library

The waxy scent that drifts up the escalators at the Los Angeles Central Library is immediately familiar to anyone who remembers the Mold-A-Rama.

The novelty vending machines mold souvenir sculptures — a train car, a gorilla, a bust of Abraham Lincoln — in under a minute, filling a two-sided mold with hot plastic, then hollowing it out with compressed air.

Christina Rice, the senior librarian who oversees the Los Angeles Public Library’s photo collection, made it her personal quest to find and install one in the Central Library after a patron asked for pictures of machines at sites across the city, which disappeared in 2006 after their operator exited the market and sold them to private collectors.

The Mold-a-Central fills a two-sided mold with hot plastic, which is then filled with compressed air, to make a sphinx souvenir.

(Eric Thayer/Los Angeles Times)

At first, Rice wasn’t sure what he was talking about, but when it clicked, “it was such a strong visceral response,” she said. “I loved these machines when we would go to the zoo. It was a must-have every time.”

In fact, the last mold she purchased was a black panther from the Los Angeles Zoo, shortly after she graduated high school. Other L.A. souvenirs included a replica bandshell from the Hollywood Bowl and a tiny pagoda from the Chinese Theatre.

Rice saw an opportunity in the retro tech to get new people into the library or encourage existing patrons to explore other departments or collections.

It was a hunch that took her six years to see to fruition, but the library’s very own “Mold-a-Central” now sits in the alcove of the lower fourth floor. Visitors can trade $5 for a small black sphinx, a replica of sculptor Lee Lawrie’s Belgian black marble and bronze sphinxes that flank the north staircase on the library’s second floor. Pittsburgh sculptor Brian McGuire custom designed the mold and is also working on a replica of the 1926 Central Library building.

It’s been a hit. Visitors who’ve been drawn by nostalgia or curiosity to see it — and smell it — for themselves have molded over 3,000 sphinxes so far. During the library’s Centennial Festival in July, the machine had a consistent wait, churning out 255 figures in a single day. J.H. “Tike” Miller, the Illinois inventor of the Mold-A-Rama, was inspired by a broken figurine in his nativity scene. Department stores only sold them in sets, so he and his wife Shirley began making individual figures for sale in the late 1930s.

The Mold-a-Central makes sphinx souvenirs modeled after the black marble and bronze sphinxes that flank the north staircase on the library’s second floor.

(Eric Thayer/Los Angeles Times)

Olivia Gill, left, Ryan Gill and Thomas Gill use the Mold-A-Central. The souvenirs cost $5.

(Eric Thayer/Los Angeles Times)

In the 1950s, Miller began making figurines — often of dinosaurs and space aliens — using plastic injection molding. When his company went bankrupt in 1959, Miller licensed the technology to Aramark, then known as Automatic Retailers of America Inc. It spun off a separate division for the venture and worked with Miller to produce the first Mold-A-Rama machines.

The concept debuted at the 1962 Seattle World’s Fair, with figures including the Space Needle and Alweg Monorail, then rolled out in several test markets, including Southern California. The Los Angeles Times described Mold-A-Ramas as “a diabolical cross between a jukebox and a pinball machine” that cost $3,600 apiece, or about $39,500 today.

After a bigger splash at the New York World’s Fair in 1964, Mold-A-Ramas proliferated across the U.S., popping up in zoos, museums and anywhere tourists might exchange a coin for a toy.

Though Mold-A-Rama President Ben A. O’Dorisio predicted a future in which they’d eventually sell household goods and even apparel, high maintenance costs led Aramark to dissolve its Mold-A-Rama division and sell its machines just a few years later.

Today, most operational machines are concentrated in the Midwest and the South, split between two companies that have amicably divided their territories: Illinois-based Mold-A-Rama Inc. and Unique Souvenirs Inc. in Florida, which operates machines branded Mold-a-Matic.

Unique Souvenirs owner Tim Striggow bought the family business from his grandfather, Eldin Irwin, who purchased several machines from Aramark and other operators starting in the late ‘60s and traveled with them to fairs and carnivals. It was Striggow’s uncle who operated — and removed — L.A.’s machines.

The Mold-a-Central has been popular, with more than 3,000 sphinxes made.

(Eric Thayer/Los Angeles Times)

Striggow sold Jack White two machines for his Third Man Records stores in Nashville and Detroit, and supplied the library with its machine. It cost $32,000 and is expected to pay itself through souvenir revenues within a couple years. As Mold-A-Rama and Mold-a-Matic are both trademarks, the library’s machine is called Mold-a-Central for the Central Library and features new graphics by Studios Number One, Shepard and Amanda Fairey’s design studio.

Though new to the library, the Mold-a-Central is still a vintage machine, and Rice knew that before she could persuade the library to invest in one she’d have to find someone who could service it. She asked Gary Hall, general manager of Angels Flight, L.A.’s 124-year-old funicular, who suggested one of its mechanics, Hirschel Riley.

“Hirschel agreed immediately, and I think it’s safe to say he has fallen in love with our Mold-a-Central machine,” Rice said. “When we first got the machine and opened it up, my head nearly exploded and I wondered if I had bitten off more than I could chew, but for Hirschel, it’s been a piece of cake compared to [Angels Flight].”

Though the library offers 3D printing — a far more modern sculpting method — at its Octavia Lab, Rice finds even teenagers are interested in slide projectors and older technology during her photo collection tours, proving there’s still space for the analog in today’s digital world. She hopes Mold-a-Central will inspire a “whole slew” of similar vintage machines to return to L.A.

They are out there. Quentin Tarantino told Variety he had a production designer track one down for an opening shot of “Once Upon a Time… in Hollywood” at the Chinese Theatre before he rewrote the script. After changing course, he stored it in his garage.

Chris Young grew up in Clarksville, Tenn., in the direst imaginable circumstances — unimaginable, in fact, to many of us.

He never knew his father. His mother was a crack addict with a habit of stabbing her romantic partners. While his mom was in prison, Young and his older brother, Robert, mostly fended for themselves, often in a home that lacked electricity and running water. Young, tormented by sickle-cell disease, saw many of those closest to him die by homicide or suicide.

The two boys weren’t totally bereft. They had a grandfather, cousins, friends and a stepfather. A neighbor provided showers, until his water bill got too high; another supplied hot meals. A woman known as Big Mama offered shelter and tough love. But it wasn’t nearly enough. Desperate for money, the teenage Young — smart, entrepreneurial, dreaming of a rap career — became a gun-toting drug dealer.

Young’s searing memoir, “The Wound Is Where the Light Enters,” chronicles this bitter childhood and its devastating consequences. The evocative title is a quotation from the 13th century Persian poet Rumi.

Unlike some prison memoirs, this isn’t an innocence story. But it is no less an indictment of the U.S. justice system — its laws, its courts and its brutal prisons. “The constant state of heightened agitation and awareness that it takes to survive a single day in a federal penitentiary is enough to drive a man insane,” Young writes. “At every turn, the system is designed to crush your humanity. You’re an animal in there and are expected to act like one.”

But not everyone does. “The Wound Is Where the Light Enters” not only reveals the system’s horrors, but also celebrates the redemptive power of hope, intellect and community.

By the time Young was swept up in a federal drug investigation, he already had two felony drug convictions. His involvement in the federal conspiracy case, as he tells it, was marginal. He was no kingpin and had never met most of the people being charged.

But he faced a zealous prosecutor, with only court-appointed attorneys at his side. Worse yet, he was up against a harsh “three-strikes” law that replaced judicial discretion with mandatory minimum sentences.

Young’s own pride and sense of justice also came into play. He could have pleaded guilty, perhaps even cooperated, and received a finite (though still hefty) prison sentence. Instead, determined to argue his case, he opted for a trial at which conviction was all but certain. Then, against advice, he presented a meticulously crafted and rehearsed speech at his sentencing hearing.

The 26-year-old Young, who’d already spent four years behind bars, had used that time productively. A former straight-A student who had dropped out of high school, he had embarked on a program of self-education, reading deeply in African American history, Greek philosophy, finance and other subjects. “Every day,” he writes, “I left the library with new language to put to my thoughts.”

Young told the court about his chaotic upbringing and his recent scholarly pursuits. “He spoke of the things he could do if he did not have to die in prison. He told me of the possibilities that would never be,” the trial judge, Kevin H. Sharp, writes in the book’s foreword. “It was impossible to listen to someone so full of compassion, intelligence, and, above all, promise, and not question the system that had not just allowed this to happen but required it.”

Sharp sentenced Young to life without the possibility of parole, as the law mandated. But two years later, he stepped down from the bench and joined Young’s defense team.

Young describes his childhood mostly from the perspective of a boy — alternately bewildered, hurting, depressed and “mad all the time.” His account of his incarceration, with its mind-numbing routines, gang hegemony and intermittent violence, is equally gripping.

At McCreary, the tense high-security federal prison in Kentucky known as Misery Mountain, Young meditated, adhered to a workout routine, read prodigiously, taught GED classes to fellow inmates and maintained ties to his few surviving loved ones. And he kept hoping. “The system’s control over my body was absolute,” Young writes. “Its control over my mind was not.”

In 2015, the sickle cell-related disintegration of his hips prompted Young’s transfer to a low-security prison, Federal Medical Center Lexington. Here the surroundings are less bleak, the library better, the prisoners friendlier. Young teaches himself to code and envisions an app that will focus on mental health and suicide prevention. Yet he still must fight to obtain the hip replacement surgery he so desperately needs.

By now, his case has attracted sympathetic press attention and more effective lawyers. Even so, his story takes a dark turn. From Lexington, he is sent to his most terrifying prison yet, known as Bloody Beaumont, where COVID-19 adds another layer of threat. A judge reduces his sentence, but, for reasons never entirely clear, he is suddenly thrown into the prison’s “hole,” its barbarous solitary confinement cells.

It is from that hell that Young, more than a decade after his arrest, emerges to freedom — earning a degree in economics and public policy from Southern Methodist University, pursuing a consulting career and writing this indelible book. For his 2021 grant of executive clemency, he has his lawyers and reality-TV star Kim Kardashian to thank — as well as President Trump.

Klein, a cultural reporter and critic in Philadelphia, has been a three-time finalist for the National Book Critics Circle’s Nona Balakian Citation for Excellence in Reviewing.

EACH step I take is marked by a comforting crunch as my spiked hiking boots grip the snow.

Directly ahead of me is Mont Blanc’s breathtaking peak, straddling France, Italy and Switzerland.

And beneath my feet is the Ghiacciaio del Monte Bianco glacier.

I’m reminded to stop my gawping and keep walking, by a firm tug from the rope tying me to my guide and to the three other people in the expedition.

I approach the edge of the glacier and spot a huge crack in the snow where it’s threatening to suddenly fall away.

Then, as I peer thousands of feet down into the valley to try and spot my hotel, Gran Baita, I hear a huge rumble.

WAIL OF A TIME

I drove Irish Route 66 with deserted golden beaches and pirate-like islands

TEMPTED?

Tiny ‘Bali of Europe’ town with stunning beaches, €3 cocktails and £20 flights

Looking nervously to my right, I see a small avalanche careering down the side of Mont Blanc.

It’s a not-so-subtle reminder that the ropes around our waists are the only things that might offer protection if the glacier beneath our feet suddenly shifts.

But despite the snow on the ground, I’m soon stripping off my layers because the temperatures can reach balmy heights in this gorgeous Italian Alpine region during summer.

To arrive here, I hopped on the Skyway Monte Bianco cable car which whizzed me 3,466 metres up to the glacier from the village of Courmayeur in ten minutes — with a stop at 2,173 metres to switch cabs.

The cable car costs £50 in advance to go to the top — but this does include entrance to a variety of attractions including an Alpine garden, kids’ play area and Europe’s highest library.

As well as a chance to refuel in its restaurants, the middle Skyway station offers another treat — a cave where they mature a vintage wine grown here.

And even if you’re not drinking wine, you’ll be able to drink in the amazing views of Italy’s Aosta Valley.

Skyway Monte Bianco slowly rotates so you don’t miss any of the incredible scenery.

Back in the sun-drenched valleys, there’s not a speck of snow in sight — but we still eat for winter, piling our plates with gourmet raclette and classic Italian pastas.

The region’s restaurant highlights include Cadran Solaire, whose wild-boar ragu is the stuff foodie dreams are made of.

But if your stomach is firmly in summer mode, you can tuck into lighter home-cooked delights at La Terrazza, where the owner has brought southern Italian delicacies to the Alps.

Classics like carbonara are on offer, as well as starters of anchovies with mozzarella.

If you’re worried about all those calories, the slopes of Courmayeur will be your saviour.

The mountains become a walkers’ paradise in summer, with unbelievable trails from the two valleys either side.

One morning, I headed to Val Ferret, which can be accessed by bike, a free bus or car.

It’s flanked by the Mont Blanc Massif, Mont Dolent and Tour Noir.

From here you can see the gigantic Brenva Glacier — the second-longest glacier in Italy.

The valley can be enjoyed on foot, or on horseback for around €30 (£25) an hour.

But for those who prefer something more challenging, the ski area Checrouit offers uphill walks where you climb 300 metres in just an hour.

Thank goodness for the heated pool and sauna back at the Gran Baita.

I’m not sure how my limbs would have recovered without them.

In 1951, not long after her breakthrough appearances in “All About Eve” and “The Asphalt Jungle,” Marilyn Monroe went to college: She enrolled in a pair of 10-week classes at UCLA’s adult-extension program, both covering literature. Looky-loos peeked through the windows. Some likely assumed a publicity stunt. But Monroe’s passion for books was sincere. An orphan who bounced around upward of a dozen foster homes and orphanages regretted that she’d never graduated high school, she moved often in her life but always made sure her books came wherever she went.

Gail Crowther’s “Marilyn and Her Books” is the story of that library, though more precisely it’s about what we’ve projected upon Monroe when we’re asked to consider that she had one. Our prevailing cultural reflex, then and now, is skepticism larded with misogyny. A famous 1955 photo of her sitting in a Long Island playground reading James Joyce’s “Ulysses” — one of 50 known photos of her reading — is routinely scoffed at whenever it’s posted online. (Crowther gathers up a sampling of misogynistic comments.)

But Crowther’s sleuthing determines that Joyce’s novel was a regular companion of hers, and she was particularly enchanted with Molly Bloom’s closing soliloquy. As an actor who had to be exceedingly smart to play dumb blondes, she used the shoot to make “a profound statement about her social positioning.”

Marilyn Monroe reads the book “To the Actor: On the Technique of Acting” by Michael Chekhov in a quiet moment at the Ambassador Hotel in New York.

(Ed Feingersh / Michael Ochs Archives / Getty Images)

Writing about Monroe’s reading habits demands a lot of speculation on the part of Crowther, who’s written engaging books on Dorothy Parker, Sylvia Plath and Anne Sexton. We know a lot about the star’s library — when she died in 1962, she owned more than 400 books, diligently cataloged and auctioned in 1999. There’s documented marginalia and scribblings that suggest a serious reader, and anecdotes about her reciting poems at parties, reading Proust on set, and expounding on Whitman, Dostoevsky and Tolstoy. She had strong opinions about Hemingway: “Those big tough guys are so sick, they aren’t even all that tough. … They always want to kill something to prove themselves.”

And Crowther literally has the receipts from Los Angeles and Beverly Hills stores like the Pickwick Book Shop, Martindale’s Book Store and Hunter’s Books, where she purchased titles that were practical (“How to Live With a Cat”), relatable (“Sister Carrie”) and weighty (a three-volume life of Sigmund Freud).

Her third husband, playwright Arthur Miller, suggests the purchases were largely a pose: In his memoir, he wrote that aside from some short stories and Colette’s “Cheri” she likely never read anything start to finish. It would be nice to know more, but as Crowther pointedly observes multiple times, journalists never thought to ask her about her reading. When the subject of literature came up, Monroe seemed compelled to play to ditzy expectations. After telling interviewers she wanted to play Grushenka in an adaptation of “The Brothers Karamazov,” they asked her if she could spell the character’s name. She demurred.

A clearer historical record might have blunted the sexist comments that have stalked her, and given Crowther an opportunity to do less guesswork. “Marilyn and Her Books” is scaffolded with 15 chapters, each dedicated to a question that usually can’t be answered in full: “Did Marilyn read all her books?” (probably not, who does?), “Did Marilyn suffer from imposter syndrome?” (probably, who doesn’t?). Some questions feel like attempts to pad the pages (“Are there any surprising omissions from Marilyn’s personal library?” “How did Marilyn’s reading compare to that of her contemporaries?”). The elegiac opening and closing chapters, in which Crowther imagines visiting Monroe’s home and scanning her shelves, also add to the feeling that too much is being extrapolated out of not enough information.

Curiously, the book also dwells little on Monroe’s own literary ambitions. Crowther shares a few scraps of despairing, Plathian verse, but almost entirely neglects her unfinished posthumous memoir, published in 1974 as “My Story.” Its relative shapelessness, along with its use of a ghostwriter, doesn’t bolster her literary credentials, but its existence points to Monroe’s ambition to have them.

And there’s plenty to say about the literary work that Monroe herself has inspired, including Joyce Carol Oates’ 2000 masterpiece, “Blonde,” or Sharon Olds’ poem “The Death of Marilyn Monroe,” in which a man who carted away her body is shocked into the reality of “a woman breathing, just an ordinary woman breathing.” Writers have afforded Monroe the grace and status in death that she was rarely afforded in life.

But the core question that drives the book, the subject of a central chapter, is valuable: “Why is Marilyn Monroe’s reading ability doubted?” Among other things, Crowther argues, Monroe suffered from a “poisonous cocktail of patriarchy, industry decisions, cultural stereotypes, social expectations, Marilyn’s unwitting complicity,” and more. Crowther keeps her focus narrowly on Monroe, but it doesn’t require a substantial mental leap to see how Monroe is just one example of a cover-model-worthy woman artist being told she’s a try-hard for demonstrating intelligence. (To pick just one example, the pop star Dua Lipa’s book club has a demonstrated high-literary bent, selecting Tommy Orange, Olga Tokarczuk and Percival Everett, which got her mocked as “an alien spaceship touching down in a medieval peasant village.”)

“Marilyn’s reading formed a concerted effort to overcome any inadequacies she perceived in herself,” Crowther writes. That, too, made her a lot like anybody who goes to books to satisfy gaps in our knowledge. We can do that in private, to avoid embarrassment. For Monroe, though, the effort was always public and always suspect — the culture was attuned to see any book in her hand as a prop. For most people, reading is an escape route. For Monroe it only led to one more cul-de-sac.

Athitakis is a writer in Phoenix and author of “The New Midwest.”

A mile from the Manhattan jail where convicted sex offender Jeffrey Epstein was found dead in 2019, an unassuming Tribeca gallery at 101 Reade Street has been transformed into a physical archive of the disgraced financier’s many cases.

More than 3.5 million pages of law enforcement documents published by the United States Department of Justice have been printed, bound and stacked across 3,437 volumes to line the walls of a room from floor to ceiling.

The exhibition, titled “The Donald J Trump and Jeffrey Epstein Memorial Reading Room”, was organised by the Institute for Primary Facts, a nonprofit that says it focuses on transparency and anti-corruption initiatives.

Epstein was arrested on sex trafficking charges in July 2017 before hanging himself in his New York jail cell a month later, denying victims a chance at justice. The “reading room” is an attempt to shed light on the many cases connected to Epstein that never went to trial.

The shelves hold documents released under the Epstein Files Transparency Act, alongside timelines, handwritten visitor notes, and a memorial space dedicated to survivors and victims.

Since opening two weeks ago, the gallery has drawn a steady stream of visitors, including survivors of a string of offences linked to Epstein.

Lara Blume McGee, who was only 17 when she was abused by Epstein, visited the reading room last week.

“I found something brutally human in the Trump-Epstein reading room,” Blume McGee told Al Jazeera. “Proof that our lives mattered enough to be gathered, cataloged, and finally seen.”

She described entering the room as walking into a “paper city”, with three and a half million pages on display, a sight that hit her “like a physical blow”. What she remembers most vividly is the silence.

“The silence was thick with memory,” she said. “Row after row, each bound volume a life, a name, a day that should never have happened if the US government had acted when he was reported to the FBI in 1996.”

The overwhelming scale of the archive is intentional. Organisers say the physicality of the documents forces visitors to confront not only the extent of Epstein’s crimes, but also the number of lives affected by them.

Thousands of victims have been identified in connection with Epstein’s abuse network. One of the most prominent survivors, Virginia Giuffre, died by suicide in April 2025.

David Garrett, a co-founder of the exhibition, said the project was built around survivors from the outset.

“We are centred around the victims and survivors more than anything,” Garrett said. “The biggest thing is transparency and accountability.”

Garrett described the exhibition as part of a broader effort to create “real-life pop-up museums” aimed at generating public pressure around corruption and institutional failure.

“Our goal is how can we drive public outrage in order to put pressure on Congress and the Department of Justice to get full and real transparency and hopefully eventually accountability,” he said.

The process of assembling the archive was itself chaotic. Garrett said organisers downloaded the files from the Department of Justice in March, believing they had received properly redacted documents. Only after printing the collection did they discover that many survivors’ names remained visible in the files.

“What seems to have happened is the Department of Justice modified its search function instead of actually redacting the names,” Garrett said. “The names of survivors were left unredacted while the names of witnesses and co-conspirators were hidden. They brazenly broke the law.”

Finding a venue also proved difficult. Garrett said several locations backed out after initially agreeing to host the exhibit, fearing controversy or retaliation. The Tribeca gallery ultimately became the fifth venue that organisers approached.

Despite these challenges, survivors and advocates quickly embraced the project.

On Tuesday, the gallery became the site of a 24-hour livestream reading of the files led by survivors, advocates and supporters.

Dani Bensky, an Epstein survivor, opened the broadcast Monday afternoon, standing at a podium inside the dimly lit gallery with one of the thick white volumes in her hands.

Her reading marked the beginning of a continuous public recitation of excerpts from the files – an attempt, organisers said, to ensure the documents are not quietly buried again.

Throughout the gallery, visitors have left flowers, handwritten notes, and messages of grief and anger.

Garrett recalled one woman who spent hours walking silently through the space before telling organisers she was herself a survivor of sexual abuse.

“She said this helped her realise that she felt seen,” Garrett said. “That meant a lot to us.”

For Blume McGee, that feeling of visibility carries both relief and frustration.

“For years we were told to be quiet, to accept settlements, to move on,” she told Al Jazeera. “Seeing our truths preserved in a public archive felt like a long-overdue acknowledgment of our pain, our abuse and our reality.”

But she warned that documentation alone is not justice.

“This exhibition gives real hope because the record is now undeniable,” Blume McGee said. “Finally, there is action: documentation, visibility, proof. But those same files map systemic failure — how many doors stayed shut, how many people escaped scrutiny.”

“Visibility without consequence only prolongs the wound,” she added. “We need both: the files on the table and the government to act — investigate, prosecute, reform — so that being ‘finally seen’ becomes finally safe.”