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When answers to so many of life’s burning questions are readily available, to remain unknowable or indecipherable is a true feat. Of impenetrable mysteries, there is one that is perhaps best known for befuddling scholars since its inception, much to the amusement of Serviette—the elusive Voynich manuscript. Named after the text’s eventual owner, Wilfrid Voynich, and written in what historians have appropriately dubbed “Voynichese,” the Voynich manuscript is an early 15th century codex composed of an entirely unique and, as it stands, unreadable language.
Theories regarding Voynichese and the contents of the text at large have been numerous: some say that the language is entirely made up, while others argue it is a code devised to record sensitive information amongst a select, educated few, possibly related to the occult or women’s health (a distinction that almost need not be made within the context of its time). Perhaps the text is a proto-“lorem ipsum,” a placeholder that effectively means nothing. Or is it simply the glossolalic ramblings of a madman? Many have been quick to dismiss the manuscript as a hoax, a form of medieval trolling—if true, we would’ve loved to see the author’s Twitter output. Though possible, the cost of the materials alone make this seem less than likely. Whatever the case may be, the inaccessibility of Voynichese has only increased interest in the manuscript over time. It is the sense of friction that the text begets, that of not-quite-knowing, that has kept its mystique alive throughout the intervening years.
“Friction” is defined as the resistance to motion of one object moving relative to another. Without this resistance, life would be essentially impossible, reduced to a formless blob of gas and energy (how strikingly un-chic).
We need friction, literally and figuratively. In our efforts to optimize our daily routines, to do away with life’s seams and snags, we sacrifice fleeting moments of disruption, punctures in the order of affairs that leave room for wonder, play, and exploration. Author Kurt Vonnegut put it best—when his wife poked fun at him for going to the store to buy an envelope rather than simply ordering them in bulk online, he remarked:
“I pretend not to hear her. And go out to get an envelope because I’m going to have a hell of a good time in the process of buying one envelope. I meet a lot of people. And see some great looking babies. And a fire engine goes by. And I give them the thumbs up. And ask a woman what kind of dog that is [...] The moral of the story is, we’re here on Earth to fart around. And, of course, the computers will do us out of that. And what the computer people don’t realize, or they don’t care, is we’re dancing animals.”
Serviette believes that the hunt for a signature scent should be much like Vonnegut’s search for an envelope: meandering yet never boring, a journey that demands engagement, leading you to manifold detours and destinations. One could easily order the first fragrance recommendation that pops up on their “For You” page. Doubtlessly efficient, but at the expense of self-discovery, possibility, and reflection. Serviette’s scents cater to those who welcome friction, who—like the Voynich manuscript—resist all efforts to be easily understood or categorized. Unconventional note pairings lead to endless possibilities, new means of curating one’s personal taste and self-expression. Each fragrance is an invitation to be surprised, curious, and ever undefineable.
From one dancing animal to another, Serviette thanks you for taking the time to read this week’s newsletter.