared in all man­ner of out­lets: TimePBS, the Hol­ly­wood Reporter, the Guardian, the Globe and MailHaaretzVul­tureElec­tric Lit­er­a­ture, and oth­ers besides.

As mankind’s old­est dead­ly foe, dis­ease has pro­vid­ed themes to lit­er­a­ture since lit­er­a­ture’s very inven­tion. In the Euro­pean canon, no such work is more ven­er­a­ble than The Decameron, writ­ten by Renais­sance human­ist Gio­van­ni Boc­cac­cio in the late 1340s and ear­ly 1350s. “His pro­tag­o­nists, sev­en women and three men, retreat to a vil­la out­side Flo­rence to avoid the pan­dem­ic,” writes The Guardian’s Lois Beck­ett, refer­ring to the bubon­ic plague, or “Black Death,” that rav­aged Europe in the mid-14th cen­tu­ry. “There, iso­lat­ed for two weeks, they pass the time by telling each oth­er sto­ries” — and “live­ly, bizarre, and often very filthy sto­ries” at that — “with a dif­fer­ent theme for each day.”

A lat­er out­break of the bubon­ic plague in Lon­don inspired Robin­son Cru­soe author Daniel Defoe to write the A Jour­nal of the Plague Year. “Set in 1655 and pub­lished in 1722, the nov­el was like­ly based, in part, on the jour­nals of the author’s uncle,” writes the Globe and Mail’s Alec Scott. Defoe’s diarist “speaks of bod­ies pil­ing up in mass graves, of sud­den deaths and unlike­ly recov­er­ies from the brink, and also blames those from else­where for the out­break.” A Jour­nal of the Plague Year appears on these read­ing lists as often as Albert Camus’ The Plaguepre­vi­ous­ly fea­tured here on Open Cul­ture. “Camus’ famous work about the inhab­i­tants of an Alger­ian town who are strick­en by the bubon­ic plague was pub­lished back in 1947,” writes PBS’ Court­ney Vinopal, “but it has struck a chord with read­ers today liv­ing through the coro­n­avirus.”

Of nov­els pub­lished in the past decade, none has been select­ed as a must-read in coro­n­avirus quar­an­tine as often as Emi­ly St. John Man­del’s Sta­tion Eleven. “After a swine flu pan­dem­ic wipes out most of the world’s pop­u­la­tion, a group of musi­cians and actors trav­el around new­ly formed set­tle­ments to keep their art alive,” says Time. “Man­del show­cas­es the impact of the pan­dem­ic on all of their lives,” weav­ing togeth­er “char­ac­ters’ per­spec­tives from across the plan­et and over sev­er­al decades to explore how human­i­ty can fall apart and then, some­how, come back togeth­er.” Ling Ma’s dark­ly satir­i­cal Sev­er­ance also makes a strong show­ing: Elec­tric Lit­er­a­ture describes it as “a pan­dem­ic-zom­bie-dystopi­an-nov­el, but it’s also a relat­able mil­len­ni­al com­ing-of-age sto­ry and an intel­li­gent cri­tique of exploita­tive cap­i­tal­ism, mind­less con­sumerism, and the drudgery of bull­shit jobs.”

Since a well-bal­anced read­ing diet (and those of us stuck at home for weeks on end have giv­en much thought to bal­anced diets) requires both fic­tion and non­fic­tion, sev­er­al of these lists also include works of schol­ar­ship, his­to­ry, and jour­nal­ism on the real epi­demics that have inspired all this lit­er­a­ture. Take Richard Pre­ston’s best­seller The Hot Zone: The Ter­ri­fy­ing True Sto­ry of the Ori­gins of the Ebo­la Virus, which Gre­go­ry Eaves at Medi­um calls “a hair-rais­ing account of the appear­ance of rare and lethal virus­es and their ‘crash­es’ into the human race.” For an episode of his­to­ry more com­pa­ra­ble to the coro­n­avirus, there’s John M. Bar­ry’s The Great Influen­za: The Sto­ry of the Dead­liest Pan­dem­ic in His­to­ry, “a tale of tri­umph amid tragedy, which pro­vides us with a pre­cise and sober­ing mod­el as we con­front the epi­demics loom­ing on our own hori­zon.”

Below you’ll find a meta-list of all the nov­els and non­fic­tion books includ­ed on the read­ing lists linked above. As for the books them­selves — libraries and book­stores being a bit dif­fi­cult to access in many parts of the world at the moment — you might check for them in our col­lec­tion of books free online, the tem­porar­i­ly opened Nation­al Emer­gency Library at the Inter­net Archive, and our recent post on clas­sic works of plague lit­er­a­ture avail­able to down­load. How­ev­er you find these books, hap­py read­ing — or, more to the point, healthy read­ing.

Fic­tion

  • Ammonite by Nico­la Grif­fith
  • The Androm­e­da Strain by Michael Crich­ton
  • Beau­ty Salon by Mario Bel­latin
  • Bird Box by Josh Maler­man
  • Blind­ness by José Sara­m­a­go
  • The Book of M by Peng Shep­herd
  • The Bro­ken Earth tril­o­gy by N.K. Jemisin
  • Bring Out Your Dead by J.M. Pow­ell
  • The Child Gar­den by Geoff Ryman
  • The Children’s Hos­pi­tal by Chris Adri­an
  • The Com­pan­ion by Katie M. Fly­nn
  • The Decameron by Gio­van­ni Boc­cac­cio
  • The Dog Stars by Peter Heller
  • The Dooms­day Book by Con­nie Willis
  • The Dream­ers by Karen Thomp­son Walk­er
  • Earth Abides by George R. Stew­art
  • The Eyes of Dark­ness by Dean Koontz
  • Find Me by Lau­ra van den Berg
  • The Great Believ­ers by Rebec­ca Makkai
  • Jane Eyre by Char­lotte Bron­të
  • Jour­nal of the Plague Year by Daniel Defoe
  • Jour­nal of the Plague Years by Nor­man Spin­rad
  • The Last Man by Mary Shel­ley
  • The Last Town on Earth by Thomas Mullen
  • Love in the Time of Cholera by Gabriel Gar­cía Márquez
  • My Side of the Moun­tain by Jean Craig­head George
  • My Year of Rest and Relax­ation by Ottes­sa Mosh­fegh
  • The Old Drift by Namwali Ser­pell
  • Oryx and Crake by Mar­garet Atwood
  • Pale Horse, Pale Rid­er by Kather­ine Anne Porter
  • The Pas­sage tril­o­gy by Justin Cronin
  • The Plague by Albert Camus
  • The Pow­er by Nao­mi Alder­man
  • Real Life by Bran­don Tay­lor
  • The Road by Cor­mac McCarthy
  • Room by Emma Donoghue
  • Sev­er­ance by Ling Ma
  • Sta­tion Eleven by Emi­ly St. John Man­del
  • The Stand by Stephen King
  • They Came Like Swal­lows by William Maxwell
  • The Train­ing Com­mis­sion by Ingrid Bur­ring­ton and Bren­dan Byrne
  • The Trans­mi­gra­tion of Bod­ies by Yuri Her­rera
  • The White Plague by Frank Her­bert
  • Wilder Girls by Rory Pow­er
  • World War Z by Max Brooks
  • The Year of the Flood by Mar­garet Atwood
  • Year of Won­ders by Geral­dine Brooks
  • The Years of Rice and Salt by Kim Stan­ley Robin­son
  • Zone One by Col­son White­head

 

Non­fic­tion

  • The Amer­i­can Plague: The Untold Sto­ry of Yel­low Fever, The Epi­dem­ic That Shaped Our His­to­ry by Mol­ly Cald­well Cros­by
  • And the Band Played On by Randy Shilts
  • The Com­ing Plague: New­ly Emerg­ing Dis­eases in a World Out of Bal­ance by Lau­rie Gar­rett
  • A Dis­tant Mir­ror: The Calami­tous 14th Cen­tu­ry by Bar­bara W. Tuch­man
  • Flu: The Sto­ry Of the Great Influen­za Pan­dem­ic of 1918 and the Search for the Virus That Caused It by Gina Kola­ta
  • The Ghost Map: The Sto­ry of London’s Most Ter­ri­fy­ing Epidemic–and How It Changed Sci­ence, Cities, and the Mod­ern World by Steven John­son
  • The Great Influen­za: The Sto­ry of the Dead­liest Pan­dem­ic in His­to­ry by John Bar­ry
  • The Great Mor­tal­i­ty: An Inti­mate His­to­ry of the Black Death, the Most Dev­as­tat­ing Plague of All Time by John Kel­ly
  • His­to­ry of the Pelo­pon­nesian War by Thucy­dides
  • The Hot Zone The Ter­ri­fy­ing True Sto­ry of the Ori­gins of the Ebo­la Virus by Richard Pre­ston
  • Net­worked Dis­ease: Emerg­ing Infec­tions in the Glob­al City by A. Har­ris Ali and Roger Keil
  • Pale Rid­er: The Span­ish Flu of 1918 and How it Changed the World by Lau­ra Spin­ney
  • Pox: An Amer­i­can His­to­ry by Michael Will­rich

Relat­ed Con­tent:

Down­load Clas­sic Works of Plague Fic­tion: From Daniel Defoe & Mary Shel­ley, to Edgar Allan Poe

Why You Should Read The Plague, the Albert Camus Nov­el the Coro­n­avirus Has Made a Best­seller Again

The His­to­ry of the Plague: Every Major Epi­dem­ic in an Ani­mat­ed Map

Free Cours­es on the Coro­n­avirus: What You Need to Know About the Emerg­ing Pan­dem­ic

The Nation­al Emer­gency Library Makes 1.5 Mil­lion Books Free to Read Right Now

800 Free eBooks for iPad, Kin­dle & Oth­er Devices

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.

Download Classic Works of Plague Fiction: From Daniel Defoe & Mary Shelley, to Edgar Allan Poe

The apoth­e­o­sis of pres­tige real­ist plague film, Steven Soderburgh’s 2011 Con­ta­gion, has become one of the most pop­u­lar fea­tures on major stream­ing plat­forms, at a time when peo­ple have also turned increas­ing­ly to books of all kinds about plagues, from fan­ta­sy, hor­ror, and sci­ence fic­tion to accounts that show the expe­ri­ence as it was in all its ugliness—or at least as those who expe­ri­enced it remem­bered the events. Such a work is Daniel Defoe’s semi-fic­tion­al his­to­ry “A Jour­nal of the Plague Year,” a book he wrote “in tan­dem with an advice man­u­al called ‘Due Prepa­ra­tions for the Plague,’ in 1722,” notes Jill Lep­ore at The New York­er.

In 1722, Defoe had rea­son to believe the plague might come back to Lon­don, and wreak the dev­as­ta­tion it caused in 1665, the “plague year” he detailed, when one in every five Lon­don­ers died. This was not a sto­ry of heroes mak­ing sac­ri­fices to save the city. “Every­one behaved bad­ly, though the rich behaved the worst,” Lep­ore writes. “Hav­ing failed to heed warn­ings to pro­vi­sion, they sent their poor ser­vants out for sup­plies,” spread­ing the infec­tion through­out the city. Defoe earnest­ly hoped to head off such cat­a­stro­phe. He wrote to issue an admo­ni­tion, as he put it, “both to us and to pos­ter­i­ty, though we should be spared from that por­tion of this bit­ter cup.”

The cup, Lep­ore writes, “has come out of its cup­board.” But so too has the resilience found in Albert Camus’ 1946 nov­el Le Peste (The Plague), based on a real cholera out­break in Alge­ria in 1849. Though fic­tion­al, it draws on Camus’ study of his­tor­i­cal plagues and his expe­ri­ence as a mem­ber of the French Resis­tance. Camus seems to have found the plague as metaphor par­tic­u­lar­ly uplift­ing, nick­nam­ing his twins Cather­ine and Jean, “Plague” and “Cholera,” respec­tive­ly.

Whether we see it as a sto­ry of a siege brought on by sick­ness, or an alle­go­ry of an occu­pa­tion, Camus wrote of the nov­el that “the inhab­i­tants, final­ly freed, would nev­er for­get the dif­fi­cult peri­od that made them face the absurd­ness of their exis­tence and the pre­car­i­ous­ness of the human con­di­tion. What’s true of all the evils in the world is true of plagues as well. It helps men to rise above them­selves.” Defoe might dis­agree, but plagues in his time were not also accom­pa­nied by wide­spread Nazism, a dou­ble cri­sis that might dou­bly force us to “reflect on what is real, what is impor­tant, and become more human,” says Cather­ine Camus of the soar­ing new pop­u­lar­i­ty of her father’s nov­el.

We can do this through read­ing in our real-life quar­an­tine. “Read­ing is an infec­tion,” Lep­ore writes, “a bur­row­ing into the brain: books con­t­a­m­i­nate, metaphor­i­cal­ly, and even micro­bi­o­log­i­cal­ly” as phys­i­cal objects capa­ble of fer­ry­ing germs. Plagues are mass-exis­ten­tial crises on the lev­el of WWII or the Lis­bon earth­quake that shook the faith of Europe’s intel­lec­tu­als. They are also set­tings for love and ter­ror, from Boc­cac­cio and Gabriel Gar­cia Mar­quez to Edgar Allan Poe and Mar­garet Atwood.

Vul­ture has pub­lished an “essen­tial list” of 20 plague books to read, includ­ing many of the clas­sics men­tioned above, and a book that is hard­ly remem­bered but might be thought of as an ances­tor to Atwood’s plague-rid­den futures: Mary Shelley’s The Last Man, pub­lished in 1826 dur­ing the sec­ond of two vir­u­lent cholera pan­demics. In the nov­el, Shel­ley claims to have dis­cov­ered the sto­ry in prophet­ic writ­ing about the end of the 21st cen­tu­ry, telling of a dis­ease that wipes out the human race. If you’d rather not indulge that kind of fan­ta­sy just yet, you’ll find vary­ing degrees of imag­i­na­tive and sober­ly real­ist fic­tion and his­to­ry in the list of plague clas­sics below, all freely avail­able at Project Guten­berg.

A Jour­nal of the Plague Year by Daniel Defoe

His­to­ry of the Plague in Lon­don by Daniel Defoe

Loimolo­gia: or, an His­tor­i­cal Account of the Plague in Lon­don in 1665 by Hodges et al.

The Last Man by Mary Woll­stonecraft Shel­ley

Plague Ship by Andre Nor­ton

The Masque of the Red Death by Edgar Allan Poe

The Plague by Ted­dy Keller

The Decameron of Gio­van­ni Boc­cac­cio

A His­to­ry of Epi­demics in Britain by Charles Creighton

A His­to­ry of Epi­demics in Britain, Vol­ume II 

An account of the plague which raged at Moscow, in 1771 by Charles de Mertens

A brief Jour­nal of what passed in the City of Mar­seilles, while is was afflict­ed with the Plague, in the Year 1720 by Pichat­ty de Crois­lainte

Cher­ry & Vio­let: A Tale of the Great Plague by Anne Man­ning

Libraries may have shut their pos­si­bly con­t­a­m­i­nat­ed books behind closed doors, book­stores may be deemed nonessen­tial, but reading—and writing—about plague years feels like a nec­es­sary cul­tur­al activ­i­ty to help us under­stand who we are apt to become in such times.

Relat­ed Con­tent:  

Why You Should Read The Plague, the Albert Camus Nov­el the Coro­n­avirus Has Made a Best­seller Again

The His­to­ry of the Plague: Every Major Epi­dem­ic in an Ani­mat­ed Map

Isaac New­ton Con­ceived of His Most Ground­break­ing Ideas Dur­ing the Great Plague of 1665

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

 

Patrick Stewart Is Reading Every Shakespeare Sonnet on Instagram: One a Day “to Keep the Doctor Away”

He is a “geek cul­tur­al icon”: Cap­tain Picard and Pro­fes­sor X. We’ve heard him game­ly voice a ridicu­lous ani­mat­ed char­ac­ter in Amer­i­can Dad. We know him as an advo­cate for vic­tims of domes­tic vio­lence, a trag­ic real­i­ty he wit­nessed as a child. There are many sides to Patrick Stew­art, but at his core, Shake­speare nerds know, he’s a Shake­speare­an. Maybe you’ve seen him in 2010’s Ceaușes­cu-inspired Mac­beth or the 2012 BBC pro­duc­tion of Richard II, or as Claudius in 2009’s tele­vised Roy­al Shake­speare Com­pa­ny Ham­let, with David Ten­nant in the title role?

Only the most envi­able nerds, how­ev­er, have seen him live on stage with the RSC, in any num­ber of roles, minor and major, that he has played since join­ing the com­pa­ny in 1966. He’s as august a Shake­speare­an actor as Olivi­er or Giel­gud. So, imag­ine Olivi­er or Giel­gud read­ing a Shake­speare son­net to you every day, right in the com­fort of your own home. Maybe even bet­ter (some might say), we have the mel­liflu­ous Stew­art deliv­er­ing the goods, to soothe us in our days of iso­la­tion.

After receiv­ing a very enthu­si­as­tic response when he “ran­dom­ly and ele­gant­ly recit­ed Shakespeare’s Son­net 116 to his fans on social media,” writes Laugh­ing Squid, Stew­art “decid­ed to read one Shake­speare son­net aloud each day in hopes of ‘keep­ing the doc­tor away.’” Think of it as pre­ven­ta­tive med­i­cine for the itchy, cooped-up soul. On his Insta­gram, Sir Patrick shows up loung­ing com­fort­ably in casu­al clothes, fur­ther­ing the illu­sion that he’s joined us in our liv­ing rooms—or we’ve joined him in his.

 

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A post shared by Patrick Stew­art (@sirpatstew) on


Where the inti­ma­cy of celebri­ty social media can some­times feel cloy­ing and insin­cere, Stew­art seems to feel so gen­uine­ly at home with his set­ting and his text that we do too. The actor occa­sion­al­ly adds some brief com­men­tary. In his read­ing of Son­net 2, above, he says before begin­ning, “this is one of my favorites.”

When forty win­ters shall besiege thy brow,
And dig deep trench­es in thy beau­ty’s field,
Thy youth’s proud liv­ery so gazed on now,
Will be a tot­ter’d weed of small worth held: 
Then being asked, where all thy beau­ty lies,
Where all the trea­sure of thy lusty days; 
To say, with­in thine own deep sunken eyes,
Were an all-eat­ing shame, and thrift­less praise.
How much more praise deserv’d thy beau­ty’s use,
If thou couldst answer ‘This fair child of mine
Shall sum my count, and make my old excuse,’
Prov­ing his beau­ty by suc­ces­sion thine!
This were to be new made when thou art old,
And see thy blood warm when thou feel’st it cold.

Maybe we all feel we’re grow­ing old in the bore­dom and anx­i­ety of our new siege-like con­di­tions. The poet urges us to make the most it. Sure, plen­ty of peo­ple are already engaged in mak­ing chil­dren, with­out any help from Shake­speare or Patrick Stew­art, but those who aren’t might decide to work on oth­er lega­cies that will out­live them.

Stew­art tells Vari­ety that his only regret dur­ing his time with the RSC is that he “might have per­haps been a rather bold­er, pushi­er and more extrav­a­gant actor.” But it’s his under­state­ment and sub­tle­ty that make him so com­pelling. He also says that his first year with the RSC was, “at that point, the hap­pi­est year of my work­ing life,” though he was only cast to play small roles until he was made an Asso­ciate Artist in 1967, just one year after join­ing.

 

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He worked along­side a “new nucle­us of tal­ent” that includ­ed Helen Mir­ren and Ben Kings­ley and remained exclu­sive­ly with the com­pa­ny until 1982. (See a young Stew­art as Oberon in A Mid­sum­mer Night’s Dream pro­duc­tion from 1977.) Stew­art returned to the stage with the RSC often, and while his Insta­gram read­ings are hard­ly com­pa­ra­ble in scope and inten­si­ty to his Shake­speare­an work on stage and screen, they have proven a true balm for lovers of Shake­speare’s poet­ry, as read by Patrick Stew­art as a love­ably book­ish home­body, which turns out to be an unsur­pris­ing­ly large num­ber of peo­ple.

If you’re in dire need of such a thing—or just can’t miss the oppor­tu­ni­ty to see one of the great­est liv­ing Shake­speare­an actors read all of the Son­nets in his sweats—check in with Stewart’s Insta­gram to get caught up and for the lat­est install­ment, and fol­low along with poems here. For even more Shake­speare­an Stew­art geek­ery, read his rec­ol­lec­tion of his 1965 Roy­al Shake­speare Com­pa­ny audi­tion—in which com­pa­ny co-founder John Bar­ton had him per­form Hen­ry V’s famous Agin­court speech four times in a row before invit­ing him to join.

via Laugh­ing Squid

Relat­ed Con­tent:

An Inno­cent Christ­mas Typo Caus­es Sir Patrick Stew­art to Star as Satan In This Ani­mat­ed Hol­i­day Short

Patrick Stew­art Talks Can­did­ly About Domes­tic Vio­lence in a Poignant Q&A Ses­sion at Comic­palooza

Sir Patrick Stew­art & Sir Ian McK­ellen Play The New­ly­wed Game

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

What’s the Function of Criticism? Pretty Much Pop: A Culture Podcast #36 with Critic Noah Berlatsky

Do we need pro­fes­sion­al crit­ics reg­u­lat­ing our enter­tain­ment intake?  Noah has writ­ten for numer­ous pub­li­ca­tions includ­ing The Wash­ing­ton Post, The Atlantic, NBC News, The Guardian, Slate, and Vox, and his work has come up for dis­cus­sion in mul­ti­ple past Pret­ty Much Pop episodes.

He was invit­ed to join hosts Mark Lin­sen­may­er, Eri­ca Spyres, and Bri­an Hirt in spelling out the func­tions of crit­i­cism, the idea of crit­i­cism as art, ide­o­log­i­cal vs. aes­thet­ic cri­tique, and whether there’s any­thing wrong with being neg­a­tive about oth­er peo­ple’s art. While we talk most­ly about film, Noah also writes about TV, comics, music and more.

First, read some arti­cles by Noah about crit­i­cism:

Oth­er authors speak­ing on the util­i­ty of crit­ics:

Here are some exam­ples of Noah’s crit­i­cal work rel­e­vant to what came up in the inter­view and our recent episodes:

Includ­ed here with Noah’s per­mis­sion, here’s some crit­i­cism direct­ed at Noah:

At the end, after Noah leaves, Mark lays out a tax­on­o­my of crit­i­cism: sup­port­er, decoder, taste enforcer, and hater. Noah prac­tices all of these! Fol­low him on Twit­ter @nberlat and get scads of his writ­ing by sup­port­ing him at patreon.com/noahberlatsky.

Watch Mel Brooks’ depic­tion of the very first crit­ic.

This episode includes bonus dis­cus­sion that you can only hear by sup­port­ing the pod­cast at patreon.com/prettymuchpop. This pod­cast is part of the Par­tial­ly Exam­ined Life pod­cast net­work.

Pret­ty Much Pop: A Cul­ture Pod­cast is the first pod­cast curat­ed by Open Cul­ture. Browse all Pret­ty Much Pop posts or start with the first episode.

Meet the World’s First Known Author: Sumerian High Priestess Enheduanna

Watch­ers of West­world will have heard a char­ac­ter in the most recent episode utter the line, “for the first time, his­to­ry has an author.” It’s as loaded a bit of dia­logue as the series has dropped on fans, not least for its sug­ges­tion that in the absence of a god we should be bet­ter off with an all-know­ing machine.

The line might bend the ear of lit­er­ary schol­ars for anoth­er rea­son. The idea of author­ship is a com­pli­cat­ed one. In one sense, maybe, every­one is an author of his­to­ry, and in anoth­er, per­haps no one is. But it’s dif­fi­cult to com­pre­hend these abstractions—we crave sto­ries with strong char­ac­ters, hence our ven­er­a­tion of Great Men and Women of the past.

Still, in many times and places, indi­vid­ual author­ship was irrel­e­vant. Renais­sance thinkers reval­ued the author as an auc­tori­tas, a wor­thy fig­ure of influ­ence and renown. “Death of the author” the­o­rists point­ed out that the appear­ance of a lit­er­ary text could nev­er be reduced to a sin­gle, unchang­ing per­son­al­i­ty. In reli­gious stud­ies, ques­tions of author­ship open onto mine­field after mine­field. There may be no com­mon­ly agreed-upon way to think about what an author is.

Does it make sense, then, to talk about the “world’s first author”? Per­haps. In the TED-Ed les­son above by Soraya Field Fio­rio, we learn that the first known per­son to use writ­ten lan­guage for lit­er­ary pur­pos­es was named was Enhed­u­an­na, a pow­er­ful Mesopotami­an high priest­ess who wrote forty-two hymns and three epic poems in cuneiform 4,3000 hun­dred years ago.

Daugh­ter of Sar­gon of Akkad, who placed her in a posi­tion to rule, Enhed­u­an­na lived about “1,500 years before Homer and about 500 years before the Bib­li­cal patri­arch Abra­ham.” (There’s con­sid­er­able doubt, of course, about whether either of those peo­ple exist­ed, whether they wrote the works attrib­uted to them, or whether such works were penned by com­mit­tee, so to speak.)

Sar­gon was also an author, hav­ing com­posed an auto­bi­og­ra­phy, The Leg­end of Sar­gon, that “exert­ed a pow­er­ful influ­ence over the Sume­ri­ans he sought to con­quer,” notes Joshua J. Mark at the Ancient His­to­ry Ency­clo­pe­dia. But first, Enhed­u­an­na used her posi­tion as high priest­ess to uni­fy her father’s empire with reli­gious hymns that praised the gods of each major Sumer­ian city. “In her writ­ing, she human­ized the once aloof gods,” just as Homer would hun­dreds of years lat­er. “Now they suf­fered, fought, loved, and respond­ed to human plead­ing.”

Her hymns to Inan­na are her most defin­ing lit­er­ary achieve­ment, but Enhed­u­an­na has some­how been com­plete­ly left out of his­to­ry. “We know who the first nov­el­ist is,” writes Charles Hal­ton at Lit Hub, “eleventh cen­tu­ry Japan­ese Noble­woman Murasa­ki Shik­ibu, who wrote the Tale of Gen­ji.” Like­wise, we know the first nov­el­ist of the west­ern world, Miguel de Cer­vantes, and the first essay­ist, Michel de Mon­taigne. But “ask any per­son in your life who wrote the first poem and they’re apt to draw a blank.”

Maybe this is because, unlike nov­els, we don’t think of poet­ry as being invent­ed by a sin­gle indi­vid­ual. It seems as though it must have sprung from the col­lec­tive psy­che not long after humans began using lan­guage. Yet from the point of view of lit­er­ary history—which, like most his­to­ries, con­sists of a suc­ces­sion of great names—Enheduanna cer­tain­ly deserves the hon­or as the world’s first known poet and first known author.  Learn more about her in the les­son above.

 Relat­ed Con­tent:

How to Write in Cuneiform, the Old­est Writ­ing Sys­tem in the World: A Short, Charm­ing Intro­duc­tion

Watch a 4000-Year Old Baby­lon­ian Recipe for Stew, Found on a Cuneiform Tablet, Get Cooked by Researchers from Yale & Har­vard

Hear The Epic of Gil­gamesh Read in its Orig­i­nal Ancient Lan­guage, Akka­di­an

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

Why You Should Read The Plague, the Albert Camus Novel the Coronavirus Has Made a Bestseller Again

The coro­n­avirus, fair to say, isn’t good for the econ­o­my: not for the economies of indi­vid­ual nations, and not for the world econ­o­my as a whole. But that’s not to say that every indus­try has tak­en a hit. This is hard­ly the worst time in his­to­ry to pro­duce and sell toi­let paper, for instance, nor to fur­nish the pack­ages of neces­si­ties demand­ed by “prep­pers” who fore­see the end of soci­ety as we know it. One prob­a­bly would­n’t wish to take the place of the mak­ers of Coro­na beer right now, but despite the now-unfor­tu­nate brand name, their sales, too, have stayed strong. And for pub­lish­ers around the world who have been con­sid­er­ing a reprint of Albert Camus’ La Peste, now is most assured­ly the time.

The Plague, as it’s titled in Eng­lish, “fol­lows the inhab­i­tants of Oran, an Alger­ian town that is sealed off by quar­an­tine as it is rav­aged by bubon­ic plague,” writes The Guardian’s Ali­son Flood. “Pen­guin is rush­ing through a reprint of its Eng­lish trans­la­tion to meet demand,” but last week stock had already sold out on Ama­zon.

The pub­lish­er added that sales in the last week of Feb­ru­ary were up by 150% on the same peri­od in 2019.” The nov­el has also become a best­seller in Italy — a coun­try espe­cial­ly hard hit by the virus — and sales “have also risen sharply in France, accord­ing to the French books sta­tis­tics web­site Edi­s­tat,” to the tune of “around 300% on the pre­vi­ous year.” I live in South Korea, one of the coun­tries most severe­ly hit by the coro­n­avirus, and recent­ly wrote an essay about read­ing The Plague here in the Los Ange­les Review of Books.

Though Camus tells a sto­ry set in real city and about a spe­cif­ic dis­ease, his lit­er­ary ren­der­ing of a com­mu­ni­ty iso­lat­ed and under invis­i­ble siege has the uni­ver­sal qual­i­ty of myth. Each main char­ac­ter — the tire­less doc­tor Rieux, the sui­ci­dal-turned-gre­gar­i­ous Cot­tard, the human­ist out­sider Tar­rou — exem­pli­fies a dif­fer­ent arc of indi­vid­ual reac­tion to the cri­sis. Even in Seoul I noticed cer­tain par­al­lels: Camus’ descrip­tion of the “com­mer­cial char­ac­ter of the town” and the work habits of its peo­ple, of the sud­den runs on par­tic­u­lar items thought to have pre­ven­ta­tive prop­er­ties (pep­per­mint lozenges, in the nov­el), of the fierce pub­lic attacks on the gov­ern­ment when­ev­er the strug­gle turns espe­cial­ly har­row­ing. Read­ers the world over will feel a grim sense of recog­ni­tion at the Oran author­i­ties’ unwill­ing­ness to call the plague a plague, due to “the usu­al taboo, of course; the pub­lic mustn’t be alarmed, that wouldn’t do at all.”

Camus wrote The Plague in 1947, five years after his best-known work The Stranger and just three years after the real Oran’s most recent out­break of the bubon­ic plague. (You can get a primer on Camus’ life, work, and reluc­tant­ly exis­ten­tial­ist phi­los­o­phy in the ani­mat­ed School of Life video above.) Like The Stranger, and like all great works of art, The Plague per­mits more than one inter­pre­ta­tion: J.M. Coet­zee sug­gests one read­ing of the nov­el “as being about what the French called ‘the brown plague’ of the Ger­man occu­pa­tion, and more gen­er­al­ly as about the ease with which a com­mu­ni­ty can be infect­ed by a bacil­lus-like ide­ol­o­gy.” But each era has its own read­ing of The Plague — in the year 2003, for instance, crit­ic Mari­na Warn­er offered it up as a “study in ter­ror­ism” — and of all its read­ers and re-read­ers in this his­tor­i­cal moment, how many could resist an entire­ly more lit­er­al inter­pre­ta­tion?

Relat­ed Con­tent:

The His­to­ry of the Plague: Every Major Epi­dem­ic in an Ani­mat­ed Map

Free Cours­es on the Coro­n­avirus: What You Need to Know About the Emerg­ing Pan­dem­ic

The Absurd Phi­los­o­phy of Albert Camus Pre­sent­ed in a Short Ani­mat­ed Film by Alain De Bot­ton

See Albert Camus’ His­toric Lec­ture, “The Human Cri­sis,” Per­formed by Actor Vig­go Mortensen

Albert Camus Explains Why Hap­pi­ness Is Like Com­mit­ting a Crime—”You Should Nev­er Admit to it” (1959)

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 or on Face­book.

Hear H.P. Lovecraft Horror Stories Read by Roddy McDowall

“Most dae­mo­ni­a­cal of all shocks is that of the abysmal­ly unex­pect­ed and grotesque­ly unbe­liev­able,” goes a typ­i­cal line in the work of H.P. Love­craft. “Noth­ing I had before under­gone could com­pare in ter­ror with what I now saw; with the bizarre mar­vels that sight implied.” As a writer of what he called “weird fic­tion,” Love­craft spe­cial­ized in the nar­ra­tor plunged into a loss for words by the sheer incom­pre­hen­si­bil­i­ty of that which he sees before him. But in the case of this par­tic­u­lar sen­tence, the nar­ra­tor sees not an ancient mon­ster awak­ened from its mil­len­nia of slum­ber but “noth­ing less than the sol­id ground” — or as the read­er put it, noth­ing more than the sol­id ground. But then, most of us haven’t lived our entire lives locked up high in a cas­tle.

The sto­ry is “The Out­sider,” some­thing of an out­lier in the Love­craft canon due to its out­sized pop­u­lar­i­ty as well as its Goth­ic tinge. By the author’s own admis­sion, it owes a debt to his lit­er­ary idol Edgar Allan Poe, and indeed rep­re­sents Love­craft’s “lit­er­al though uncon­scious imi­ta­tion of Poe at its very height.”

In 1926 or today, one could do much worse for a mod­el than Poe, and crit­ics have also detect­ed in “The Out­sider” the pos­si­ble influ­ence of Nathaniel Hawthorne, Mary Shel­ley, and Oscar Wilde. Any­one dar­ing to read the sto­ry aloud must thus strike a bal­ance between sev­er­al dif­fer­ent com­pet­ing tones, and few could hope to out­do Rod­dy McDowal­l’s per­for­mance on the 1966 record above. But as Dan­ger­ous Minds’ Paul Gal­lagher notes, that actor, “child star of Lassie Come Home and My Friend Flic­ka,” is “hard­ly a name one would asso­ciate with the mas­ter of the unname­able.”

Though McDowall would lat­er “star in some jol­ly decent hor­ror movies like The Leg­end of Hell House and Fright Night, he was in 1966 best known for the likes of “That Darn Cat! or Lord Love a Duck or the stage musi­cal Camelot.” In the event, McDow­ell proved “almost a per­fect choice to give life to Lovecraft’s words,” deliv­er­ing a “light boy­ish charm” com­bined with an into­na­tion that “caus­es a grow­ing dis­qui­et and a dread­ful sense of unease,” alto­geth­er suit­able for the work of “the weird and reclu­sive Love­craft.” He also brings to the role the kind of faint, unex­pect­ed­ly refined men­ace that would make him famous as Cor­nelius and Cae­sar in the Plan­et of the Apes films. After “The Out­sider” McDowall reads Love­caft’s ear­li­er sto­ry “The Hound,” and sure­ly his voice is just the one in which Love­craft fans would want to hear spo­ken, for the very first time in Love­craft’s oeu­vre, the name of the Necro­nom­i­con.

Be sure to explore out col­lec­tion, 1,000 Free Audio Books: Down­load Great Books for Free.

via Dan­ger­ous Minds

Relat­ed Con­tent:

H.P. Lovecraft’s Clas­sic Hor­ror Sto­ries Free Online: Down­load Audio Books, eBooks & More

23 Hours of H.P. Love­craft Sto­ries: Hear Read­ings & Drama­ti­za­tions of “The Call of Cthul­hu,” “The Shad­ow Over Inns­mouth,” & Oth­er Weird Tales

An Ani­mat­ed Intro­duc­tion to H.P. Love­craft and How He Invent­ed a New Goth­ic Hor­ror

H.P. Lovecraft’s Mon­ster Draw­ings: Cthul­hu & Oth­er Crea­tures from the “Bound­less and Hideous Unknown”

H.P. Love­craft Gives Five Tips for Writ­ing a Hor­ror Sto­ry, or Any Piece of “Weird Fic­tion”

Mak­ing The Plan­et of the Apes: Rod­dy McDowall’s Home Movies and a 1966 Make­up Test

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 or on Face­book.

The Library of Congress Wants You to Help Transcribe Walt Whitman’s Poems & Letters: Almost 4000 Unpublished Documents Are Waiting

Every once in a while, a promi­nent artist will offer the advice that you should quit your day job and nev­er look back. In some fields, this may be pos­si­ble, though it’s becom­ing increas­ing­ly dif­fi­cult these days, which may explain the recep­tion Bri­an Eno gets when he tells art school stu­dents “not to have a job.” Eno admits, “I rarely get asked back.” In a let­ter to his anx­ious moth­er, Gus­tave Flaubert, railed against “those bas­tard exis­tences where you sell suet all day and write poet­ry at night.” Such a life, he wrote, was “made for mediocre minds.”

Sure, if you can swing it, by all means, quit your job. Most poets through­out history—save the few with inde­pen­dent means or wealthy patrons—haven’t had the lux­u­ry. Poet­ry may nev­er pay the bills, but that shouldn’t stop a poet from writ­ing. It didn’t stop T.S. Eliot, who worked as an edi­tor (he reject­ed George Orwell’s Ani­mal Farm) and a bank clerk (he turned down a fel­low­ship from the Blooms­bury group). It did not stop William Car­los Williams, the doc­tor, nor Wal­lace Stevens, who spent his days in the insur­ance game, nor Charles Bukows­ki,  though he’d nev­er rec­om­mend it….

Then there’s ulti­mate jour­ney­man poet Walt Whit­man, who left school at 11 to get a job and var­i­ous­ly through­out his life “worked as a school teacher, print­er, news­pa­per edi­tor, jour­nal­ist, car­pen­ter, free­lance writer, civ­il ser­vant, and Union Army nurse in Wash­ing­ton D.C. dur­ing the Civ­il War,” as the Library of Con­gress (LOC) not­ed for the 200th anniver­sary of the poet’s 1819 birth. The LOC holds “the world’s largest Walt Whit­man man­u­script col­lec­tion” and last year they announced a vol­un­teer cam­paign to tran­scribe thou­sands of unpub­lished doc­u­ments.

Whit­man offered his own pos­si­bly dubi­ous advice to aspir­ing writ­ers—“don’t write poet­ry”—but he him­self nev­er stopped writ­ing, no mat­ter the demands of the day. He also advised, “it is a good plan for every young man or woman hav­ing lit­er­ary aspi­ra­tions to car­ry a pen­cil and a piece of paper and con­stant­ly jot down strik­ing events in dai­ly life. They thus acquire a vast fund of infor­ma­tion.” Whitman’s “jot­tings” include typed and hand­writ­ten let­ters, orig­i­nal copies of poems, drafts of essays and reviews, and more.

His prose is always live­ly and robust, full of exhor­ta­tions, exal­ta­tions, and admix­tures of the high lit­er­ary lan­guage and casu­al talk of city streets that were his hall­mark. Wit­ness the wild swings in tone in his brief let­ter to Abra­ham P. Leech (above) cir­ca 1881:

Friend Leech,

How d’ye do? — I have quite a han­ker­ing to hear from and see Jamaica, and the Jamaicaites. — A pres­sure of busi­ness only, has pre­vent­ed my com­ing out among the “friends of yore” and the famil­iar places which your vil­lage con­tains. –I was an hour in your vil­lage the oth­er day, but did not have time to come up and see you,–I think of com­ing up in the course of the win­ter holidays.–Farewell–and don’t for­get write to me, through the P.O.  May your kind angel hov­er in the invis­i­ble air, and lose sight of your blessed pres­ence nev­er.

                  Whit­man

There are many, many more such doc­u­ments remain­ing to be tran­scribed among the close to 4000 in the LoC’s dig­i­tized Whit­man col­lec­tion. “More than half of those have been com­plet­ed so far,” writes Men­tal Floss, and rough­ly 1860 tran­scrip­tions still need to be reviewed. Any­one can read the doc­u­ments that need approval and offi­cial­ly add them to the Whit­man archive.” This is a very wor­thy project, and it may or may not feel like work to vol­un­teer your time deci­pher­ing, read­ing, and tran­scrib­ing Whitman’s ebul­lient hand.

The ques­tion may still remain: How did Whit­man acquire the phys­i­cal and men­tal sta­mi­na to get so much excel­lent writ­ing done and still hold down steady gigs to make the rent? Per­haps a series of guides called “Man­ly Health and Train­ing” that he wrote between 1858 and 1860 hold a clue. The poet rec­om­mends rou­tine trips to the “gym­na­si­um” and a diet of meat, “to the exclu­sion of all else.” For those “stu­dents, clerks” and oth­ers “in seden­tary and men­tal employments”—including the “lit­er­ary man”—he has one word: “Up!”

As with all such pieces of advice, results may vary. Enter the two huge man­u­script archives—“Miscellaneous” and “Poetry”—at the Library of Con­gress dig­i­tal col­lec­tions and peruse, or tran­scribe, as much of Whit­man’s end­less stream of writ­ing as you like.

via Men­tal Floss

Relat­ed Con­tent:

Walt Whitman’s Unearthed Health Man­u­al, “Man­ly Health & Train­ing,” Urges Read­ers to Stand (Don’t Sit!) and Eat Plen­ty of Meat (1858)

Walt Whit­man Gives Advice to Aspir­ing Young Writ­ers: “Don’t Write Poet­ry” & Oth­er Prac­ti­cal Tips (1888)

Walt Whitman’s Poem “A Noise­less Patient Spi­der” Brought to Life in Three Ani­ma­tions

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

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