jonni.be

The Voynich Manuscript is a mysterious illustrated book written in a language and script that remain unknown, despite intense study.

Named after the antique book-dealer who acquired it in 1912, it is thought to have been written in either the 15th or 16th century.

The script uses 20-30 distinct letters, which were written with a smooth, flowing ductus, by someone familiar with the script. The book also features illustrations of plants, bodies, and star patterns.

Theories about the books language abound, but non are proven:

• It’s simply a cipher for an existing European language.
• It’s an exotic natural language, written in an invented script.
• It’s glossolalia: meaningless, stream-of-consciousness writing.
• It’s a constructed language not based on an existing one.
• It’s meaning is hidden by stenography: most of it is nonsense.
• It’s a hoax; a meaningless string of arbitrary symbols.

I’m delighted that such a cultural mystery remains unsolved in modern times. It leads me to imagine what other curious languages, books and stories may have been lost to the sands of time.

Have a look for yourself on Flickr, or learn more on Wikipedia.

In the early hours of 3rd September 1967, the country of Sweden switched from driving on the left-hand side of the road, to the right.

12 years earlier, 83% of the population had voted against the switch in a referendum. The government thought better of popular opinion.

During the build up, every road junction had new sets of traffic signals put up and white lines painted, covered with black plastic and tape.

A media campaign was launched, involving branded milk cartons, ladies underwear, and even a contest to find the best song about the change. The winning entry was a song called Håll dig till höger, Svensson (‘Keep to the right, Svensson’) by the Telstars.

On the day, all traffic was instructed to stand still at 04:50, carefully move to the other side of the road, and then carry on at 05:00.

And they’ve been driving their sturdy Volvos on the right ever since.

Buds bulge on chestnut trees, and on the doorstep of a big old house a young man stands and plays his flute.

I watch the silver notes fly up and circle in the blue sky above the traffic, travelling where they will.

And suddenly this paving-stone midway between my front door and the bus stop is a starting point.

From here I can go anywhere I choose.

Wendy Cope