Broad, but shallow.
A cabinet of curiosities, a glittering assortment of socio-cultural-technical moon miscellanea, assembled by Bernd Brunner — who, as a curator, is not much of a scientist (to my dislike; a pedant's tangent on that below) and less of a cultural historian than I would have hoped.
Brunner's not incapable of being, if somewhat prosaically, insightful —
. . . efforts to map the moon and name its features reveal that conquest no longer is the exclusive province of kings and gunships, but includes detailed scientific investigation. The moon . . . is also a screen upon which our desires and aspirations can be projected.
— but, on the whole, Moon is lacks a synthesis, or a coherent structure. It is somewhat haphazard – hence, I find the cabinet of curiosity the most fitting analogue. Unexamined class and cultural framing, another feature of the cabinet of curiosities, also implicit.
Interesting for a casual perusal or a light afternoon read. But meh.
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logistics of travelling to the moon in 1865 and 1969:
In Ch. 6, Lunar Passion in Paris, Brunner stops to ponder Jules Verne's technological insight in From the Earth to the Moon: Verne's spacecraft . The text's language is somewhat ambiguous on whether Verne is supposed to be seen as a muse, a pioneer, a visionary, or a prophet.
In any case, I find the narrative astonishment misplaced: if you wish to travel to the Moon, you need a certain acceleration, given by simple enough tinkering with Newton's laws, hence you get a spit, and so, over a known distance, you get a time of travel. For that given duration and goal, a certain minimized crew count might be thought most sensible, which needs some space each, so that your crew members don't all get a crick in their neck and enough air available to not die — voilà, you get an estimate for capsule's desired volume. Now, consider that and also how much energy you have available to put into hurling your object into space at the acceleration given above, and that will give you a mass you can get away with. Take those two, pick a material, divide density, find out your capsule thickness. (Say, pick out something light, perhaps? It is a lot of thing to hurl at a lot of speed. Something brand new and futuristic to you, 1860s man?) Cross-reference if you think your walls are too thin now and forces upon exit will squash your space exploration tin can into a spheroid with some haphazard organics on the inside.
My point being: you land in the order of magnitude of Apollo handily by a couple of reasonable assumptions about the pragmatics of exploration and some physics the 19th century already has access to.
I should check if Verne could and did that, actually. And how. I can do some step-by-step calculations. That'd be fun. (Update to come. Sometime. When I have the time. Research might get delayed due to me not knowing French.)
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notes on the book as a physical object:
(2010 Yale University Press, Hardback ed.)
This is a glued spine hardcover, which means that the page block is pinned in-between the covers like a tortuted body to a rack, and made to conform the arcs of mechanical stress to the 90° degree angle of a linen-lookalike-clad scaffold cardboard, and it fights you to remain open, and goes ssssq c r e e eeeeak ck when you do.
The paper is acid-free, a promise of longevity made by a tree and then immediately silenced in the dark of the forest.
It rankles. This is elegantly formatted, an internally obviously well-considered object as a piece of design, courtesy of Sonia L. Shannon. That consideration stops off the edge of the page - is the heft of hardcovers, their aura of luxury, the justification of price tag writ in the literal taking-up-of-more-space-in-a-bookshop their potential as castanets in a pinch that tempting?
Should you be procuring one of these, go for the paperback.