Missing Fish and Fatal Feasts: Ritual and Ruin at the Sun King’s Table

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Pushkin

France 1671.

At the Château de Chantelie, home to the Prince of Condé,

A party is underway.

Three whole days of moonlit hunts, sumptuous feasts and spectacular entertainment.

This fairy tale palace with its shimmering moat and stately gardens is the perfect setting for a grand celebration.

The party has been organized by the great François Vatel.

As Maitre d'Hotel, head of the household, He is a maestro of hospitality, famous among the great houses for his resourcefulness, efficiency and excellent taste.

Vatel is no ordinary servant, which is convenient because this is no ordinary party.

King Louis XIV, the formidable monarch who takes the very sun as his emblem, is making his first visit to Chantelin.

And because Louis likes to keep a close eye on the nobility,

the court has come with with him.

2,000 guests have descended on the fairy tale chateau, all demanding to be housed, entertained, and fed.

Tonight is the opening night of the festivities, and Vattel must make sure that his master impresses.

He feels this responsibility keenly.

Condé led a fearsome rebellion early in Louis' reign, and all these years later, the king remains wary of him.

The cousins are tenuously back on good terms for now, which means that the extravaganza at Chantilly must go off without a hitch.

Fatel only recently learned exactly how many guests the king would be bringing with him and when he would arrive.

What's more, the king has a cruel streak.

Fatel knows any missteps could be costly.

I haven't had a wink of sleep for 12 nights, he tells a friend.

Preparation is everything.

And so Vatelle has planned this event to the last detail, ordering ornate new furniture for the king's apartments and stocking the larders.

The Baron of Gourville, the steward in charge of Condé's finances, has allowed the prince to spend a staggering 50,000 crowns on this party, or so the guests gossip.

In the kitchens deep beneath the palace, Patel has set the servants slicing and dicing, simmering and stirring.

Every taste must be accommodated, every mouth satisfied.

The elaborate choreography of dinner must be swift and striking.

So far, all has gone well.

Upon arrival, the king took a turn around the château gardens.

The walk was pleasant.

The April weather is fine.

The daffodils in full bloom.

Still,

Fatel is on edge, exhausted.

Later that night, a magnificent cascade of fireworks will dazzle the guests.

But for now,

Dinner is served.

First come the potage,

dishes cooked in pots like chicken stuffed with chicory and quail and crayfish soup garnished with roe.

Then the entrées, hashes of mushroom and artichoke, boiled meats, all manner of savory tarts.

And finally, around these, another painstaking formation is set down.

A border of hors d'oeuvre, quite literally, outside the work of the main meal.

These are delicacies like foie gras, figs and sausages.

Only when their sovereign has begun to eat may the guests feast and make merry.

After this first carnival of delights, the roasts are served.

Rare game, lamb and beef in rich built are all favourites.

No sooner has one dish been finished than another replaces it.

The table is is never bare and the placement of the dishes is always symmetrical.

Fatel notices everything, conducting from afar.

Dinner service is a delicate dance.

But...

What's this?

Fatel realises with horror that some unexpected guests have joined the party.

They must be fed.

And it's far too late now to prepare more roasts.

Another table will have to go without.

Afraid Vattel is distraught.

He's failed in his duties.

He begins to panic.

And while you or I might find that an overreaction, Vital knows the stakes.

These festivities will prove quite literally to be a matter of life

and death.

I'm Tim Harford and you're listening to Cautionary Tales.

Francois Vattelle was born in around 1630.

thirty.

His family had worked the land, but Vatelle went into service, entering a world of luxurious luncheons, glittering soirees, and extraordinarily complicated social rules.

As Maitre d'Hotel, Vatel presided over the comfort and convenience of all who entered his master's home, the guardian of his master's honour in the realm of hospitality.

He managed enormous sums of money, designed menus, and was in charge of all the servants.

Fatel was renowned for his meticulous attention to detail in his work, and he'd even distinguished himself enough to be allowed to carry a sword, a privilege reserved for a select few.

Fatelle could be forgiven for being particularly anxious on that evening at Chantelie.

It was all too familiar.

He'd been embroiled in a previous scheme to secure King Louis's favor through the sheer opulence of a banquet.

He knew how easily things could go awry

and how serious the consequences could be.

A decade earlier, Vattel had been working for a different master, the ambitious Nicolas Fouquet.

the scion of prosperous cloth merchants.

Fiercely intelligent and a shrewd social operator, Fouquet had rapidly climbed through government.

By 1661, he was superintendent of finances to the king.

Fouquet was bourgeois by origin, but he now rubbed shoulders with royalty.

He was bold and forward-thinking, masterminding ventures with the Dutch and in the Americas.

He was also cunning.

His mentor, the previous First Minister, had taught him how to surreptitiously skim off the state bankroll.

As a result, Fouquet was fabulously wealthy.

Fatelle's fortunes rose with his master's, and he managed properties for him in Paris and beyond.

These homes were filled with paintings and rare books.

Fouquet loved the arts and patronized poets and playwrights, but his favourite masterpiece was his palace at Vaux-le-Vicomte.

Three villages had been obliterated to make way for the palace, with at least 900 laborers hauling stone and digging a canal.

Fouquet founded his own factory to furnish it and hired Flemish weavers for an enormous tapestry cycle of Alexander the Great.

He installed soaring fountains and hired the very best landscape architect to sculpt the lawns into careful geometric patterns.

Figures from classical mythology adorned the palace inside and out, as Carolyn C.

Young has noted in her book, Apples of Gold in Settings of Silver.

Carved satyr heads flanked the wrought iron gates.

and elegant columns edged its glittering façade, each topped with a reclining Greek Greek deity.

The vast ceilings were painted with Apollo, Hercules, and the muse Cleo.

Vaux was a feast for eyes, a home fit not just for a finance minister, but for a god.

Trusty Vattel had supervised construction.

He'd ensured there were a few practical innovations at Vaux too,

like extra staircases connecting the kitchens with the Grand Salon to help food reach the table more efficiently.

The palace drew prying eyes, and Vatelle caught the government minister Jean-Baptiste Colbert spying on the construction project.

Colbert, whose family crest was an undulating serpent, was Fouquet's arch-nemesis.

This could only spell trouble.

King Louis was growing increasingly suspicious of Vatell's master and his excessive expenditure.

Fouquet claimed his new palace was designed to glorify France, a display not just of his own prestige, but of his loyalty to the crown.

But he'd also taken care to install friends and minions at every level of government, and his tentacles of influence reached far across oceans.

Colbert dripped poison in the king's ear.

Fouquet was sending agents abroad, dining superbly, and acquiring friends of every kind.

Worst of all, the finance minister was stealing from the treasury.

Because of him, said Colbert, Louis was only receiving around 40% of the value of state taxes.

Colbert was, in fact, guilty of similar misdeeds, as Fouquet well knew, but he'd managed to cover his tracks by burning the incriminating accounts.

In the summer of 1661, matters came to a head.

Louis had a new mistress, blonde-haired, blue-eyed Louise de la Valier.

Ever on the lookout for allies, Fouquet approached the young woman.

If she needed anything at all, he said, he would be delighted to help her.

Soon a rumor was flying through court.

Fouquet had sent a close friend to offer the Mademoiselle de Valiere

20,000 gold coins.

Some said this was mere flattery.

Gifts were not so unusual after all.

But others were certain that this was unabashed flirtation.

That Fouquet wanted the young lady for himself.

When Louis learned of Fouquet's overtures to his mistress, he was enraged.

Fouquet knew he'd incurred the king's wrath.

that unless he could regain his favor and fast, he was done for.

Feverishly, he alighted on a plan.

He would invite Louis to a party, a glorious soire in his honor.

It was an outlandish idea to be sure, but the magnificent palace at Vaux, with its soaring fountains and lavish ceilings, was fit for a god.

It could not fail to enchant a king.

Fouquet would have to walk the finest of lines, impressing the monarch without threatening him.

But he was in safe hands.

He'd entrusted the entire operation to the most diligent and gifted maître d'hotel in the land,

François Vatelle.

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Life at Louis XIV's court was governed by elaborate ritual.

From the first light of dawn until the very last servant crawled into bed, exhausted from the day's labours.

Each morning began with the grand getting-up ceremony, the levee.

At 8.30 a.m., Louis was washed, shaved, combed and bewigged before an audience of around 100 spectators.

Only those with particular privileges could attend the levee.

Rank and favour determined when a subject could enter and the door he could pass through.

The playwright Molière, who began his career as valet of the king's bedchamber, recalled how the throng of men present at the levee would jostle to reach the front of the audience.

Attendance was coveted because it offered physical proximity to the king, and so the opportunity to bend his ear and petition for this or that.

Louis imposed a body of tacit rules on his courtiers that controlled every aspect of their lives.

Days in court were strictly timetabled.

The regime could be exacting, as the king's sister-in-law explained in a letter to her aunt.

We were kept busy all day.

We hunted from morning until three in the afternoon.

Then we went up to play, remaining there until seven in the evening.

Then we went to the theatre, which did not finish until half past ten.

After theater, we took supper.

After supper, it was time for the ball, which went on until three in the morning.

And only then did we retire to bed.

A complex web of etiquette governed who could approach whom and when.

Subtle rules controlled manners of speech, body language, and even the right to use a stool, chair or armchair.

According to the Duke of Saint-Simon, nothing slipped past the king.

Not one of his courtiers escaped him, even those who hoped to remain unnoticed.

Nowhere were the rules more intricate or more treacherous than in the royal dining room.

Hundreds of officers from the services of the king's mouth prepared and served the king's meals on gold and silver dishes.

Louis was said to be able to conquer four full plates of soup, a whole pheasant, a partridge, a big dish of salad, two big slices of ham, some mutton, a plate of pastry, and then fruit and hard-boiled eggs, all in one sitting.

Mealtimes were important to the king.

Ceremonial public meals, in particular, gave him the opportunity to entrench a strict court pecking order.

Seating was hierarchical.

Men were to remove their hats while grace or toasts were being said, then immediately replace them.

Napkins could be used, but only once the individual of highest rank had first opened theirs.

And while discreet napkin usage was permitted for the hands, cleaning one's face or teeth was uncouth.

Wiping one's nose unforgivably vulgar.

Placing one's elbows on the table was also a grave breach of decorum.

Diners could signal their needs to servants, but only in hushed tones.

And even then it was bad manners to do this too often.

A guest should never be the first to place his spoon into a dish unless he wished to serve another and each time a man served a higher ranking woman he was expected to tip his hat.

Olives were to be lifted from their dish with a spoon, never a fork.

But walnuts could be taken with the hand.

Touching fish with a knife was forbidden, unless that fish was baked in a pie.

In short, there were traps everywhere, as a courtier called Madame de Torcy discovered.

The palace had decamped to the king's estate at Mali.

At dinner, Madame de Torcy seated herself at the table.

A moment later, the Duchess of Durat arrived and took a space that was free.

Unfortunately, she was now seated below Madame de Torcy.

This was a problem because Madame de Torcy lacked a title.

She offered to correct her mistake, but the moment had passed.

And besides, the Duchess wasn't too irked by the error.

Saint-Simon described what happened next.

The king entered.

As soon as he sat down, He saw the place Madame de Torcy had taken and fixed such a serious and surprised look upon her that she again offered to give up her place to the Duchess.

The offer was again declined.

The king seethed all through dinner.

After the meal, he told the princesses that he'd just borne witness to an act of incredible insolence.

and enraged he'd been unable to eat a single mouthful.

A tirade on bourgeois genealogy of the de Torces followed.

A lengthy discourse on the dignity of dukes came after that.

Finally, the king charged the princesses with telling Madame de Torcy exactly what he thought of her.

The princesses looked at each other.

They didn't like this idea at all, which made the king even more angry.

News of his fury soon spread through the court.

The next day he could talk of nothing but Madame de Torcy's infraction.

The king broke out again, with even more bitterness than before, said Saint-Simon.

Eventually, poor beleaguered Monsieur de Torcy wrote the king a letter, apologising for his wife's impertinence.

And finally, the king was calm.

The violation of courtly etiquette had been remedied.

Where Where did this complex system of manners and etiquette come from?

The sociologist Norbert Elias had a theory.

Louis XIV ruled absolutely and aimed to centralise the French government more than ever before.

By the mid-1600s, France had developed a highly disciplined and well-resourced army, a central force paid for by state taxes, which meant that the state now had the monopoly on legitimate physical violence.

The nobility could no longer prove its power with physical might and battles in the provinces.

It was the king's favour that bestowed prestige as well as honour, that is, membership of good society.

Maintaining appearances became essential.

A duke who did not appear to live as a duke was hardly a duke.

The appearance of rank was rank.

Of course, the cost of maintaining appearances, of having the right carriage, the right house, keeping Swiss guards, or at least men dressed like Swiss guards, could be ruinous.

As the king had the power to dispense wealth, the nobility was all the more dependent on his favour, and one way to secure that favour was the flawless display of courtly etiquette.

Rules and etiquette in Louis's hands were an instrument of power.

They pacified the nobility.

Ceremony and ritual, like the levee or strict seating hierarchies, showed who was in and who was out.

How well a subject danced the dance of courtly etiquette proved whether or not that subject really belonged.

The result, suggested Elias, was a kind of human stock exchange, where the value of individuals went up and down.

It was dangerous to be discourteous to a person whose stock was rising, but it was equally dangerous to be friendly with someone whose stock was falling.

Courtiers had to constantly calculate their own worth alongside the worth of those around them and adjust their behaviour accordingly.

The requirement to analyze and perform was unrelenting.

Far from offering a life of untroubled luxury, the court of Louis XIV

was a gilded cage.

The party at Vaux, the magnificent home of Nicolas Fouquet, was just three weeks away.

Undaunted, the great master of the household, François Vatelle, sprang into action.

Though still wasn't fully decorated, the monumental tapestry of Alexander the Great wouldn't be finished for years.

So Vatelle borrowed and rented wall hangings from other residences, as well as furniture and silver.

He prepared apartments for the king and commissioned an Italian set designer known as Ilocoran Stregone, a great wizard, to direct a brilliant fireworks display.

He also planned the all-important banquet.

From his office in the bowels of the palace, he took inventory of the wines, linens and silver.

He filled the stores to bursting and made sure the cooking ranges were ablaze, the rotating spits ready for their roasts.

Under Vitel's direction, the whole palace labored furiously, decorating, polishing, rehearsing.

Vatel's master, Fouquet, had been in bed with a terrible fever.

But this party was itself a matter of life or death, and so he roused himself to check each detail.

Finally, the stage was set.

The day of the party arrived.

At 6 p.m., the king's gilded carriage rolled up to the raw iron gates at Vaux.

Cautionary Tales will be back in a moment.

The stories I explore often feature smart people making decisions with incomplete information, something we all face daily.

The difference is having tools that help you think more thoroughly about what you might be missing.

Claude excels at this kind of collaborative exploration.

Its new learning mode lets you see exactly how it works through problems so you can see how it found the answer you may have been stuck on, the considerations, the alternative perspectives and the potential blind spots.

Whether you're analysing historical trends, exploring policy implications or working through a business challenge, Claude helps you dig deeper into the complexity rather than settling for the first explanation that seems reasonable.

It's built for people who enjoy the process of figuring things out.

The best insights come from thorough exploration.

See why the world's best problem solvers choose Claude as their thinking partner and try Claude for free at claude.ai slash cautionary tales.

Cautionary Tales is proudly sponsored by Amika Insurance.

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That day, a shocking rumour had flown through court.

Louis had been threatening to have Fouquet arrested at the Soiree.

Apparently, his mother, Anne of Austria, had managed to dissuade him.

But to everyone's surprise, the evening began well.

The older statesman hid his raging fever and greeted the young king with open arms.

By some accounts, there were 3,000 guests at Vaux that evening.

Others said there were 6,000.

and that only the king's pregnant wife and First Minister Colbert did not attend.

When the last last of the carriages had arrived, Fouquet led the party on a tour of the Chateau gardens.

The guests were astonished by the fountains with their 35-foot jets of water.

They gasped at the masterfully carved sculptures that decorated the lawns and at row upon row of expensive tulips, a nod to Fouquet's business ties with the Dutch Republic.

They reveled in the scent of orange blossom on the summer summer air and rode in painted gondolas across a canal adorned with a statue of Neptune.

This was like no garden they had ever visited before.

Then came the tour of the chateau itself.

Vitel had triumphed.

The rooms were opulent and luxurious.

Cove ceilings glorified Fouquet through symbolism.

In one, he was a star rising to the heavens.

In another,

he was Hercules in a chariot of gold.

Of course, nothing slipped past the king.

Finally, it was time for dinner.

The party reached the Grand Salon, a magnificent oval room that stretched the full height of the palace.

Fouquet escorted the king to his seat, and Vittel gave the word for the intricate choreography of dinner to begin.

The potage, entrées and hors d'oeuvre were set down in their customary symmetry.

Then came the second service, stylish beasts and ragus, plus pheasants, altelons, quails and partridges.

Two carvers sliced the meats in perfect synchronicity.

All the while the wine flowed and 24 violins serenaded the dimers.

At last, their appetites indulged, the guests passed into the gardens for the evening's entertainment, the premiere of playwright Molière's Les Facheux, which he'd had all of 15 days to write.

For the grand finale, a surge of fireworks lit the canal in colourful bursts.

It was an exquisite evening, and Vatelle must have had one eye firmly on the king.

Was the plan working?

Observers thought that Louis was wide-eyed with wonder, amazed by the incomparable luxury at Vaux, and perhaps jealous of it too.

At 2 a.m.

The party drew to a close.

Louis gave the signal that he would not make use of the royal bedroom.

In fact, he wished to leave at once.

Fatel managed the guests' departure, and as the king's carriage sped away, the fevered Fouquet felt his disquiet return.

He asked his friend, the Baron of Gourville, what everyone was saying.

One group thinks you will be declared first minister, Gourville told him.

The other, that they will form a great cabal to destroy you.

Fouquet had played the game well for a time.

He'd risen high in the human stock exchange.

But where there are ladders, there may also be snakes.

A few weeks later, he was arrested by the king's steadfast musketeer, D'Artagnan.

According to the Duke of Saint-Simon, Louis was a man with a distaste for all intelligence, all independence of character in others.

Fouquet had shown himself to be creative and forward thinking.

He was very intelligent and very independent.

But he'd reached too high.

The opulence and beauty of the party at Vaux now seemed proof of his dissolution, his corruption.

Fouquet was charged with embezzlement from the French treasury and treason.

Musketeers, overseen by Colbert, combed his homes for evidence against him.

At trial, Fouquet defended himself well.

Though he was found guilty, he was sentenced to banishment rather than prison or death.

Unusually, Louis used his royal judicial powers to change the sentence.

Fouquet would spend the rest of his life in solitary confinement at the chilling Pignerole prison.

He could not take any exercise, and only after 13 years was he permitted to exchange any letters with his wife.

He would never be released and died at Pignerol.

As for Vitel, with his master disgraced, he was forced into exile abroad.

Louis began stripping Vaux for parts.

He seized the precious furniture that Vitel had selected, the tapestries and sculptures.

He even took the trees, shrubs, and orange-blossom topiaries.

They would all make perfect additions to the magnificent palace he was building for himself at Versailles.

The court of Louis XIV revolved around the elaborate performance of respect and friendship.

But that decency was superficial, a thin veneer of civility.

Manners and etiquette masked cold indifference and unfathomable cruelty.

Have we really left that world behind?

On the surface, the intricate rituals and complex social rules of Louis XIV's court seem archaic, even fantastical.

But I think we still codify and ritualise our behavior.

Instead of at the dining table, it's online.

Complicated, often unwritten rules govern how to frame posts on social media, who to tag.

A like can be a genuine display of appreciation, but it can equally be purely for show, a signal to the wider social media audience that one user is loyal to another.

And a like is not at all the same as a thumbs up.

To people over the age of 30, the thumbs up is generally positive.

But I've discovered that Gen Z can interpret the thumbs up as sarcastic, even passive-aggressive.

The rules are inconsistent.

There are traps everywhere.

Online life, too, is precarious.

Social media forms a kind of human stock exchange.

It encourages us to surveil and moderate each other, but it also invites hyper-awareness about how we present ourselves and unremitting performance.

Missteps can result in social exile.

exile.

Ten years pass.

François Vatelle is back in France with a new master, the Prince of Condé.

Two thousand guests are attending the Château de Chantelie at a party in honour of King Louis XIV.

This is the celebration to mark the Prince of Condé's return to royal favour and to his horror,

Vatel has just realised that he's a few roasts short.

History doesn't record exactly when Vital made his way back to France or what the journey was like for him.

But after the squelching of his former master, this opportunity to enter the service of Condé must have felt like a lifeline.

Perhaps the Baron of Gourville is the link.

He was friends with the ill-fated Nicolas Fouquet, but like Vitale, he now works for Condé.

Vitel turns to Gourville.

I cannot bear this disgrace, he laments.

The Maitre d'Hotel is a repository of his master's honor.

His mission was to sate the appetite of every guest at Chantelie that evening, and he has failed.

Gourville does what he can to comfort Vital.

After all, the evening has been spectacular so far.

There's no reasoning with him, so Gourville approaches Condé and explains the situation.

In fact, the prince is very happy, and he tells Vital so.

Everything is extremely well conducted.

Nothing could be more admirable than His Majesty's supper.

Do not perplex yourself, and all will be well.

There's still the fireworks display to impress the guests and more feasts and entertainment to come.

Perhaps everyone will forget all about the shortfall of this dinner.

But then, calamity of calamities.

The dazzling and expensive display of fireworks Fatel has planned is a flock.

They go off as intended but are shrouded in thick cloud.

No one can see them.

By now, the Maitre d'Hotel is a nervous wreck.

He barely sleeps.

At four o'clock the next morning, Vitel is pacing the hallways and goes to take delivery of that evening's dinner.

It's a Friday, so the party will eat fish.

But the supplier has just two loads with him.

What?

Is this all?

Vital is aghast.

Two loads isn't nearly enough to feed 2,000 hungry courtiers.

Yes, sir, says the baffled supplier, unaware that Vitale has ordered fish from several different seaports.

Vital waits a little, ever more distraught.

A maitre d'hotel who does not feed his guests is hardly a maitre d'hotel.

No more fish materialize.

I cannot outlive this disgrace, he tells Gourville.

The Baron is perplexed and merely laughs.

Time passes and, fortunately, several more loads of fish arrive at Chantilly.

Dinner is saved.

But where is Vatel?

He must receive the order, take inventory of these delicacies.

But he's nowhere to be found.

Patel's colleagues search high and low.

One of them knocks on the door to his apartments.

No answer.

There's no sign of him elsewhere, so they break the door down.

Vital is lying in a pool of his own blood.

Unable to face yet more failure, he's taken his sword.

That tribute to his honor, steadied it against his frame, and run himself through with it.

Word tears through the palace.

Vatelle has taken his own life.

The message is dispatched to Condé,

who falls into despair and then relays the whole sad tale to the king.

Louis apparently regrets bringing quite so many courtiers with him.

The consensus is that this terrible affair is the consequence of too nice a sense of honour.

Some blame Vitel, but others praise his courage.

Still, there's little time to linger on the death of the poor Maitre d'Hotel.

The show must go on.

Gourville fills in for his friend as best he can, as master of the weekend's festivities.

And by all accounts, the party is a rousing success.

The guests stroll among the daffodils, hunt by moonlight,

and dine in splendor.

This script relied on Carolyn C.

Young's book, Apples of Gold in Settings of Silver: Stories of Dinner as a Work of Art.

For a full list of sources, see the show notes at TimHarford.com.

If you're suffering from emotional distress or having suicidal thoughts, support is available.

For example, from the 988 Suicide and Crisis Lifeline in the US and from Samaritans in the UK.

You'll find details in the episode description.

Cautionary Tales is written by me, Tim Harford, with Andrew Wright, Alice Fians, and Ryan Dilley.

It's produced by Georgia Mills and Marilyn Rust.

The sound design and original music are the work of Pascal Wise.

Additional sound design is by Carlos San Juan at Brain Audio.

Ben Nadaf Hafrey edited the scripts.

The show also wouldn't have been possible without the work of Jacob Weisberg, Greta Cohn, Sarah Nix, Eric Sandler, Christina Sullivan, Kiera Posey, and Owen Miller.

You can support Cautionary Tales by joining my cautionary club at patreon.com slash cautionary club for exclusive bonus episodes, newsletters, ad-free listening and other exciting perks.

Alternatively, you can join Pushkin Plus on our Apple show page for continued benefits from our show and others across the Pushkin network.

The stories we've heard today remind us that interesting problems deserve careful thinking.

Whether it's understanding historical patterns or navigating modern challenges, the reward is in the exploration itself.

Claude is AI designed for exactly this kind of deep analysis.

Whether you're exploring historical patterns, analysing systemic risks, or working through decision trees, Claude goes beyond easy answers.

Try Claude for free at claude.ai/slash cautionary tales and see why the world's best problem solvers choose Claude as their thinking partner.

If you love digging into unusual ideas, take a look at the London Review of Books.

For over 40 years, it's been publishing articles on everything from urban derangement in rats to the latest in literature and and politics.

Writers such as Mary Beard, Tarik Ali and Patricia Lockwood cover topics you won't find elsewhere.

Each issue mixes book reviews, memoir, poetry and movie and exhibition coverage.

Try a trial subscription today.

You even get a free tote bag.

Issues are printed in the US.

Visit lrb.me slash tails to subscribe now.

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