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How Should One Read a Book? (Pt. 2)

Guiseppe Antonio Petrini, c.1735.

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First given as a speech at Hayes Court Common school in Kent at the start of 1926, and then adapted and published in the Yale Review the same year, Woolf’s impassioned ode to reading remains a seminal text. She reminds us that reading is not a passive activity, and that if each book only comes alive through active choices by its reader, it is worth considering how we as a consumer can elevate and enliven the literature we choose to read. The writer and reader are connected, and it is our duty to approach each new book as a different beast, to use our qualities of imagination, insight, and judgement, not rest on laurels of past works but follow our instincts to find the heart, truth, and beauty of each text anew.

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Virginia Woolf, April 15, 2025

If, then, this is true—that books are of very different types, and that to read them rightly we have to bend our imaginations powerfully, first one way, then another—it is clear that reading is one of the most arduous and exhausting of occupations. Often the pages fly before us and we seem, so keen is our interest, to be living and not even holding the volume in our hands. But the more exciting the book, the more danger we run of over-reading. The symptoms are familiar. Suddenly the book becomes dull as ditchwater and heavy as lead. We yawn and stretch and cannot attend. The highest flights of Shakespeare and Milton become intolerable. And we say to ourselves—is Keats a fool or am I?—a painful question, a question, moreover, that need not be asked if we realized how great a part the art of not reading plays in the art of reading. To be able to read books without reading them, to skip and saunter, to suspend judgment, to lounge and loaf down the alleys and bye-streets of letters is the best way of rejuvenating one’s own creative power. All biographies and memoirs, all the hybrid books which are largely made up of facts, serve to restore to us the power of reading real books—that is to say, works of pure imagination. That they serve also to impart knowledge and to improve the mind is true and important, but if we are considering how to read books for pleasure, not how to provide an adequate pension for one’s widow, this other property of theirs is even more valuable and important. But here again one should know what one is after. One is after rest, and fun, and oddity, and some stimulus to one’s own jaded creative power. One has left one’s bare and angular tower and is strolling along the street looking in at the open windows. After solitude and concentration, the open air, the sight of other people absorbed in innumerable activities, comes upon us with an indescribable fascination.

The windows of the houses are open; the blinds are drawn up. One can see the whole household without their knowing that they are being seen. One can see them sitting round the dinner table, talking, reading, playing games. Sometimes they seem to be quarrelling—but what about? Or they are laughing—but what is the joke? Down in the basement the cook is reading a newspaper aloud, while the housemaid is making a piece of toast; in comes the kitchen maid and they all start talking at the same moment—but what are they saying? Upstairs a girl is dressing to go to a party. But where is she going? There is an old lady sitting at her bedroom window with some kind of wool work in her hand and a fine green parrot in a cage beside her. And what is she thinking? All this life has somehow come together; there isa reason for it; a coherency in it, could one but seize it. The biographer answers the innumerable questions which we ask as we stand outside on the pavement looking in at the open window. Indeed there is nothing more interesting than to pick one’s way about among these vast depositories of facts, to make up the lives of men and women, to create their complex minds and households from the extraordinary abundance and litter and confusion of matter which lies strewn about. A thimble, a skull, a pair of scissors, a sheaf of sonnets, are given us, and we have to create, to combine, to put these incongruous things together.There is, too, a quality in facts, an emotion which comes from knowing that men and women actually did and suffered these things, which only the greatest novelists can surpass. CaptainScott, starving and freezing to death in the snow, affects us as deeply as any made-up story of adventure by Conrad or Defoe; but it affects us differently. The biography differs from the novel. To ask a biographer to give us the same kind of pleasure that we get from a novelist is to misuse and misread him. Directly he says “John Jones was born at five-thirty in the morning of August 13, I 862,” he has committed himself, focussed his lens upon fact, and if he then begins to romance, the perspective becomes blurred, we grow suspicious, and our faith in his integrity as a writer is destroyed. In the same way fact destroys fiction. IfThackeray, for example, had quoted an actual newspaper account of the Battle of Waterloo in“Vanity Fair,” the whole fabric of his story would have been destroyed, as a stone destroys abubble.

But it is undoubted that these hybrid books, these warehouses and depositories of facts, playa great part in resting the brain and restoring its zest of imagination. The work of building up a life for oneself from skulls, thimbles, scissors, and sonnets stimulates our interest in creation and rouses our wish to see the work beautifully and powerfully done by a Flaubert or a Tolstoi. Moreover, however interesting facts may be, they are an inferior form of fiction, and gradually we become impatient of their weakness and diffuseness, of their compromises and evasions, of the slovenly sentences which they make for themselves, and are eager to revive ourselves with the greater intensity and truth of fiction. 

It is necessary to have in hand an immense reserve of imaginative energy in order to attack the steeps of poetry. Here are none of those gradual introductions, those resemblances to the familiar world of daily life with which the novelist entices us into his world of imagination.All is violent, opposite, unrelated. But various causes, such as bad books, the worry of carrying on life efficiently, the intermittent but powerful shocks dealt us by beauty, and the incalculable impulses of our own minds and bodies frequently put us into that state of mind in which poetry is a necessity. The sight of a crocus in a garden will suddenly bring to mind all the spring days that have ever been. One then desires the general, not the particular; the whole, not the detail; to turn uppermost the dark side of the mind; to be in contact with silence, solitude, and all men and women and not this particular Richard, or that particularAnne. Metaphors are then more expressive than plain statements.

Thus in order to read poetry rightly, one must be in a rash, an extreme, a generous state of mind in which many of the supports and comforts of literature are done without. Its power of make-believe, its representative power, is dispensed with in favor of its extremities and extravagances. The representation is often at a very far remove from the thing represented, so that we have to use all our energies of mind to grasp the relation between, for example, the song of a nightingale and the image and ideas which that song stirs in the mind. Thus reading poetry often seems a state of rhapsody in which rhyme and metre and sound stir the mind as wine and dance stir the body, and we read on, understanding with the senses, not with the intellect, in a state of intoxication. Yet all this intoxication and intensity of delight depend upon the exactitude and truth of the image, on its being the counterpart of the reality within. Remote and extravagant as some of Shakespeare’s images seem, far-fetched and ethereal as some of Keats’s, at the moment of reading they seem the cap and culmination of the thought; its final expression. But it is useless to labor the matter in cold blood. Anyone who has read a poem with pleasure will remember the sudden conviction, the sudden recollection (for it seems sometimes as if we were about to say, or had in some previous existence already said, what Shakespeare is actually now saying), which accompany the reading of poetry, and give it its exaltation and intensity. But such reading is attended, whether consciously or unconsciously, with the utmost stretch and vigilance of the faculties, of the reason no less than of the imagination. We are always verifying the poet’s statements, making a flying comparison, to the best of our powers, between the beauty he makes outside and the beauty we are aware of within. For the humblest among us is endowed with the power of comparison. The simplest (provided he loves reading) has that already within him to which he makes what is given him—by poet or novelist—correspond.

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“The book upon which we have spent so much time and thought fades entirely out of sight. But suddenly, as one is picking a snail from a rose, tying a shoe, perhaps, doing something distant and different, the whole book floats to the top of the mind complete.”

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With that saying, of course, the cat is out of the bag. For this admission that we can compare, discriminate, brings us to this further point. Reading is not merely sympathizing and understanding; it is also criticizing and judging. Hitherto our endeavor has been to read books as a writer writes them. We have been trying to understand, to appreciate, to interpret, to sympathize. But now, when the book is finished, the reader must leave the dock and mount the bench. He must cease to be the friend; he must become the judge. And this is no mere figure of speech. The mind seems (“seems,” for all is obscure that takes place in the mind) to go through two processes in reading. One might be called the actual reading; the other the after reading. During the actual reading, when we hold the book in our hands, there are incessant distractions and interruptions. New impressions are always completing or cancelling the old. One’s judgment is suspended, for one does not know what is coming next.Surprise, admiration, boredom, interest, succeed each other in such quick succession that when, at last, the end is reached, one is for the most part in a state of complete bewilderment. Is it good? or bad? What kind of book is it? How good a book is it? The friction of reading and the emotion of reading beat up too much dust to let us find clear answers to these questions. If we are asked our opinion, we cannot give it. Parts of the book seem to have sunk away, others to be starting out in undue prominence. Then perhaps it is better to take up some different pursuit—to walk, to talk, to dig, to listen to music. The book upon which we have spent so much time and thought fades entirely out of sight. But suddenly, as one is picking a snail from a rose, tying a shoe, perhaps, doing something distant and different, the whole book floats to the top of the mind complete. Some process seems to have been finished without one’s being aware of it. The different details which have accumulated in reading assemble themselves in their proper places. The book takes on a definite shape; it becomes a castle, a cowshed, a gothic ruin, as the case may be. Now one can think of the book as a whole, and the book as a whole is different, and gives one a different emotion, from the book received currently in several different parts. Its symmetry and proportion, its confusion and distortion can cause great delight or great disgust apart from the pleasure given by each detail as it is separately realized. Holding this complete shape in mind it now becomes necessary to arrive at some opinion of the book’s merits, for though it is possible to receive the greatest pleasure and excitement from the first process, the actual reading, though this is of the utmost importance, it is not so profound or so lasting as the pleasure we get when the second process—the after reading—is finished, and we hold the book clear, secure, and (to the best of our powers) complete in our minds.

But how, we may ask, are we to decide any of these questions—is it good, or is it bad?—how good is it, how bad is it? Not much help can be looked for from outside. Critics abound; criticisms pullulate; but minds differ too much to admit of close correspondence in matters of detail, and nothing is more disastrous than to crush one’s own foot into another person’s shoe. When we want to decide a particular case, we can best help ourselves, not by reading criticism, but by realizing our own impression as acutely as possible and referring this to the judgments which we have gradually formulated in the past. There they hang in the wardrobe of our mind—the shapes of the books we have read, as we hung them up and put them away when we had done with them. If we have just read “Clarissa Harlowe,” for example, let us see how it shows up against the shape of “Anna Karenina.” At once the outlines of the two books are cut out against each other as a house with its chimneys bristling and its gables sloping is cut out against a harvest moon. At once Richardson’s qualities—his verbosity, his obliqueness—are contrasted with Tolstoi’s brevity and directness. And what is the reason of this difference in their approach? And how does our emotion at different crises of the two books compare? And what must we attribute to the eighteenth century, and what to Russia and the translator? But the questions which suggest themselves are innumerable. They ramify infinitely, and many of them are apparently irrelevant. Yet it is by asking them and pursuing the answers as far as we can go that we arrive at our standard of values, and decide in the end that the book we have just read is of this kind or of that, has merit in that degree or in this. And it is now, when we have kept closely to our own impression, formulated independently our own judgment, that we can most profitably help ourselves to the judgments of the great critics—Dryden, Johnson, and the rest. It is when we can best defend our own opinions that we get most from theirs.

So, then—to sum up the different points we have reached in this essay—have we found any answer to our question, how should we read a book? Clearly, no answer that will do for everyone; but perhaps a few suggestions. In the first place, a good reader will give the writer the benefit of every doubt; the help of all his imagination; will follow as closely, interpret as intelligently as he can. In the next place, he will judge with the utmost severity. Every book, he will remember, has the right to be judged by the best of its kind. He will be adventurous, broad in his choice, true to his own instincts, yet ready to consider those of other people.This is an outline which can be filled, in at taste and at leisure, but to read something after this fashion is to be a reader whom writers respect. It is by the means of such readers that masterpieces are helped into the world.

If the moralists ask us how we can justify our love of reading, we can make use of some such excuse as this. But if we are honest, we know that no such excuse is needed. It is true that we get nothing whatsoever except pleasure from reading; it is true that the wisest of us is unable to say what that pleasure may be. But that pleasure—mysterious, unknown, useless as it is—is enough. That pleasure is so curious, so complex, so immensely fertilizing to the mind of anyone who enjoys it, and so wide in its effects, that it would not be in the least surprising to discover, on the day of judgment when secrets are revealed and the obscure is made plain, that the reason why we have grown from pigs to men and women, and come out from our caves, and dropped our bows and arrows, and sat round the fire and talked and drunk and made merry and given to the poor and helped the sick and made pavements and houses and erected some sort of shelter and society on the waste of the world, is nothing but this: we have loved reading.

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Virginia Woolf (1882-1941) was an English writer and one of the most influential 20th century modernist authors. An important part of the contemporary literary scene, Woolf’s relevance has only grown in the near century since her passing, and her pioneering essays on artistic theory, literary history, women's writing, and the politics of power have become touchstones for contemporary thought.

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Iggy Pop Playlist

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Iggy Pop is an American singer, songwriter, musician, record producer, and actor. Since forming The Stooges in 1967, Iggy’s career has spanned decades and genres. Having paved the way for ‘70’s punk and ‘90’s grunge, he is often considered “The Godfather of Punk.”

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King and Prince of Disks (Tarot Triptych)

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Name:  King of Disks, Prince of Disks
Astrology: Taurus
Qabalah: Vau of He

Chris Gabriel April 26, 2025

The King of Disks is a man of the land, and each representation rests amid fertile soil. The fruits of the labor abound, this is a man made rich by his hard work and at the height of earthly power: growth and accumulation. The work of the suit was all investment for these ultimate returns.

In Rider, the King looks demurely upon the pentacle he balances  upon his knee. His cloak is verdant, covered in grapes and vines, his crown is rosy, and his cowl is scarlet. His other hand holds a sphere topped scepter. The throne is adorned with four Bulls and the ground below him is full of flowers and vines. His castle stands in the background.

In Thoth, we have the Prince of Disks working the field, lowly compared to the King who enjoys the harvest. Doing the labor needed to produce fruit, he is naked but for his helmet, which is topped with a winged bulls head. He is riding in a bull drawn chariot surrounded by vegetable life: onions, tomatoes, flowers, and wheat. He grasps a sphere within which there is a tesseract and bears a scepter topped with the globe and cross. Both he and his bull look ahead.

In Marseille, we find a unique King. Unlike the other three he wears no crown, just a hat to keep the sun from his eyes. A simple and hardworking man, he sits in nature rather than in the palace. There is soil under his feet, life is sprouting from it. He holds one coin, and looks aside to another in the distance. He has chosen the ploughshare over the sword.

The suit of Disks deals with the material world and the things that make it up. Through the course of the suit, we watch the seed grow, change, wither, and then flourish. The King of Disks enjoys these processes and cycles, and is made rich by them. This is how one can master people as well, not by dictating their behaviour, but by putting them in the right environments, providing the proper conditions, and allowing them to grow on their own. A good farmer does not always need to intervene, they simply give nature freedom to flourish.

The Prince is the younger King, actively farming, knowing with absolute certainty that his hard work will produce a brilliant harvest. In many ways, this is the situation of any working person. We work aware of the season we are in, we plant seeds and work the fields to accumulate wealth, to later direct others, and to eventually retire. Most Kings will fight to the death to retain their power and control, the King of Disks is the opposite. He does what must be done and retires happily.

History gives us examples of Kings and leaders who abandoned the palace in favor of the plough. George Washington, the first president of the United States, established democracy instead of making himself king. This decision brought comparison to the Roman consul and dictator Cincinnatus, who after overcoming an invasion over the course of sixteen days immediately relinquished power and returned to his farm. 

When we pull this card, we may meet a figure who embodies the King of Disks, an older, wealthy, simple man. We may also need to embody this sort of natural wisdom in order to enjoy the fruits of our labor.

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Chris Gabriel is a twenty four year old wizard and poet who runs the YouTube channel MemeAnalysis.

CHANNEL, SOCIAL, READINGS

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Film

The Magdalen and Gnostic Gospels

Mary Magdalene in Ecstasy, Artemisia Gentileschi. 1617.

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Molly Hankins April 24, 2025

The Gnostic Gospels, discovered in Egypt in 1945, includes 52 texts allegedly omitted from the Bible that were authored in the first or second century A.D. Information in these texts suggests that Jesus was married to Mary Magdalen and had a family with her, which corroborates the information channeled by Tom Kenyon and his wife Judi Sion in The Magdalen Manuscript. In this book,Mary Magdalen herself tells the story of her life with Jesus, then known as Yeshua, his true purpose for incarnating on Earth and her role as both his divine counterpart and a practicing priestess of the Temple of Isis.

Contrary to what’s included in the Bible, the Gnostic Gospels tell us that Magdalen was not a prostitute - she was an Initiate and priestess of the Temple of Isis, as was Yeshua’s mother Mary. Initiates were practitioners of tantric alchemy trained to use the subtle energies of sexual energy to activate the human light body. This work, described in detail in a previous article, is a means of achieving magical,healing abilities and, ultimately, immortality. According a portion of the Gospel of Thomas, a roughly 1500 year old manuscript housed in the British Library, not only was Magdalen married to Yeshua and the mother of his child, they were both practitioners of alchemical tantric magic and she was the founder of the Judeo-Christian church. 

Study of these gospels has proven controversial and difficult to verify historically - much of it is written in code and parts of the manuscripts have clearly been censored. However, channeled material supported by historical and archaeological record has proved to be a unique way of tracing human history. The most famous example is Dorothy Eady, a mid-20th century British historian who worked for the Egyptian Department of Antiquities. Following a head injury as a young girl, she recalled a past life as a fellow Isis Initiate in a  relationship with Pharaoh Seti at the Temple of Abydos. As an adult working in Abydos, she was able to accurately remember details from her past life and provide information to the Department of Antiquities to determine where onsite archaeological digs should take place.

In the same way Eady’s insights were supported by excavation and written historical record, much of what is shared in The Magdalen Manuscript is found  in parts of the Gnostic Gospels. After the crucifixion, Yeshua’s followers split into several groups and authored their own records of their time with him, which became known as the gospels. At that time Christianity was being heavily persecuted by the Roman empire  but under Emperor Constantine in the 4th century A.D. a specific form of Christianity was adopted by Rome, the version taught by the apostle Paul. All other gospels were systematically destroyed or hidden, losing nearly all records of Yeshua’s life as a young man and his relationship with Magdalen.

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“The material world is an illusion, a game for our souls to explore and evolve in, and achieving ecstatic states of bliss is how we transcend it.”

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It was during the early years of their relationship, according to Magdalen, that Yeshua also became an Initiate and was able to strengthen his Ka, or light body. In another book of channeled material, The Law of One from the Egyptian sun god Ra, much reference is made to souls getting lost in the third density of Earth. This is why more advanced, inter-dimensional beings are working to help the human collective achieve karmic escape velocity. Christ’s crucifixion can be interpreted as serving the same purpose, and some Biblical scholars interpret Yeshua and Ra to be different expressions of the same being.

The Magdalen Manuscript states that the purpose of Yeshua’s resurrection was to, “cut a passage through death itself,” allowing others understand the true nature of life and death and thereby “follow his trail of light” so as not to get lost in third density. His teachings were the means of escaping the wheel of karma, and his resurrection was the ultimate miracle proving that any of us could follow these teachings and achieve the same state of being. Indeed, every miracle he performed was intended to be a demonstration that his level of Christ consciousness is available to all of us, but this idea was omitted by the Roman-adopted version of Christianity. Instead of the story of Yeshua’s life and death serving as an example for all mankind, the narrative was revised to deify him and suggest that perfection and power were impossible to achieve.

Magdalen, through Kenyon’s channeling, clarified that those who witnessed Yeshua’s resurrection were seeing his light-body, which he had strengthened enough through personal and tantric spiritual practice to appear even though his physical body had died. After his resurrection, she and Yeshua’s mother and their young child were not safe under Roman rule, so they fled to France. They eventually made their way to what is now England to seek the protection of The Druids, who had connections to the Isis priesthood. The early Judeo-Christian church, founded by Magdalen, was a hybrid of Judaism, Paganism and Christianity. There is some surviving evidence, including a mosaic floor at a fifth century synagogue called Beit Alpha near Galilee in Israel, where Yeshua was from and where he taught. 

The mosaic depicts the zodiac with Pagan symbols, and Yeshua appearing in the center as the sun god Helios, the Greek equivalent to the Egyptian god Ra. There are also several traditional Jewish symbols depicted, including a temple and shofar which  Magdalen Manuscript’s claim that early Judeo-Christianity was established first in the Jewish region of Galilee and later amongst the Pagan-practicing Druids. This early expression of Christianity united multiple religious systems and revered the holy physical union of Magdalen and Yeshua. The separation from Jewish and Pagan influence and glorification of celibacy came with the later, distorted version adopted under Constantine. 

Following the account of her life and relationship with Yeshua, the second half of The Magdalen Manuscript provides a detailed analysis of world religions, alchemy practices and the commonalities between them and the original Judeo-Christian tenets. Many of these themes, largely erased from post-Constantine Christianity, are closer to a Vedic, Buddhist or Kabbalist worldview. The core message is that the material world is an illusion, a game for our souls to explore and evolve in, and achieving ecstatic states of bliss is how we transcend it. We all have the power to recognize life as a dream, awaken from it, and thereby enjoy it more.

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Molly Hankins is an Initiate + Reality Hacker serving the Ministry of Quantum Existentialism and Builders of the Adytum.

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M. Night Shyamalan

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Parting (Museum of Suspense II)

Giovanni Lanfranco, Mary Magdalene Raised by Angels, c. 1616, oil on canvas, Museo Nazionale di Capodimonte, Naples.

Ale Nodarse April 22, 2025

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A woman is borne aloft. She is called Mary Magdalen, and she floats. She rises naked, appearing, for a moment, like an air bubble brought to the surface of a stream. She does not move, but the artist clarifies her upward trajectory. One of three angels pulls at the cloth Mary sits upon  to raise her up, up and away. 

This seventeenth-century Magdalen (c. 1616) by the Italian painter Giovanni Lanfranco might count as one portrait of Mary Magdalen among many within the Museum of Suspense. Lanfranco himself was an eclectic observer of earlier painting. Merging disparate styles, his composition here draws readily upon medieval precedents. The image of the floating figure had stemmed from a thirteenth-century collection of saint’s lives, Jacobus de Voragine’s Golden Legend (Legenda Aurea), which included details of Mary Magdalene’s life after the death of her beloved Christ. This Mary chose to live in solitude and, as the Legend describes, forsake all food and drink; and yet, “every day she was lifted up in the air of angels” and given incorporeal sustenance. This continued until her death when her soul, as opposed to her body, parted indefinitely. In the 1616 canvas, Lanfranco leaves us to wonder if Mary ascends for a first or final time. His picture prompts us, in other words, to ask when. 

The picture is, of course, a material thing. Made of wood, canvas, and oil, it remains on the side of the ground. Likewise, the artist’s vision is a mortal one. Yet, just as  suspension challenges the division between ground and sky, so too does Mary’s body — liable, as it now appears, to drift. The artist’s vision entails a similar movement. To paint the miraculous, one wonders, did Lanfranco think of more “quotidian” blues. Did he once open his eyes under water? Did he look at the sun through the lens of the sea? Did he catch the billow of cloth in a wave? 

On the lower right of Lanfranco’s canvas, two small figures look up.

Our own mortal vision is set within the work. We are consigned to a lower realm. We are like them: those figures who, to the right of the dark outcropping, peer up. As one figure points and as the other raises a hand to forehead (as if to guard his vision from excessive light), we may recall when we have looked similarly to the sky above. The distance of cosmic events unfolding there, above — whether eclipse or ascension — may remind us of our proximity here, below. For a moment, the painting’s suspense might remind us of our shared conditions: of gravity, of departures, and of the periodic longing to overcome them both. 

In the Gospel of John, Mary Magdalene carries news of Christ’s ascension. “Do not cling to me,” Christ tells her, “for I have not yet ascended […].” Christ continues with an instruction to go to the apostles, “to go to my brothers and say to them, ‘I am ascending to my Father and your Father, to my God and your God.”¹ As the chosen messenger, Mary becomes another apostle. The painting of her departure may be said to recollect this moment, as her temporary ascension mirrors that of the man she once knew and sought to grasp. Apart from one’s own beliefs, the image finds poignancy in this lingering of leavings. Mary’s stance remains open. Her eyes turn skyward, and her arms outstretch — less certainty and more question. That question may be a familiar one: Who do we look up to when we look up and away?

I doubt the poet Mary Oliver sought to paraphrase Christ’s words within John, but a shared concern resides within her own instruction. “To live in this world,” she writes: 

you must be able 
to do three things:
to love what is mortal;
to hold it

against your bones knowing
your own life depends on it;
and, when the time comes to let it go, 
to let it go.²

In the moment of the Magdalene’s parting, there is something of all three. The time that comes — the time to “let it go” — has not yet arrived. It remains instead the painting’s question: a when which is also our own.

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¹John 20:17, English Standard Version. 
²Mary Oliver, “In Blackwater Woods,” American Primitive (Back Bay Books, 1983)

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Alejandro (Ale) Nodarse Jammal is an artist and art historian. They are a Ph.D. Candidate in History of Art & Architecture at Harvard University and are completing an MFA at Oxford’s Ruskin School of Art. They think often about art — its history and its practice — in relationship to observation, memory, language, and ethics.

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Larry Levan Playlist

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Larry Levan was an influential American DJ who defined what modern dance clubs are today. He is most widely renowned for his long-time residency at Paradise Garage, also known as “Gay-Rage”, a former nightclub at 84 King Street in Manhattan, NY.

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Hannah Peel Playlist

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Mercury Prize, Ivor Novello and Emmy-nominated, RTS and Music Producers Guild winning composer, with a flow of solo albums and collaborative releases, Hannah Peel joins the dots between science, nature and the creative arts, through her explorative approach to electronic, classical and traditional music.

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