
Guernica
A screaming horse, a mother with her dead child, all in grey. Picasso painted it in weeks after German bombers leveled a Basque town.

A screaming horse, a mother with her dead child, all in grey. Picasso painted it in weeks after German bombers leveled a Basque town.
The only thing we have to fear is fear itself.

A Bronx schoolteacher's poem about lynching, sung in a single spotlight, still the bravest three minutes on record.

Chaplin's own favorite of his films, and the one people cry at: he refused to make it a talkie, then built ninety minutes toward a final thirty seconds.

Irish myth and fairy tale at the start, then old age, politics, and desire handled with frightening force. Yeats wrote things fall apart, the centre cannot hold, and a terrible beauty is born.

Decades of television broadcasts made it what the Library of Congress calls the most-seen film in history: the switch from sepia Kansas into Technicolor Oz still lands like a door opening.

MGM cut it from the film twice until Arthur Freed threatened to quit; Garland was sixteen.

Thomas Sutpen arrives in Mississippi from nowhere with a band of slaves and a French architect and builds a dynasty that destroys itself. Two students retell it until it swallows them.

The Joads lose their Oklahoma farm and drive west to California, where the promised work is a lie. Steinbeck's fury at what was done to them still comes off the page.

Serial killer films begin here: Lang used sound as a weapon in his first talkie, gave the murderer a whistled tune, and turned a whole city into a trap.

Banned in 1939, booed at its premiere, then in the top ten of every Sight and Sound poll for sixty years: Renoir turned a hunting party into a diagnosis of a doomed society.

Chaplin's farewell to silence, made nine years into the sound era out of pure stubbornness: the factory gears swallow him, and he answers the talkies entirely on his own terms.

Dalí said the soft watches came to him from a camembert melting in the sun, and he painted them with hallucinatory precision.

Babies are decanted from bottles into castes, everyone takes a drug called soma, and nobody is unhappy. Huxley saw that a tyranny of pleasure would hold better than one of fear.

Wood posed his sister and his dentist in front of a farmhouse window, and people have argued ever since whether he meant tribute or mockery.

Louis Prima's tune, Krupa's tom-toms, and a performance long enough to fill both sides of a twelve-inch 78.

Addie Bundren dies and her family hauls the coffin across Mississippi through flood and fire. Fifteen voices tell it, and you laugh at people whose misery you can feel.

Janie comes home to a Black town in Florida and tells a friend about her three marriages and how she found her own voice. Hurston writes porch talk exactly as it sounded.

Celine's narrator carries his disgust from the First World War to colonial Africa, a Ford assembly line in Detroit, and a Paris suburb. He dragged spoken French into literature and made loathing exhilarating.

Two takes in a San Antonio hotel room, Johnson's slide answering his own voice; the devil came later.

Thirteen dwarves turn up at a comfortable hobbit's door and talk him into helping them rob a dragon. The comedy is real, and the riddle game in the dark still frightens children.

Hawkins barely states the melody, improvises two choruses instead, and the 1939 Bluebird side pointed jazz toward bebop.

It helped launch the screwball comedy and left fingerprints on every romance that followed: a runaway heiress, a broke reporter, a night bus, and a blanket hung between two beds.

Two versions of herself hold hands with one artery running between them, clamped shut. She painted it as her marriage to Rivera fell apart.

Calloway forgot the words on a Cotton Club broadcast, by his account, and the hi-de-ho call and response was born.

Disney mortgaged his own house to make the first cel-animated feature, and the industry called it his folly: the queen's transformation still frightens small children exactly as intended.

A 1907 hymn rewritten into a mother's funeral, with A.P. Carter tightening the grief and Maybelle's guitar holding it.

Picasso pulled her out of the screaming mother in Guernica and gave her the face of Dora Maar, his lover and a photographer.

Joe Garland's tune cut to three minutes to fit a 78, and those false endings that never quite stop.

Adjusted for inflation no film has ever earned more, and it is still telling the old South's version of itself: enormous, ravishing, and not to be trusted.
Somewhere over the rainbow Way up high, There's a land that I heard of Once in a lullaby.

Pregnant and walking from Alabama, Lena Grove looks for the man who left her. Nearby a man who cannot say whether he is black or white is running out of room.

O'Keeffe collected sun-bleached bones off the desert and hung this one in the sky over the hills, with a single white hollyhock beside it.

Christ wears a Jewish prayer shawl while a synagogue burns and refugees flee by boat. Chagall painted it in 1938, watching what was coming.

A small steam locomotive comes out of a fireplace under the mantel clock, and the room around it is otherwise entirely ordinary.

The Marx Brothers at their fastest and most anarchic, and they left Paramount soon after it underperformed: the mirror sequence has been stolen by everybody in comedy since.

Karloff's monster became the face everyone pictures, which is not what Mary Shelley wrote: Whale made a horror film that keeps asking who the actual monster is.

Three novels set in 1888, 1903, and 1918 follow a Prussian officer clinging to his uniform, a bookkeeper demanding justice, and a deserter who feels nothing. Broch watches a whole value system dissolve.

Tanizaki, a Japanese novelist, argues in earnest that the beauty of his country was made for dim rooms and wrecked by electric light. Lacquer, gold leaf, and old toilets all make his case.

Keynes argues that an economy can sit at mass unemployment indefinitely because nobody is spending, and that governments must spend instead. Every recession since has been argued in the terms he set.

Nobody talks faster than this: Hawks overlapped every line until the dialogue becomes a physical event, and it did badly enough that exhibitors called Hepburn box office poison.

Willis O'Brien animated it a frame at a time and audiences in 1933 had never seen anything like it: the ape on that building is known to people who never watched it.

It made John Wayne a star, invented Monument Valley as a place in the American mind, and put nine strangers in one coach: every road movie descends from it.
And then he will carry me away to his castle, where we will live happily ever after.

A lieutenant knocks Emperor Franz Joseph off his horse at Solferino and saves his life. Three generations of Trottas ride that accident down into 1914, and the Habsburg empire dissolves around them.

Seventeen-hour shifts in a Paris restaurant kitchen, then the tramps' road between London workhouses. Orwell went into poverty himself and came back able to describe what hunger does to a mind.

Eighteen years of hired labor buy Bjartur a stretch of Icelandic moorland, and he defends his independence against weather, debt, and his own family. Laxness makes stubbornness heroic and ruinous at once.

Stammering, limping, and dismissed as an idiot, Claudius survives the Roman imperial family as it murders its way through Augustus, Tiberius, and Caligula, then sets down the secret history of what he watched.

Enslaved people freed themselves, Du Bois argues, walking off plantations in a general strike that broke the Confederacy. He then shows what Black voters built during Reconstruction and who tore it down.

Enslaved people in the French colony that became Haiti rose in 1791 and defeated Napoleon's army. James wrote their revolution as world history, with Toussaint Louverture, born a slave, at its center.

No American novel takes in more of the country. Dos Passos cuts fictional lives against newspaper headlines, song lyrics, and portraits of Henry Ford and Woodrow Wilson, covering the century's first three decades.

George looks after Lennie, huge and slow-witted, across the California ranches, and the two of them keep describing a farm they mean to buy. Steinbeck presses the Depression into that dream.

An enormous basket of flowers forces the man down onto his hands and knees, and a woman steadies the load from behind.

Lorca's poems rise from Andalusian folk song and dream logic, where the moon walks into a forge and knives are always waiting. His lament for a gored bullfighter tolls five in the afternoon.

Dense, classical, and packed with Petersburg stone and Black Sea light, from a poet the state killed for sixteen lines about Stalin. His widow saved them by memorizing every one.

Dick Diver, a young psychiatrist, marries the rich patient he treated and spends her money charming the French Riviera. Fitzgerald tracks the exact cost of being the most delightful man in the room.

Roquentin, a scholar alone in a French port town, watches ordinary objects turn strange and sickening in his hands. Under a chestnut tree the bare fact that anything exists at all overwhelms him.

Marie-Thérèse asleep beside a sculpture of her own head and a philodendron, from the year Picasso could seemingly do nothing wrong.

A canvas on an easel shows exactly the landscape it is standing in front of, and therefore hides it completely.

Pinkie Brown runs a Brighton razor gang at seventeen, kills without flinching, and believes in hell the way other people believe in weather. Greene makes damnation the engine of a seaside thriller.

Ellington inverted the horns, trombone high and clarinet low, and the overtones invent a fourth instrument that is not there.

Orwell joined a militia on the Aragon front, took a sniper's bullet through the throat, then watched Communist allies brand his comrades fascists. The clearest book anyone wrote about being lied to.

A dying general among his orchids hires Philip Marlowe to settle a blackmail debt, and the job opens into pornography, missing husbands, and Los Angeles money. Chandler's sentences became an American standard.

The greatest of the epic-theater plays follows Anna Fierling, a canteen woman hauling her wagon through the Thirty Years' War, selling to whichever army is winning and losing all three children to it.
Kenny's tenor floats, Jones talks the lyric back in bass, and doo-wop inherited that top-and-bottom trick wholesale.

Vigo was dying at twenty-nine when he finished it and the studio hacked it apart anyway: restored, it is the most sensual thing ever filmed about being newly married on a working barge.

He reads the paper, she touches one key of the piano, and we are watching from the street through their window.

Byron crossed Persia and Afghanistan in the 1930s hunting domes and minarets, and the diary he kept is funny, rapturous, and cruel about everyone he meets. Paul Fussell called it travel writing's Ulysses.

Marie-Thérèse asleep in a red armchair, her face split into curves. Picasso is said to have done it in a single afternoon.

The kneeling figure on the left is the same shape as the stone hand on the right, holding an egg with a flower coming out.

Composed under Joseph Schillinger's tuition, and the band was playing it as a theme before it had a title.

Scarlett O'Hara claws her plantation back through the burning of Atlanta, wanting the wrong man. Mitchell's romance of a gallant South sold thirty million copies and fixed a pastoral memory of slavery.

Roth put the immigrant Lower East Side inside a child's skull. David Schearl is six, terrified of his father, safe only in his mother's kitchen, and the street reaches him as raw sensation.

Cheap grace forgives without changing anyone, Bonhoeffer wrote from an outlawed seminary in Nazi Germany. Real grace costs a life: Christ calls a man to come and die. He was hanged in 1945.
RCA called it "a complete waste of time", hid it on a B-side, and Shaw's clarinet sold six million anyway.
A head arrangement built section by section, Lester Young and Herschel Evans trading solos, Basie's theme song ever after.

Sentenced to twenty years by Mussolini's courts, Gramsci filled thirty-odd notebooks explaining why revolutions fail: the powerful rule by consent, through schools, churches, and newspapers that make their order feel like common sense.

Eighty-seven photographs of faces, storefronts, gravestones, and wooden churches, sequenced by Evans into a cold portrait of the United States. Robert Frank and the photographers after him worked from his example.

Flying mail over the Sahara and Patagonia, Saint-Exupery writes about what the work did to the men who flew it. The pilot Guillaumet crashed in the Andes and walked out through the snow.

Capra built the most stirring film ever made out of parliamentary procedure: an amateur senator holds the floor with nothing but his voice and the rulebook, and Washington's press corps hated it.

Workers dig a foundation for the building that will house the whole proletariat, and the pit keeps widening. Platonov's Russian buckles under its own slogans, and the Soviets suppressed the book until 1987.

Shanghai, 1927: a young terrorist stands over a sleeping man with a knife, and Malraux makes the doomed communist uprising a test of what a man can give his life to.

Miller in Paris, broke and writing about sex and squalor with an appetite nothing in English had matched. Grove Press fought dozens of obscenity suits before the Supreme Court cleared it in 1964.

The Nazis sent brownshirts to disrupt its German screenings and banned it outright once in power: the first great sound film about war, told entirely from inside a German schoolboys' trench.

Shot by a Gestapo officer in 1942, Schulz left stories that turn a Galician backwater into a world where his father breeds birds in the attic and the calendar grows a thirteenth month.

Tony Last loves his ugly Gothic house and believes his wife Brenda is content. Waugh gives her a dull London lover, kills the thing Tony cannot lose, and strands him far from England.

"I had a farm in Africa," Dinesen begins. Seventeen years below the Ngong Hills end in ruined coffee and a forced sale, and she tells it in prose that never asks for sympathy.

Art belongs in the museum only by accident, Dewey argues. The aesthetic starts in the ordinary rhythm of a creature meeting its world, an argument that pulled philosophy toward everyday and popular art.

At twenty-eight Wedgwood narrated Europe's most ruinous pre-modern war whole, thirty years of armies eating Germany alive, and her verdict of meaningless conflict still has to be argued with.

Bertie Wooster is ordered to steal a silver cow-shaped cream jug, and, armed by Jeeves with one humiliating fact, tells an aspiring English dictator he is a frightful ass in black shorts.

Brittain left Oxford to nurse the wounded and lost her fiancé, her brother, and two close friends. She set down the grief of an entire generation without softening a line of it.

Two friends split the world between them: Narcissus stays in the monastery with logic and God, and Goldmund walks out into women, wandering, and the Black Death, then carves it all in wood.