Here’s an odd little thing: a site ranking 200 different jobs. What I found interesting there was the complete lack of overlap between the top ten “best” jobs (based on a combination of “Stress, Work Environment, Physical Demands, Income and Outlook”)…

(1) Mathematician, (2) Actuary, (3) Statistician, (4) Biologist, (5) Software Engineer, (6) Computer Systems Analyst, (7) Historian, (8) Sociologist, (9) Industrial Designer, (10) Accountant.

…and the ten most “satisfying” jobs…

(1) Clergy, (2) Physical Therapist, (3) Firefighter, (4) School Principal, (5) Artist (Fine Art), (6) Teacher, (7) Author, (8) Psychologist, (9) Special Education Teacher, (10) Construction Machinery Operator.

I’ve marked in bold those hats which I wear most days (although I’m sometimes accused of being too “preachy” about the VMs, I don’t think I could claim to be a member of a Voynich “clergy”) – 6/10 from the first list, and 1/10 from the second. Curiously, though, I found “Author” to be just about the least satisfying job of all: far too obsessive and antisocial while writing, and more brickbats than bouquets afterwards. 😮

Also, I really wouldn’t have predicted “Historian” would be one of the top 10 highest-rated jobs: but perhaps part of the reason for the enduring level of interest in the VMs is that it appeals to affluent, clever people in good jobs who have leisure time to waste how they please. 🙂

A few years ago, Sarah Goslee (who I believe has her own blog here) gradually become more and more interested in medieval / Renaissance history, specifically (in accordance with her science background) with cosmology, astrology, botany, and cryptography. I doubt any Cipher Mysteries regular would be hugely surprised to find out that, somewhere along in the way, she ended up “hooked” on the Voynich Manuscript. 🙂

Her VMs research has mainly concentrated on PCA (Principle Coordinate Analysis) of the VMs’ text: which I think is a bit of a shame, given that the text was apparently constructed in an anti-analytical way to render that kind of approach largely useless. Oh well!

However, infinitii recently emailed me (thanks!) with a link to Sarah’s fascinating description of the late medieval manuscript simulacrum she constructed. Inspired by a fifteenth century Italian herbal and a fifteenth century Austrian alchemy notebook (MS LJS419 and MS LJS382), she set out to create her own SCA (Society for Creative Anachronism)-style astronomical notebook. Structurally, this has limp vellum binding, rag paper, oak gall ink, quill pens, and writing patterned after a fifteenth century herbal: contents-wise, it has a calendar, the metonic cycle, Domenical letters, location of the sun, etc.

It’s a nice, brief description of a well-contained project: recommended! 🙂

Every once in a while, a history book comes along that really humbles me, that leaves me speechless not from its erudition, brilliance or sophistry, but from a certain hard-to-pin-down historical “X Factor”: a kind of connectedness in the thinking that yields rounded arguments but with a human dimension.

Some brief examples? Though critics may say he overreached his evidence, I found Carlo Ginzburg’s “Ecstasies” an amazing piece of work: Evelyn Welch’s “Art and Authority in Renaissance Milan” I found inspirational too. The first half of Rolf Willach’s “The Long Route to the Invention of the Telescope” was electrifying: and so forth.

And now to add to this list, here’s The Secret History of Hermes Trismegistus” by Florian Ebeling (translated from the German by David Lorton), a book whose very subtitle flashes up a subject that you might well think obscure in extremis: “Hermeticism from Ancient to Modern Times“.

The book delivers everything you’d expect of it: it is patient, academic, marginal, cross-referencing, liminal, with a broad intertextuality to its reading, yet still managing to cover everything from Herodotus all the way through to Umberto Eco. In fact, the list of interesting / influential people somehow ensnared by the Hermetic ‘project’ seems to go on forever: Roger Bacon, Nicholas of Cusa, Sebastian Franck, Pico della Mirandola & Marsilio Ficino (of course), Paracelsus, Casaubon, Kircher, Newton…

Was there ever a “golden book” hidden in a monastery wall by Antiochus I, that told what Aristotle secretly taught Alexander the Great? No, not a hope: and, much as Casaubon pointed out, the whole Hermes Trismegistus thing doesn’t really stand up to close philological scrutiny – basically, it’s a crock (and I don’t mean a crock of gold).

However, I do think that the strange Hermetic-alchemical-mystical-revelatory dance helps to capture a lot of the edges of our cultural knowledge over the centuries – that its mixture of high claims and dodgy details is rather like a shiny (but non-shewing) shewstone, reflecting back people’s preoccupations and obsessions far more strongly than anything it reveals. And Ebeling’s book captures these brilliantly!

Here’s another post inspired by the book I’m currently reading, Joscelyn Godwin’s “The Pagan Dream of the Renaissance”.

Whereas 15th century Renaissance art was largely orderly, linear, a lot of Mannerist late 16th-century art is disorganized, curvilinear, riotous – this has led to the label of antirinascimento, the “Anti-Renaissance”. But to someone like Godwin with both feet in the iconological trenches, this speaks of a deeper dichotomy – between the ordered Apollonian meme and the disordered Dionysian meme. Godwin pitches the austere, Roman-loving Quattrocento humanists’ dry perspective against the carnal obsessions and pagan thematics of corrupted Cinquecento cardinals – an extended Apollo vs Dionysus grudge-match in an art historical arena.

All of which is quite cool, in an iconological sort of way. 🙂

But once you start looking at things in this way, you begin to see echoes everywhere: in my own research area of Quattrocento ciphers, you could view Alberti’s über-ordered cipher wheel as a quintessentially Apollonian solar device, and then compare it with the apparently disordered, fragmented Voynich manuscript cipher statistics (that I link with Antonio Averlino, AKA Filarete) – Roman austerity against Greek cunning.

Yet does this kind of dichotomistic model really give us a real insight into the kind of secret history that iconologists believe lurks just beneath? Or is it just a modern quasi-thermodynamic meta-narrative (historicizing the universe’s eternal battle of order vs disorder) being stamped over the top of something that is no more significant than a difference in personality?

Reading anything to do with iconography makes me feel like I’m watching a renegade episode of the X-Files, where Mulder and Scully are arguing the toss over something foolishly marginal. Though occasionally I have brief moments where I think “Yes, that does make sense”, you simply cannot infer from the existence of a debate that any of the mad theories being proposed has to be correct. Oh well!

Update: Dennis Stallings points out off-list that the Apollo vs Dionysus grudge-match as an art-historical thema only really kicked off with Nietzsche’s (1872) “The Birth of Tragedy”, which is entirely true – here’s a nice 1996 paper showing (basically) how you can use the A. vs D. dichotomy as a way of blagging your way through literature studies. 🙂

There are many different ways of, well, reading the unreadable: what isn’t so well-known is that the technical terminology we use tends to highlight those particular aspects that we think are worthy of study (as well as to occult those aspects we are not so interested in). The big three buzzwords are:-

  • Cryptographywriting hidden messages – a historical / forensic approach
  • Cryptanalysis: analysing hidden messages – a statistical / analytical approach
  • Cryptology: reading hidden messages – a linguistic / code-breaking approach

Generally, you’ll see these terms used extremely loosely (if not interchangeably): but that’s something of a tragedy, as each strand is concerned with a different type of discourse, a different type of truth to help us get to the end-line, that of finding out what happened.

(1) If you study the cryptography of the Voynich Manuscript, you would primarily focus on issues such as: the intellectual history behind (and embedded within) the glyphs, the forensic layering of the writing itself, the physical strokes that make up the letters, what corrections there are to be found, how Voynichese practice evolved during the construction of the document, how the writing interrelates with the drawings, etc. This is reconstructive forensic history, that seeks to establish the truth of the writing system – to establish the mental structures that were given systematic shape (and yet were hidden) in the writing. In many ways, the end-product would be an accurate transcription of the text – but I strongly believe that this strand has not yet been pursued to its logical conclusion.

(2) If you study the cryptanalysis of the Voynich manuscript, you would instead take the study of the cryptography completely as a given, and use the resulting transcription as a starting point for your analytical research, however (in)accurate it may be. The argument has typically been that even if, say, 10% of the transcription is wrong, statistical analysis of the remaining 90% should still yield informative results that are (to a certain degree) illustrative of the underlying mechanisms. Yet the specific reliance upon the transcription cannot be ignored, particularly when you go hunting for larger-scale patterns (such as words, or lines).  And there is a very strong case to be made that the absence of convincing statistical results to date arises not from inadequate statistical testing, but instead from some basic division within the text being misunderstood.

(3) If you study the cryptology of the Voynich Manuscript, then you would take as a given a carefully-selected set of statistical properties previously derived from cryptanalysis, and look for some kind of linguistic fit between those properties and the properties of known languages and/or transformations of known languages (such as shorthand, patois, abbreviation, contraction, etc). Many Voynich theories are based on a very naive cryptological reading, often filling the vast gaps between the two models by expanding the range of possible languages that are present all at the same time, and hence resulting in a claimed plaintext that is a hugely interpretative soup of Romance language fragments – though Leo Levitov’s “polyglot oral tongue” is a prime example, it is very far from being the only one of its kind.

In terms of this framework, I’ve invested most of my time on the VMs’ cryptography, to the point where I believe I can give an account of each of the glyphs and of the evolution of the writing system: but I’m now at the point where I have to move on to the cryptanalysis in a more focused way to make progress.

The overall point I’m trying to make is that we need to get the history (cryptography), the statistics (cryptanalysis) and the linguistics (cryptology) sorted out in order to get over the high walls of the Voynich Manuscript’s defences: its singular beauty arises from how it manages to confound all three of these approaches simultaneously. This is, I suspect, merely a byproduct of the ‘undivided’ Quattrocento thinking that gave it life – that it comes from the time-period just before we (as a culture) imposed artificial divisions on the way we think about the world… just before intellectual specialization took hold. The historian part of me wants to shout: look, it’s the product of a Renaissance Man, in every useful sense of that much-abused phrase.

Last summer, I mentioned here that I had listed a few of my VMs-related books on LibraryThing: it’s a nice little social web gizmo for bibliophiles like me who don’t otherwise get out much. But given that the number of people who have listed their books there has since increased to a quite staggering 500,000, it has become (as its founders probably hoped) a resource in its own right.

Perhaps most directly useful is its ability to tell you who has books in common with you: by thumbing through their (often well-stocked) virtual bookshelves, you can find many other related titles you might never have otherwise heard of.

For example, the person there with the most books in common with me is Brian Ogilvie, an “intellectual and cultural historian, specializing in early modern Europe, the history of science, and the history of scholarship” – precisely the kind of person whose library I’d love to mooch around. The beautiful thing, of course, is that now I can! Here (post-mooch) are some of his 1323 books I’d like to see:-

  • “Alchemy and authority in the Holy Roman Empire”, Tara Nummedal (2007)
  • “The Art of Natural History: Illustrated Treatises and Botanical Paintings, 1400-1850” (Studies in the History of Art Series), Therese O’Malley (2008)
  • “Books of secrets: Natural philosophy in England, 1550-1600”, Allison Kavey (2007)
  • “Botany in medieval and Renaissance universities”, Karen Reeds (1991) [How on earth did I miss Karen Reeds’ book?]
  • “Carolus Clusius in a New Context: Towards a Cultural History of a Renaissance Naturalist”, Florike Egmond (2008)
  • “The Clock and the Mirror”, Nancy G. Siraisi (1997)   [I’ve been meaning to read this for a decade!]
  • “Curiosity and Enlightenment: Collectors and Collections from the Sixteenth to Nineteenth Century”, Arthur MacGregor (2008)
  • “The eye of the Lynx : Galileo, his friends, and the beginnings of modern natural history”, David Freedberg (2002)
  • “Herbs and Herbalism in the Middle Ages and Renaissance” (Variorum Collected Studies Series, Cs 650), Jerry Stannard (1999)
  • “History, Medicine, and the Traditions of Renaissance Learning” (Cultures of Knowledge in the Early Modern World), Nancy G. Siraisi (2007)
  • “Leonhard Rauwolf; sixteenth-century physician, botanist, and traveler”, Karl H. Dannenfeldt
    (1968)
  • “The Microscope in the Dutch Republic: The Shaping of Discovery”, Edward G. Ruestow (2004)
  • “Peiresc’s Europe: Learning and Virtue in the Seventeenth Century”, Peter N. Miller (2000)
  • “Pristina Medicamenta: Ancient and Medieval Medical Botany” (Variorum Collected Studies Series, 646), Jerry Stannard (1999)
  • “Renaissance and revolution : humanists, scholars, craftsmen, and natural philosophers in early modern Europe”, Judith Veronica Field (1997)
  • “Secrets of nature : astrology and alchemy in early modern Europe”, William R. Newman (2001)
  • “Technology, society, and culture in late medieval and Renaissance Europe, 1300-1600”, Pamela O. Long (2000)
  • “Thinking with Demons: The Idea of Witchcraft in Early Modern Europe”, Stuart Clark (1999 )
  • “Transmitting Knowledge: Words, Images, and Instruments in Early Modern Europe” (Oxford-Warburg Studies), Sachiko Kusukawa (2006)

There – you now have an ideal reason for listing your own books on LibraryThing. 🙂

“Cipher Mysteries” blog statistics: 300 posts, 11 pages, 1000+ spam comments, PageRank 3 home-page, 41 readers (via FeedBurner) and 15,000+ visitors. Thank you all for the 181 on-blog comments and the hundreds of off-blog emails I’ve received: these really help make this whole thing worthwhile! 🙂

And thanks to an extra 600-visitor surge over two days (from an unknown US-based mailing list’s link to a Stumbleupon link), the blog had more than 3000 visitors during the last month: at the current rate of growth, it should get 75,000 visitors by the end of 2009 (which would be nice).

I’ve also recently started rebuilding the site infrastructure, by moving the stats over from SiteMeter to StatCounter (which has a better API, better reporting and no tracking cookies, though how you make .htaccess allow the StatCounter .js file to be “Accept-Encoding: gzip” I don’t yet know), and by modernizing the icons & transforming them into CSS sprites. Unfortunately, I then got tangled up with irritating browser-related CSS sprite issues. Even so, blog pages are now about half the size they were before and get served up much quicker, which is rather pleasant. 🙂

The main web-tools I used to achieve this were: (1) a free web page speed analysis tool from WebSiteOptimization.com (very handy for blogs with multiple plugins!); (2) a very nice CSS sprite generator on website-performance.org; (3) the CSS Compress WordPress plugin which (very handily) gzips your blog CSS files; and (4) the WP Super Cache plugin, which is (unsurprisingly) a super-duper HTML cache for WordPress. All of which I highly recommend! 🙂

But enough of the blogophile jargon-fest: what can I glimpse looming for 2009 in my polished obsidian mirror? Whither goest the next 100 posts?

Whereas 2008 was (as predicted) the year of the Voynich novel, and 2010 looks to be the year that the Voynich enters the academic mainstream, 2009 looks to me very much as though it is going to be an odd, transitional sort of year – a period of behind-the-scenes activity, which astrologers would normally recognize as a “12th house” (just below the horizon, shortly to rise with the ascendant) kind of vibe. In a strange way, it feels to me as if a future king/queen is preparing his/her entrance on the scene – as if all we have been doing is tamping the road surface for them to drive over it at great speed. Sorry: as predictions go, that’s as close to Nostradamus as I get. 🙂

Regardless, I look forward to being pleasantly surprised by whatever transpires in 2009, and I hope it turns out to be entertaining and interesting for you too! 🙂

Geraldine Brooks’ novel “The People of the Book” (2008) tells the story of a (fictional) Australian book conservator called Hanna Heath, and her encounters with a (real) codex called the Sarajevo Haggadah. In this sense, it is very much akin to the Voynich Manuscript novels I review here, which typically use the mystery of the VMs as a projective backdrop for their quasi-historical stories of life, death, passion and (occasionally) beauty, plucking the occasional codicological thread from our collective skein of Voynichological ignorance to frouf up into a faux Restoration wig.

One page in particular is returned to again and again: I wished this had been on the book cover so that I could see for myself what the fuss was about. Well, here it is, book fans (and there are plenty more on this Talmud site, and on this facsimile publishing site here):-

haggadah_seder_small
Sarajevo Haggadah – family seder illustration

Brooks has given her book a formal, almost musical structure: chapters set in Hanna’s present day ping-pong with chapters recounting enjoyable storylets of the Sarajevo Haggadah’s (imagined) past, each evoked by a single codicological detail – an insect’s wing (Parnassius mnemosyne leonhardiana, just so you know), a missing clasp, wine stains, saltwater, a single white hair. In each case, the life and atmosphere of a particular historical Jewish community is nicely evoked: and there are plenty of little structural surprises scattered throughout to keep a sense of movement in the narrative.

haggadah-marginalia-small
Sarajevo Haggadah marginalia from Venice, 1609

In one important sense, the point of the novel is that it tries to draw a parallel between (a) the process of trying to get to know the past of an object, and (b) the process of trying to get to know oneself: this is, after all, what history (as a tool) is for. Yet despite aiming her bow in such a noble direction, Brooks doesn’t quite hit the bullseye: though her protagonist finally uncovers the secret lives both of the haggadah (just as I’ve said with the VMs, incandescent lighting rocks) and of her family, she remains fundamentally the same shallow, dissatisfied shagette we met in the first chapter.

Yet in other ways, the real meat of the novel is in Brooks’ account of the codicology, based in part on observing real-life Austrian book restorer Andrea Pataki working with the actual Sarajevo Haggadah in December 2001. Brooks’ description of the texture and sheer tactility of an up-close (but slow-motion) encounter with a ancient manuscript is both detailed and (in my experience, at least) highly evocative of how this kind of thing actually does play out in reality. If you won’t ever get to touch a real-life manuscript yourself, maybe reading “The People of the Book” isn’t such a bad alternative. 🙂

Look, I enjoyed it and I hope it does well for Brooks: with “The Reader” doing so well at the cinema, I can quite imagine this being picked up  (doubtless Kate Winslet could do a bonza Ozzie accent). Yet whereas The Reader was about hiding illiteracy, Brooks’ book is more about uncovering literacy, using codicology to imaginatively reconstruct the lives of the people behind this amazing book. As such, I can only applaud.

A short note just arrived from Enrique Joven, concerning a recent talk he attended at the Instituto de Astrofísica de Canarias (IAC) by Dr. Paolo Molaro from the Osservatorio Astronomico di Trieste: “On the invention of the telescope and the paintings of Jan Brueghel

Jan Brueghel depicted telescopes in four paintings spanning the period between 1609 and 1621. We have investigated the nature and the origin of these telescopes. An optical “tube” that appears in the painting dated 1608-1612, and probably reproduced also in a painting of the 1621, represents one the earliest documentation of a Dutch spyglass which could even tentatively attributed to Sacharias Janssen or Lipperhey, thus prior to those made by Galileo. Other two instruments made of several draw-tubes which appear in the two paintings of 1617 and 1618 are quite sophisticated for the period and we argue that may represent early examples of Keplerian telescopes.

Molaro is (of course) referring to Jan Brueghel the Elder (1568-1625): before this, I had only heard of the telescope in the series of paintings Brueghel executed with Rubens (which is now in the Prado), so I look forward to reading more about the other depictions of telescopes, particularly the earliest of the set. Here’s a tiny version of the 1617 painting:-

brueghel_sight_small

Just in case you haven’t got a CSI-style ‘infinite enhance‘ button in your web browser 🙂 , here’s a slightly more helpful close-up of the shiny multiple-draw-tube telescope depicted just to the left of the front centre:-

brueghel_telescope

Incidentally, Molaro had done a similar presentation at IAU-UNESCO Symposium 260 in Paris a few days before (“Early telescopes in the paintings of Jan Brueghel”). To my surprise, Enrique mentioned that my Juan Roget theory was mentioned in one of Molaro’s slides: how nice to find out that people are actually listening!

Now that I have read about it, Google tells me about Pierluigi Selvelli’s poster session “On the Telescopes in the Painting of Bruegel ‘The Vision’” at the September 2008 “400 years of Astronomical Telescopes” conference at ESA/ESTEC in Noordwijk. Doubtless this all forms part of the same study, and I can’t wait to find out more…

Many artists of the time were fascinated by the telescope: Google also tells me that influential Rome-based painter Adam Elsheimer (1578-1610) corresponded with Galileo about telescopes through an intermediary.

As an aside, Vincent Ilardi’s “Renaissance Vision from Spectacles to Telescopes”  mentions four works by Pieter Brueghel the Elder that depict spectacles, all apparently showing the spectacle-wearers in a negative light. Errrm… not a lot of people know that. 🙂

* * * * * *

Article update: following my post, Giancarlo Truffa very kindly emailed the HAstro-L mailing list with the names of all four Brueghel pictures studied by Paolo Molaro, together with links to online versions of them. And here they are…

  1. Archduke Albert observing Mariemont Castle“, 1608-1611, Richmond (VA), Virginia Museum of Fine Arts
  2. The Sense of Sight” (with Peter Paul Rubens), 1617, Madrid, Museo del Prado, 65 x 109 cm
  3. The Sense of Sight and Smell“, c.1620, Madrid, Museo del Prado, 176 x 264 cm
  4. Allegory of Air” (with Peter Paul Rubens), 1621, Paris, Musee du Louvre, 45 x 65 cm

Enjoy! 🙂

In a comment to a recent post on Alberti & Averlino, ‘infinitii’ asks what my recommendations would be for a Voynich Manuscript reading list… a deceptively hard question.

Apart from the direct literature on the subject (Mary D’Imperio’s “An Elegant Enigma”, my “The Curse of the Voynich”, and perhaps even Kennedy & Churchill’s “The Voynich Manuscript”), probably the best first step would always be to buy yourself a copy of “Le Code Voynich” – not for its prolix French introduction *sigh*, but simply so that you can look at the VMs’ pages in colour. The best guide to the manuscript still remains the evidence of your own eyes. 🙂

All of which is the easy, lazy blogger answer: but the kind of proper answer infinitii alludes to would be much, much harder. I should declare here that the VMs’ life in Bohemia (and beyond) strikes me as merely a footnote to the main story (though admittedly one that has been interminably expanded, mainly for lack of proper research focus).. Given that I’m convinced (a) 1450 is pretty close, date-wise; (b) Northern Italy is pretty close, location-wise; and (c) it’s almost certainly some kind of enciphered book of secrets, then the main subject we should be reading up on is simply Quattrocento books of secrets.

Doubtless there are three or four literature trees on this that I’m completely unaware of (please tell me!): but as a high level starting point, I’d recommend Part One (the first 90 pages, though really only the last few touch on the 15th century) of William Eamon’s “Science and the Secrets of Nature” (1994). Unfortunately for us, Eamon’s main interest is in Renaissance printed books of secrets. “In Nature’s infinite book of secrecy a little I can read” (Shakespeare, Antony and Cleopatra), indeed. 🙂

From there, you’ll probably have to drill down (as I did) to individual studies of single books. Virtually everything written by Prager and Scaglia fits this bill, such as  their “Brunelleschi: Studies of His Technology and Inventions” (1970) and “Mariano Taccola and His Book De Ingeneis” (1972). I recently blogged about Battisti and Battisti’s splendid “Le Macchine Cifrate di Giovanni Fontana” (1984), and that is also definitely one to look at (though being able to read Italian tolerably well would be a distinct help there). I’ve also read articles by Patrizia Catellani on Caterina Sforza’s “Gli Experimenti” (which has a smattering of cipher in its recipes), and read up on the possible origins of Isabella Cortese’s supposed “I Secreti” (which is about as late as I’ve gone). Beyond that, you’re pretty much on your own (sorry).

As general background for what secrets such books might contain, I can yet again (though I know that infinitii will groan) only really point to Lynn Thorndike’s sprawling (but wonderful) “History of Magic & Experimental Science” (particularly Volumes III and IV on the 14th and 15th century), and his little-read “Science and Thought in the XVth Century”. Thorndike’s epic books stand proud in the middle of a largely desolate research plain, somewhat like Kubrick’s black monoliths: if anything else comes close to them, I don’t know of it.

As far as Quattrocento cryptography goes, David Kahn’s “The Codebreakers” is (despite its size) no more than an apéritif to a book that has yet to be written. I found Paolo Preto’s “I Servizi Segreti” very helpful, though limited in scope. For Leon Battista Alberti’s cryptography, Augusto Buonafalce’s exemplary modern translation of “De Cifris” is absolutely essential.

What is missing? There are a few relevant books I’ve been meaning to source but haven’t yet got round to, most notably the century-old (but possibly never surpassed) “Bibliographical Notes on Histories of Inventions & Books of Secrets” by John Ferguson. You can buy an updated version with an index and a preface by William Eamon, for example from here.

In many ways the above is no more than a very personal selection of books, and one obviously based around my own particular research programme / priorities. Yet even though I have tried to cover the ground reasonably well over the last few years, there are doubtless large clusters of (for example Italian-language) papers, books and particularly dissertations I am completely unaware of.

It should be clear that I think the basic research challenge here is to build up a properly modern bibliography of Quattrocento books of secrets, and thereby to map out the larger literature field within which the whole idea of ‘the VMs as an enciphered book of secrets’ can be properly placed. Perhaps I should use this as a test case for open source history?