The Malleus Maleficarum is a medieval inquisition document, written in Latin by the fifteenth-century German inquisitor Heinrich Kramer (under the name Henricus Institoris) and now republished in an updated translation by Peter Maxwell-Stuart. Like many medieval manuscripts it is a compilation: it contains a disquisition on the nature of magic, a series of mirabilia (marvellous anecdotes) and a practical legal handbook.
The Soviet Union in the 1920s was, in the words of the pioneering nonfiction film-maker Dziga Vertov, a “factory of facts”. Reality itself was in a state of revolution: a state that had been ravaged by war and upheaval was in the throes of modernization, throwing up new experiences and information at a dizzying rate.
Matthew Kadane disarmingly describes his new book as an “intellectual history of nobodies”. Its protagonist is the splendidly named Pentecost Barker, born in Plymouth in 1690, the son of devoutly religious parents, who followed his father into the wine trade, but had an unfortunate habit of getting high on his own supply.
Throughout history, what has been the power behind the throne? Money, of course! Spanning thousands of years, this fascinating book tracks the influence money has had through art.
In a recent interview, French Algerian novelist Xavier Le Clerc said he feels otherness in his bones. When his father died in 2020, he decided to tell his story, from his brutal upbringing in northern Algeria and harsh existence during the Algerian war to raising a family in France. His father was illiterate and rarely spoke of his experiences, so Le Clerc imagines much of his past.
We may some day be able to answer Tolstoy’s exasperated and exasperating question: What is art? – but only when we learn to integrate our vision of Walcott on the back foot through the covers with the outstretched arm of the Olympic Apollo.” C. L. R. James’s case in Beyond a Boundary for cricket to be acknowledged as “a dramatic spectacle”, essential to the history of the Caribbean, memorably draws on the image of Clyde Walcott at the crease.
One Saturday eleven years ago, I put on an ill-fitting suit and caught a train to Gatwick Airport. I headed to an airport hotel, where a “coloured diamonds” investments firm was recruiting a new crop of salespeople. I was set a series of bizarre tasks, each of which was followed by several candidates – addressed not by name, but by number – being unceremoniously sent home.
One of the first social rules children learn is the painful necessity of sharing. After the shock of encountering other wants and needs as strong as their own, a child who hands over stickers and sweets to their peers is praised. Yet for adults in the UK, sharing and caring, a glib rhyme that packages an important truth, is no longer a priority.
The penalty kick was first proposed to the Football Association as a drastic sanction against dangerous conduct in 1891. Tabled by an amateur goalkeeper from Armagh, it was rejected as an affront to the nobility of the game. How, in a sport played by gentlemen, could there be any foul play? It was, they said, an insult to assume that “players intend to behave like cads”.
Leo Tolstoy served as a young artillery officer in the defence of the great Russian naval base of Sevastopol against British and French invaders in the middle of the 19th century. The first of his three short stories, collected as Sevastopol Sketches, came out as the siege was still in progress.