Nicholas Vaifdar in Booklust:

In 1943, Simone Weil lay dying. I have a private picture of those last days. I see her on a cot in rural England, in the green depths of that countryside, so pleasantly depressing under cloud cover to those eyes reared on California movies. Far off is the peevish thunder of late August and, even farther off, inaudibly across the channel, the disintegration of so much flesh and granite. Weil has withered to a stick figure in gray prole garb; her Gussie Fink-Nottle glasses rest with all the weight of artillery on her sharpened and sweaty nose. A cracked window admits the stink of humid vegetation into her Victorian sanitarium. This is a moment like any other, except for her soul it happens to be final, the last Pringle in the tube.

I have a reckless guess, too, about her last conscious and complete thought before her heavy mind dissolved. Earlier that year Weil had read Schopenhauer. Nothing wrong with that. Or, almost nothing: the tetchy bachelor of Frankfurt can have a weird effect on folks. Weil, for example, had stopped eating. Scholars disagree about her motive or even on whether this starvation was freely chosen and not a symptom of some deeper fleshly waste. I postulate that this most willful of women chose her own path to the grave. In doing so, she turned away from writing, working, teaching, experiencing sex, and even from seeing the day when her first book might appear in print. What a waste! the reader of her biography thinks, with all the snobbery that the living feel for the dead. Dead at thirty-four! And all that talent! And then, as an addendum, unconscious and implicit: Moron! She threw away the dearest thing she owned as if it were a careless trifle. And what for? To prove what? Here enters the influence of Schopenhauer. The first volume of The World as Will and Representation ends as follows:

…we freely acknowledge that what remains after the complete abolition of the will is, for all who are still full of the will, assuredly nothing. But also conversely, to those in whom the will has turned and denied itself, this very real world of ours with all its suns and galaxies is — nothing.

To the ascetic the world is nothing. Not seems, but is. Carnage was in stupid ascendance around the globe. But Weil had stopped eating and so the carnage was in a sense cancelled.

More here.

Clearances –Sonnet 3

When all the others were away at Mass,
I was all hers as we peeled potatoes.
They broke the silence, let fall one by one
Like solder weeping off the soldering iron:
Cold comforts set between us, things to share
Gleaming in a bucket of clean water.
And again let fall. Little pleasant splashes
From each other’s work would bring us to our senses.

So while the parish priest at her bedside
Went hammer and tongs at the prayers for the dying
And some were responding and some crying
I remembered her head bent towards my head,
Her breath in mine, our fluent dipping knives-
Never closer the whole rest of our lives.

by Seamus Heaney

Chris Carosi at City Lights:

CL: What’s the first book you actually finished reading?

AE: I recently finished reading Molly Crabapple’s memoir, Drawing Blood, which is a fascinating intellectual history of the roaring decade that preceded the Second Great Depression. She has this wonderful way with dropping scintillating poetic lines in the middle of her description, like she was hit by inspiration. There is something very raw about that kind of writing that really appeals to me. I wish more people wrote like that. But if that was the case we’d have more Molly Crabapples and then she would have to fight them all to establish her supremacy and that’s not good.

I’m sorry, I just reviewed the question and it appears I misread it. That raises a second question, do you really want to hear about the reading habits of a person who can’t read?

More here.

Amardeep Singh in his own blog:

Like many of my friends and colleagues, I found the recent broad critique of the Digital Humanities in LARB by Daniel Allington, David Golumbia, and Sarah Brouillette to be pretty gripping reading. I know many of those same friends and colleagues have many disagreements with the characterization of the Digital Humanities in that essay; here are a few of mine.

The first paragraph of “Neoliberal Tools (and Archives): a Political History of the Digital Humanities” is carefully considered — the authors are not newbies to this debate, and know what they're doing. I'll work mainly from the paragraph in these brief comments, since it introduces many of the main themes of the essay that follows. I'm also much more interested in the overall tenor of this essay than in debating at great length every individual topic they cover. So here is the opening paragraph:

Advocates position Digital Humanities as a corrective to the “traditional” and outmoded approaches to literary study that supposedly plague English departments. Like much of the rhetoric surrounding Silicon Valley today, this discourse sees technological innovation as an end in itself and equates the development of disruptive business models with political progress. Yet despite the aggressive promotion of Digital Humanities as a radical insurgency, its institutional success has for the most part involved the displacement of politically progressive humanities scholarship and activism in favor of the manufacture of digital tools and archives. Advocates characterize the development of such tools as revolutionary and claim that other literary scholars fail to see their political import due to fear or ignorance of technology. But the unparalleled level of material support that Digital Humanities has received suggests that its most significant contribution to academic politics may lie in its (perhaps unintentional) facilitation of the neoliberal takeover of the university. (Source; my emphasis)

Many of the points Allington et al. make, here and throughout the essay, can be characterized as deflating a caricature of a DH-branded balloon: while the Digital Humanities positions itself as a “radical insurgency,” in actuality it is anything but. But I have to shrug a bit at these types of arguments: even if there's some truth in the idea that DH is not the vanguard of a progressive revolution within academia, so what? What actual harm is it committing? If you don't find the scholarship interesting, you don't have to read it.

More here.

From Edge.org:

KAHNEMAN: Let's begin with an obvious question. What is experimental philosophy?

KNOBE: Experimental philosophy is this relatively new field at the border of philosophy and psychology. It's a group of people who are doing experiments of much the same kind you would see in psychology, but are informed by the much older intellectual tradition of philosophy. It can be seen as analogous, on a certain level, to some of the work that you've done at the border of psychology and economics, which uses the normal tools of psychological experiment to illuminate issues that would be of interest to economists.

Experimental philosophy is a field that uses the normal approaches to running psychological experiments to run experiments that are in some ways informed by these intellectual frameworks that come out of the world of philosophy.

KAHNEMAN: I read the review that you were the senior author of in Annual Review of Psychology in which you dealt with four topics. It was all very summarized, and I don't pretend that I understood it all. I was struck by the fact that you run psychological experiments and you explain the results. There is something that sounds like a psychological theory, and yet, there was a characteristic difference, which I was trying to get my fingers on.

More here.

Patrick Blanchfield in The LA Review of Books' Marginalia:

If ever a person could kill a joke, it was Sigmund Freud. His exegesis of this “American Anecdote” in his “Jokes and Their Relation to the Unconscious” (1905) goes on for pages, slowly taking the life out of the already-barely-funny punchline : there is no “Christ hanging between the two thieves.”

Born one hundred sixty years ago yesterday, Sigmund Freud never cared much for America. No one is really sure why. He told one patient he had eaten something during his 1909 tour of the country that had “spoiled in his stomach.” Some historians speculate it had to do with Freud’s obsessional anxieties over his intellectual legacy, and his pique at Americans’ preference for the despised Carl Jung over Freud’s new favored son, Alfred Adler. Others suggest he may have disliked the sleaziness of American capitalism and its culture of crass fixation on money. That said, Freud, who admitted to admiring a single American genius, William James (“The man spoke better German than I did!,” he supposedly told a patient) knew cash value when he saw it. He insisted that an American patient in Vienna pay him only in $10 bills, deeming greenbacks “effective currency” compared to the Austrian kronen, a near-worthless medium of exchange after the First World War. More than anyone, Freud understood the Reality Principle; he had a family to feed. When it came to the American nation, though, Freud’s appraisal was grim: “America is a mistake; a gigantic mistake, but a mistake.”

A continent away from Freud’s place of birth, and a century-and-half later, Freud’s judgment hits, as it were, The Real. If you’re cynical enough, with the election season looming, the idea of gazing on the portraits of two thieves feels uncannily close to home. Freud unsparingly diagnosed the shallowness of American pretensions to national exceptionalism, technological progressivism, and social openness. He wrote about both American “prosperity” and “broadmindedness” only ironically, between scare quotes, and saw the opulence of American society and fervor of American patriotism as indexing something else entirely: “the psychological poverty of groups.” “The present cultural state of America,” he wrote in Civilization and Its Discontents(1930), “would give us a good opportunity for studying the damage to civilization which is thus to be feared.” He continued, bitingly: “But I shall avoid the temptation of entering upon a critique of American civilization; I do not wish to give an impression of wanting myself to employ American methods.”

More here.

Matthew Sturgis at Literary Review:

Beardsley had little formal training. He attended a few night classes at the Westminster School of Art. He learned by working – principally on two large commissions that he received in 1892 from the innovative publisher J M Dent, one for an illustrated edition of Malory’s Le Morte Darthur, the other for a series of ‘grotesques’ to adorn three volumes of bons mots by the wits of the 18th century. He worked on both in tandem over the course of some eighteen months. There were lots of drawings to be done: more than three hundred illuminated letters, chapter headings, tail pieces, borders and full-page illustrations for LeMorte, and around one hundred and thirty images for the Bon-Mots. He got heartily sick of the work, but the sheer volume of it and the speed at which he had to produce improved his penmanship to the point of mastery, stimulated his powers of invention and turned him from an amateur into a professional.

Beardsley delighted in symbolism and hidden allusions. He often used to smuggle subversive details into his pictures, to vex either the public or his publishers. John Lane, who published many of Beardsley’s finest works at the Bodley Head, complained that he had to look at the works upside down to check them for hidden improprieties. Even so, Beardsley managed to introduce into his Salome illustrations a portrait of Wilde as the moon and some phallic candelabra. Such japes have made Beardsley’s drawings a rich ground for interpretative exposition and Zatlin draws together many contemporary and more recent commentaries, some more fanciful than others. The ‘baton’ held by the Maîtresse d’Orchestre receives multiple intriguing interpretations.

more here.

Edwin Heathcote at the Financial Times:

Modernism began with an image of clean, lean whiteness; architecture as machine, stripped to its bones. Yet it was resurrected in Brutalism as a fierce, almost aggressive style in which multistorey car parks took on the look of ruined medieval castles or the hulks of aircraft carriers. We have lost some of the best examples — notably the Owen Luder Partnership’s Tricorn Centre and Gateshead Car Park (both designed by the brilliant Rodney Gordon) and the exuberantly sculptural Prentice Women’s Hospital in Chicago by Bertrand Goldberg. Many of these monuments remain under threat — Peter and Alison Smithson’s Robin Hood Gardens housing estate in London is due for demolition — just as they become fashionable again. Britain was a late-comer to Modernism but its Brutalism was in the vanguard, a world-class architecture that the host country is only now beginning to appreciate.

This is an architecture that contained the seeds of its own destruction in its name. “Brutalism” sounds alienating, savage, uncaring. Yet its origins are anything but. The term was coined in Sweden in 1950 to describe an inoffensive brick house that was, frankly, a bit boring. It was taken up with gusto by Brits on the lookout for the next big idea, then supplemented with the idea of béton brut — using raw concrete on the surface of buildings, as exemplified by Le Corbusier, who employed it in everything from housing estates to monasteries — and with Jean Dubuffet’s notion of l’art brut, or outsider art.

more here.

Edmund White at The New York Times:

Clébert writes of a place where you bought three Gauloises out of a pack, where beggars who’d been lucky stood their mates for a round and sang old ballads, then gathered a few butts “by way of provision for the night.” He visits the huts along the Seine where the ­corpses of suicides are fished out of the river. And he spends time in pitiful flea markets like the ones I saw in Montreuil in the ’90s, where vendors sell “unmatched pairs of boots, ragged jackets and trousers, garments at a hundred francs, surplus pieces of leather, printed papers much stained but still readable . . . bundles of postcards, bits of scrap metal, bags of bent and rusty nails, broken or defective concierge’s knickknacks, and so on. Unmatched, stained, bent, rusty, broken, defective — just like these poor devils, their ­faces plaster masks of ­no-more-hope.” Clébert is a master of the long, cascading list-­sentence, trippingly rendered into English by Donald Nicholson-Smith. His descriptions are mirrored by (not illustrated by) the bleak photographs of Patrice ­Molinard.

A connoisseur of chaos, Clébert is the poet of the lumpenproletariat and of a forgotten city: “Between the two ­bridges, mainly on the Left Bank, one’s sense of smell is overstimulated by a succession of odors, as follows (read slowly): cheese, very violent, then, by turns, gas welding, fresh periwinkles and new rust.” He has a very precise ­sensorium.

Luc Sante, who has written the informative introduction to this volume, has recently offered his own look at the city, “The Other Paris,” a brilliantly researched narrative that ­touches on everything from the Paris Commune to dime novels. Here he tells us that Clébert’s book was inspired by Henry Miller and Blaise ­Cendrars.

more here.

Joshua Ferris in The New York Times:

Something feels not quite right about subjecting Don DeLillo to the ordinary critical apparatus. I don’t read a DeLillo novel for its plot, character, setting; for who betrayed whom and how hard life with Mother was; for Phoenix days and Bombay nights; or for how to tune a fiddle. I read a DeLillo novel for its sentences. And sentence by sentence, DeLillo magically slips the knot of criticism and gives his readers what Nabokov maintained was all that mattered in life and art: individual genius. Sentence by sentence, DeLillo seduces. And I don’t just mean on the question of thumbs up or down; I mean that his sentences juke and weave around the best defenses, so that not only is the playing field of the past 50 years strewn with conservative critics of all stripes, but text, subtext, ultimate meanings remain elusive and the game, at least in part, now seems original to him.

For instance. Charles Maitland, a British security consultant in DeLillo’s 1982 novel “The Names,” compares Western expatriates — diplomats, businessmen, risk analysts — to members of the British Empire whose insouciant lives were full of “opportunity, adventure, sunsets, dusty death.” Even with so dour a conclusion, it all sounds winsome and romantic in Maitland’s formulation, which fails to take into account at whose expense opportunity and adventure are made. Later, Maitland complains: “They keep changing the names . . . Persia for one. We grew up with Persia. What a vast picture that name evoked. A vast carpet of sand. . . . I find I take these changes quite personally. . . . Every time another people’s republic emerges from the dust, I have the feeling someone has tampered with my childhood.” Clueless but effervescent, this is wit and world-weariness as two sides of the Western coin, the sort of thing one might smile at when spoken at a cocktail party. But it masks a deeper intent. DeLillo artfully reveals Maitland’s Western view of things while guiding the reader to ask: Who’s changing the names, and why? Smile, and the history of colonialism and the civil wars it ignited will be scrubbed out with a quip.

More here.

Love After Love

The time will come
when, with elation,
you will greet yourself arriving
at your own door, in your own mirror,
and each will smile at the other’s welcome,

and say, sit here. Eat.
You will love again the stranger who was your self.
Give win. Give bread. Give back your heart
to itself, to the stranger who has loved you

all your life, whom you ignored
for another, who knows you by heart.
Take down the love letters from the bookshelf,

the photographs, the desperate notes,
peel your own image from the mirror.
Sit. Feast on your life.
.

by Derek Walcott
from Sea Grapes
Farrar, Straus and Giroux, 1976)

From Guernica:

Guernica: So much of your work satirizes the white male cis patriarchy. But here I am, a white cis man, interviewing you. I don’t know what that means, but I want to start by acknowledging that.

Alok Vaid-Menon: Hopefully, by the end of this interview, we will help you recognize that you’re not cis.

Guernica: Please do.

Alok Vaid-Menon: I don’t believe in men. I’ve never met a man in my life.

Guernica: Okay. Please help me understand that.

Alok Vaid-Menon: I think one of the biggest betrayals that a lot of people don’t understand is that the term “gay” was never about signifying sexuality. When the gay liberation movement started, it was actually about political confrontation of gender as a system, and some of the foundational divides in the gay movement were between gay men who wanted to assimilate into masculinity and gay men who were challenging the very idea of masculinity.

What happened in the gay movement was that trans became the space for gender non-conformity, whereas gay became nice, palatable, assimilate-able. For me, that feels like something imposed on us by heterosexual society—that you have to be men in order to validate your sexual desires, that your queerness is so ominous and threatening that it has to be in a man’s body in order to be understood.

Janani Balasubramanian: I think what Alok was saying with the idea of how we’ve never met a man in our lives, is that manhood is not just an ideal of gender; it also becomes a set of ideals around race, class, respectability, purchasing power, whatever. I’ve never met a single person in their lives who’s rich, has no feelings, goes to the gym every hour, drinks protein shakes all day. This person doesn’t exist.

More here.

Vaughan Bell in The Atlantic:

There is a brief time, between waking and sleep, when reality begins to warp. Rigid conscious thought starts to dissolve into the gently lapping waves of early stage dreaming and the world becomes a little more hallucinatory, your thoughts a little more untethered. Known as the hypnagogic state, it has received only erratic attention from researchers over the years, but a recent series of studies have renewed interest in this twilight period, with the hope it can reveal something fundamental about consciousness itself.

Traditionally, the hypnagogic state has been studied as part of the sleep disorder narcolepsy, where the brain’s inability to separate waking life and dreaming can result in terrifying hallucinations. But it’s also part of the normal transition into sleep, beginning when our mind is first affected by drowsiness and ending when we finally lose consciousness. It is brief and often slips by unnoticed, but consistent careful attention to your inner experience after you bed down can reveal an unfolding mindscape of curious sounds, abstract scenery, and tumbling thoughts. This meandering cognitive state results from what Cambridge University researcher Valdas Noreika calls a “natural fragmentation of consciousness” and the idea that this can be tracked over the early minutes of sleep entry is the basis of recent hypnagogia research.

More here.

David Dayen in The Intercept [h/t: Fawzia Naqvi]:

I’M REASONABLY CERTAIN I was the only attendee arriving to the Milken Institute Global Conference by Los Angeles public bus. The organizers recommended that, with parking at a premium around the Beverly Hilton, people use “limo, Uber, Lyft, or taxi,” in that order.

A fifth option was presumably a corporate jet; a $72 million Bombardier Global 7000 was parked adjacent to a bar and lounge, and available for attendee tours.

The Milken conference, named after the junk bond financier who went to prison for securities law violations, is the closest thing that we on the West Coast have to Davos. It’s the kind of place where you can hear one stranger say to another, “You work in Hong Kong? I work in Hong Kong as well!”

Heads of state hobnob with heads of business, and a few celebrities – Kobe Bryant, Tom Hanks – are sprinkled in as well. But most attendees have the words “Capital Management” somewhere on their badges. It’s where the financial elite get together to tell each other elite things, and nod sagely at the results.

“Emerging markets will either be at the bottom of your portfolio or the top,” intoned Afsaneh Beschloss, founder of the hedge fund Rock Creek, during a panel on investing. “Sometimes in the middle.”

It’s like if Tom Friedman was multiplied by 4,300 and congregated in a hotel lobby.

At the root, the Milken conference is an investor conference. Attendees want to know about national politics and global military campaigns, but only insofar as that intelligence produces new opportunities to make money. A panel called “Value in Turmoil” was as packed as any that I attended. “Opportunities in distress” was a recurring theme.

“There’s a lot more hope in emerging markets,” said Steve Tananbaum, a vulture fund investor with GoldenTree Asset Management during a panel in the International Ballroom, the same place where they hold the Golden Globes. “Argentina and Brazil, there’s a reaction that’s a positive, pro-market reaction,” he added, referring to the attempted coup on Dilma Roussef. Discussion of the effect on people living in these countries was outside the frame of reference.

More here.

Adam Kirsch in Tablet:

Today most Americans would be surprised to learn that the original ghettos were inhabited by Jews. That is the experience Mitchell Duneier relates in his new book Ghetto: The Invention of a Place, the History of an Idea, when it comes to teaching his own students at Princeton about the history of the ghetto. For the last 70 years, Duneier shows, the word “ghetto” has for Americans become exclusively associated with poor black neighborhoods, especially in big cities like New York and Chicago. Few people know that, for centuries before America even existed, Jews in many European cities were legally confined to walled neighborhoods known as ghettos. (“Ghetto” is the Italian word for “foundry”; the first Jewish enclave in Venice was located on the same island as a foundry, and the word came to refer to the neighborhood by extension.)

When it comes to understanding the black American ghetto, can we learn anything from the history of the European Jewish ghetto? It is a tricky question, which Duneier addresses carefully, since it seems to invite comparisons about who was more victimized and more resilient. Yet as he tells the story of the evolution of American thinking about the black ghetto—primarily through the lens of successive generations of academic sociologists, from Gunnar Myrdal to William Julius Wilson—the Jewish ghetto refuses to disappear. It haunts the subject like a ghost, raising questions that continue to define the way sociologists think about ghettos today.

Matters are complicated by the fact that, during the Holocaust, the word “ghetto” took on a very different freight than the one it had traditionally carried. Ghettos like the ones in Venice or Frankfurt were poor, isolated neighborhoods subject to discrimination and surveillance; but they were places where Jews lived and where their culture and civilization sometimes thrived. These ghettos had almost all disappeared by the 20th century, as European countries abolished official discrimination against Jews. It was the Nazis who brought the word back into common use when they created their own Jewish ghettos in occupied cities like Warsaw and Vilna. But the Nazi ghettos were not places for Jews to live; they were places for Jews to die of starvation and disease, or to await death in the gas chambers.

More here.

Salil Tripathi in Live Mint:

Sixty years ago this month, film critics Lindsay Anderson, Georges Sadoul and Lotte Eisner joined filmmaker Jules Dassin to prevail upon Dassin’s co-jurists at the Cannes Film Festival to give a little-known black-and-white film another chance. Many of them had missed that film at its first screening, but they trooped in to see it. The film was made on location and had a bunch of unknown actors who seemed so natural that it appeared they were living out their lives in front of the cameras. And the critics were transfixed.

Later that week, the jury honoured the film, Satyajit Ray’sPather Panchali, with the award for the best human document. The long journey Ray had begun almost five years earlier, staking everything including his wife’s jewellery and convincing the chief minister of West Bengal to become the film’s producer, had reached a resounding end.

Ray had made that film based on Bibhutibhushan Bandyopadhyay’s elegiac tale set in rural Bengal. The Cannes honour has stood the test of time. Sixty years later,Pather Panchali resonates with freshness and with what critics have called its lyrical humanism. There is poetry in that film—in its silences, its imagery, its starkness—and there is humanity. Pather Panchali shines.

More here.

Jessa Crispin in Boston Review:

Two weeks after I left the United States for a stay in Germany, I found myself nearly incapacitated by nausea, pain, dizziness, and fatigue. I had moved to Berlin on my own. I knew no one in the city and barely spoke the language. My American health insurance did me no good, and I had not yet set up German coverage.

Alone, with no one to care for me, I dragged myself to daily doctor appointments. I stumbled around grocery stores, trying to cope with the nationwide lack of Saltine crackers when everything I ate immediately came back up. And every day, I worked from my bed, with my laptop laid warmly on my chest. Freelance writers do not get sick leave. After about ten days of this, I had a quick outpatient surgery, paid for with cash. I woke up from the anesthesia, still alone, in a small, curtained cubicle, only to find the clinic would not release me unless someone picked me up. I called the only local whose phone number I had, a German guy I had met at a party on one of my first days in the country. “This is going to sound weird . . . .” But he was a war photographer, and he handled it well. “I once had to have surgery in rural Nigeria,” he told me as he bundled me into his car.

While reading Rebecca Traister’s All the Single Ladies: Unmarried Women and the Rise of an Independent Nation, I often thought of this episode. In her examination of America’s fast-growing unmarried population, Traister makes single life sound so romantic. She is married now, but she looks back on singlehood as a period of ease and freedom. If bad things happened to her, it was only the universe demonstrating how much she could overcome. Her great challenge was transporting an air conditioner to her apartment. Turns out, it wasn’t that hard. She got a taxi, and then her landlord helped her carry it up the stairs. She felt empowered.

My story does not make me feel empowered. It makes me feel lucky. I was lucky that German law allows even uninsured people to obtain treatment at a price I could afford. I was lucky to have had surgery early enough to fix my problem. But with luck comes fear.

More here.

Eliana Osborne in The Morning News:

I believe that my soul is eternal. It was before I was here and it will remain when my body is worm-ridden. Rather than a comfort in my life, this has been a trial to me. I don’t want to have a life after this one. The idea of forever horrifies my mind and churns my stomach. I like endings. They make sense. Continuation? That seems like hell. I hope that when this stage is done my mind will comprehend better rather than fear. I was raised in a religious family, though that has little to do with my own faith. I’ve always felt the presence of God in my life and feel connected to Him. Some view that as a gift of the spirit, but that surety has stressed me out as often as it has comforted me. I hesitate to call my belief faith, so clear it seems to me that I couldn’t turn it off if I tried (and I have).

Actively, I am not looking to die. But it wouldn’t really bother me. I don’t want to make life challenging for my kids but for myself? I’ve got no worries on the subject. As you might imagine, people don’t generally enjoy talking to me about The Big Picture. I truly don’t understand how the myriad Christians I know, who profess to believe that resurrection is available, are terrified of death. My mother says she’s just not ready now. Others say they fear the pain and suffering before death. Both arguments make sense, I suppose—the theoretical is always different than the personal. And no one, not even the most sanguine, would invite excruciating pain into her life. But really, if you believe, shouldn’t you be cool with it?

More here.