The Shroud of Turin

Hoax or Holy Grail? That is the question everyone wants to know

Background

The Shroud of Turin is reputedly Christ's burial cloth. It has been a religious relic since the Middle Ages. To believers it was divine proof the Christ was resurrected from the grave, to doubters it was evidence of human gullibility and one of the greatesthoaxes in the history of art.

No one has been able to prove that it is the burial cloth of Jesus of Nazareth, but its haunting image of a man's wounded body is proof enough for true believers.

The Shroud of Turin, as seen by the naked eye, is a negative image of a man with his hands folded. The linen is 14 feet, 3 inches long and 3 feet, 7 inches wide. The shroud bears the image of a man with wounds similar to those suffered by Jesus.

The shroud is wrapped in red silk and kept in a silver chest in the Chapel of the Holy Shroud in the Cathedral of St. John the Baptist in Turin, Italy since 1578.

The shroud is unquestionably old. Its history is known from the year 1357, when it surfaced in the tiny village of Lirey, France. Until recent reports from San Antonio, most of the scientific world accepted the findings of carbon dating carried out in 1988. The results said the shroud dated back to 1260-1390, and thus is much too new to be Jesus' burial linen.

Controversies

Now it is said that the carbon dating is inaccurate. One Dr. Maria Grazia Siliato, who has studied the shroud for 16 years, says the reason that the carbon dating is wrong, is that the fragment tested was a corner of the cloth that had been repaired five times since 1400. Another Dr, Dr. Leoncio Garza-Valdez, after months of examining microscopic samples, concluded in January that the shroud is centuries older than its carbon date. Dr. Garza said the shrouds fibers are coated with bacteria and fungi that have grown for centuries. He said that the carbon dating had sampled the contaminants as well as the fibers' cellulose.

In May 1993, Dr. Garza traveled to Turin, and examined a shroud sample with the approval of Catholic authorities. "As soon as I looked at a segment in the microscope, I knew that it was heavily contaminated, and I knew what had been radiocarbon dated was a mixture of linen, and bacteria, fungi, and bioplastic (A plastic-like coating that is a byproduct of bacteria and fungi.) " Dr. Garza enlisted Dr.Mattengly. Together they are working with an enzyme process to cleanse the contaminated samples.

Practicing science with the shroud of Turin puts Drs. Garza and Mattingly in a charged atmosphere. Moving the shroud's origin back several centuries would place it closer to the time of Jesus' death. Adding to that a third member of their team has identified a part of the Shroud's markings as that of blood from a human male. No one has been able to determine exactly how the markings got there, but they appear in bas-relief in a perfect negative image. Testing has proved that there is no way that the image is forged

Major findings: No significant trace of paint, ink, dye, or stain. It is not the product of an artist. Image becomes life like when their light values are reversed by a photographic negative. The Blood is real blood that has been confirmed by Dr. John Heller. The wounds are consistent with the Gospel account of Christ's ordeal. a) Crown of thorns. b) Bruising of face. c) Shoulder abrasions d) Knee abrasions e) scourge marks f) nail wounds in hands and feet g) wound in side. h) Legs NOT broken!

The shroud has been damaged in a fire, restored, repaired, and has passed through many hands. These things all make it harder to get an actual dating on it. There are many things about the shroud that would prove that it was the burial cloth of Christ, such as a Roman coin over the both eyes minted between 29 to 33 AD. Which says, if these coins were dated at the time of Christ, then the shroud's carbon dating may be wrong, and The Shroud of Turin is the Shroud of Christ. Testing is still being done. Scientist are still skeptic, they are saying that this shroud is ether the shroud of Christ and the physical proof of Jesus existence... Or the most unbelievably clever products of the human mind and hand. It's either one or the other; there is no middle ground.

If We Wish to Think it is a Fake Picture of Jesus?

If we want to believe that the Shroud is not genuine then we have to consider some basic questions. How did the faker of relics accomplish this.

How did a faker of relics alter the chemical properties of the carbohydrate coating to create the color and how did he do so with such artistic precision -- on both sides of the cloth?

The history of art is the story of the evolution of styles, techniques, methods and technology. Every work of art and fakery is no exception. Every form of art and craft has precedents. When a new technique is discovered it is exploited. Over time the technique is refined and improved. Where are the precedents for pictures such as those that we find on the Shroud? Where are the other works in this new-found technology? Are we to imagine that some genius invented a new way to create pictures, that a single picture was made and the technology was lost to history?

How did he create a suitable negative picture hundreds of years before the discovery of photographic negativity? How did he know that he had it right? How, without a camera and film, could he test his work? The negativity is extraordinarily precise and correct. Was he simply lucky?

The bigger question is why? What was his purpose? What was his motive? If we are to ask why he created an extraordinarily complex chemical picture, in negative, we must ask some other questions.

• Why a negative image when a positive image would be more convincing -- keep in mind that gradual tone negative images were unknown?
• Why did he go against conventional expectations of his era? Why did he create a picture with wounds from nails that went through Jesus' wrists? All art and all expectation throughout medieval Europe showed Jesus nailed to his cross through the palms of his hands.
• Why is Jesus shown completely naked, unlike in all artistic depictions everywhere throughout the history of Christianity?

Despite many attempts to do so, no one has found or invented an artistic or crafty technique that can reproduce even a few of the characteristics of the images. But that does not he mean, that in the future, someone will not find a method to create such images. But if someone does so, the tenacious question will remain: How likely is it that there would be such a one-of-a-kind work of art for which there are no known precedents; created by methods that were never again exploited?

Any method that might be devised must be scientifically credulous, fit into the history of art and conform to the cultural expectations in which the technology was supposedly employed. If not, it will be seen as newly invented art designed to mimic an otherwise unexplained natural process or a supernatural event. The skeptic has a dilemma. To believe that the Shroud is fakery he or she must rely on an underlying belief that transcends scientific fact.

Starting in the sixth century, pictures of Jesus seem inspired or even copied from a single source.

What did Jesus look like? Amazingly, there is no description of Him in the New Testament or in any contemporary source. Yet, in hundreds of pictures, icons, paintings, mosaics, drawings and coins, there is a common quality that enables us to identify Jesus in works of art. Shroud scholar and historian Ian Wilson theorizes that a common set of facial characteristics became the norm following the discovery of the Edessa Cloth concealed in the city's walls in 544 CE.

Apparent Shroud-inspired pictures of Christ are noticeable on coins struck in 692 CE during the reign of the Byzantine emperor Justinian II. The distinctive front-facing appearance of Jesus on the Shroud is also found on numerous icons, mosaics and frescos from the sixth century on. The most startling example is the Christ Pantocrator icon at Saint Catherine's Monastery, reliably dated to 550 CE.

The Shroud of Turin [Sraud"qvtju'rJn] Туринская плащаница

reputedly [rIpjHtIdlI] по общему мнению

burial ['berIql] погребальный

to resurrect ["rezq'rekt] воскресать

gullibility ["gAlI'bIlItI] доверчивость, легковерность

hoax [hquks] мистификация

linen ['lInIn] полотно

sample ['sRmpl] образец

fungi ['fANgI] грибок

contaminants [kqn'txmInqnt] загрязняющее вещество

enzyme ['enzaIm] фермент, энзим

bas-relief ['bxsrI"lJf] барельеф

to forge [fLG] фальсифицировать, обманывать, подделывать

dye [daI] красящее вещество; краситель

stain [steIn] пятно

сonsistent [kqn'sIst(q)nt] непротиворечивый, согласующийся

Gospel ['gOspql] Евангелие

ordeal [L'dJl] суровое испытание

thorn [TLn] тернии, колючки

scourge [skWG] плеть, бич

to mint [mInt] чеканить (монету)

faker ['feIkq] плут, мошенник, жулик

to alter ['Lltq] изменять

tenacious [tI'neIS(q)s] настойчивый, упрямый

to devise [dI'vaIz] разрабатывать, продумывать

credulous ['kredjulqs] доверчивый, легковерный

to transcend [trxn'send] превосходить, превышать

overlay ['quvqleI] наложение одного графического изображения на другое

to scale [skeIl] сводить к определенному масштабу

ratio ['reISIqu] пропорция; соотношение

Extra Virgin

amongst the olive groves of Liguria

By Annie Hawes

When Annie Hawes buys a hillside cottage in Italy for no more than the price of a dodgy second-hand car, a capable young Englishwoman becomes a surprisingly incapable Ligurian signorina. In the overgrown garden of a small, stone house among the olive groves of Liguria, high above the Mediterranean, a curious combination of bonfire dinner and business meeting occurs. In the area by chance, Annie and her sister have no intention of moving to the Italian Riviera. Still, they eat the fragrant, rosemary skewered sausages, drink (perhaps a little too much of) the wine, and allow themselves to be taken on a moonlit tour of the ramshackle house and garden and fall in love with it all.

Their new neighbours are baffled – how have these Foreign Females survived without learning to spot wild asparagus or tell good mushrooms from bad? Don’t they have any idea how to get this year’s supply of olive oil from a couple of dozen olive trees, or good wine from bramble-choked vines? Fortunately the hard-core olive-farming folk of Diano San Pietro are on hand to ply them with huge meals, plenty of ridicule and all the old-fashioned know-how they’ll need to get by.

Glamour, we soon spotted, was not the outstanding feature of the village of Diano San Pietro. As far as the crusty olive-farming inhabitants of this crumbling backwater were concerned, the Rivera, a mere two miles away, might as well be on another planet. Down on the coast, Diano Marina has palm-shaded piazzas and an elegant marble-paved promenade along a wide blue sandy bay. Diano San Pietro, on the other hand, straggles up the steep foothills of the Mediterranean hinterland, its warped green shutters leaning into decrepit cobbled alleys overrun with leathery old men on erratic Vespas* who call irately upon the Madonna as they narrowly miss mowing you down; with yowling feral cats and rusty tin cans full of improbably healthy geraniums. The lodgings in which we are doomed to spend the next ten weeks – in the hands of Luigi, walrus-moustached landlord of the village’s only hostelry and liveliest spot in town- have turned out to be a tiny pair of echoing tiled rooms above a barful of peasants who take thriftily to their beds at about ten-thirty.

Down by the sea Diano Marina folk have consorted openly with visiting strangers ever since the elegant days of Wintering on the Riviera. No terrible retribution seems to have fallen upon them: in fact a century or so of this wanton behaviour has left them looking rather sleek and prosperous. Up on the hillside though, the grimly fascinating folk of Diano San Pietro prefer to meet the eccentric behaviour of strangers with a united front of appalled incomprehension. In San Pietro a woman does not wear shorts and a T-shirt. Not unless she wants to face a barful of seriously quelling looks over her cappuccino. No: she wears an apron, a calf-length tube, ankle socks and slippers. Her menfolk go for the faded blue trousers held up with string, the aged singlet vest which is not removed in the midday heat but rolled up sausagewise into a stylish underarm sweatband, leaving the nipple area modestly covered while the solid pasta-filled midriff is exposed to the pleasantly cooling effect of any chance bit of aria that may waft by. Naturally, a large and well-worn handkerchief always protects the head during daylight hours; knotted at the corners for men, tied at the nape for ladies. Our slinky holiday gear languishes in our bags, untouched.

In under a week the lugubrious Luigi and his statuesque wife Maria have transformed us from just-give-us-a-sandwich philistines into budding gourmets, agog to meet whatever they’ll putting on our plates tonight. Or more accurately, into budding connoisseurs of antipasti. It has taken us some time to learn that you’re meant to start with a few of these delectable antipasti things, then move on to your primo piatto of pasta. Next, the focal point of the meal: your secondo piatto of meat and vegetables or salad. Followed, if you want, by fruit and cheese. This, to locals, is so obvious that it needs no explaining: just part of the bedrock of civilization. But with no menu, no ordering, only Maria or ten-year-old Stefano, her son, appearing with serving-dish after serving-dish of delicious stuff and doling it on to your plate unless you told them not to, how were we going to work all that out? Conceptually challenged, we saw only a deliciously haphazard abundance, tried a bit of everything – or two bits of particularly good stuff, when the dish did its second round – and stopped, naturally, when we were full up. Usually before we’d even got on to the pasta course, and only, as far as our hosts were concerned, a third of the way through our meal. Causing immense consternation all round.

Maria mills in and out of the kitchen, serving course after course, neatening and tidying, proddingand petting us and the dozen men she feeds every evening, dour hanky-headed folk who, like us, have somehow found themselves short of the womenfolk you need to fix you a decent twenty-course dinner of an evening. Our fellow-diners sit in twos and threes commiserating with one another sotto voce, only livening up when we, or any other stranieri who happen to be about the place, do something particularly bizarre.

Have some stuffed zucchini flowers, says Maria. A tiny pie filled with broccoli? A few frisce?i of borage leaves in crispy batter? Now, oven-roasted baby onions, stripy-grilled slivers of peppers and aubergines with a dash of Maria’s anchovy laden bagna cauda. A couple of fat slices of rich red tomato under a big dollop of pesto – the oil from Luigi’s own trees, the basil from the vegetable patch round the back. Some little squares of fresh herby cheese tart?

How would you guess that all this was just a starter? We know it now, thanks to Luigi, whose training in abstract thinking alerted him to the fact that our eccentric eating behaviour was not due to a wilful refusal to conform, but to the lack of a whole framework of reference. We have much to learn. Tonight we obligingly horrify everyone by putting salad on the plate with our pasta. Salad, of course, is not eaten with the pasta. Salad comes afterwards. It could easily, Maria explains, snatching it back off again with her serving tongs, make the pasta curdle in your stomach. A lot of wise noddings and a chorus of Ah, si, si’s rise from the surrounding hoary heads, confirming her words. (Nowadays, with years of experience, we know that you can get around this annoying convention by casually spearing bits of salad out of the bowl as you eat your pasta – the important thing is not to put it on your place.) Next, as if the salad offence wasn’t enough, we give in at the end of the pasta course. No secondo? Again? Can’t we even fit in a taste of the great sizzling piles of meat that have now appeared? The secondo is the whole point of the meal!

No, we can’t. Maria is most put out. Unfair, since it’s at least partly her fault; she’s so entertained by our antipasti addiction that she can’t help egging us on to try more and more of her tasty titbits. Still, at least we’ve made it past the pasta course tonight before falling by the wayside. Our hosts are on our case, and have, they say, great faith in our potential.

Our attempts to join in sociably with the chat in the bar using our halting Italian haven’t so far been a great success. The taciturn and weatherbeaten card-players who more or less live in this bar, only abandoning it momentarily for home at mealtimes and returning within the hour for the obligatory immensely strong teaspoon-sized espresso, chat away to one another in dialect, not Italian, as they cut, deal and shuffle. We may as well be speaking a foreign language. No: we really are speaking a foreign language. Official Italian is for uncomfortable and probably expensive dealings with policemen, tax-collectors and their ilk, and though everyone here can understand the language perfectly well, actually to speak it out loud in front of cronies, who are bound to snigger and cackle as you do so, is another matter entirely. It is embarrassing for our poor victims, and utterly disrupts the cosy downhome atmosphere. If we’re in luck, someone will make the odd one-sentence contribution in the national tongue for our benefit. Mostly, though, they cunningly evade this ordeal by determinedly avoiding our eye.

Ligurian, a tongue somewhere between Italian and Proven?al French, is what the hanky-on-the-head folk speak for sociability, gossip and pleasure. Work, for example, is called travaio, not lavoro, round here. Not too surprising, since Liguria lies between Tuscany and the South of France, filling the mysterious gap which has existed till now in my mental map of this part of the world: a narrow strip of rugged stony foothills thirty or forty miles wide that stretches lengthwise on down the coast part Genoa, widthwise from the seashore to the high Alps of the Piedmont. We are right up at the French end, in the Province of Imperia; a province whose every scrap of steep hillside is terraced to within an inch of its life, and whose every scrap of terrace is packed to bursting with olive trees. And February has turned out, surprisingly to us novices, to be the height of the olive harvest in these parts.

Maria off in the kitchens; Luigi deep in passionate debate. Good moment to try for a third coffee. I quickly order one, hoping Luigi is on automatic and won’t notice. He turns to the espresso machine and puts the cups ready under it like a lamb, going right on talking; it looks like we’re going to get away with it. No. something about the slow-motion way our cups are going down on the bar, the worried look in the big Saint Bernard eyes, warns us that out host is about to remind us yet again of the danger of drinking any more coffees before lunch. I dash to the bar, grab the cups with a quick Grazie, and beetle off back to our table in the corner before he can get up to speed. We already know, of course, that an extra coffee might easily close our stomachs, preventing us from ingesting enough of our lunch to survive the afternoon. We have been warned of this possibility several times, be several people. Even the most monosyllabic of card-players is moved to speech when it comes to matters imperilling the stomach. The trouble is though, that the coffees here are so small. They may be ferociously strong, but you only get a couple of sips to a cup. Most people don’t even bother to sit down to drink one – just stand at the bar and knock it back as if it were medicine. Which I suppose, at this strength, it is. Then they have a glass of water to quench their thirst. Hard on us English used to having the water and the coffee in the same cup, a nice long hot drink. In theory, the solution is simple: just ask for extra water in your cup. Change would be a nice thing. Or magari as they say round here, reducing that cumbersome phrase to one elegant word. Not only is the cup no bigger than a generous eggcup anyway, but a proper coffee only comes a third of the way up it. Luigi and Maria are constitutionally unable to fill it to the top. Every fibre of their being tells them to turn that Gaggia tap to ‘Off’ at the third-of-the-way-up mark. They can’t ruin a good espresso like this. Screwing their courage to the stickling point, they get it to halfway, and that’s their limit. Unless, that is, you’re prepared to stand right over them, exhorting and cajoling. Don’t turn it off, really, yes really, just a bit more… Rather then keep going through this major drama, we accept the half-full version and then have another one. Or another two, when we can swing it. I am pleased to relate that so far, probably thanks to years of rigorous training in our own less delicate land, our stomachs have successfully resisted closure.

* vespa "Веспа" марка мотороллера

grove [grquv] роща

to skewer ['skjuq] насаживать на вертел, шампур

ramshackle ['rxm"Sxkl] ветхий, разваливающийся

to spot [spOt] увидеть, узнать; определить

bramble-choked ['brxmbltSqukt] заросший ежевикой

vine [vaIn] виноградная лоза

to ply [plaI] потчевать, усиленно угощать

backwater ['bxk"wLtq] заводь, запруда

piazza [pI'xtsq] (базарная) площадь (особ. в Италии); веранда

promenade ["prOmI'nRd] место для прогулок

to straggle ['strxgl] быть беспорядочно разбросанным

hinterland ['hIntqlxnd] районы, расположенные вглубь от прибрежной полосы

shutter ['SAtq] ставень

cobbled ['kObld] вымощенный камнем

to overrun ["quvq'rAn] кишеть, наводнять; заполонять

to сonsort ['kOnsLt] жениться; иметь сексуальные отношения

retribution ["retrI'bjuS(q)n] возмездие, кара, наказание

wanton ['wOntqn] несдержанный; распутный

appalled [q'pLld] потрясенный, шокированный

to quell [kwel] подавлять, успокаивать

sweatband ['swetbxnd] повязка на голове (для защиты от пота)

midriff ['mIdrIf] талия (живот и спина)

nape [neIp] затылок

slinky ['slINkI] облегающий

to languish ['lxNgwIS] томиться; тосковать

lugubrious [lH'gHbrIqs] печальный, мрачный

philistine ['fIlIstaIn] мещанин, обыватель

budding ['bAdIN] многообещающий, перспективный

agog [q'gOg] сгорающий от любопытства/нетерпения

connoisseur ["kOnq'sW] знаток, специалист, эксперт

delectable [dI'lektqbl] восхитительный, очаровательный

focal ['fquk(q)l] центральный

bedrock ['bed'rOk] основные принципы

to dole [deul] скупо выдавать, раздавать маленькими порциями

consternation ["kOnstq(:)'neIS(q)n] ужас; испуг

to mill [mIl] двигаться по кругу, кружить

to prod [prod] подгонять, побуждать

to commiserate (with) [kq'mIzqreIt] выражать соболезнование

borage ['bOrIG] огуречник аптечный

sliver ['slIvq] длинная узкая полоска; ломтик

patch [pxtS] небольшой участок земли

reference ['refr(q)ns] справочная информация

tongs [tONz] щипцы

to curdle ['kWdl] свертываться; застревать комком

nodding ['nOdIN] кивание

to spear [spIq] протыкать, прокалывать (копьем или чем-л., похожим на копье)

to egg [eg] подстрекать, провоцировать

titbit ['tItbIt] лакомый кусок

halting [hLltIN] искаженный, несовершенный

taciturn ['txsItWn] молчаливый, неразговорчивый

ilk [Ilk] сорт, род, тип

crony ['krqunI] близкий, закадычный друг

to snigger ['snIgq] хихикать, посмеиваться

to evade [I'veId] избегать; уклоняться

novice ['nOvIs] начинающий, новичок

to dash [dxS] бросаться, ринуться; мчаться

to beetle (off) ['bJtl] быстро уходить, убегать

to ingest [In'Gest] глотать, проглатывать

to imperil [Im'perIl] подвергать опасности

ferociously [fq'rquSqslI] жестоко, свирепо, неистово

to quench [kwentS] утолять (жажду)

cumbersome ['kAmbqsqm] обременительный, тягостный

eggcup ['egkAp] рюмка для яйца

to screw [skrH] нажимать, оказывать давление

to stickle ['stIkl] колебаться, сомневаться

to exhort [Ig'zLt] уговаривать, убеждать

to cajole [kq'Gqul] льстить, обхаживать; обманывать

to swing [swIN] (Amer.) успешно провести какое-л. дельце;

транспортировать (при помощи подъемного крана)

to relate [rI'leIt] рассказывать, вести повествование

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Журнал предназначен для широкого круга лиц, изучающих английский язык, а именно, для тех, чей уровень знания языка определяется характеристикой "средний", кто стремится повысить свой уровень знаний или сохранить его на определенном уровне. Как показывают наши исследования, это молодые люди в воздасте от 15 до 30 лет, с активной жизненной позицией, учащиеся или работающие. Они четко осознают важность знания иностранного языка, поэтому всячески стараются закрепить или улучшить уровень знания языка. Они ценят время, поэтому склонны совмещать виды деятельности (формат образовательно-развлекательной прессы идеален для них, т.к. позволяет одновременно расширять кругозор и приобретать знания).

Разделы журнала: Сinema, Voyage, Fiction, Unisex, Music, Business English, Psychology, Nota Bene, Life up! etc.
Внимание! Бесплатные презентационные экземпляры издания в формате PDF вы можете скачать прямо сейчас: English4U #17 и English4U #19

Подписка для жителей УКРАИНЫ на второе полугодие 2007 года

Для того, чтобы подписаться на журнал через Укрпочту, необходимо:
1. скачать АБОНЕМЕНТ здесь (либо взять в любом отделении Укрпочты)
2. заполнить его, указав свои контактные данные и срок подписки (для подписки на год нужно отметить крестиками каждый месяц)
3. отнести АБОНЕМЕНТ в любое отделение Укрпочты, заплатить стоимость подписки на выбранный срок