1,000 Years of Medieval European History in 20 Minutes

More than a few medieval­ists object to the term “Dark Ages” as applied to the peri­od in which they spe­cial­ize. That can seem wish­ful in light of most com­par­isons between medieval times and the Renais­sance that came after­ward, or indeed, the era of the Roman Empire that came before. Con­sid­er the state of Europe as the fourth cen­tu­ry began: “The great cities of antiq­ui­ty were depop­u­lat­ed, some left in ruins,” says the nar­ra­tor of the How So video above, telling the sto­ry of the con­ti­nen­t’s polit­i­cal and lin­guis­tic frag­men­ta­tion. “The Roman trans­porta­tion sys­tem decayed, erod­ing com­mu­ni­ca­tion and long-dis­tance trade. Coins van­ished, leav­ing no eco­nom­ic sys­tem to sup­port pro­fes­sion­al armies. Lit­er­a­cy plum­met­ed, crip­pling admin­is­tra­tive sys­tems. And most notably, peace and secu­ri­ty were gone.”

But there’s plen­ty more his­to­ry to come there­after: about a mil­len­ni­um’s worth, in fact, which the video cov­ers in a mere twen­ty min­utes. Events of note in that grand sweep include Jus­tin­ian I’s attempt to expand the Byzan­tine Empire of the east; the cre­ation and spread of the Islam­ic caliphate; Charle­mag­ne’s uni­fi­ca­tion of most of west­ern Chris­ten­dom; inva­sions by Vikings, Mag­yars, and Mus­lim raiders; the rise of cas­tles and the feu­dal sys­tem that they came to sym­bol­ize; the cre­ation of the Holy Roman Empire; the flour­ish­ing of cities and uni­ver­si­ties; and the Nor­man Con­quest of Eng­land, as seen on the Bayeux Tapes­try. There’s also the unpleas­ant­ness of the Black Death, which swept through Europe from the mid-four­teenth to the ear­ly six­teenth cen­tu­ry — but as with oth­er medieval dis­as­ters, the plague held the seeds of a civ­i­liza­tion­al rebirth.

“For some sur­vivors, the con­se­quences of the plague were not so grim,” says the nar­ra­tor. “As the pop­u­la­tion dropped, land became wide­ly avail­able, and the demand for labor rose dra­mat­i­cal­ly.” Peas­ants demand­ed improved con­di­tions and revolt­ed against the rulers who refused; ulti­mate­ly, they “gained new free­doms and oppor­tu­ni­ties, and work­ers enjoyed high­er wages. Cre­ativ­i­ty and inno­va­tion in sci­ence and cul­ture fol­lowed, cre­at­ing the envi­ron­ment in which Euro­pean schol­ars “defined the past mil­len­ni­um as ‘Dark Ages,’ and so posi­tioned them­selves as the tran­si­tion between the medieval and mod­ern world.” Some liken the cur­rent state of the world to the decline of the Roman Empire; if they’re cor­rect, maybe we have anoth­er Renais­sance to look for­ward to about 40 gen­er­a­tions down the road.

Relat­ed Con­tent:

A Free Yale Course on Medieval His­to­ry: 700 Years in 22 Lec­tures

What Did Peo­ple Eat in Medieval Times? A Video Series and New Cook­book Explain

How Every­thing in a Medieval Cas­tle Worked, from Its Moats to Its Dun­geons

What Sex Was Like in Medieval Times?: His­to­ri­ans Look at How Peo­ple Got It On in the Dark Ages

How the Byzan­tine Empire Rose, Fell, and Cre­at­ed the Glo­ri­ous Hagia Sophia: A His­to­ry in Ten Ani­mat­ed Min­utes

Advice for Time Trav­el­ing to Medieval Europe: How to Stay Healthy & Safe, and Avoid­ing Charges of Witch­craft

Based in Seoul, Col­in Marshall writes and broad­casts on cities, lan­guage, and cul­ture. He’s the author of the newslet­ter Books on Cities as well as the books 한국 요약 금지 (No Sum­ma­riz­ing Korea) and Kore­an Newtro. Fol­low him on the social net­work for­mer­ly known as Twit­ter at @colinmarshall.

 

Confidence: The Cartoon That Helped America Get Through the Great Depression (1933)

No more bum­min’, let’s all get to work…

Actu­al­ly, hold up a sec. We’ll all be hap­pi­er and more pro­duc­tive if we take a moment to start our work day with Con­fi­dence, a pep­py musi­cal ani­ma­tion from 1933, star­ring new­ly elect­ed Pres­i­dent Franklin Delano Roo­sevelt and Mick­ey Mouse pre­cur­sor, Oswald the Lucky Rab­bit. 

Few Americans—today we’d refer to them as the 1%—could escape the pri­va­tions of the Great Depres­sion. The movies were one indus­try that con­tin­ued to thrive through this dark peri­od, pre­cise­ly because they offered a few hours of respite. No one went to the pic­tures to see a reflec­tion of their own lives. Gor­geous gowns, glam­orous Man­hat­tan apart­ments and roman­tic trou­ble cer­tain to be resolved in hap­py endings…remember Mia Far­row’s belea­guered wait­ress bask­ing in the Pur­ple Rose of Cairo’reas­sur­ing glow?

Giv­en the pub­lic’s pref­er­ence for escapist fare, direc­tor Bill Nolan, the Father of Rub­ber Hose Ani­ma­tion, could have played it safe by gloss­ing over the back­sto­ry that leads Oswald to seek out advice from the Com­man­der in Chief. Instead, Nolan deliv­ered his joy­ful car­toon ani­mals into night­mare ter­ri­to­ry, the Depres­sion per­son­i­fied as a cowled Death fig­ure lay­ing waste to the land. It’s weird­ly upset­ting to see those hyper-cheer­ful vin­tage barn­yard ani­mals (and a rogue mon­key) under­go this graph­ic ener­va­tion.

Oh, for some oral history—I’d love to know how mati­nee crowds react­ed as Oswald raced scream­ing before a spin­ning ver­ti­go back­ground, seek­ing a rem­e­dy for a host of non-car­toon prob­lems. Irony is a lux­u­ry they did­n’t have.

Unsur­pris­ing­ly, the can-do spir­it so cen­tral to FDR’s New Deal quick­ly turned Oswald’s frown upside down. As pres­i­den­tial cam­paign promis­es go, this one’s unique­ly tai­lored to the demands of musi­cal com­e­dy. Wit­ness Annie, in which the 32nd pres­i­dent was again called upon to Rex Har­ri­son his way into audi­ence hearts, this time from the wheel­chair the cre­ators of Con­fi­dence did­n’t dare show, some forty years ear­li­er.

The divi­sion between enter­tain­ment and nation-lead­ing is pret­ty per­me­able these days, too.

Accord­ing­ly, what real­ly sets this car­toon apart for me is the use of a Pres­i­den­tial­ly-sanc­tioned giant syringe as a tool to get Depres­sion-era Amer­i­ca back on its feet. A fig­u­ra­tive injec­tion of con­fi­dence is all well and good, but noth­ing gets the barn­yard back on its singing, danc­ing feet like a lib­er­al dose, deliv­ered in the most lit­er­al way.

Note: An ear­li­er ver­sion of this post appeared on our site in 2014.

Relat­ed Con­tent:

A Sim­ple, Down-to-Earth Christ­mas Card from the Great Depres­sion (1933)

Pri­vate Sna­fu: The World War II Pro­pa­gan­da Car­toons Cre­at­ed by Dr. Seuss, Frank Capra & Mel Blanc

Yale Presents an Archive of 170,000 Pho­tographs Doc­u­ment­ing the Great Depres­sion

Great Depres­sion Cook­ing: Get Bud­get-Mind­ed Meals from the Online Cook­ing Show Cre­at­ed by 93-Year-Old Clara Can­nuc­cia­ri

When Al Capone Opened a Soup Kitchen Dur­ing the Great Depres­sion: Anoth­er Side of the Leg­endary Mobster’s Oper­a­tion

Ayun Hal­l­i­day can’t get enough of that rub­ber style. 

Why Ancient Egyptian Honey Remains Edible After 3,000 Years

The glob­al bee pop­u­la­tion comes up in the news every now and again. Some­times we’re assured that the num­ber is sta­ble or ris­ing; more often, we’re warned about col­laps­ing colonies and the large-scale eco­log­i­cal dis­as­ter that could result. As with most high-stakes issues, it can be dif­fi­cult to know what to believe. But even if you lack the time to invest in an under­stand­ing of the sci­ence behind the com­plex con­nec­tions between api­an and human wel­fare, you can eas­i­ly come to appre­ci­ate the impor­tance of bees if you learn just how long they’ve played a role in our civ­i­liza­tion.

As Elana Spi­vack writes at History.com, “a cave paint­ing in north­east­ern Spain depict­ing a human har­vest­ing hon­ey dates back 7,500 years to the Neolith­ic peri­od, accord­ing to research pub­lished in 2021 in the jour­nal Tra­ba­jos de Pre­his­to­ria.” Just last year, a paper in the Jour­nal of the Amer­i­can Chem­i­cal Soci­ety con­firmed that bronze con­tain­ers dis­cov­ered in an under­ground shrine in a sixth-cen­tu­ry-BC Greek set­tle­ment not far from Pom­peii con­tained a residue of hon­ey. We’ve long known of hiero­glyphs from ancient Egypt that depict bees and the keep­ing there­of; “accord­ing to a 2022 paper in the jour­nal Ani­mals, the use of hon­ey­bees in the Nile Val­ley can be traced to the ear­li­est years of the Egypt­ian king­dom.”

Here in the twen­ty-first cen­tu­ry, most of us regard hon­ey as noth­ing more than a rel­a­tive­ly healthy sweet­en­er. In ancient Egypt, too, it was used to improve the taste of their bread and beer, but it was also put to impor­tant med­ical uses. “Because it’s so thick, rejects any kind of growth and con­tains hydro­gen per­ox­ide, it cre­ates the per­fect bar­ri­er against infec­tion for wounds,” writes Smith­son­ian’s Natasha Geil­ing. “The ancient Egyp­tians used med­i­c­i­nal hon­ey reg­u­lar­ly, mak­ing oint­ments to treat skin and eye dis­eases.” They may not have been the first to do so, giv­en that the ear­li­est known uses of hon­ey are record­ed on Sumer­ian clay tablets, but they took respect for the stuff to a whole new lev­el, describ­ing hon­ey­bees as orig­i­nat­ing from the tears of their sun god Re (for­mer­ly known in the Eng­lish-speak­ing world as Ra).

That par­tic­u­lar piece of mythol­o­gy is record­ed on some Egypt­ian papyri; oth­ers reveal how much hon­ey was rationed to work­ers, at least those employed direct­ly by the Pharaoh. In those days, the sub­stance’s gold­en col­or reflect­ed its dear­ness, and it seems that com­mon labor­ers and their fam­i­lies could go a life­time with­out ever tast­ing a spoon­ful them­selves. Today, of course, we take it for grant­ed that we can go down to the super­mar­ket and cheap­ly buy an econ­o­my-size tub of hon­ey that nev­er goes bad. But then, ancient Egypt­ian hon­ey has nev­er gone bad either: thanks to the very same chem­i­cal and bio­log­i­cal prop­er­ties that made it use­ful for heal­ing, the sealed jars of it remain the­o­ret­i­cal­ly edi­ble even after 3,000 years. Driz­zle it on some gen­uine Greek yogurt, and you’ve got a large swath of the his­to­ry of civ­i­liza­tion in break­fast form.

via Boing Boing/Smith­son­ian

Relat­ed con­tent:

Try the Old­est Known Recipe For Tooth­paste: From Ancient Egypt, Cir­ca the 4th Cen­tu­ry BC

How Egypt­ian Papyrus Is Made: Watch Arti­sans Keep a 5,000-Year-Old Art Alive

A 3,000-Year-Old Painter’s Palette from Ancient Egypt, with Traces of the Orig­i­nal Col­ors Still In It

How Sci­en­tists Recre­at­ed Ancient Egypt’s Long-Lost Pig­ment, “Egypt­ian Blue”

Behold 1,600-Year-Old Egypt­ian Socks Made with Nål­bind­ning, an Ancient Pro­to-Knit­ting Tech­nique

How Did the Egyp­tians Make Mum­mies? An Ani­mat­ed Intro­duc­tion to the Ancient Art of Mum­mi­fi­ca­tion

Based in Seoul, Col­in Marshall writes and broad­casts on cities, lan­guage, and cul­ture. He’s the author of the newslet­ter Books on Cities as well as the books 한국 요약 금지 (No Sum­ma­riz­ing Korea) and Kore­an Newtro. Fol­low him on the social net­work for­mer­ly known as Twit­ter at @colinmarshall.

When Francis Bacon Shocked the Art World: Viewers Were Horrified by His Paintings, But Couldn’t Look Away

A dif­fi­cult child­hood and ado­les­cence, sat­u­rat­ed with the feel­ing of being an out­sider, may or may not con­tribute to becom­ing a great artist. Expe­ri­enc­ing the social and cul­tur­al fer­ment of Berlin and Paris in the nine­teen-twen­ties prob­a­bly would­n’t hurt one’s chances. Nor, sure­ly, would for­ma­tive expo­sure in such cities to films like Metrop­o­lis, Bat­tle­ship Potemkin, and Abel Gance’s Napoleon, as well as to the paint­ings of Pablo Picas­so. Going to art school may seem like the nat­ur­al choice for any aspir­ing artist, but there’s also some­thing to be gained from avoid­ing that aca­d­e­m­ic sys­tem entire­ly.

These, as gal­lerist-Youtu­ber James Payne tells us in the new Great Art Explained video above, are all aspects of the life that pro­duced Fran­cis Bacon. As usu­al on that series, he pro­ceeds from a sin­gle rep­re­sen­ta­tive work, in this case Study after Velázquez’s Por­trait of Pope Inno­cent X, from 1953.

If you’ve seen that paint­ing even once, you haven’t for­got­ten it, and indeed, you’ve prob­a­bly seen it again in your night­mares since. To trace the source of its trou­bling pow­er, Payne plunges into the his­to­ry of Bacon’s har­row­ing life as well as that of the Irish, Eng­lish, and Euro­pean his­tor­i­cal con­texts in which he lived — often to its dan­ger­ous, chaot­ic fullest.

Not that any art his­to­ri­an can ignore the inspi­ra­tion cit­ed right there in the paint­ing’s title. It is to that sev­en­teenth-cen­tu­ry Spaniard’s acclaimed por­trait of that head of the Catholic Church (who pro­nounced the fin­ished work “trop­po vero”) that Bacon pays twist­ed, decon­struc­tive homage. Yet despite hav­ing been to Rome, he nev­er actu­al­ly saw the orig­i­nal; that, as Payne explains, “would have meant fac­ing its pow­er direct­ly.” Instead, he worked from a small, washed-out “copy of a copy,” all the bet­ter to allow for not just rein­ven­tion, but also the incor­po­ra­tion of oth­er scraps of the rapid­ly expand­ing mass media of the twen­ti­eth cen­tu­ry: the peri­od, despite the out-of-time qual­i­ty of so much of his art, to which Bacon so thor­ough­ly belonged.

Relat­ed Con­tent:

The Bril­liant­ly Night­mar­ish Art & Trou­bled Life of Painter Fran­cis Bacon

Fran­cis Bacon on The South Bank Show: A Sin­gu­lar Pro­file of the Sin­gu­lar Painter

William Bur­roughs Meets Fran­cis Bacon: See Nev­er-Broad­cast Footage (1982)

What Makes Diego Velázquez’s Las Meni­nas One of the Most Fas­ci­nat­ing Paint­ings in Art His­to­ry

Great Art Explained: Watch 15 Minute Intro­duc­tions to Great Works by Warhol, Rothko, Kahlo, Picas­so & More

Based in Seoul, Col­in Marshall writes and broad­casts on cities, lan­guage, and cul­ture. He’s the author of the newslet­ter Books on Cities as well as the books 한국 요약 금지 (No Sum­ma­riz­ing Korea) and Kore­an Newtro. Fol­low him on the social net­work for­mer­ly known as Twit­ter at @colinmarshall.

Why Salvador Dalí and Luis Buñuel Made the Still-Shocking Un Chien Andalou (1929)

Under most cir­cum­stances, there’s noth­ing par­tic­u­lar­ly shock­ing about cut­ting into an eye removed from a dead ani­mal. Gra­tu­itous, maybe, and sure­ly dis­gust­ing for some, but cer­tain­ly not psy­cho­log­i­cal­ly dam­ag­ing. I remem­ber a man turn­ing up one day to my first-grade class­room and show­ing us how to dis­sect a real sheep­’s eye, which most of us found a fas­ci­nat­ing break from our usu­al spelling and math exer­cis­es. But in edu­ca­tion as in art, con­text is every­thing, and it is the con­text estab­lished by Sal­vador Dalí and Luis Buñuel that has allowed their own act of eye-slic­ing to retain its vis­cer­al impact. It occurs, of course, in their short film Un Chien Andalou, from 1929, the sub­ject of the new Nerd­writer video above.

The shot of Buñuel’s hand tak­ing a razor to the dis­em­bod­ied eye of what he lat­er said was a calf comes ear­ly in the pic­ture. What gives it its pow­er are the images that pre­cede it: Buñuel sharp­en­ing a razor and gaz­ing up at the moon, and the actress Simone Mareuil hav­ing her own eye opened up and the razor brought near. In extreme close-up, the calf’s eye obvi­ous­ly isn’t Mareuil’s, but no mat­ter.

Cin­e­ma is so often about car­ry­ing the audi­ence along with sheer momen­tum, and in any case, Un Chien Andalou is a work of sur­re­al­ism. To the extent that any com­bi­na­tion of shots makes sense, it fails on that move­men­t’s terms. Dalí and Buñuel suc­ceed­ed, pos­si­bly to a unique degree, in mak­ing a film in which noth­ing adds up. “The rule was to refuse any image that could have a ratio­nal mean­ing, or any mem­o­ry or cul­ture,” says Buñuel in a late inter­view clip includ­ed in the video.

Nerd­writer cre­ator Evan Puschak lists a few of the images that made the cut: “A crowd sur­round­ing a man pok­ing a sev­ered hand with a stick; a man drag­ging two Jesuit priests, one played by Dalí him­self, as well as two pianos laden with two decom­pos­ing, ooz­ing don­keys; a wom­an’s armpit hair sud­den­ly appear­ing over a man’s van­ished mouth.” The goal of assem­bling such grotes­queries into one dis­or­dered view­ing expe­ri­ence? “Buñuel felt that main­stream cin­e­ma, so con­cerned with re-cre­at­ing the con­ven­tions of the nine­teenth-cen­tu­ry nov­el, was trap­ping itself in the same insid­i­ous moral­i­ty and lim­it­ing its cre­ative poten­tial. He and Dalí sought to lib­er­ate the medi­um and the audi­ence, and that lib­er­a­tion was not designed to be pleas­ant.” Near­ly a cen­tu­ry on, Un Chien Andalou remains mem­o­rably trou­bling, but most of cin­e­ma still stub­born­ly refus­es to be freed.

Relat­ed con­tent:

The Short Sur­re­al­ist Film That Rev­o­lu­tion­ized Cin­e­ma: Luis Buñuel & Sal­vador Dalí’s Un Chien Andalou (1929)

Two Vin­tage Films by Sal­vador Dalí and Luis Buñuel: Un Chien Andalou and L’Age d’Or

Watch Luis Buñuel’s Sur­re­al Trav­el Doc­u­men­tary A Land With­out Bread (1933)

The 10 Favorite Films of Avant-Garde Sur­re­al­ist Film­mak­er Luis Buñuel (Includ­ing His Own Col­lab­o­ra­tion with Sal­vador Dalí)

Sal­vador Dalí Goes to Hol­ly­wood & Cre­ates a Wild Dream Sequence for Alfred Hitch­cock

Film­mak­er Luis Buñuel Shows How to Make the Per­fect Dry Mar­ti­ni

Based in Seoul, Col­in Marshall writes and broad­casts on cities, lan­guage, and cul­ture. He’s the author of the newslet­ter Books on Cities as well as the books 한국 요약 금지 (No Sum­ma­riz­ing Korea) and Kore­an Newtro. Fol­low him on the social net­work for­mer­ly known as Twit­ter at @colinmarshall.

Explosive Cats Imagined in a Strange, 16th Century Military Manual

Paw prints and feline urine stains on a medieval scribe’s man­u­script, per­haps they weren’t entire­ly out of the ordi­nary in the 15th cen­tu­ry. But cats strapped to mini-pow­der kegs, bound­ing off to burn down a town — now that’s pret­ty unusu­al.

The incen­di­ary feline fea­tured above (and else­where on this page) comes from a dig­i­tized ver­sion of an ear­ly 16th cen­tu­ry mil­i­tary man­u­al writ­ten by Franz Helm. An artillery mas­ter, Helm wrote about a broad and imag­i­na­tive set of destruc­tive ideas for siege war­fare. Although my Ger­man is some­what rusty, I got the sense that he was awful­ly fond of explod­ing sacks, bar­rels, and var­i­ous oth­er recep­ta­cles, and even­tu­al­ly decid­ed to com­bine these ideas with an unwit­ting ani­mal deliv­ery sys­tem. These ani­mals, accord­ing to Helm’s guide, would allow a com­man­der to “set fire to a cas­tle or city which you can’t get at oth­er­wise.”

runningcat1

The text was orig­i­nal­ly dig­i­tized by the Uni­ver­si­ty of Penn­syl­va­nia, and a UPenn his­to­ri­an named Mitch Fraas decid­ed to take a clos­er look at this strange explod­ing cat busi­ness. Accord­ing to Fraas, the accom­pa­ny­ing text reads:

“Cre­ate a small sack like a fire-arrow … if you would like to get at a town or cas­tle, seek to obtain a cat from that place. And bind the sack to the back of the cat, ignite it, let it glow well and there­after let the cat go, so it runs to the near­est cas­tle or town, and out of fear it thinks to hide itself where it ends up in barn hay or straw it will be ignit­ed.”

That’s the mil­i­tary strat­e­gy in a nut­shell. Seems like a great idea, apart from the fact that cats are noto­ri­ous­ly unpre­dictable. In any case, here are more illus­tra­tions of weaponized cats to round out your work week.

runningcat2

Note: An ear­li­er ver­sion of this post appeared on our site in 2014.

Relat­ed Con­tent:

Cats in Medieval Man­u­scripts & Paint­ings

What Peo­ple Named Their Cats in the Mid­dle Ages: Gyb, Mite, Méone, Pan­gur Bán & More

Cats Migrat­ed to Europe 7,000 Years Ear­li­er Than Once Thought

Cats in Japan­ese Wood­block Prints: How Japan’s Favorite Ani­mals Came to Star in Its Pop­u­lar Art

Harvard Professor Answers Burning Questions About Iranian History

In a brisk WIRED inter­view, Pro­fes­sor Tarek Masoud answers fre­quent­ly asked ques­tions about Iran’s his­to­ry. He explains that Iran is not an Arab coun­try but a pre­dom­i­nant­ly Per­sian one, with a dis­tinct lan­guage and iden­ti­ty. He traces how the coun­try became an Islam­ic repub­lic after the 1979 rev­o­lu­tion, dri­ven by polit­i­cal repres­sion, eco­nom­ic ten­sions, and resis­tance to West­ern influ­ence.

Along the way, he tack­les the fol­low­ing ques­tions: Just how liberal/progressive was Iran pri­or to the 1979 rev­o­lu­tion? Why did the Iran­ian rev­o­lu­tion hap­pen? Is Iran the only Mid­dle East­ern coun­try whose mod­ern bor­ders were not cre­at­ed by colo­nial pow­ers? The son of Iran’s last Shah is ral­ly­ing pro­test­ers, but do Ira­ni­ans real­ly want anoth­er king?

By the end, you’ll know a lit­tle bit more about the coun­try at the cen­ter of Amer­i­ca’s lat­est mil­i­tary adven­ture.

If you would like to sup­port the mis­sion of Open Cul­ture, con­sid­er mak­ing a dona­tion to our site. It’s hard to rely 100% on ads, and your con­tri­bu­tions will help us con­tin­ue pro­vid­ing the best free cul­tur­al and edu­ca­tion­al mate­ri­als to learn­ers every­where. You can con­tribute through Pay­Pal, Patre­on, and Ven­mo (@openculture). Thanks!

Discover the Copiale Cipher: The Mysterious 18th-Century Book That Took 260 Years to Decode

In the world of cryp­tog­ra­phy, sub­sti­tu­tion ciphers are child’s play. Indeed, we may remem­ber lit­er­al­ly play­ing with them as chil­dren, writ­ing secret mes­sages to our friends by replac­ing all the let­ters with num­bers, say, or shift­ing them one or two places over in alpha­bet­i­cal order. Crack­ing such codes was a triv­ial mat­ter even before the com­put­er age, but cer­tain sim­ple vari­a­tions could make them more robust. Take the doc­u­ment known as the Copi­ale cipher (down­load­able as a two-part PDF), a 105-page bound man­u­script that stayed unde­ci­pher­able for more than 260 years. Its mys­tery final­ly yield­ed to the efforts of Uni­ver­si­ty of South­ern Cal­i­for­nia com­put­er sci­en­tist Kevin Knight and Upp­sala Uni­ver­si­ty lin­guists Bea­ta Megye­si and Chris­tiane Schae­fer only in the ear­ly twen­ty-tens.

As Tom­mie Trelawny tells the sto­ry of the Copi­ale cipher in the Hochela­ga video above, the man­u­script, which was orig­i­nal­ly thought to date between 1760 and 1780, first had to be con­vert­ed into machine-read­able code. The tex­t’s use of 88 unique sym­bols, one of them shaped like an eye, neces­si­tat­ed com­ing up with names for all of them apart from the Roman let­ters, which had no par­tic­u­lar mean­ing in iso­la­tion.

When anoth­er scan searched for repeat­ed let­ter com­bi­na­tions, its results shed light on prob­a­ble sim­i­lar­i­ties with the Ger­man lan­guage. This made sense, since the book was found in Ger­many in the first place. Could mul­ti­ple sym­bols in this strange cipher have been sub­sti­tut­ed for sin­gle Ger­man let­ters? Could the code be, in cryp­to­graph­ic terms, a homo­phon­ic cipher?

Approach­ing the text under that hypoth­e­sis revealed mean­ings sug­gest­ing, tan­ta­liz­ing­ly, that it had been writ­ten by a secret soci­ety. It even describes an ini­ti­a­tion rit­u­al in which the inductee must first “read” a blank piece of paper, then try again with eye­glass­es, then again after wash­ing his eyes, and then, final­ly, under­go a sym­bol­ic “oper­a­tion” involv­ing the pluck­ing of a sin­gle eye­brow. This soci­ety, the Oculists, turns out to have been com­posed entire­ly of oph­thal­mol­o­gists meet­ing in the sev­en­teen-for­ties. That they did so covert­ly may owe to their hav­ing been Freema­sons, whose rites had recent­ly been banned by Pope Clement XII. The Copi­ale cipher sug­gests that Oculists appear to have had no aims more sin­is­ter than the pur­suit of knowl­edge — not that, for most of us today, the notion of eigh­teenth-cen­tu­ry eye surgery isn’t ter­ri­fy­ing enough.

Relat­ed con­tent:

Explore a Dig­i­tized Edi­tion of the Voyn­ich Man­u­script, “the World’s Most Mys­te­ri­ous Book”

The Enig­ma Machine: How Alan Tur­ing Helped Break the Unbreak­able Nazi Code

Three Ama­teur Cryp­tog­ra­phers Final­ly Decrypt­ed the Zodi­ac Killer’s Let­ters: A Look Inside How They Solved a Half Cen­tu­ry-Old Mys­tery

The Rohonc Codex: Hungary’s Mys­te­ri­ous Man­u­script That No One Can Read

The Codex Seraphini­anus: How Ital­ian Artist Lui­gi Ser­afi­ni Came to Write & Illus­trate “the Strangest Book Ever Pub­lished” (1981)

Can You Crack the Uncrack­able Code in Kryp­tos, the CIA’s Work of Pub­lic Art?

Based in Seoul, Col­in Marshall writes and broad­casts on cities, lan­guage, and cul­ture. He’s the author of the newslet­ter Books on Cities as well as the books 한국 요약 금지 (No Sum­ma­riz­ing Korea) and Kore­an Newtro. Fol­low him on the social net­work for­mer­ly known as Twit­ter at @colinmarshall.

« Go BackMore in this category... »
Quantcast