Photographs by Chris Hoare

Several stories below the British Library’s Magna Carta room, alongside a rumbling line of the London Underground, is a brightly lit labyrinth of rare and historic items. Past a series of antique rifles chained to a wall, past an intricate system of conveyor belts whisking books to the surface, the library stores an enormous collection of plays, manuscripts, and letters. Last spring, I checked my belongings at security and descended to sift through this archive—a record of correspondence between the producers and directors of British theater and a small team of censors who once worked for the Crown.

For centuries, these strict, dyspeptic, and sometimes unintentionally hilarious bureaucrats read and passed judgment on every public theatrical production in Britain, striking out references to sex, God, and politics, and forcing playwrights to, as one put it, cook their “conceptions to the taste of authority.” They reported to the Lord Chamberlain’s Office, which in 1737 became responsible for granting licenses to theaters and approving the texts of plays. “Examiners” made sure that no productions would offend the sovereign, blaspheme the Church, or stir audiences to political radicalism. An 1843 act expanded the department’s powers, calling upon it to block any play that threatened not just the “Public Peace” but “Decorum” and “good Manners.”

Hardly chosen for their artistic sensibilities or knowledge of theatrical history, the men hired by the Lord Chamberlain’s Office were mostly retired military officers from the upper-middle class. From the Victorian era on, they scrutinized plays for references to racial equality and sexuality—particularly homosexuality—vulgar language, and “offensive personalities,” as one guideline put it.

Twentieth-century English theater was, as a result of all this vigilance, “subject to more censorship than in the reigns of Elizabeth I, James I and Charles I,” wrote the playwright and former theater critic Nicholas de Jongh in his 2000 survey of censorship, Politics, Prudery and Perversions. The censors suppressed or bowdlerized countless works of genius. As I thumbed through every play I could think of from the 1820s to the 1960s (earlier manuscripts, sold as part of an examiner’s private archive, can be seen in the Huntington Library in California), it became clear that the censors only got stricter—and more prudish—over time.

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“Do not come to me with Ibsen,” warned the examiner E. F. Smyth Pigott, nicely demonstrating the censors’ habitual tone. He had “studied Ibsen’s plays pretty carefully,” and determined that the characters were, to a man, “morally deranged.”

In cardboard boxes stacked on endless rows of metal shelving, string-tie binders hold the original versions of thousands of plays. The text of each is accompanied by a typewritten “Readers’ Report,” most of them several pages long, summarizing the plot and cataloging the work’s flaws as well as any redeeming qualities. That is followed, when available, by typed and handwritten correspondence between the censors and the applicants (usually the play’s hopeful and ingratiating producers).

These reports can at times be as entertaining as the plays themselves. On Beckett’s Waiting for Godot, one examiner wrote: “Omit the business and speeches about flybuttons”; on Sartre’s Huis Clos: “The play illustrates very well the difference between the French and English tastes. I don’t suppose that anyone would bat an eyelid over in Paris, but here we bar Lesbians on the stage”; on Camus’ Caligula: “This is the sort of play for which I have no liking at all”; on Tennessee Williams: “Neuroses grin through everything he writes”; and on Lorraine Hansberry’s A Raisin in the Sun: “A good play about negroes in a Chicago slum, written with dignity, power and complete freedom from whimsy. The title is taken from a worthless piece of occasional verse about dreams deferred drying up like a raisin in the sun—or festering and exploding.”

[Ethan Zuckerman: America is no longer the home of the free internet]

These bureaucrats were eager, as one of them wrote, to “lop off a few excrescent boughs” to save the tree. They were anti-Semitic (one successful compromise involved replacing a script’s use of “Fuck the Pope” with “The Pope’s a Jew”) and virulently homophobic. In response to Williams’s Suddenly Last Summer, in 1958, one Lieutenant Colonel Vincent Troubridge noted: “There was a great fuss in New York about the references to cannibalism at the end of this play, but the Lord Chamberlain will find more objectionable the indications that the dead man was a homosexual.”

But the censors could also, occasionally, aspire to the level of pointed and biting literary criticism. “This is a piece of incoherence in the manner of Samuel Beckett,” the report for a 1960 production of Harold Pinter’s The Caretaker begins, “though it has not that author’s vein of nihilistic pessimism, and each individual sentence is comprehensible if irrelevant.” One gets the impression that, like the characters from a Bolaño novel, at least some of these men were themselves failed artists and intellectuals, drawn to such authoritarian work from a place of bruised and envious ego.

Indeed, one examiner, Geoffrey Dearmer, considered among the more flexible, had written poetry during the Great War. He reported to the Lord Chamberlain alongside the tyrannical Charles Heriot, who had studied theater at university and worked on a production of Macbeth before moving, still as a young man, into advertising, journalism, and book publishing. He was known, de Jongh wrote, for being “gratuitously abusive.” (Heriot on Edward Bond’s 1965 Saved: “A revolting amateur play … about a bunch of brainless, ape-like yobs,” including a “brainless slut of twenty-three living with her sluttish parents.”) Another examiner, George Alexander Redford, was a bank manager chosen primarily because he was friends with the man he succeeded. When asked about the criteria he used in his decision making, Redford answered, “I have no critical view on plays.” He was “simply bringing to bear an official point of view and keeping up a standard. … There are no principles that can be defined. I follow precedent.”

Chris Hoare for The AtlanticAn examiner’s notes on Tennessee Williams’s Cat on a Hot Tin Roof

The director Peter Hall, writing in The Guardian in 2002 about his experiences with the censors, said that the office “was largely staffed by retired naval officers with extraordinarily filthy minds. They were so alert to filth that they often found it when none was intended.” Once, he called to ask why some lines had been cut from a play he was directing:

“We all know what’s going on here, Hall, don’t we?” said the retired naval officer angrily. “It’s up periscopes.” “Up periscopes?” I queried. “Buggery, Hall, buggery!” Actually, it wasn’t.

As comic as these men seem now, they wielded enormous, unexamined power. The correspondence filed alongside the manuscripts reveals the extent to which the pressures of censorship warped manuscripts long before they even arrived on the censors’ desks. Managers and production companies checked scripts and suggested changes in anticipation of scrutiny. In a 1967 letter, a representative of a dramatic society eager to stage Waiting for Godot writes, “On page 81 Estragon says ‘Who farted?’ The director and myself are concerned as to whether, during a public presentation, this might offend the laws of censorship. Awaiting your advice.” Presumably, the answer was affirmative.

Chris Hoare for The AtlanticAn examiner’s report on Samuel Beckett’s Waiting for Godot

Playwrights also performed their own “pre-pre-censorship”—limiting the scope of their subject matter before and during the writing process. According to the 2004 book The Lord Chamberlain Regrets … A History of British Theatre Censorship, as far back as 1866, the comptroller of the LCO, Spencer Ponsonby-Fane, “explicitly commended examiners for operating this ‘indirect system of censorship’ because it enabled the Office to keep the number of prohibited plays to a minimum and forestall concerns about repression.”

Some plays made it past the censors only as a result of human error. When I met Kate Dossett, a professor at the University of Leeds who specializes in Black-theater history, she told me that the case of the playwright Una Marson is an example of what “gets hidden in this collection.” Marson’s 1932 play, At What a Price, depicts a young Black woman from the Jamaican countryside who moves to Kingston and takes a job as a stenographer. Her white employer seduces—or, in today’s understanding, sexually harasses—and impregnates her. The drama is a subtle exploration of miscegenation, one of the core taboos that the LCO often clamped down on. But the play was approved because the examiner—confused by the protagonist’s class markers and education—didn’t realize that she was Black.

Chris Hoare for The AtlanticThe script of Una Marson’s At What a Price

“This play is to be produced by the League of Coloured Peoples but it seems to have no particular relation to the objects of that institution except that the scene is in Jamaica and some of the minor characters are coloured and speak a more or less diverting dialect,” the report states. “The main story is presumably about English people and is an old-fashioned artless affair.”

From the beginning, some prominent figures fought against the system of censorship. Henry Brooke’s Gustavus Vasa bears the distinction of having been the first British play banned under the Licensing Act of 1737. The work, ostensibly about the Swedish liberator Gustav I, was interpreted as a thinly veiled attack on Prime Minister Robert Walpole. Responding to the ban in a satirical defense of the censors, Samuel Johnson wrote that the government should go further, and make it a “felony to teach to read without a license from the lord chamberlain.” Only then would citizens be able to rest, in “ignorance and peace,” and the government be safe from “the insults of the poets.”

Universal History Archive / GettyA cartoon from 1874 satirized the Lord Chamberlain’s attempts to clean up the stage.

Henry James, in his day, spoke out in defense of the English playwright, who “has less dignity—thanks to the censor’s arbitrary rights upon his work—than that of any other man of letters in Europe.” So, too, did George Bernard Shaw. “It is a frightful thing to see the greatest thinkers, poets and authors of modern Europe, men like Ibsen,” Shaw wrote, “delivered helplessly into the vulgar hands of such a noodle as this despised and incapable old official.”

By the time the Theatres Act of 1968 abolished the censorship of plays, social attitudes were changing. The influx of workers from Jamaica and other countries in the Commonwealth in the 1950s challenged the stability of racial dynamics; sex between men was decriminalized in England and Wales in 1967; divorce became more common; and the rock-and-roll era destigmatized drugs. For years, theaters had been taking advantage of a loophole: Because the LCO’s jurisdiction applied only to public performances, theaters could charge patrons a nominal membership fee, thereby transforming themselves into private subscription clubs out of the censors’ reach.

It must have gotten lonely, trying to stand so long against the changing times. “I don’t understand this,” Heriot wrote, plaintively, about Hair. The American musical was banned three times for extolling “dirt, anti-establishment views, homosexuality and free love,” but in the end, one gets the impression that the censors just gave up. Alexander Lock, a curator at the library, pointed me to Heriot’s report on the final version of the musical. The pain of defeat in his voice is almost palpable: “A curiously half-hearted attempt to vet the script” had been made, he wrote, but many offenses were left intact.

Hair opened at the Shaftesbury Theatre in September 1968. That month, by royal assent, no new plays required approval from the Lord Chamberlain’s Office, which was left to devote its attention to the planning of royal weddings, funerals, and garden parties.

Some may be tempted to dismiss the censors’ legacy as limited to, as a 1967 article in The Times of London had it, “the trivia of indecency.” But the damage was far deeper. The censors, de Jongh wrote, stunted English theater, kept it frivolous and parochial, and prevented it from dealing with “the greatest issues and anguishes of this violent century.” No playwrights addressed “the fascist regimes of the 1930s, the process that led to the atomic bombing of Hiroshima and Nagasaki, the ghastliness perpetrated by Hitler and Stalin, or the tyrannies experienced in China and under other totalitarian leaderships. No wonder. Their plays would have been disallowed. In the 1930s you could not win licences for plays that might offend Hitler or Mussolini or Stalin.” Shakespeare never “had to put up with” censorship so “rigorous and narrow-minded,” Peter Hall wrote. His “richest plays and his finest lines, packed with erotic double meanings, would have been smartly excised by the Lord Chamberlain’s watchdogs.”

[From the January 1930 issue: Edward Weeks on the practice of censorship]

These practices may strike us today as outlandish and anachronistic. Many of us take for granted creative license and the freedom of expression that undergirds it. But the foundation upon which these rights—as we think of them—are situated is far less immutable than we would like to imagine. As recent trends in the United States and elsewhere have shown, advances toward greater tolerance are reversible.

Indeed, many Americans on both the right and the left correctly sense this, even if they do not always understand what genuine censorship looks like. Activists on college campuses have confused the ability to occupy and disrupt physical space for the right to dissent verbally. Meanwhile, Elon Musk warns that “wokeness” will stifle free speech even as he uses the social-media site he owns to manipulate public debate.

Perusing the plays in the Lord Chamberlain’s archive is, among other things, a reminder of what censorship really is: government power applied to speech to either limit or compel it. And it is also a reminder that in the long term, many such attempts backfire. They reveal, as Sir Roly Keating, who was chief executive of the library from 2012 until the beginning of this year, told me, more about the censors’ own “fears, paranoias, obsessions” than they ever succeed in concealing.

Chris Hoare for The AtlanticInside the archive 

There is also the sheer fact of what Keating called “this extraordinary imposition of bureaucracy.” Just as the Stasi archive provides unparalleled insight into the interplay of art and politics in postwar East German society, and the Hoover-era FBI’s copious files on Martin Luther King Jr., James Baldwin, and other Black American luminaries amount to a valuable cultural repository, the Lord Chamberlain’s archive can now be seen as one of the preeminent collections of Black and queer theater in the English-speaking world. It includes not just the plays that were staged, but also those that were rejected, and in some cases multiple drafts of them. These are precisely the kinds of works that, without the backing of institutions that have the resources to protect their own archive, might have been lost to history.

“Theater’s an ephemeral medium,” Keating told me. “Early drafts of plays change all the time; many don’t get published at all.” Among the many ramifications of censorship, I had not adequately considered this one: the degree to which methodical suppression can create the most meticulous collection. It is a deeply satisfying justice—even a form of revenge—that the hapless bureaucrats who endeavored so relentlessly to squelch and block independent thought have instead so painstakingly preserved it for future generations.

Support for this article was provided by the British Library’s Eccles Institute for the Americas & Oceania Phil Davies Fellowship. It appears in the March 2025 print edition with the headline “All the King’s Censors.” When you buy a book using a link on this page, we receive a commission. Thank you for supporting The Atlantic.

The new year has begun, bringing with it the socially sanctioned push to make resolutions. Readers, or those who want to devote more time to reading, tend to set some quantifiable intentions for the year to come. A popular one is finishing an arbitrary number of books; another approach is to establish specific parameters—reading only titles by women for a year, meeting a quota for books in translation, or trying one work from every country. Some readers opt for one or two giant books that are notoriously demanding.

There’s nothing wrong with these aspirations, but personally, I’m a bit allergic to this kind of goal setting. I don’t like hemming myself in with strict rules—and I don’t want to let my inner perfectionist force me to continue a challenge long after I’ve stopped enjoying it. More important, strict directives prioritize box-checking over holistic growth. There are many ways to advance your skill and capacity as a reader: Some of us are naturally drawn to detailed nonfiction, and others must learn to love it; some may have a taste for meandering, multigenerational epics, while their friends must train to build up the attention span they need. Depending on your particular strengths and desires for change, a single book may offer a better workout than a dozen others combined. Each of the five books below exercises a different kind of reading muscle, so that you can choose the one that will push you most.

Dawn, by Octavia Butler

Butler’s best-known book is probably 1993’s Parable of the Sower, which takes place in an imagined 2024 uncannily like our own. But in 2025, consider picking up the science-fiction matriarch’s Xenogenesis series instead, starting with Dawn. The novel revolves around Lilith lyapo, a woman still mourning the death of her husband and child in a car accident when the world collapses during a nuclear war. At the book’s start, she wakes up and finds herself alone in a locked cell. Where is she, and who are her captors? The shocking truth: 250 years have passed since the war, which left Earth uninhabitable—and she’s one of the few humans left in the universe. She’s been preserved by the Oankali, an alien species so different from us in their senses, family systems, and even genders that she has a hard time making herself look at them at first. Like Lilith, readers are thrust into a foreign environment in which technology is as alive as fungi. In her uniquely straightforward style, Butler asks you to abandon preconceived ideas of what sentient life looks like and what survival really means. Once that perspective shift occurs, though, Butler’s universe—and the questions she’s raising—free you to imagine whole new ways of being.

One Hundred Years of Solitude, by Gabriel García Márquez, translated by Gregory Rabassa

García Márquez’s 1967 novel is a beautiful, surreal saga following the Buendía family and the town they founded, Macondo, over the course of a century. During those years, Macondo—which begins as a solitary retreat in the middle of nowhere—is invaded more and more by the concerns of the outside world: technology, warfare, colonialism. The novel’s huge cast of characters typically remain in their community, but all have distinct trajectories, many of which lead to their own versions of loneliness, tragic or ecstatic. One Hundred Years of Solitude can be a difficult read: Character names are repeated across generations; magic blurs into reality. Then there is García Márquez’s style, packed with pages-long paragraphs and lengthy sentences whose cadences take you on surprising journeys. Perhaps its most distinguishing quirk is its paucity of dialogue or of scenes as we recognize them; the adage “Show, don’t tell” is upended. Yet the long sections summarizing various events or expounding on capitalism, naive idealism, and violence turn out to be as engaging as any page-turner for the reader with the persistence to soldier on.

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The Piano Teacher, by Elfriede Jelinek, translated by Joachim Neugroschel

The Austrian Nobel Laureate Jelinek’s 1983 novel, her sixth—yet the first to be translated into English—is a deeply uncomfortable read. Immediately, it confronts readers with a strange style that telescopes chronology and memory, moving among its main character’s thoughts and associations without fanfare. This takes some getting used to, but once you’ve fallen into its rhythm, events move swiftly and even pleasurably (which is not to say pleasantly, given the subject matter). Erika, the titular piano teacher, is an unmarried woman in her late 30s who lives in Vienna with her abusive and overbearing mother; violent altercations between the two aren’t rare. Her outlook is bleak: Erika is in many ways shut down, imprisoned by her mother’s expectations and trapped in a static nation that had yet to face its role in World War II. When one of Erika’s students begins making romantic overtures, she rebuffs him, but he keeps at it. By the time she finally agrees to become involved with him, he is unprepared for the depth and depravity of her desires, honed over years of voyeurism in porn theaters and peep shows. The Piano Teacher asks you (and teaches you) to stick with disturbing moments and unpleasant characters. In return, it offers a journey through oddly beautiful prose and a powerful examination of shame.

Wide Sargasso Sea, by Jean Rhys

Charlotte Brontë’s Jane Eyre was the first adult classic I tried to read. At 12, I loved its righteous protagonist, but the context of 19th-century Britain, powered by plunder from the Caribbean, Africa, and Asia, went over my head. Later, I learned to see the role that empire plays in the narrative: The madwoman haunting Jane and her beloved, Mr. Rochester, his Creole first wife, Bertha Mason, is shut up in the attic and compared to an animal. Cast aside in the original novel, she animates Rhys’s 1966 response: In Wide Sargasso Sea, Bertha is imagined as a girl originally named Antoinette, raised in Jamaica on a fallow sugar plantation after the abolition of British slavery. Rhys was British but born and raised in colonial Dominica, and she used her knowledge of the Caribbean and its dynamics to fill in the details of her main character’s life, defined by tensions between the planter class to which Antoinette belongs and their formerly enslaved neighbors. The prose jumps among narrators and flows dreamily from one moment to another, detailing how Mr. Rochester uses Antoinette’s Creole heritage and her family history of mental illness against her. Rhys’s project deals with Jane Eyre specifically, but her intervention asks us to consider other great literature in its historical and political context as well.

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The Vegetarian, by Han Kang, translated by Deborah Smith

On the surface, The Vegetarian is a work of realism with a simple premise. Yet something in the book is profoundly destabilizing, turning it into a wonderfully vertiginous read. When it opens, we meet Mr. Cheong, whose wife, Yeong-hye, has always been absolutely normal—rather quiet, a good cook, competent at her part-time graphic-design job, and deferential enough to her husband. But one night, a dream sparks dramatic change: She stops eating meat and using animal products, refusing to even keep them in the home. This seemingly small, personal decision triggers absolute indignation in her husband, parents, and siblings. There is much pain in The Vegetarian—the weight of guilt, the desire to self-destruct, the longing to change everything about yourself, the presence of despicable characters—and the plot’s unpredictable trajectory can make for a challenging read. That discomfort is precisely what Han is digging into in this marvelous and worthy book. But there is beauty, too, sitting right alongside the ugliness, waiting to reward the reader who can handle its leaps.