Classic Illustrations of Edgar Allan Poe’s Stories by Gustave Doré, Édouard Manet, Harry Clarke, Aubrey Beardsley & Arthur Rackham

What do you see when you read the work of Edgar Allan Poe? The great age of the illus­trat­ed book is far behind us. Aside from cov­er designs, most mod­ern edi­tions of Poe’s work cir­cu­late in text-only form. That’s just fine, of course. Read­ers should be trust­ed to use their imag­i­na­tions, and who can for­get indeli­ble descrip­tions like “The Tell-Tale Heart”’s “eye of a vulture—a pale, blue eye, with a film over it”? We need no pic­ture book to make that image come alive.

Yet, when we first dis­cov­er the many illus­trat­ed edi­tions of Poe pub­lished in the late 19th and ear­ly 20th cen­turies, we might won­der how we ever did with­out them. A copy of Tales of Mys­tery and Imag­i­na­tion illus­trat­ed by Arthur Rack­ham in 1935 (above) served as my first intro­duc­tion to this rich body of work.

Known also for his edi­tions of Peter Pan, The Wind in the Wil­lows, Grimm’s Fairy Tales, and Alice in Won­der­land, Rackham’s “sig­na­ture water­col­or tech­nique” was “always in high demand,” Sadie Stein writes at The Paris Review.

Some­time lat­er, I came across the 1894 Sym­bol­ist illus­tra­tions of Aubrey Beard­s­ley, and for a while, when Poe came to mind so too did Beardsley’s sen­su­al­ly creepy prints, influ­enced by Japan­ese wood­cuts and Art Nou­veau posters. His styl­ized take on Poe, notes Print mag­a­zine, offers “a very dif­fer­ent aes­thet­ic from the works of his pre­de­ces­sors.” Most promi­nent among those ear­li­er illus­tra­tors was the huge­ly pro­lif­ic Gus­tave Doré, whose clas­si­cal ren­der­ings of the Divine Com­e­dy and Don Quixote may have few equals in a field crowd­ed with illus­trat­ed edi­tions of those books.

But for me, there’s some­thing lack­ing, in the 26 steel engrav­ings Doré made for an 1884 edi­tion of Poe’s “The Raven.” They are, like all of his work, clas­si­cal­ly accom­plished works of art. But unlike Beard­s­ley, Doré seems to miss the strain of absur­dism and dark humor that runs through all of Poe’s work (or at least the way I’ve read him), though it’s true that “The Raven” relies on atmos­phere and sug­ges­tion for its effect, rather than tor­ture, mur­der, and plague. In the lat­er, 1923 edi­tion of Tales of Mys­tery and Imag­i­na­tion illus­trat­ed by Irish artist Har­ry Clarke, we find the best qual­i­ties of Beard­s­ley and Doré com­bined: fine­ly-detailed, ful­ly-real­ized scenes, suf­fused with goth­ic sen­su­al­i­ty, sym­bol­ism, grotesque weird­ness, and an almost com­i­cal­ly exag­ger­at­ed sense of dread.

Poe sig­nif­i­cant­ly influ­enced the poet­ry of Charles Baude­laire and Stéphane Mal­lar­mé, and Clarke fore­grounds in his work many of the qual­i­ties those poets did—the tan­gling up of sex and death in images that attract and repulse at the same time. Ear­ly Impres­sion­ist mas­ter Édouard Manet also illus­trat­ed an 1875 edi­tion of “The Raven,” trans­lat­ed into French by Mal­lar­mé. Manet draws the French poet/translator as the speak­er of the poem (rec­og­niz­able by his push­b­room mus­tache).

Manet’s min­i­mal draw­ings of the poem con­trast stark­ly with Doré’s elab­o­rate engrav­ings. Just as read­ers might imag­ine Poe’s macabre sto­ries in innu­mer­able ways, so too the artists who have illus­trat­ed his work. See con­tem­po­rary illus­tra­tions for “The Tell-Tale Heart,” for exam­ple, by South African artist Pen­cil­heart Art and Brook­lyn-based illus­tra­tor Daniel Horowitz, and rec­om­mend your favorite Poe artist in the com­ments below.

Relat­ed Con­tent:  

Har­ry Clarke’s Hal­lu­ci­na­to­ry Illus­tra­tions for Edgar Allan Poe’s Sto­ries (1923)

Aubrey Beardsley’s Macabre Illus­tra­tions of Edgar Allan Poe’s Short Sto­ries (1894)

Gus­tave Doré’s Splen­did Illus­tra­tions of Edgar Allan Poe’s “The Raven” (1884)

Édouard Manet Illus­trates Edgar Allan Poe’s The Raven, in a French Edi­tion Trans­lat­ed by Stephane Mal­lar­mé (1875)

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

An Illustrated and Interactive Dante’s Inferno: Explore a New Digital Companion to the Great 14th-Century Epic Poem

Medieval con­cep­tions of hell may have lit­tle effect on the laws and social mores of our sec­u­lar age. But they sure as hell did in the late 15th cen­tu­ry, when the first illus­trat­ed edi­tions of Dante’s Infer­no appeared. A 1481 edi­tion con­tained art based on a series of unfin­ished illus­tra­tions by Renais­sance mas­ter San­dro Bot­ti­cel­li. In 1491, the first ful­ly-illus­trat­ed edi­tion of the Infer­no arrived. As were most print­ed works at the time, these books were elab­o­rate and expen­sive, reflect­ing the very seri­ous treat­ment the sub­ject of Dante’s work received.

Cen­turies lat­er, Dante’s work has not lost its effect on our imag­i­na­tions. Though most peo­ple are far less like­ly to enter­tain belief in a giant corkscrew pit beneath the earth full of tor­tured souls, it remains a vivid, chill­ing (so to speak) metaphor. The epic poem’s lan­guage moves and entrances us; its psy­cho­log­i­cal insights daz­zle; its for­mal inno­va­tions con­tin­ue to awe; and its images still shock, amuse, and ter­ri­fy.

Every decade, it seems, pro­duces some new, fresh visu­al take on the Infer­no, from Bot­ti­cel­li to the stun­ning ren­der­ings of William Blake, Gus­tave Doré, Alber­to Mar­ti­ni, Sal­vador Dali, Robert Rauschen­berg.…

This is daunt­ing com­pa­ny, and the online, inter­ac­tive com­pan­ion to the Infer­no you see screen-shot­ted here does not attempt to join their ranks. Its charm­ing, children’s‑book-graphic visu­al pre­sen­ta­tion takes a G‑rated approach, ditch­ing accu­rate human anato­my and hor­rif­ic vio­lence for a car­toon­ish video game romp through hell that makes it seem like a super fun, if super weird, place to vis­it. Cre­at­ed by Alpaca, an Ital­ian design coop­er­a­tive, and design stu­dio Molotro, the tool aims to be “a synsemic access point to Dante’s lit­er­a­ture, aid­ing its study.”

What it lacks in visu­al high seri­ous­ness, it makes up for in util­i­ty. In this bril­liant­ly sim­ple design you can leap from Can­to to Can­to, learn the cir­cle each one cov­ers, the kind of sin­ners who inhab­it it, and the main char­ac­ters in each. Click on select­ed fig­ures in the graph­ic to see char­ac­ter names and quot­ed excerpts from the poem. A much longer list of char­ac­ters serves as an index, quick­ly link­ing each name to a Can­to, quo­ta­tion, cir­cle, and sin. The Ital­ian site links to the orig­i­nal poem on Wikipedia. The Eng­lish ver­sion’s anno­ta­tions link to Hen­ry Wadsworth Longfellow’s 1867 trans­la­tion.

Access Can­tos and Char­ac­ters in menus at the top of the main page or use the zoom but­ton to move clos­er into any point in the topo­graph­i­cal map and begin click­ing on car­toon fig­ures in var­i­ous stages of tor­tured dis­tress. See Behance for an illus­trat­ed guide through the online Infer­no, a com­i­cal-look­ing tool with very seri­ous appli­ca­tions for stu­dents of Dante’s poem. If you’re new to the Infer­no, dive right in here. Hell awaits, as it has for mil­lions of fas­ci­nat­ed read­ers for 800 years.

via Metafil­ter

Relat­ed Con­tent:

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

Visu­al­iz­ing Dante’s Hell: See Maps & Draw­ings of Dante’s Infer­no from the Renais­sance Through Today

Artists Illus­trate Dante’s Divine Com­e­dy Through the Ages: Doré, Blake, Bot­ti­cel­li, Mœbius & More

A Dig­i­tal Archive of the Ear­li­est Illus­trat­ed Edi­tions of Dante’s Divine Com­e­dy (1487–1568)

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

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

Public Domain Day Is Finally Here!: Copyrighted Works Have Entered the Public Domain Today for the First Time in 21 Years

Ear­li­er this year we informed read­ers that thou­sands of works of art and enter­tain­ment would soon enter the pub­lic domain—to be fol­lowed every year by thou­sands more. That day is nigh upon us: Pub­lic Domain Day, Jan­u­ary 1, 2019. At the stroke of mid­night, such beloved clas­sics as Robert Frost’s “Stop­ping by Woods on a Snowy Evening” and “Yes! We Have No Bananas” will become the com­mon prop­er­ty of the peo­ple, to be quot­ed at length or in full any­where when the copy­right expires on work pro­duced in 1923. Then, 1924 will expire in 2020, 1925 in 2021, and so on and so forth.

It means that “hun­dreds of thou­sands of books, musi­cal com­po­si­tions, paint­ings, poems, pho­tographs and films” will become freely avail­able to dis­trib­ute, remix, and remake, as Glenn Fleish­man writes at Smith­son­ian. “Any mid­dle school can pro­duce Theodore Pratt’s stage adap­ta­tion of The Pic­ture of Dori­an Gray, and any his­to­ri­an can pub­lish Win­ston Churchill’s The World Cri­sis with her own exten­sive anno­ta­tions… and any film­mak­er can remake Cecil B. DeMille’s orig­i­nal The Ten Com­mand­ments.”

Those are just a few ideas. See more exten­sive lists of hits and obscu­ri­ties from 1923 at our pre­vi­ous post and come up with your own cre­ative adap­ta­tions. The pos­si­bil­i­ties are vast and pos­si­bly world chang­ing, in ways both decid­ed­ly good and arguably quite bad. Teach­ers may pho­to­copy thou­sands of pages with­out fear of pros­e­cu­tion; schol­ars may quote freely, artists may find deep wells of inspi­ra­tion. And we may also see “Frost’s immor­tal ode to win­ter used in an ad for snow tires.”

Such crass­ness aside, this huge release from copy­right her­alds a cul­tur­al sea change—the first time such a thing has hap­pened in 21 years due to a 20-year exten­sion of the copy­right term in 1998, in a bill spon­sored by Son­ny Bono at the urg­ing of the Walt Dis­ney com­pa­ny. The leg­is­la­tion, aimed at pro­tect­ing Mick­ey Mouse, cre­at­ed a “bizarre 20-year hia­tus between the release of works from 1922 and 1923.” It is fas­ci­nat­ing to con­sid­er how a gov­ern­ment-man­dat­ed mar­ket­ing deci­sion has affect­ed our under­stand­ing of his­to­ry and cul­ture.

The nov­el­ist Willa Cather called 1922 the year “the world broke in two,” the start of a great lit­er­ary, artis­tic and cul­tur­al upheaval. In 1922, Ulysses by James Joyce and T.S. Eliot’s “The Waste Land” were pub­lished, and the Harlem Renais­sance blos­somed with the arrival of Claude McKay’s poet­ry in Harlem Shad­ows. For two decades those works have been in the pub­lic domain, enabling artists, crit­ics and oth­ers to bur­nish that notable year to a high gloss in our his­tor­i­cal mem­o­ry. In com­par­i­son, 1923 can feel dull.

That year, how­ev­er, marked the film debut of Mar­lene Diet­rich, the pub­li­ca­tion of mod­ernist land­marks like Vir­ginia Woolf’s Mrs. Dal­loway and Jean Toomer’s Cane and far too many more influ­en­tial works to name here. Find sev­er­al more at Duke University’s Cen­ter for the Study of the Pub­lic Domain,  Life­hack­er, Indiewire, and The Atlantic and have a very hap­py Pub­lic Domain Day.

Pub­lic domain films and books will be added to ever-grow­ing col­lec­tions:

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

4,000+ Free Movies Online: Great Clas­sics, Indies, Noir, West­erns, Doc­u­men­taries & More

800 Free eBooks for iPad, Kin­dle & Oth­er Devices

Relat­ed Con­tent:

An Avalanche of Nov­els, Films and Oth­er Works of Art Will Soon Enter the Pub­lic Domain: Vir­ginia Woolf, Char­lie Chap­lin, William Car­los Williams, Buster Keaton & More

The Library of Con­gress Launch­es the Nation­al Screen­ing Room, Putting Online Hun­dreds of His­toric Films

List of Great Pub­lic Domain Films 

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

Isaac Asimov Predicts in 1983 What the World Will Look Like in 2019: Computerization, Global Co-operation, Leisure Time & Moon Mining

Paint­ing of Asi­mov on his throne by Rowe­na Morill, via Wiki­me­dia Com­mons

“It’s dif­fi­cult to make pre­dic­tions,” they say, “espe­cial­ly about the future.” The wit­ti­cism has been var­i­ous­ly attrib­uted. If Yogi Berra said it, it’s adorable non­sense, if Mark Twain, dry plain­spo­ken irony. If Niels Bohr, how­ev­er, we have a state­ment that makes us won­der what exact­ly “the future” could mean in a rad­i­cal­ly uncer­tain uni­verse.

If sci­en­tists can’t pre­dict the future, who can? Sci­ence fic­tion writ­ers, of course. They may be spec­tac­u­lar­ly wrong at times, but few pro­fes­sion­als seem bet­ter equipped to imag­i­na­tive­ly extrap­o­late from cur­rent conditions—cultural, tech­no­log­i­cal, social, and political—and show us things to come. J.G. Bal­lard, Octavia But­ler, Arthur C. Clarke, Kurt Von­negut… all have fore­seen many of the mar­vels and dystopi­an night­mares that have arrived since their time.

In 1964, Asi­mov used the occa­sion of the New York World’s Fair to offer his vision of fifty years hence. “What will the World’s Fair of 2014 be like?” he asked in The New York Times, the ques­tion itself con­tain­ing an erro­neous assump­tion about the dura­bil­i­ty of that event. As a sci­en­tist him­self, his ideas are both tech­no­log­i­cal­ly farsee­ing and con­ser­v­a­tive, con­tain­ing advances we can imag­ine not far off in our future, and some that may seem quaint now, though rea­son­able by the stan­dards of the time (“fis­sion-pow­er plants… sup­ply­ing well over half the pow­er needs of human­i­ty”).

Nine­teen years lat­er, Asi­mov ven­tured again to pre­dict the future—this time of 2019 for The Star. Assum­ing the world has not been destroyed by nuclear war, he sees every facet of human soci­ety trans­formed by com­put­er­i­za­tion. This will, as in the Indus­tri­al Rev­o­lu­tion, lead to mas­sive job loss­es in “cler­i­cal and assem­bly-line jobs” as such fields are auto­mat­ed. “This means that a vast change in the nature of edu­ca­tion must take place, and entire pop­u­la­tions must be made ‘com­put­er-lit­er­ate’ and must be taught to deal with a ‘high-tech’ world,” he writes.

The tran­si­tion to a com­put­er­ized world will be dif­fi­cult, he grants, but we should have things pret­ty much wrapped up by now.

By the year 2019, how­ev­er, we should find that the tran­si­tion is about over. Those who can be retrained and re-edu­cat­ed will have been: those who can’t be will have been put to work at some­thing use­ful, or where rul­ing groups are less wise, will have been sup­port­ed by some sort of grudg­ing wel­fare arrange­ment.

In any case, the gen­er­a­tion of the tran­si­tion will be dying out, and there will be a new gen­er­a­tion grow­ing up who will have been edu­cat­ed into the new world. It is quite like­ly that soci­ety, then, will have entered a phase that may be more or less per­ma­nent­ly improved over the sit­u­a­tion as it now exists for a vari­ety of rea­sons.

Asi­mov fore­sees the cli­mate cri­sis, though he doesn’t phrase it that way. “The con­se­quences of human irre­spon­si­bil­i­ty in terms of waste and pol­lu­tion will become more appar­ent and unbear­able with time and again, attempts to deal with this will become more stren­u­ous.” A “world effort” must be applied, neces­si­tat­ing “increas­ing co-oper­a­tion among nations and among groups with­in nations” out of a “cold-blood­ed real­iza­tion that any­thing less than that will mean destruc­tion for all.”

He is con­fi­dent, how­ev­er, in such “neg­a­tive advances” as the “defeat of over­pop­u­la­tion, pol­lu­tion and mil­i­tarism.” These will be accom­pa­nied by “pos­i­tive advances” like improve­ments in edu­ca­tion, such that “edu­ca­tion will become fun because it will bub­ble up from with­in and not be forced in from with­out.” Like­wise, tech­nol­o­gy will enable increased qual­i­ty of life for many.

more and more human beings will find them­selves liv­ing a life rich in leisure.

This does not mean leisure to do noth­ing, but leisure to do some­thing one wants to do; to be free to engage in sci­en­tif­ic research. in lit­er­a­ture and the arts, to pur­sue out-of-the-way inter­ests and fas­ci­nat­ing hob­bies of all kinds.

If this seems “impos­si­bly opti­mistic,” he writes, just wait until you hear his thoughts on space col­o­niza­tion and moon min­ing.

The Asi­mov of 1983 sounds as con­fi­dent in his pre­dic­tions as the Asi­mov of 1964, though he imag­ines a very dif­fer­ent world each time. His future sce­nar­ios tell us as much or more about the time in which he wrote as they do about the time in which we live. Read his full essay at The Star and be the judge of how accu­rate his pre­dic­tions are, and how like­ly any of his opti­mistic solu­tions for our seem­ing­ly intractable prob­lems might be in the com­ing year.

Relat­ed Con­tent:

In 1964, Isaac Asi­mov Pre­dicts What the World Will Look Like Today: Self-Dri­ving Cars, Video Calls, Fake Meats & More

Philip K. Dick Makes Off-the-Wall Pre­dic­tions for the Future: Mars Colonies, Alien Virus­es & More (1981)

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

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

Sci-Fi Author J.G. Bal­lard Pre­dicts the Rise of Social Media (1977)

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

Listen to a Heartfelt Musical Retelling of O. Henry’s “Gift of the Magi” with Hanky in Hand

It’s that time of year when cer­tain songs con­spire with cer­tain moods to hit you right in the ol’ brisket.

The feel­ing is volup­tuous, and not nec­es­sar­i­ly unpleas­ant, pro­vid­ed there’s a bath­room stall or spare bed­room should you need to flee a par­ty like Cin­derel­la, as some old chest­nut threat­ens to turn you into a blub­ber­ing mess.

Let the kid­dies deck the halls, jin­gle bells, and prance about with Rudolph and Frosty. The best sec­u­lar songs for grown ups are the ones with a thick cur­rent of long­ing just under the sur­face, a yearn­ing for those who aren’t here with us, for a bet­ter future, for the way we were…

There’s got to be some hope in the bal­ance though, some sweet­ness to savor as we mud­dle through.

(Judy Gar­land famous­ly stonewalled on the first ver­sion of “Have Your­self a Mer­ry Lit­tle Christ­mas” until lyri­cist Hugh Mar­tin agreed to light­en things up a bit. In the end, both got what they want­ed. She got her update:

Have your­self a mer­ry lit­tle Christ­mas

Let your heart be light 

Next year all our trou­bles will be out of sight

But the ten­sion between the promise of a bet­ter tomor­row and her emo­tion­al deliv­ery holds a place for Hugh­es’ appeal­ing­ly dark sen­ti­ment:

Have your­self a mer­ry lit­tle Christ­mas

It may be your last 

Next year we may all be liv­ing in the past

I’ll Be Home for Christ­mas” man­ages to ring some of those same bells.

As a rule, the oldies are the good­ies in this depart­ment.

More recent bids by Cold­play and Tay­lor Swift have failed to achieve the prop­er mix of hope and hope­less­ness.

It’s a dif­fi­cult bal­ance, but singer-song­writer Ellia Bisker pulls it off beau­ti­ful­ly, above, by turn­ing to O. Henry’s endur­ing short sto­ry, “The Gift of the Magi.”

Accom­pa­ny­ing her­self on ukulele as she per­forms under her par­lor rock pseu­do­nym, Sweet Soubrette, Bisker’s sound is both sun­ny and plain­tive. It’s an appro­pri­ate choice for a young bride who parts with her most valu­able asset, in order to give her cher­ished hus­band a “wor­thy” gift:

I want to give you some­thing that I can’t afford,

Let you believe with me we’re real­ly not so poor.

You see that pack­age wait­ing under­neath the tree? 

It’s just a token of how much you mean to me.

(Spoil­er for the hand­ful of peo­ple unfa­mil­iar with this tale: he does the same, thus negat­ing the util­i­ty of both cost­ly presents.)

In an inter­view with Open Cul­ture, Bisker praised the O. Hen­ry story’s iron­ic sym­me­try:

It’s a lit­tle like the death scene in Romeo & Juli­et, but with­out the tragedy. The sto­ry itself still feels sur­pris­ing­ly fresh, despite the peri­od details. It has more humor and sym­pa­thy to it than sen­ti­ment. It sur­pris­es you with real emo­tion. 

The Romeo and Juli­et com­par­i­son is apt. The sto­ry cov­ers a time peri­od so brief that the new­ly­weds’ feel­ings for each oth­er nev­er stray from purest won­der and admi­ra­tion.

Bisker taps into those feel­ings in a way Joni Mitchell’s mean­der­ing, unre­leased take on the same mate­r­i­al did not.

The Squir­rel Nut Zip­pers also took a crack at musi­cal­iz­ing “The Gift of the Magi,” but the sound is more Ozarks than shab­by, urban New York, with back­ground har­monies hint­ing that the young cou­ple may be part of a larg­er sup­port net­work.

Bisker’s song starts, as it ends, with a pair of young, broke lovers who only have eyes for each oth­er.

Let’s not for­get O. Hen­ry’s part­ing words:

The magi, as you know, were wise men—wonderfully wise men—who brought gifts to the Babe in the manger. They invent­ed the art of giv­ing Christ­mas presents. Being wise, their gifts were no doubt wise ones, pos­si­bly bear­ing the priv­i­lege of exchange in case of dupli­ca­tion. And here I have lame­ly relat­ed to you the unevent­ful chron­i­cle of two fool­ish chil­dren in a flat who most unwise­ly sac­ri­ficed for each oth­er the great­est trea­sures of their house. But in a last word to the wise of these days let it be said that of all who give gifts these two were the wis­est. Of all who give and receive gifts, such as they are wis­est. Every­where they are wis­est. They are the magi. 

Enjoy this musi­cal gift, read­ers. The artist has made the track free for down­load­ing, though per­haps you could scratch up a few coins in thanks, with­out pawn­ing your watch or cut­ting your hair.

Read O. Hen­ry’s short sto­ry “The Gift of the Magi” here.

Lis­ten to Ellia Bisker’s “Gift of the Magi,” and four oth­er tracks off of Sweet Soubrette’s name-your-own-price Hap­py Hol­i­days album here.

We were young and broke, but we didn’t care 

You had your pock­et­watch, I had my gold­en hair 

We were just scrap­ing by, wait­ing to make it big 

I was an ingénue, you were just a kid 

But it was Christ­mas eve, didn’t know what to do 

How could I hope to buy some kind of gift for you 

Ain’t got no trust fund hon, ain’t got no sav­ings bond 

Just got my stu­dent loans, the clothes that I’ve got on 

I want to give you some­thing that I can’t afford 

Let you believe with me we’re real­ly not so poor 

You see that pack­age wait­ing under­neath the tree 

It’s just a token of how much you mean to me 

Frank­in­cense (here’s what I wish, what I imag­ine) 

Gold and myrrh (that I could give, give what you are worth) 

Put them in (this is the gift, gift of the magi) 

The manger (it’s not a frac­tion of all that you deserve) 

I used to win­dow shop, I would nev­er tell 

There was a pair of combs made out of tor­toise­shell 

I tried them on one time, put up my long long hair 

If I were rich and famous that’s what I would wear 

You wore your father’s watch, it was a vin­tage piece 

It made you feel like fifty mil­lion bucks at least 

But it was fas­tened with a flim­sy nick­el chain 

You want­ed bet­ter but you said it’s all the same 

I want to give a token to you of my love 

A lit­tle lux­u­ry to keep your spir­its up 

I’ll cut and sell my hair, the only gold I’ve got 

To buy a gold­en chain for your pock­et­watch 

Frank­in­cense (here’s what I wish, what I imag­ine) 

Gold and myrrh (that I could give, give what you are worth) 

Put them in (this is the gift, gift of the magi) 

The manger (it’s not a frac­tion of all that you deserve) 

I can’t for­get the look that flashed across your face 

When I walked into our apart­ment late that day 

And I took off my hat revealed a pix­ie cut 

Gave you a lit­tle box told you to open up 

You pulled out the gold­en chain that lay inside 

Were you about to laugh were you about to cry 

You said I shouldn’t have, because your watch was sold 

So you could buy for me a pret­ty pair of combs

Relat­ed Con­tent:

The Sto­ry of The Pogues’ “Fairy­tale of New York,” the Boozy Bal­lad That Has Become One of the Most Beloved Christ­mas Songs of All Time

Hear Paul McCartney’s Exper­i­men­tal Christ­mas Mix­tape: A Rare & For­got­ten Record­ing from 1965

Stream 22 Hours of Funky, Rock­ing & Swing­ing Christ­mas Albums: From James Brown and John­ny Cash to Christo­pher Lee & The Ven­tures

Ayun Hal­l­i­day is an author, illus­tra­tor, the­ater mak­er and Chief Pri­ma­tol­o­gist of the East Vil­lage Inky zine.  See her onstage in New York City this Jan­u­ary as host of  The­ater of the Apes book-based vari­ety show, Necro­mancers of the Pub­lic Domain. Fol­low her @AyunHalliday.

How Emily Dickinson Writes A Poem: A Short Video Introduction

It became fash­ion­able dur­ing the Euro­pean Renais­sance for poets to write what is called an ars poet­i­ca, a “med­i­ta­tion on poet­ry using the form and tech­niques of a poem.” The form fol­lows Horace’s 19th cen­tu­ry, B.C.E. Ars Poet­i­ca, in which the Roman writer rec­om­mends that poet­ry should both “instruct and delight.”

The­o­ries of poet­ry var­ied from one gen­er­a­tion to the next, but the ars poet­i­ca per­sist­ed through­out mod­ern lit­er­ary his­to­ry and into the mod­ernism of Archibald Macleish, Ezra Pound, and Mar­i­anne Moore, all of whom issued mag­is­te­r­i­al dic­ta about poet­ry that has stuck to it ever since.

“A poem should be motion­less in time / As the moon climbs,” writes Macleish in his “Ars Poet­i­ca,” famous­ly con­clud­ing, “A poem should not mean / But be.” In Moore’s “Poet­ry,” which she revised through­out her life, final­ly whit­tling it down to just three lines, she writes of “imag­i­nary gar­dens with real toads in them.”

Such cryp­tic images and ellip­ti­cal apho­risms enact ambi­gu­i­ty as they pre­scribe it, but they make per­fect­ly clear they are mak­ing crit­i­cal judg­ments about the art of poet­ry. Then we have Emi­ly Dickinson’s “Tell all the truth but tell it slant” (1263), a poem that serves as her ars poet­i­ca, argues Evan Puschak, the Nerd­writer, in his video essay above, but pur­ports on its sur­face to be about truth, cap­i­tal “T.”

Tell all the truth but tell it slant —
Suc­cess in Cir­cuit lies
Too bright for our infirm Delight
The Truth’s superb sur­prise
As Light­ning to the Chil­dren eased
With expla­na­tion kind
The Truth must daz­zle grad­u­al­ly
Or every man be blind —

Rarely is Dick­in­son so “direct,” says Puschak. “Known for ambi­gu­i­ty, odd manip­u­la­tions in meter and rhyme” and “images that seem mys­te­ri­ous and some­times out of place,” she wrote “poet­ry brim­ming with slant truth, poet­ry that’s seem­ing­ly laid out here, in per­fect meter and match­ing rhymes.” The poem’s mes­sage is restat­ed four times, from the the­sis in the first line to the sim­i­le of the final four. “The mean­ing could not be more clear,” says Puschak.

But no, of course it’s not. A poem is not a man­u­al or man­i­festo. Like those poems more explic­it­ly about poet­ry, this one enacts the ambi­gu­i­ty it pre­scribes. Are we, for exam­ple, to “tell all the truth” as in “the whole truth?” or as in “tell every­one the truth”? Does “suc­cess” lie “in cir­cuit” like a patient lies on a table? Or does it tell lies, like, well… like poet­ry? Does the word “cir­cuit” refer to an uncer­tain, cir­cuitous path? Or, as one crit­ic has sug­gest­ed, to “cir­cum­fer­ence” (a term Dick­in­son used to refer to one’s lifes­pan or prop­er sphere)?

The next cou­plet, whose ref­er­ence to “infirm Delight” may or may not take Horace to task, push­es us fur­ther out to sea when we begin to read it care­ful­ly. What is this truth that can be told, slant­ed, but also comes as a “sur­prise,” like lightning—terrible, sud­den, and blind­ing? Is this a poem about “Truth” or about poet­ry?

In the final, heav­i­ly trun­cat­ed, ver­sion of “Poet­ry,” Mar­i­anne Moore con­cedes, grumpi­ly, that “one dis­cov­ers in / it, after all, a place for the gen­uine.” As Dickinson’s poem demon­strates, try­ing to find a “place” in poet­ry for any sta­ble mean­ing may be impos­si­ble. Still she insists that truth should “daz­zle grad­u­al­ly,” an oxy­moron­ic phrase, says Puschak, but it’s as evoca­tive, if more abstract, as real toads in made-up gardens—both are para­dox­i­cal means of describ­ing what poet­ry does.

Dick­in­son real­ized that her poem “had to be the phi­los­o­phy… that feel­ing of the text being desta­bi­lized from with­in, oscil­lat­ing from mean­ing to the nega­tion of that mean­ing.” Truth is inex­press­ible, per­haps inac­ces­si­ble, and maybe even fatal. Yet it may strike us, nonethe­less, in the daz­zling ambi­gu­i­ties of poet­ry.

Relat­ed Con­tent:

The Online Emi­ly Dick­in­son Archive Makes Thou­sands of the Poet’s Man­u­scripts Freely Avail­able

Watch an Ani­mat­ed Film of Emi­ly Dickinson’s Poem ‘I Start­ed Early–Took My Dog’

An 8‑Hour Marathon Read­ing of 500 Emi­ly Dick­in­son Poems

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

How the CIA Helped Shape the Creative Writing Scene in America

Image by Arielle Fra­gas­si, via Flickr Com­mons

In May of 1967,” writes Patrick Iber at The Awl, “a for­mer CIA offi­cer named Tom Braden pub­lished a con­fes­sion in the Sat­ur­day Evening Post under the head­line, ‘I’m glad the CIA is ‘immoral.’” With the hard-boiled tone one might expect from a spy, but the can­dor one may not, Braden revealed the Agency’s fund­ing and sup­port of all kinds of indi­vid­u­als and activ­i­ties, includ­ing, per­haps most con­tro­ver­sial­ly, in the arts. Against objec­tions that so many artists and writ­ers were social­ists, Braden writes, “in much of Europe in the 1950’s [social­ists] were about the only peo­ple who gave a damn about fight­ing Com­mu­nism.”

What­ev­er truth there is to the state­ment, its seem­ing wis­dom has popped up again in a recent Wash­ing­ton Post op-ed by Son­ny Bunch, edi­tor and film crit­ic of the con­ser­v­a­tive Wash­ing­ton Free Bea­con. The CIA should once again fund “a cul­ture war against com­mu­nism,” Bunch argues. The export (to Chi­na) he offers as an exam­ple? Boots Riley’s hip, anti-neolib­er­al, satir­i­cal film Sor­ry to Both­er You, a movie made by a self-described Com­mu­nist.

Proud dec­la­ra­tions in sup­port of CIA fund­ing for “social­ists” may seem to take the sting out of moral out­rage over covert cul­tur­al tac­tics. But they fail to answer the ques­tion: what is their effect on artists them­selves, and on intel­lec­tu­al cul­ture more gen­er­al­ly? The answer has been ven­tured by writ­ers like Joel Whit­ney, whose book Finks looks deeply into the rela­tion­ship between dozens of famed mid-cen­tu­ry writ­ers and lit­er­ary magazines—especially The Paris Review—and the agency best known for top­pling elect­ed gov­ern­ments abroad.

In an inter­view with The Nation, Whit­ney calls the CIA’s con­tain­ment strate­gies “the inver­sion of influ­ence. It’s the instru­men­tal­iza­tion of writ­ing.… It’s the feel­ing of fear dic­tat­ing the rules of cul­ture, and, of course, there­fore, of jour­nal­ism.” Accord­ing to Eric Ben­nett, writ­ing at The Chron­i­cle of High­er Edu­ca­tion and in his book Work­shops of Empire, the Agency instru­men­tal­ized not only the lit­er­ary pub­lish­ing world, but also the insti­tu­tion that became its pri­ma­ry train­ing ground, the writ­ing pro­gram at the Uni­ver­si­ty of Iowa.

The Iowa Writer’s Work­shop “emerged in the 1930s and pow­er­ful­ly influ­enced the cre­ative-writ­ing pro­grams that fol­lowed,” Ben­nett explains. “More than half of the sec­ond-wave pro­grams, about 50 of which appeared by 1970, were found­ed by Iowa grad­u­ates.” The pro­gram “attained nation­al emi­nence by cap­i­tal­iz­ing on the fears and hopes of the Cold War”—at first through its direc­tor, self-appoint­ed cold war­rior Paul Engle, with fund­ing from CIA front groups, the Rock­e­feller Foun­da­tion, and major cor­po­ra­tions. (Kurt Von­negut, an Iowa alum, described Engle as “a hay­seed clown, a foxy grand­pa, a ter­rif­ic pro­mot­er, who, if you lis­tened close­ly, talks like a man with a paper ass­hole.”)

Under Engle writ­ers like Ray­mond Carv­er, Flan­nery O’Con­nor, Robert Low­ell, and John Berry­man went through the pro­gram. In the lit­er­ary world, its dom­i­nance is at times lament­ed for the impo­si­tion of a nar­row range of styles on Amer­i­can writ­ing. And many a writer has felt shut out of the pub­lish­ing world and its coter­ies of MFA pro­gram alums. When it comes to cer­tain kinds of writ­ing at least, some of them may be right—the sys­tem has been infor­mal­ly rigged in ways that date back to a time when the CIA and con­ser­v­a­tive fun­ders approved and spon­sored the high mod­ernist fic­tion beloved by the New Crit­ics, wit­ty real­ism akin to F. Scott Fitzgerald’s (and lat­er John Cheev­er), and mag­i­cal real­ism (part of the agen­cy’s attempt to con­trol Latin Amer­i­can lit­er­ary cul­ture.)

These cat­e­gories, it so hap­pens, rough­ly cor­re­spond to those Ben­nett iden­ti­fies as accept­able in his expe­ri­ence at the Iowa Writ­ers’ Work­shop, and to the writ­ing one finds fill­ing the pages of The Best Amer­i­can Short Sto­ries annu­al antholo­gies and the fic­tion sec­tion of The New York­er and The Paris Review. (Excep­tions often fol­low the path of James Bald­win, who refused to work with the agency, and whom Paris Review co-founder and CIA agent Peter Matthiessen sub­se­quent­ly derid­ed as “polem­i­cal.”)

Bennett’s per­son­al expe­ri­ences are mere­ly anec­do­tal, but his his­to­ry of the rela­tion­ships between the Iowa Writ­ers’ Work­shop, the explo­sion of MFA pro­grams in the last 40 years under its influ­ence, and the CIA and oth­er groups’ active spon­sor­ship are well-researched and sub­stan­ti­at­ed. What he finds, as Tim­o­thy Aubry sum­ma­rizes at The New York Times, is that “writ­ing pro­grams dur­ing the post­war peri­od” imposed a dis­ci­pline insti­tut­ed by Engle, “teach­ing aspir­ing authors cer­tain rules of pro­pri­ety.”

“Good lit­er­a­ture, stu­dents learned, con­tains ‘sen­sa­tions, not doc­trines; expe­ri­ences, not dog­mas; mem­o­ries, not philoso­phies.’” These rules have become so embed­ded in the aes­thet­ic canons that gov­ern lit­er­ary fic­tion that they almost go with­out ques­tion, even if we encounter thou­sands of exam­ples in his­to­ry that break them and still man­age to meet the bar of “good lit­er­a­ture.” What is meant by the phrase is a kind of currency—literature that will be sup­port­ed, pub­lished, mar­ket­ed, and cel­e­brat­ed. Much of it is very good, and much hap­pens to have suf­fi­cient­ly sat­is­fied the gate­keep­ers’ require­ments.

In a reduc­tive, but inter­est­ing anal­o­gy, Motherboard’s Bri­an Mer­chant describes “the Amer­i­can MFA sys­tem, spear­head­ed by the infa­mous Iowa Writ­ers’ Work­shop” as a “con­tent farm” first designed to opti­mize for “the spread of anti-Com­mu­nist pro­pa­gan­da through high­brow lit­er­a­ture.” Its algo­rithm: “More Hem­ing­way, less Dos Pas­sos.” As Aubry notes, quot­ing from Ben­net­t’s book:

Frank Con­roy, Engle’s longest-serv­ing suc­ces­sor, who taught Ben­nett, “want­ed lit­er­ary craft to be a pyra­mid.” At the base was syn­tax and gram­mar, or “Mean­ing, Sense, Clar­i­ty,” and the high­er lev­els tapered off into abstrac­tion. “Then came char­ac­ter, then metaphor … every­thing above metaphor Con­roy referred to as ‘the fan­cy stuff.’ At the top was sym­bol­ism, the fan­ci­est of all. You worked from the broad and basic to the rar­efied and abstract.”

The direct influ­ence of the CIA on the country’s pre­em­i­nent lit­er­ary insti­tu­tions may have waned, or fad­ed entire­ly, who can say—and in any case, the insti­tu­tions Whit­ney and Ben­nett write about have less cul­tur­al valence than they once did. But even so, we can see the effect on Amer­i­can cre­ative writ­ing, which con­tin­ues to occu­py a fair­ly nar­row range and show some hos­til­i­ty to work deemed too abstract, argu­men­ta­tive, exper­i­men­tal, or “post­mod­ern.” One result may be that writ­ers who want to get fund­ed and pub­lished have to con­form to rules designed to co-opt and cor­ral lit­er­ary writ­ing.

Relat­ed Con­tent:

How the CIA Fund­ed & Sup­port­ed Lit­er­ary Mag­a­zines World­wide While Wag­ing Cul­tur­al War Against Com­mu­nism

Read the CIA’s Sim­ple Sab­o­tage Field Man­u­al: A Time­less, Kafkaesque Guide to Sub­vert­ing Any Orga­ni­za­tion with “Pur­pose­ful Stu­pid­i­ty” (1944)

How the CIA Secret­ly Fund­ed Abstract Expres­sion­ism Dur­ing the Cold War

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

Why Should We Read Kurt Vonnegut? An Animated Video Makes the Case

Beneath Kurt Vonnegut’s grim, absur­dist humor beat the heart of a human­ist, but not, by any stretch, an opti­mist. Von­negut looked bale­ful­ly at every project intend­ed to improve the sor­ry state of human affairs. In Play­er Piano, for exam­ple, he imag­ines a future very much like that envi­sioned for us by our con­tem­po­rary tech­no­crat­ic elite: near­ly all work has been auto­mat­ed and the mass of unem­ployed are giv­en a mod­est stipend for their liv­ing and fun­neled into what anthro­pol­o­gist David Grae­ber might call “bull­shit jobs.”

“Final­ly,” Ed O’Loughlin writes at The Irish Times, “Vonnegut’s non-tech pro­les rise up against the machines that have per­verse­ly enslaved them, smash­ing all that they can find. For Von­negut, ever the pes­simist, this is not a hap­py end­ing; the rev­o­lu­tion runs out of steam, col­laps­es inter­nal­ly, and the remain­ing rebels go hap­pi­ly to work in the wreck­age of their strug­gle, eager­ly repair­ing the machines that they destroyed them­selves.” This bleak satire can seem almost upbeat next to the fatal­ism of his most famous nov­el, Slaugh­ter­house-Five.

In this book, Von­negut uses an alien race called the Tralfamado­ri­ans to illus­trate the idea that “all moments—past, present, and future—always have exist­ed… always will exist,” as the Mia Naca­mul­li-script­ed TED-Ed ani­ma­tion above explains. The aliens keep the novel’s hero, Bil­ly Pil­grim, in a human zoo, where they patient­ly explain to him the inevitabil­i­ty of all things, includ­ing the bomb­ing of Dres­den, an event Von­negut per­son­al­ly sur­vived, “only to be sent into the ruins as prison labor,” notes Paul Har­ris at The Guardian, “in order to col­lect and burn the corpses.”

To say that Von­negut, who once worked as a press writer for Gen­er­al Elec­tric, was skep­ti­cal of sci­en­tif­ic plans for man­ag­ing nature, human or oth­er­wise, would be a major under­state­ment. As he watched GE sci­en­tists embark on a project for con­trol­ling the weath­er (while the company’s “mil­i­tary col­lab­o­ra­tors have more aggres­sive plans in mind”), Von­negut began to demand “an answer to one of science’s great­est eth­i­cal ques­tions,” writes WNYC: “are sci­en­tists respon­si­ble for the pur­suit of knowl­edge alone, or are they also respon­si­ble for the con­se­quences of that knowl­edge?”

The ques­tion becomes even more com­pli­cat­ed if we accept the premise that the future is fore­or­dained, but with­out the inter­ven­tion of all-see­ing aliens, there is no reli­able way for us to pre­dict it. Vonnegut’s expe­ri­ences at GE formed the basis of his 1963 nov­el Cat’s Cra­dle, in which a mil­i­tary tech­nol­o­gy called Ice-nine ends up freez­ing all of the world’s oceans and bring­ing on cat­a­clysmic storms. Cat’s Cra­dle’s char­ac­ters sur­vive by adopt­ing a reli­gion in which they tell them­selves and oth­ers delib­er­ate lies, and by so doing, invent a kind of mean­ing in the midst of hope­less­ness.

Von­negut stressed the impor­tance of con­tin­gency, of “grow­ing where you’re plant­ed,” so to speak. The best options for his char­ac­ters involve car­ing for the peo­ple who just hap­pen to be around. “We are here to help each oth­er through this thing,” he wrote, “what­ev­er it is.” That last phrase is not an eva­sion; the com­plex­i­ties of the uni­verse are too much for humans to grasp, Von­negut thought. Our attempts to cre­ate sta­ble truths and certainties—whether through abstract in-group iden­ti­ties or grand tech­no­log­i­cal designs—seem bound to cause expo­nen­tial­ly more suf­fer­ing than they solve.

Von­negut may have achieved far more acclaim in his life­time than his con­tem­po­rary Philip K. Dick, but he felt sim­i­lar­ly neglect­ed by the “lit­er­ary estab­lish­ment,” Har­ris writes. “They inter­pret­ed his sim­plis­tic style, love of sci­ence fic­tion and Mid­west­ern val­ues as being beneath seri­ous study.” (See, for exam­ple the 1969 New York Times review of Slaugh­ter­house-Five.) But per­haps even more than the peren­ni­al­ly rel­e­vant Dick, Vonnegut’s work speaks to us of our cur­rent predica­ment, and offers, if not opti­mism, at least a very lim­it­ed form of hope, in our capac­i­ty to “help each through this thing,” what­ev­er it is.

If you want to ful­ly immerse your­self in Von­negut’s body of work, the Library of Amer­i­ca has cre­at­ed a box set that con­tains all 14 nov­els plus a selec­tion of the best of his sto­ries.

Relat­ed Con­tent:

Kurt Von­negut Offers 8 Tips on How to Write Good Short Sto­ries (and Amus­ing­ly Graphs the Shapes Those Sto­ries Can Take)

Kurt Von­negut Maps Out the Uni­ver­sal Shapes of Our Favorite Sto­ries

Kurt Von­negut Cre­ates a Report Card for His Nov­els, Rank­ing Them From A+ to D

Hear Kurt Von­negut Read Slaugh­ter­house-Five, Cat’s Cra­dle & Oth­er Nov­els

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

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