Radio Benjamin

Walter Benjamin on the Radio: An Introduction

Lecia Rosenthal

Theodor Adorno has used the term “radioactive” to describe the explosive appeal of Walter Benjamin’s writings.¹ Unpredictable and wide-ranging, the power of Benjamin’s work has registered in its generative, cross-disciplinary effects. Widely associated with his writings on photography, as well as his contributions to fields including film, architecture, Jewish theology, Marxism, translation studies, and studies of violence and sovereignty, Benjamin is far less well-known for his contributions to the early history of radio.

From 1927 to early 1933, Benjamin wrote and delivered some eighty to ninety broadcasts over the new medium of German radio, working between Radio Berlin and Radio Frankfurt.² These broadcasts, many of them produced under the auspices of programming for children, cover a fascinating array of topics: typologies and archaeologies of a rapidly changing Berlin; scenes from the shifting terrain of childhood and its construction; exemplary cases of trickery, swindle, and fraud that play on the uncertain lines between truth and falsehood; catastrophic events such as the eruption of Vesuvius and the flooding of the Mississippi River, and much more. In addition to the radio talks and plays specifically produced for children, Benjamin delivered a variety of pieces on subjects from practical advice on how to manipulate the boss, and the rhetoric of self-help and self-promotion (“A Pay Raise?! Whatever Gave You That Idea!”), to Enlightenment debates on literary taste and the popularization of reading practices (What the Germans Were Reading While Their Classical Authors Were Writing). In the radio play Lichtenberg, Benjamin places various apparatuses of surveillance in the hands of “moon beings,” externalized, otherworldly figures who stand in judgment, not unlike omniscient narrators (and, Benjamin suggests, followers of psychoanalysis), over the human capacity for unhappiness. And these are only some of the texts that we find among Benjamin’s total output for radio.

Most of Benjamin’s works for radio have never before been translated into English. Radio Benjamin presents, for the first time, a collection in English devoted specifically and entirely to Benjamin’s work in this medium. Section I presents the surviving texts of Benjamin’s “radio stories for children,” the talks he wrote and delivered for the Youth Hour on Radio Berlin and Radio Frankfurt. Section II includes the two radio plays Benjamin wrote for children, Much Ado About Kasper and The Cold Heart (the latter co-written with Ernst Schoen). Section III comprises selections from Benjamin’s “literary radio talks,” his lectures and readings as well as the surviving texts of radio dialogues and Hörmodelle, or listening models, along with two radio plays not written specifically for children’s programming. Finally, Section IV presents selections from Benjamin’s writings on radio that were not written for broadcast or delivered on air.

Interrupted Reception

Despite their thematic and formal richness, and notwithstanding the seemingly inexhaustible interest in all things Benjamin, the radio works have received surprisingly little critical attention. Even as Benjamin continues to be known and anthologized for his pioneering study of the effects of technologies of reproduction on the experience, consumption, and understanding of the work of art, his contributions to the early history of radio broadcasting and his thinking on the subject remain relatively ignored or underrepresented in discussions of his legacy, as well as in debates surrounding the last century’s proliferation of new media, and of sound media in particular. Faced with this material, we might well ask how such works could have remained so obscured, or, to use a more media-specific metaphor, so comparatively unheard. I shall address this question through two speculative explanations, one related to the history of the medium and to the archival conditions of Benjamin’s radio work, the other biographical. In the process, we will follow the publication history of the radio materials, picking up on the interferences that have contributed to their interrupted reception along the way.

The dissemination of Benjamin’s radio broadcasts has been subject to the forms of dispersal and loss often associated with the auditory object more generally. As one critic has argued, “As historical object, sound cannot furnish a good story or consistent cast of characters nor can it validate any ersatz notions of progress or generational maturity. The history is scattered, fleeting, and highly mediated — it is as poor an object in any respect as sound itself.”³ In other words, it is not only because Benjamin, working for radio in its infancy, delivered live unrecorded broadcasts unavailable for future audio playback, or even because he failed to keep a complete written archive of the typescripts, that we are left with an imperfect account of the radio works as a whole, that is, as scripts, performances, and works of art. Rather, while such contingencies and others, including the difficult, complex history of the extant manuscripts, are certainly part of the history of Benjamin’s radio works, and though the story of what has been lost must, paradoxically, be somehow included or acknowledged, the impossibility of giving a complete account remains an essential component of the medium of sound broadcast and audio performance itself.

In Benjamin’s radio play for children, The Cold Heart, cowritten with Ernst Schoen, the character of the Radio Announcer attempts to entice the other characters (lifted from Wilhelm Hauff’s eponymous tale on which the script is based) to join him in “Voice Land,” a spatializing trope for the delocalized zone of broadcast, a frame for the uncertain space and invisible borders of radio transmission. He says to them: “You can come into Voice Land and speak to thousands of children, but I patrol the borders of this country and there’s a condition you must first fulfill” (224). This “condition,” as explained by the Announcer, turns out to be an allegory for one of the material and medial conditions of radio, and of other media of audiophonic broadcast more generally: radio, he insists, will require letting go of the material trappings of the body. The characters must agree to “surrender all finery and relinquish all external beauty,” an act of disrobing and disembodiment that places an oddly sartorial emphasis on the otherwise generic problem of radio’s need to transform the visual into the strictly auditory. In Voice Land, then, “nothing is left but [the] voice.” A subtraction with a gain: this “voice will then be heard by thousands of children simultaneously” (225).

Radio criticism has come to refer to this condition — the strange and powerful effect whereby a voice, boosted by a medium (sometimes thought of as a “new” one), emanates extra-broadly, becoming disconnected from body and point of origin — as the acousmatic voice. The acousmatic voice is a “voice whose source one cannot see, a voice whose origin cannot be identified, a voice one cannot place. It is a voice in search of an origin, in search of a body.”⁴ As the “condition” stipulated by the Announcer suggests, one of the effects of the acousmatic voice is that it radiates so broadly, both exceeding and redefining the limits of the human voice in its ability to make itself heard.

If the radio voice is always disseminated from afar, from an invisible off-site, the questions introduced by this acousmatic radiophony (how does the amplification and diffusion of the radio voice produce new experiences of both intimacy and distance? how does radio’s technologically enabled disintegration of voice and body itself become invisible, or, as it were, inaudible?) are, in Benjamin’s case multiplied by the strange status of radio works without sound: while Benjamin is known to have delivered most of his radio talks himself, and to have “directed, acted in, and narrated” his radio plays and listening models, there are, unfortunately, no extant audio recordings of his voice.⁵ A fragment of one of the broadcasts of Much Ado About Kasper has survived, but Benjamin’s voice is not part of the audio-archival residuum.⁶ For such works, where the textual trace represents a kind of pre- or post-figuration of an audio event and broadcast performance, we must read and imagine what we cannot hear.⁷

Benjamin’s radio texts, produced during what, in retrospect, appears as a medium’s period of incunabula — those early works that are “notoriously fragile and difficult to hear”⁸—bear witness to the difficulties of categorizing the written, threshold material prepared in advance of an audio text. Particularly in the absence of any extant recording of the broadcast, how do we understand the archival, object, and textual status of the remaining typescripts, prepared by Benjamin, often through dictation and with the help of a typist?⁹ How do we define the shifting boundaries of the radio work — as historical event and surviving text, singular performance and reproducible artifact, live broadcast and published material? In this regard, perhaps most challenging are those broadcasts Benjamin is known to have given but for which there is no reliable surviving typescript.¹⁰

Of the relationship between musical score and performance, Adorno has written: “Every score is, in a way, only a system of prescriptions for possible reproduction, and nothing ‘in itself.’ ” This formulation takes stock of the retrospective investment in the event and experience of live performance as exuding an “aura or authenticity,” an auratic surplus perceived as lacking not only from the musical script but also from the recorded performance or radio broadcast.¹¹ If, unlike musical scores, Benjamin’s typescripts represent the traces of materials prepared for one or two broadcasts, rather than initiating templates intended for ongoing or infinitely reproducible future performances, they are nonetheless all that remains of the textual, on-air performances he gave. In at least one instance they have been subsequently taken up for audio dissemination, having been regrouped, reread, and recorded.¹²

The dispersal of Benjamin’s radio works — as sound objects, performances, written documents, broadcast material — has been reflected in and compounded by the complex publishing and archival history of the works. The Gesammelte Schriften does not gather the radio works together in one place or introduce them as a discrete set of texts.¹³ Rather, they remain scattered under various headings and in different volumes throughout the multi-volume work. The reasons for this are, in part, historical, and the itinerary of some of the radio typescripts is worth noting; their story, an account of multiple seizures and relocations, not only contributed to the relative inaccessibility and obscurity of the radio works during the years of the production of the Gesammelte Schriften, but also bears witness to a Cold War archival history that remains, in large part, still to be written. As an archival history, it is necessarily an account of destruction and preservation, loss and containment; such an account is both part of the archive and its limit. Certainly one hopes that as the Benjaminian legacy continues, and as the works for radio receive more attention, more details will emerge concerning this layered history.

When Benjamin fled Paris in 1940, he left behind a part of his archive in his apartment, including the remaining typescripts of some of his radio texts. (According to the editors of the Gesammelte Schriften, these were materials Benjamin felt were “unimportant,”¹⁴ a bias that has been exacerbated in his posthumous legacy.) Confiscated by the Gestapo, they escaped destruction only through a series of chance events: mistakenly packed into the archive of the Pariser Tageszeitung [Paris Daily News], they were saved in 1945 through an act of sabotage. Later taken to the Soviet Union, they were transferred around 1960 to the GDR. Initially held in the Central Archive in Potsdam, they were then moved in 1972 to the literary archives of the Academy of Arts in East Berlin. The editors of the Gesammelte Schriften were denied access to these materials until 1983.¹⁵

The collection of typescripts for the radio stories for children was first published in 1985, when they appeared under the title Aufklärung für Kinder [Enlightenment for Children] (ed. Rolf Tiedemann, Frankfurt: Suhrkamp, 1985). They were later included in the Gesammelte Schriften, where they appear in the final volume as “Rundfunkgeschichten für Kinder” [Radio Stories for Children] (GS, 7.1, 68–249). Other radio-related materials remain scattered throughout the Gesammelte Schriften: Benjamin’s “literary radio talks” are not presented together, and remain even less visible as a group.¹⁶ The radio plays, as well as the surviving example of Benjamin’s listening models and the one remaining radio dialogue, are similarly dispersed. The forthcoming new critical edition of Benjamin’s complete works will correct this problem and, for the first time in German, gather these materials in one place.¹⁷

The difficulty of identifying the radio works within the Gesammelte Schriften is compounded by the multiplicity of programming categories into which they fall. Schiller-Lerg has identified at least eight separate programming categories for Benjamin’s radio production: Tales, Lectures, Book Hour, Conversations, Radio Plays, Listening Models, Youth Radio, School Radio.¹⁸ While these categories need not govern our reading of the radio texts, the Gesammelte Schriften makes some confusing choices, collapsing, for instance, the important categories of the Hörspiel [radio play] and the Hörmodell [listening model].¹⁹

Along with the complex archival and publication history of the works for radio, we can cite Benjamin’s own “negative attitude toward much of the work he did for money” as one of the factors that has, perhaps, contributed to their continued perception as relatively “unimportant.”²⁰ In his affirmative reassessment of their value, suggesting that Benjamin’s radio pieces “also contain sediments of his decidedly original way of seeing,” Scholem has pointed us in the right direction.²¹ In an attempt to account for the relatively discounted status of the radio pieces within the Benjaminian œuvre, we turn to some of Benjamin’s comments on his remunerated work, including the work for broadcast.

Regional radio broadcasting was introduced in Germany in October 1923.²² By early 1925, Benjamin had begun to think of the radio, or rather of writing for print periodicals supported by the new medium of radio, as a possible source of income. In a letter to Scholem dated February 19, 1925, Benjamin writes from Frankfurt: “I am keeping an eye open for any opportunities that may arise locally and finally have applied for the editorship of a radio magazine or, to be more precise, a supplement. This would be a part-time job, but it probably will not be so easy for me to get because we are having trouble agreeing on the honorarium. The situation is that Ernst Schoen has had an important position here for months now. He is the manager of the Frankfurt ‘broadcasting’ station and put in a good word for me.”²³

This comment introduces three threads that will persist throughout Benjamin’s work for radio. First, it suggests the intertwining and interdependence of print and broadcast media in Benjamin’s career. Second, it points to the financial insecurities that will continue to preoccupy him and which will nearly always be in the foreground when he mentions his contributions to radio. And third, it highlights the way in which Ernst Schoen, a school friend of Benjamin’s who worked for the Frankfurt radio station Südwestdeutsche Rundfunk and who would become, in 1929, its artistic director, will consistently be credited with having helped Benjamin to launch and sustain his radio career, at least until political pressures made it impossible for either of them to go on working in German broadcasting.²⁴ As Adorno puts it, “The few years during which Benjamin was later able to live relatively free of worry, following the failure of his academic plans and prior to the outbreak of fascism, he owed in no small measure to the solidarity of Schoen, who as program director of Radio Frankfurt provided him with an opportunity for regular and frequent work.”²⁵

While Benjamin did not secure the position in Frankfurt in 1925, he would continue to consider the radio a source of much-needed income. He gave his first broadcast, a lecture entitled “Young Russian Poets,” from Radio Frankfurt on March 23, 1927.²⁶ In 1929, Benjamin’s engagement with radio became more frequent and intensive. That year, he gave at least thirteen broadcasts: a total of eight readings or talks from Frankfurt, and five talks on children’s radio from Berlin. In 1930, he gave at least thirty-seven broadcasts, making it his most productive year on the air. In 1931, his work would be heard on the radio approximately twenty-one times; from January through September of 1932, thirteen times; and finally, twice in January 1933.²⁷

Yet even as Benjamin’s work for radio became more frequent, or perhaps precisely as he became more dependent on it, his epistolary comments on the material remained, for the most part, disparaging. In his correspondence, he almost always mentions radio in the context of pressing financial concerns, anxiety over which only increased in the years leading up to his departure from Germany in March 1933. His work for radio is among “the work I do simply to earn a living,” and in response to what appears to be a request from Scholem for an archive of Benjamin’s “works for the radio,” Benjamin writes even more pointedly, in a letter of February 28, 1933, that he hasn’t “been successful in collecting them all. I am speaking of the radio plays, not the series of countless talks, which [will] now come to an end, unfortunately, and are of no interest except in economic terms, but that is now a thing of the past.”²⁸ Here we note that amid Benjamin’s ongoing disdain for the majority of his work for radio, presumably including the stories for children and the literary radio talks, he spares the radio plays and singles out Much Ado About Kasper in particular as “notable from a technical point of view.”²⁹

By the summer of 1932, Benjamin was to experience the effects of an increasingly constricted set of options for his contributions to radio. In July, he wrote to Scholem that the “reactionary movement … has affected my work for radio,” pointing to the Papen government’s takeover of the airwaves.³⁰ By the fall of 1932, Benjamin, writing to Scholem from Provermo, where he was staying with Wilhelm Speyer (coauthor of “Prescriptions for Comedy Writers”), would again comment on the increasingly limited radio situation, noting that he was left “completely deprived by the events at the Berlin radio station of the income that I used to be able to count on, and with the gloomiest thoughts.”³¹

Benjamin’s last transmission from the Berlin station was the children’s radio broadcast “The Mississippi Flood of 1927,” on March 23, 1932. His last broadcast from Frankfurt was “Aus einer unveröffenlichten Skizzensammlung Berliner Kindheit um 1900” [From an unpublished collection of sketches, Berlin Childhood Around 1900], on January 29, 1933. This was a selection from what would become Benjamin’s famous text, Berlin Childhood Around 1900.³² The next day, January 30, 1933, Hitler was appointed chancellor, and the Nazi torchlight parade was sent out over the airwaves as the very first nationwide live broadcast.

In Benjamin’s surviving listening model, “A Pay Raise?! Whatever Gave You That Idea!” (cowritten with Wolf Zucker), Benjamin considers how to argue one’s case, highlighting one’s own value as an employee. A playfully didactic take on the rhetoric of self-promotion, Benjamin and Zucker argue for learning how to successfully present oneself and ask for a salary increase, at the same time making the case for tuning in, since one might well profit from listening to the radio. Read alongside Benjamin’s own disparaging, often discouraged remarks about his own radio career, “A Pay Raise?!” resonates as an ironic commentary on Benjamin’s own sense of indebtedness and failure, as well as on the limitations of what the text repeatedly calls “success.” If “A Pay Raise?!” puts forward a model of self-interest and self-help in which the individual need only learn to be confident and persuasive enough to transcend any and all resistance to his cause, promoting a self-help ideal in which it is enough to say that success means “contending] with life’s difficulties in a relaxed and pleasant manner” (302), Benjamin’s ambivalence about his own career suggests that the simplicity of the model is also its flaw. What would it mean to approach life’s “struggles [as] a kind of sport … as [one] would a game” (302), given an economic and political context in which the stakes of the game make “success” a far less obvious, less clearly achievable ideal as well as a matter of survival?

Was Benjamin’s career on radio a “successful” one? Benjamin could hardly have argued his way out of the end of his work for radio. Perhaps, individually and together, the radio texts offer a different measure through which to evaluate his career and to read the value of his on-air achievements. Though they were ultimately unable to lift him above what he called the “ruin” and “catastrophe” that threatened his life and work, the radio broadcasts were central to his writings; some of the written works most important to Benjamin were presented, at one time and in one form or another, on the radio.³³ The broadcast pieces further our understanding of a wide variety of Benjaminian themes.

Reading the Radio Works: What Is Radio for Benjamin?

Readers of Benjamin’s work will be familiar with some of the thematic concerns of the radio pieces. Just as Benjamin focuses in the “Work of Art” essay on the problematic appearance of the “vanishing point” of aura under the changing conditions of the present,³⁴ in the radio pieces, Benjamin’s gaze often falls upon traces of disappearance and the vestiges of obsolete social forms. Thus, in the radio stories for children that focus on Berlin, Benjamin is interested in presenting a Berlin that is in the process of becoming fossilized. In “Street Trade and Markets in Old and New Berlin,” for instance, Benjamin presents the erstwhile market hall as an exemplary scene of outmoded nineteenth-century social relations. After evoking, through the literature of Adolf Glassbrenner, the “market women” and “hawkers” that peopled the markets of “old Berlin,” he concludes, “Most of this sort of business has utterly vanished from the streets of Berlin” (14). And, he continues, just as the classic hawkers have disappeared, so too have sand-delivery men and colporteurs.

In order to present such typologies of vanished life, Benjamin must catalog and read their traces in the present. The problem of the preservation, appearance, and representation of social forms precisely in their moment of evanescence is, of course, hardly novel to Benjamin’s work for radio. It is rather the crux of his discussion, in The Arcades Project, of the “dialectical image” and “dialectics at a standstill.”³⁵ Yet radio introduces a specific, medially driven problem of presentation: not only how to locate and present the traces of a disappeared past, but how to cite the auditory trace — the past as sound and the past in its historically specific sound forms. Is there a specific audio form for the exemplary remainder? Is there a specifically auditory scene or form of the dialectical image? How does radio, and Benjamin’s radio work in particular, confront the much older problem of ekphrasis, or “the verbal representation of visual representation”?³⁶ How to conceive of the specifically “auditory” remainder in the context of a past that remains silent, a past that precedes the technologies of audio archivization and sound reproduction we have become so accustomed to today? Or, to put such questions, which speak to debates around the definition and nature of medial specificity, in a Benjaminian register: How does radio translate or transpose the dialectical image, which Benjamin argues is found “in language,” into language on the radio?³⁷ Is there such a thing as a recognizable radio language, or language as it sounds and signifies “on radio”? How do Benjamin’s well-known arguments in the “Work of Art” essay, in which he names the camera-enhanced visual experience as the scene of the discovery of the “optical unconscious,” enable us to ask whether and how new forms of “hearing-matter” might pave the way for something like an “auditory unconscious” to make itself heard?³⁸ Similarly, we might ask whether and how Benjamin’s comments about the effects of technological reproducibility on the appearance and disappearance of aura might carry over to, and be changed by, an attention to the effects of new techniques of sound recording and sound amplification on the experience and spectrum of hearing. Does sound recording bring into focus, or perhaps even into hearing, something like the vanishing of an auditory aura?³⁹

Benjamin’s radio addresses do not provide us with a direct or simple answer to such questions about the possible medial or sonic specificity of radio. Indeed, where they do foreground the acoustic dimensions of radio as a medium, they also place emphasis on the literary and written text as the mode of transmission of spoken language.⁴⁰ Still, the radio texts leave us with questions about how to approach not only the specificity of Benjamin’s radio voice, but also the interactions between the radio texts and his other work. These are questions for future scholarship.

Such scholarship might also consider how Benjamin exploits and plays with the imposed “blindness” of the medium. In both Much Ado About Kasper and The Cold Heart, Benjamin creates scenes in which fog imposes limitations on sight, forcing the characters to embody the condition of the radio listener, a condition of relative blindness that leads to a kind of amplified call for audio and cognitive attunement, for listening in to both what is said and what cannot be heard. How, if at all, does this attempt to sort out a specific channel for auditory intake support and/or contradict the mixed-media approach of the radio works as a whole?

It is, by now, a truism of media studies that every new medium reinvents those that came before it. If Benjamin’s texts for broadcast encourage us to ask how he understood the unprecedented aesthetic potential and political implications of radio, they also compel us to consider how radio reinterprets the very definition of a medium. When adapted for or broadcast over radio, is a “literary” text still literature? What happens to literature “after” radio? How does the shift from the printed page to the airwaves recast notions of popularity and the public? Benjamin takes up such questions and acts of remediation in his radio play, What the Germans Were Reading While Their Classical Authors Were Writing, in which he dramatizes the difficulty of pinning down a specifically contemporary definition of “popularity” and “popularization.”

It would not be Radio Benjamin if concerns over remediation — the refashioning of old media in the new; ongoing changes to the modes of broadcast, dissemination, and consumption of art — were delimited as exclusively aesthetic or formal. Readers of the works presented in Section IV will quickly recognize a Brecht-inspired attempt to bend radio away from unidirectional transmission in favor of a two-way apparatus, a radio that turns the listener from a passive consumer into an active producer, expanding the public’s understanding of its own expertise.⁴¹ In addition to the more explicitly political and theoretical concerns expressed in those essays, Benjamin puts forward a pedagogical approach in the children’s radio pieces, a mode of storytelling that, for instance, invites his audience to tune into and even to teach their parents a critique of commodity fetishism (see the last paragraph of “Berlin Toy Tour I”). Indeed, the radio stories for children display a range of educational scenes and topics, such as the opening of “The Rental Barracks,” where Benjamin offers his audience an architectural history they are unlikely to learn from the usual authorities (“Prick up your ears and I’ll tell you something you won’t often hear in your German lessons, or in geography, or in social studies …” [56]).⁴² In “Cagliostro,” Benjamin uses a story about a swindler to dismiss any notion of the Enlightenment as inoculation against or triumph over the supernatural. Benjamin’s presentations of such “alternative” sources of hearing and learning comingle the high and the low and include sources such as the popular literature of Glassbrenner and the Berlin puppet theater, as well as the works of Hoffmann, Fontane, and Goethe; other, perhaps even more unexpected learning sites include children’s books, children’s toys, factories and department stores, treatises on witches, the history of the Bastille, folklore, newspapers, and illustrated magazines, to give only a partial list of Benjamin’s sources and the situations and stories he draws on.

Perhaps the most unnerving, ambivalent presentation of radio’s range and uncertain political import comes in Much Ado About Kasper, where Benjamin turns the radio into an apparatus not only of resistance to official channels of power and knowledge, but also of surveillance and unauthorized listening-in. Toward the beginning of the play, when Herr Maulschmidt, the representative of the radio station, eagerly solicits Kasper to speak on the air, Kasper’s initial response highlights a playfully naïve point of view, one that gives voice to the non-obviousness of the way and the fact that radio works. Maulschmidt, whose absurd name (something like “mouth-smith” or “snout-forger”) satirizes radio as “giving voice,” tells Kasper that he has long sought “to place you, Kasper, the age-old and famous friend of children, in front of the microphone” (203). When Kasper refuses, his explanation becomes a play on the German for radio, Rundfunk.

HERR MAULSCHMIDT: What’s that, Kasper? Do I hear you correctly? You’d turn down the exalted and solemn honor of speaking on the radio?

KASPER: You bet!

HERR MAULSCHMIDT: But why?

…

KASPER: You know, with all those sparks [Funken] flying around [rund], I might try to catch one and then I’d catch fire myself.

HERR MAULSCHMIDT: Kasper, you don’t even know what radio is. Stick close to me and I’m sure you’ll get a better sense of what it’s about. (204)

The play makes good on this promise near its end. After escaping the radio station and being chased by Maulschmidt through various other acoustically signaled locations, including a train station, a carnival, and a zoo, Kasper finds himself back at home, where Maulschmidt turns up to inform him that, unbeknownst to Kasper, he has been on the radio after all. Handing Kasper a thousand marks, he explains that it is his fee for speaking on the air:

KASPER: What’s that supposed to mean?

HERR MAULSCHMIDT: It means that you spoke on the radio, even if you didn’t know it.

KASPER: Well, that must have been in my sleep.

HERR MAULSCHMIDT: Not in your sleep, but in your bed.

FRAU PUSCHI: In bed?

HERR MAULSCHMIDT: He who laughs last, laughs loudest. We at the radio station are even cleverer than you. While you were out in the city perpetrating your scandalous deeds, we secretly installed a microphone in your room, under your bed, and now we have everything you said, on a record, and I just happened to bring one along for you.

…

KASPER: I’ve just heard for the first time what radio is. (219)

This scene highlights the structural significance of sound recording and surveillance to radio. Just as the film camera has “penetrated reality,” the radio microphone has stealthily entered spaces that might otherwise be thought of as beyond capture or out of (over) hearing range, in this case, the domestic space, the private interior, the bedroom.⁴³ The hidden microphone, like the omniscient narrator, can travel across otherwise impermeable bounds, picking up voices and gathering material for new forms of acoustic presentation. The mobile location of radio — including its origin and means of recording and transmission — not only expands radio’s range of hearing (to, say, new locations including the previously unrecorded zones of private speech, dreams, and the sounds of sleep), but also introduces the possibility of stolen speech and unauthorized audio impressions. The voice is subject to new and unseen forms of expropriation.

Benjamin’s most explicit commentary on radio in “The Work of Art” is found in a footnote, where he addresses the acousmatics of the medium, or the technologically enabled “detachability” and “transportability” of the human not only as image but also as voice. Radio and film, Benjamin argues, shift the scope and scene of public presentation for actors and politicians alike, a process that “results in a new form of selection — selection before an apparatus — from which the star and the dictator emerge as victors.”⁴⁴ Benjamin’s more hopeful, affirmative comments on the politics and potential of radio, along with his broadcasts themselves, project a future for radio that would be built from a broader base, one that would be governed not by the “selection” of the interests of capital or the established networks of power, but by a more chaotic, unpredictable stream of voices. That we are finally able to receive the texts of his broadcasts in English is a testimony to his own enduring star power and the chance endurance of his broadcast texts.

A Note on the Compiling of the Texts

In compiling and editing the radio works, we have relied on the Gesammelte Schriften, whose editors, despite the dispersed status of the radio pieces, provide detailed notes and introductory comments on the archival history and condition of the extant typescripts. We have also made use of the meticulous and invaluable research of Sabine Schiller-Lerg, whose book on Benjamin and radio remains, to date, the most important and comprehensive contribution to the subject.⁴⁵

Schiller-Lerg’s work provides the most detailed information about the print publications, such as radio journals and their program announcements, which reveal the dates and times of Benjamin’s broadcast performances. In some cases, such archival materials also supply the title of the broadcast and the program or series of which Benjamin’s work was a part. From such sources we learn, for instance, that most of the radio stories for children, broadcast on Radio Berlin and Radio Frankfurt’s Youth Hour, were typically scheduled for a set period of twenty to thirty minutes. We have included all such data about listed broadcast titles, dates, and times at the end of each chapter, in the section following the text of each translation.

The notes to the texts expand on Benjamin’s mention of proper names and titles, where we thought such information necessary to illuminate an obscure reference or other relevant contextual information. In addition, and with the help of digital searches, we have been able to provide additional information about possible source materials. Written for broadcast performance rather than publication, Benjamin’s typescripts, with very few exceptions, do not give bibliographic details for the texts from which he gathered his quotations; we cannot be certain that he consulted the precise materials or editions to which we direct the reader’s attention. However, particularly given the obscurity of some of these sources, the fact of a matched quotation, even without additional verification in Benjamin’s own hand, may be enough reason to provide a text and context for follow-up, should the reader be interested. In most instances the reference material is in German, which poses a limitation for the English-speaking audience. Notwithstanding this obstacle, and taking into consideration that Benjamin often modifies or abridges the original, such references indicate to the reader that Benjamin is borrowing from or leaning on a source.

¹ Theodor W. Adorno, Prisms, trans. Samuel and Shierry Weber (Cambridge, MA: MIT Press, 1983), 229. The full sentence reads, “Everything which fell under the scrutiny of his words was transformed, as though it had become radioactive,” and in the German, “Unter dem Blick seiner Worte verwandelte sich, worauf immer er fiel, als wäre es radioaktiv geworden” (“Charakteristik Walter Benjamins,” in Prismen, Kulturkritik und Gesellschaft, [Frankfurt Suhrkamp, 1955], 232). Although Adorno’s metaphor uses a different register of boundary crossing, the German radioaktiv, like the English radioactive, shares with Rundfunk, or radio, a connotation of atmospheric spreading, dispersal, and uncontrolled movement across and within borders and lines of containment; the airwaves, like the air or the atmosphere, represent a quasi-invisible scene or medium of transmission. While the German does not directly imply the coincidence of these two (roughly contemporary) modes of radiality, the notion of Benjamin’s gaze, and from there his work, effecting a radioactive transformation suggests the potentially dangerous, if also exciting and new, power of radio and its power to broadcast. On the early debate in Germany over the use of the Germanized Rundfunk rather than “Radio,” see Peter Jelavich, Berlin Alexanderplatz: Radio, Film and the Death of Weimar Culture (Berkeley: University of California Press, 2006), 42.

² For reasons discussed below, the exact number of broadcasts has been difficult to determine. To date, the most detailed account of the archival traces left by the radio works — including extant typescripts and announcements of dates of broadcast in the program guides of the Berlin and Frankfurt radio stations — can be found in Sabine Schiller-Lerg’s Walter Benjamin und der Rundfunk (Munich: K. G. Saur, 1984). In the Appendix to this volume, I have followed and added to Schiller-Lerg’s chronology of the broadcasts, where she lists a total of eighty-six known and dated broadcasts by Benjamin. Some typescripts of broadcasts Benjamin is known to have given are, however, missing, lost, or undatable. Given the possibility that Benjamin gave additional broadcasts, and that for some of the known broadcast dates the titles remain uncertain, it is not possible to provide a complete account of the history and dissemination of Benjamin’s radio archive. According to Schiller-Lerg, “Around ninety scripts have been found or reconstructed” (“Walter Benjamin, Radio Journalist: Theory and Practice of Weimar Radio,” trans. Susan Nieschlag, Journal of Communication Inquiry 13.1 [1989], 45). One should note, however, that this number refers to the total number of broadcasts, in other words the readings and performances of Benjamin’s radio scripts (in most but not all cases, Benjamin read the works himself or participated in their production). In some cases, Benjamin delivered the same or similar material on Radio Berlin and Radio Frankfurt (and in one case Radio Cologne). For further information about Benjamin’s broadcast output and the known dates of his radio performances, see the Appendix.

³ Douglas Kahn, “Introduction: Histories of Sound Once Removed,” in Wireless Imagination: Sound, Radio, and the Avant-Garde, eds. Douglas Kahn and Gregory Whitehead (Cambridge, MA: MIT Press, 1992), 2. Denis Hollier casts the argument for radio’s medial specificity even more pointedly, putting it in terms of what he calls the “nonarchivable afterlife” of broadcast, or broadcast defined as live, ephemeral, and non-cooptable event. “Unless it leaves a deposit on an archivable support, sound remains merely an event and disappears without a trace, without being able to be repeated, cited, convoked … The characteristic specific to radio is that it is live. The living word flows from it and expends itself unreservedly. The fact that it leaves no trace cannot be blamed on a temporary defect, linked to the medium’s immaturity: that is its very definition. This definition is threatened by the progress of recording technology and by the social success of radio.” Hollier describes this specificity as a radical “calling of live broadcasting,” or “radiophonic utopia,” an impossible, apocalyptic finality built upon the possibility that radio speech, not unlike sacred speech, might remain unrepeatable and therefore beyond contamination. In this sense radio might legitimately, if also forgettably, declare the end of the book (“only radio can proclaim the death of paper”): whereas literary or graphic declarations of the end (of literature, books, writing, archivization, the world) confront the double-bind of their own ongoing iterability, a radio event might plausibly announce itself as the last to speak, the definitive break, the ultimate sign-off. Hollier, “The Death of Paper: A Radio Play,” October 78 (Fall 1996), 18–19. Benjamin’s broadcasts, even those that take catastrophe and disaster as their subject, do not share this taste for positing radio as essentially one-way or anarchival.

⁴ Mladen Dolar, A Voice and Nothing More (Cambridge, MA: MIT Press, 2006), 60. In his book Radio (1936), Rudolf Arnheim puts the condition succinctly, stating of the radio announcer: “His is one of the purest of radio features achievable in words. He is nothing but a voice, his corporeal existence is not included in the broadcast. He exists, like music, not beyond but in the loudspeaker.” Arnheim, Radio, trans. Margaret Ludwig and Herbert Read (London: Faber and Faber, 1936), 197. For a critical discussion of the acousmatics of sound reproducibility, see Jonathan Sterne, The Audible Past (Durham: Duke University Press, 2003), 20–6.

⁵ Schiller-Lerg, “Walter Benjamin, Radio Journalist,” 45. For the eighty-six broadcast-events she lists in her book, Schiller-Lerg suggests that Benjamin probably did not participate in the actual on-air broadcasts of eight of them (Walter Benjamin und der Rundfunk, 530–41). For additional comments on Benjamin’s radio performances and his process of improvisation, see the editors’ notes to Benjamin, Gesammelte Schriften vol. 7.2, eds. Rolf Tiedemann, Hermann Schweppenhäuser, et al. (Frankfurt: Suhrkamp, 1989), 584. See also Klaus Doderer, “Walter Benjamin and Children’s Literature,” in “With the Sharpened Axe of Reason”: Approaches to Walter Benjamin, ed. Gerhard Fischer (Oxford: Berg, 1996), 171–2.

⁶ On this recorded fragment of the Cologne broadcast of Much Ado About Kasper, see Schiller-Lerg, Walter Benjamin und der Rundfunk, 252–69; Klaus Doderer, “Walter Benjamins dreifaches Interesse an der Kinderliteratur: Sammler, Theoretiker und Autor,” in Walter Benjamin und die Kinderliteratur, ed. Doderer (Weinheim: Juventa, 1988), 30, n. 5; and Philippe Baudouin, Au microphone: Dr. Walter Benjamin: Walter Benjamin et la création radiophonique, 1929–1933 (Paris: Éditions de la Maison des sciences de l’homme, 2009), where what remains of the recorded broadcast is included as part of a CD that accompanies the book. As of this writing, the audio-recording is also available online at www.youtube.com, under the title “Walter Benjamin: Radau um Kasperl (1932).”

⁷ Arnheim captures the difficult, and one might say phonocentric, relationship between script and broadcast performance when he claims that the latter necessarily exceeds and cannot be properly captured by the former. On the one hand, Arnheim prescribes a meticulous approach to preparing the broadcast script, such that “when one is drafting out a wireless talk, one must consciously include in the script the personal tone of voice and way of speaking, quite indifferent as to whether the resultant ‘score’ of the talk makes at the same time a good piece of printed literature or not” (Radio, 218). And yet, even the most elaborate script is bound to remain inferior and inadequate to the improvised performance, such that “To print broadcast talks quite literally is in most cases a complete mistake” (218–19).

⁸ On early radio and its rarefied incunabula, see Sterne, The Audible Past, 288.

⁹ Benjamin comments on his process of dictation, along with its “liberating” effects, in the correspondence. See letter to Scholem of January 25, 1930, in Benjamin, The Correspondence of Walter Benjamin, 1910–1940, eds. Gershom Scholem and Theodor W. Adorno, trans. Manfred R. Jacobson and Evelyn Jacobson (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1994), 361; letters to Scholem of February 5, 1931 and February 28 1932, in The Story of a Friendship, trans. Harry Zohn (New York: New York Review Books, 2003), 209–10, 227–8. For more on the effects of Benjamin’s having dictated the radio materials, see the editors’ remarks in the Gesammelte Schriften, 7.2, 528–9.

¹⁰ These are “known” broadcasts in the sense that other archival traces, including announcements in radio journals such as the Berlin station’s Funkstunde and the Frankfurt station’s Südwestdeutsche Rundfunk-Zeitung, testify to their having taken place. The lost or missing broadcasts can be divided into two categories: broadcasts for which no typescript remains whatsoever, and broadcasts for which some related material still exists, such as a print version published by Benjamin in a newspaper or journal. For further information on the lost or missing broadcasts, see the Appendix.

¹¹ Adorno, Current of Music: Elements of a Radio Theory, ed. Robert Hullot-Kentor (Cambridge, UK: Polity, 2009), 89. Here Adorno attempts to adapt Benjamin’s famous discussion of aura beyond the visual to the question of sound reproducibility. After initially concluding that for music, the “idea of reproducibility” is fundamental rather than subsequent or external to the existence of the musical work, Adorno concedes that “in music something very closely akin to Benjamin’s observation can be found. The authenticity which Benjamin attributes in the visual arts to the original must be attributed to live reproduction in music” (89, italics in original). In other words, the live performance becomes the locus of aura precisely insofar as recorded or broadcast material threatens to compete with or destroy it (89–90). Regarding radio, Adorno is critical not only of the “pre-technical” notion of the live, non-recorded performance as more authentic than the broadcast material, but also of any notion of radio as carrying over the live event’s putative uniqueness or the perceived immediacy of its “here and now”-ness. Radio, Adorno argues, may produce an effect of a “here and now” event, but this effect is “illusionary,” as it denies radio’s essential and ineluctable tendency to standardize, or to make broadcast an experience of the “ubiquitous” (93).

¹² Some of the radio stories for children, recorded in 2002 by Harald Wieser and broadcast by Radio Bremen, were made available on audio CD under the title “Aufklärung für Kinder: von Kaspar Hauser, einem alten Gefängnis, Pompeji und Hunden — nicht nur für Kinder” [Enlightenment for Children: On Kaspar Hauser, an Old Prison, Pompeii and Dogs — Not Just for Children] (Hamburg: Hoffmann und Campe, 2003).

¹³ Walter Benjamin, Gesammelte Schriften, 7 vols., with supplements, eds Rolf Tiedemann, Hermann Schweppenhäuser, et al. (Frankfurt: Suhrkamp, 1972–89). Hereafter cited as GS.

¹⁴ GS, 1.2, 759.

¹⁵ This account is derived from two slightly different narratives provided in the GS: see GS, 1.2, 761 and GS, 7.2, 525. For an additional account by the GS editors of the archival history of the radio works, including their comments on the problem of access, see also GS, 2.3, 1440–3. For a brief account in English of this part of Benjamin’s archive, see Esther Leslie, Walter Benjamin (London: Reaktion Books, 2007), 11.

¹⁶ On the scattered status of the literary radio talks, see the editors’ note in GS, 7.2, 608–9. In some instances, the scattering of these materials in the GS can be attributed to the fact that while Benjamin’s published versions of the essays survive, there is no known typescript of the original radio-broadcast form. This is the case for broadcasts of material such as the famous “Unpacking My Library,” which began as a broadcast on Radio Frankfurt on April 27, 1931.

¹⁷ The forthcoming volume dedicated to Benjamin’s radio work, edited by Thomas Küpper and Anja Nowak, is scheduled to appear in Fall 2014. Entitled Rundfunkarbeiten, it is to be Volume 9 of the collective edition, Walter Benjamin: Werke und Nachlaß, to be published by Suhrkamp.

¹⁸ Schiller-Lerg, Walter Benjamin und der Rundfunk, 540–1. On the overlapping, ninth category of Funkspiele [radio plays], which she uses in addition to the Hörspiele [radio or listening plays] and the Hörmodelle [listening models, Benjamin’s original term], see ibid., 218.

¹⁹ The GS includes the radio plays What the Germans Were Reading While Their Classical Authors Were Writing, Much Ado About Kasper, and Lichtenberg under the category of “listening models” (GS, 4.2, 642–720). These three texts were initially published together as Drei Hörmodelle (Frankfurt: Suhrkamp, 1971). Given the specificity of Benjamin’s use of the term Hörmodell, or listening model, this categorization does not make sense for these radio plays. The miscategorization has contributed to some confusion in the scholarship, for instance in John Mowitt’s discussion of Benjamin’s Lichtenberg, in Radio: Essays in Bad Reception (Berkeley: University of California Press, 2011), 63–76.

²⁰ The first quotation is from Scholem’s notes to the correspondence, where he comments on Benjamin’s “denigratory assessment” of his radio work and other journalistic writings undertaken explicitly for remuneration. Scholem, notes to letter of February 28, 1933, in The Correspondence of Walter Benjamin, 404, n. 12.

²¹ Scholem, The Correspondence of Walter Benjamin, 404, n. 12.

²² For a history of Weimar broadcasting, see Karl Christian Führer, “A Medium of Modernity?: Broadcasting in Weimar Germany, 1923–1932,” Journal of Modern History 69 (December 1997), 722–53.

²³ Benjamin, The Correspondence of Walter Benjamin, 262. Momme Brodersen gives more details on Benjamin’s 1925 application for a position at the radio magazine Radio-Umschau [Radio Review], in Brodersen, Walter Benjamin: A Biography, trans. Malcolm R. Green and Ingrida Ligers, ed. Martina Dervis (London: Verso, 1996), 191–2.

²⁴ With Benjamin, the issue of help from his friends was always fraught; like any helpful intervention, it signaled the very need for help, or the kind of vulnerability and dependency that for Benjamin began as financial and professional exposure (in part due to his lack of university affiliation and the impossibility of an academic career, Benjamin having been thwarted in his efforts to successfully submit the Origin of German Tragic Drama as his Habilitation in July 1925), and that would, through and beyond the period of the radio years, grow into the political and existential duress that famously contributed to his suicide at the border in Spain in September 1940. For Benjamin’s comments on the “helpful intervention of [Adorno’s] friends,” and on the precariousness of dependence and the limits of gratitude, see his letter to Adorno of March 18, 1934, in Benjamin and Adorno, The Complete Correspondence 1928–1940, ed. Henri Lonitz, trans. Nicholas Walker (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1999), 34. All of this is to say that Schoen’s assistance, so crucial to the story and fact of Benjamin’s work for Radio Frankfurt, was both invaluable and symptomatic of the precariousness of Benjamin’s intellectual life and the professional circumstances that sometimes supported it and sometimes failed to do so.

²⁵ Adorno, “Benjamin the Letter Writer,” in Notes to Literature Vol. II, trans. Shierry Weber Nicholsen (New York: Columbia University Press, 1992), 237.

²⁶ “Junge russische Dichter” is one of the broadcasts for which there is no precise or reliable surviving manuscript. (See the Appendix.) The GS editors, along with Schiller-Lerg (Walter Benjamin und der Rundfunk, 345), agree that this broadcast probably corresponds to Benjamin’s article “Neue Dichter in Russland,” which was published in the international review i 10 (Amsterdam, 1927) and can be found in GS, 2.2, 755–62.

²⁷ For more information on the dates of broadcasts, see the Appendix.

²⁸ Benjamin to Scholem, January 25, 1930, in The Correspondence of Walter Benjamin, 361, 403–4. See also Benjamin’s letter to Scholem on February 5, 1931, where he refers to his radio work in Frankfurt as merely “some piddling radio matters” (Scholem, Story of a Friendship, 211). For further mention of the increasingly constricted conditions that leave him with fewer opportunities to work on radio, see The Correspondence of Walter Benjamin, 395–6, 399, and Story of a Friendship, 239.

²⁹ The Correspondence of Walter Benjamin, 404. As his comments suggest, Much Ado About Kasper is, with its provisions for various interventions of sound, noise, and audio-signaling, perhaps Benjamin’s most radiophonically charged and formally challenging piece.

³⁰ Letter to Scholem of July 26, 1932, in The Correspondence of Walter Benjamin, 395. For the effects on radio of the Papen government’s coup, including the firing of Hans Flesch as director of the Berlin Radio Hour, see Jelavich, Berlin Alexanderplatz, 241.

³¹ Benjamin, postcard quoted by Scholem in Story of a Friendship, 239.

³² Benjamin broadcast the radio version of “Berliner Kindheit um 1900” on January 29, 1933, from 6:55 to 7:20 pm. On this broadcast, see Schiller-Lerg, Walter Benjamin und der Rundfunk, 302–3 and 104–7. In their discussion of the complex composition and publication history of Berlin Childhood Around 1900, the editors of the GS do not mention the piece’s radio past (GS, 4.2, 964–70; and GS, 6, 797–9, and GS, 7.2, 691–4). Unfortunately, no typescript of the broadcast survives, and it is not possible to know what selections Benjamin read. He had composed “A Berlin Chronicle” during the first half of 1932, and, during the second half of that year, had started to work on Berlin Childhood. The first selections from Berlin Childhood appeared in print, under pseudonym, in the Frankfurter Zeitung in February and March 1933 (see editors’ notes in GS, 4.2, 966, and “Chronology,” in Walter Benjamin, Selected Writings, vol. 2, 1927–1934, trans. Rodney Livingstone et al., eds. Michael W. Jennings, Howard Eiland, and Gary Smith [Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1999], 848, hereafter cited as SW; see also The Correspondence of Walter Benjamin, 399–404). Thus, the radio reading would have been Benjamin’s earliest “publication” of the work.

³³ In a letter to Scholem of July 26, 1932, Benjamin writes of the “four books that mark off the real site of ruin or catastrophe, whose furthest boundary I am still unable to survey when I let my eyes wander over the next years of my life. They include the Pariser Passagen, the Gesammelte Essays zur Literatur, the Briefe, and a truly exceptional book about hashish” (The Correspondence of Walter Benjamin, 396). Versions of segments of at least three of these projects were presented on the radio: from the material that became The Arcades Project, we can trace a link to “The Railway Disaster at the Firth of Tay” (see this volume, 171 n.1). The Briefe mentioned by Benjamin refers to the collection of German letters, with brief introductions and commentary, that ultimately became Deutsche Menschen, in GS, 4.1, 149–233 (“German Men and Women,” SW, 3, 167–235). Initially published under the pseudonym Detlef Holz from April 1931 to May 1932 in the Frankfurter Zeitung, the text was published in book form in 1936. The related radio piece is “Auf der Spur alter Briefe,” in GS, 4.2, 942–4 (“On the Trail of Old Letters,” SW, 2, 555–8). For the book on hashish, which was never published as such during Benjamin’s lifetime, the related radio broadcast is “Myslowitz — Braunschweig — Marseille: Die Geschichte eines Haschisch-Rausches,” in GS, 729–37 (“Myslovice — Braunschweig — Marseilles: The Story of a Hashish Trance,” in SW, 2, 386–93). The corresponding radio text is considered lost; what remains is the text published in Uhu in November 1930.

³⁴ For the figure of the “vanishing point” with reference to “The Work of Art in the Age of Its Mechanical Reproducibility,” see Benjamin’s letter to Horkheimer of October 16, 1935 (The Correspondence of Walter Benjamin, 509).

³⁵ See Walter Benjamin, The Arcades Project [N2a3 and N3,1], trans. Howard Eiland and Kevin McLaughlin, (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1999), 462–3.

³⁶ This definition of ekphrasis is from W. J. T. Mitchell, “Ekphrasis and the Other,” in Picture Theory, (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1994), 152. To Mitchell’s definition, I would add the “verbal and sound representation of visual representation,” particularly as radio interests itself in audio-signifiers that are not necessarily words (for instance, the “noises” Benjamin introduces in Much Ado About Kasper). Beyond this, however, it is crucial not to presume a fixed understanding of the difference between the “verbal” and the “visual” as objects or modes of presentation. What, after all, is a “visual” object for, presented in the medium of radio? One of Mitchell’s key arguments is that we do not precisely understand this difference, or the relationship of “otherness” between text and image, especially in relation to the status of speech acts, which are “not medium-specific” and “not ‘proper’ to some medium or other” (160).

³⁷ “Only dialectical images are genuine images (that is, not archaic); and the place where one encounters them is language” (The Arcades Project [N2,3], 462).

³⁸ Benjamin makes note of the psychoanalytic expansion of “our field of perception,” comparing Freud’s publication of On the Psychopathology of Everyday Life, with its emphasis on paying attention to slips of the tongue, with cinema’s “deepening of apperception throughout the entire spectrum of optical — and now also auditory — impressions” (“The Work of Art,” SW 4, 265). For the phrase “hearing-matter,” see “The Work of Art,” 278 n. 29, where Benjamin cites Aldous Huxley’s disparaging commentary on the proliferation of “trash in the total artistic output” of contemporary culture, an explosive, technologically-enabled multiplication of material that includes not only more “reading- and seeing-matter” but also more “hearing-matter.”

³⁹ Adorno, known for his negative assessment of radio and the culture industry, takes up this very problem of analyzing a shift in audio-aura, using Benjamin’s essay as a launching point.

⁴⁰ In “Street Trade and Markets in Old and New Berlin,” when Benjamin refers specifically to the heard artifact and the specificity of everyday, spoken language, he does not attempt to reproduce the ambient soundscape. Rather, his source is the literature of Adolf Glassbrenner, who permits Benjamin to illustrate his point that the market hall is “as rich and sumptuous for the ear as the image of the market is a feast for the eyes” (11). Benjamin makes similar use of Glassbrenner in “Berlin Dialect” and “Theodor Hosemann,” where citations of his work provide something like narrative “images” of an everyday vernacular. In “Theodor Hosemann,” Benjamin addresses the problem of radio ekphrasis directly, asking “Is it not a crazy idea to talk about a painter on the radio? — It’s out of the question, of course, that I stand here and describe Hosemann’s pictures to you,” and finally concludes that Glassbrenner’s text, as a substitute for the otherwise unpresentable visual object text, has allowed him to present the “speaking” character of a typical Berliner “instead of the drawn version” (69). In other words, if the visual image resists presentation over the radio, a written substitute, featuring not only dialogue but the ever-changing, “living” speech act of a typical Berlin type, can be reproduced through the speaker’s citation of that written text. For the problem of “ekphrastic indifference,” or the stage of fascination with ekphrasis corresponding to the “commonsense perception that ekphrasis is impossible … A verbal presentation cannot represent — that is, make present — its object in the same way a visual presentation can,” see Mitchell, Picture Theory, 152.

⁴¹ See Benjamin, “Reflections on Radio,” “Theater and Radio,” “Two Kinds of Popularity,” and “Listening Models,” in this volume. See also Brecht, “The Radio as Communication Apparatus,” in Bertolt Brecht on Radio and Film, trans. and ed. Marc Silberman (London: Methuen, 2000), 41–6.

⁴² In approaching the radio works for children, it is important not to take for granted the significance of the “child” as a category of addressee for Benjamin. Indeed, in “Children’s Literature,” he declares that “If there is any field in the world where specialization must invariably fail, it is in the creation of works for children” (254). As Susan Buck-Morss has argued, Benjamin makes no “qualitative distinction” that would offset some topics as “appropriate” for children and others as fitting only for adults (“ ‘Verehrte Unsichtbare!’: Walter Benjamins Radiovörtrage,” in Walter Benjamin und die Kinderliteratur, ed. Doderer, 93–101).

⁴³ Here it is worth noting that the representation of such spaces is absolutely “new” only if we discount its appearance in other aesthetic forms, such as the literary representation of the bedroom or even of the mental interior through free-indirect verse.

⁴⁴ Benjamin, “The Work of Art,” 261 and 277 n. 27.

⁴⁵ Schiller-Lerg, Walter Benjamin und der Rundfunk. See also Schiller-Lerg, “Die Rundfunkarbeiten,” in Benjamin Handbuch, ed. Burkhardt Lindner (Stuttgart: Metzler, 2006), 406–20. The scholarship in English is almost nonexistent. The best-known study is Jeffrey Mehlman’s Walter Benjamin for Children: An Essay on His Radio Years (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1993). See also Wolfgang Hagen, “ ‘On the Minute’: Benjamin’s Silent Work for the German Radio,” 2006. Online at whagen.de/vortraege/2006.