Fairy tales

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Oprah is running a series on OWN (her network) called Visionaries, in which she features brilliant, creative people and shows them off to us, the hoi polloi. Tom Ford is the star of this particular episode, and I’m posting it because Tom Ford is a fucking genius. After climbing to the top (and I mean the TOP) of the fashion world, he took a sabbatical to write, produce, and direct a little movie (his first) that went on to be nominated for an OSCAR. And then he went back to fashion.

He’s a personal hero of mine. I hope you find him as inspiring as I do. His passion is multi-disciplinary and omnivorous, and he reminds me to follow my curiosity and my fascinations no matter whether you can draw a straight line between them. In this video he talks intelligently about culture, materialism, age, the creative process, the nature of self, the meaning of life, and a lot of other smart things you wouldn’t expect to hear from a fashion director famous for (ahem) bringing sexy back.

I apologize for the Vimeo format – I couldn’t find it on YouTube. Also, it’s about 40 minutes long. Just so you know.

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This gem is from Andrew Lang’s Orange Fairy Book, and is a variation of the Stupid Jack stories (“…& the Beanstalk” being the most famous). One of my favorite things about it is that it makes lofty attempts at morality, while totally ignoring the fact that the main character perpetuates several mean-spirited, downright dishonorable acts of trickery smack-dab in the middle (look for the part where old men start giving him magical objects).

Without further ado, I present to you:

The Three Treasures of the Giants

Long, long ago, there lived an old man and his wife who had three sons; the eldest was called Martin, the second Michael, while the third was named Jack.

One evening they were all seated round the table, eating their supper of bread and milk.

‘Martin,’ said the old man suddenly, ‘I feel that I cannot live much longer. You, as the eldest, will inherit this hut; but, if you value my blessing, be good to your mother and brothers.’

‘Certainly, father; how can you suppose I should do them wrong?’ replied Martin indignantly, helping himself to all the best bits in the dish as he spoke. The old man saw nothing, but Michael looked on in surprise, and Jack was so astonished that he quite forgot to eat his own supper.

A little while after, the father fell ill, and sent for his sons, who were out hunting, to bid him farewell. After giving good advice to the two eldest, he turned to Jack.

‘My boy,’ he said, ‘you have not got quite as much sense as other people, but if Heaven has deprived you of some of your wits, it was given you a kind heart. Always listen to what it says, and take heed to the words of your mother and brothers, as well as you are able!’ So saying the old man sank back on his pillows and died.

The cries of grief uttered by Martin and Michael sounded through the house, but Jack remained by the bedside of his father, still and silent, as if he were dead also. At length he got up, and going into the garden, hid himself in some trees, and wept like a child, while his two brothers made ready for the funeral.

No sooner was the old man buried than Martin and Michael agreed that they would go into the world together to seek their fortunes, while Jack stayed at home with their mother. Jack would have liked nothing better than to sit and dream by the fire, but the mother, who was very old herself, declared that there was no work for him to do, and that he must seek it with his brothers.

So, one fine morning, all three set out; Martin and Michael carried two great bags full of food, but Jack carried nothing. This made his brothers very angry, for the day was hot and the bags were heavy, and about noon they sat down under a tree and began to eat. Jack was as hungry as they were, but he knew that it was no use asking for anything; and he threw himself under another tree, and wept bitterly.

‘Another time perhaps you won’t be so lazy, and will bring food for yourself,’ said Martin, but to his surprise Jack answered:

‘You are a nice pair! You talk of seeking your fortunes so as not to be a burden on our mother, and you begin by carrying off all the food she has in the house!’

This reply was so unexpected that for some moments neither of the brothers made any answer. Then they offered their brother some of their food, and when he had finished eating they went their way once more.

Towards evening they reached a small hut, and knocking at the door, asked if they might spend the night there. The man, who was a wood-cutter, invited them him, and begged them to sit down to supper. Martin thanked him, but being very proud, explained that it was only shelter they wanted, as they had plenty of food with them; and he and Michael at once opened their bags and began to eat, while Jack hid himself in a corner. The wife, on seeing this, took pity on him, and called him to come and share their supper, which he gladly did, and very good he found it. At this, Martin regretted deeply that he had been so foolish as to refuse, for his bits of bread and cheese seemed very hard when he smelt the savoury soup his brother was enjoying.

‘He shan’t have such a chance again,’ thought he; and the next morning he insisted on plunging into a thick forest where they were likely to meet nobody.

For a long time they wandered hither and thither, for they had no path to guide them; but at last they came upon a wide clearing, in the midst of which stood a castle. Jack shouted with delight, but Martin, who was in a bad temper, said sharply:

‘We must have taken a wrong turning! Let us go back.’

‘Idiot!’ replied Michael, who was hungry too, and, like many people when they are hungry, very cross also. ‘We set out to travel through the world, and what does it matter if we go to the right or to the left?’ And, without another word, took the path to the castle, closely followed by Jack, and after a moment by Martin likewise.

The door of the castle stood open, and they entered a great hall, and looked about them. Not a creature was to be seen, and suddenly Martin–he did not know why–felt a little frightened. He would have left the castle at once, but stopped when Jack boldly walked up to a door in the wall and opened it.

What did they find inside?

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Punched! In the Nose!

She shouldn't have asked him about his secret.

Kids, when I first read today’s fairy tale, there were parts that actually shocked me. SHOCKED. Which is not all that easy to do at my cynical age. It’s a Magyar tale (according to Andrew Lang’s Crimson Fairy Book), and one of its core plot devices is the ongoing hostilities between the Turks and the Hungarians. That all by itself is fascinating. But the other one of its core devices is even more fascinating: punching ladies in the nose when they ask you to tell them the secret you’ve been smugly lording over them.

Seriously. A lot of ladies get punched in the nose in this story. It’s no model for women’s rights, and I edited those parts heavily when I read this tale to my favorite 6-year-old girl. But despite that, or maybe because of it, I love this story.

Bonus features: a sword and scabbard that grow along with the hero, clever trickery galore, and an apology from the hero to his mother for leaving her after she beat the snot out of him.

Magyars. They don’t play.

The Boy Who Could Keep a Secret

Once upon a time there lived a poor widow who had one little boy. At first sight you would not have thought that he was different from a thousand other little boys; but then you noticed that by his side hung the scabbard of a sword, and as the boy grew bigger the scabbard grew bigger too. The sword which belonged to the scabbard was found by the little boy sticking out of the ground in the garden, and every day he pulled it up to see if it would go into the scabbard. But though it was plainly becoming longer and longer, it was some time before the two would fit.

However, there came a day at last when it slipped in quite easily. The child was so delighted that he could hardly believe his eyes, so he tried it seven times, and each time it slipped in more easily than before. But pleased though the boy was, he determined not to tell anyone about it, particularly not his mother, who never could keep anything from her neighbours.

Still, in spite of his resolutions, he could not hide altogether that something had happened, and when he went in to breakfast his mother asked him what was the matter.

‘Oh, mother, I had such a nice dream last night,’ said he; ‘but I can’t tell it to anybody.’

‘You can tell it to me,’ she answered. ‘It must have been a nice dream, or you wouldn’t look so happy.’

‘No, mother; I can’t tell it to anybody,’ returned the boy, ’till it comes true.’

‘I want to know what it was, and know it I will,’ cried she, ‘and I will beat you till you tell me.’

But it was no use, neither words nor blows would get the secret out of the boy; and when her arm was quite tired and she had to leave off, the child, sore and aching, ran into the garden and knelt weeping beside his little sword. It was working round and round in its hole all by itself, and if anyone except the boy had tried to catch hold of it, he would have been badly cut. But the moment he stretched out his hand it stopped and slid quietly into the scabbard.

For a long time the child sat sobbing, and the noise was heard by the king as he was driving by. ‘Go and see who it is that is crying so,’ said he to one of his servants, and the man went. In a few minutes he returned saying: ‘Your Majesty, it is a little boy who is kneeling there sobbing because his mother has beaten him.’

‘Bring him to me at once,’ commanded the monarch, ‘and tell him that it is the king who sends for him, and that he has never cried in all his life and cannot bear anyone else to do so.’ On receiving this message the boy dried his tears and went with the servant to the royal carriage. ‘Will you be my son?’ asked the king.

‘Yes, if my mother will let me,’ answered the boy. And the king bade the servant go back to the mother and say that if she would give her boy to him, he should live in the palace and marry his prettiest daughter as soon as he was a man.

The widow’s anger now turned into joy, and she came running to the splendid coach and kissed the king’s hand. ‘I hope you will be more obedient to his Majesty than you were to me,’ she said; and the boy shrank away half-frightened. But when she had gone back to her cottage, he asked the king if he might fetch something that he had left in the garden, and when he was given permission, he pulled up his little sword, which he slid into the scabbard.

Then he climbed into the coach and was driven away.

After they had gone some distance the king said: ‘Why were you crying so bitterly in the garden just now?’

‘Because my mother had been beating me,’ replied the boy.

‘And what did she do that for?’ asked the king again.

‘Because I would not tell her my dream.’

‘And why wouldn’t you tell it to her?’

‘Because I will never tell it to anyone till it comes true,’ answered the boy.

‘And won’t you tell it to me either?’ asked the king in surprise.

‘No, not even to you, your Majesty,’ replied he.

‘Oh, I am sure you will when we get home,’ said the king smiling, and he talked to him about other things till they came to the palace.

It’s all fun and games until people start getting punched in the nose…

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Not a bad book, really

Triple Ripple: the first book I've reviewed on this blog

 

I don’t normally review books on this blog, but then again, people don’t normally send me advance reader’s copies of their books to review. So here we are, and here we go.

Triple Ripple is a sweet little YA (young adult) book that’s actually three stories in one, like one of those dresses that you can wear three different ways. Well, not exactly. It’s not exactly like that. I’ll start again. Triple Ripple is actually three stories in one: (1) a fantasy tale about a girl named Glory who falls victim to an ancient curse and has to find her way to salvation with the help of her friends, (2) a modern tale about the girl who’s reading the story about Glory, and that girl’s attendant lessons in compassion and maturity, and (3) a first-person, present-tense story about the writer who’s writing both the aforementioned stories. It’s very meta. It’s also billed as a fairy tale, which is why the author’s publicist mailed it to me to review. (SPOILER: It’s not really a fairy tale.)

The main story, the story about Glory, is sweet and engaging. It’s as close to a fairy tale as you’re going to get in this book. It’s not as clever or complex as stories by Diana Wynne Jones or other luminaries in the genre, but it is sweet. The red-headed, impulsive, lovable heroine is a pleasure to know, and the supporting characters are engaging, too. The pre-industrial, monarch-centric world is believable, the magic is handled with a light touch (as are the class issues). I’d like to see what Lowry could do if she stopped faffing about with her meta-stories and really stretched out into the main narrative.

The second story is less sweet, but also engaging. The sullen young heroine has real-world problems, but not so real that it makes for an angsty, unhappy read. The dialogue is convincing, the relationships believable. Her hero’s journey has her confronting a bully at school, only to eventually develop compassion for said bully, and grow into a stronger sense of self and etc. She reads the first story to escape from her troubles. But the two stories (while sort of parallel) are only loosely intertwined. Reading one doesn’t necessarily add depth or dimension to the other. Again, it would make a strong story as a stand-alone, if the author would only reach into it more deeply.

Finally, there is an interstitial narrative that feels tremendously self indulgent to me. It’s the writer’s narrative. She mostly complains about having writer’s block, or wrestles aloud with the challenges of her main story. As a writer, I enjoyed the flourishes and descriptions of the writing life, as well as the view into another writer’s technique. But it didn’t serve a deeper purpose for the book as a whole, and while I laud her for trying something ambitious and unusual, I would have been happier had she given me more straight narrative with emotional meat to sink my teeth into.

But who knows? In her next book, she might hit her stride and pull off both a challenging narrative structure and and emotionally satisfying one.

In summation: Triple Ripple by Brigid Lowry is fairly well written, and worth a read if you’re looking for a sweet, slightly precious YA book with a mild fantasy flavor—and if you don’t mind jumping back and forth between stories, shepherded by an author who’s experimenting with the fourth wall.

The end.

Buy it on Amazon, follow it on Facebook, and see what other people are saying about it on Goodreads.

 

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Are you one of the intrepid souls riding the rapids of NaNoWriMo this year? If so, I commend you! It’s hard work to show up to the page day after day, slogging through a morass of your own making. You’re like a god shoving settings and personalities and destinies around, like a heroic, metaphysical terraformer. “No, no,” you say, “this chasm is in the wrong place! Jerry, I’ll need about 10,000 tons of fill dirt over here. No, I don’t know where you’re supposed to get it, just get it.”

You’re at the quarter-mile mark today, so hopefully you’re still feeling somewhat fresh and motivated. But just in case, I thought it would be nice to pull up a pep talk from the NaNoWriMo pep talk archives to give you a little lift. You remember Philip Pullman, don’t you? He wrote a little series called His Dark Materials that a few people sort of enjoyed a while back. Anyway, he’s excited that you’re writing a novel this month, and he wanted to let you know. Here’s an excerpt from his letter to you:

You know which page of a novel is the most difficult to write? It’s page 70. The first page is easy: it’s exciting, it’s new, a whole world lies in front of you. The last page is easy: you’ve got there at last, you know what’s going to happen, all you have to do is find a resonant closing sentence. But page 70 is where the misery strikes. All the initial excitement has drained away; you’ve begun to see all the hideous problems you’ve set yourself; you are horribly aware of the minute size of your own talent compared to the colossal proportions of the task you’ve undertaken; that’s when you really want to give up. When I hit page 70 with my very first novel, I thought: I’m never going to finish this. I’ll never make it. But then stubbornness set in…

Check out the rest of it.

One of his miserable experiments turned into this:

So you keep going, too. You never know what might happen.

 
Psst! If you’d like more creative inspiration, you might enjoy strolling through the FTF archives.

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Ready, set, WRITE!

When it comes to creative expression, one of your worst enemies can be your inner editor, that judge-y, mean-spirited, hyper-critical jerk who starts harshing on you as soon as you sit down to create. You know the one. It’s a toxic blend of lofty expectations and distorted perceptions, and left unchecked it can perpetuate creative infanticide on all your baby ideas.

That’s why NaNoWriMo is such a great event. If you don’t know about it, NaNoWriMo is short for National Novel Writing Month. The goal is to write 1,000 words a day, every day, for 30 days. At the end, you’ll have a 30,000-word novel! How amazing is that? And there’s a tremendous community around your effort. Libraries invite you in to write. Independent bookstores do, too. You can meet other sweaty scribblers just like yourself in forums and support groups all over the world.

And, as if that’s not enough, amazing writers will write you pep talks! People like Jonathan Lethem and Audrey Niffenegger have already signed up to tell you how great you are for doing this, and how much everyone appreciates the fact that you’re showing up and putting in the effort.

You can even roam through the pep talk archives when you’re feeling frustrated and in need of inspiration. People like Lynda Barry (LYNDA BARRY!) and Lemony Snicket (one of my favorite bits about writing, ever, for all time) and Neil Gaiman and Dave Eggers and Peter Fucking Carey – all these people, these talented, accomplished people, will be cheering you on.

So what are you waiting for? Inspiration? Bah. The right time? Double bah! For the swelling to go down? BAH! The swelling may never go down. You may never have the right idea. And you will certainly never have the time. So why not just start?

As my sainted father always says, “There ain’t nothing to it but to do it.”

It starts in eight hours. Ready, set, WRITE!

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That boy's not scared of anything!

Happy Halloween weekend, everyone! To celebrate this, the spookiest time of the year, I suggest we all read the classic Grimm tale, “The Boy Who Went Forth to Learn Fear.” (It’s sometimes called, “The Boy Who Learned How to Shudder.”)

In this terrifying tale, our hero is so dumb that he’s not afraid of anything. But he wants to be! So he sets out to find something that will make him shudder with fear: Ghosts! Gigantic black cats that play poker! A flying bed! And women!

Marie-Louise von Franz gives a lovely interpretation of this story that somehow makes it all about teh sexx, which made me like this story even more than I originally did.

(This is not that book, but it is still a good one of hers and it is all on Scribd for you to enjoy for free.)

So settle into your chairs and get ready to explore the very soul of fear…

The Boy Who Went Forth to Learn Fear

A father had two sons. The oldest one was clever and intelligent, and knew how to manage everything, but the youngest one was stupid and could neither understand nor learn anything. When people saw him, they said, “He will be a burden on his father!”

Now when something had to be done, it was always the oldest son who had to do it. However, if the father asked him fetch anything when it was late, or even worse, at night, and if the way led through the churchyard or some other spooky place, he would always answer, “Oh, no, father, I won’t go there. It makes me shudder!” For he was afraid.

In the evening by the fire when stories were told that made one’s flesh creep, the listeners sometimes said, “Oh, that makes me shudder!” The youngest son would sit in a corner and listen with the others, but he could not imagine what they meant.

“They are always saying, ‘It makes me shudder! It makes me shudder!’ It does not make me shudder. That too must be a skill that I do not understand.”

Now it happened that one day his father said to him, “Listen, you there in the corner. You are getting big and strong. You too will have to learn something by which you can earn your bread. See how your brother puts himself out, but there seems to be no hope for you.”

“Well, father,” he answered, “I do want to learn something. Indeed, if possible I would like to learn how to shudder. I don’t understand that at all yet.”

The oldest son laughed when he heard that, and thought to himself, “Dear God, what a dimwit that brother of mine is. Nothing will come of him as long as he lives. As the twig is bent, so grows the tree.”

The father sighed, and answered him, “You may well learn to shudder, but you will not earn your bread by shuddering.”

Soon afterward the sexton came to the house on a visit, and the father complained to him about his troubles, telling him how his younger son was so stupid in everything, that he knew nothing and was learning nothing. “Just think,” he said, “when I asked him how he was going to earn his bread, he actually asked to learn to shudder.”

“If there is nothing more than that,” replied the sexton, “he can learn that with me. Just send him to me. I will plane off his rough edges.”

The father agreed to do this, for he thought, “It will do the boy well.”

So the sexton took him home with him, and he was to ring the church bell. A few days later the sexton awoke him at midnight and told him to get up, climb the church tower, and ring the bell.

“You will soon learn what it is to shudder,” he thought. He secretly went there ahead of him. After the boy had reached the top of the tower, had turned around and was about to take hold of the bell rope, he saw a white figure standing on the steps opposite the sound hole.

“Who is there?” he shouted, but the figure gave no answer, neither moving nor stirring. “Answer me,” shouted the boy, “or get out of here. You have no business here at night.”

Do you dare find out what happens next?

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It's hard work!

There are lots of hard things about writing, but one of the hardest is editing your own work. Editing brain is an entirely different animal from writing brain, and flaws that seem obvious in someone else’s work often go unnoticed in our own. So what’s a poor writer to do?

Fortunately for us, Carol Saller, senior manuscript editor at the University of Chicago press and an editor at the Chicago Manual of Style, has compiled a list of errors she sees in manuscripts over and over again. For instance:

* Throat-clearing. When writer Richard Peck finishes a novel, he claims, he throws out the first chapter without reading it and writes it anew. He reasons that when we begin a work, we’re rarely certain of where it will end. Revisiting the beginning after the end has emerged makes sense. This time it will be easier to eliminate all the bush-beating.

* Personal tics. Most writers have a few pet words or phrases: decidedly, or by no means, or incredibly, or most important. Ditto for favorite sentence constructions: “Not only X but Y” is always popular. Once you identify your own foibles, they become more difficult to ignore.

* Repetition. Word-processing encourages this to the same degree that old-fashioned typewriting discouraged it: why say something once when you can say it three times? A common keyboard error is to copy and paste when you mean to cut and paste, so that whole passages are accidentally repeated verbatim.

Read the whole list.

And hook yourself up with an incredible blog about language and writing, while you’re at it.

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With Halloween right around the corner, it seems only right that today’s fairy tale should feature Baba Yaga, monsters, violent deaths, and unnatural resurrections. For bonus points, there is also a warlike princess whose future husband falls in love with her over the bodies of the 1,000 soldiers she’s just slain. (Russian ladies are fierce!)

The Fearsome Baba Yaga

Without further ado, I present you with this thrilling tale from Andrew Lang’s Red Fairy Book:

The Death of Koshchei the Deathless

IN a certain kingdom there lived a Prince Ivan. He had three sisters. The first was the Princess Marya, the second the Princess Olga, the third the Princess Anna. When their father and mother lay at the point of death, they had thus enjoined their son: “Give your sisters in marriage to the very first suitors who come to woo them. Don’t go keeping them by you!”

They died, and the Prince buried them, and then, to solace his grief, he went with his sisters into the garden green to stroll. Suddenly the sky was covered by a black cloud; a terrible storm arose.

“Let us go home, sisters!” he cried.

Hardly had they got into the palace, when the thunder pealed, the ceiling split open, and into the room where they were came flying a falcon bright. The Falcon smote upon the ground, became a brave youth, and said:

“Hail, Prince Ivan! Before I came as a guest, but now I have come as a wooer!” I wish to propose for your sister, the Princess Marya.”

“If you find favour in the eyes of my sister, I will not interfere with her wishes. Let her marry you, in God’s name!”

The Princess Marya gave her consent; the Falcon married her and bore her away into his own realm.

Days follow days, hours chase hours; a whole year goes by. One day Prince Ivan and his two sisters went out to stroll in the garden green. Again there arose a storm-cloud, with whirlwind and lightning.

“Let us go home, sisters!” cries the Prince. Scarcely had they entered the palace when the thunder crashed, the roof burst into a blaze, the ceiling split in twain, and in flew an eagle. The Eagle smote upon the ground and became a brave youth.

“Hail, Prince Ivan! I Before I came as a guest, but now I have come as a wooer!”

And he asked for the hand of the Princess Olga. Prince Ivan replied:

“If you find favour in the eyes of the Princess Olga, then let her marry you. I will not interfere with her liberty of choice.”

The Princess Olga gave her consent and married the Eagle. The Eagle took her and carried her off to his own kingdom.

Another year went by. Prince Ivan said to his youngest sister:

“Let us go out and stroll in the garden green!”

They strolled about for a time. Again there arose a storm-cloud, with whirlwind and lightning.

“Let us return home, sister!” said he.

They returned home, but they hadn’t had time to sit down when the thunder crashed, the ceiling split open, and in flew a raven. The Raven smote upon the floor and became a brave youth. The former youths had been handsome, but this one was handsomer still.

“Well, Prince Ivan! Before I came as a guest, but now I have come as a wooer! Give me the Princess Anna to wife.”

“I won’t interfere with my sister’s freedom. If you gain her affections, let her marry you.”

So the Princess Anna married the Raven, and he bore her away into his own realm. Prince Ivan was left alone. A whole year he lived without his sisters; then he grew weary, and said:

“I will set out in search of my sisters.”

He got ready for the journey, he rode and rode, and one day he saw a whole army lying dead on the plain. He cried aloud, “If there be a living man there, let him make answer! Who has slain this mighty host?”

There replied unto him a living man:

“All this mighty host has been slain by the fair Princess Marya Morevna.”

Find out what happens next!

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The Last Unicorns

Fairy tales are full of magical animals that turn into princes(ses), give sage advice, cough up enchanted items, and otherwise save the day. Who hasn’t yearned for an encounter with a magical animal, just once?

Sculptor Peter Gronquist gives us that chance, in his own, twisted way. His latest show, The Evolution Will Be Fabulous, reminds me of the villain in my favorite FTF student story, a cruel king who’s killed one of every animal in the forest and mounted their heads on the wall. Only this time the king was hunting magical animals, and those animals were deliciously dark and weird and dangerous.

I mean, right?

You can see these macabre beauties for yourself in Los Angeles, CA, at the Gallery 1988 in Venice through November 4. And you can take one home for as little as $5,000, if that’s your thing.

All I need is a tall ship and star to steer her by!

Thanks to the ever-amazing Super Punch for bringing this bit of wonder to my attention.

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