The War Over Middle-Earth

In 1965, The Lord of the Rings came out in the U.S. in paperback form, courtesy of sci-fi publisher Ace Books—and it did so without the authorization of Tolkien himself. Ace editor Donald A. Wollheim claimed that the works weren’t copyrighted in the United States, leaving them unprotected and ripe for publication. Selling for 75 cents each, the Ace version of The Lord of the Rings was a success, leading Tolkien to return to his books to make enough revisions to qualify them for copyright protection in the U.S.

Tolkien called upon his fans to boycott the Ace versions in favor of the newly updated, and official, paperbacks from Ballantine Books—though they cost around 20 cents more. Ace later agreed to stop printing the books and pay Tolkien a royalty for every copy sold. The combined sales totals of the Ace and Ballantine versions of The Lord of the Rings reached 250,000 in just 10 months.

 

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A simple act of kindness

While I was watching the Academy Award show Sunday night, the appearance of Oscar winning actor Adrien Brody reminded me of this amazing story of a glimmer of humanity during the Hell of war.

It is September 1939, bombs are falling on Warsaw and a young pianist sits at the studio microphone. Wladyslaw Szpilman finishes Chopin’s Nocturne in C sharp minor. The broadcast cuts off. That was the last live music the city heard before everything changed.

He was just twenty seven, already a star at Polish Radio, trained in Warsaw and Berlin. Music had always been his world. Then the Nazis came, and that world shrank to the walls of the Warsaw Ghetto.

Life inside was hell. Four hundred thousand people jammed into a few streets, starving, terrified. Szpilman played piano in cafés to scrape together food for his family, his parents, brother Henryk and sisters Regina & Halina.

He even risked his life smuggling weapons to the Jewish resistance. In the summer of 1942 the deportations started. Trains rolled out to Treblinka. At the station, a Jewish policeman who recognised him from concerts yanked him out of the line at the last second. Szpilman watched his entire family disappear. None of them came back.

He stayed on as a forced laborer, still inside the ghetto walls. Then, on 13 February 1943, he slipped out. For the next year and a half he moved between hiding places, kept alive by brave Polish friends, people like Andrzej Bogucki, his wife Janina and the remarkable Irena Sendler.

By August 1944 the city lay in ruins after the Warsaw Uprising. Szpilman found an attic in an empty building at Aleja Niepodległości 223. He was alone, freezing, slowly starving. One November day the door creaked open. A German officer stepped in. Captain Wilm Hosenfeld. He asked the ragged man what he did for a living. “I am a pianist,” Szpilman whispered. Hosenfeld took him to the only piano left in the building. Szpilman’s fingers were stiff with dirt and cold. He played anyway. When he finished, the officer did not arrest him. Instead he brought bread, jam, a warm military coat. He even pointed out a safer hiding spot in the loft. That small act of kindness kept Szpilman alive until the Germans finally retreated in January 1945.

The war ended. Szpilman walked back into the radio studio and opened the first peacetime broadcast with the very same Chopin Nocturne. He went on to direct music programmes, compose hundreds of songs, and tour the world. But he never forgot. In 1945 he wrote down everything. The book came out in 1946. Years later, in 1999, it reached English readers as The Pianist. Roman Polanski turned it into the 2002 film that won three Oscars, with Adrien Brody playing Szpilman so convincingly you could feel the hunger and the fear. Szpilman died in Warsaw in July 2000 at the age of eighty eight. A quiet man who had seen the worst and still believed in music and in people.

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At Eternity’s Gate

“In a week when the eyes of the world are turned towards the suffering in the Middle East, a Van Gogh print locked away in the vaults of the Tehran Museum of Contemporary Art has assumed a new symbolism. Van Gogh inscribed his title on the lithograph: At Eternity’s Gate.

Dating from November 1882, when Van Gogh was living in The Hague, the print depicts what he called an “orphan man”, a resident of the local Old Men’s Home. Only seven examples of this lithograph survive, and on one of them the artist added the inked title. Van Gogh wrote it in English because he was then applying for work as an illustrator in London (any approaches, however, were rebuffed).

The elderly man with the prominent side-whiskers who served as Van Gogh’s model has been identified as the 72-year-old Adrianus Zuyderland. He posed for quite a number of drawings and there is no evidence that he was at death’s door when Van Gogh was making sketches for his lithograph. Zuyderland went on to live until 87, a very long life at the time.

Van Gogh gave the inscribed print to his Dutch artist friend Anton van Rappard. After passing through several private collections the lithograph was eventually bought in the early 1970s by the New York businessman Nelson Rockefeller and his wife Mary. Rockefeller was then the US vice-president.

Rockefeller soon sold on the Van Gogh to the New York dealer Eugene Thaw,who in turn sold it in 1975 for $65,000 to the Shah of Iran’s wife, Farah Pahlavi. She was supporting the planned Tehran Museum of Contemporary Art, which opened in October 1977. Just over a year later, in February 1979, the Shah was overthrown, to be succeeded by Ayatollah Khomeini and the present Islamic Republic. Most of the collection, including the Van Gogh, has since lain unseen for much of the time in the museum’s stores. There were strong anti-Western feelings in Iran and the new regime considered some of the artworks indecent.

In May 1890, seven years after he made the print, Van Gogh was inspired to create a larger, colored version as a painting. It was among the last pictures which he completed at the asylum on the outskirts of Saint-Rémy-de-Provence.

The sitter’s clenched fists suggest the anguish that Van Gogh himself must have been feeling, hemmed in by the asylum’s walls. Two weeks before starting work on the picture Dr Théophile Peyron, who ran the institution, had written to the artist’s brother Theo, saying that Vincent remained depressed: “He usually sits with his head in his hands, and if someone speaks to him, it is as though it hurts him, and he gestures for them to leave him alone.”

At Eternity’s Gate represents a self-portrait, not in terms of physiognomy, but posture. Just under three months later the artist was dead, after shooting himself in a moment of despair.

Hopefully the Van Gogh print is safe in a secure storeroom of the museum, which was immediately closed after the American and Israeli attack on 28 February. But obviously all Iranian museums, historic buildings and archaeological sites are now at risk.

On 9 March, several richly-decorated historic buildings in Isfahan, Iran’s capital under the 17th-century Safavid dynasty, were damaged by nearby bombing. There was also damage to Tehran’s Golestan Palace.

On 28-29 February a bomb was dropped in the same street as the Tehran Museum of Contemporary Art, one kilometer to the south. Tragically, the people of Tehran are not as protected as the museum’s collection.”

via Art Newspaper

 

 

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The World’s Shortest International Railway

I’ve traveled on some obscure railways, but nothing quite as interesting (and short) as the line featured in this fascinating short video.

What’s the shortest train journey you’ve ever been on? Yes, that Stourbridge branch line is very short, as is the Friedrichshafen one. But they’re still like… dozens of metres long, and the journeys last multiple minutes. What if I told you there’s a strange little train line down in extreme southwest of the Czech Republic that is not only extraordinarily short at just 100m, but officially holds the record for the shortest international railway, crossing over the border into Germany by literally about 5 metres. And it even has stops! But who built it? Why is it here? And what on earth is it? See what I did there? I know, it’s very clever. You’re right, I am a genius. Thank you very much. OK you’re overdoing it now, that’s enough.”

NB: If the video fails to open, please click HERE .

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Don’t Steal This Book

Visitors to the London Book Fair this week may have stumbled across a curious new title that contains no plot, no chapters, and not a single line of prose. Nearly 10,000 authors have joined forces to publish an intentionally blank book called Don’t Steal This Book. Apart from a long list of contributing names, its pages are empty. The silence on those pages is deliberate, serving as a visual protest against how artificial intelligence systems are trained.

The project unites prominent writers such as Kazuo Ishiguro, Philippa Gregory, Richard Osman, and Jeanette Winterson with thousands of others who argue that their work has been absorbed into AI datasets without permission. They say the blank pages represent what literature risks becoming if creative work continues to be treated as raw material for machine learning rather than protected intellectual property deserving consent and compensation.

Their protest lands at a pivotal moment. The UK government is preparing to release an economic assessment of proposed copyright reforms that could allow AI companies to train on copyrighted books without paying the authors behind them. Writers warn that such changes would erode their livelihoods and weaken the diversity of voices that sustain the publishing ecosystem.

The London Book Fair provides a high‑visibility platform for the campaign. Copies of Don’t Steal This Book are being handed directly to industry professionals and policymakers, ensuring the message reaches those who influence the future of copyright and creative rights.

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Cuckoo’s Nest

“High high in the hills , high in a pine tree bed.
She’s tracing the wind with that old hand, counting the clouds with that old chant,
Three geese in a flock
one flew east
one flew west
one flew over the cuckoo’s nest”
― Ken Kesey, One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest

 

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The Floating Admiral

1931 saw the publication of a remarkable detective novel. The Floating Admiral had been written by 12 members of the Detection Club, London’s society of mystery writers:

  1. Victor Whitechurch
  2. G.D.H. Cole and Margaret Cole
  3. Henry Wade
  4. Agatha Christie
  5. John Rhode
  6. Milward Kennedy
  7. Dorothy L. Sayers
  8. Ronald Knox
  9. Freeman Wills Crofts
  10. Edgar Jepson
  11. Clemence Dane
  12. Anthony Berkeley

They had written a chapter apiece, serially, without communicating. Each inherited the manuscript from the last and had to make some private sense of the story, including their own complications, before passing it on to the next contributor. To ensure fair play, each writer had to supply a satisfactory solution to the snowballing mystery when they turned in their own chapter.

Amazingly, it worked. Jacques Barzun wrote, “These members of the (London) Detection Club collaborate with skill in a piece of detection rather more tight-knit than one had a right to expect. There is enough to amuse and to stimulate detection; and the Introduction by Dorothy Sayers and supplements by critics and solvers give an insight into the writers’ thoughts and modes of work.”

Here it is.

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Shape of Paris

The Shape of Paris is a balletic short film of skateboarder Andy Anderson zooming, grinding, spinning, and floating around Paris in the summertime. It is also beautifully shot by Brett Novak; Paris has never looked better.

NB: if the video does not open in your browser, click HERE.

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Hey kids, let’s design a book cover

 

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Only wait a while and listen.

I recently had a sad conversation with my sister about someone who we both loved who took his own life many years ago. It reminded me of this moving poem by Pulitzer-winning poet Galway Kinnell  addressed to a student of his who was contemplating suicide. Originally published in Kinnell’s 1980 collection Mortal Acts, Mortal Words, it was later included in A New Selected Poems. 

WAIT

Wait, for now.
Distrust everything, if you have to.
But trust the hours. Haven’t they
carried you everywhere, up to now?
Personal events will become interesting again.
Hair will become interesting.
Pain will become interesting.
Buds that open out of season will become lovely again.
Second-hand gloves will become lovely again,
their memories are what give them
the need for other hands. And the desolation
of lovers is the same: that enormous emptiness
carved out of such tiny beings as we are
asks to be filled; the need
for the new love is faithfulness to the old.

Wait.
Don’t go too early.
You’re tired. But everyone’s tired.
But no one is tired enough.
Only wait a while and listen.
Music of hair,
Music of pain,
music of looms weaving all our loves again.
Be there to hear it, it will be the only time,
most of all to hear,
the flute of your whole existence,
rehearsed by the sorrows, play itself into total exhaustion.

 

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