The Enigmatic Inspirations Behind Ambrose and His Universe
I didn’t set out to create a universe. I set out to train a muscle.
A little while ago, I mentioned that The Lone Swordsman was getting ambitious. Not in the take-over-the-world-Pinky-and-the-Brain-style, but in the sense that I wanted to venture beyond the confines of a blog. I wanted to see if I had what it takes to build something bigger, something that might one day find itself inked on paper rather than just pixels on a screen.
But before I could even consider putting together something worthy of print, I needed to test myself. Writing is, after all, a skill like any other—one that requires practice, refinement, and a bit of stubbornness. And so, what began as a simple exercise in storytelling, character-building, and crafting dialogue turned into something more.
Why in English, though? Honestly, I’m not sure. Maybe it’s because certain jokes land better in English—or maybe I just enjoy the challenge of shaping ideas in a language that isn’t my first. Either way, let’s not digress. Today’s writing is about something else entirely:
A book. A book that sat, patiently, atop a teetering stack of unread tomes. A book whose turn came at last, and which I devoured in a single sitting—well, two, interrupted only by the need for a cold brew, because why not?
The book in question? A biography of Athanasius Kircher, a name that sounds like it belongs to either a forgotten alchemist or a minor villain in an Umberto Eco novel. He was, in fact, neither. Instead, he was a Jesuit polymath, a scholar whose insatiable curiosity led him to study everything from ancient languages to volcanic activity, from optics to the secrets of music. He didn’t get everything right, but by God he tried.
He was the kind of man who could have been dismissed as a crackpot, yet somehow, he wasn’t. He was taken seriously, respected, even revered. And though I had no intention of drawing parallels between Kircher and Ambrose, I must admit—some uncanny similarities have emerged. But we’ll get to that later.
For now, let’s talk about the book.
Like I said, Athanasius Kircher was, to put it bluntly, a man who never met a subject he didn’t want to master. Born in 1602, at a time when science and mysticism still held hands in polite society, he became one of the most prolific, eccentric, and insatiably curious scholars of his era. He wasn’t just dabbling in a field or two—he was attempting to connect all human knowledge into a single, coherent system. The sheer audacity of it is almost endearing.
The book written by John Glassie dives deep into Kircher’s astonishingly broad range of studies. He was a:
Linguist – He attempted to decipher Egyptian hieroglyphs, centuries before the Rosetta Stone would prove him completely wrong. But he was so confident in his translations that people believed him for generations.
Inventor – He designed bizarre mechanical contraptions, including an early “talking” statue and a cat-powered music machine (yes, it’s exactly as strange as it sounds; you might have seen litographs of the contraption circulating throughout the interwebs in all sorts of memes).
Explorer – He lowered himself into the smoking crater of Mount Vesuvius to study volcanoes firsthand. This was before proper safety equipment. Or common sense.
Physicist & Optics Expert – He created early magic lanterns (precursors to projectors), experimented with light and perspective, and dabbled in theories that would later influence modern optics.
Occultist? Maybe. – He had an interest in alchemy, secret symbols, and hidden knowledge, though he always framed his studies in a way that kept the Jesuit order happy. He understood the fine line between curiosity and heresy.
Collector & Curator – He established one of the first true museums in Europe, a Wunderkammer (Cabinet of Curiosities) filled with strange relics, artefacts, and inventions that blurred the line between science and magic.
Reading about Kircher, you get the sense that he was equal parts genius and showman. Some of his discoveries were groundbreaking; others were entirely fabricated. But that never stopped him—because for him, the pursuit of knowledge was more important than its absolute accuracy.
The book presents him with both admiration and skepticism. It paints him as a man obsessed with unraveling the mysteries of the universe, even when he was making up some of the answers along the way. And there’s something oddly compelling about that.
Now, why did Kircher resonate with me?
Reading this book, I kept thinking: Where have I felt this atmosphere before? The dusty tomes, the mechanical oddities, the half-truths disguised as profound wisdom—all of it felt like stepping into another world. And though I wasn’t looking for inspiration when I picked up this book, I can’t deny that certain themes and ideas have bled into my own storytelling.
But before we get ahead of ourselves, let’s pause. Because Ambrose is not Kircher. He’s something else entirely. And that’s where we head next.