The Cable that Changed the World: How Instant Global Communication Began in 1858

The word wire­less is going the way of com­put­er­ized and portable, and for much the same rea­sons. We no longer regard wire­less devices that require no phys­i­cal con­nec­tions to any­thing else as mar­vels, but as some­thing close to neces­si­ties. But our age, with its increas­ing­ly com­mon assump­tions that infor­ma­tion just trav­els through the air, owes its exis­tence to wires — and, in a his­tor­i­cal sense, to one set of wires in par­tic­u­lar, whose sto­ry is told in the Pri­mal Space video above. Woven into a mighty 2,000-mile-long cable, it was laid across the Atlantic Ocean 168 years ago, enabling the first direct com­mu­ni­ca­tion link between North Amer­i­ca and Europe. Not that inter­con­ti­nen­tal video shar­ing was just around the cor­ner.

No, the height of com­mu­ni­ca­tion tech­nol­o­gy at the time was the tele­graph: the Vic­to­ri­an Inter­net, if you like, to bor­row the title of the book by Econ­o­mist edi­tor Tom Standage that inspired the video. As a tech­nol­o­gy, teleg­ra­phy itself is quite a bit old­er than the afore­men­tioned transat­lantic cable. One pos­si­ble start­ing point is 1746, when sci­en­tist Jean-Antoine Nol­let man­aged to send a jolt of sta­t­ic elec­tric­i­ty all the way down a line of 200 monks.

Anoth­er is 1792, when inven­tor Claude Chappe’s sys­tem of sem­a­phor­ic tow­ers was first imple­ment­ed. Though described as a tele­graph, it used no elec­tric­i­ty: if a human oper­a­tor up in one of the tow­ers spot­ted a change in the sig­nal of the pre­vi­ous one, he’d rearrange his own sem­a­phores to match it, and so on down the line. In 1800, Alessan­dro Vol­ta’s chem­i­cal bat­tery helped make the elec­tric tele­graph viable, but nobody was sure how best to trans­mit intel­li­gi­ble mes­sages in the form of elec­tri­cal puls­es.

Nobody was sure, that is, until the eigh­teen-thir­ties, when a painter named Samuel Morse came up with the dot-and-dash code that now bears his name, as well as the devices used to encode and decode com­mu­ni­ca­tions made with it. At the same time, Eng­lish inven­tors William Cooke and Charles Wheat­stone had come up with their own tele­graph sys­tem that did­n’t require a code­book, though its five wires made it more expen­sive and tech­no­log­i­cal­ly com­plex. With­in a few years, the U.S. and the U.K. had inde­pen­dent­ly built thou­sands of miles of tele­graph lines, mak­ing the next step of link­ing them togeth­er obvi­ous, if eas­i­er said than done. Though the cable laid in 1858 failed with­in months, its basic con­cept has proven unusu­al­ly robust. With­out the rough­ly 600 under­sea cables through which glob­al inter­net traf­fic now flows, after all, you would­n’t be read­ing this post — to say noth­ing of watch­ing the video.

Relat­ed Con­tent:

Dis­cov­er the Mun­da­neum, an Ear­ly 20th-Cen­tu­ry “Inter­net” That Put the World’s Knowl­edge on Mil­lions of Index Cards

What the Entire Inter­net Looked Like in 1973: An Old Map Gets Found in a Pile of Research Papers

A Fas­ci­nat­ing 3D Ani­ma­tion Shows the Depths of the Ocean

Mark Twain Pre­dicts the Inter­net in 1898: Read His Sci-Fi Crime Sto­ry, “From The ‘Lon­don Times’ in 1904”

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 Oldest Book Printed with Movable Type is Not The Gutenberg Bible: Jikji, a Collection of Korean Buddhist Teachings, Predated It By 78 Years and It’s Now Digitized Online

The his­to­ry of the print­ed word is full of bib­li­o­graph­ic twists and turns, major his­tor­i­cal moments, and the sig­nif­i­cant print­ing of books now so obscure no one has read them since their pub­li­ca­tion. Most of us have only the sketchi­est notion of how mass-pro­duced print­ed books came into being—a few scat­tered dates and names. But every school­child can tell you the first book ever print­ed, and every­one knows the first words of that book: “In the begin­ning….”

The first Guten­berg Bible, print­ed in 1454 by Johannes Guten­berg, intro­duced the world to mov­able type, his­to­ry tells us. It is “uni­ver­sal­ly acknowl­edged as the most impor­tant of all print­ed books,” writes Mar­garet Leslie Davis, author of the 2019 book, The Lost Guten­berg: The Astound­ing Sto­ry of One Book’s Five-Hun­dred-Year Odyssey. In 1900, Mark Twain expressed the sen­ti­ment in a let­ter “com­ment­ing on the open­ing of the Guten­berg Muse­um,” writes M. Sophia New­man at Lithub. “What the world is to-day,” he declared, “good and bad, it owes to Guten­berg. Every­thing can be traced to this source.”

There is kind of an over­sim­pli­fied truth in the state­ment. The print­ed word (and the print­ed Bible, at that) did, in large part, deter­mine the course of Euro­pean his­to­ry, which, through empire, deter­mined the course of glob­al events after the “Guten­berg rev­o­lu­tion.” But there is anoth­er sto­ry of print entire­ly inde­pen­dent of book his­to­ry in Europe, one that also deter­mined world his­to­ry with the preser­va­tion of Bud­dhist, Chi­nese dynas­tic, and Islam­ic texts. And one that begins “before Johannes Guten­berg was even born,” New­man points out.

The old­est extant text ever print­ed with mov­able type pre­dates Guten­berg him­self (born in 1400) by 23 years, and pre­dates the print­ing of his Bible by 77 years. It is the Jikji, print­ed in Korea, a col­lec­tion of Bud­dhist teach­ings by Seon mas­ter Bae­gun and print­ed in mov­able type by his stu­dents Seok-chan and Dai­jam in 1377. (Seon is a Kore­an form of Chan or Zen Bud­dhism.) Only the sec­ond vol­ume of the print­ing has sur­vived, and you can see sev­er­al images from it here.

Impres­sive as this may be, the Jikji does not have the hon­or of being the first book print­ed with mov­able type, only the old­est sur­viv­ing exam­ple. The tech­nol­o­gy could go back two cen­turies ear­li­er. Mar­garet Davis nods to this his­to­ry, New­man con­cedes, writ­ing that “mov­able type was an 11th cen­tu­ry Chi­nese inven­tion, refined in Korea in 1230, before meet­ing con­di­tions in Europe that would allow it to flour­ish.” This is more than most pop­u­lar accounts of the print­ed word say on the mat­ter, but it’s still an inac­cu­rate and high­ly cur­so­ry sum­ma­ry of the evi­dence.

New­man her­self says quite a lot more. In essays at Lithub and Tri­cy­cle, she describes how print­ing tech­niques devel­oped in Asia and were tak­en up in Korea in the 1200s by the Goryeo dynasty, who com­mis­sioned a print­er named Choe Yun-ui to recon­struct a wood­block print of the mas­sive col­lec­tion of ancient Bud­dhist texts called the Tip­i­ta­ka after the Mon­gols burned the only Kore­an copy. By cast­ing “indi­vid­ual char­ac­ters in met­al” and arrang­ing them in a frame—the same process Guten­berg used—he was able to com­plete the project by 1250, 200 years before Gutenberg’s press.

This text, how­ev­er, did not sur­vive, nor did the count­less num­ber of oth­ers print­ed when the tech­nol­o­gy spread across the Mon­gol empire on the Silk Road and took root with the Mus­lim Uyghurs. It is pos­si­ble, though “no clear his­tor­i­cal evi­dence” yet sup­ports the con­tention, that mov­able type spread to Europe from Asia along trade routes. “If there was any con­nec­tion,” wrote Joseph Need­ham in Sci­ence and Civ­i­liza­tion in Chi­na, “in the spread of print­ing between Asia and the West, the Uyghurs, who used both block print­ing and mov­able type, had good oppor­tu­ni­ties to play an impor­tant role in this intro­duc­tion.”

With­out sur­viv­ing doc­u­men­ta­tion, this ear­ly his­to­ry of print­ing in Asia relies on sec­ondary sources. But “the entire his­to­ry of the print­ing press” in Europe” is like­wise “rid­dled with gaps,” New­man writes. What we do know is that Jikji, a col­lec­tion of Kore­an Zen Bud­dhist teach­ings, is the world’s old­est extant book print­ed with mov­able type. The myth of Johannes Guten­berg as “a lone genius who trans­formed human cul­ture,” as Davis writes, “endures because the sweep of what fol­lowed is so vast that it feels almost myth­ic and needs an ori­gin sto­ry to match.” But this is one inven­tive indi­vid­ual in the his­to­ry of print­ing, not the orig­i­nal, god­like source of mov­able type.

Guten­berg makes sense as a con­ve­nient start­ing point for the growth and world­wide spread of cap­i­tal­ism and Euro­pean Chris­tian­i­ty. His inno­va­tion worked much faster than ear­li­er sys­tems, and oth­ers that devel­oped around the same time, in which frames were pressed by hand against the paper. Flows of new cap­i­tal enabled the rapid spread of his machine across Europe. The achieve­ment of the Guten­berg Bible is not dimin­ished by a fuller his­to­ry. But “what gets left out” of the usu­al sto­ry, as New­man tells us in great detail, “is star­tling­ly rich.”

“Only very recent­ly” has the long his­to­ry of print­ing in Asia been “acknowl­edged at all” in pop­u­lar cul­ture, though schol­ars in both the East and West have long known it. Korea has regard­ed Jikji “and oth­er ancient vol­umes as nation­al points of pride that rank among the most impor­tant of books.” Yet UNESCO only cer­ti­fied Jikji as the “old­est mov­able met­al type print­ing evi­dence” in 2001. The recog­ni­tion may be late in com­ing, but it mat­ters a great deal, nonethe­less. Learn much more about the his­to­ry, con­tent, and prove­nance of Jikji at this site cre­at­ed by “cyber diplo­mats” in Korea after UNESCO bestowed World Her­itage sta­tus on the book. And see a ful­ly dig­i­tized copy of the book here.

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

via Lithub

Relat­ed Con­tent:

The World’s Old­est Mul­ti­col­or Book, a 1633 Chi­nese Cal­lig­ra­phy & Paint­ing Man­u­al, Now Dig­i­tized and Put Online

1,000+ His­toric Japan­ese Illus­trat­ed Books Dig­i­tized & Put Online by the Smith­son­ian: From the Edo & Meji Eras (1600–1912)

See How The Guten­berg Press Worked: Demon­stra­tion Shows the Old­est Func­tion­ing Guten­berg Press in Action

Oxford Uni­ver­si­ty Presents the 550-Year-Old Guten­berg Bible in Spec­tac­u­lar, High-Res Detail

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

How to Explain Complicated Things

You may remem­ber a time when it was dif­fi­cult to make it through the day with­out hear­ing some­one cite a TED Talk. A major tech­no­log­i­cal rea­son for that was stream­ing video’s new acces­si­bil­i­ty on prac­ti­cal­ly every­one’s com­put­er (espe­cial­ly those of peo­ple bored at work). A major cul­tur­al rea­son was there was a con­sid­er­able demo­graph­ic over­lap between those who knew their way around the new video-shar­ing realms of the inter­net and those like­ly to want to hear a “thought leader” speak for eigh­teen min­utes or less. Whether schools kill cre­ativ­i­ty, the mechan­ics of pro­cras­ti­na­tion, what hap­pens when you reply to spam e‑mail: these are just a few of the sub­jects that most aggres­sive­ly cap­ti­vat­ed the minds of the sud­den­ly large and chat­ty TED Talk audi­ence of the late two-thou­sands and ear­ly twen­ty-tens.

Since those days, some of the most pop­u­lar TED Talks ever giv­en have under­gone rep­u­ta­tion­al re-eval­u­a­tion. The robust­ness of the sci­ence under­gird­ing Amy Cud­dy’s “Your Body Lan­guage May Shape Who You Are” has been called into ques­tion, while Bill Gates’ “The Next Out­break? We’re Not Ready,” from 2015, start­ed to look a whole lot more pre­scient four or five years after it was uploaded.

But what makes a lec­ture peo­ple enjoy — and desire to get oth­ers watch­ing — has less to do with its con­tent than with its form and deliv­ery. That’s one les­son we can take from the new ani­mat­ed video above, “How to Explain Some­thing Com­pli­cat­ed,” the eighth and most recent in TED-Ed’s series “Pub­lic Speak­ing 101”: some­thing most of us, even if we’ve nev­er dreamed of step­ping onto TED’s (or mere­ly TEDx’s) stage, have to face doing soon­er or lat­er.

When explain­ing any com­plex mat­ter, from your star­tup’s mis­sion to just how your broth­er met his bride, it helps to draw on famil­iar exam­ples. This les­son does that using, nat­u­ral­ly, a TED Talk, iden­ti­fy­ing and break­ing down the ways in which social psy­chol­o­gist Daniel Gilbert’s “The Sur­pris­ing Sci­ence of Hap­pi­ness” exem­pli­fies a suite of tech­niques in the pub­lic speak­er’s arse­nal. These include spark­ing your lis­ten­er’s curios­i­ty right away; intro­duc­ing them to the first con­cept you’ll be dis­cussing while doing so, as the base of a “tow­er” to be built one by one with sub­se­quent con­cepts; and lead­ing the audi­ence to a “knowl­edge gap” that you lat­er fill in with the “big idea” at the cen­ter of your talk. Sur­prise is impor­tant, and so are metaphors, the more vivid the bet­ter. In our age con­sumed with visions of smart­phone addic­tion, glob­al pan­demics, and the AI apoc­a­lypse, TED Talks may seem a quaint arti­fact of a more naïve­ly tech­no-opti­mistic time. But the day will nev­er come when we need no longer explain things — least of all our­selves.

Relat­ed Con­tent:

How to Speak: Watch the Lec­ture on Effec­tive Com­mu­ni­ca­tion That Became an MIT Tra­di­tion for Over 40 Years

How to Get Over the Anx­i­ety of Pub­lic Speak­ing?: Watch the Stan­ford Video, “Think Fast, Talk Smart,” Viewed Already 15 Mil­lion Times

Make Body Lan­guage Your Super­pow­er: A 15-Minute Primer on Body Lan­guage & Pub­lic Speak­ing from Stan­ford Busi­ness School

How to Tell a Good Sto­ry, as Explained by George Saun­ders, Ira Glass, Ken Burns, Scott Simon, Cather­ine Burns & Oth­ers

Lit­er­ary The­o­rist Stan­ley Fish Offers a Free Course on Rhetoric, or the Pow­er of Argu­ments

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.

Mick Jagger Tells the Story Behind ‘Gimme Shelter’ and Merry Clayton’s Haunting Background Vocals

In the fall of 1969 the Rolling Stones were in a Los Ange­les record­ing stu­dio, putting the final touch­es on their album Let It Bleed. It was a tumul­tuous time for the Stones. They had been strug­gling with the album for the bet­ter part of a year as they dealt with the per­son­al dis­in­te­gra­tion of their founder and mul­ti-instru­men­tal­ist Bri­an Jones, whose drug addic­tion and per­son­al­i­ty prob­lems had reached a crit­i­cal stage. Jones was fired from the band in June of that year. He died less than a month lat­er. And although the Stones could­n’t have known it at the time, the year would end on anoth­er cat­a­stroph­ic note, as vio­lence broke out at the noto­ri­ous Alta­mont Free Con­cert just a day after Let It Bleed was released.

It was also a grim time around the world. The assas­si­na­tions of Mar­tin Luther King and Robert F. Kennedy, the Tet Offen­sive, the bru­tal sup­pres­sion of the Prague Spring—all of these were recent mem­o­ries. Not sur­pris­ing­ly, Let It Bleed was not the most cheer­ful of albums. As Stephen Davis writes in his book Old Gods Almost Dead: The 40-Year Odyssey of the Rolling Stones, “No rock record, before or since, has ever so com­plete­ly cap­tured the sense of pal­pa­ble dread that hung over its era.”

And no song on Let It Bleed artic­u­lates this dread with greater force than the apoc­a­lyp­tic “Gimme Shel­ter,” in which Mick Jag­ger sings of a fire “sweepin’ our very street today,” like a “Mad bull lost his way.”

Rape, mur­der!
It’s just a shot away
It’s just a shot away

In an inter­view with Melis­sa Block for the NPR pro­gram All Things Con­sid­ered, Jag­ger talked about those lyrics, and the mak­ing of the song:

One of the most strik­ing moments in the inter­view is when Jag­ger describes the cir­cum­stances sur­round­ing soul singer Mer­ry Clay­ton’s pow­er­ful back­ground vocals. “When we got to Los Ange­les and we were mix­ing it, we thought, ‘Well, it’d be great to have a woman come and do the rape/murder verse,’ or cho­rus or what­ev­er you want to call it,” said Jag­ger. “We ran­dom­ly phoned up this poor lady in the mid­dle of the night, and she arrived in her curlers and pro­ceed­ed to do that in one or two takes, which is pret­ty amaz­ing. She came in and knocked off this rather odd lyric. It’s not the sort of lyric you give anyone–‘Rape, murder/It’s just a shot away’–but she real­ly got into it, as you can hear on the record.”

The daugh­ter of a Bap­tist min­is­ter, Mer­ry Clay­ton grew up singing in her father’s church in New Orleans. She made her pro­fes­sion­al debut at age 14, record­ing a duet with Bob­by Darin. She went on to work with The Supremes, Elvis Pres­ley and many oth­ers, and was a mem­ber of Ray Charles’s group of back­ing singers, The Raelettes. She is one of the singers fea­tured in the doc­u­men­tary film, 20 Feet From Star­dom. In an inter­view with Ter­ry Gross on NPR’s Fresh Air, Clay­ton talked about the night she was asked to sing on “Gimme Shel­ter”:

Well, I’m at home at about 12–I’d say about 11:30, almost 12 o’clock at night. And I’m hun­kered down in my bed with my hus­band, very preg­nant, and we got a call from a dear friend of mine and pro­duc­er named Jack Nitzsche. Jack Nitzsche called and said you know, Mer­ry, are you busy? I said No, I’m in bed. he says, well, you know, There are some guys in town from Eng­land. And they need some­one to come and sing a duet with them, but I can’t get any­body to do it. Could you come? He said I real­ly think this would be some­thing good for you.

At that point, Clay­ton recalled, her hus­band took the phone out of her hand and said, “Man, what is going on? This time of night you’re call­ing Mer­ry to do a ses­sion? You know she’s preg­nant.” Nitzsche explained the sit­u­a­tion, and just as Clay­ton was drift­ing back to sleep her hus­band nudged her and said, “Hon­ey, you know, you real­ly should go and do this date.” Clay­ton had no idea who the Rolling Stones were. When she arrived at the stu­dio, Kei­th Richards was there and explained what he want­ed her to do.

I said, Well, play the track. It’s late. I’d love to get back home. So they play the track and tell me that I’m going to sing–this is what you’re going to sing: Oh, chil­dren, it’s just a shot away. It had the lyrics for me. I said, Well, that’s cool. So  I did the first part, and we got down to the rape, mur­der part. And I said, Why am I singing rape, mur­der? …So they told me the gist of what the lyrics were, and I said Oh, okay, that’s cool. So then I had to sit on a stool because I was a lit­tle heavy in my bel­ly. I mean, it was a sight to behold. And we got through it. And then we went in the booth to lis­ten, and I saw them hoot­ing and hol­ler­ing while I was singing, but I did­n’t know what they were hoot­ing and hol­ler­ing about. And when I got back in the booth and lis­tened, I said, Ooh, that’s real­ly nice. They said, well, You want to do anoth­er?  I said, well, I’ll do one more, I said and then I’m going to have to say thank you and good night. I did one more, and then I did one more. So it was three times I did it, and then I was gone. The next thing I know, that’s his­to­ry.

Clay­ton sang with such emo­tion­al force that her voice cracked. (“I was just grate­ful that the crack was in tune,” she told Gross.) In the iso­lat­ed vocal track above, you can hear the oth­ers in the stu­dio shout­ing in amaze­ment. Despite giv­ing what would become the most famous per­for­mance of her career, it turned out to be a trag­ic night for Clay­ton. Short­ly after leav­ing the stu­dio, she lost her baby in a mis­car­riage. It has gen­er­al­ly been assumed that the stress from the emo­tion­al inten­si­ty of her per­for­mance and the late­ness of the hour caused the mis­car­riage. For many years Clay­ton found the song too painful to hear, let alone sing. “That was a dark, dark peri­od for me,” she told the Los Ange­les Times in 1986, “but God gave me the strength to over­come it. I turned it around. I took it as life, love and ener­gy and direct­ed it in anoth­er direc­tion, so it does­n’t real­ly both­er me to sing ‘Gimme Shel­ter’ now. Life is short as it is and I can’t live on yes­ter­day.”

Note: An ear­li­er ver­sion of this post appeared on our site in 2013.

Relat­ed Con­tent:

The Rolling Stones Jam with Mud­dy Waters for the First and Only Time at Chicago’s Leg­endary Checker­board Lounge (1981)

The Rolling Stones Intro­duce Blues­man Howl­in’ Wolf on US TV, One of the “Great­est Cul­tur­al Moments of the 20th Cen­tu­ry” (1965)

Hear the First Live Per­for­mance of the Rolling Stones’ “Brown Sug­ar:” Record­ed at the Fate­ful Alta­mont Free Con­cert in 1969

Chuck Berry Takes Kei­th Richards to School, Shows Him How to Rock (1987)

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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. 


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