Thieves left 7 million euros of Renoir in a lay-by by breakfast. The two canvases still missing are worth a tenth of that, and both were relined in 1956 by an association this newspaper found on a form at a sub-prefecture.
Forty-one donated schoolbooks and a pencilled slip dated March 1963 explain a national misquotation. A compositor shortened the line to fit a narrower page, the plate ran for twenty-six years, and 1.1 million copies went into classrooms.
The 1985 videocassette was open-matte: it kept fourteen per cent of the camera aperture that projection cut away. The microphone sits three points above the theatrical mask line. It is on the negative and was never on a screen.
Rosalind Quayle-Abendroth ran a deposit library's variant-editions desk for 41 years and died in April at 88. Her logbooks confirm a genuine printing variant in 903 cases, find none in 4,988, and leave 521 open.
Sixty-one volunteers carried four instruments for eighteen months and pressed a button the moment it began. Every logged minute is accounted for. In nine of the fourteen episodes the body had stopped moving first.
The catalogue is fixed; the citations are not. Forty-one published works and three court filings still date pages by a 1987 reel's frame order rather than by the date printed at the top of the page.
Seventeen years of the utility's billing records for both service points at Montauk, released after appeal: 1.2 megawatts while the radar transmitted, then six unbroken years of a dehumidifier and a well pump.
Thirty-one copies of a 1957 mimeograph survive. A document examiner, told nothing about the book, compared 640 characters in three inks and found one hand at three speeds. The vessel was at a deperming pier.
A 1994 paper in a statistics journal reported names and dates hidden in Genesis at odds of fifty thousand to one. Five years later the same journal printed the answer: run the method on Tolstoy and it works as well.
Every few months a film is found to have predicted something. Nobody counts the films that predicted nothing. We took 240 titles from one decade, logged every specific catastrophe depicted in them, and checked all of them.
The extra letter on the headstone is the most-cited proof that the grave is a decoy. His birth certificate carries it too — the state wrote it that way by accident, and when he found out he decided he preferred it.
The men in black entered the world in a 1956 book by a West Virginia publisher. He wrote to one collaborator afterwards: evidently the fans swallowed this one with a gulp. His whole archive is in a public library.
Kicked regolith leaves the boot in a clean parabola and lands. It cannot billow, because there is no air to billow in. We hired an effects supervisor to reproduce ninety seconds of it with 1969 tools. Her costing has one line.
A new documentary makes twenty-two claims about the production design of a 1980 film. Four are true, three are genuinely unresolvable, and the rest are what happens when you look at anything for nine hours.
We sent the same 4.1-second file to four forensic phonetics laboratories with no context and identical fees. Two heard nothing. Two heard something, both marked their own confidence low, and neither heard the famous sentence.
