
From Milton Mermikides for Aeon magazine: “Bach was crafty both in his music and life, and he adored puzzles, games and general inventive mischief. His monogram on his wax seal and his goblet was his own design, and at first glance it looks like an ornate decorative symmetrical crest of interlocking swirls. It is in fact built up from his initials JSB overlaid and mirrored, which is apt, as his music uses mirror-like reversals. Another example of Bach encoding information into decoration might be found in the title page of his 24 preludes and fugues for The Well-tempered Clavier – it was not until 2005, a quarter of a millennium after its composition, that the musicologist Bradley Lehman made an argument that the decorative symbol at the top of the page, which for generations had been dismissed as an ornamental ‘meaningless’ series of loops, contained coded instructions for how to construct the tempo, hidden in plain sight.”
The world’s oldest cat door has been around since the 14th century

From Madeleine Muzdakis for My Modern Met: “In medieval days, cathedrals would have been overrun with mice and rats without a feline prowling the premises. To keep vermin in check, the magnificent Exeter Cathedral—known formally as the Cathedral Church of Saint Peter in Exeter—has employed cats for centuries. In fact, they even added a cat flap to one of the structure’s doors, gouging a cat-sized opening into the wood. This led inside the cathedral, under the magnificent medieval astronomical clock, where the cat would be able to scamper about in pursuit of vermin. In return for its service, the cat was paid handsomely. From 1305 to 1467 its wages appear in cathedral records. Thirteen pence per quarter was given “to the custors and the cat” or “for” the cat, according to some notes. The cat’s wages, coming to one pence a week, were likely used by the custor to supplement its diet of rodents with other food.”
A young scientist tries to find a way to preserve a dying way of life

From Zhengyang Wang for Nautilus magazine: “In eastern Tibet, high in the Himalaya, Tenzin stopped at a cliff edge. He lit another cigarette. In front of us, Mt. Gongga dazzled in spring’s morning light, a dizzying 24,800 feet above sea level. Tenzin is not his real name. His perilous occupation—collecting and selling caterpillar fungus—is fraught with competition and secrecy, and I didn’t want to put him in jeopardy with the local authorities. Tenzin had reluctantly agreed to show me how to find the treasured fungus. But his growing dissatisfaction with my ability to keep up on the trek began to show. It was 2016, and I was a first-year doctoral student in search of a thesis. I, too, grew up in this part of the world. But I was naive enough to think that an elliptical machine was adequate preparation to hunt caterpillar fungus.”
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