In 1926, Fritz Kahn, a German gynecologist and anatomy textbook author, produced a lithograph called Der Mensch als Industriepalast (Man as Industrial Palace)that depicted the human body as a factory, a chemical plant of sorts. Kahn’s body came complete with mechanical lungs, a rock-sorting stomach, gears for a throat, and a switchboard for a brain, and it illustrated rather metaphorically the degree to which industrialization had taken over Western life, creating deep anxiety for some and curiosity for others.
More than 80 years later, Henning Lederer, a German artist, brought Kahn’s mechanical body to life with some gifted animation. To learn more about Lederer’s project, you will want to spend more time on IndustriePalast.com and particularly with this helpful PDF. Other animations by Lederer can be found on Vimeo.
An earlier version of this post originally appeared on our site in 2011.
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“Do what thou wilt”: as the central principle of a worldview, it may not sound like much, but at least there are always a great many people ready and willing to hear it. So discovered Aleister Crowley, the early twentieth-century Occultist now remembered not just for his unconventional religious practices, but also for his knack for gathering cults around himself. It was in Liber AL vel Legis, or The Book of the Law, the central text of his religion Thelema, that he instructed his followers to act directly on their own desires, ideally with the aid of some ritualistic black magick.
You can learn more about the life and pursuits that eventually got Crowley dubbed “the wickedest man in the world” from the Hochelaga video above. After living most of his childhood under a Biblical-fundamentalist preacher father, who died when Crowley was eleven, he was sent away to various boarding schools, then turned troublemaker. At Cambridge, where he went to study English literature, he fell for the Romantics, then for the occult. After leaving without his degree, but with a considerable inheritance, he enjoyed the freedom to travel the world, climbing mountains and attempting to master the dark arts — not to mention taking drugs and having affairs.
As he went from country to country, Crowley never met an ancient religion he couldn’t adapt to his own ends. But no gods made as much of an impact on him as those of ancient Egypt, specifically Hoor-paar-kraat, or Harpocrates in the Greek; Crowley claimed to have been contacted by the voice of Hoor-paar-kraat’s messenger Aiwass, from whom he took the dictation that became Liber AL vel Legis. Styling himself as an Egyptian prophet, he preached one way for humanity to push through to a post-Christian age: “Whatever you feel like doing, go and do it, regardless of popular opinion or conventional morality.” After all, it seemed to work for Crowley himself, though the work of a notorious occultist certainly isn’t for everybody.
Nor could even the world’s wickedest man keep it up forever: “Eventually all the traveling, drug-taking, and libertinism had caught up with Crowley.” His inheritance dried up, and his addictions worsened. But he didn’t give up on Thelema, even going so far as to establish a commune in Sicily. Alas, the “responsibility-free lifestyle” advocated by the religion soon drove its headquarters to chaotic dilapidation. But just a couple of decades after his death in England in 1947, Crowley’s glowering visage popped up again, on the cover of Sgt. Pepper’s Lonely Hearts ClubBand. He became the subject of pop-music reference not just by the Beatles, but also David Bowie, Iron Maiden, and the late Ozzy Osbourne. “Genius? Insane? Visionary? Fraud? Freethinker? Cult leader?” We might grant Aleister Crowley all these titles, and that of proto-rock star besides.
Based in Seoul, Colin Marshall writes and broadcasts on cities, language, and culture. His projects include the Substack newsletterBooks on Cities and the book The Stateless City: a Walk through 21st-Century Los Angeles. Follow him on the social network formerly known as Twitter at @colinmarshall.
When New York City hosted The World’s Fair in 1964, Isaac Asimov, the prolific sci-fi author and professor of biochemistry at Boston University, took the opportunity to wonder what the world would look like 50 years hence — assuming the world survived the nuclear threats of the Cold War. Writing in The New York Times, Asimov imagined a world that you might partly recognize today, a world where:
“Gadgetry will continue to relieve mankind of tedious jobs. Kitchen units will be devised that will prepare ‘automeals,’ heating water and converting it to coffee; toasting bread; frying, poaching or scrambling eggs, grilling bacon, and so on. Breakfasts will be ‘ordered’ the night before to be ready by a specified hour the next morning.”
“Communications will become sight-sound and you will see as well as hear the person you telephone. The screen can be used not only to see the people you call but also for studying documents and photographs and reading passages from books. Synchronous satellites, hovering in space will make it possible for you to direct-dial any spot on earth, including the weather stations in Antarctica.”
“[M]en will continue to withdraw from nature in order to create an environment that will suit them better. By 2014, electroluminescent panels will be in common use. Ceilings and walls will glow softly, and in a variety of colors that will change at the touch of a push button.”
“Robots will neither be common nor very good in 2014, but they will be in existence.”
“The appliances of 2014 will have no electric cords, of course, for they will be powered by long-lived batteries running on radioisotopes.”
“[H]ighways … in the more advanced sections of the world will have passed their peak in 2014; there will be increasing emphasis on transportation that makes the least possible contact with the surface. There will be aircraft, of course, but even ground travel will increasingly take to the air a foot or two off the ground.”
“[V]ehicles with ‘Robot-brains’ … can be set for particular destinations … that will then proceed there without interference by the slow reflexes of a human driver.”
“[W]all screens will have replaced the ordinary set; but transparent cubes will be making their appearance in which three-dimensional viewing will be possible.”
“[T]he world population will be 6,500,000,000 and the population of the United States will be 350,000,000.” And later he warns that if the population growth continues unchecked, “All earth will be a single choked Manhattan by A.D. 2450 and society will collapse long before that!” As a result, “There will, therefore, be a worldwide propaganda drive in favor of birth control by rational and humane methods and, by 2014, it will undoubtedly have taken serious effect.” [See our Walt Disney Family Planning cartoon from earlier this week.]
“Ordinary agriculture will keep up with great difficulty and there will be ‘farms’ turning to the more efficient micro-organisms. Processed yeast and algae products will be available in a variety of flavors.”
“The world of A.D. 2014 will have few routine jobs that cannot be done better by some machine than by any human being. Mankind will therefore have become largely a race of machine tenders. Schools will have to be oriented in this direction.… All the high-school students will be taught the fundamentals of computer technology will become proficient in binary arithmetic and will be trained to perfection in the use of the computer languages that will have developed out of those like the contemporary “Fortran.”
“[M]ankind will suffer badly from the disease of boredom, a disease spreading more widely each year and growing in intensity. This will have serious mental, emotional and sociological consequences, and I dare say that psychiatry will be far and away the most important medical specialty in 2014.”
“[T]he most glorious single word in the vocabulary will have become work!” in our “a society of enforced leisure.”
Isaac Asimov wasn’t the only person during the 60s who peered into the future in a fairly prescient way. You can find a few more on-the-mark predictions from contemporaries below:
Note: An earlier version of this post appeared on our site in 2014.
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Tom Lehrer died last weekend, more than four decades after rumors of his death had first gone into circulation. He didn’t bother to contradict them, publicly claiming that he figured they would “cut down on the junk mail.” That quip proved not just that he was still alive, but that his wit was intact. And it was his wit, combined with a facility on the piano, that made him famous: mercilessly satirizing everything from the Boy Scouts to Harvard, his alma mater, to New Math to Vatican II to World War III, his lively show-tune pastiches became defining pieces of Cold War-era comedy — or in any case, defining pieces of early Cold War-era comedy.
A professor of mathematics for most of his career, he performed and recorded music mostly in the nineteen-fifties and sixties, beginning with his first concert, given as a graduate student in 1950, and ending with another in Copenhagen in 1967.
There was also an early-seventies coda in the form of a few songs written for PBS’ children’s show The Electric Company and a performance at a George S. McGovern rally. But by then, the frame of American culture had shifted. “The Vietnam War is what changed it,” Lehrer said in 1981. “Everybody got earnest. My purpose was to make people laugh and not applaud. If the audience applauds, they’re just showing they agree with me”: an observation today’s would-be satirists would do well to bear in mind.
Whether or not you have any aspirations of your own in that tradition, you can listen through the entirety of Lehrer’s recorded work in the YouTube playlist above and understand why his comic star burned so brightly — and, through the nearly sixty years that have followed, never quite burned out. Though clearly written in the spirit of Eisenhower-era liberalism, these songs (released by their author into the public domain a few years ago) don’t shy away from the absurdities of what Lehrer himself would not, with a straight face, be able to call the human condition. First tested out on campus, they also developed an early form of what we’ve come to think of as the “college” sensibility in popular music. In some sense, Lehrer never left that way of seeing the world behind — nor, like a true student, did he ever get around to finishing his Ph.D.
Based in Seoul, Colin Marshall writes and broadcasts on cities, language, and culture. His projects include the Substack newsletterBooks on Cities and the book The Stateless City: a Walk through 21st-Century Los Angeles. Follow him on the social network formerly known as Twitter at @colinmarshall.
Whether willed, involuntary, or a mix of both, the declining literacy of college students is by now so often lamented that reports of it should no longer come as a surprise. And yet, on some level, they still do: English majors in regional Kansas universities find the opening to Bleak House virtually unintelligible; even students at “highly selective, elite colleges” struggle to read, let alone comprehend, books in their entirety. Things were different in 1941, and very different indeed if you happened to be taking English 135 at the University of Michigan, a class titled “Fate and the Individual in European Literature.” The instructor: a certain W. H. Auden.
In his capacity as an educator, the poet threw down the gauntlet of an “infamously difficult” syllabus, as literary academic and YouTuber Adam Walker explains in his new video above, that “asked undergraduates to read about 6,000 pages of classic literature.”
Not that the course was out of touch with current events: in its historical moment, “Nazi Germany had invaded the Soviet Union and expanded into Eastern Europe. Systematic extermination begins with mass shootings, and the machinery of genocide is accelerating. It’s no accident that Auden takes an interest in fate and the individual in European literature” — a theme that, as he frames it, begins with Dante. After the entirety of The Divine Comedy, Auden’s students had their free choice between Aeschylus’ Agamemnon or Sophocles’ Antigone.
From there, the required reading plunged into Horace’s Odes and Augustine’s Confessions, four Shakespeare plays, Pascal’s Pensées, Goethe’s Faust (but only Part I), and Dostoevsky’s The Brothers Karamazov, to name just a few texts. Not everyone would consider Dostoevsky European, of course, but then, nobody would consider Herman Melville European, which for Auden was hardly a reason to leave Moby-Dick off the syllabus. Walker describes that novel as relevant to the course’s themes of “obsession and cosmic struggle,” evident in all these works and their treatments of “passion and historical forces, and how individuals navigate those forces”: ideas that transcend national and cultural boundaries by definition. Whether they would come across to the kind of twenty-first-century students who’d balk at being assigned even a full-length Auden poem is another question entirely.
Based in Seoul, Colin Marshall writes and broadcasts on cities, language, and culture. His projects include the Substack newsletterBooks on Cities and the book The Stateless City: a Walk through 21st-Century Los Angeles. Follow him on the social network formerly known as Twitter at @colinmarshall.
In 2012, archaeologists discovered in Southern Turkey a well-preserved mosaic featuring a skeleton savoring a loaf of bread and a pitcher of wine, surrounded by the Greek words “Be cheerful and live your life.” Dating back to the 3rd century BCE, the mosaic likely adorned the dining room of a wealthy villa in the ancient Greco-Roman city of Antioch. It’s a kind of memento mori, a reminder that life is short and you should enjoy it while you can. Or so that’s how many have interpreted the message of the mosaic.
If you would like to delve deeper, it’s worth reading the analysis and background information provided by The History Blog. Meanwhile, this separate post on Tumblr highlights other translations and interpretations of the mosaic’s key inscription.
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Today, the Walt Disney Company seems like one of those entities that’s “too big to fail” — but during the Second World War, fail it nearly did. Like the big-thinking entertainer-businessman he was, Walt Disney himself had been re-investing the company’s profits into ever more ambitious animated films. This practice took an unfortunate turn with Fantasia, which may now be regarded as a classic even by those of us without interest in Disney movies, but which didn’t bring in the expected box-office take when it was initially released in 1940. It followed the also-underperforming Pinocchio, which couldn’t reach audiences in war-torn Europe. The following year, Disney found itself at the edge of bankruptcy.
Then came the Japanese attack on Pearl Harbor, which resulted in the U.S. Army’s eight-month-long occupation of Walt Disney Studios. The idea was to protect a nearby Lockheed plant, but Disney, who’d already made inquiries about producing war films, used an opportunity to make a deal that saved his company.
Walt Disney Studios was contracted to make not just a variety of training films for military use, but also a series of war-themed cartoons for public exhibition. This was “total war,” after all, which required the mobilization of the public at home, and the mobilization of the public at home required domestic propaganda. Who better to stoke American desire for victory over the Axis than Disney’s biggest animated star at the time, Donald Duck?
In the most acclaimed of these cartoons, the Academy Award-winning Der Fuehrer’s Face from 1943, Donald Duck is employed at a munitions factory in Nutziland, some kind of Axis superstate ruled over by Hirohito, Mussolini, and especially Hitler. It’s something else to hear the phrase “Heil Hitler!” in Donald Duck’s voice, and throughout his day of humiliations and privations in Nutziland, he has to say it quite a lot. Just when all of this has put him in a tailspin toward madness, he wakes up in his bedroom back in the United States of America, stars-and-stripes curtains, miniature Statue of Liberty, and all. For Donald, the nightmare is over — but in real life, Allied victory remained far from a sure thing.
You can watch Der Fuehrer’s Face and seven other Disney-produced World War II propaganda cartoons (along with the Looney Tunes short TheDucktators, from Warner Bros.) in the playlist above. To be sure, some of them contain elements considered crude and even offensive here in the twenty-first century. But like all propaganda, they’re all of great historical value, in the realm of both political history and the history of animation. Consider how they found their way into Europe and Russia, finding audiences there even as the war raged on; consider, too, how well-loved Donald Duck and his compatriots have been by generations of German, Italian, and Japanese children. After this total war, no one enjoyed more total a victory than Disney.
Based in Seoul, Colin Marshall writes and broadcasts on cities, language, and culture. His projects include the Substack newsletterBooks on Cities and the book The Stateless City: a Walk through 21st-Century Los Angeles. Follow him on the social network formerly known as Twitter at @colinmarshall.
Like the rock and roll revolution of the 1950s, which shocked staid white audiences with translations of black rhythm and blues, the popularity of jazz caused all kinds of racial panic and social anxiety in the early part of the twentieth century. Long before the rise of European fascism, many American groups expressed extreme fear and agitation over the rise of minority cultural forms. But by World War II, jazz was intrinsically woven into the fabric of American majority culture, albeit often in versions scrubbed of blues undertones. This was not, of course, the case in Nazi occupied Europe, where jazz was suppressed; like most forms of modern art, it bore the stigma of impurity, innovation, passion… all qualities totalitarians frown on (even anti-fascist theorist Theodor Adorno had a serious beef with jazz).
And while it’s no great surprise that Nazis hated jazz, it seems they expressed their disapproval in a very oddly specific way, at least in the recollection of Czech writer and dissident Josef Skvorecky.
On the occasion of Skvorecky’s death, J.J. Gould pointed out in The Atlantic that the writer was himself one of the characters that so interested Kubrick. An aspiring tenor saxophone player living in Third Reich-occupied Czechoslovakia, Skvorecky had ample opportunity to experience the Nazis’ “control-freak hatred of jazz.” In the intro to his short novel The Bass Saxophone, he recounts from memory a set of ten bizarre regulations issued by a Gauleiter, a regional Nazi official, that bound local dance orchestras during the Czech occupation.
Pieces in foxtrot rhythm (so-called swing) are not to exceed 20% of the repertoires of light orchestras and dance bands;
In this so-called jazz type repertoire, preference is to be given to compositions in a major key and to lyrics expressing joy in life rather than Jewishly gloomy lyrics;
As to tempo, preference is also to be given to brisk compositions over slow ones (so-called blues); however, the pace must not exceed a certain degree of allegro, commensurate with the Aryan sense of discipline and moderation. On no account will Negroid excesses in tempo (so-called hot jazz) or in solo performances (so-called breaks) be tolerated;
So-called jazz compositions may contain at most 10% syncopation; the remainder must consist of a natural legato movement devoid of the hysterical rhythmic reverses characteristic of the barbarian races and conducive to dark instincts alien to the German people (so-called riffs);
Strictly prohibited is the use of instruments alien to the German spirit (so-called cowbells, flexatone, brushes, etc.) as well as all mutes which turn the noble sound of wind and brass instruments into a Jewish-Freemasonic yowl (so-called wa-wa, hat, etc.);
Also prohibited are so-called drum breaks longer than half a bar in four-quarter beat (except in stylized military marches);
The double bass must be played solely with the bow in so-called jazz compositions;
Plucking of the strings is prohibited, since it is damaging to the instrument and detrimental to Aryan musicality; if a so-called pizzicato effect is absolutely desirable for the character of the composition, strict care must be taken lest the string be allowed to patter on the sordine, which is henceforth forbidden;
Musicians are likewise forbidden to make vocal improvisations (so-called scat);
All light orchestras and dance bands are advised to restrict the use of saxophones of all keys and to substitute for them the violin-cello, the viola or possibly a suitable folk instrument.
As The Atlantic notes, “being a Nazi, this public servant obviously didn’t miss an opportunity to couch as many of these regulations as he could in racist or anti-Semitic terms.” This racialized fear and hatred was the source, after all, of the objection. It’s almost impossible for me to imagine what kind of music this set of restrictions could possibly produce, but it most certainly would not be anything people would want to dance to. And that was probably the point.
Among the wonders to behold at the Vatican Museums are the larger-than-life forms of the titans of Greek philosophy. It’s widely known that at the center of Raphael’s fresco The School of Athens, which dominates one wall of the twelve Stanze di Raffaello in the Apostolic Palace, stand Plato and Aristotle. In reality, of course, the two were not contemporaries: more than three decades separated the former’s death from the latter’s birth. But in Raphael’s artistic vision, great men (and possibly a great woman) of all generations come together under the banner of learning, from Anaximander to Averroes, Epicurus to Euclid, and Parmenides to Pythagoras.
Even in this company, the figure sitting at the bottom of the steps catches one’s eye. There are several reasons for this, and gallerist-YouTuber James Payne lays them out in his new Great Art Explained video on The School of Athens above.
It appears to represent Heraclitus, the pre-Socratic philosopher associated with ideas like change and the unity of opposites, and a natural candidate for inclusion in what amounts to a trans-temporal class portrait of philosophy. But Raphael seems to have added him later, after that section of the picture was already complete. An astute viewer may also notice Heraclitus’ having been rendered in a slightly different, more muscular style than that of the other philosophers in the frame — a style more like the one on display over in the Sistine Chapel.
In fact, Michelangelo was at work on his Sistine Chapel frescoes at the very same time Raphael was painting The School of Athens. It’s entirely possible, as Payne tells it, for Raphael to have stolen a glimpse of Michelangelo’s stunning work, then gone back and added Michelangelo-as-Heraclitus to his own composition in tribute. There was precedent for this choice: Raphael had already modeled Socrates after Leonardo da Vinci (who was, incredibly, also alive and active at the time), and even rendered the ancient painter Apelles as a self-portrait. With The School of Athens, Payne says, Raphael was “positioning ancient philosophers as precursors to Christian truth,” in line with the thinking of the Renaissance. In subtler ways, he was also emphasizing how the genius of the past lives on — or is, rather, reborn — in the present.
Based in Seoul, Colin Marshall writes and broadcasts on cities, language, and culture. His projects include the Substack newsletterBooks on Cities and the book The Stateless City: a Walk through 21st-Century Los Angeles. Follow him on the social network formerly known as Twitter at @colinmarshall.
“This is supposed to be my farewell tour,” says Ozzy Osbourne in a clip included in the Biography television documentary above. He then gives the finger and adds, “We’ll see.” The year was 1993, and indeed, there turned out to have been much more to come for the former frontman of Black Sabbath, the band that opened the floodgates — or perhaps hellgates — of heavy metal. After an impoverished childhood spent playing in the bomb sites of postwar Birmingham, Osbourne hopped from job to job, including one failed stint at a slaughterhouse and another as a criminal. He then turned singer, receiving a PA system from his father and forming a blues group with a few local musicians. People pay good money to see scary movies, they one day reckoned, so why not make scary music?
The time was the late nineteen-sixties, when listeners approached record albums as quasi-cinematic experiences. Taking their name from Mario Bava’s anthology horror film, which had come out a few years before, Black Sabbath delivered on expectations many weren’t even aware they had. Today, anyone can put on an early Black Sabbath album and identify the music as heavy metal, not a world apart from any of its newer variants.
But more than half a century ago, the world had never heard anything quite like it: there was the much-intensified low end of the sound, with its tuned-down, distorted guitars liable to break into energetic riffs, as well as the flamboyantly dark themes. On top of it all, Osbourne somehow managed to imbue the words, even when delivered in a wallowing or mumbled manner, with a paradoxical clarity and exuberance.
Osbourne’s existing tendencies toward disorder were sent into self-destructive overdrive by success. Anyone would have put money on the odds of his early death, yet he managed to come back from disasters both personal and professional — many of them inflicted by his own substance-fueled Jekyll-and-Hyde personality — again and again. Hence the title of the Biography episode, The Nine Lives of Ozzy Osbourne. For fans who missed out on Black Sabbath’s reign, there was Ozzfest, Osbourne’s rock festival that occurred around the world between the mid-nineties and the late twenty-tens. The reality show The Osbournes made him a pop-cultural icon beloved even by viewers with no interest in his music. Ultimately, his real farewell didn’t come to pass until Black Sabbath’s final live set, which came as the culmination of a day-long festival put on in his hometown less than three weeks before his death. And though Ozzy Osbourne may now be gone, the Prince of Darkness persona he created will remain heavy metal’s animating spirit.
Based in Seoul, Colin Marshall writes and broadcasts on cities, language, and culture. His projects include the Substack newsletterBooks on Cities and the book The Stateless City: a Walk through 21st-Century Los Angeles. Follow him on the social network formerly known as Twitter at @colinmarshall.
Salvador Dalí and Luis Buñuel reportedly carried rocks in their pockets during the premiere of their first film Un Chien Andalou, anticipating a violent reaction from the audience.
It was a fair concern. The movie might be almost 90 years old but it still has the power to provoke – the film features a shot of a woman getting her eye slashed open with a straight razor after all. As it turned out, rocks weren’t needed. The audience, filled with such avant-garde luminaries as Pablo Picasso and André Breton liked the film. A disappointed Dalí later reported that the night was “less exciting” than he had hoped.
Un Chien Andalou featured many of Dalí’s visual obsessions – eyeballs, ants crawling out of orifices and rotting animals. Dalí delighted in shocking and inciting people with his gorgeous, disturbing images. And he loved grandiose spectacles like a riot at a movie theater.
Dalí and Buñuel’s next movie, the caustic L’Age d’or, exposed the differences between the two artists and their creative partnership imploded in pre-production. Buñuel went on to make a string of subversive masterpieces like Land Without Bread, The Exterminating Angel and The Discreet Charm of the Bourgeoisie; Dalí largely quit film in favor of his beautifully crafted paintings.
Then Hollywood came calling.
Alfred Hitchcock hired Dalí to create a dream sequence for his 1945 movie Spellbound. Dalí crafted over 20 minutes of footage of which roughly four and a half minutes made it into the movie. “I wanted to convey the dream with great visual sharpness and clarity–sharper than film itself,” Hitchcock explained to Francois Truffaut in 1962. The sequence, which you can see up top, is filled with all sorts of Daliesque motifs – slashed eyeballs, naked women and phantasmagoric landscapes. It is also the most memorable part of an otherwise minor work by Hitchcock.
Dalí’s follow-up film work was for, of all things, the Vincente Minnelli comedy Father of the Bride(1950). Spencer Tracy plays Stanley Banks whose beautiful daughter (Elizabeth Taylor, no less) is getting married. As Stanley’s anxiety over the impending nuptials spirals, he has one very weird nightmare. Cue Dalí. Stanley is late to the wedding. As he rushes down the aisle, his clothes mysteriously get shredded by the tiled floor that bounces and contorts like a piece of flesh.
This dream sequence, which you can see immediately above, has few of the visual flourishes of Spellbound, but it still has plenty of Dalí’s trademark weirdness. Those floating accusatory eyes. The way that Tracy’s leg seems to stretch. That floor.
Father of the Bride marked the end of Dalí’s work in Hollywood, though there were a couple potential collaborations that would have been amazing had they actually happened. Dalí had an idea for a movie with the Marx Brothers called Giraffes on Horseback Salad. The movie would have “included a scene of giraffes wearing gas masks and one of Chico sporting a deep-diving suit while playing the piano.” Though Harpo was reportedly enthusiastic about the proposed idea, Groucho wasn’t and the idea sadly came to nothing.
Later in life, Dalí became a fixture on the talk show circuit. On the Dick Cavett Show in 1970, he flung an anteater at Lillian Gish.
Note: An earlier version of this post appeared on our site in 2014.
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