Who Wrote The Secret History Of The World And Why?

There are definitely documentaries that dig into the secret, hidden, or little-discussed threads of world history, and I love hunting them down on rainy weekends. Some of my favorite deep dives are the kind that blend rigorous archival work with a strong narrative voice — films like 'The Fog of War' which lets you into the decisions behind big historical moments, or the series 'Secrets of the Dead' that pulls apart archaeological mysteries and shows how what we thought we knew can change. Then there are sprawling, opinionated works like 'The Power of Nightmares' and 'HyperNormalisation' that trace modern political myths and how narratives are manufactured; those changed how I read the headlines. If you want fringe or sensational takes, 'Ancient Aliens' and similar shows are everywhere, but I treat them as curiosity pieces rather than scholarship. For more investigative, document-driven stories, try 'Inside Job' on financial crises or 'The Great Hack' for the data angle. I usually cross-reference what I watch with primary sources or academic reviews afterward — that’s half the fun: watching a doc, pausing to pull up a paper or a declassified memo, and realizing history is messier and more interesting than the soundbite.

I get this question all the time when I’m chatting with friends over coffee—there’s something irresistible about the phrase 'secret history of the world'. If you mean the popular book 'The Secret History of the World' by Jonathan Black, the cleanest places to read it online are legitimate retailers and libraries: Kindle, Google Play Books, and the publisher’s site often have previews so you can skim chapters before committing. Your local library app—Libby/OverDrive—is a gem; I’ve borrowed plenty of nonfiction this way while riding the bus, and sometimes the hold time is surprisingly short. For older primary texts and background that Black draws on, check Project Gutenberg or Sacred Texts for things like 'The Secret Doctrine' and 'The Golden Bough' (many of those are public domain). The Internet Archive and Open Library sometimes have borrowable scans, but be mindful of copyright and prefer borrowing options when available. Also look for audiobook versions on Audible or library audio loans if you want to listen on a long walk—I've re-read parts of it that way and it changes the vibe entirely.

A rainy evening in my tiny kitchen once turned into a rabbit hole because I picked up 'The Da Vinci Code' after a long day and couldn’t stop turning pages. That feeling—of ordinary streets hiding a dozen possible pasts—is exactly why secret histories grip me. They let authors slip a different set of rules into our familiar world: hidden manuscripts, forgotten orders, or a rumor that rewrites a war. Those devices do more than spice up plot; they change how a story thinks about truth, authority, and memory. I love how secret history blends research-y detail with pure invention. Authors borrow real artifacts, obscure laws, or marginal footnotes and then bend them into something that feels plausible. That makes mysteries more addictive (and drives readers to Wikipedia at midnight). On a craft level, secret histories encourage techniques like unreliable narrators, layered documents, and epistolary formats—each layer tempts you to sort fact from fiction. They also create moral gray zones: heroes who cover up for higher goods, institutions that protect through omission. For me, this keeps stories unpredictable and emotionally messy, which is where the best fiction lives—right between reverence for the past and the urge to rewrite it.

One rainy evening I cracked open 'The Secret History of the World' with a mug of bad coffee and ended up spiraling through a bunch of myths I thought I knew. The book treats myths not as isolated fairy tales but as layers of a hidden curriculum: Atlantis and Lemuria show up as lost-civilization myths; Hyperborea pops up as a primordial, sun-blessed northern age; Sumerian and Babylonian legends (think Gilgamesh and creation epics) are used to trace primeval kings and cosmic floods. It also dives deep into Egyptian stories — Osiris, Isis, Thoth — and how their imagery got braided into Hermeticism and later into western esoteric streams. Greek myths like Prometheus and Orpheus are recast as carriers of secret knowledge; Christian stories are read alongside Gnostic reworkings; Zoroastrian and Mithraic motifs are pulled in as part of a worldwide pattern. Then there’s the bit about mystery schools, alchemy, Kabbalah, the Rosicrucians, Templars and Freemasonry as custodians or interpreters of these myths. Reading it felt like chasing a map where every landmark is a legend, and whether you treat the map as literal or symbolic, it makes you look at familiar stories in a new, sometimes uncanny light.

Dust on a shelf can be as revealing as a sealed archive if you know how to listen. I’ve spent weekends hunched over crumbling pages and scanned microfilm, and what keeps me hooked is the way small, concrete findings stitch together a larger, quieter history. Take material evidence first: the Antikythera mechanism rewrote assumptions about ancient engineering, Göbekli Tepe pushed monumental architecture back well before agriculture, and the 'Voynich Manuscript' keeps scholars honest by forcing multidisciplinary approaches. Then there are maps like the 'Piri Reis' fragment and unusual coastal outlines that spark debate about lost voyages or shared source knowledge. Genetics adds another layer: paleogenomics shows migrations and admixtures that complexify origin stories we once simplified. Finally, don't underestimate archival and documentary revelations. Declassified files, newly translated codices, and oral histories recovered from marginalized communities often contradict established narratives. None of this is proof of a single conspiratorial ‘‘secret history,’’ but together these strands show that the past is messier, richer, and more contested than standard textbooks let on—so I keep digging, because every fragment changes the picture in an oddly satisfying way.

I get a little giddy whenever someone brings up the idea of a secret history of the world — it's like spotting a hidden chest in 'Indiana Jones' or the thrill of a late-night podcast. But being excited doesn't mean I swallow everything. The reliability of sources in those stories ranges wildly: on one end you have primary documents, contemporaneous letters, and archaeological finds that can be dated and tested; on the other you have hearsay, misattributed quotes, and modern embellishments that masquerade as revelation. Provenance matters. If a manuscript can be traced to a known archive and its chain of custody is clear, I trust it more than a grainy photocopy posted on a forum. I also pay attention to motive and method. Authors who cite their sources, invite peer critique, and are comfortable with nuance earn my confidence. When I see big claims supported only by anonymous testimony, selective readings of 'proof', or wild leaps from coincidence to conspiracy, I get skeptical. That said, some fringe ideas have led to real discoveries when pursued rigorously, so I keep an open but critical mind — like hunting for clues with a healthy dose of doubt and a notebook full of questions.

There are a handful of chapters that keep nudging me whenever I think about the 'secret' threads running under the official stories we learned in school. The quiet revolutions — the shift to agriculture, the slow spread of metallurgy, the invention of writing and bookkeeping — feel like backstage rewrites of everything that follows. Those foundational changes quietly rearranged who had power, who could store surplus, and how ideas traveled. When I reread bits of 'Guns, Germs, and Steel' or dip into 'The Silk Roads', I get the same chill: these infrastructural chapters matter because they make later big moments possible. Then there’s the human-scene stuff that rarely gets front-page treatment: women’s networks, migrant craftspeople, oral traditions, and suppressed uprisings. The bits about disease — plagues, pandemics, and their uneven impacts — are another secret history chapter that constantly reshapes social order. I like to imagine a bookshelf where the loud conquests sit on top but the hidden layers are in the basement, quietly supporting everything. Those basement chapters tell us how people actually lived, adapted, and kept knowledge alive when empires fell, and they’re the ones I keep returning to when I want to understand why the present looks the way it does.

My brain lights up thinking about this stuff—there's this weird mix of academic dust, shadowy memos, and pop-culture glitz that makes the secret history of the world so deliciously controversial. On one hand you've got genuine archival scandals: governments classifying documents for decades, churches slowly opening vaults, and historians arguing over who gets to tell a people's story. I think about the hours I spent in a tiny reading room, wrists cold from handling brittle letters, and how a single newly declassified file unraveled a neat little narrative I'd believed for years. Then there's institutional erasure—colonial powers rewriting indigenous histories, artefacts taken to foreign museums, and communities still fighting for repatriation. That feels less like conspiracy and more like moral bookkeeping long overdue. On the other hand, pop myths muddy the waters: 'The Da Vinci Code'-style thrillers, ancient-astronaut theories, and fabricated documents that spread faster than corrections can keep up. Those stories spark curiosity but they also drown out careful scholarship. For me, the controversy becomes healthy when it forces transparency—archives opening, journalists digging, museums negotiating returns—but toxic when it replaces evidence with sensationalism. I still flip through old photos and newspapers at night, hoping the next discovery will be revelatory, but mostly I'm keen on a better, more honest conversation about what we thought we knew and why it mattered to certain people for so long.