The Voynich manuscript is an illustrated codex, hand-written in an unknown writing system, dating back to the beginning of the 15th century.It has been studied by many professional and amateur cryptographers, including American and British codebreakers from both World War I and World War II. The manuscript has never been demonstrably deciphered, and the mystery of its meaning and origin has excited imaginative minds.
Sa n'áit n'ard na gaoithe In the place of the high winds. Here is the caught, the girdled, and exalted.
Last fall, my parents had the locust tree cut down in the back yard. My brother, now in his thirties, had brought it home for arbor day in elementary school. He and my dad had planted the slender tree (my dad says it was just a twig) next to the deck.
The readers of Cavafy were limited to the select group who received his poems, privately printed on broadsheets or bound in folders. To encounter him, as his friend E. M. Forster wrote, was to behold “a Greek gentleman in a straw hat, standing absolutely motionless at a slight angle to the universe.” An encounter with his poems will reveal the same.
Can we give up our eyes and ears, mouth, nose, and skin, and find new ones, never worn;
We punctuate a life, as we punctuate a story, or a poem. It’s the art of cutting, pacing, harnessing, detaching brigades of words, or moments. The page has to breathe for the meaning to pass. Punctuation is a matter of a breath.
Many of us have heard—if not used at least once—the word Machiavellian as it applies to the extremity of power. Over time the adjective evolved into cunning, duplicitous and unscrupulous. Who started this semantic roll? Why, the eponymous man himself, of course: Niccolo Machiavelli, whose drive for power had impressed many people and frightened many others.
Candide, Cunégonde and their companions soon realised that their garden and their labour would not bring them the peace and happiness they desired for a long time. And so, they decided to leave Constantinople, the city they now referred to as their "home".
There are two suns that rise every morning One scorching red and the other its reflection Skirting and hiding behind clouds and sky
Lady Liberty, patron of my souvenirs, rules the skyline of Manhattan, raising high her weightless lamp. I plan to agitate the town,
Bruno Schulz, an art teacher and painter in Drogobych, Poland, scribed three literary works of art and then was shot dead by a Gestapo officer – because he was another officer's tame Jewish painter. Even his death is rendered ambiguous, since he had a revolutionary nest of Poles that wanted to smuggle him to freedom.
Bless the hive that cannot be pried that skep of clay that denies every Pandora her urge so to teach us to accept mystery
This issue was brought to you with the gracious support of our Patreons:
We are, have been, and always will be ad-free and independent. However, running a magazine is a tough job, and we appreciate all the help we can get. In return, we offer exclusive behind-the-scenes content and rewards!Become a Patreon