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Religion and science keep on clashing, even in the 21st century. So it was in another century, on April 12, 1633 when Galileo, an old man of almost 70, was held for two weeks by the Inquisition, the Church's tool for probing and investigating the conviction of one's faith.
The Vatican considered Galileo a heretic. He had to admit that he did believe in the Copernican theory of the earth and the sun, even though 17 years earlier he had promised to abandon it. That day, Galileo recanted: he would adhere to the theory that the earth circled the sun and not the reverse. He recanted and for this he was imprisoned. Eventually though, he did confess his sin, apologize and express his doubt of the Copernican system, and returned to the path determined by religion: "I hold the opinion...that the earth does not move and it is the sun that does."
Ecce homo! What did he mean? What did the Roman Imperial Procurator, speaking in Latin, want from the people of Jerusalem crowding impatiently beneath the balcony? Was his shout directed towards Caiaphas and the other religious leaders present, who were demanding that 'this man' be sentenced to death?
Ecce homo! Look at the man! But what for?
With this dramatic sentence, the Communist Manifesto in 1848 depicted the arrival of an era when capital enters social life. Marx and Engels were not predicting the future: They were merely describing how astonishingly the bourgeoisie change the world. And set it quaking.
But in the 21st century, the sentence has become a kind of prophecy.
Einstein was completing his curriculum vitae one day in 1932. The prestigious Kaiser Leopold German Academy of Scientists, where Goethe had once been a member, had asked him to join.
He had to answer nine questions. To question number eight he answered, "several medals were awarded me." But he did not explain what those medals were for. Nor did he state that in 1921 he had received the Nobel Prize for Physics...
I was gingerly finding a path on roots in the peat land, tread by tread in the reddish water oozing between the trunks of the jelutong and ramin trees. The dense foliage of the new branches still clustered thickly shading the way, but soon it became evident: the 'poems written on the sky' have been almost wiped out at Sabangau River.
Millions of trees have been felled. Central Kalimantan's 568,000 hectares of tropical forest is almost gone. Human greedthe continuous plunder of the timber for personal wealthhas wounded this environment to its very core.
Amangkurat is loneliness: the friendless king on an island.
In early January 1648, Amangkurat, the ruler of Mataram, moved his palace from Karta to Plered, a location in the area of Bantul where the Winogo River had been dammed. Construction had already begun of man-made lakes around the palace.
In a house in a dank alley in Paris on March 24, 1897, a 67-year-old man is writing. We do not know who he is. As the Narrator begins his story in Umberto Eco's novel The Prague Cemetery, no one has yet 'been named'.
Even the man himself does not remember who he is. Two days earlier, when he awoke, he knew he was 'Captain Simonini'. But then he discovers other facts: he is Abb Dalla Piccola, "or rather, the person everyone knows as Abb Dalla Piccola."
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