This book provides the only critical edition and English translation of Maḥmūd al-Jaghmīnī’s al-Mulakhkhaṣ fī al-hayʾa al-basīṭa, the most widely circulated Arabic treatise on Ptolemaic astronomy ever written. Composed in the early 13th century, this introductory textbook played a crucial role in the teaching, dissemination, and institutional instruction of Islamic astronomy well into the 19th century (and beyond). Establishing the base text is a fundamental prerequisite for gaining insights into what was considered an elementary astronomical textbook in Islam and also for understanding the extensive commentary tradition that built upon it. Within this volume, the Mulakhkhaṣ is situated within the broader context of the genre of literature termed ʿilm al-hayʾa, which has become the subject of intensive research over the past 25 years. In so doing, it provides a survey of summary accounts of theoretical astronomy of Jaghmīnī’s predecessors, both Ancient and Islamic, which could have served as potential sources for the Mulakhkhaṣ. Jaghmīnī’s dates (which until now remained unsettled) are established, and it is definitively shown that he composed not only the Mulakhkhaṣ but also other scientific treatises, including the popular medical treatise al-Qānūnča, during a period that has been deemed one of scientific decline and stagnation in Islamic lands. The book will be of particular interest to scholars engaged in the study of Islamic theoretical astronomy, but is accessible to a general readership interested in learning what constituted an introduction to Ptolemaic astronomy in Islamic lands.

The subject of this two-volume publication is an inventory of manuscripts in the book treasury of the Topkapı Palace in Istanbul, commissioned by the Ottoman sultan Bayezid II from his royal librarian ʿAtufi in the year 908 (1502–3) and transcribed in a clean copy in 909 (1503–4). This unicum inventory preserved in the Oriental Collection of the Library of the Hungarian Academy of Sciences (Magyar Tudományos Akadémia Könyvtára Keleti Gyűjtemény, MS Török F. 59) records over 5,000 volumes, and more than 7,000 titles, on virtually every branch of human erudition at the time. The Ottoman palace library housed an unmatched encyclopedic collection of learning and literature; hence, the publication of this unique inventory opens a larger conversation about Ottoman and Islamic intellectual/cultural history. The very creation of such a systematically ordered inventory of books raises broad questions about knowledge production and practices of collecting, readership, librarianship, and the arts of the book at the dawn of the sixteenth century. The first volume contains twenty-eight interpretative essays on this fascinating document, authored by a team of scholars from diverse disciplines, including Islamic and Ottoman history, history of science, arts of the book and codicology, agriculture, medicine, astrology, astronomy, occultism, mathematics, philosophy, theology, law, mysticism, political thought, ethics, literature (Arabic, Persian, Turkish/Turkic), philology, and epistolary. Following the first three essays by the editors on implications of the library inventory as a whole, the other essays focus on particular fields of knowledge under which books are catalogued in MS Török F. 59, each accompanied by annotated lists of entries. The second volume presents a transliteration of the Arabic manuscript, which also features an Ottoman Turkish preface on method, together with a reduced-scale facsimile.

Science in seventeenth- and eighteenth-century Istanbul, Harun Küçük argues, was without leisure, a phenomenon spurred by the hyperinflation a century earlier when scientific texts all but disappeared from the college curriculum and inflation reduced the wages of professors to one-tenth of what they were in the sixteenth century. It was during this tumultuous period that philosophy and theory, the more leisurely aspects of naturalism—and the pursuit of “knowledge for knowledge’s sake”—vanished altogether from the city. But rather than put an end to science in Istanbul, this economic crisis was transformative, turning science into a practical matter, into something one learned through apprenticeship and provided as a service. In Science without Leisure, Küçük reveals how Ottoman science, when measured against familiar narratives of the Scientific Revolution, was remarkably far less scholastic and philosophical and far more cosmopolitan and practical. His book explains why as practical naturalists deployed natural knowledge to lucrative ends without regard for scientific theories, science in the Ottoman Empire over the long term ultimately became the domain of physicians, bureaucrats, and engineers rather than of scholars and philosophers.

I was introduced to Tiisi: and his Tadhkira some 19 years ago. That first meeting was neither happy nor auspicious. My graduate student notes from the time indicate a certain level of confusion and frustration; I seem to have had trouble with such words as tadwlr (epicycle), which was not to be found in my standard dictionary, and with the concept of solid-sphere astronomy, which, when found, was pooh-poohed in the standard sources. I had another, even more decisive reaction: boredom. Only the end of the term brought relief, and I was grateful to be on to other, more exciting aspects of the history of science. A few years later, I found myself, thanks to fellowships from Fulbright-Hays and the American Research Center in Egypt, happily immersed in the manu script collections of Damascus, Aleppo, and Cairo. Though I had intended to work on a topic in the history of mathematics, I was drawn, perhaps inevitably, to a certain type of astronomical writing falling under the rubric of hay' a. At first this fascination was based on sheer numbers; that so many medieval scientists could have written on such a subject must mean something, I told myself. (I was in a sociological mode at the time.

Translating Early Modern Science explores the essential role translators played in a time when the scientific community used Latin and vernacular European languages side-by-side. This interdisciplinary volume illustrates how translators were mediators, agents, and interpreters of scientific knowledge.

In the thirteenth and fourteenth centuries Chinggis Khan and his progeny ruled over two-thirds of Eurasia. Connecting East, West, North and South, the Mongols integrated most of the Old World, promoting unprecedented cross-cultural contacts and triggering the reshuffle of religious, ethnic, and geopolitical identities. The Cambridge History of the Mongol Empire studies the Empire holistically in its full Eurasian context, putting the Mongols and their nomadic culture at the center. Written by an international team of more than forty leading scholars, this two-volume set provides an authoritative and multifaceted history of 'the Mongol Moment' (1206–1368) in world history and includes an unprecedented survey of the various sources for its study, textual (written in sisteen languages), archaeological, and visual. This groundbreaking Cambridge History sets a new standard for future study of the Empire. It will serve as the fundamental reference work for those interested in Mongol, Eurasian, and world history.

I was introduced to Tiisi: and his Tadhkira some 19 years ago. That first meeting was neither happy nor auspicious. My graduate student notes from the time indicate a certain level of confusion and frustration; I seem to have had trouble with such words as tadwlr (epicycle), which was not to be found in my standard dictionary, and with the concept of solid-sphere astronomy, which, when found, was pooh-poohed in the standard sources. I had another, even more decisive reaction: boredom. Only the end of the term brought relief, and I was grateful to be on to other, more exciting aspects of the history of science. A few years later, I found myself, thanks to fellowships from Fulbright-Hays and the American Research Center in Egypt, happily immersed in the manu script collections of Damascus, Aleppo, and Cairo. Though I had intended to work on a topic in the history of mathematics, I was drawn, perhaps inevitably, to a certain type of astronomical writing falling under the rubric of hay' a. At first this fascination was based on sheer numbers; that so many medieval scientists could have written on such a subject must mean something, I told myself. (I was in a sociological mode at the time.