July 2009

As the title may suggest, I managed to overcome all of the trials and tribulations that Europe’s public transport utterly failed to throw at me and made it to Ukraine, where I’m taking some time from my busy schedule of local cuisine, high-quality vodka and finer quality company to keep my appointment with Monday’s verse selection. Behold the sacrifices I make to enrich the lives of my beloved public.

The first poem today is an old favourite, and one of the very few that I can remember by heart. This, it transpires, is a complete waste of brain space, since it’s available in a million places on line. What can one expect of something written by William Blake?

The Clod and the Pebble

“Love seeketh not itself to please,
Nor for itself hath any care,
But for another gives its ease,
And builds a heaven in hell’s despair.”

So sung a little Clod of Clay,
Trodden with the cattle’s feet,
But a Pebble of the brook
Warbled out these metres meet:

“Love seeketh only Self to please,
To bind another to its delight,
Joys in another’s loss of ease,
And builds a hell in heaven’s despite.”

Here Blake concisely sums up two opposing and equally unhealthy attitudes to love, both of which are conspicuous for the absence of any sense of reciprocal feeling. Both the clod and the pebble assume that love is simply bestowed and never returned: the one is crushed by heedless cows, the other simply remains motionless and changeless in the uncaring water of the stream. Neither, it will be noted, is something that could be expected to receive or even understand love, so the attitude of each is ridiculous in the mouth that propounds it.

I have one book of poetry with me, and inevitably it’s about war. Today I visited a memorial that commemorates more dead than all Devonshire memorials put together. This poem was written about the British, but I think it has more scope than one time, one land or one war. It’s by W.H. Auden.

Yes, We Are Going to Suffer

Yes, we are going to suffer now; the sky
Throbs like a feverish forehead; pain is real;
The groping searchlights suddenly reveal
The little natures that will make us cry,

Who never quite believed they could exist,
Not where we were. They take us by surprise
Like ugly long-forgotten memories,
And like a conscience all the guns resist.

Behind each sociable home-loving eye
The private massacres are taking place;
All women, Jews, the Rich, the Human Race.

The mountains cannot judge us when we lie:
We dwell upon the earth; the earth obeys
The intelligent and evil till they die.

It’s a short post today, because my host’s friend has just arrived and I need to be sociable. My brief, shower-long annexation of the computer is at an end, and I leave you with three lines by Francis King.

Our three old landlords sit and quarrel,
For a dead rose
And a few sheaves of thistle, rue and sorrel.


Actually I’m not yet. I’m unscrupulously stealing time from work to put up one last post before I go off on my travels. I’m excited about this trip, but as is natural to my untrusting nature, I’m troubled by numerous worries about travelling. Basically I don’t trust public transport: I don’t trust the company who arranged my tickets to have done their job; I don’t trust the British railways to get me to the airport on time, and I don’t trust the airline actually to supply the flight I’ve paid for. That doesn’t even begin to address my feelings about border guards and passport control, and I’m not even leaving Europe. Perhaps this explains why I so rarely venture beyond the sceptred coasts of Albion. Perhaps because I worry about things like this, journeys abroad always seem to go quite smoothly; but that doesn’t mean I won’t be very relieved when we actually leave the ground tomorrow, and even more so when I’m under the protective collective wing of my hosts.

If all goes well, I should be in London this evening, ready to get myself over to Gatwick for my flight in the morning.  The whole thing is arranged to the best of my ability, but living in this country you learn to be wary of timetables and schedules. However, the die, as they say, is cast, and the less waiting and anticipating I have to do the better; it was clearly a stroke of genius to arrange to stay the night with a friend who ought to take my mind off the trepidation.

It’s possible that my next post here will be from the furthest point from home that I’ve ever visited, if I have the time or the inclination to waste either on the internet. If not, I’ll have a lot of material by the time I come to update again.

Before I start on this week’s verse selection, I ought to explain one of last week’s selections. I’ve already done this in correspondence with one friend, but that’s only brought home just how much in need of explanation it was.

I refer, of course, to Robert Bridges’ juvenile misogynistic rant. What I should have said about it is what I originally thought when I first read it: this man is an idiot. There’s a strand of romantic verse that tends to the idolisation of women, and since that’s unrealistic and juvenile it results in equally unrealistic and juvenile rants about the evil of women when the goddess inevitably turns out to be a human being. That poem is bad verse – not because it fails in its structure, but because its principal sentiment is childish, bitter and petulant. It’s so bad, and so ridiculous, that I thought it would be fun to laugh at it. This explanation is meant to clarify that intention and slap in the face anyone who agreed with it or thought it justified whatever sick thoughts they’ve been having. Of course, I can’t deny that I was hoping to annoy some of the Sisters of the Blessed Misandrony, who turn up every now and then to attack friends of mine for refusing to dress like Victorian widows, but primarily Bridges is laughable. If he was joking he’s still laughable, because he was only really half joking.

Now that I’ve got that out of the way I have a rather less controversial selection for you. I shall begin with one of Sylvia Plath’s more comprehensible poems, which is related in a way to one that I put up a couple of weeks ago. It concerns mirrors.


I am silver and exact. I have no preconceptions.
Whatever I see I swallow immediately
Just as it is, unmisted by love or dislike.
I am not cruel, only truthful –
The eye of a little god, four-cornered.
Most of the time I meditate on the opposite wall.
It is pink, with speckles. I have looked at it so long
I think it is a part of my heart. But it flickers.
Faces and darkness separate us over and over.

Now I am a lake. A woman bends over me,
Searching my reaches for what she really is.
Then she turns to those liars, the candles or the moon.
I see her back, and reflect it faithfully.
She rewards me with tears and an agitation of hands.
I am important to her. She comes and goes.
Each morning it is her face that replaces the darkness.
In me she has drowned a young girl, and in me an old woman
Rises toward her day after day, like a terrible fish.

I’m not particularly bothered about the idea of growing old. It is, after all, better than pushing up daisies. It can be disorientating, though, to know that you’ve reached an age that once seemed ancient, and that all that’s really changed is the face in the mirror. My mother told me the other day that she doesn’t feel like someone of her age, and I’m not sure that anyone ever really does. My brother turns thirty next month, and he’s always said that he’ll be eighteen forever, just like that Bryan Adams song. Perhaps another song can explain it better.

To look in the mirror in total surprise
At the hair on my shoulders and the age in my eyes.

If I keep expressing myself through the medium of country music, I’ll end up driving a fifteen-year-old Dodge Ram with a gun rack in it, and I really can’t afford to put petrol in one of those. It is interesting, though, how much people seem to dwell on the advancing years. A long time ago, I was an air cadet, and part of that was parading on Remembrance Sunday and listening each year to the customary tribute to the fallen by Laurence Binyon.

They shall grow not old, as we that are left grow old:
Age shall not weary them, nor the years contemn.
At the going down of the sun and in the morning
We will remember them.

Some lesser mortals might now post something cheerful to raise the spirits, but I’m nasty like that. Instead I’m going to use Macaulay to highlight the sad fate of those Englishmen who were loyal to James II. The echoes of that so-called ‘Glorious Revolution’ are still being heard in Ireland today, and it’s not a pretty sound.

Epitaph on a Jacobite


To my true king I offered free from stain
Courage and faith; vain faith, and courage vain.
For him, I threw lands, honours, wealth away.
And one dear hope, that was more prized than they.
For him I languished in a foreign clime,
Grey-haired with sorrow in my manhood’s prime;
Heard on Lavernia Scargill’s whispering trees,
And pined by Arno for my lovelier Tees;
Beheld each night my home in fevered sleep,
Each morning started from the dream to weep;
Till God who saw me tried too sorely gave
The resting place I asked, an early grave,
Oh thou, whom chance leads to this nameless stone,
From that proud country which was once mine own,
By those cliffs I never more must see,
By that dear language which I spake like thee,
Forget all feuds, and shed one English tear
O’er English dust. A broken heart lies here.

The theme of long life is continued in a way by John Donne in the following poem, which is about separation from a loved one. Love can inspire some utter tripe, but it also gives rise to greatness.

The Computation

For the first twenty years since yesterday,
I scarce believed, thou couldst be gone away,
For forty more, I fed on favours past,
And forty on hopes, that thou wouldst, they might last.
Tears drowned one hundred, and sighs blew out two,
A thousand, I did neither think, nor do,
Or not divide, all being one thought of you;
Or in a thousand more, forgot that too.
Yet call not this long life; but think that I
am, by being dead, immortal; can ghosts die?

Oh, all right: you can have something  a bit lighter now. This one by Leigh Hunt conforms to the general chronological theme of the others, but only slightly.

Jenny kiss’d Me

Jenny kiss’d me when we met,
Jumping from the chair she sat in;
Time, you thief, who love to get
Sweets into your list, put that in!
Say I’m weary, say I’m sad,
Say that health and wealth have miss’d me,
Say I’m growing old, but add,
Jenny kiss’d me.

And finally a completely untemporal Triolet from Henry Austin Dobson. Oh what perils there are for the poet in stepping onto the pavement. I’ve left this one out of the blockquotes, again because it contains italics.

Urceus Exit


I intended an Ode,
And it turn’d to a Sonnet
It began à la mode,
I intended an Ode;
But Rose cross’d the road
In her latest new bonnet;
I intended an Ode;
And it turn’d to a Sonnet.

I hope that this week’s choices will give rise to less lengthy correspondance than last week’s, but we shall see. Whatever the result, I trust they gave you pleasure.

It’s been a ridiculously busy week, so Monday’s Poets’ Corner has been postponed until now. I’d like to be able to say that I’ve been preoccupied with my mother’s birthday this weekend and my forthcoming trip to Central Europe, but sadly it’s all been work. Anyway, without further ado, here’s your delayed dose of culture for this week.

First, here’s a Thomas Hardy poem that I was discussing with one of my friends last month, and which will either help him with his thesis or just irritatingly remind him of it at an awkward moment.

Mad Judy

When the hamlet hailed a birth
Judy used to cry:
When she heard our christening mirth
She would kneel and sigh.
She was crazed, we knew, and we
Humoured her infirmity.

When the daughters and the sons
Gathered them to wed,
And we like-intending ones
Danced till dawn was red,
She would rock and mutter, ‘More
Comers to this stony shore!’

When old Headsman Death laid hands
On a babe or twain,
She would feast, and by her brands
Sing her songs again.
What she liked we let her do,
Judy was insane, we knew.

I shall now proceed to alienate all of my female readers with the help of Robert Bridges. I hasten to add that I stand by none of this: I just like writing that’s calculated to offend people. I might be reading too much into this, but I think he may have been feeling a little bitter about someone.



All women born are so perverse
No man need boast their love possessing.
If nought seem better, nothing’s worse:
All women born are so perverse.
From Adam’s wife, that proved a curse
Though God had made her for a blessing,
All women born are so perverse
No man need boast their love possessing.

For those of you who read through that and are still here, I’ve selected something a little more acceptable. This is a particular favourite of mine, and dates from a time when Byron had been digging for treasure in the grounds of his house (because of course that’s how any sensible fellow deals with a cash-flow crisis). What he found and what he did with it should be pretty clear from this poem.

Lines Inscribed upon a Cup Formed from a Skull

Start not – nor deem my spirit fled;
In me behold the only skull,
From which, unlike a living head,
Whatever flows is never dull.

I lived, I loved, I quaffed like thee:
I died: let earth my bones resign;
Fill up – thou canst not injure me;
The worm hath fouler lips than thine.

Better to hold the sparkling grape,
Than nurse the earth-worm’s slimy brood;
And circle in the goblet’s shape
The drink of gods, than reptile’s food.

Where once my wit, perchance, hath shone,
In aid of others’ let me shine;
And when, alas! our brains are gone,
What nobler substitute than wine?

Quaff while thou canst: another race,
When thou and thine, like me, are sped,
May rescue thee from earth’s embrace,
And rhyme and revel with the dead.

Why not? since through life’s little day
Our heads such sad effects produce;
Redeem’d from worms and wasting clay,
This chance is theirs, to be of use.

I seem to remember hearing recently about moths and the fear thereof. What should I find on opening The Book of American Poetry but this by Benjamin de Casseres?


I have killed the moth flying around my night-light: wingless and dead  it lies upon the floor.
(O who will kill the great Time-Moth that eats holes in my soul and that burrows in and through my secretest veils!)
My will against its will, and no more will it fly at my
night-light or be hidden behind the curtains that swing in the winds.
(But O who will shatter the Change-Moth that leaves me in rags – tattered old tapestries that swing in the winds that blow out of Chaos!)
Night-Moth, Change-Moth, Time-Moth, eaters of dreams and of me!

Something short and sweet next, from that perennial favourite, Robert Herrick. It’s not in a blockquote because the italics are significant.

The Rosemarie branch

Grow for two ends, it matters not at all,
Be’t for my Bridall or my Buriall.

Finally, a poem about a subject very close to my heart at the moment: the sheer irritation of early-morning birdsong outside my window. Abraham Cowley probably overstates it a little, but that’s poetry for you.

The Swallow

Foolish prater, what dost thou
So early at my window do?
Cruel bird, thou’st ta’en away
A dream out of my arms to-day;
A dream that ne’er must equall’d be
By all that waking eyes may see.
Thou this damage to repair
Nothing half so sweet and fair,
Nothing half so good, canst bring,
Tho’ men may say thou bring’st the Spring.

I trust that this selection justifies the long delay in posting it. Enjoy.

The Crimson Welshman left here a couple of hours ago, having borrowed my sofa for a couple of days. As luck would have it, he managed to get here on the weekend of the annual Crash-Box Classic Car Club rally at Powderham Castle, so we’ve been up to quite a lot in between the downpours.

I met the Crimson Express on Friday evening, and we headed back to the flat to have some beer and work out where we were going to spend the evening. After a laughable absence of deliberation we decided on the Grove, which is a nice pub on the sea front that’s great if you watch your sunglasses like a hawk. After a restful couple of beers in there we made our way to the Ganges for curry and more beer before ambling back to mon repos for gin and tonics and some more beer. I really regretted that curry on Saturday morning, but as usual it was nice at the time. The Ganges is a great restaurant, where you can always get a table and they play some truly bizarre music. Usually it’s sitar versions of famous popular songs. Watch their Madras sauce, though: it’s a bit on the spicy side.

When I came back from a turn in the garden to find my Cambrian comrade had fallen asleep, I called it a night. It certainly was a long and broken night, requiring early-morning window opening and allowing for very little actual sleep. Eventually I gave up the unequal struggle against consciousness at about nine, which I reckoned to be a vaguely respectable time for a chap to start making tea.

Once we’d tidied ourselves up enough to pass for human we hopped into Sceadufell and headed over to the car show. This is only the other side of the river from Exmouth, but the nearest bridge is at Exeter and it’s a long detour.  We got there around one, expecting the heavens to open at any moment, and immediately I began to take pictures. These are the highlights of my day.

A Ford Mustang that turned out to have bullet hole transfers stuck to it.

A Ford Mustang that turned out to have bullet hole transfers stuck to it.

Another of Ford's classics, this time from Ford UK: an Escort RS2000

Another of Ford's classics, this time from Ford UK: an Escort RS2000

A CG 1200 Spider, one of only twenty made. Subtle colour.

A CG 1200 Spider, one of only twenty made. Subtle colour.

More French engineering. This 1906 Renault upstaged all of its newer relatives on their stand.

More French engineering. This 1906 Renault upstaged all of its newer relatives on their stand.

People rave about the Veyron, but this is what I call a Bugatti.

People rave about the Veyron, but this is what I call a Bugatti.

The show was so popular that James Bond had turned up. Well, a silver-grey Aston Martin DB5 did anyway.

The show was so popular that James Bond had turned up. Well, a silver-grey Aston Martin DB5 had anyway.

Some really nice Bentleys that are worth the same as a small suburban housing development.

Some really nice Bentleys that are worth the same as a small suburban housing development.

The beauty of this Alvis is only partially marred by the Crimson intrusion.

The beauty of this Alvis is only partially marred by the Crimson intrusion.

It's the 101st anniversary of the Ford Model T this year. Happy birthday, Lizzie

It's the 101st anniversary of the Ford Model T this year. Happy birthday, Lizzie

This Sherpley Speed Six lost an argument with a French bridge. The owner is working on repairing it.

This Sherpley Speed Six lost an argument with a French bridge. The owner is working on repairing it.

A native American dream bike. One of many nice motorcycles that we saw.

A native American dream bike. One of many nice motorcycles that we saw.

It wasn’t just about cars, of course. I ran into my compadres from the MX-5 Owners’ Club, which this year celebrates its fifteenth anniversary and the twentieth anniversary of the MX-5 itself. I got to be in the picture, despite not having got Sceadufell down on the list to go on our stand. There were also a number of stores selling various car parts, tools and assorted bric-à-brac, one of the more obscure items being a very distressed four-inch shell casing. I needed an umbrella stand, so I bought it.

I pose with my new purchase in front of a suitable vehicle.

I pose with my new purchase in front of a suitable vehicle. I had to wait about a minute for the picture to happen, so my expression slipped a bit.

At about half-past three on Saturday afternoon, the threatened rain arrived. We left the show just as it started, and by the time we got back to HQ it had settled in for the night. We decided to catch the early showing of the new Sacha Baron Cohen film, then eat some pizza, start drinking and choose a pub.

How exactly can I describe Brüno? ‘Unbelievably obscene’ is certainly one description; ‘breathtakingly offensive’ is another, and equally apt. I think that the description that best suits my experience of it, however, is ‘the funniest thing I’ve seen all year’. From the eponymous hero’s Velcro suit disaster, to Cohen being chased by enraged orthodox Jews, to the cage fight that turns into a gay love scene, it just never stops providing scenes that make you laugh like an idiot while disbelieving the sheer tastelessness of it all. Par exemple: at one point Brüno declares his intention to become “the greatest Austrian superstar since Adolf Hitler”. The list of groups that might be offended by this film is so long that I think everyone belongs to at least one of them. The star will get himself lynched one of these days, but I hope it doesn’t happen for a long time yet.

We carried through our plan to the letter, and even got a chance to play some pool. The band in the Phoenix were great, and when finally, back at the flat, we drank our last gin and tonics of the evening, we did so with the knowledge of a day replete with achievement.

This morning I suffered. I’m still suffering, despite having a walk along the beach in the sunshine; despite having found a copy of Jonathan Strange and Mr. Norrell at the car-boot sale.  I did, however, manage to clean up my new umbrella stand by soaking it in the bath for a couple of hours. I left most of the patina in place, but I gave it enough Brasso to clean off the outer layer of dirt and give it a slight metallic sheen. It looks good in the corner next to the bookshelf.

My clean shell casing in all its majesty, complete with umbrella.

My clean shell casing in all its majesty, complete with umbrella.

Now that I’ve reported all of the significant events of this weekend, I think it’s high time that I got to bed. Too many great songs have come from the random play function over the last couple of days for me to list them all, but following a Gregorian chant with the Deftones was a stroke of genius on the part of my computer. With that I shall bid you good night.

Good night (told you).

While I was slaving away in the sweltering plaster room today, a helpful fellow was washing my car for me. This is the best service that anyone can provide, because frankly I’m too tired at the weekend (not to mention too lazy all the time) to clamber in and around Sceadufell getting the paintwork from grey to black again. Once it’s done, though, how satisfying the result. The leather smells of upholstry conditioner; the footwell mats are black, not a sort of dirty, speckled charcoal, and all of the plastic looks about ten years younger.  Gone are the calling cards of a thousand seagulls (apparently I’m not allowed to shoot them), and once more I can don my sunglasses, ditch the roof and not look like some sort of high-class vagrant.

Of course, on a day when I’m happy with my general road image the roads themselves would decide to be absolutely packed for no obvious reason. Well, I can think of at least one: it’s July and this is a Devon seaside town. We’re about to earn about half of the county’s annual income in two months. As you’ll already know if you’re a regular on the Exmouth web cam site (and why on earth wouldn’t you be?) the swings are back on the sea front, the swan-ships of the Teleri are back in Alqualondë and the ice-cream parlours have stocked up on Exmouth rock. It’s a bit crowded, but the town gets more interesting at this time of year.

Alqualondë. Behold its other-worldly majesty.

Alqualondë. Behold its other-worldly majesty.

Believe it or not, that’s all I have to say. It’s Thursday and not much happens between Monday and Friday around here apart from work. The most significant event of this week has been the arrival of a new tenant for the long-vacant flat 3, and that’s hardly worth more than this sentence. Just to bulk out this post and make it look as though I’m communicating more than bland nonsense, here are a few more titles from my regular source of non-information, Bizarre Books.

Nolan, Dennis. The Joy of Chickens (Englewood Cliffs, NJ: Prentice Hall, 1981)

Baum, Harold. The Biochemist’s Songbook (Oxford: Pergamon Press, 1982)

First Report of the Standing Advisory Committee on Artificial Limbs (Ministry of Pensions, 1947)

Creed, J.R. The Art of Making Faces (Pearson’s Magazine, 1897)

Carter, W. Rhythmical Essays on the Beard Question (n.p. 1868)

Blanchard, Charles Elton. The Romance of Proctology (Youngstown, Ohio: Medical Success Press, 1938)

To conclude, a classic example of an Edwardian title that I think I may have to read one day:

Hutchinson, Sir Jonathan. On Leprosy and Fish-eating: A Statement of Facts and Explanations (Constable & Co., 1906)

Your quotation for today addresses concerns that I feel regularly on perusing the steam-driven interweb.

Well! Some people talk of morality, and some of religion, but give me a little snug property.

Maria Edgeworth (1767-1849), The Absentee


It seems that a lot of people are posting songs that they like on a Monday. Since I don’t really know many songs that you don’t know already, and since bandwagons are anathema to me, I’m not inclined to follow suit. I am inclined, however, to mark the beginning of the week by posting some artistic works that are occupying my mind. This is the rationale behind the collection of arbitrarily selected verse that will form my communiqué for today.

First up is a poem about unwillingly learning the finer points of handling firearms. This is one of the pieces in The Terrible Rain, and I think it speaks for itself.

Naming of Parts

Today we have naming of parts. Yesterday,
We had daily cleaning. And tomorrow morning,
We shall have what to do after firing. But today,
Today we have naming of parts. Japonica
Glistens like coral in all of the neighboring gardens,
And today we have naming of parts.

This is the lower sling swivel. And this
Is the upper sling swivel, whose use you will see,
When you are given your slings. And this is the piling swivel,
Which in your case you have not got. The branches
Hold in the gardens their silent, eloquent gestures,
Which in our case we have not got.

This is the safety-catch, which is always released
With an easy flick of the thumb. And please do not let me
See anyone using his finger. You can do it quite easy
If you have any strength in your thumb. The blossoms
Are fragile and motionless, never letting anyone see
Any of them using their finger.

And this you can see is the bolt. The purpose of this
Is to open the breech, as you see. We can slide it
Rapidly backwards and forwards: we call this
Easing the spring. And rapidly backwards and forwards
The early bees are assaulting and fumbling the flowers:
They call it easing the Spring.

They call it easing the Spring: it is perfectly easy
If you have any strength in your thumb: like the bolt,
And the breech, and the cocking-piece, and the point of balance,
Which in our case we have not got; and the almond-blossom
Silent in all of the gardens and the bees going backwards and forwards,

For today we have naming of parts.

Henry Reed

Continuing the Second World War theme, a poem about pilots drinking in pubs, which also takes a look beneath the desperate revelry. This has all of the ingredients for the perfect poem, and I’m surprised that I don’t number it among my favourites.

In the Local

You see them in the “Local” anywhere
In town or country near a fighter station
In flying boots and scarves – their ruffled hair
Like schoolboys out for a jolly celebration:
Eight in a car for four had raced along
And miracles were wrought to bring them here.
To pass an hour with banter, darts and song
And drink a pint or two of English beer,
And talk of “binds” and “dims” with lots of natter
Of “ropey jobs” and “wizard types” and “gen”
Amid much laughter glasses chink and clatter.
Deep underneath was hid the real men,
Who saw their comrades fall out of the skies,
And knew too well the look in dead men’s eyes.

W.A.G. Kemp

Departing from war, we have William Cowper on insanity. This is the final stanza of the poem, and my favourite part of it. The last two lines are perfect. I think of them often.

Him the vindictive rod of angry Justice
Sent quick and howling to the centre headlong;
I, fed with judgment, in a fleshy tomb am
Buried above ground.

To conclude, I think something short is in order. They don’t come much shorter than Matthew Prior’s The Lady who offers her Looking-glass to Venus. None of us are what we were, and the lady in question is undeniably a fool, but I do like the grand gesture of forswearing mirrors. If only vanity were as easy to cast aside as a looking-glass.

Venus, take my votive glass:
Since I am not what I was,
What from this day I shall be,
Venus, let me never see.

I shall leave you with another of my periodic quotations. This one is taken from the of The Oxford Library of Words and Phrases that I acquired recently.

Quod enim mavult homo verum esse, id potius credit.

For what a man would like to be true, that he more readily believes.

Francis Bacon

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