Read 20,000+ Golden Age Comic Books Free Online: Superheroes, Westerns, Romance, Horror, and More

For gen­er­a­tions of kids in the twen­ti­eth cen­tu­ry, few plea­sures were as intox­i­cat­ing as a trip to the com­ic-book shop with the week’s allowance fresh in hand. Those of us who grew up in the nineties had any num­ber of high-pro­duc­tion-val­ue paper super­hero spec­ta­cles from major pub­lish­ers on which to blow our mon­ey. Per­son­al­ly, I pre­ferred the greater val­ue of Carl Barks’ old Uncle Scrooge and Don­ald Duck sto­ries then being reprint­ed. But noth­ing offered quite so much val­ue as the card­board box­es, kept below the main shelves, filled as they were with pre­vi­ous­ly owned com­ic books from the fifties, six­ties, sev­en­ties, and eight­ies. As I recall, a cou­ple of dol­lars could get you a whole after­noon’s read­ing mate­r­i­al.

Now you don’t even need the cou­ple of dol­lars. Comicbooks.com has opened an online read­ing room stocked with more than 20,000 dig­i­tized and restored gold­en-age comics, with sev­er­al hun­dred more issues added every day. Though you may not find Don­ald Duck there, you will find oth­er “fun­ny ani­mals” — as enthu­si­asts call them — like Dizzy Duck, Lucky Duck, Super Duck Comics, and Won­der Duck in Adven­ture at the Rodeo of the Fear­less Quack­er.

Those already famil­iar with the all-Amer­i­can exploits of Archie and his Riverdale High coterie might con­sid­er such alter­na­tives as Can­dy, Tip­py Teen, and Hap Haz­ard. And who needs Super­man and Bat­man when you can enjoy the super-hero­ic adven­tures of Sky­man, Bul­let­man, Cat-Man, and Strong Man?

Giv­en the main­stream promi­nence of com­ic books in the mid-twen­ti­eth cen­tu­ry, these most­ly for­got­ten pub­li­ca­tions now con­sti­tute an espe­cial­ly vivid — at times even lurid — means of pop-cul­tur­al time trav­el, through their con­tent as well as their adver­tise­ments (for itch­ing pow­der and oth­er prac­ti­cal joke sup­plies, mus­cle-build­ing and jiu-jit­su cours­es, war bonds, etc.). In any genre, whether super­hero, west­ern, romance, fun­ny ani­mal, hor­ror, sci­ence fic­tion, they offer a con­nec­tion with read­ers of decades past. In their form, as you can see on Comicbooks.com’s time­line of the evo­lu­tion of what the French call le neu­vième art, they offer a con­nec­tion with even more dis­tant ones: those of  pulp fic­tion, humor week­lies, chro­molith­o­graph car­toons, pen­ny dread­fuls, and twelfth-cen­tu­ry Japan­ese chōjū-giga scrolls — the orig­i­nal fun­ny ani­mals. Enter the free com­ic col­lec­tion here.

Relat­ed Con­tent:

Free: Down­load 15,000+ Free Gold­en Age Comics from the Dig­i­tal Com­ic Muse­um

Down­load Over 22,000 Gold­en & Sil­ver Age Com­ic Books from the Com­ic Book Plus Archive

The Comi­clo­pe­dia: An Online Archive of 14,000 Com­ic Artists, From Stan Lee and Jack Kir­by, to Mœbius and Hergé

Explore a Big Archive of Vin­tage Ear­ly Comics: 1700–1929

R.I.P. Stan Lee: Take His Free Online Course “The Rise of Super­heroes and Their Impact On Pop Cul­ture”

The Pulp Fic­tion Archive: The Cheap, Thrilling Sto­ries That Enter­tained a Gen­er­a­tion of Read­ers (1896–1946)

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 Ada Lovelace, Daughter of Lord Byron, Wrote the First Computer Program in 1842–a Century Before the First Computer

I’ve nev­er quite under­stood why the phrase “revi­sion­ist his­to­ry” became pure­ly pejo­ra­tive. Of course, it has its Orwellian dark side, but all knowl­edge has to be revised peri­od­i­cal­ly, as we acquire new infor­ma­tion and, ide­al­ly, dis­card old prej­u­dices and nar­row frames of ref­er­ence. A fail­ure to do so seems fun­da­men­tal­ly regres­sive, not only in polit­i­cal terms, but also in terms of how we val­ue accu­rate, inter­est­ing, and engaged schol­ar­ship. Such research has brought us fas­ci­nat­ing sto­ries about pre­vi­ous­ly mar­gin­al­ized peo­ple who made sig­nif­i­cant con­tri­bu­tions to sci­en­tif­ic dis­cov­ery, such as NASA’s “human com­put­ers,” por­trayed in the book Hid­den Fig­ures, then dra­ma­tized in the film of the same name.

Like­wise, the many women who worked at Bletch­ley Park dur­ing World War II—helping to deci­pher encryp­tions like the Nazi Enig­ma Code (out of near­ly 10,000 code­break­ers, about 75% were women)—have been get­ting their his­tor­i­cal due, thanks to “revi­sion­ist” researchers. And, as we not­ed in a pri­or post, we might not know much, if any­thing, about film star Hedy Lamarr’s sig­nif­i­cant con­tri­bu­tions to wire­less, GPS, and Blue­tooth tech­nol­o­gy were it not for the work of his­to­ri­ans like Richard Rhodes. These few exam­ples, among many, show us a fuller, more accu­rate, and more inter­est­ing view of the his­to­ry of sci­ence and tech­nol­o­gy, and they inspire women and girls who want to enter the field, yet have grown up with few role mod­els to encour­age them.

We can add to the pan­theon of great women in sci­ence the name Ada Byron, Count­ess of Lovelace, the daugh­ter of Roman­tic poet Lord Byron. Lovelace has been renowned, as Hank Green tells us in the video at the top of the post, for writ­ing the first com­put­er pro­gram, “despite liv­ing a cen­tu­ry before the inven­tion of the mod­ern com­put­er.” This pic­ture of Lovelace has been a con­tro­ver­sial one. “His­to­ri­ans dis­agree,” writes prodi­gious math­e­mati­cian Stephen Wol­fram. “To some she is a great hero in the his­to­ry of com­put­ing; to oth­ers an over­es­ti­mat­ed minor fig­ure.”

Wol­fram spent some time with “many orig­i­nal doc­u­ments” to untan­gle the mys­tery. “I feel like I’ve final­ly got­ten to know Ada Lovelace,” he writes, “and got­ten a grasp on her sto­ry. In some ways it’s an ennobling and inspir­ing sto­ry; in some ways it’s frus­trat­ing and trag­ic.” Edu­cat­ed in math and music by her moth­er, Anne Isabel­la Mil­banke, Lovelace became acquaint­ed with math­e­mat­ics pro­fes­sor Charles Bab­bage, the inven­tor of a cal­cu­lat­ing machine called the Dif­fer­ence Engine, “a 2‑foot-high hand-cranked con­trap­tion with 2000 brass parts.” Bab­bage encour­aged her to pur­sue her inter­ests in math­e­mat­ics, and she did so through­out her life.

Wide­ly acknowl­edged as one of the fore­fa­thers of com­put­ing, Bab­bage even­tu­al­ly cor­re­spond­ed with Lovelace on the cre­ation of anoth­er machine, the Ana­lyt­i­cal Engine, which “sup­port­ed a whole list of pos­si­ble kinds of oper­a­tions, that could in effect be done in arbi­trar­i­ly pro­grammed sequence.” When, in 1842, Ital­ian math­e­mati­cian Louis Menabrea pub­lished a paper in French on the Ana­lyt­i­cal Engine, “Bab­bage enlist­ed Ada as trans­la­tor,” notes the San Diego Super­com­put­er Cen­ter’s Women in Sci­ence project. “Dur­ing a nine-month peri­od in 1842–43, she worked fever­ish­ly on the arti­cle and a set of Notes she append­ed to it. These are the source of her endur­ing fame.” (You can read her trans­la­tion and notes here.)

In the course of his research, Wol­fram pored over Bab­bage and Lovelace’s cor­re­spon­dence about the trans­la­tion, which reads “a lot like emails about a project might today, apart from being in Vic­to­ri­an Eng­lish.” Although she built on Bab­bage and Menabrea’s work, “She was clear­ly in charge” of suc­cess­ful­ly extrap­o­lat­ing the pos­si­bil­i­ties of the Ana­lyt­i­cal Engine, but she felt “she was first and fore­most explain­ing Babbage’s work, so want­ed to check things with him.” Her addi­tions to the work were very well-received—Michael Fara­day called her “the ris­ing star of Science”—and when her notes were pub­lished, Bab­bage wrote, “you should have writ­ten an orig­i­nal paper.”

Unfor­tu­nate­ly, as a woman, “she couldn’t get access to the Roy­al Society’s library in Lon­don,” and her ambi­tions were derailed by a severe health cri­sis. Lovelace died of can­cer at the age of 36, and for some time, her work sank into semi-obscu­ri­ty. Though some his­to­ri­ans have seen her as sim­ply an expos­i­tor of Babbage’s work, Wol­fram con­cludes that it was Ada who had the idea of “what the Ana­lyt­i­cal Engine should be capa­ble of.” Her notes sug­gest­ed pos­si­bil­i­ties Bab­bage had nev­er dreamed of. As the Women in Sci­ence project puts it, “She right­ly saw [the Ana­lyt­i­cal Engine] as what we would call a gen­er­al-pur­pose com­put­er. It was suit­ed for ‘devel­op­ping [sic] and tab­u­lat­ing any func­tion what­ev­er… the engine [is] the mate­r­i­al expres­sion of any indef­i­nite func­tion of any degree of gen­er­al­i­ty and com­plex­i­ty.’ Her Notes antic­i­pate future devel­op­ments, includ­ing com­put­er-gen­er­at­ed music.”

In an episode of the BBC’s In Our Time, above, you can hear for­mer-host Melvyn Bragg dis­cuss Lovelace’s impor­tance with his­to­ri­ans and schol­ars Patri­cia Fara, Doron Swade, and John Fue­gi. And be sure to read Wolfram’s bio­graph­i­cal and his­tor­i­cal account of Lovelace here.

Note: An ear­li­er ver­sion of this post appeared on our site in 2017.

Relat­ed Con­tent:

How 1940s Film Star Hedy Lamarr Helped Invent the Tech­nol­o­gy Behind Wi-Fi & Blue­tooth Dur­ing WWII

The Con­tri­bu­tions of Women Philoso­phers Recov­ered by the New Project Vox Web­site

Real Women Talk About Their Careers in Sci­ence

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

What Did Ancient Rome Look Like? A 3D Virtual Tour of the City During the Second Century AD

The descrip­tion “open-air muse­um” has often been applied, in var­i­ous sens­es both pos­i­tive and neg­a­tive, to the coun­try of Italy in gen­er­al and the city of Rome in par­tic­u­lar. Indeed, only the imag­i­na­tion of a tru­ly blink­ered (or unusu­al­ly phone-addict­ed) tourist could fail to be cast back to antiq­ui­ty upon enter­ing its his­toric cen­ter, itself an offi­cial­ly des­ig­nat­ed UNESCO World Her­itage Site. Yet it also takes lit­tle expo­sure to the intense cul­ture of tourism and all it has wrought to won­der how Rome was back when, if you like, Rome was Rome: in the sec­ond cen­tu­ry AD, say, when its built envi­ron­ment reached the height of its glo­ry.

Manuel Bra­vo can show us. A YouTu­ber who cre­ates high­ly infor­ma­tive real, vir­tu­al, and hybrid video tours of famous ancient places, he’s pre­vi­ous­ly been fea­tured here on Open Cul­ture for his work on every­where from the Acrop­o­lis to the Sis­tine Chapel, to Paris and Pom­peii.

His “Vir­tu­al Rome” takes us on not a walk through the Eter­nal City of near­ly two mil­len­nia ago, but a flight: view­ers of mod­ern trav­el doc­u­men­taries will find its cam­era move­ments rem­i­nis­cent of noth­ing so much as drone pho­tog­ra­phy. This tech­nique pro­vides views even the most august ancient Roman cit­i­zens could nev­er have com­mand­ed.

Begin­ning on the Capi­to­line Hill, the most sacred of the sev­en such for­ma­tions with­in the orig­i­nal city walls, Bravo’s vir­tu­al cam­era pass­es the Tem­ples of Jupiter and Juno Mon­e­ta; the Tab­u­lar­i­um, which stored mail, the Roman Forum and its basil­i­cas; and the Curia Julia, where the sen­a­tors of the Roman Repub­lic met. Less­er-known loca­tions include the Ros­tra, named for the sea walls of cap­tured ene­my ships with which it was adorned, and from which the likes of Cicero would deliv­er their speech­es; the Regia, home to the Pon­tif­ex Max­imus, the pre­fect of Roman priests; and the “dark, stink­ing” under­ground facil­i­ty known as the Tul­lianum, now called Mamer­tine Prison. Parts of that last remain open for the appre­ci­a­tion of twen­ty-first-cen­tu­ry tourists — or at least those will­ing to pay the ten-euro entrance fee.

Relat­ed Con­tent:

Rome Reborn: A New 3D Vir­tu­al Mod­el Lets You Fly Over the Great Mon­u­ments of Ancient Rome

Take Ani­mat­ed Vir­tu­al Real­i­ty Tours of Ancient Rome at Its Archi­tec­tur­al Peak (Cir­ca 320 AD)

An 8‑Minute Ani­mat­ed Flight Over Ancient Rome

A Vir­tu­al Tour of Ancient Rome, Cir­ca 320 CE: Explore Stun­ning Recre­ations of The Forum, Colos­se­um and Oth­er Mon­u­ments

The Chang­ing Land­scape of Ancient Rome: A Free Online Course from Sapien­za Uni­ver­si­ty of Rome

The Roman Colos­se­um Decon­struct­ed: 3D Ani­ma­tion Reveals the Hid­den Tech­nol­o­gy That Pow­ered Rome’s Great Are­na

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.

Hear the Earliest Known Piece of Polyphonic Music: This Composition, Dating Back to 900 AD, Changed Western Music

Like dig­ging for fos­sils or pan­ning for gold, the research process can be a tedious affair. But for any researcher, long days of search­ing and read­ing will even­tu­al­ly result in dis­cov­ery. These are the moments schol­ars cher­ish. It’s the chance dis­cov­ery, how­ev­er rare, that makes the long hours and bleary late nights worth­while. And some finds can change an entire field. Such was the dis­cov­ery of St. John’s Col­lege PhD stu­dent, and now Asso­ciate Pro­fes­sor of Musi­col­o­gy at the Uni­ver­si­ty of Pavia, Gio­van­ni Varel­li, who, in 2014, found what is believed to be, writes Cam­bridge Uni­ver­si­ty, “the ear­li­est known prac­ti­cal exam­ple of poly­phon­ic music,” that is, music con­sist­ing of two or more melod­ic lines work­ing togeth­er simul­ta­ne­ous­ly.

You can hear the short composition—written in praise of the patron saint of Ger­many, Saint Boniface—performed above by St. John’s under­grad­u­ates Quintin Beer and John Clapham. Pri­or to Varelli’s dis­cov­ery of this piece of music, the ear­li­est poly­phon­ic music was thought to date to the year 1000, from a col­lec­tion called The Win­ches­ter Trop­er. Varelli’s dis­cov­ery may date to 100 years ear­li­er, around the year 900, and was found at the end of a man­u­script of the Life of Bish­op Mater­ni­anus of Reims. One rea­son musi­col­o­gists have so far over­looked the piece, Varel­li says, is that “we are not see­ing what we expect­ed.”

Typ­i­cal­ly, poly­phon­ic music is seen as hav­ing devel­oped from a set of fixed rules and almost mechan­i­cal prac­tice. This changes how we under­stand that devel­op­ment pre­cise­ly because who­ev­er wrote it was break­ing those rules. It shows that music at this time was in a state of flux and devel­op­ment.

Varelli’s spe­cial­iza­tion in ear­ly music nota­tion also pro­vid­ed him with the train­ing need­ed to rec­og­nize the piece, which was writ­ten using “an ear­ly form of nota­tion that pre­dates the inven­tion of the stave” (see the piece below). Accord­ing to for­mer British Library cura­tor Nico­las Bell, “when this man­u­script was first cat­a­logued in the 18th cen­tu­ry, nobody was able to under­stand these unusu­al sym­bols.” Varelli’s dis­cov­ery shows a devi­a­tion from “the con­ven­tion laid out in trea­tis­es at the time” and points toward the devel­op­ment of a musi­cal tech­nique that “defined most Euro­pean music up until the 20th cen­tu­ry.”

Varel­li gives us a sense of how impor­tant this dis­cov­ery is to schol­ars of ear­ly music: “the rules being applied here laid the foun­da­tions for those that devel­oped and gov­erned the major­i­ty of west­ern music his­to­ry for the next thou­sand years. This dis­cov­ery shows how they were evolv­ing, and how they exist­ed in a con­stant state of trans­for­ma­tion, around the year 900.”

So there you have it. If you’re stuck in the dol­drums of a research project, wait­ing for the wind to pick up, don’t despair. The next rare arti­fact, trea­tise, or man­u­script may be wait­ing for some­one with exact­ly your spe­cial­ized insights to deci­pher its secrets.

Note: An ear­li­er ver­sion of this post appeared on our site in 2017.

Relat­ed Con­tent:

Hear a 9,000 Year Old Flute—the World’s Old­est Playable Instrument—Get Played Again

Lis­ten to the Old­est Song in the World: A Sumer­ian Hymn Writ­ten 3,400 Years Ago

Hear the World’s Old­est Instru­ment, the “Nean­derthal Flute,” Dat­ing Back Over 43,000 Years

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

Watch the Evolution of Manhattan Unfold in a Timelapse Video, from 1600 to 2026

A Man­hat­tan with­out sky­scrap­ers sounds dif­fi­cult, if not impos­si­ble, to imag­ine today. But such a place real­ly did exist, at least up until the turn of the twen­ti­eth cen­tu­ry. While the title of the very first sky­scraper ever built may go to the Home Insur­ance Build­ing in Chica­go, New York City caught up so aggres­sive­ly there­after — in its char­ac­ter­is­tic style — that it soon became prac­ti­cal­ly syn­ony­mous with tall steel-framed tow­ers. The shape of mod­ern Man­hat­tan would sure­ly have been unimag­in­able to the first non-native arrivals in the ear­ly sev­en­teenth cen­tu­ry, the approach of whose ships you can see re-cre­at­ed in the ani­mat­ed time­lapse above.

The video is a pro­duc­tion of CITY 3D TIMELAPSE, a YouTube chan­nel pre­vi­ous­ly fea­tured here on Open Cul­ture for its sim­i­lar­ly accel­er­at­ed visu­al­iza­tion of the evo­lu­tion of Paris. While that video had 23 cen­turies to com­press into a three-minute run­time, this new one on New York takes a leisure­ly-by-com­par­i­son eight min­utes to ren­der “just” 450 years or so of his­to­ry (at least after about twen­ty sec­onds spent in the native era’s mil­len­ni­um and a half).

But it also shows us the urban evo­lu­tion­ary process three times: the first zooms out to the whole of Man­hat­tan, the sec­ond focus­es on Low­er Man­hat­tan, and the third on Mid­town Man­hat­tan — a suit­able divi­sion, as any New York­er knows, for those mutu­al­ly incom­pre­hen­si­ble civ­i­liza­tions.

Even if we’ve nev­er set foot there, we may well know that even old New York was once New Ams­ter­dam. That Dutch colo­nial era, as depict­ed in the time­lapse, is when the city begins. There fol­lows den­si­fi­ca­tion and expan­sion under Eng­lish rule, the mar­itime infra­struc­tur­al build-out of ear­ly Amer­i­ca, the ambi­tious grid-lay­ing under the Com­mis­sion­ers’ Plan of 1811, the relent­less nine­teenth-cen­tu­ry indus­tri­al­iza­tion that imbued the city with the might its rep­u­ta­tion still retains, the rise of the sky­scrap­ers that shaped (and con­tin­ue to shape) its sky­line, and final­ly the “glob­al­iza­tion era” in which we find our­selves today. That “we,” of course, includes not just New York­ers, but urban­ites every­where, for the evo­lu­tion of New York pro­duced not just a city, but in many respects, the city: the mod­el by which so many metrop­o­lis­es have been inspired to get a bit of the action for them­selves.

Relat­ed Con­tent:

A 3D Ani­ma­tion Shows the Evo­lu­tion of New York City (1524 — 2023)

Watch a Time­lapse Video Show­ing the Cre­ation of New York City’s Sky­line: 1500 to Present

Immac­u­late­ly Restored Film Lets You Revis­it Life in New York City in 1911

Watch Man­hat­ta, the First Amer­i­can Avant-Garde Film (1921)

Ani­ma­tions Visu­al­ize the Evo­lu­tion of Lon­don and New York: From Their Cre­ation to the Present Day

Watch the Evo­lu­tion of Paris Unfold in a Time­lapse Video, from 300 BCE to 2025

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 David Bowie & Annie Lennox in Rehearsal, Singing “Under Pressure,” with Queen (1992)

It’s com­mon to feel like we know our artists, writ­ers, musi­cians, actors… we want so bad­ly to touch their lives in some way, as their lives touch ours. This over­whelm­ing desire is respon­si­ble for a huge mar­ket share of our mass media, from the most taste­less tabloid hit jobs to the most respect­ful long­form essays. Since David Bowie’s pass­ing, we’ve seen no short­age of the lat­ter, and thank­ful­ly lit­tle of the for­mer.

Vul­ture has col­lect­ed some of the best of these online trib­ute arti­cles and obit­u­ar­ies, and one in particular—Judy Berman’s “We Always Knew Who David Bowie Real­ly Was”—has res­onat­ed with me. Berman cuts through “all the clichés about how he was a chameleon or a shape-shifter or opaque or unknow­able” and shows some of the ways Bowie made him­self inti­mate­ly avail­able in his work.

Bowie’s self-rev­e­la­tion by way of the­atrics and cos­tume changes resem­bles the less intel­lec­tu­al, more emo­tion­al, vul­ner­a­bil­i­ty of his friend and col­lab­o­ra­tor Fred­die Mer­cury. Just as musi­cians around the world cel­e­brate, and mourn, Bowie now, he per­formed a sim­i­lar ser­vice for Mer­cury 34 years ago at Lon­don’s Wem­b­ley Sta­di­um for an audi­ence of 72,000 peo­ple, along with the remain­ing mem­bers of Queen and a full ros­ter of super­stars. Bowie did four songs in total, but the most poignant was cer­tain­ly “Under Pres­sure,” which he’d com­posed with Mer­cury 11 years ear­li­er. The song became, of course, a mas­sive hit (twice over, thanks to Vanil­la Ice’s appro­pri­a­tion). Its wrench­ing lyrics also gave us yet more insight into Bowie’s per­son­al­i­ty: his fears, his sense, as Berman writes, “of how fleet­ing and insignif­i­cant one human life is in the grand scheme of the uni­verse,” and his defi­ance in the face of that knowl­edge.


In the video at the top of the post, you can see Bowie, Annie Lennox, John Dea­con, Roger Tay­lor, and Bri­an May rehears­ing “Under Pres­sure” for the Mer­cury trib­ute, with an audi­ence of just them­selves and a few crew peo­ple. Bowie has one of his regret­tably ubiq­ui­tous cig­a­rettes in hand and an enor­mous grin on his face as he watch­es Lennox belt out Mer­cury’s parts. The per­for­mance on show day, above, is pow­er­ful and pitch per­fect, but the loose, infor­mal rehearsal footage is more of a treat for those of us eager for as much of the unguard­ed Bowie as we can get. For even more stripped-down, behind-the-scenes Bowie, lis­ten to an a cap­pel­la ver­sion of “Under Pres­sure” with Mer­cury, and learn all about how that song came to be.

Note: An ear­li­er ver­sion of this post appeared on our site in 2016.

Relat­ed Con­tent:

Lis­ten to Fred­die Mer­cury and David Bowie on the Iso­lat­ed Vocal Track for the Queen Hit ‘Under Pres­sure,’ 1981

The Mak­ing of Queen and David Bowie’s 1981 Hit “Under Pres­sure”: Demos, Stu­dio Ses­sions & More

David Bowie and Cher Sing Duet of “Young Amer­i­cans” and Oth­er Songs on 1975 Vari­ety Show

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

Why Mapmakers Put Fake Towns on Their Maps in the 1920s — and the One That Became Real

Open Cul­ture read­ers may know John Green best for Crash Course, the YouTube chan­nel that teach­es every­thing you need to know about sub­jects like world his­to­ry, U.S. his­to­ry, big his­to­ry, lit­er­a­ture, and phi­los­o­phy. Or at least it teach­es every­thing a teenage stu­dent fac­ing down the prospect of Advanced Place­ment sub­ject exams needs to know. Such view­ers have always had a decent chance of know­ing Green as the author of nov­els for young read­ers like Look­ing for Alas­kaThe Fault in Our Stars, and Paper Towns. That last takes its title from just the kind of his­tor­i­cal phe­nom­e­non that would in any case have fas­ci­nat­ed Green, in his capac­i­ty as a vlog­ger, enough to inspire a video: the whol­ly fic­tion­al set­tle­ments cre­at­ed by map­mak­ers in order to expose car­to­graph­ic pla­gia­rists.

Green dis­cuss­es one such paper town in the episode of Vlog­broth­ers, the long-run­ning chan­nel Green runs with his broth­er Hank, at the top of the post. Agloe, New York, an upstate ham­let in Colch­ester, Delaware Coun­ty, was fab­ri­cat­ed in the nine­teen-twen­ties by car­tog­ra­ph­er Otto G. Lind­berg and his assis­tant Ernest Alpers, who’d been com­mis­sioned to make maps for the gas-sta­tion chain Esso.

Map­mak­ers (like Lind­berg and Alpers) have guard­ed against pla­gia­rism by insert­ing “paper towns” — invent­ed streets, land­marks, or oth­er fea­tures — into their maps. The log­ic is sim­ple: two car­tog­ra­phers might eas­i­ly draw the same real town, but two car­tog­ra­phers can’t inde­pen­dent­ly dream up the same fake one. So if a rival’s map con­tains the same invent­ed place, it all but proves they copied the map.

Though intend­ed as noth­ing more than a “copy­right trap,” the name of the dot in the road, Agloe, soon man­i­fest­ed in the real world. A busi­ness named Agloe Lodge Farms appeared in 1930, and it went on to apply the name to a local fish­ing lodge it acquired. Thus was Agloe, New York brought into exis­tence, at least in the eyes of the law: by the time they were chal­lenged about its inclu­sion on their own maps, Rand McNal­ly could cite offi­cial coun­ty records in their defense.

In oth­er words, “a made-up name for a made-up place inad­ver­tent­ly cre­at­ed a real place that, for a time, real­ly exist­ed,” writes NPR’s Robert Krul­wich. “Rand McNal­ly, one pre­sumes, was found not guilty. Then the store closed. It isn’t there any­more. Decades passed.” At the time Krul­wich was writ­ing, in 2014, an inter­net search for Agloe, New York would still return a point where Lind­berg and Alpers had orig­i­nal­ly placed it on their map the bet­ter part of a cen­tu­ry ear­li­er. “But then, just as this sto­ry was to be pub­lished, to be extra sure, we went to Google Earth, typed in ‘Agloe’ one last time, and, whad­dya know? It isn’t there any more!” Ado­les­cent read­ers imag­in­ing them­selves run­ning away in the man­ner of Mar­go Spiegel­man will have to seek out anoth­er far­away paper town to dream about — or, more like­ly these days, a pix­el town.

Relat­ed Con­tent:

William Faulkn­er Draws Maps of Yok­na­p­ataw­pha Coun­ty, the Fic­tion­al Home of His Great Nov­els

The Biggest Mis­takes in Map­mak­ing His­to­ry

The Medieval City Plan Gen­er­a­tor: A Fun Way to Cre­ate Your Own Imag­i­nary Medieval Cities

The His­to­ry of Car­tog­ra­phy, the “Most Ambi­tious Overview of Map Mak­ing Ever,” Is Free Online

The French Designed a Fake Repli­ca of Paris to Fool Ger­man Bombers Dur­ing World War I

John Green’s Crash Course in U.S. His­to­ry: From Colo­nial­ism to Oba­ma in 47 Videos

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.

A Guide to Every Major Film Adaptation of Homer’s Odyssey Before Christopher Nolan’s Movie

If you plan on shoot­ing your own adap­ta­tion of Home­r’s Odyssey, bear in mind how much rests on your choice of lead­ing man. In order to play Odysseus, an actor must sum­mon a real grav­i­tas, but also a still-smol­der­ing vital­i­ty: here is a man who led the Greek army to defeat Troy, but still has the dogged­ness to make the decade-long jour­ney back home to his wife. In the mid-nine­teen-fifties, Hol­ly­wood had just the chin for the job: Kirk Dou­glas, who plays Odysseus under his Latin name in the epony­mous Ulysses. Though mer­ci­less in its exci­sions to Home­r’s text, as explained in the Under­rat­ed Cin­e­ma video above, it still has more or less every­thing you’d want in a fan­tas­ti­cal Tech­ni­col­or spec­ta­cle — and one shot by The Wiz­ard of Oz vet­er­an Harold Rosson at that.

Those in search of a view­ing expe­ri­ence more adher­ent to the orig­i­nal sto­ry should con­sid­er L’Odis­sea: not the Ital­ian silent film from 1911 recent­ly fea­tured here on Open Cul­ture, but the 1968 Ital­ian minis­eries direct­ed by Fran­co Rossi, who would go on to be bet­ter known for Quo Vadis? Though no Odyssey adap­ta­tion fits every­thing in, this one gets just about as com­plete as a clas­sics fan could hope for in its 446-minute run­time.

As Odysseus, the Yugoslav heart­throb Bekim Fehmiu (for a brief moment there­after, cin­e­ma’s next glob­al star) may or may not be to your taste. More acclaimed is Armand Assante, por­tray­er of fig­ures from John Got­ti to Mick­ey Spillane to Niet­zsche, in NBC’s Odyssey minis­eries from 1997, which also fea­tures the likes of Isabel­la Rosselli­ni, Bernadette Peters, Christo­pher Lee, and Vanes­sa Williams.

Though star-stud­ded, shot in the real Mediter­ranean, and direct­ed by one­time Tarkovsky col­lab­o­ra­tor Andrei Kon­chalovsky, the Odyssey of the nineties isn’t much ref­er­enced today, per­haps due to its dat­ed visu­al effects. View­ers will nev­er have any such objec­tion to Uber­to Pasolin­i’s The Return, not because it only came out the year before last, but because it has prac­ti­cal­ly no visu­al effects in the first place. Focus­ing only on the lat­ter half of the Odyssey, the film dra­ma­tizes the reunion of Odysseus and his wife: a very human sto­ry, espe­cial­ly in that it con­tains no mon­sters. Dif­fer­ent adap­ta­tions have cut out the sirens, say, or Scyl­la and Charyb­dis, though it’s a rare pro­duc­tion bold enough not to put every­thing it has into the cyclops scene. But you can get an actor like Ralph Fiennes to play Odysseus — and for that mat­ter, Juli­ette Binoche to play Pene­lope — there’s lit­tle need for a crea­ture fea­ture.

Relat­ed Con­tent:

Watch the First Spec­tac­u­lar Film Adap­ta­tion of the Odyssey (1911)

Hear What Homer’s Odyssey Sound­ed Like When Sung in the Orig­i­nal Ancient Greek

A Walk Through Homer’s Odyssey: A Guide to the Epic Before See­ing Christo­pher Nolan’s Film

Christo­pher Hitchens Explains Why Homer’s Odyssey Still Mat­ters to Our World (2000)

The Ori­gins of the Mon­sters in Homer’s Odyssey: The Cyclops, Sirens, Scyl­la & More

Greek Myth Comix Presents Homer’s Ili­ad & Odyssey Using Stick-Man Draw­ings

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 Visionary Mystical Art of Carl Jung: See Illustrated Pages from The Red Book

Carl Jung’s Liber Novus, bet­ter known as The Red Book, has come to light in a com­plete Eng­lish trans­la­tion, pub­lished by Nor­ton in a 2009 fac­sim­i­le edi­tion and a small­er “reader’s edi­tion” in 2012. The years since have seen sev­er­al exhi­bi­tions of the book, which “could pass for a Bible ren­dered by a medieval monk,” writes art crit­ic Peter Frank, “espe­cial­ly for the care with which Jung entered his writ­ing as ornate Goth­ic script.”

Jung “refused to think of him­self as an ‘artist’” but “it’s no acci­dent the Liber Novus has been exhib­it­ed in muse­ums, or func­tioned as the nucle­us of ‘Ency­clo­pe­dic Palace,’ the sur­vey of vision­ary art in the 2013 Venice Bien­nale.” Jung’s elab­o­rate paint­ings show him “every bit the artist the medieval monk or Per­sian courtier was; his art hap­pened to be ded­i­cat­ed not to the glo­ry of God or king, but that of the human race.”

One could more accu­rate­ly say that Jung’s book was ded­i­cat­ed to the mys­ti­cal uncon­scious, a much more neb­u­lous and ocean­ic cat­e­go­ry. The “ocean­ic feeling”—a phrase coined in 1927 by French play­wright Romain Rol­land to describe mys­ti­cal oneness—so annoyed Sig­mund Freud that he dis­missed it as infan­tile regres­sion.

Freud’s antipa­thy to mys­ti­cism, as we know, did not dis­suade Jung, his one­time stu­dent and admir­er, from div­ing in and swim­ming to the deep­est depths. The voy­age began long before he met his famous men­tor. At age 11, Jung lat­er wrote in 1959, “I found that I had been in a mist, not know­ing how to dif­fer­en­ti­ate myself from things; I was just one among many things.”

Jung con­sid­ered his elab­o­rate dream/vision journal—kept from 1913 to 1930, then added to spo­rad­i­cal­ly until 1961—“the cen­tral work in his oeu­vre,” says Jung schol­ar Sonu Sham­dasani in the Rubin Muse­um intro­duc­tion above. “It is lit­er­al­ly his most impor­tant work.”

And yet it took Dr. Sham­dasani “three years to con­vince Jung’s fam­i­ly to bring the book out of hid­ing,” notes NPR. “It took anoth­er 13 years to trans­late it.” Part of the rea­son his heirs left the book hid­den in a Swiss vault for half a cen­tu­ry may be evi­dent in the only por­tion of the Red Book to appear in Jung’s life­time, “The Sev­en Ser­mons of the Dead.”

Jung had this text pri­vate­ly print­ed in 1916 and gave copies to select friends and fam­i­ly mem­bers. He com­posed it in 1913 in a peri­od of Gnos­tic stud­ies, dur­ing which he entered into vision­ary trance states, tran­scrib­ing his visions in note­books called the “Black Books,” which would lat­er be rewrit­ten in The Red Book.

You can see a page of Jung’s metic­u­lous­ly hand-let­tered man­u­script above. The “Ser­mons,” he wrote in a lat­er inter­pre­ta­tion, came to him dur­ing an actu­al haunt­ing:

The atmos­phere was thick, believe me! Then I knew that some­thing had to hap­pen. The whole house was filled as if there were a crowd present, crammed full of spir­its. They were packed deep right up to the door, and the air was so thick it was scarce­ly pos­si­ble to breathe. As for myself, I was all a‑quiver with the ques­tion: “For God’s sake, what in the world is this?” Then they cried out in cho­rus, “We have come back from Jerusalem where we found not what we sought/’ That is the begin­ning of the Septem Ser­mones. 

The strange, short “ser­mons” are dif­fi­cult to cat­e­go­rize. They are awash in Gnos­tic the­ol­o­gy and occult terms like “plero­ma.” The great mys­ti­cal one­ness of ocean­ic feel­ing also took on a very sin­is­ter aspect in the demigod Abraxas, who “beget­teth truth and lying, good and evil, light and dark­ness, in the same word and in the same act. Where­fore is Abraxas ter­ri­ble.”

There are tedious, didac­tic pas­sages, for con­verts only, but much of Jung’s writ­ing in the “Sev­en Ser­mons,” and through­out The Red Book, is filled with strange obscure poet­ry, com­ple­ment­ed by his intense illus­tra­tions. Jung “took on the sim­i­lar­ly styl­ized and beau­ti­ful man­ners of non-west­ern word-image con­fla­tion,” writes Frank, “includ­ing Per­sian minia­ture paint­ing and east Asian cal­lig­ra­phy.”

If The Red Book is, as Sham­dasani claims, Jung’s most impor­tant work—and Jung him­self, though he kept it qui­et, seemed to think it was—then we may in time come to think of him not only as an inspir­er of eccen­tric artists, but as an eccen­tric artist him­self, on par with the great illu­mi­na­tors and vision­ary mys­tic poet/painters.

Note: An ear­li­er ver­sion of this post appeared on our site in 2020.

Relat­ed Con­tent:

Carl Jung: Tarot Cards Pro­vide Door­ways to the Uncon­scious, and Maybe a Way to Pre­dict the Future

The Famous Breakup of Sig­mund Freud & Carl Jung Explained in a New Ani­mat­ed Video

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

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

How a 13th-Century Monk Created a Prayer Manuscript by Writing Over—and Accidentally Preserving—Archimedes’ Groundbreaking Mathematical Works

In Jerusalem of the year 1229, there lived a Greek Ortho­dox monk named Johannes Myronas. Need­ing some parch­ment for a prayer book, he grabbed some already-used pages, erased their exist­ing con­tent, and over them wrote down “prayers for the dead, prayers for repen­tance, bless­ings for the loaves at East­er, and even a prayer for those who were unrea­son­ably exclud­ed,” says math-and-sci­ence YouTu­ber Ben Syversen in the video above. Myronas may have ful­filled his reli­gious duty with­out using too much valu­able parch­ment, but he could­n’t have known the even greater rel­e­vance his actions would turn out to have had in the realm of math­e­mat­ics. For the pages he’d scrubbed were a Greek com­pi­la­tion con­tain­ing the only known copy of cer­tain works by the ancient poly­math Archimedes.

As it turns out, Myronas com­mit­ted per­haps the most notable act of inad­ver­tent preser­va­tion in the his­to­ry of math­e­mat­ics. We get the word palimpsest from the medieval prac­tice of over­writ­ing a page after first eras­ing what had been on it before, though incom­plete­ly; hence the mean­ing of mul­ti­ple lay­ers that have remained leg­i­ble over time.

In the case of what we now know as the Archimedes Palimpsest, that leg­i­bil­i­ty was achieved only with the aid of late twen­ti­eth-cen­tu­ry and ear­ly twen­ty-first-cen­tu­ry tech­nol­o­gy, in addi­tion to the painstak­ing con­ser­va­tion effort required to keep this tenth-cen­tu­ry doc­u­ment in more or less one piece. (And all of that was only pos­si­ble thanks to the epic his­tor­i­cal jour­ney the Palimpsest took, which end­ed in 1998 when it sold for $2 mil­lion at Christie’s to a tech fig­ure we’re only assured is not Bill Gates.)

You can learn more about that project from the TED Talk just above by its direc­tor, the late William Noel of Bal­ti­more’s Wal­ters Art Muse­um. Thanks to his ded­i­ca­tion and that of his team, we now have writ­ings of Archimedes like the Stom­a­chion, which deals with a kind of chil­dren’s puz­zle that turns out to have con­sid­er­able sim­i­lar­i­ties with an ear­ly prob­lem in the field of com­bi­na­torics, and more impor­tant­ly, The Method of Mechan­i­cal The­o­rems, an expla­na­tion of cal­cu­lus-like pro­ce­dures for deter­min­ing area or vol­ume. None of this proves that Archimedes was the inven­tor of com­bi­na­torics or cal­cu­lus, exact­ly, but it does show us just how much fur­ther he’d man­aged to push Greek math­e­mat­ics than we’d pre­vi­ous­ly known. Besides, any work that can bring togeth­er his­to­ri­ans, clas­si­cists, math­e­mati­cians, con­ser­va­tors, physi­cists, and com­put­er sci­en­tists more than two mil­len­nia after its com­po­si­tion sure­ly mer­its a place in the canon.

Relat­ed con­tent:

How the Ancient Greeks Shaped Mod­ern Math­e­mat­ics: A Short, Ani­mat­ed Intro­duc­tion

An Entire Ancient Greek Philo­soph­i­cal Trea­tise Burned by Mount Vesu­vius Has Been Deci­phered with X‑Ray and AI Tech­nolo­gies

How the Ancient Greeks Invent­ed the First Com­put­er: An Intro­duc­tion to the Antikythera Mech­a­nism (Cir­ca 87 BC)

MIT’s Vin­tage 1970 Cal­cu­lus Cours­es Now Online … And Still Handy

Carl Sagan Explains How the Ancient Greeks, Using Rea­son & Math, Dis­cov­ered That the Earth Isn’t Flat Over 2,000 Years Ago

The Only Illus­trat­ed Man­u­script of Homer’s Ili­ad from Antiq­ui­ty

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.

Hear What Homer’s Odyssey Sounded Like When Sung in the Original Ancient Greek

homer_british_museum

Image via Wiki­me­dia Com­mons

It’s been a human­ist tru­ism for some time to say that Shake­speare speaks to every age, tran­scend­ing his time and place through the sheer force of his uni­ver­sal genius. But any hon­est stu­dent first encoun­ter­ing the plays will tell you dif­fer­ent­ly, as will many a sea­soned schol­ar who works hard to place the writer and his work in his­tor­i­cal con­text. Even one­time direc­tor of London’s Nation­al The­atre, Nicholas Hyt­ner, once said, “I’ll admit that I hard­ly ever go to a per­for­mance of one of Shakespeare’s plays with­out expe­ri­enc­ing blind pan­ic dur­ing the first five min­utes. I sit there think­ing… I have no idea what these peo­ple are talk­ing about.”

Of course, none of that means we can’t learn to appre­ci­ate Shake­speare, and we do not need a grad­u­ate-lev­el edu­ca­tion to do so. But much of his archa­ic lan­guage and obscure ref­er­ences will always sound for­eign to mod­ern ears. How much more so, then, the lan­guage of the ancient Greeks, whether in trans­la­tion or not? Although we’ve also been taught to think of the Home­r­ic epics as con­tain­ers of uni­ver­sal truth and beau­ty, the world of Homer was, in many ways, an alien one—and the lit­er­a­ture of ancient Greece was far clos­er to song than even Shakespeare’s musi­cal speech­es.

In fact, “before writ­ing was gen­er­al­ly known among the Greeks,” the Uni­ver­si­ty of Cincin­nati notes, “poets recit­ed and sang sto­ries for audi­ences at the courts of city lead­ers and at fes­ti­vals. A poet could actu­al­ly impro­vise a tale in the six-beat rhythm of Greek verse if he knew the plot of his sto­ry.” We do not know whether Homer was one enter­pris­ing scribe or “a group of poets whose works on the theme of Troy were col­lect­ed” under one name. But in either case, that poet or poets heard the tales of Hec­tor and Achilles, Odysseus and Pene­lope, and all those med­dling gods sung before they wrote them down. Now, thanks to Georg Danek of the Uni­ver­si­ty of Vien­na and Ste­fan Hagel of the Aus­tri­an Acad­e­my of Sci­ences, we have some idea of what those songs may have sound­ed like.

“In the course of the last years,” write Danek and Hagel, “we have devel­oped a tech­nique of singing the Home­r­ic epics, which is appro­pri­ate for the pri­mar­i­ly oral tra­di­tion from which these poems emerge.” The two schol­ars cau­tion that their the­o­ret­i­cal recre­ations are “not to be under­stood as the exact recon­struc­tion of a giv­en melody, but as an approach to the tech­nique the Home­r­ic singers used to accom­mo­date melod­ic prin­ci­ples to the demands of the indi­vid­ual verse.” Accom­pa­nied by a four-stringed lyre-like instru­ment called a phorminx, “the Home­r­ic bard” would impro­vise the “melody at the same time as he impro­vised his text, which was unique in every per­for­mance.” In the audio above, you can hear Danek and Hagel’s melod­ic recre­ation of lines 267–366 of book 8 of the Odyssey, in which Demod­ocus sings about the love of Ares and Aphrodite.

At their site, the two schol­ars present an abstract of their Home­r­ic singing the­o­ry, with musi­co­log­i­cal and lin­guis­tic evi­dence for the recre­ation. Their tech­ni­cal cri­te­ria will con­fuse the non-spe­cial­ist, and none but ancient Greek speak­ers will under­stand the record­ing above. But it brings us a lit­tle clos­er to expe­ri­enc­ing Home­r’s epic poet­ry, “the foun­da­tion stones of Euro­pean Lit­er­a­ture,” as the ancient Greeks might have expe­ri­enced it.

If you would like to sup­port the mis­sion of Open Cul­ture, con­sid­er mak­ing a dona­tion to our site. It’s hard to rely 100% on ads, and your con­tri­bu­tions will help us con­tin­ue pro­vid­ing the best free cul­tur­al and edu­ca­tion­al mate­ri­als to learn­ers every­where. You can con­tribute through Pay­Pal, Patre­on, and Ven­mo (@openculture). Thanks!

Note: An ear­li­er ver­sion of this post appeared on our site in 2016.

Relat­ed Con­tent:

What Ancient Greek Music Sound­ed Like: Lis­ten to a Recon­struc­tion That’s “100% Accu­rate”

How Ancient Greek Stat­ues Real­ly Looked: Research Reveals their Bold, Bright Col­ors and Pat­terns

Learn Ancient Greek in 118 Free Lessons: A Free Online Course from Bran­deis & Har­vard

Hear What Shake­speare Sound­ed Like in the Orig­i­nal Pro­nun­ci­a­tion

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

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