Have you noticed how beautiful are the great artists’ signatures. Take a look to our entire collection (584 signatures) here: http://goo.gl/pC5qzT.
Oscar Wilde’s “Heart’s Yearnings” written as an undergraduate at Magdalen College Oxford in 1874. (via)
A 20th-century manuscript of codes (including runes) from Iceland: Einkaeign 1 (1928).
I came across this fascinating Icelandic paper manuscript completely by accident, while searching for more digitized medieval manuscripts (e.g. a prayer book, law book, book of romances, and fragment). I have written about post-medieval manuscripts before, but none as young as this one, from 1928! It is still very much a manuscript, written by hand with pen and ink, and is a lovely example of how scribal culture continued to thrive in Iceland for hundreds of years after the Middle Ages. This manuscript also differs from others I have written about in that it does not contain sagas, laws, or other narrative accounts, but codes, including several pages of different types of runes. The images here are representative of some of the different sections in the book.
The title page (photo 1) reads Rún: rúnaletur o[g] fl[eiri] ritað fyrir Magnús Steingrímsson, Hólum í Staðardal 1928 (‘Rune: runic (or, ‘coded’) writing and other things, composed for Magnús Steingrímsson, [of the farmstead] Hólum in Staðardal, 1928’). This indicates the manuscript was commissioned, but it is unclear for what purpose.
The images are from Handrit.is. The full manuscript (114 images) can be seen here: http://handrit.is/en/manuscript/imaging/is/Einkaeign-0001#0000r-FB.
My mother works so hard
And for bread she needs some lard.
She bakes the bread. And makes the bed.
And when she’s threw
She feels she’s dayd.
"It had begun to snow again. He watched sleepily the flakes, silver and dark, falling obliquely against the lamplight. The time had come for him to set out on his journey westward. Yes, the newspapers were right: snow was general all over Ireland. It was falling on every part of the dark central plain, on the treeless hills, falling softly upon the Bog of Allen and, farther westward, softly falling into the dark mutinous Shannon waves. It was falling, too, upon every part of the lonely churchyard on the hill where Michael Furey lay buried. It lay thickly drifted on the crooked crosses and headstones, on the spears of the little gate, on the barren thorns. His soul swooned slowly as he heard the snow falling faintly through the universe and faintly falling, like the descent of their last end, upon all the living and the dead.”