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A fascinating video on the history of typewriters for the Chinese language — and some learned commentary on it by Victor Mair.
This has got to mean at least a few hundred K for me, yes? Party time!
More seriously, I don’t know what it means. $3000 per book or work — does that suggest that an essay or article or blog post, each of which is a “work,” is worth as much as a book? Searching here suggests that (with repetitions removed) I might have 20 items to be compensated for the use of. But I could have 200. Who knows? And who knows when matters will be decided?
On the larger and long-term issues surrounding this settlement, Dan Cohen is predictably terrific.
Two new arrivals I’m eager to read. That cover on Tim’s book!
Not all great guitarists have big hands — think of Prince, for instance — but most of them do. Yet the big-handers always insist that the rest of us can play what they play. This is an exceptionally annoying thing to hear. So I appreciate that Paul Davids, in this video on a beautiful John Mayer song, acknowledges (as does Mayer himself) that some people simply will not be able to play the song the way Mayer plays it.
Just look at that hipster. (Charlie Chaplin, 1916)
TLS: “Walt Disney’s background artist, Eyvind Earle, drew on Les Très Riches Heures for the colour palette of Sleeping Beauty.” Very obvious once it’s pointed out!
When Penguin paperbacks were a new innovation, you could buy them from a vending machine called the Penguincubator.
Foggy-headed from Covid I posted this one several days too early, but I’m just leaving it up because it matters to me. I’ll probably be quiet for a few days now.
‘Wystan Auden’ by James Schuyler | Poem of the Week | The TLS: Paywalled, alas. My favorite bit of the poem: When Schuyler was having an operation, Auden “sent quite a large / check” to cover his expenses, but Schuyler returned it and asked for cash instead. He seems to think it a perfectly normal thing to do.
On April 2, 1951, Kerouac sat down in his then-wife Joan Haverty’s apartment in Manhattan and began banging out his first draft. He had on hand several rolls of drafting paper of just the right size for his Remington manual. He’d made the discovery, he told her, that they would “save me the trouble of putting in new paper, and it just about guarantees spontaneity.” For 20 days straight, Kerouac typed so furiously that his T-shirts became soaked with sweat. By April 22, he had completed a 125,000-word draft typed in an eye-straining, comma-starved, single-spaced format, with no paragraphs or page breaks. The resulting scroll was 120 feet long. As an object to be read, it was utterly impractical, but Kerouac had unintentionally replicated the format of the books of antiquity before the invention of the codex. In transcribing his peripatetic cross-country adventures, Kerouac brilliantly married the method to the matter: he wrote fast because, as he put it in one of his notebooks, the “road is fast.” Movement and speed were of the essence. On the Road reads like a pilgrimage without a shrine at the end, an Odyssey without an Ithaca. All the subsequent talk, though, about “spontaneous bop prosody” obscures the fact that the book took years to write and then underwent an even longer process of revision.