The Writing System of the Cryptic Voynich Manuscript Explained: British Researcher May Have Finally Cracked the Code

Human­i­ty will remem­ber the name of James Joyce for gen­er­a­tions to come, not least because, as he once wrote about his best-known nov­el Ulysses, “I’ve put in so many enig­mas and puz­zles that it will keep the pro­fes­sors busy for cen­turies argu­ing over what I meant, and that’s the only way of insur­ing one’s immor­tal­i­ty.” If Joyce was right, then the author of the mys­te­ri­ous Voyn­ich man­u­script (about which you can see an ani­mat­ed intro­duc­tion here) has set a kind of stan­dard for immor­tal­i­ty. Filled with odd, not espe­cial­ly explana­to­ry illus­tra­tions and writ­ten in a script not seen any­where else, the ear­ly 15th-cen­tu­ry text has per­plexed schol­ars for at least 400 or so years of its exis­tence.

But recent years have seen a few claims of hav­ing cracked the Voyn­ich man­u­scrip­t’s code: one effort made use of arti­fi­cial intel­li­gence, anoth­er con­cludes that the text was writ­ten in pho­net­ic Old Turk­ish, and the lat­est declares the Voyn­ich man­u­script to have been com­posed in “the only known exam­ple of pro­to-Romance lan­guage.” Uni­ver­si­ty of Bris­tol Research Asso­ciate Ger­ard Cheshire, the man behind this new decod­ing, describes that lan­guage as “ances­tral to today’s Romance lan­guages includ­ing Por­tuguese, Span­ish, French, Ital­ian, Roman­ian, Cata­lan and Gali­cian. The lan­guage used was ubiq­ui­tous in the Mediter­ranean dur­ing the Medieval peri­od, but it was sel­dom writ­ten in offi­cial or impor­tant doc­u­ments because Latin was the lan­guage of roy­al­ty, church and gov­ern­ment.”

And what, pray tell, is the Voyn­ich man­u­script actu­al­ly about? Cheshire has revealed lit­tle about its con­tent thus far, though he has described the text as “com­piled by Domini­can nuns as a source of ref­er­ence for Maria of Castile, Queen of Aragon.” Though he has claimed to deter­mine the nature of its unusu­al lan­guage — one with­out punc­tu­a­tion but with “diph­thong, triph­thongs, quad­riph­thongs and even quin­tiph­thongs for the abbre­vi­a­tion of pho­net­ic com­po­nents” — deci­pher­ing its more than 200 pages of con­tent stands as anoth­er task alto­geth­er. In the mean­time, you can read his paper “The Lan­guage and Writ­ing Sys­tem of MS408 (Voyn­ich) Explained,” orig­i­nal­ly pub­lished in the jour­nal Romance Stud­ies.

Although Cheshire’s dis­cov­ery has pro­duced head­lines like the Express’ “Voyn­ich Man­u­script SOLVED: World’s Most Mys­te­ri­ous Book Deci­phered After 600 Years,” oth­ers include Ars Techh­ni­ca’s “No, Some­one Has­n’t Cracked the Code of the Mys­te­ri­ous Voyn­ich Man­u­script.” That arti­cle quotes Lisa Fagin Davis, exec­u­tive direc­tor of the Medieval Acad­e­my of Amer­i­ca (and vocal Voyn­ich-trans­la­tion skep­tic), crit­i­ciz­ing the foun­da­tion of Cheshire’s claim: “He starts with a the­o­ry about what a par­tic­u­lar series of glyphs might mean, usu­al­ly because of the word’s prox­im­i­ty to an image that he believes he can inter­pret. He then inves­ti­gates any num­ber of medieval Romance-lan­guage dic­tio­nar­ies until he finds a word that seems to suit his the­o­ry. Then he argues that because he has found a Romance-lan­guage word that fits his hypoth­e­sis, his hypoth­e­sis must be right.”

Fagin Davis adds that Cheshire’s “ ‘trans­la­tions’ from what is essen­tial­ly gib­ber­ish, an amal­gam of mul­ti­ple lan­guages, are them­selves aspi­ra­tional rather than being actu­al trans­la­tions,” and that “the fun­da­men­tal under­ly­ing argu­ment — that there is such a thing as one ‘pro­to-Romance lan­guage’ — is com­plete­ly unsub­stan­ti­at­ed and at odds with pale­olin­guis­tics.” Fagin Davis’ crit­i­cism does­n’t even stop there, and if she’s right, Cheshire’s approach will be unlike­ly to pro­duce a coher­ent trans­la­tion of the entire text. And so, at least for the moment, the Voyn­ich man­u­scrip­t’s life as a mys­tery con­tin­ues, keep­ing busy not just pro­fes­sors but enthu­si­asts, tech­nol­o­gists, Research Asso­ciates, and many oth­ers besides.

Relat­ed Con­tent:

Has the Voyn­ich Man­u­script Final­ly Been Decod­ed?: Researchers Claim That the Mys­te­ri­ous Text Was Writ­ten in Pho­net­ic Old Turk­ish

An Ani­mat­ed Intro­duc­tion to “the World’s Most Mys­te­ri­ous Book,” the 15th-Cen­tu­ry Voyn­ich Man­u­script

Behold the Mys­te­ri­ous Voyn­ich Man­u­script: The 15th-Cen­tu­ry Text That Lin­guists & Code-Break­ers Can’t Under­stand

Arti­fi­cial Intel­li­gence May Have Cracked the Code of the Voyn­ich Man­u­script: Has Mod­ern Tech­nol­o­gy Final­ly Solved a Medieval Mys­tery?

An Intro­duc­tion to the Codex Seraphini­anus, the Strangest Book Ever Pub­lished

Based in Seoul, Col­in Mar­shall writes and broad­casts on cities, lan­guage, and cul­ture. His projects include the book The State­less City: a Walk through 21st-Cen­tu­ry Los Ange­les and the video series The City in Cin­e­ma. Fol­low him on Twit­ter at @colinmarshall, on Face­book, or on Insta­gram.

Paris, New York & Havana Come to Life in Colorized Films Shot Between 1890 and 1931

Cities have long pro­vid­ed a rich envi­ron­ment for pho­tog­ra­phy, at least to pho­tog­ra­phers not inter­est­ed exclu­sive­ly in nature. But only with the advent of the motion pic­ture cam­era did the sub­ject of cities find a pho­to­graph­ic form that tru­ly suit­ed it. Hence the pop­u­lar­i­ty in the 1920s of “city sym­pho­ny” films, each of which sought to cap­ture and present the real life of a dif­fer­ent bustling indus­tri­al metrop­o­lis. But while city sym­phonies cer­tain­ly hold up as works of art, they do make mod­ern-day view­ers won­der: what would all these cap­i­tals look like if I could gaze back­ward in time, look­ing not through the jit­tery, col­or­less medi­um of ear­ly motion-pic­ture film, but with my own eyes?

Youtu­ber Igna­cio López-Fran­cos offers a step clos­er to the answer in the form of these four videos, each of which takes his­tor­i­cal footage of a city, then cor­rects its speed and adds col­or to make it more life­like.

At the top of the post we have “a col­lec­tion of high qual­i­ty remas­tered prints from the dawn of film tak­en in Belle Époque-era Paris, France from 1896–1900.” Shot by the Lumière com­pa­ny (which was found­ed by Auguste and Louis Lumière, inven­tors of the pro­ject­ed motion pic­ture), the sights cap­tured by the film include the Avenue des Champs-Élysées, Tui­leries Gar­den, the then-new Eif­fel Tow­er, and the now-soon-to-be-reha­bil­i­tat­ed but then-intact Notre Dame cathe­dral.

The Paris footage was col­orized using DeOld­ify, “a deep learn­ing-based project for col­oriz­ing and restor­ing old images.” So was the footage just above, which shows New York City in 1911 as shot by the Swedish com­pa­ny Sven­s­ka Biografteatern and released pub­licly by the Muse­um of Mod­ern Art. “Pro­duced only three years before the out­break of World War I, the every­day life of the city record­ed here — street traf­fic, peo­ple going about their busi­ness — has a casu­al, almost pas­toral qual­i­ty that dif­fers from the mod­ernist per­spec­tive of lat­er city-sym­pho­ny films,” say the accom­pa­ny­ing notes. “Take note of the sur­pris­ing and remark­ably time­less expres­sion of bore­dom exhib­it­ed by a young girl filmed as she was chauf­feured along Broad­way in the front seat of a con­vert­ible lim­ou­sine.”

Shot twen­ty years lat­er, these clips of New York’s The­ater Dis­trict have also under­gone the DeOld­ify treat­ment, which gets the bright lights (and numer­ous bal­ly­hoo­ing signs) of the big city a lit­tle clos­er to the stun­ning qual­i­ty they must have had on a new arrival in the 1930s. The streets of Havana were seem­ing­ly qui­eter dur­ing that same decade, at least if the col­orized footage below is to be believed. But then, the his­to­ry of tourism in Cuba remem­bers the 1930s as some­thing of a dull stretch after the high-liv­ing 1920s that came before, dur­ing the Unit­ed States’ days of Pro­hi­bi­tion — let alone the even more daiquiri- and moji­to-soaked 1950s that would come lat­er, speak­ing of eras one dreams of see­ing for one­self.

via Twist­ed Sifter

Relat­ed Con­tent:

Immac­u­late­ly Restored Film Lets You Revis­it Life in New York City in 1911

The Old­est Known Footage of Lon­don (1890–1920) Fea­tures the City’s Great Land­marks

Time Trav­el Back to Tokyo After World War II, and See the City in Remark­ably High-Qual­i­ty 1940s Video

Berlin Street Scenes Beau­ti­ful­ly Caught on Film (1900–1914)

Pris­tine Footage Lets You Revis­it Life in Paris in the 1890s: Watch Footage Shot by the Lumière Broth­ers

The Old­est Known Footage of Lon­don (1890–1920) Fea­tures the City’s Great Land­marks

Based in Seoul, Col­in Mar­shall writes and broad­casts on cities, lan­guage, and cul­ture. His projects include the book The State­less City: a Walk through 21st-Cen­tu­ry Los Ange­les and the video series The City in Cin­e­ma. Fol­low him on Twit­ter at @colinmarshall, on Face­book, or on Insta­gram.

Would You Go Back to 1889 and Take Out Baby Hitler?: Time-Travel Expert James Gleick Answers the Philosophical Question

The vast major­i­ty of us have no incli­na­tion to kill any­one, much less a small child. But what if we had the chance to kill baby Adolf Hitler, pre­vent­ing the Holo­caust and indeed the Sec­ond World War? That hypo­thet­i­cal ques­tion has endured for a vari­ety of rea­sons, touch­ing as it does on the con­cepts of geno­cide and infant mur­der in forms even more high­ly charged than usu­al. It also presents, in the words of Time Trav­el: A His­to­ry author James Gle­ick, “two prob­lems at once. There’s a sci­en­tif­ic prob­lem — you can set your mind to work imag­in­ing, ‘Could such a thing be pos­si­ble and how would that work?’ And then there’s an eth­i­cal prob­lem. ‘If I could, would I, should I?’ ”

By the sim­plest analy­sis, writes Vox’s Dylan Matthews, the ques­tion comes down to, “Is it eth­i­cal to kill one per­son to save 40-plus mil­lion peo­ple?” But time-trav­el fic­tion has been around long enough that we’ve all inter­nal­ized the mes­sage that it’s not quite so sim­ple. We can even ques­tion the assump­tion that killing baby Hitler would pre­vent the Holo­caust and World War II in the first place.

Maybe those ter­ri­ble events hap­pen on any time­line, regard­less of whether Hitler lives or dies: that would align with the Novikov self-con­sis­ten­cy prin­ci­ple, which holds that “time trav­el could be pos­si­ble, but must be con­sis­tent with the past as it has already tak­en place,” and which has been dra­ma­tized in time-trav­el sto­ries from La Jetée to The Ter­mi­na­tor.

Gle­ick does­n’t have a straight answer in the Vox video on the killing-baby-hitler ques­tion above as to whether he him­self would go back to 1889 and put baby Hitler out of action. “When you change his­to­ry,” he says of the moral of the count­less many time trav­el sto­ries he’s read, “you don’t get the result you’re look­ing for. Every day, every­thing we do is a turn­ing point in his­to­ry, whether it’s obvi­ous to us or not.” This in con­trast to for­mer Flori­da gov­er­nor and Unit­ed States pres­i­den­tial can­di­date Jeb Bush, who, when he had the big baby-Hitler ques­tion put to him by the Huff­in­g­ton Post, returned a hearty “Hell yea I would.” But giv­en time to reflect, even he con­clud­ed that such an act “could have a dan­ger­ous effect on every­thing else.” It appears that some of the lessons of time-trav­el sto­ries have been learned, but as for what human­i­ty will do if it actu­al­ly devel­ops time-trav­el tech­nol­o­gy — maybe we’d rather not peer into the future to find out.

Relat­ed Con­tent:

What’s the Ori­gin of Time Trav­el Fic­tion?: New Video Essay Explains How Time Trav­el Writ­ing Got Its Start with Charles Dar­win & His Lit­er­ary Peers

What Hap­pened When Stephen Hawk­ing Threw a Cock­tail Par­ty for Time Trav­el­ers (2009)

Pro­fes­sor Ronald Mal­lett Wants to Build a Time Machine in this Cen­tu­ry … and He’s Not Kid­ding

Carl Jung Psy­cho­an­a­lyzes Hitler: “He’s the Uncon­scious of 78 Mil­lion Ger­mans.” “With­out the Ger­man Peo­ple He’d Be Noth­ing” (1938)

How Did Hitler Rise to Pow­er? : New TED-ED Ani­ma­tion Pro­vides a Case Study in How Fas­cists Get Demo­c­ra­t­i­cal­ly Elect­ed

The New York Times’ First Pro­file of Hitler: His Anti-Semi­tism Is Not as “Gen­uine or Vio­lent” as It Sounds (1922)

Based in Seoul, Col­in Mar­shall writes and broad­casts on cities, lan­guage, and cul­ture. His projects include the book The State­less City: a Walk through 21st-Cen­tu­ry Los Ange­les and the video series The City in Cin­e­ma. Fol­low him on Twit­ter at @colinmarshall, on Face­book, or on Insta­gram.

A Mesmerizing Trip Across the Brooklyn Bridge: Watch Footage from 1899

It’s hard­ly orig­i­nal advice but bears repeat­ing any­way: no one vis­it­ing New York should leave, if they can help it, before they cross the Brook­lyn Bridge—preferably on foot, if pos­si­ble, and at a rev­er­en­tial pace that lets them soak up all the Neo-goth­ic structure’s sto­ried his­to­ry. Walk from Man­hat­tan to Brook­lyn, then back again, or the oth­er away around, since that’s what the bridge was built for—the com­mutes of a nine­teenth cen­tu­ry bridge-but-not-yet-tun­nel crowd (the first NYC sub­way tun­nel didn’t open until 1908).

In 1899, film­mak­ers from Amer­i­can Muto­scope and Bio­graph elect­ed for a mode of trav­el for a New York cen­tu­ry, putting a cam­era at “the front end of a third rail car run­ning at high speed,” notes a 1902 Amer­i­can Muto­scope cat­a­logue. They accel­er­at­ed the tour to the pace of a mod­ern machine, chos­ing the Man­hat­tan to Brook­lyn route. “The entire trip con­sumes three min­utes of time, dur­ing which abun­dant oppor­tu­ni­ty is giv­en to observe all the struc­tur­al won­ders of the bridge, and far dis­tant riv­er panora­ma below.” (See one-third of the trip just below.)

Film­mak­er Bill Mor­ri­son looped excerpts of those three New York min­utes and extend­ed them to nine in his short, stereo­scop­ic jour­ney “Out­er­bor­ough,” at the top, com­mis­sioned by The Muse­um of Mod­ern Art in 2005 and scored with orig­i­nal music by Todd Reynolds. Tak­ing the 1899 footage as its source mate­r­i­al, the film turns a rapid tran­sit tour into a mov­ing man­dala, a frac­tal rep­e­ti­tion at fright­en­ing­ly faster and faster speeds, of the bridge’s most mechan­i­cal vistas—the views of its loom­ing, vault­ed arch­es and of the steel cage sur­round­ing the tracks.

One of the engi­neer­ing won­ders of the world, the Brook­lyn Bridge opened 136 years ago this month, on May 24th, 1883. The first per­son to walk across it was the woman who over­saw its con­struc­tion for 11 of the 14 years it took to build the bridge. After design­er John Roe­bling died of tetanus, his son Wash­ing­ton took over, only to suc­cumb to the bends dur­ing the sink­ing of the cais­sons and spend the rest of his life bedrid­den. Emi­ly, his wife, “took on the chal­lenge,” notes the blog 6sqft, con­sult­ing with her hus­band while active­ly super­vis­ing the project.

She “stud­ied math­e­mat­ics, the cal­cu­la­tions of cate­nary curves, strengths of mate­ri­als and the intri­ca­cies of cable con­struc­tion.” On its open­ing day, Emi­ly walked the bridge’s 1,595 feet, from Man­hat­tan to Brook­lyn, “her long skirt bil­low­ing in the wind as she showed [the crowd] details of the con­struc­tion,” writes David McCul­lough in The Great Bridge. Six days lat­er, an acci­dent caused a pan­ic and a stam­pede that killed twelve peo­ple. Some months lat­er, P.T. Barnum’s Jum­bo led a parade of 21 ele­phants over the bridge in a stunt to prove its safe­ty.

Barnum’s the­atrics were sur­pris­ing­ly honest—the bridge may have need­ed sell­ing to skep­ti­cal com­muters, but it need­ed no hype. It out­lived most of its con­tem­po­raries, despite the fact that it was built before engi­neers under­stood the aero­dy­nam­ic prop­er­ties of bridges. The Roe­blings designed and built the bridge to be six times stronger than it need­ed to be, but no one could have fore­seen just how durable the struc­ture would prove.

It elicit­ed a fas­ci­na­tion that nev­er waned for its pal­pa­ble strength and beau­ty, yet few­er of its admir­ers chose to doc­u­ment the jour­ney that has tak­en mil­lions of Brook­lynites over the riv­er to low­er Man­hat­tan, by foot, bike, car, and yes, by train. Leave it to that futur­ist for the com­mon man, Thomas Edi­son, to film the trip. See his 1899 footage of Brook­lyn to Man­hat­tan by train just above.

via Aeon

Relat­ed Con­tent:

Immac­u­late­ly Restored Film Lets You Revis­it Life in New York City in 1911

An Online Gallery of Over 900,000 Breath­tak­ing Pho­tos of His­toric New York City

New York City: A Social His­to­ry (A Free Online Course from N.Y.U.) 

Josh Jones is a writer and musi­cian based in Durham, NC. Fol­low him at @jdmagness

The Shifting Power of the World’s Largest Cities Visualized Over 4,000 Years (2050 BC-2050 AD)

“When Rome fell….” The expres­sion seems designed to con­jure the Tarot card Tow­er that illus­trates it, a sud­den attack, a reck­on­ing. “Fell,” in the case of most ancient empires, means declined, changed, and trans­formed over cen­turies. As all great cities do, Rome suf­fered many vio­lent shocks dur­ing its fall, as it tran­si­tioned from a pagan to a Chris­t­ian empire. The sack­ing of Rome in 410 left Romans reel­ing, try­ing to make mean­ing from upheaval. They found it in the pagan reli­gion of their ances­tors.

To which the defend­er of the one true faith—by his lights—Augus­tine of Hip­po, answered with a rather odd defense of the new order. Rather than write a the­o­log­i­cal trea­tise or a fire-and-brim­stone ser­mon, though it is these things as well, he wrote a book about cities: the City of God, pit­ted against the Earth­ly City (which is, you guessed it, aligned with the Dev­il). The medieval idea of cities as vehi­cles for the grudge match­es of princes must have derived from this strange text, as well as from the emer­gent feu­dal order that turned dis­mem­bered empires into uneasy patch­works of cities. Rome did­n’t fall, it decen­tral­ized, diver­si­fied, and prop­a­gat­ed.

Augus­tine saw the city not only as a metaphor but also as the height of human pow­er: doomed to fall in the final analy­sis, yet built to pose a for­mi­da­ble chal­lenge to divine rule. But what is a city? Is it mere­ly a strong­hold for cor­rup­tion and com­merce or some­thing more right­eous? Is it an expres­sion of class pow­er, the work­er bees who run it or just cogs in a machine, a la Metrop­o­lis? Is it an “assem­blage,” defined by Gilles Deleuze and Felix Guat­tari as “a mul­ti­plic­i­ty which is made up of many het­eroge­nous terms and which estab­lish­es liaisons, rela­tions between them, across ages, sex­es and reigns”?

In our post-post-mod­ern moment, we find all of these ideas—the hier­ar­chi­cal and the horizontal—operating. Pop­u­lar books like Ian Morris’s Why the West Rules—For Now seem to spring from an impulse com­mon to apol­o­gists and sec­u­lar­ists alike—the will to lin­ear cer­tain­ty. There is a sense in which 21st cen­tu­ry thought has turned back to the­ol­o­gy, stripped of the trap­pings of belief, to make sense of the rise and decline of the West. This faith demands not blind alle­giance, but data, more and more and more data—to answer the burn­ing ques­tion of 2001’s Plan­et of the Apes: “How’d these apes get like this?”

Then there’s the internet—a space for shar­ing gifs, a func­tion­al assem­blage, and maybe some­day, a city. Glob­al cir­cum­stances seem to war­rant reflec­tion. Like the Romans, we want a sto­ry about how it came to pass, and we want to make and share ani­mat­ed info­graph­ic gifs about it. The gif at the top of the post is such a gif. Draw­ing on the sweep­ing, sev­er­al-thou­sand-year his­tor­i­cal argu­ment of Morris’s book, and data from the UN Pop­u­la­tion Divi­sion, its cre­ator whisks us through a visu­al nar­ra­tive of suprema­cy-by-city over the course of rough­ly four-thou­sand years.

Sheer size, in this visu­al account, deter­mines the winners—a sim­plis­tic cri­te­ria, but the mod­el here is sim­pli­fied for effect. It dra­ma­tizes argu­ments made and data gath­ered else­where. To get the full effect, you’d prob­a­bly do well to read Morris’s book and, while you’re reach­ing for your wal­let, the orig­i­nal arti­cle, behind a pay­wall at The Aus­tralian, for which this gif was made. Its title? “Why Rome is the World’s Best City.” The gif’s design­er admits in a Red­dit post, “We are deal­ing with his­toric demo­graph­ic data here which are always debat­ed among schol­ars…. I acknowl­edge that oth­er schol­ars would add or delete cer­tain cities that pop up in my map.”

For more on the idea of the city as assem­blage, see Euro­pean Grad­u­ate School pro­fes­sor Manuel DeLanda’s lec­ture “A Mate­ri­al­ist His­to­ry of Cities” and his book Assem­blage The­o­ry. Augus­tine insist­ed we view the city through the eye of faith—his faith. In the 21st cen­tu­ry, DeLanda’s intel­lec­tu­al ges­tures, like Mor­ris’s, are as grand, but he sug­gests throw­ing out West­ern schemat­ics in a return to ear­li­er reli­gious prac­tices. To under­stand  a city, he sug­gests, we might need “tools to manip­u­late these inten­si­ties… in the form of a grow­ing vari­ety of psy­choac­tive chem­i­cals that can be deployed to go beyond the actu­al world, and pro­duce at least a descrip­tive phe­nom­e­nol­o­gy of the vir­tu­al.”

Relat­ed Con­tent:

Get the His­to­ry of the World in 46 Lec­tures, Cour­tesy of Colum­bia Uni­ver­si­ty

Watch the His­to­ry of the World Unfold on an Ani­mat­ed Map: From 200,000 BCE to Today

A Crash Course in World His­to­ry

Josh Jones is a writer and musi­cian based in Durham, NC. Fol­low him at @jdmagness

The Rise and Fall of Western Empires Visualized Through the Artful Metaphor of Cell Division

We can hard­ly under­stand how the mod­ern world arrived at its cur­rent shape with­out under­stand­ing the his­to­ry of colo­nial empire. But how best to under­stand the his­to­ry of colo­nial empire? In ani­ma­tion above, visu­al­iza­tion design­ers Pedro M. Cruz and Penousal Macha­do por­tray it through a bio­log­i­cal lens, ren­der­ing the four most pow­er­ful empires in the West­ern world of the 18th and 19th cen­turies as cells. The years pass, and at first these four cells grow in size, but we all know the sto­ry must end with their divi­sion into dozens and dozens of the coun­tries we see on the world map today — a geopo­lit­i­cal process for which mito­sis pro­vides an effec­tive visu­al anal­o­gy.

Cruz and Macha­do hap­pen to hail from Por­tu­gal, a nation that com­mand­ed one of those four empires and, in Aeon’s words, “con­trolled vast ter­ri­to­ries across the globe through a com­bi­na­tion of seapow­er, eco­nom­ic con­trol and brute force.” We may now regard Por­tu­gal as a small and pleas­ant Euro­pean coun­try, but it once held ter­ri­to­ry all around the world, from Mozam­bique to Macau to the some­what larg­er land known as Brazil.

And the oth­er three empires, French, Span­ish, and British, grow even larg­er in their respec­tive hey­days. That’s espe­cial­ly true of the British Empire, whose dom­i­nance in cell form becomes stark­ly obvi­ous by the time the ani­ma­tion reach­es the 1840s, even though the Unit­ed States of Amer­i­ca has at that point long since drift­ed beyond its walls and float­ed away.

Would­n’t the U.S. now be the biggest cell of all? Not under the strict def­i­n­i­tion of empire used a few cen­turies ago, when one coun­try tak­ing over and direct­ly rul­ing over a remote land was con­sid­ered stan­dard oper­at­ing pro­ce­dure (and even, in some quar­ters, a glo­ri­ous and nec­es­sary mis­sion). But attempts have also been made to more clear­ly under­stand inter­na­tion­al rela­tions in the late 20th and ear­ly 21st cen­turies by redefin­ing the very term “empire” to include the kind of influ­ence the U.S. exerts all around the world. It makes a kind of sense to do that, but as Cruz and Machado’s ani­ma­tion may remind us, we also still live very much in the cul­tur­al, lin­guis­tic, polit­i­cal, and eco­nom­ic world — or rather, petri dish — that those four mighty empires cre­at­ed.

via Aeon

Relat­ed Con­tent:

Get the His­to­ry of the World in 46 Lec­tures, Cour­tesy of Colum­bia Uni­ver­si­ty

Watch the His­to­ry of the World Unfold on an Ani­mat­ed Map: From 200,000 BCE to Today

Ani­mat­ed Map Shows How the Five Major Reli­gions Spread Across the World (3000 BC – 2000 AD)

5‑Minute Ani­ma­tion Maps 2,600 Years of West­ern Cul­tur­al His­to­ry

The His­to­ry of Civ­i­liza­tion Mapped in 13 Min­utes: 5000 BC to 2014 AD

Watch the Rise and Fall of the British Empire in an Ani­mat­ed Time-Lapse Map ( 519 A.D. to 2014 A.D.)

Based in Seoul, Col­in Mar­shall writes and broad­casts on cities, lan­guage, and cul­ture. His projects include the book The State­less City: a Walk through 21st-Cen­tu­ry Los Ange­les and the video series The City in Cin­e­ma. Fol­low him on Twit­ter at @colinmarshall or on Face­book.

How to Make a Medieval Manuscript: An Introduction in 7 Videos

All of us came of age in the era of mass-mar­ket books, bun­dles of text on paper print­ed quick­ly, cheap­ly, and in large quan­ti­ties. Noth­ing about that would have been con­ceiv­able to the many vari­eties of arti­san involved in the cre­ation of just one man­u­script in the Mid­dle Ages. Even here in the 21st cen­tu­ry we mar­vel at the beau­ty of medieval man­u­scripts, but we should also mar­vel at the sheer amount of spe­cial­ized labor that went into mak­ing them.

We might best appre­ci­ate that labor by see­ing it per­formed up close before our eyes, and a new video series allows us to do just that. “The British Library has released a set of sev­en videos to look at the process of cre­at­ing medieval man­u­scripts,” says Medievalists.net.

“Patri­cia Lovett, a pro­fes­sion­al cal­lig­ra­ph­er and illu­mi­na­tor, hosts these 2–3 minute videos, which fol­low the process from the tools used to the tech­niques employed in design­ing an illu­mi­nat­ed page.”

Lovett cov­ers every step in the mak­ing of a medieval book: “how to make quill pens from bird feath­ers”; “the com­plex process behind mak­ing ink for writ­ing in man­u­scripts” (which involves wasps); “how ani­mal skins were select­ed and pre­pared for use in medieval man­u­scripts”; “the tools for rul­ing and line mark­ing in medieval books”; “the vari­ety of pig­ments that were in use in the Mid­dle Ages” to apply vivid col­or to the pages; “how medieval artists paint­ed the beau­ti­ful illus­tra­tions in their books”; and “the work behind paint­ing and embell­ish­ing man­u­scripts and repro­duc­ing a lav­ish­ly illu­mi­nat­ed page.”

“The word ‘man­u­script’ derives from the Latin for writ­ten (scrip­tus) by hand (manu),” writes Lovett and British Library illu­mi­nat­ed man­u­script cura­tor Kath­leen Doyle, and who among us will for­get that, after we’ve wit­nessed the care­ful man­u­al labor on dis­play in these videos? For fur­ther insight into the medieval man­u­script-mak­ing process, have a look at the Get­ty Muse­um’s series of videos on the sub­ject fea­tured last year here on Open Cul­ture.

We’ve also fea­tured the alche­my of the pig­ments used to col­or the pages of medieval man­u­scripts; the pages of a medieval monk’s sketch­book that shows what went into the designs for these man­u­scripts’ illu­mi­na­tion; and a look into the mak­ing of The Book of Kells, the Irish cul­tur­al trea­sure that stands as one of the very finest sur­viv­ing exam­ples of the illu­mi­nat­ed man­u­script form. (And since you’ll sure­ly get curi­ous about it soon­er or lat­er, we’ve also put up an expla­na­tion of why so many mar­gin­al draw­ings in medieval man­u­scripts include killer rab­bits.)

Just as the books we read today — whether the afore­men­tioned mass-mar­ket prod­ucts or the rel­a­tive­ly arti­sanal small-press cre­ations or even the e‑books — reveal impor­tant qual­i­ties about the world we live in, so medieval man­u­scripts have much to say about the beliefs, the tech­nol­o­gy, and soci­etal struc­tures of the times that pro­duced them. But for those who actu­al­ly devel­oped the skills for and ded­i­cat­ed the time and effort to that pro­duc­tion, these man­u­scripts also showed some­thing else. As Lovett and Doyle quote the 12th-cen­tu­ry scribe Ead­wine as pro­claim­ing about his Ead­wine Psalter, “The beau­ty of this book dis­plays my genius.”

via Medievalists.net

Relat­ed Con­tent:

How Illu­mi­nat­ed Medieval Man­u­scripts Were Made: A Step-by-Step Look at this Beau­ti­ful, Cen­turies-Old Craft

How the Bril­liant Col­ors of Medieval Illu­mi­nat­ed Man­u­scripts Were Made with Alche­my

Behold the Beau­ti­ful Pages from a Medieval Monk’s Sketch­book: A Win­dow Into How Illu­mi­nat­ed Man­u­scripts Were Made (1494)

The Medieval Mas­ter­piece, the Book of Kells, Is Now Dig­i­tized & Put Online

800 Illu­mi­nat­ed Medieval Man­u­scripts Are Now Online: Browse & Down­load Them Cour­tesy of the British Library and Bib­lio­thèque Nationale de France

Killer Rab­bits in Medieval Man­u­scripts: Why So Many Draw­ings in the Mar­gins Depict Bun­nies Going Bad

Based in Seoul, Col­in Mar­shall writes and broad­casts on cities, lan­guage, and cul­ture. His projects include the book The State­less City: a Walk through 21st-Cen­tu­ry Los Ange­les and the video series The City in Cin­e­ma. Fol­low him on Twit­ter at @colinmarshall or on Face­book.

The Last Duel Took Place in France in 1967, and It’s Caught on Film

Anoth­er man insults your hon­or, leav­ing you no choice but to chal­lenge him to a high­ly for­mal­ized fight to the death: in the 21st cen­tu­ry, the very idea strikes us as almost incom­pre­hen­si­bly of the past. And duel­ing is indeed dead, at least in all the lands that his­tor­i­cal­ly had the most enthu­si­asm for it, but it has­n’t been dead for as long as we might assume. The last record­ed duel per­formed not with pis­tols but swords (specif­i­cal­ly épées, the largest type of swords used in fenc­ing) took place in France in 1967 — the year of the Sat­urn V and the Boe­ing 737, the Detroit riots and the Six-Day War, Sgt. Pep­per’s Lone­ly Hearts Club Band and the Sum­mer of Love.

The duelists were Mar­seilles may­or Gas­ton Def­ferre and anoth­er politi­cian names Rene Ribière. “After a clash in the Nation­al Assem­bly, Def­ferre yelled ‘Taisez-vous, abru­ti!’ at Ribiere and refused to apol­o­gize,” writes pro­fes­sion­al stage-and-screen fight coor­di­na­tor Jared Kir­by. “Ribière chal­lenged and Def­ferre accept­ed. The duel took place with épées in a pri­vate res­i­dence in Neuil­ly-sur-Seine, and it was offi­ci­at­ed by Jean de Lip­kowski­in.”

Height­en­ing the dra­ma, Ribière was to be mar­ried the fol­low­ing day, though he could expect to live to see his own wed­ding, Def­ferre hav­ing vowed not to kill him but “wound him in such a way as to spoil his wed­ding night very con­sid­er­ably.”

You can see the sub­se­quent action of this rel­a­tive­ly mod­ern-day duel in the news­reel footage at the top of the post. Def­ferre did indeed land a cou­ple of touch­es on Ribière, both in the arm. Ribière, the younger man by twelve years, seems to have tak­en the event even more seri­ous­ly than Def­ferre: he insist­ed not only on using sharp­er épées than the ones Def­ferre orig­i­nal­ly offered, but on con­tin­u­ing the duel after Def­ferre first struck him. Lip­kowski­in put an end to the com­bat after the sec­ond time, and both Def­ferre and Ribière went on to live full lives, the for­mer into the 1980s and the lat­ter into the 1990s. Just how con­sid­er­able an effect Ribière’s duel­ing injuries had on his wed­ding night, how­ev­er, his­to­ry has not record­ed.

via Messy Nessy

Relat­ed Con­tent:

Watch a Wit­ty, Grit­ty, Hard­boiled Retelling of the Famous Aaron Burr-Alexan­der Hamil­ton Duel

Drunk His­to­ry: An Intox­i­cat­ed Look at the Famous Alexan­der Hamil­ton – Aaron Burr Duel

A Demon­stra­tion of Per­fect Samu­rai Swords­man­ship

Based in Seoul, Col­in Mar­shall writes and broad­casts on cities, lan­guage, and cul­ture. His projects include the book The State­less City: a Walk through 21st-Cen­tu­ry Los Ange­les and the video series The City in Cin­e­ma. Fol­low him on Twit­ter at @colinmarshall or on Face­book.

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