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Why do some prominent people in the ASOIAF community hate Anons? If you get what you view as a dumb question, why not just ignore the question instead of responding with something condescending or abusive, and essentially leaning in to bullying culture?

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I’m glad you asked this question, because I think it highlights an important issue. 

As an reader/submitter/asker, you don’t know what the contents of someone’s inbox looks like and this can lead to a situation where your perception is wildly different from that of the person you are following. A question or a message that seems innocuous on its own might look very different in the context of the inbox as a whole.

Just to give a small example: I have seven thousand and three messages in my inbox at present. In addition to the vague guilt I feel about that, rather akin to how I feel about having lots of unread messages in my email or voicemails I haven’t responded to, this means that there are going to be lots of messages coming in on the same topic or the same question, all the time. 

Each individual correspondent might not intend to annoy or irritate; indeed, the fact that the people asking questions can’t see what other questions are being asked means that there’s going to completely unintentional pileups. However, the psychological impact of the poke-poke-poke still happens, regardless of intent. 


This effect is doubly strong when it comes to topics that (for various reasons) I or others might find annoying, distasteful, or worse. I do my best to tell people ahead of time not to send me questions about these topics - for example, when I went off the TV show, I really didn’t want to answer questions about it anymore; I got really tired of answering marriage questions because I was inundated with every conceivable permutation of “what if X married Y”; I don’t like the Dance of the Dragons and got burned out on Fire & Blood - but because of the nature of social media feeds, and the fact that Tumblr’s archive and search functions are abysmal, it’s very easy for people asking questions to not see the posts where I’ve tried to put a kibosh on those topics.

The asynchronicity is a key factor here. Almost inevitably given the way that follower counts accumulate over time, a lot of my audience won’t have been around for stuff I was writing near the beginning of my time on this platform, which means that there can easily be a situation where a question that seems both innocuous and novel to the asker, comes across as poking the bear (in old wounds, no less) to the answerer.


Finally, let’s address the topic of anons. It is a well-known phenomena that anonymous commenting leads people to say things that they would not say if their handle was in the comment, much less if they were in person. Tumblr unfortunately magnifies this problem by only allowing public responses to anons; this creates the perception that anons are, in a certain sense, asking me to take a public stand on a question or topic while still enjoying the comfort of anonymity for themselves. If you’re listening @staff, this not the best way to start off communication between strangers, and it’s one of the main reasons why a lot of people I know in the fandom turn off anonymous submissions.

This intersects really badly with what I was saying earlier about the impact of the broader universe of the inbox on someone’s mentality, because even if one individual anon wasn’t being particularly out of line, the odds are pretty good that there were other anon comments on the same issue that were less than polite, and it’s not surprising that the blogger responding might misdirect their temper in that situation.  

This comes up a lot when it comes to contentious topics in a fandom, like shipping wars or stans vs. antis. And just to really make sure no one misses the elephant in the room: all of these behaviors/phenomena get way worse when someone in a fandom is a woman, a person of color, LGBTQ+, etc. I’m a cishet white dude, which means I deal with so much less shit hurled my way compared to a lot of other “prominent people in the ASOIAF community“ who aren’t. In those 7,003 messages in my inbox, you don’t see many people flinging insults at me or wishing harm upon me. I know that’s not true for quite a few of my friends.

To repeat myself from the beginning: “you don’t know what the contents of someone’s inbox looks like.” The person you think is being condescending or abusive might be someone whose patience has run out; the person you think is bullying may be someone pushing back against their bullies. 

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Hell Was Full

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Hell Was Full:


Hello, beloved fans.

After years of toiling in the comics mines to bring you free webcomics that thrill and delight, I’ve managed to put together a collection of my choicest strips -both public and exclusive- in book form for your purchasing pleasure. The good people at Oni Press have my book available for pre-order right this very moment. That’s right, Hell Was Full is a full-color collection of my comics and you can buy it for yourself right this very instant. We’ve got the retail version, the Oni Exclusive edition (with a cover designed by yours truly,) and a SPECIAL EDITION that comes with a lovely pink case and hand-drawn art by me, Branson Reese. That special edition is also signed. You’d better believe it. Or maybe you don’t? You don’t have to take my word for it! You can just buy it and make that call for yourself!

Please buy this. Doing free webcomics for years pays shit, it turns out. 

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Writing, Reading, Writing

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I have to confess, after half a year of pandemic, quarantine, and social distancing, I am showing signs of cabin fever… half of which is quite literal in my case.  Yes, I am in an actual cabin in the mountains.   No, I have no fever.   Yay!   For the present at least, I am healthy… for an out-of-shape guy of 71, at least … and doing all I can to stay that way.

If nothing else, the enforced isolation has helped me write.   I am spending long hours every day on THE WINDS OF WINTER, and making steady progress.   I finished a new chapter yesterday, another one three days ago, another one the previous week.   But no, this does not mean that the book will be finished tomorrow or published next week.   It’s going to be a huge book, and I still have a long way to go.   Please do not give any credence to any of the click-bait websites that like to parse every word of my posts as if they were papal encyclicals to divine hidden meanings.

I was heartbroken when CoNZealand was forced to go virtual due to the pandemic and I had to cancel my plans (exciting plans) for a long trip down to Wellington with Parris and my minions… but there is definitely a silver lining in that cloud.   The last thing I need right now is a long interruption that might cost me all the momentum I have built up.   I can always visit Wellington next year, when I hope that both Covid-19 and THE WINDS OF WINTER will be done.

I still plan to host the Hugo Awards and fulfill all the rest of my toastmasterly duties for worldcon, and have started pre-recording some bits for the ceremony (a wise precaution, since I am hopeless with Zoom and Skype and like things), but that is a lot less time-consuming and distracting than flying to the other end of the world.   In between tapings, I return to Westeros.   Of late I have been visiting with Cersei, Asha, Tyrion, Ser Barristan, and Areo Hotah.   I will be dropping back into Braavos next week.    I have bad days, which get me down, and good days, which lift me up, but all in all I am pleased with the way things are doing.

I do wish they would go faster, of course.   Way way back in 1999, when I was deep in the writing of A STORM OF SWORDS, I was averaging about 150 pages of manuscript a month.   I fear I shall never recapture that pace again.   Looking back, I am not sure how I did it then.    A fever indeed.

Anyway… when I am not writing, or thinking about writing, I am watching television and reading.    Publishers send me huge piles of books, so my “to be read” pile is always growing, no many how many books I consume.   Of course, I also buy books as well.   Cannot help it, I am a book junkie.   The new Stephen King collection IF IT BLEEDS was one recent favorite.  I love these novella collections that King comes out with from time to time between his novels.   This one features a new Holly Gibney story, and it is always great to see that character again… but there’s also a story called “Rat” about a writer trying to finish a novel in an isolated cabin which… ah… resonated with me rather strongly for some reason.   One bit, where the writer gets derailed trying to figure out how many rocking chairs a sheriff could fit on his porch, was a dead-on depiction of the kind of stuff I go through all the time.   Steve’s protagonist gets some help when a dead rat turns up to be his muse.  So far, no rats at my cabin.    Sid did catch a couple of mice last year, but she made pets of them.  And Timmy and TomTom were no help whatsoever with WINDS.   (Please don’t send me long emails about the dangers of mice, we know all that stuff).

Another recent book that really knocked me out was THE GLASS HOTEL, the latest by Emily St. John Mandel.    A few years back, she wrote a (ahem) post-pandemic SF novel called STATION ELEVEN which I loved at the time and now devoutly hope is not going to prove prophetic.  It was my favorite novel of that year, and I thought it deserved to win the Hugo and the Nebula.   Which it didn’t, alas.   But I had Emily at my theatre for an author event, which was great, and snapped up her three earlier novels.  I really liked those too.   Now comes her latest, THE GLASS HOTEL.  No, this one is not science fiction or fantasy.  In fact, I would be hard pressed to say what it is except a damn fine novel.   It is about a hotel in a remote location, the people who work there, the people who stay there, it is about a Ponzi scheme, and art, and music, and a dysfunctional family, and… oh, well, I don’t know what it is about, but I do know that once I started reading, I could not stop.   When people describe a book as a “page turner,” usually they are talking about novels that have a lot of plot, which Mandel definitely does not, yet somehow she keeps me turning pages regardless.   And she writes just beautifully.   Her prose is not overblown or excessively ornate, as is the case with too many writers who are known as “stylists,” but… it is just lovely, haunting and evocative and immersive…   I guess you can say I am a big Emily St. John Mandel fanboy.   I look forward to whatever she writes next.

There are other things going on in my life as well.   I bought a railroad… well, I bought a third of a railroad.   See the post below.   Hollywood has slowed to a crawl thanks to the pandemic, but THE HOUSE OF THE DRAGON is still flying along wonderfully, thanks to Ryan Condal and his writers, and the tireless Ti Mikkel.   With my producer hat on, I am still involved in trying to bring Nnedi Okorafor’s brilliant WHO FEARS DEATH to the small screen, and relaunch the WILD CARDS tv project.   We have feature films in development adapted from my stories “Sandkings” and “The Ice Dragon” and “The Lost Lands,” television shows in development based on works by Roger Zelazny and Tony Hillerman, there are the secret shorts we’re doing that… well, no, if I spilled that, it wouldn’t be secret.

But up here on the mountain, all of that that seems very distant, and much of it has stuttered to a halt in any case, until Covid goes away.

Mostly, it’s just me in Westeros, with occasional side trips to other places in the pages of a great book.

Now you will have to excuse me.   Arya is calling.   I think she means to kill someone.

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The quest is over: the tale of the elusive SS-GB postcard

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This is a post about collecting, and the thrill of tacking down big game.

In my case, the 'big game' was in fact small and rather insignificant - a postcard 4 inches by 6 inches. But bagging it bought to the end fifteen or more years of patient stalking.

This blog - and the Deighton Dossier main website - started as a means of documenting and sharing my collection of Len Deighton books and other items. It has since grown over a decade and more into a small but well-informed community of fellow collectors, readers and spy fiction fans, including over on the main Facebook group.

I'm still a keen book collector - not just of Deighton, but other authors too. Even though my collection is (according to a number of dealers) impressive, there are still odd gaps here and there. 

Most of these I would class as 'hyper rare' items of ephemera. This week, after keeping my eyes open online for fifteen years plus, I found what I'd been looking for.

It is this, a simple postcard, part of the marketing materials for the first UK edition of SS-GB:

Designed by Raymond Hawkey, it shows on the front the 'Siegesparade in London, 20 April 1941', divisions of Waffen SS marching confidently down Whitehall to mark the victory of the Nazis over the British which forms the central conceit of Deighton's famous 'alternative history' thriller, which was made into a series by the BBC.

On the back, in English and German, it states that "the Führer takes the salute in Whitehall on his 52nd birthday as SS Divisions march past," along with a legend that SS-GB marks "Len Deighton's most original spy story yet," just in case anyone picking this up mistakes it for real.

And that's not that out of the realms of possibility. Like most things Hawkey produced, it is exquisitely done. Pre-photoshop, the angle of the photograph and the perspective of the marching soldiers is perfectly aligned to create the illusion of a conquering army. The sepia colouring, and the quality and weight of the cardboard of the postcard is absolutely as it should be. It looks convincing.

You can see the marketing angle adopted by Deighton's publishers: authenticity is the watchword. 

They wanted potential readers and booksellers to believe that the book was the closest thing to a reliable answer to the question 'What would have happened it the Nazis had won', as is possible. What better way to do that then by recreating the answer visually?

A part of the same marketing push is the booklet of SS-GB 'Hitler stamps', also produced by Hawkey, which famously was so authentic that is allegedly fooled a number of antique stamp dealers upon its release (though I feel this may be aprochryphal, a story shared by collectors and philatelists alike). 

So, that was my quarry. I already had a copy of the stamps purchased a number of years ago, but the postcard had eluded me. I would have to buy both items. 

I had seen one photo of the postcard in an article in a specialist collectors' magazine, but nothing beyond that. 

This week, that changed. I have a regular search on eBay for Deighton items, and peruse it every so often to keep an eye out on the global marketplace of books and ephemera. 

Most of the time it yields little I don't already have, but this last week - in a genuinely exciting moment - I spotted it on eBay.

A postcard AND a set of stamps on sale. At a bargain price (way below the market value of £400-450 for which SS-GB stamp booklets alone - rare as hen's teeth - go). I 'watched' it, and put in a bid, a little over the price asked to give me some wiggle room. 

On Monday, the auction was to end.

I sat in front of my computer, in anticipation, the eBay listing open. I was still the only bidder. 1m 50s and counting down. 

I upped my bid by £10 ... just in case.


Would I be outbid by another collector? Surely, there must be others out there who know the provenance and value of these items, sold here for a massive discount on the market price?


A brief pause.

"You have won the auction." 

I breathed easier. 

One bid was all it took to end fifteen plus years of curiosity and regular checking of the global market for Deighton-related items which, while not a patch on the market for Ian Fleming's Bond books, has a certain size and, as the number of books and items in circulation diminishes, increasing value.

I paid so far under the odds that I felt some sympathy for the seller, who perhaps expected the keen starting price to generate a flurry of bids for collectors.

But most of all, I feel a sense of satisfaction that my collection - which over the years has given me a great deal of pleasure and connected me with some interesting fellow readers and, of course, the author himself - was one step further to completion.

It's a feeling that explains why, I imagine, most people collected books, or one particular author. 

There is a finite amount of 'stuff' out there, of varying value and number. 

For serious collectors - and I'm thinking in particular of a friend who is widely regarded as one of the top Ian Fleming collectors in the UK - completeness is everything. Gaps in a collection should loudly and often, asking to be filled.

Sometimes - and certainly in the case of Bond books - that can require a second mortgage.

In the case of the elusive SS-GB postcard, it required me to outlay just the cost of a few books or take-out pizzas.

The only question now: what next to hunt down?

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Reflections on the monotony of poetry

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Reading Poetry In the Thirties and then The Penguin Book of Spanish Civil War Verse, an unexpected theme emerges which is:

The boring repetitiveness of so much of the poetry; the extraordinarily narrow range of language and the incredibly restricted vocabulary it uses.

When I was at school they told me English had the biggest vocabulary of any European language. You wouldn’t have thought so from reading these poems.

So many of the poems seem like the result of moving an extremely limited number of verbal counters into slightly varying combinations.

The monotonous repetition of a handful of ‘poetic’ buzzwords eventually drains them of all meaning and makes many of the poems feel very samey.

Here’s an A-list of the key, numbingly repeated, buzzwords, at least some of which appear in every poem in these collections:

blood, breast, death, dream, eye, heart, love, pain, red, star, sun, tears, time

What would happen to poetry if these words were simply banned? Or if poets were fined for using them? Almost all the poems in both anthologies would disappear in a puff of banality.

It’s odd, it’s a bit mad even, that poets like to swank about fighting cliché and dead language when in fact reading poetry often feels like being force-fed whole boxfulls of dusty old clichés.

A B-list of overused ‘poetic’ words would include:

bone, breath, clock, dark, dream, earth, fate, flesh, future, grave, life, light, memory, moon, night, road, sorrow, space, year, world

Well over a hundred thousand words to choose from and the poets bang on with the same 20, round and round like a donkey tied to a well.

So many of the poets think they’ve done their job if they’ve strung together ‘blood’, ‘death’ and ‘time’ in a vaguely novel arrangement but in a way, as I read the hundredth poem about ‘blood’ flowing from the ‘red’ ‘rose’ of the dying ‘earth’ etc, I began to think they were undoing something, draining these words of power, and draining their own indignation and compassion by failing to find new words, new vocabulary to express it.

Spender manages, all by himself, to drain the word ‘world’ of any meaning, overtones or symbolism by his obsessive use of it in almost every poem he wrote (and his autobiography is titled World Within World).

The pleasure of older poetry This is why it’s more enjoyable to read old poetry, the more enjoyable the further back in time you go, because you are increasingly likely to be pleasantly surprised by odd and unexpected vocabulary or by different meanings attached to words which have been bled dry in our time.

The success of W.H. Auden Looking at the poetry of the thirties from this angle – on the question of lexical variety – also sheds a different light on Auden’s success. Put simply, Auden had a larger vocabulary than anyone else. In his poetry you can hear Auden continually reaching for unexpected and novel words and combinations. Sometimes they feel contrived, but at least he’s making an effort to refresh poetry from new sources.

On that arid square, that fragment nipped off from hot
Africa, soldered so crudely to inventive Europe;
On that tableland scored by rivers,
Our thoughts have bodies; the menacing shapes of our fever

Are precise and alive.

‘Nip’ and ‘solder’ and ‘tableland’, God what a relief not to be reading about ‘blood’ and ‘hearts’ and ‘love’ and ‘time’ and ‘tears’ and ‘graves’. To be fair Auden uses these latter poetic keywords as much as anyone else – but he goes beyond what you could call Baseline Poetic Vocabulary, to deliberately refresh and expand its possibilities.

Yesterday the installation of dynamos and turbines,
The construction of railways in the colonial desert;
Yesterday the classic lecture
On the origin of Mankind. But to-day the struggle…

To-morrow, perhaps the future. The research on fatigue
And the movements of packers; the gradual exploring of all the
Octaves of radiation;
To-morrow the enlarging of consciousness by diet and breathing…

‘Octaves of radiation’, nobody could accuse that of being poetic cliché.

I’m not saying both books don’t contain good poems, lots of them, the Val Cunningham anthology is a marvel of diligent research in the archives turning up all kinds of obscure treasures and is a huge cornucopia of delights. BUT the downside of such profusion is the reader can’t help noting the obsessive repetition of the same images and phrases again and again and eventually longs for real variety of diction and phrasing.


At five the man fell under the trees
The watch flew off stopped at a moon
Of time staring from the dead wrist (Stephen Spender)

World world O world
Youth without promise in our long days
A sun reflected in the muddy stream
An eye duller than last night’s dream (Edgar Foxall)

Death stalked the olive trees picking his men
His leaden finger beckoned again and again (John Lepper)

Backed to the brown walls of the square
The lightless lorry headlamps stare
With glinting reflectors through the night
At our gliding star of light (Stephen Spender)

And on the hillside
That is the colour of peasant bread
Is the rectangular
White village of the dead (Sylvia Townsend Warner)

Why do you not take comfort then, my heart? (Ewart Milne)

It is night like a red rag
drawn across the eyes

the flesh is bitterly pinned
to desperate vigilance

the blood is stuttering with fear  (Laurie Lee)

Time stops when the bullet strikes
Or moves to a new rhyme;
No longer measured by the eyes
Leap, pulse-beat, thought-flow  (Tom Wintringham)

Our enemies can praise death and adore death
For us endurance, the sun; and now in the night…  (Tom Wintringham)

My life confronts my life with eyes, the world
The world with microscopes; and the self-image
Lifted in light against the lens
Stares back with my dumb wall of eyes (Stephen Spender)

Light, light with that lunar death our fate;
Make more dazzling with your agony’s gold
The death that lays us all in the sand.
Gaze with that gutted eye on our endeavour
To be the human brute, not the brute human;
And if I feel your gaze upon me, ever,
I’ll wear the robe of blood that love illumines. (George Barker)

Swells the seed, and now tight sound-buds
Vibrate upholding their paean flowers
To the sun. There are bees in sky-bells droning
Flares of crimson at the heart unfold. (C. Day-Lewis)

Who would think the Spanish war
Flared like new tenure of a star,
The way our rhymes and writings are?
That Hilliard spilled his boxer’s blood
Through Albecete’s snow and mud
And smiled to comrade death, Salud?  (Blanaid Salkeld)

The horror of the nightmare is that it evades
Your steady look, steals past the corner of the eye,
Lurks in the sides of pictures. Death
Is fearful for the fifth part of a second,
A fear that shakes the heart: and that fear lost
As soon, yet leaves and sickness and a chill,
Heavy hands and the weight of another day.

Here in Madrid, facing death
my narrow heart keeps hidden
a love which grieves me but which I cannot
even reveal to this night   (Stephen Spender)

Enemies hidden in ambush
Hidden among the branches;
Weeping comes to the eyes,
Harvests go up in flames,
And hysterical Death
Over the puddles of blood
Howls and dances in rage,
Leaps and fastens on flesh.  (Pla y Bektrana translated by Rolfe Humphries)

You are stalwart, strong;
Young generations of sturdy miners
Have forged you – iron is in your blood.  (Charlotte Haldane)

Dark falls the afternoon,
Dark amid rain and mud…  (José Moreno Villa translated by Stanley Richardson)

I’m singing in every country
Where I tread through the streets of Time…  (Clive Branson)

When from the deep sky
And digging in the harsh earth,
When by words hard as bullets
Thoughts simple as death…  (Tom Wintringham)

In the night, the cause I fight for
Draws a mist of horror up, damps me with blood..  (Miles Tomalin)

There, in the frond, the instant lurks
With its metal fang planned for my heart
When the finger tugs and the clock strikes.  (Stephen Spender)

Searchlights now wipe the windscreen of the sky,
Which once was clear,
When from the garden we saw planes go by
Not dulled by fear.  (H.B. Mallalieu)

Why are there only three emotions, love or hate or fear? The whole world of subtle feelings and emotion in between these extremes – shyness, demurral, shrugging, hesitation, indignation, humour – is absent.

Out of the singing and the dancing came
Civil dissension, bitter deeds, and cruel;
Out of the poet and the murdered fool
The blood leapt rigid in a rage of shame.  (J.C. Hall)

Why is it either primal day or night?

We’d left our training base
And by the time night fell
Stood facing the universe
Singing the ‘Internationale’  (Clive Branson)

Why is every other thought about death? I appreciate they’re poems about war, but other things happen in war apart from just death.

Too many people are in love with Death (Tom Wintringham)

The map of Spain
bleeds under my fingers, cracked with rivers
of unceasing tears, and scraped with desolation
and valleyed with these moaning winds of death.  (Jack Lindsay)

But even now reproaching stars can sound
from death‘s horizon into which they dive…  (Kathleen Raine)

Fear will alight on each like a dunce’s cap
Or an unguessed disease unless death drops
Quicker than the sirens or the traffic stops  (Bernard Gutteridge)

It’s not that it’s inappropriate to write of death during a war, it’s that the word is just bandied around too easily and too glibly, it’s the monotony of this one boring word which becomes so grinding.

Now we can walk into the picture easily
To be the unknown hero and the death…  (Bernard Gutteridge)

Ask of the eagle that yelped overhead
where in the blaze of death the Spanish workers blocked
the Guadarrama passes with their dead.  (Jack Lindsay)

And any more poets who rhyme ‘death’ with ‘breath’ deserve to be shot.

Why are the only parts of the human body the heart, the eye and blood?

Men, worlds, nations,
pay heed, listen to my cry pouring out blood,
gather together the pulses of my breaking heart
into your spacious hearts,
because I clutch the soul when I sing.  (Miguel Hernandez translated by Stephen Spender)

Scorched and splintered lie its stones,
Blood is dust with flesh and hair…  (Miles Tomalin)

There are over 650 named muscles in the human body, over 200 bones, and scores of other fluids besides blood and tears. But only blood and heart and eye are ever mentioned, and not just occasionally, but over and over again, three body parts endlessly re-arranged by a madman.

Heart of the heartless world,
Dear heart, the thought of you
Is the pain at my side,
The shadow that chills my view. (John Cornford)

Why are the only things above us the sky, the sun, the moon and the stars? The clouds come in a hundred forms, the weather is complex and changeable, constellations and stars twinkle.

The sun warmed the valley but no birds sang
The sky was rent with shrapnel and metallic clang.

Ten years of sun and shadow. Ten years of the premonition of love and the omen of death… (H.B. Mallalieu)

Why is the only flower any of them have heard of ‘the rose’?

Can’t you smell the rose held in their teeth
Tighter than death?  (Clive Branson)

The centre of my heart like a red tree
Puts forth a hand and indicates the common red rose  (George Barker)

Why are there only two colours, red or black? It’s extraordinary, when we know that the human eyes can distinguish between about ten million shades of colour, that all the colours the poets in this collection refer to are red and black.

Out of the newsprint blows this wind of honour,
pause reading amid the traffic blast. Seal down,
red as the heart, the oath that we must swear
if we are still to live on such an earth  (Jack Lindsay)

Why is the only animal the dog? OK, the ox also appears a few times. There might be a few chickens. Are they all the animal species which exist in Spain or which poets can imagine?

The world is full, full of millions of things, hundreds of thousands of plants and animals and fungi, the entire range of modern machinery and technology, thousands of colours or moods of weather or human feelings, the thousands of words for the millions of intricate specificities of life.

It’s amazing how much of all that is left out of these poems, excluded by their narrow notions of poetic correctness, by their over-concern with a handful of ideas and images, with their incredible poverty of vocabulary and imagination.

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Hair Growth Rate

4 Comments and 10 Shares
Hourly haircuts would be annoying, but they'd be easier to do yourself, since you'd have adjacent hairs as a guide. Growing it out would be a huge pain, though.
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3 public comments
35 days ago
I tried holding it in, it worked for a while but then it all grew out at once
earth dimension c-138
35 days ago
100000/(60*24*30) * 1/2 = 1.15

The math checks out. thats so weird.
New York
35 days ago
Hourly haircuts would be annoying, but they'd be easier to do yourself, since you'd have adjacent hairs as a guide. Growing it out would be a huge pain, though.
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