Sunday, 31 October 2010
Mens Magazines in the 1960s
21 Magazine. This American publication was published in 1960 by Monogram and always tried to test the patience of the censor. It would fill its pages with topless ladies, humorous articles, risque cartoons, and titillating stories.
Friday, 29 October 2010
Publishing in the Electronic Era
This article was written by Iain Sproat in 1969. Published in Books and Bookmen.
I predict that the most far reaching changes in publishing in the 1970s will be brought about by greatly diversified uses of electronics. And of these uses, none will more alter the face of publishing than the process known as Electronic Video Recording, or EVR for short.
In case there remains anyone who does not know what EVR is, let me give you a brief description. A cassette, measuring roughly 7 in, x 7 in, x 1 in., and enclosing a tape which has on it both film and sound, is slotted into an attachment to a television set. The television then plays the film on its screen. Not only this: the film and the sound can be stopped in mid-flight, and studied as a still. And it can be wound only slowly, by hand, frame by frame. Or, because the tape carries two frames, side by side, you can switch from frame A to frame B and back again. As a movie, the cassette lasts approximately 50 minutes, but the whole process is so miniaturised that you can put every page of the Encyclopaedia Britannica on one-and-a-half tapes. .....
I predict that the most far reaching changes in publishing in the 1970s will be brought about by greatly diversified uses of electronics. And of these uses, none will more alter the face of publishing than the process known as Electronic Video Recording, or EVR for short.
In case there remains anyone who does not know what EVR is, let me give you a brief description. A cassette, measuring roughly 7 in, x 7 in, x 1 in., and enclosing a tape which has on it both film and sound, is slotted into an attachment to a television set. The television then plays the film on its screen. Not only this: the film and the sound can be stopped in mid-flight, and studied as a still. And it can be wound only slowly, by hand, frame by frame. Or, because the tape carries two frames, side by side, you can switch from frame A to frame B and back again. As a movie, the cassette lasts approximately 50 minutes, but the whole process is so miniaturised that you can put every page of the Encyclopaedia Britannica on one-and-a-half tapes. .....
Jack London and Mills & Boon
Whatever happened to the book publishers Mills & Boon?
Here is a photograph of Jack London's 'The Jacket' which was published by Mills and Boon in 1915, followed by a photograph of one of their latest titles.
Here is a photograph of Jack London's 'The Jacket' which was published by Mills and Boon in 1915, followed by a photograph of one of their latest titles.
"Poet In The Boat House" Dylan Thomas
This issue of John O'London's Weekly from August 7, 1953, includes a very rare interview carried out by Mimi Josephson with the welsh poet Dylan Thomas at his house in Laugharne. On the inside pages there are photographs of the house, and Dylan Thomas' children. This interview gives a great insight into the way Thomas worked and lived. Sadly the poet died 3 months after this publication was released.
Tuesday, 26 October 2010
Joseph Bato - Defiant City
This wonderful drawing by Joseph Bato is just one of many from the book entitled "Defiant City" by Bato, with an introduction by J.B. Priestley. Published in 1942 it shows the devastation inflicted on London and its inhabitants during the Blitz. This drawing shows women and children from the East End sheltering in an Underground Station. Click on the image to increase the size.
The Phantom Horsewoman
Queer are the ways of a man I know:
He comes and stands
In a careworn craze,
And looks at the sands
And the seaward haze
With moveless hands
And face and gaze
Then turns to go ...
And what does he see when he gazes so?
They say he sees as an instant thing
More clear than to-day,
A sweet soft scene
That once was in play
By that briny green;
Yes, notes alway
Warm, real, and keen,
What his back years bring,
A phantom of his own figuring.
Of this vision of his they might say more:
Not only there
Does he see this sight,
But everywhere
In his brain-day, night,
As if on the air
If were drawn rose bright-
Yea, far from that shore
Does he carry this vision of heretofore:
A ghost-girl-rider. And though, toil-tried,
He withers daily,
Time touches her not,
But she still rides gaily
In his rapt thought
On that shagged and shaly
Atlantic spot,
And as when first eyed
Draws rein and sings to the swing of the tide.
Thomas Hardy from the July 30, 1927 issue of John O'London's Weekly
Thursday, 21 October 2010
Science Fiction and Fantasy Classics
Just one of the hundreds of classic Science Fiction and Fantasy magazines available at http://www.look4books.co.uk/ contact us for details.
Monday, 18 October 2010
Mollie Panter-Downes
This is an extract from the beginning of a short story entitled 'Only A Silly Memory" written by the seventeen year old Mollie Panter-Downes in 1924. Published in John O'London's Weekly, June 7, 1924.
She wanted diamonds, but he dissuaded her.
"No, not diamonds for you."
"Why not?"
"They are so brilliant."
"Am I not brilliant?"
"Yes, but not in that hard, passionless way. I want you to have emeralds. They suit your temperament."
She smiled at this a little vaguely.
"Green for jealousy? Beware, Robert!"
"You know that it is not you who are likely to run risks on that score! I consider that I am a brave man to marry such a beautiful woman."
This pleased her. She felt sleek and well fed and purring.
"Am I beautiful?"
"Too beautiful for peace of mind. But to return to the emeralds, they are your jewel without a question. Like you, they are flawless, deeply lustrous, glowing with a thousand hidden fires. Like you, too, a little inscrutable. They are not brazenly beautiful, like diamonds, nor intimate, like pearls. They have an air of mystery, as if they are guarding some deep, centuries-old secret. You also have that delicate air. Give me the delight of seeing you wearing emeralds, Flavia."
So not unwillingly, she gave in.
They went to a big Bond Street jeweller's together. The attendent who looked like a blase young god in a frock-coat, brought out for them, with the air of one conferring an Olympian favour, trays of emerald rings. They looked wicked, winking up at Flavia in the softly-shaded lght. She tried on rings set with stones of all shapes and sizes - square, oval, hoops, clusters.
Robert would have none of them. He conferred with the Olympian young man, who brought forth from some mysterious hiding place a platinum ring set with one huge emerald. She tried it on - it fitted perfectly. She laid her hand on the black velvet which covered the counter, the effect was ravishing. The big stone looked like a drop of creme de menthe spilt on the whiteness of her hand.
"Do you like it, Robert?"
"It is your ........
She wanted diamonds, but he dissuaded her.
"No, not diamonds for you."
"Why not?"
"They are so brilliant."
"Am I not brilliant?"
"Yes, but not in that hard, passionless way. I want you to have emeralds. They suit your temperament."
She smiled at this a little vaguely.
"Green for jealousy? Beware, Robert!"
"You know that it is not you who are likely to run risks on that score! I consider that I am a brave man to marry such a beautiful woman."
This pleased her. She felt sleek and well fed and purring.
"Am I beautiful?"
"Too beautiful for peace of mind. But to return to the emeralds, they are your jewel without a question. Like you, they are flawless, deeply lustrous, glowing with a thousand hidden fires. Like you, too, a little inscrutable. They are not brazenly beautiful, like diamonds, nor intimate, like pearls. They have an air of mystery, as if they are guarding some deep, centuries-old secret. You also have that delicate air. Give me the delight of seeing you wearing emeralds, Flavia."
So not unwillingly, she gave in.
They went to a big Bond Street jeweller's together. The attendent who looked like a blase young god in a frock-coat, brought out for them, with the air of one conferring an Olympian favour, trays of emerald rings. They looked wicked, winking up at Flavia in the softly-shaded lght. She tried on rings set with stones of all shapes and sizes - square, oval, hoops, clusters.
Robert would have none of them. He conferred with the Olympian young man, who brought forth from some mysterious hiding place a platinum ring set with one huge emerald. She tried it on - it fitted perfectly. She laid her hand on the black velvet which covered the counter, the effect was ravishing. The big stone looked like a drop of creme de menthe spilt on the whiteness of her hand.
"Do you like it, Robert?"
"It is your ........
Friday, 15 October 2010
Scarce Pulp Publications
The demand for new book titles in the 1940s and early 1950s was quite amazing. New publishers of mass market "Pulp" style literature helped to fill the news stands with risque fiction stories like the one below. They used highly evocative cover art to help attract their audience, and back cover advertising to help keep the price of these titles very low. Many of these books are now sought after collector's items, and this one in particular is very rare indeed.
Tuesday, 12 October 2010
Literary News from October 25, 1924
These snippets of literary news have been taken from the John O'London's Weekly issue of this date.
Mr. Thomas Hardy wrote thirty years ago a dramatic version of "Tess of the D'Urbervilles." Until recently he resisted every offer to stage it, but he has now handed it over to the amateur players of Dorchester, his native town, who will produce it during the last week of November.
Messrs. Kegan Paul are publishing a very ambitious series of books to comprehend "The History of Civilisation." It is possible that the series will eventually comprise upwards of two hundred volumes, designed to form a complete library of social evolution from the earliest times to the present day.
A new novel by Miss Victoria Sackville-West is appearing shortly. The scene is laid in Ecuador.
Mr. E.F. Benson is now at his country home, Lamb House, Rye, formerly the residence of Henry James. Devoted to country life, Mr. Benson is an excellent golfer and a keen naturalist.
Mr. Thomas Hardy wrote thirty years ago a dramatic version of "Tess of the D'Urbervilles." Until recently he resisted every offer to stage it, but he has now handed it over to the amateur players of Dorchester, his native town, who will produce it during the last week of November.
Messrs. Kegan Paul are publishing a very ambitious series of books to comprehend "The History of Civilisation." It is possible that the series will eventually comprise upwards of two hundred volumes, designed to form a complete library of social evolution from the earliest times to the present day.
A new novel by Miss Victoria Sackville-West is appearing shortly. The scene is laid in Ecuador.
Mr. E.F. Benson is now at his country home, Lamb House, Rye, formerly the residence of Henry James. Devoted to country life, Mr. Benson is an excellent golfer and a keen naturalist.
Nice to Aunt Ada
This is an extract from the beginning of a very rare original short story by Campbell Nairne published in John O'London's Weekly in 1939.
"And now don't forget," Jenny's mother said as they stood on the doorstep together, waiting for the glass-panelled door to open, "don't forget that you've got to be nice to Aunt Ada."
The little girl nodded. There had been no need to remind her. For as long as she could remember it had been dinned into her ears that she must be Nice to Aunt Ada. It was something that she had to do, like cleaning her teeth twice a day and swallowing cod-liver oil. She did it dutifully, not without wishing sometimes that Aunt Ada would be nice to her. But then Aunt Ada was nice to nobody; she was a bad old woman. Jenny had heard even her mother say that, and as for her father - well, he made rustling noises with his paper whenever her name was mentioned. "I'll never darken that woman's door," he had said, and nothing would persuade him to come with them when they went to call on her. That was very wrong of him (inconsiderate, her mother called it), for Aunt Ada was rich, and as her godchild you were probably going to inherit nearly all her money when she died. But only if you kept on being nice to her.....
The jangling of the bell died away, and they saw a movement in the shadowy recess between the door and the outline of the stairs. An aproned figure loomed up, stained amber by the coloured panels. It remained there for some time, motionless, like a fish seen through the wall of an aquarium. Finally it came forward. The door was drawn back, though not to its fullest extent, and a .......
"And now don't forget," Jenny's mother said as they stood on the doorstep together, waiting for the glass-panelled door to open, "don't forget that you've got to be nice to Aunt Ada."
The little girl nodded. There had been no need to remind her. For as long as she could remember it had been dinned into her ears that she must be Nice to Aunt Ada. It was something that she had to do, like cleaning her teeth twice a day and swallowing cod-liver oil. She did it dutifully, not without wishing sometimes that Aunt Ada would be nice to her. But then Aunt Ada was nice to nobody; she was a bad old woman. Jenny had heard even her mother say that, and as for her father - well, he made rustling noises with his paper whenever her name was mentioned. "I'll never darken that woman's door," he had said, and nothing would persuade him to come with them when they went to call on her. That was very wrong of him (inconsiderate, her mother called it), for Aunt Ada was rich, and as her godchild you were probably going to inherit nearly all her money when she died. But only if you kept on being nice to her.....
The jangling of the bell died away, and they saw a movement in the shadowy recess between the door and the outline of the stairs. An aproned figure loomed up, stained amber by the coloured panels. It remained there for some time, motionless, like a fish seen through the wall of an aquarium. Finally it came forward. The door was drawn back, though not to its fullest extent, and a .......
Trans-Poser
The "slim and slender" figure has had a good innings. Now we will pay homage to the "rotund." And so here is your sentence.
"Let me have men about me that are fat."
Re-arrange the letters to make a new sentence or phrase appropriate to the original. All the letters in the quotation must be used and no others. For the best attempt I offer a prize of one guineapig. Entries must be made on postcards and should be sent to the wife of a portly gentleman. Or you can just write your entry in the Comments Box below.
"Let me have men about me that are fat."
Re-arrange the letters to make a new sentence or phrase appropriate to the original. All the letters in the quotation must be used and no others. For the best attempt I offer a prize of one guineapig. Entries must be made on postcards and should be sent to the wife of a portly gentleman. Or you can just write your entry in the Comments Box below.
Literary News from December 10, 1927
These snippets of literary news have been taken from the John O'London's Weekly issue of this date.
Mr. E.V. Lucas is off to Rio for a couple of months. He has not been at all well lately.
Mr. James Stephens, the Irish novelist, is to make London his permanent home. Hitherto he has spent his time between Dublin, Paris and Wembley.
The world's best selling novel is now said to be Edward Noyes Westcott's "David Harum," the sales of which have touched the twenty million mark in the United States, after twenty years continuous selling. The author was a clerk in a small American town.
"The Secret of the Creek" is to be the title of the next novel by Victor Bridges. The scene is laid in Suffolk.
Mr. J.B. Morton (better known to Daily Express readers as "Beachcomber") is, I hear, engaged on a novel which will deal very largely with the Irish Rebellion of 1916.
Mr. E.V. Lucas is off to Rio for a couple of months. He has not been at all well lately.
Mr. James Stephens, the Irish novelist, is to make London his permanent home. Hitherto he has spent his time between Dublin, Paris and Wembley.
The world's best selling novel is now said to be Edward Noyes Westcott's "David Harum," the sales of which have touched the twenty million mark in the United States, after twenty years continuous selling. The author was a clerk in a small American town.
"The Secret of the Creek" is to be the title of the next novel by Victor Bridges. The scene is laid in Suffolk.
Mr. J.B. Morton (better known to Daily Express readers as "Beachcomber") is, I hear, engaged on a novel which will deal very largely with the Irish Rebellion of 1916.
Monday, 11 October 2010
Conversation in Thursday Street
This is a short extract from the beginning of an original story published in the May 17, 1940 John O'London's Weekly by Margery Sharp entitled "Conversation in Thursday Street."
Sherrard was motoring through Suffolk, and had just reached the village of Thursday Street when the radiator-cap on his car worked loose and flew off. By great good luck he found it again, and also a saddler's shop whose owner expressed himself capable of cutting a leather washer that would hold the thing in place; so Sherrard left his car and walked off for a leg-stretch while the job was being done.
The village did not at first sight promise much interest: it was very small, without the solid fifteenth-century charm of Lavenham or Eye, and it evidently did not attract tourists, for there were no tea-shops. "Remote, unfriended, melancholy, slow," thought Sherrard; though in fact only two of the adjectives were appropriate, since he had no reason to believe the place unfriended, and under the hot sunlight it was not in the least melancholy. It was simply dull, a backwater unredeemed by picturesqueness.
As he turned from the narrow main street into a narrower lane a cat lying in his path looked up at him and yawned. Sherrard stooped to caress it, whereupon it yawned again. The cat reflected Sherrard, is the sophisticate among animals. He continued down the lane, turned , and found himself in a cul-de-sac, a sort of close, bounded on one side and at the end by tall flint walls, and on the other side by a pair of cottages, of which one was empty. "The back of beyond!" thought Sherrard; and would have turned away had not his eyes been caught by a small notice under the porch of the farther, and occupied , dwelling. Idleness and boredom impelled him to see what it said; a moment later both emotions had given way to the pleasanter sensation of curiosity.
"Modern French," read Sherrard, "taught here." .....
Sherrard was motoring through Suffolk, and had just reached the village of Thursday Street when the radiator-cap on his car worked loose and flew off. By great good luck he found it again, and also a saddler's shop whose owner expressed himself capable of cutting a leather washer that would hold the thing in place; so Sherrard left his car and walked off for a leg-stretch while the job was being done.
The village did not at first sight promise much interest: it was very small, without the solid fifteenth-century charm of Lavenham or Eye, and it evidently did not attract tourists, for there were no tea-shops. "Remote, unfriended, melancholy, slow," thought Sherrard; though in fact only two of the adjectives were appropriate, since he had no reason to believe the place unfriended, and under the hot sunlight it was not in the least melancholy. It was simply dull, a backwater unredeemed by picturesqueness.
As he turned from the narrow main street into a narrower lane a cat lying in his path looked up at him and yawned. Sherrard stooped to caress it, whereupon it yawned again. The cat reflected Sherrard, is the sophisticate among animals. He continued down the lane, turned , and found himself in a cul-de-sac, a sort of close, bounded on one side and at the end by tall flint walls, and on the other side by a pair of cottages, of which one was empty. "The back of beyond!" thought Sherrard; and would have turned away had not his eyes been caught by a small notice under the porch of the farther, and occupied , dwelling. Idleness and boredom impelled him to see what it said; a moment later both emotions had given way to the pleasanter sensation of curiosity.
"Modern French," read Sherrard, "taught here." .....
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