I came across him not in a book, but in a footnote misquoted in the margin of another. It was a binding so cracked it seemed to wheeze when opened, part of a bundle I’d been lent by a FlemishâŠ...
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There is a moment before the shot, when the world folds into silence, taut as the string between limb and nock. It is not hesitation. It is not doubt. It is the brief, unbearable stillness before intent becomes action, beforeâŠ...
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You never forget the first book that cuts you. The one that leaves a wound, not in flesh, but in the quiet, unguarded place where thoughts sleep before they wake to meaning. Mine was a battered volume on the TheâŠ...
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There was a time when the world was easier to understand. When the grainy flicker of Soviet cinema could paint the world not as it was, but as it ought to be. And in those darkened halls, amid the scratchyâŠ...
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There are few things as revealing of a nation’s soul as the way it arms itself, not merely in the sense of conquest and defence, but in the quiet rituals and peculiar allegiances woven into its martial traditions. A nationâsâŠ...
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âThe king, his heart resolute, called upon his knights, âWhere is my son, Charles?â They replied, âSire, we know not; we believe he fights on.â Then he declared, âLoyal companions, lead me into the fray, that I may strike butâŠ...
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Eugen Herrigel. The name doesnât stride confidently through historyâs corridors. It lingers instead in its dimly lit corners, somewhere between the poetry of a fleeting idea and the stern weight of unyielding reality. You wonât find him leading armies orâŠ...
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The dimly lit, rain-soaked cinemas of 1980s Soviet life provided brief but significant havens. Among the films, Sergei Tarasov's 1985 ЧДŃĐœaŃ ŃŃŃДла (The Black Arrow) stood out not only as entertainment but also as an eventâan artefact of a society struggling with its paradoxes. Under the heavy shadow of a collapsing Soviet ideology, this rendition of Robert Louis Stevenson's story connected as both metaphor and adventure, a revolt against the ordinary disguised as historical epic.
Edward of Woodstock, the Black Princeâhis name, steeped in ink as dark as a storm-laden sky, calls forth images of a knight both magnificent and terrible, a figure who rode the tangled path between chivalry and carnage. The chronicles recountâŠ...
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Longtime readers will undoubtedly have noticed that Iâve always been rather fascinated by the history part of archery. The bow has a way of reaching through the centuries, linking us to people who stood before making their release under skies numerous times changed yet still creating that same smooth arc. However this time, I have chosen to go a little further under the covers of the books, dusting off old tomes and brushing aside forgotten fables, to whisk you away into the first few decades of the 20th century. A story of how archery, an ancient art, found itself in that lovely juxtaposition of sitting with one foot firmly implanted in preserving tradition while the other foot fits oddly into a shoe designed to help you navigate modern chaos.