Read the CIA’s Manual of Trickery and Deception, Written by a Professional Stage Magician

The idea of a young­ster vac­il­lat­ing between whether to become a magi­cian or join the Cen­tral Intel­li­gence Agency may sound implau­si­ble, but those two work­ing envi­ron­ments have deep­er com­mon­al­i­ties than it would seem. So, in any case, believes John McLaugh­lin, whose more than 30 years at the CIA includ­ed peri­ods as its deputy direc­tor and act­ing direc­tor. He also describes him­self as a life­long ama­teur magi­cian, an avo­ca­tion that owes much to his boy­hood dis­cov­ery of Quick­er Than the Eye, a mag­ic man­u­al from 1932 by one John Mul­hol­land. Around the same time the young McLaugh­lin came across that book in the library, Mul­hol­land was writ­ing the more spe­cial­ized guide­books Some Oper­a­tional Appli­ca­tions of the Art of Decep­tion and Recog­ni­tion Sig­nals — though nobody with­out a seri­ous secu­ri­ty clear­ance would have known it.

In 1953, Mul­hol­land left his posi­tion as edi­tor of the magi­cians’ trade mag­a­zine The Sphinx, osten­si­bly for health rea­sons, but actu­al­ly to go to work for the CIA. Formed just six years before, the orga­ni­za­tion was still deter­min­ing what its mis­sion of pre­vent­ing sur­prise for­eign attacks against the U.S. and coun­ter­ing the glob­al advance of com­mu­nism would entail on the ground. To any­one who’s made enough of a habit of nov­els and films deal­ing with Cold War espi­onage, it may come as no sur­prise that the arts of dis­guise, mis­di­rec­tion, and sleight of hand prac­ticed by mas­ter magi­cians would look use­ful indeed to the CIA. “Just as a magician’s meth­ods must elude detec­tion in front of a close­ly atten­tive audi­ence,” writes McLaugh­lin, “so an intel­li­gence offi­cer doing espi­onage work must elude close sur­veil­lance and pass mes­sages and materiel with­out detec­tion.”

Addi­tion­al­ly, “ana­lysts must be as famil­iar as magi­cians with meth­ods of decep­tion, because ana­lysts are almost always work­ing with incom­plete infor­ma­tion and in cir­cum­stances where an adver­sary is seek­ing to mis­lead them — or in the magician’s term, mis­di­rect them.” The Com­pa­ny’s spe­cial­ists in coun­ter­in­tel­li­gence described their sub­field as a “wilder­ness of mir­rors,” an expres­sion pro­fes­sion­al illu­sion­ists must find espe­cial­ly evoca­tive. Com­mis­sioned in the time of the CIA’s human-exper­i­men­ta­tion pro­gram MKULTRA, pre­vi­ous­ly fea­tured here on Open Cul­ture, Mul­hol­land’s man­u­als were long assumed offi­cial­ly destroyed along with many oth­er of its doc­u­ments in 1973. After they unex­pect­ed­ly resur­faced dur­ing declas­si­fi­ca­tion in the two-thou­sands, they were pub­lished in The Offi­cial CIA Man­u­al of Trick­ery and Decep­tion by Agency his­to­ri­ans H. Kei­th Melton and Robert Wal­lace. You can find a copy over at the Inter­net Archive.

At that time, the Boston Globe pub­lished illus­trat­ed expla­na­tions of some of Mul­hol­land’s tech­niques, such as trans­port­ing spies using a mech­a­nism sim­i­lar to the one that con­ceals an appar­ent­ly sawed-in-half stage­hand, or sur­rep­ti­tious­ly drop­ping into a drink a pill affixed to the back of a book of match­es. Amid “the super­pow­er strug­gle for pow­er and influ­ence around the world,” writes Tom Scoc­ca, “both the ideas and tech­niques of secret war per­vad­ed the cul­ture — the cor­ro­sive belief in hid­den con­spir­a­cy and the nifty thrill of spy­craft itself, the codes and dis­guis­es and minia­ture cam­eras.” Today, “Mulholland’s account of real-world stage­craft amounts to an eti­quette man­u­al for a lost moment of his­to­ry. The match­book trick depends on peo­ple smok­ing and drink­ing. There is a sur­vey of the many pock­ets found in every man’s suit, and which ones are most nat­ur­al for casu­al­ly slip­ping objects into.” How­ev­er much of the romance has drained out of espi­onage — as it has from so much else since the mid-twen­ti­eth cen­tu­ry — the best magi­cians know that old tricks can always be re-enchant­ed for a new world. You can read The Offi­cial CIA Man­u­al of Trick­ery and Decep­tion here.

Relat­ed con­tent:

12 Mil­lion Declas­si­fied CIA Doc­u­ments Now Free Online: Secret Tun­nels, UFOs, Psy­chic Exper­i­ments & More

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

The CIA’s For­mer Chief of Dis­guise Show How Spies Use Cos­tumes in Under­cov­er Oper­a­tions

Inside MKUl­tra, the CIA’s Secret Pro­gram That Used LSD to Achieve Mind Con­trol (1953–1973)

When the CIA Stud­ied Psy­chic Tech­niques to Alter Human Con­scious­ness & Unlock Time Trav­el: Dis­cov­er “The Gate­way Process”

The CIA’s Rec­tal Tool Kit for Spies — Cre­at­ed for Tru­ly Des­per­ate Sit­u­a­tions Dur­ing The Cold War

Based in Seoul, Col­in Marshall writes and broad­casts on cities, lan­guage, and cul­ture. He’s the author of the newslet­ter Books on Cities as well as the books 한국 요약 금지 (No Sum­ma­riz­ing Korea) and Kore­an Newtro. Fol­low him on the social net­work for­mer­ly known as Twit­ter at @colinmarshall.

The Little Albert Experiment: The Perverse 1920 Study That Made a Baby Afraid of Santa Claus & Bunnies

The field of psy­chol­o­gy is very dif­fer­ent than it used to be. Nowa­days, the Amer­i­can Psy­cho­log­i­cal Asso­ci­a­tion has a code of con­duct for exper­i­ments that ensures a subject’s con­fi­den­tial­i­ty, consent,and gen­er­al men­tal well-being. In the old days, it was­n’t the case.

Back then, you could, for instance, con sub­jects into think­ing that they were elec­tro­cut­ing a man to death, as they did in the infa­mous 1961 Mil­gram exper­i­ment, which left peo­ple trau­ma­tized and hum­bled in the knowl­edge that deep down they are lit­tle more than weak-willed pup­pets in the face of author­i­ty. You could also try to turn a group of unsus­pect­ing orphans into stut­ter­ers by method­i­cal­ly under­min­ing their self-esteem as the folks who ran the apt­ly named Mon­ster Study of 1939 tried to do. But, if you real­ly want to get into the swamp of moral dubi­ous­ness, look no fur­ther than the Lit­tle Albert exper­i­ments, which trau­ma­tized a baby into hat­ing dogs, San­ta Claus, and all things fuzzy.

Albert-and-rabbit-1024x718

In 1920, Johns Hop­kins pro­fes­sor John B. Wat­son was fas­ci­nat­ed with Ivan Pavlov’s research on con­di­tioned stim­u­lus. Pavlov famous­ly rang a bell every time he fed his dogs. At first the food caused the dogs to sali­vate, but after a spell of pair­ing the bell with din­ner, the dogs would even­tu­al­ly sali­vate at just the sound of the bell. That’s called a con­di­tioned response. Wat­son want­ed to see if he could cre­ate a con­di­tioned response in a baby.

Enter 9‑month-old Albert B., AKA Lit­tle Albert. At the begin­ning of the exper­i­ment, Albert was pre­sent­ed with a white rat, a dog, a white rab­bit, and a mask of San­ta Claus among oth­er things. The lad was unafraid of every­thing and was, in fact, real­ly tak­en with the rat. Then every time the baby touched the ani­mals, sci­en­tists struck a met­al bar behind him, cre­at­ing a star­tling­ly loud bang. The sound freaked out the child and soon, like Pavlov’s dogs, Lit­tle Albert grew ter­ri­fied of the rat and the mask of San­ta and even a fur coat. The par­tic­u­lar­ly messed up thing about the exper­i­ment was that Wat­son didn’t even both­er to reverse the psy­cho­log­i­cal trau­ma he inflict­ed.

Little-albert

What hap­pened to poor baby Albert is hard to say, in part because no one is real­ly sure of the child’s true iden­ti­ty. He might have been Dou­glas Mer­ritte, as psy­chol­o­gists Hall P. Beck and Shar­man Levin­son argued in 2009. If that’s the case, then the child died at the age of 6 in 1925 of hydro­cephalus. Or he might have been William Albert Barg­er, as Russ Pow­ell and Nan­cy Dig­don argued in 2012. He passed away in 2007 at the age of 87. He report­ed­ly had a life­long aver­sion to dogs, though it can­not be deter­mined if it was a last­ing effect of the exper­i­ment.

Lat­er in life, Wat­son left aca­d­e­mi­cia for adver­tis­ing. You can watch a video of the exper­i­ment above.

Note: An ear­li­er ver­sion of this post appeared on our site in 2015.

Relat­ed Con­tent:

Watch Footage from the Psy­chol­o­gy Exper­i­ment That Shocked the World: Milgram’s Obe­di­ence Study (1961)

The Pow­er of Con­for­mi­ty: 1962 Episode of Can­did Cam­era Reveals the Strange Psy­chol­o­gy of Rid­ing Ele­va­tors

Her­mann Rorschach’s Orig­i­nal Rorschach Test: What Do You See? (1921)

Carl Gus­tav Jung Explains His Ground­break­ing The­o­ries About Psy­chol­o­gy in Rare Inter­view (1957)

Free Online Cours­es Psy­chol­o­gy

Jonathan Crow is a writer and film­mak­er whose work has appeared in Yahoo!, The Hol­ly­wood Reporter, and oth­er pub­li­ca­tions. 

How Else Marie Pade, a Prisoner in World War II, Became Denmark’s First Female Electronic Composer

Before she became a com­pos­er of elec­tron­ic music, Else Marie Pade was a sick child lis­ten­ing to the radio. Fre­quent kid­ney inflam­ma­tions con­signed her to bed for long peri­ods of time, which would con­sti­tute nei­ther her last nor her harsh­est expe­ri­ence of con­fine­ment. She was still young when the Nazis occu­pied her home­land of Den­mark dur­ing World War II, and per­haps her youth explains her deci­sion to spit on a col­umn of march­ing Ger­man sol­diers. She escaped cap­ture that day, run­ning right into the Dan­ish Resis­tance, for which she dis­trib­uted under­ground news­pa­pers and trained in the use of explo­sives to cut off the ene­my’s tele­phone lines in the event of an Allied inva­sion. Arrest­ed by the Gestapo in 1944, she nev­er did get to exe­cute that plan, but her real ambi­tions turned out to be much larg­er.

“I screamed out loud in fear and help­less­ness in my soli­tary cell — but no one came,” Pade wrote in an essay pub­lished in The Wire. “It was then I promised myself that if I sur­vived this I would work with music for the rest of my life. And then I felt a strange calm: light, warmth and love were all around me. I was no longer alone. This was the turn­ing point in my life.” The very next day, “I start­ed scratch­ing staves on the prison wall with my garter belt fas­ten­er, and wrote out the theme that had come to me, inspired by the vision of the night.” Though infu­ri­at­ed at first, the Com­man­dant in charge told her he would “make sure that the Red Cross brought me music paper and writ­ing uten­sils so I would refrain from vio­lence and would not dirty the wall any more.”

Pade did all she could to com­pose dur­ing her time as a pris­on­er of war. After her trans­fer to the Frøslevle­jren intern­ment camp, she was reunit­ed with her piano teacher Karen Brieg, who’d brought her into the Resis­tance in the first place. “Karen wrote out Dan­ish songs for a three-part women’s choir, and I wrote schlagers — with which I want­ed to earn mon­ey for music stud­ies when we were released.” Her com­pa­tri­ots in the wom­en’s bar­racks promised to give her the oppor­tu­ni­ty to study at the Roy­al Dan­ish Acad­e­my of Music after the war’s end, which is exact­ly what she did. Though she entered the school with thoughts of becom­ing a pianist, a 1952 Dan­marks Radio broad­cast on Pierre Scha­ef­fer­’s musique con­crète per­ma­nent­ly changed the course of her artis­tic life.

Those sound col­lages turned musi­cal expe­ri­ences sent Pade back to her bouts of child­hood sick­ness, dur­ing which her chief plea­sures came from lis­ten­ing to the world around her. The result of this inspi­ra­tion was the first work of elec­tron­ic musique con­crète com­posed in Den­mark, A Day at Dyre­havs­bakken. Learn­ing from Scha­ef­fer, and lat­er from oth­er elec­tron­ic-music pio­neers like Karl­heinz Stock­hausen, Györ­gy Ligeti and Pierre Boulez, Pade devel­oped the abil­i­ty to real­ize the musi­cal worlds she’s been explor­ing in her head all along. Their aus­tere sound­scapes could hard­ly be far­ther from the sen­ti­men­tal schlager bal­lads she’d writ­ten to keep spir­its up in the bar­racks, but as you can hear in the selec­tion from 1985 to 1995 pre­sent­ed in the com­pi­la­tion above, the son­ic imag­i­na­tion that heard an ambi­ent sym­pho­ny in drip­ping sponges, whistling ket­tles, singing birds, and trot­ting hors­es remains exhil­a­rat­ing today.

Relat­ed con­tent:

Hear Sev­en Hours of Women Mak­ing Elec­tron­ic Music (1938–2014)

Daphne Oram Cre­at­ed the BBC’s First-Ever Piece of Elec­tron­ic Music (1957)

The Fas­ci­nat­ing Sto­ry of How the Elec­tric Music Pio­neer Delia Der­byshire Cre­at­ed the Orig­i­nal Doc­tor Who Theme (1963)

What is Elec­tron­ic Music?: Pio­neer­ing Elec­tron­ic Musi­cian Daphne Oram Explains (1969)

New Doc­u­men­tary Sis­ters with Tran­sis­tors Tells the Sto­ry of Elec­tron­ic Music’s Female Pio­neers

Hear Elec­tron­ic Lady­land, a Mix­tape Fea­tur­ing 55 Tracks from 35 Pio­neer­ing Women in Elec­tron­ic Music

Based in Seoul, Col­in Marshall writes and broad­casts on cities, lan­guage, and cul­ture. He’s the author of the newslet­ter Books on Cities as well as the books 한국 요약 금지 (No Sum­ma­riz­ing Korea) and Kore­an Newtro. Fol­low him on the social net­work for­mer­ly known as Twit­ter at @colinmarshall.

The Long, Strange History of Tarot Cards: From the 14th Century to Modern Times

We have any num­ber of rea­sons for dif­fi­cul­ty get­ting to sleep, not least wor­ries about the future. This is hard­ly a recent phe­nom­e­non, and indeed prac­tices meant to clar­i­fy the nature of events to come may be old­er than civ­i­liza­tion itself. In fact, many of us mod­erns trust the old ways of for­tune-telling more than the new. Take the cards of the Tarot, often fea­tured here on Open Cul­ture, whose rec­og­niz­able Euro­pean form dates back to at least the four­teenth cen­tu­ry. But as explained in the new video above from YouTube chan­nel Bed­time & His­to­ri­an, their pre-his­to­ry begins longer ago and far­ther away, with the inven­tion of the play­ing card itself in Tang-Dynasty Chi­na. For Tarot decks weren’t orig­i­nal­ly a means of glimps­ing the future, but of pass­ing time in the present.

In the 400 years or so between the civ­i­liza­tion­al jour­ney play­ing cards made along the Silk Road and their first employ­ment as a div­ina­tion tool by French occultists, many a game of Tarot — or taroc­chi, Tarock, and so on — took place in Europe. Mon­e­tary stakes, and some­times con­sid­er­able ones, were not unknown, which drew the ire of both state and Church author­i­ties.

Yet not only did the cards sur­vive these attempts at repres­sion, they evolved along numer­ous long and wind­ing cul­tur­al paths, tak­ing artis­ti­cal­ly elab­o­rate and evoca­tive forms that still cap­ture the imag­i­na­tion today. At the same time, the struc­ture of the Tarot deck used by eso­teri­cists has remained remark­ably sta­ble, with its 78 cards con­sist­ing of 22 Major Arcana and 56 Minor Arcana, the lat­ter divid­ed into four suits (like the stan­dard deck used for pok­er or black­jack).

If you aren’t sure what some of those terms mean, know that all is clar­i­fied over the course of the video’s near­ly three-hour run­time, the final third of which is ded­i­cat­ed to explain­ing the iden­ti­ties, char­ac­ter­is­tics, and mean­ings of the cards them­selves. It’s worth a lis­ten as a kind of advance prepa­ra­tion if you’ve con­sid­ered going in to get a Tarot read­ing done by one of the pro­fes­sion­als who still ply their trade all around the world. (In Korea, where I live, they even work out of booths set up on the side­walk, a true con­ve­nience for com­muters in need of spir­i­tu­al guid­ance on the way home.) True to Bed­time & His­to­ri­an’s con­cept, the nar­ra­tor speaks as slow­ly and calm­ly as pos­si­ble, with a fire crack­ling in the back­ground. You’ll learn a lot about Tarot, cer­tain­ly, but you may also find that your sleep trou­bles have been solved before you’ve drawn your first card.

Relat­ed con­tent:

Behold the Sola-Bus­ca Tarot Deck, the Ear­li­est Com­plete Set of Tarot Cards (1490)

The Artis­tic & Mys­ti­cal World of Tarot: See Decks by Sal­vador Dalí, Aleis­ter Crow­ley, H.R. Giger & More

Ale­jan­dro Jodor­owsky Explains How Tarot Cards Can Give You Cre­ative Inspi­ra­tion

Carl Jung on the Pow­er of Tarot Cards: They Pro­vide Door­ways to the Uncon­scious & Per­haps a Way to Pre­dict the Future

Divine Decks: A Visu­al His­to­ry of Tarot: The First Com­pre­hen­sive Sur­vey of Tarot Gets Pub­lished by Taschen

Based in Seoul, Col­in Marshall writes and broad­casts on cities, lan­guage, and cul­ture. He’s the author of the newslet­ter Books on Cities as well as the books 한국 요약 금지 (No Sum­ma­riz­ing Korea) and Kore­an Newtro. Fol­low him on the social net­work for­mer­ly known as Twit­ter at @colinmarshall.

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

Some­times, when I can’t sleep, I men­tal­ly revis­it the var­i­ous homes of my child­hood, wan­der­ing from room to room, turn­ing on lights and peer­ing in clos­ets until I conk out.

Turns out these imag­i­nary tours are also handy mnemon­ic tools, as Vox’s Dean Peter­son explains above.

Hey, that’s good news… isn’t the sub­con­scious rumored to do some heavy lift­ing in terms of pro­cess­ing infor­ma­tion?

Peter­son con­quered a self-described bad mem­o­ry, at least tem­porar­i­ly, by traips­ing around his apart­ment, deposit­ing vivid sen­tence-by-sen­tence clues that would even­tu­al­ly help him recite by heart one of his favorite chap­ters in Moby Dick.

In truth, he was plant­i­ng these clues in his hip­pocam­pus, the rel­a­tive­ly small struc­ture in the brain that’s a crit­i­cal play­er when it comes to mem­o­ry, includ­ing the spa­tial mem­o­ries that allow us to nav­i­gate famil­iar loca­tions with­out seem­ing to give the mat­ter any thought.

What made it stick was pair­ing his every­day coor­di­nates to extra­or­di­nary visu­als.

Chap­ter 37, for those keep­ing track at home, is a mono­logue for Cap­tain Ahab in which he describes him­self as not just mad but “mad­ness mad­dened.” Here’s the first sen­tence:

I leave a white and tur­bid wake; pale waters, paler cheeks, where’er I sail.

Not the eas­i­est text for 21st-cen­tu­ry heads to wrap around, though with a lit­tle effort, most of us get the gist.

Let’s not get hung up on lit­er­ary inter­pre­ta­tion here, though, folks. Hav­ing set­tled on his front stoop as the first stop of his mem­o­ry palace Peter­son refrained from pic­tur­ing frothy spume lap­ping at the low­er­most step. Instead he plunked down a funer­al wreath and direc­tor John Waters, pale of suit and cheek, weep­ing. Get it? White? Wake? Pale cheeks?

After which Peter­son moved on to the next sen­tence.

There are 38 in all, and after sev­er­al days of prac­tice in which he men­tal­ly walked the image-strewn course of his apart­ment-cum-Mem­o­ry Palace, Peter­son was able to regale his cowork­ers with an off-book recita­tion.

The time fac­tor will def­i­nite­ly be a let­down for those hop­ing for a low-com­mit­ment par­ty trick.

Peter­son spent three-to-four hours a day pac­ing his spa­tial mem­o­ry, admir­ing the odd­i­ties he him­self had placed there.

The incred­u­lous com­ments from those ques­tion­ing the effi­cien­cy of giv­ing up half a day to mem­o­rize a page and a half are bal­anced by tes­ti­mo­ni­als from those who’ve met with suc­cess, using the Mem­o­ry Palace method to retain vast amounts of data pri­or to an exam.

That may, ulti­mate­ly, be a bet­ter use of the Mem­o­ry Palace. Peter­son gets an A for spit­ting out the lines as writ­ten, but his expres­sion is that of an actor audi­tion­ing with mate­r­i­al he has not yet mas­tered. (No shade on Peterson’s act­ing tal­ent or lack thereof—even great actors get this face when their lines are shaky. One friend doesn’t con­sid­er her­self off book until she can get all the way through her mono­logue whilst hop­ping on one foot.)

For more infor­ma­tion on build­ing a Mem­o­ry Palace, refer, as Peter­son did, to author Joshua Foer’s Moon­walk­ing With Ein­stein: The Art and Sci­ence of Remem­ber­ing Every­thing, or to his appear­ance on Adam Grant’s TED Work Life pod­cast. Stream it here:

If you would like to go whale to whale with Peter­son, below is the text that he installed in his Mem­o­ry Palace, com­pli­ments of Her­man Melville:

I leave a white and tur­bid wake; pale waters, paler cheeks, where’er I sail. The envi­ous bil­lows side­long swell to whelm my track; let them; but first I pass.

Yon­der, by ever-brim­ming goblet’s rim, the warm waves blush like wine. The gold brow plumbs the blue. The div­er sun- slow dived from noon- goes down; my soul mounts up! she wea­ries with her end­less hill. Is, then, the crown too heavy that I wear? this Iron Crown of Lom­bardy. Yet is it bright with many a gem; I the wear­er, see not its far flash­ings; but dark­ly feel that I wear that, that daz­zling­ly con­founds. ‘Tis iron- that I know- not gold. ‘Tis split, too- that I feel; the jagged edge galls me so, my brain seems to beat against the sol­id met­al; aye, steel skull, mine; the sort that needs no hel­met in the most brain-bat­ter­ing fight!

Dry heat upon my brow? Oh! time was, when as the sun­rise nobly spurred me, so the sun­set soothed. No more. This love­ly light, it lights not me; all love­li­ness is anguish to me, since I can ne’er enjoy. Gift­ed with the high per­cep­tion, I lack the low, enjoy­ing pow­er; damned, most sub­tly and most malig­nant­ly! damned in the midst of Par­adise! Good night-good night! (wav­ing his hand, he moves from the win­dow.)

‘Twas not so hard a task. I thought to find one stub­born, at the least; but my one cogged cir­cle fits into all their var­i­ous wheels, and they revolve. Or, if you will, like so many ant-hills of pow­der, they all stand before me; and I their match. Oh, hard! that to fire oth­ers, the match itself must needs be wast­ing! What I’ve dared, I’ve willed; and what I’ve willed, I’ll do! They think me mad- Star­buck does; but I’m demo­ni­ac, I am mad­ness mad­dened! That wild mad­ness that’s only calm to com­pre­hend itself! The prophe­cy was that I should be dis­mem­bered; and- Aye! I lost this leg. I now proph­esy that I will dis­mem­ber my dis­mem­ber­er. Now, then, be the prophet and the ful­filler one. That’s more than ye, ye great gods, ever were. I laugh and hoot at ye, ye crick­et-play­ers, ye pugilists, ye deaf Burkes and blind­ed Bendi­goes! I will not say as school­boys do to bul­lies- Take some one of your own size; don’t pom­mel me! No, ye’ve knocked me down, and I am up again; but ye have run and hid­den. Come forth from behind your cot­ton bags! I have no long gun to reach ye. Come, Ahab’s com­pli­ments to ye; come and see if ye can swerve me. Swerve me? ye can­not swerve me, else ye swerve your­selves! man has ye there. Swerve me? The path to my fixed pur­pose is laid with iron rails, where­on my soul is grooved to run. Over unsound­ed gorges, through the rifled hearts of moun­tains, under tor­rents’ beds, unerr­ing­ly I rush! Naught’s an obsta­cle, naught’s an angle to the iron way!

Note: An ear­li­er ver­sion of this post appeared on our site in 2019.

Relat­ed Con­tent:

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

Play Mark Twain’s “Mem­o­ry-Builder,” His Game for Remem­ber­ing His­tor­i­cal Facts & Dates

How to Prac­tice Effec­tive­ly: Lessons from Neu­ro­science Can Help Us Mas­ter Skills in Music, Sports & Beyond

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

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

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When Salvador Dalí Gave a Surrealist Lecture in a Diving Suit … and Almost Suffocated (1936)

Image by Library of Congress/Carl Van Vecht­en, via Wiki­me­dia Com­mons

Many a for­eign­er has vis­it­ed Eng­land and found it an unex­pect­ed­ly sur­re­al place. Some of that effect has to do with encoun­ter­ing famil­iar icons — Big Ben, dou­ble-deck­er Routemas­ter bus­es, Mar­mite — in cold, damp real­i­ty. More of it may be induced by the coun­try’s simul­ta­ne­ous­ly thor­ough­go­ing cul­tures of nor­mal­i­ty and eccen­tric­i­ty, an end­less source of inspi­ra­tion for Mon­ty Python’s Fly­ing Cir­cus and much oth­er British com­e­dy since. Yet Eng­land came rel­a­tive­ly late to Sur­re­al­ism, or rather, Sur­re­al­ism came late to Eng­land. When the Inter­na­tion­al Sur­re­al­ist Exhi­bi­tion opened at the New Burling­ton Gal­leries behind Lon­don’s Roy­al Acad­e­my in the sum­mer of 1936, the Man­ches­ter Evening News decried it as “a trav­es­ty of every­thing that’s decent.” Nat­u­ral­ly, the show was a smash hit.

On dis­play was work by artists includ­ing Pablo Picas­so, René Magritte, Max Ernst, Alexan­der Calder, Gior­gio de Chiri­co, Mar­cel Duchamp, Alber­to Gia­comet­ti, Paul Klee, Man Ray, and Sal­vador Dalí, who turned up in per­son to deliv­er a lec­ture on “Authen­tic Para­noiac Phan­toms.” In order to “descend to the sub­con­scious” with a prop­er­ly Sur­re­al­ist lit­er­al­ism, he rent­ed a div­ing suit and hel­met from a local out­fit­ter for his appear­ance. (You can see an actu­al image from 1936 here.) “The div­ing suit had extreme­ly heavy lead shoes which I could bare­ly lift,” he writes in his auto­bi­og­ra­phy, as trans­lat­ed by Haakon Cheva­lier. “I there­fore had to walk very slow­ly, lean­ing on friends who helped to move me, as though I were com­plete­ly par­a­lyzed, and thus I appeared before the audi­ence hold­ing two lux­u­ri­ous white Russ­ian wolfhounds on a leash.”

Only after he’d been talk­ing for a few min­utes did Dalí real­ize that “it would be impos­si­ble for me to deliv­er my speech through the glass win­dow of my hel­met. More­over, I had been shut up in this thing for ten min­utes and became heat­ed from the exer­tions I had made in walk­ing across the stage to reach my chair, so that I was drip­ping with per­spi­ra­tion, and felt faint and on the point of suf­fo­cat­ing.” With the tech­ni­cian who’d screwed the hel­met on in the first place nowhere to be found, his wife Gala and friend Edward James worked des­per­ate­ly to free him, even­tu­al­ly tak­ing a ham­mer to the bolts. “At each blow I thought I would faint.” When Dalí final­ly emerged, the audi­ence, hav­ing assumed it had all been an act, “was impressed by my real­ly death­ly pal­lor, which con­sti­tut­ed the accu­rate gauge of that Dalin­ian dra­mat­ic ele­ment which nev­er fails to attend my most triv­ial acts and under­tak­ings.”

As uncom­pro­mis­ing­ly as they made their dec­la­ra­tions to change the world through sheer force of non­sense, the Sur­re­al­ists also under­stood that the show must go on. Dalí moved on to the visu­al por­tion of his lec­ture, pre­sent­ing slides out of order and, for the most part, upside down. This was just one of the attrac­tions with which the Inter­na­tion­al Sur­re­al­ist Exhi­bi­tion drew 30,000 vis­i­tors dur­ing its three-week run, and “had it not been for the gath­er­ing storm clouds of war in Europe,” writes the Guardian’s Joan­na Moor­head, “it might have gone on to achieve far more.” The old Eng­lish intol­er­ance for Gal­lic self-seri­ous­ness would also have made things dif­fi­cult for Sur­re­al­ism as the likes of Dalí, Duchamp, and André Bre­ton con­ceived it. Or per­haps the domes­tic vari­ety was sim­ply enough: as crit­ic and poet Her­bert Read puts it in the exhi­bi­tion’s cat­a­log, a nation that has pro­duced both William Blake and Lewis Car­roll is to the man­ner born.

Relat­ed Con­tent:

When The Sur­re­al­ists Expelled Sal­vador Dalí for “the Glo­ri­fi­ca­tion of Hit­ler­ian Fas­cism” (1934)

When Sal­vador Dali Met Sig­mund Freud, and Changed Freud’s Mind About Sur­re­al­ism (1938)

When Sal­vador Dalí Cre­at­ed a Sur­re­al­ist Fun­house at New York World’s Fair (1939)

When Sal­vador Dalí Dressed — and Angri­ly Demol­ished — a Depart­ment Store Win­dow in New York City (1939)

When Sal­vador Dalí Gave a Lec­ture at the Sor­bonne & Arrived in a Rolls Royce Full of Cau­li­flower (1955)

Sal­vador Dali Gets Sur­re­al with Mike Wal­lace (1958)

Based in Seoul, Col­in Marshall writes and broad­casts on cities, lan­guage, and cul­ture. He’s the author of the newslet­ter Books on Cities as well as the books 한국 요약 금지 (No Sum­ma­riz­ing Korea) and Kore­an Newtro. Fol­low him on the social net­work for­mer­ly known as Twit­ter at @colinmarshall.

Watch Interplanetary Revolution (1924): The Most Bizarre Soviet Animated Propaganda Film You’ll Ever See

In 1924, Zenon Komis­sarenko, Youry Merkulov and Niko­lai Kho­dataev pro­duced Inter­plan­e­tary Rev­o­lu­tion, which might just be one of the strangest Sovi­et pro­pa­gan­da films ever pro­duced.

First, the film is ani­mat­ed using not only tra­di­tion­al cel ani­ma­tion but also col­lage and stop motion, giv­ing the work a queasy, dis­ori­ent­ing feel. A bit like look­ing at a paint­ing by Hen­ry Darg­er.

Then there is the film’s sto­ry. As an inter­ti­tle pro­claims, this is “a tale about Com­rade Con­in­ter­nov, the Red Army War­rior who flew to Mars, and van­quished all the cap­i­tal­ists on the plan­et!!” This already sounds bet­ter than John Carter.

The movie, how­ev­er, is rather hard to fol­low with­out either the appro­pri­ate amount of rev­o­lu­tion­ary fer­vor or, per­haps, hal­lu­cino­gens. Inter­plan­e­tary Rev­o­lu­tion opens with a wild-eyed, ax-wield­ing bull­dog with a top hat – a cap­i­tal­ist, obvi­ous­ly. Oth­er cap­i­tal­ists, with swastikas on their fore­heads, suck the blood from a hap­less mem­ber of the pro­le­tari­at. (By the ear­ly 1920s, Ger­many’s nation­al­ist right had adopt­ed the swasti­ka, and Sovi­et pro­pa­gan­dists quick­ly used it to brand cap­i­tal­ists as fas­cists.) Then the rev­o­lu­tion comes and a pant­less cap­i­tal­ist demon los­es his mind after devour­ing a copy of Prav­da. Next, the cap­i­tal­ists board a giant fly­ing shoe and fly off into space. From there, the film gets kind of weird.

You can watch the whole thing above. It’s also added to our list of Free Ani­mat­ed Films, a sub­set of our col­lec­tion, 4,000+ Free Movies Online: Great Clas­sics, Indies, Noir, West­erns, Doc­u­men­taries & More.

Note: An ear­li­er ver­sion of this post appeared on our site in 2015.

Relat­ed Con­tent:

Watch Dzi­ga Vertov’s Sovi­et Toys: The First Sovi­et Ani­mat­ed Movie Ever (1924)

Watch the Sur­re­al­ist Glass Har­mon­i­ca, the Only Ani­mat­ed Film Ever Banned by Sovi­et Cen­sors (1968)

Watch Dzi­ga Vertov’s A Man with a Movie Cam­era, Named the 8th Best Film Ever Made

“Glo­ry to the Con­querors of the Uni­verse!”: Pro­pa­gan­da Posters from the Sovi­et Space Race (1958–1963)

The Beau­ti­ful, Inno­v­a­tive & Some­times Dark World of Ani­mat­ed Sovi­et Pro­pa­gan­da (1925–1984)

Jonathan Crow is a writer and film­mak­er whose work has appeared in Yahoo!, The Hol­ly­wood Reporter, and oth­er pub­li­ca­tions. 

How Alan Turing and His Fellow Codebreakers Broke the Nazis’ “Unbreakable” Enigma Code

There was a time when you could just go out and buy an Enig­ma machine. In the ear­ly nine­teen-twen­ties, any orga­ni­za­tion with a need to keep its com­mu­ni­ca­tions secret could order a few of those brand-new devices from Ger­many and rest assured that any mes­sages encod­ed using them would be safe from pry­ing eyes. It did­n’t take long for the mil­i­tary to catch on to the Enig­ma’s use­ful­ness. Just a few years after the machine came on the mar­ket, it had been adopt­ed by the Ger­man Navy, Army, and Air Force, and made pos­si­ble the rapid, secret coor­di­na­tion cen­tral to the tech­nique we now call blitzkrieg. When World War II began, Axis forces were con­fi­dent, as any­one in pos­ses­sion of an unbreak­able code might well be.

As his­to­ry played out, of course, that code turned out to be break­able. That this came as a sur­prise to the Nazis makes sense if you watch the new video above from Ver­i­ta­si­um, which opens up an actu­al Enig­ma machine and explains its inner work­ings. Each let­ter typed into its key­board pass­es through a series of inter­change­able rotors wired togeth­er, then comes back through in the oppo­site direc­tion, result­ing in a par­tic­u­lar sub­sti­tute let­ter.

Each char­ac­ter entered advances at least one of the rotors, each of which turns at a dif­fer­ent speed, mean­ing that the already com­plex sub­sti­tu­tion cipher con­stant­ly changes. To make it even trick­i­er, the Nazis made mod­i­fi­ca­tions to their Enig­ma machines, includ­ing a tele­phone-oper­a­tor-style plug­board that expand­ed the pos­si­ble encryp­tion keys to 7 x 1018: an infi­nite-seem­ing num­ber that fair­ly cried out for the math­e­mat­i­cal ser­vices of Alan Tur­ing.

Already famous for hav­ing come up with the “Tur­ing machine,” which could the­o­ret­i­cal­ly manip­u­late strings of sym­bols in what we’d now call an algo­rith­mic fash­ion, he was recruit­ed by Britain’s wartime code­break­ing head­quar­ters at Bletch­ley Park, where experts were already hard at work reverse-engi­neer­ing the Enig­ma machine. There he con­sid­ered flaws in the design of the device, such as its inabil­i­ty to encrypt any giv­en let­ter as itself, and the ways in which its human oper­a­tors used it, such as mak­ing pre­dictable weath­er reports. Exploit­ing these weak­ness­es required build­ing a non-the­o­ret­i­cal com­pu­ta­tion engine, the Bombe, to grind through all pos­si­bil­i­ties at what would then have seemed an unfath­omable speed. The intel­li­gence the Bombe pro­duced con­tributed to the suc­cess of the sur­prise D‑Day inva­sion and may have tak­en years off the poten­tial rav­ages of World War II. It would­n’t have hap­pened with­out Tur­ing’s for­mi­da­ble intel­li­gence — or his under­stand­ing that you need a machine to out­smart a machine.

Relat­ed Con­tent:

The Enig­ma Machine: How Alan Tur­ing Helped Break the Unbreak­able Nazi Code

How British Code­break­ers Built the First Elec­tron­ic Com­put­er

The LEGO Tur­ing Machine Gives a Quick Primer on How Your Com­put­er Works

A Tur­ing Machine Hand­made Out of Wood

Can You Crack the Uncrack­able Code in Kryp­tos, the CIA’s Work of Pub­lic Art?

The Sto­ry of Elize­beth Fried­man, the Pio­neer­ing Cryp­tol­o­gist Who Thwart­ed the Nazis & Got Burned by J. Edgar Hoover

Based in Seoul, Col­in Marshall writes and broad­casts on cities, lan­guage, and cul­ture. He’s the author of the newslet­ter Books on Cities as well as the books 한국 요약 금지 (No Sum­ma­riz­ing Korea) and Kore­an Newtro. Fol­low him on the social net­work for­mer­ly known as Twit­ter at @colinmarshall.

The Digital Dada Library: Discover the Archive That Preserves the Original Publications of the Experimental Anti-Art Movement Online

Crit­i­cal the­o­rists like Theodor Adorno may have over­reached in claim­ing that all mass cul­ture is mediocre, mech­a­nized pro­pa­gan­da made to jus­ti­fy the sta­tus quo. But that doesn’t mean they were entire­ly wrong. Over and over we see even the most sub­ver­sive art, lit­er­a­ture, film, and music has a way of being tamed and Bowd­ler­ized. Glob­al mega-cor­po­rate indus­tries don’t need to cen­sor what they don’t like; they only need to buy it, rebrand it, or price it out of reach.

So what? Why do we need chal­leng­ing, inde­pen­dent art when we have end­less enter­tain­ment? Is the con­cept a nos­tal­gic, elit­ist, Euro­cen­tric idea? Artists have jus­ti­fied the need for art since antiq­ui­ty, with poet­ic and log­i­cal argu­ments of every kind. But Dada artists of the ear­ly 20th cen­tu­ry broke ranks, build­ing their move­ment on the insight that no defense could pos­si­bly mean any­thing when it came to art’s pur­pose, espe­cial­ly in the face of the tech­no­crat­ic slaugh­ter of World War I.

When the hyper­ra­tional­ism of moder­ni­ty led to mass death and destruc­tion, the only humane response was to declare war on rationalization—to “destroy the hoax­es of rea­son,” as French artist Jean Arp put it. “For the dis­il­lu­sioned artists of the Dada move­ment,” the Muse­um of Mod­ern Art explains, “the war mere­ly con­firmed the degra­da­tion of social struc­tures that led to such vio­lence: cor­rupt and nation­al­ist pol­i­tics, repres­sive social val­ues, and unques­tion­ing con­for­mi­ty of cul­ture and thought.”

Dada took a com­bat­ive stance against, for one thing, the insis­tence that art jus­ti­fy its exis­tence to win estab­lish­ment approval. “All activ­i­ty is vain,” declared poet Tris­tan Tzara in his 1918 “Dada Man­i­festo,” includ­ing the “mon­e­tary sys­tem, phar­ma­ceu­ti­cal prod­uct, or a bare leg adver­tis­ing the ardent ster­ile spring…. The begin­nings of Dada were not the begin­nings of art, but of dis­gust” with the ossi­fied cul­ture of the “nice, nice bour­geois,” who would pre­serve at any cost “the pos­si­bil­i­ty of wal­low­ing in cush­ions and good things to eat.”

“And so Dada,” wrote Tzara, “was born of a need for inde­pen­dence, of a dis­trust toward uni­ty.” Such dec­la­ra­tions aside, the move­ment was decid­ed­ly uni­fied in its aims. “For us, art is not an end in itself,” poet Hugo Ball wrote. “It is an oppor­tu­ni­ty for the true per­cep­tion and crit­i­cism of the times we live in.” This cri­tique required new exper­i­men­tal tech­niques that deformed and repur­posed the tech­nolo­gies of mass cul­ture.

The under­tak­ing would not have been pos­si­ble with­out a Dada pub­lish­ing wing that turned out scores of jour­nals, mag­a­zines, books, leaflets, essays, man­i­festos, etc., writ­ten, designed, edit­ed, illus­trat­ed, pho­tographed, and con­trolled by the artists them­selves. They might find no small amount of irony in the fact that their pro­duc­tions have received the ulti­mate insti­tu­tion­al sanc­tion: housed in “nice, nice bour­geois” muse­ums, libraries, and uni­ver­si­ties around the world.

The Uni­ver­si­ty of Iowa’s Inter­na­tion­al Dada Archive has amassed a con­sid­er­able num­ber of Dada pub­li­ca­tions and offers a wealth of high-qual­i­ty scanned images of the orig­i­nals on their site. “The first sec­tion” of their Dig­i­tal Library “includes some of the major peri­od­i­cals of the Dada move­ment from Zurich, Berlin, Paris, and else­where.”

The sec­ond sec­tion of the site “includes books by some of the par­tic­i­pants in the Dada move­ment, as well as some of the more ephemer­al Dada-era pub­li­ca­tions, such as exhi­bi­tion cat­a­logs and broad­sides.” You’ll find writ­ings by all of the artists men­tioned above, as well as oth­er well-known names like Max Ernst, Paul Elu­ard, George Grosz, Man Ray, Fran­cis Picabia, and more.

All of these pub­li­ca­tions are, of course, in their orig­i­nal Euro­pean lan­guages, though you can find trans­la­tions of many doc­u­ments online. The most influ­en­tial Dada mag­a­zine in Eng­lish, Alfred Stieglitz’s 291, will give mono­lin­gual read­ers a fla­vor of the larg­er scene. Pub­lished in New York between 1915 and 1916, the short-lived jour­nal includ­ed many of the major Euro­pean names. Its first issue cov­ered exper­i­ments like “simul­tanism,” “sin­cerism,” and “idi­o­tism,” and intro­duced visu­al poet­ry to Amer­i­can read­ers. Issue 5–6 fea­tured on its cov­er one of the weird, non­sen­si­cal machines of Fran­cis Picabia.

Dada splin­tered into oth­er move­ments before its artists were forced out of Europe or hound­ed into obscu­ri­ty by the Nazis. Their uni­fied attempt to frag­ment and dis­rupt the dom­i­nance of mass cul­ture was itself frag­ment­ed and dis­rupt­ed by a hor­rif­ic new war machine. But while their ideas may have been co-opt­ed, their spir­it may yet live on. Inspired by their work, per­haps a new gen­er­a­tion will take up the Sisyphean task of mak­ing rad­i­cal, crit­i­cal, exper­i­men­tal art to sub­vert the homog­e­niz­ing jug­ger­naut of the cul­ture indus­try.

Enter the Uni­ver­si­ty of Iowa’s Dig­i­tal Dada Library here.

Note: An ear­li­er ver­sion of this post appeared on our site in 2019.

Relat­ed Con­tent:

Dada Was Born 100 Years Ago: Cel­e­brate the Avant-Garde Move­ment Launched by Hugo Ball on July 14, 1916

The ABCs of Dada Explains the Anar­chic, Irra­tional “Anti-Art” Move­ment of Dadaism

Read and Hear Tris­tan Tzara’s “Dada Man­i­festo,” the Avant-Garde Doc­u­ment Pub­lished 100 Years Ago (March 23, 1918)

Down­load All 8 Issues of Dada, the Arts Jour­nal That Pub­li­cized the Avant-Garde Move­ment a Cen­tu­ry Ago (1917–21)

Hear the Exper­i­men­tal Music of the Dada Move­ment: Avant-Garde Sounds from a Cen­tu­ry Ago

Josh Jones is a writer and musi­cian based in Durham, NC. 

When Galileo Calculated the Precise Dimensions of Hell in Dante’s Inferno

We ven­er­ate Galileo Galilei for dar­ing to speak the sci­en­tif­ic truth in the face of severe insti­tu­tion­al oppo­si­tion. He pub­licly acknowl­edged that the Earth revolves around the Sun in a time when the Church would rather he did­n’t, dis­play­ing a bloody-mind­ed­ness that he seems to have acquired with age. Decades ear­li­er, in the first stage of his career, he found him­self (cir­ca 1588) tasked by the Flo­ren­tine Acad­e­my with cal­cu­lat­ing the pre­cise dimen­sions of hell as described in Dan­te’s Divine Com­e­dy. Duti­ful­ly apply­ing him­self to this now-absurd-sound­ing work, he deter­mined that the under­world’s roof had to be cen­tered in Jerusalem, as wide as the radius of the entire Earth, and no less than 600 kilo­me­ters thick.

Not that any of this was based on friv­o­lous rea­son­ing. As a mod­el for the dimen­sions of hel­l’s roof, for instance, Galileo looked over to Fil­ip­po Brunelleschi’s dome, which had topped the Flo­rence Cathe­dral for a cen­tu­ry and a half at that point. Galileo’s cal­cu­la­tions of hel­l’s dimen­sions con­tra­dict­ed an ear­li­er mod­el pro­posed by the schol­ar Alessan­dro Vel­lutel­lo. Instead, they sup­port­ed a mod­el devel­oped by archi­tect Anto­nio Manet­ti, whose draw­ings appear here.

That Manet­ti was a fel­low Flo­ren­tine, and Vel­lutel­lo was from Flo­rence’s long­time rival Luc­ca could well have count­ed among the moti­vat­ing fac­tors. But we must bear in mind that, in the six­teenth cen­tu­ry, peo­ple real­ly did want to get these facts straight — if “facts” be the prop­er term.

The attempt to rec­on­cile scrip­ture with objec­tiv­i­ty absorbed the lives of many high­ly intel­li­gent peo­ple through­out the Mid­dle Ages and the Renais­sance. How­ev­er hope­less that goal could be, the thought Galileo devot­ed to the prob­lem may have result­ed in a gen­uine break­through. Math­e­mati­cian and sci­ence his­to­ri­an Mark Peter­son, pre­vi­ous­ly fea­tured here on Open Cul­ture, has argued that his cal­cu­la­tions of Dan­te’s non-Euclid­ean, topol­o­gy-curved uni­verse — as we might plau­si­bly describe it today — laid out the basis for what would become math­e­mat­i­cal physics. In any case, the young Galileo’s lec­tures at the Flo­ren­tine Acad­e­my land­ed him a job as a math­e­mat­ics lec­tur­er at the Uni­ver­si­ty of Pisa, as good a rea­son as any for him to keep his pri­vate doubts to him­self. When it comes to sci­ence and reli­gion, as he must have known, you’ve got to pick your bat­tles.

Relat­ed con­tent:

Dante’s Divine Com­e­dy: A Visitor’s Guide to Hell, Pur­ga­to­ry & Par­adise

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

Beau­ti­ful 19th Cen­tu­ry Maps of Dante’s Divine Com­e­dy: Infer­no, Pur­ga­to­ry, Par­adise & More

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

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

Explore Divine Com­e­dy Dig­i­tal, a New Dig­i­tal Data­base That Col­lects Sev­en Cen­turies of Art Inspired by Dante’s Divine Com­e­dy

Based in Seoul, Col­in Marshall writes and broad­casts on cities, lan­guage, and cul­ture. He’s the author of the newslet­ter Books on Cities as well as the books 한국 요약 금지 (No Sum­ma­riz­ing Korea) and Kore­an Newtro. Fol­low him on the social net­work for­mer­ly known as Twit­ter at @colinmarshall.

Listen to 4+ Hours of Jazz & Classical Music from Haruki Murakami’s Novels

Before he became a nov­el­ist, Haru­ki Muraka­mi ran a jazz bar in Tokyo, and music has filled his nov­els ever since. For your lis­ten­ing plea­sure, NTS Radio has cre­at­ed two playlists of the jazz and clas­si­cal music ref­er­enced in his fic­tion. Togeth­er, they run near­ly five hours and fea­ture every­one from John Coltrane, Bill Evans, and Thelo­nious Monk to Schu­bert, Liszt, and Mozart. Our sug­ges­tion: Pick up a Muraka­mi nov­el, press play, and let the music become the sound­track to your read­ing. Enjoy!

via Kot­tke

Relat­ed Con­tent 

Haru­ki Murakami’s Dai­ly Rou­tine: Up at 4:00 a.m., 5–6 Hours of Writ­ing, Then a 10K Run

Haru­ki Muraka­mi Trans­lates The Great Gats­by, the Nov­el That Influ­enced Him Most

Read 12 Sto­ries By Haru­ki Muraka­mi Free Online

Why Should You Read Haru­ki Muraka­mi? An Ani­mat­ed Video on His “Epic Lit­er­ary Puz­zle” Kaf­ka on the Shore Makes the Case

 

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