The Immoralist (1902), by André Gide, translated by Dorothy Bussy

 

1001 Books begins its summary of The Immoralist like this:

A thought-provoking book that still has the power to challenge complacent attitudes and unfounded cultural assumptions, The Immoralist recounts a young Parisian man's attempt to overcome social and sexual conformity. (1001 Books You Must Read Before You Die, ABC Books 2006, p.241)

The novella is prefaced by an attempt to explain that the 'problem' of the book existed before it was written.  It is then book-ended at the beginning by a pseudo-letter to the Prime Minister that asks what role in society a young man like the hero might have... and completed by that same friend's awkward conclusion after the hero's story has been told.  That story is narrated by Michel, who starts out as an austere young scholar and ends up as a defiant hedonist.

The translation, by Dorothy Bussy, uses the term 'hero' in the preface.  But it does not seem to me that there is anything heroic about Michel.

BEWARE: SPOILERS

Michel's mother died when he was fifteen, and he was only twenty-four when he married Marceline to please his dying father.  He says at the outset that he does not love her.  Marceline is a devout Catholic—whose role in the novel is to be a devoted and uncomplaining wife—and she saves Michel's life on their honeymoon in Tunisia when he has his first haemorrhage from undiagnosed TB. This experience makes him re-evaluate his life, and sets him on a path towards pleasure.

And suddenly I was seized with a desire, a craving, something more furious and more imperious than I had ever felt before—to live! I want to live! I will live. I clenched my teeth, my hands, concentrated my whole being in this wild, grief-stricken endeavour towards existence. (p.29)

Through Marceline's attentive care, and his own determination to recover, he begins to recuperate and finds himself enjoying the company of Arab children.  Though nothing is explicit, frequent references to bare skin makes it clear that a sensual attraction to these boys is emerging.  There is a curious incident with Moktir, who he sees stealing Marceline's scissors.  Michel says and does nothing to reprove him, and in a sign that his moral compass is beginning to shift, Moktir becomes his favourite.

(We do not judge novels from 1902 by the moral standards of today, but we note that these are boys not of the same age as Michel, and his money and status in a French colonial society makes for unequal power relations between them.)

At the same time Michel begins to notice how pretty Marceline is, and he pays more attention to her.  They have, however, still not consummated their marriage.

Michel's rejection of bourgeois life and the trappings of society becomes clearer when he returns to Europe. They travel through Italy, where Michel realises that he has lost interest in his field of expertise, classical history.  By abandoning austerity to indulge only his sensual appetites, he has alienated himself from his education, his family values, and European culture.

While his father was alive, he had lived a simple life and did not even realise that they were wealthy.  But his inheritance comes with certain obligations including attention to the family estate, La Morinière in Normandy.  This estate is managed by an ageing man called Bocage whose loyalty and honesty have been unquestioned.  Michel, however, becomes attracted to his son, Charles, who persuades him that his father's ways are old-fashioned.  Michel's behaviour becomes bizarre when he moves on from allowing Charles to make some changes, to indulging his desire to be closer to the earth and the people who work it, to the detriment of the farm and its income.  He allows the sloppy team that does the annual tree-lopping to leave the job unfinished so that new growth is sabotaged; he joins Bocage's son Alcide in poaching from his own land while at the same time requiring Bocage to catch the poachers; and he interferes with the management of the tenant farmers so that they end up leaving and the untended farm becomes worthless.

The couple return to Paris and though the inheritance is diminishing, they take very expensive rooms and live in luxury.

Marceline, meanwhile, has been neglected, but when Michel belatedly notices that she has become ill, he rushes her off the alps where the clear air brings some improvement.  Alas for Marceline, his boredom resurfaces, and they embark on travels in Europe and North Africa which bring her nothing but bad food, poor hotels, exhaustion and exacerbation of her condition.  Reading this section reminds the reader that Michel has recovered from his TB due to attentive care and good management of his condition.  His selfish hedonism and distaste for her symptoms means that when she contracts the same disease, her prognosis is entirely different.

Reading the concluding pages also reminded me of the selfish behaviour of John Middleton Murry, that I read about in Kathleen Jones' bio Katherine Mansfield, Storyteller. Murry's insistence on living in England forced Katherine Mansfield to return to its perilous weather when really, she needed to be nurtured in a more benign climate on the continent.  The descriptions of Mansfield's struggle for breath and her constant haemorrhages towards the end of her tragic life were in my mind as I read about Marceline.

The reason for Gide's semi-apologetic preface becomes clearer as the narrative deteriorates into self-pity.  Michel's freedom from bourgeois constraints and conventional morality has trapped him in a spiral of loss, and with Marceline's death he has nothing to live for and no one to care about him except for these friends to whom in extremis he has turned.

What frightens me, I admit, is that I am still very young. It seems to me sometimes that my real life has not begun. Take me away from here and give me some reason for living. I have none left. I have freed myself. That may be. But what does it signify? This objectless liberty is a burden to me. (p.157)

But the unnamed friend has his doubts:

...we each of us had a strange feeling of uneasiness.  We felt, alas, that by telling his story, Michel had made his action more legitimate.  Our not having known at what point to condemn it in the course of his long explanation seemed almost to make us his accomplices.  We felt, as it were, involved.  He finished his story without a quaver in his voice, without an inflection or a gesture to show that he was feeling any emotion whatever; he might have had a cynical pride in not appearing moved or a kind of shyness that made him afraid or arousing emotion in us by his tears, or he might not in fact have been moved.  Even now I cannot guess what proportions pride, strength, reserve and want of feeling were combined in him.  (p.157)

As 1001 Books concludes:

Michel's attempt to access a deeper truth by repudiating culture, decency and morality results in confusion and loss.  In being true to himself, Michel has harmed others.  Yet the novel remains as much an indictment of the arbitrary constraints of a hypocritical society as it is of Michel's behaviour. (1001 Books, p.241)

That letter to the Prime Minister makes more sense when we realise that Michel is going to need a job because he's gone through his entire fortune.

The dilemma, to which 1001 Books refers when suggesting that the book has the power to challenge complacent attitudes and unfounded cultural assumptions, is that most contemporary readers would support Michel's discovery of a life beyond the confines mapped out by his father, including exploring his own sexuality and making friendships outside his own class.  The problem is that he goes too far: he exploits and then cruelly neglects his wife; he takes advantage of boys too young to exercise any real choice; and he destroys a working farm that provided income to people more vulnerable to poverty than he is.  This is distasteful, but Gide had his reasons for framing it this way.  As it says at Wikipedia:

Gide exposes to public view the conflict and eventual reconciliation of the two sides of his personality (characterized by a Protestant austerity and a transgressive sexual adventurousness, respectively), which a strict and moralistic education had helped set at odds. Gide's work can be seen as an investigation of freedom and empowerment in the face of moralistic and puritanical constraints, and centres on his continuous effort to achieve intellectual honesty. His self-exploratory texts reflect his search of how to be fully oneself, including owning one's sexual nature, without at the same time betraying one's values. (André Gide page, Wikipedia, viewed 17/1/21)

Author: André Gide
Title: The Immoralist (L'Immoraliste)
Publisher: Penguin Modern Classics, 1960, 1986 reprint, first published in 1902
ISBN: 9780140014976, pbk., 159 pages
Source: personal library, OpShopFind

© Lisa Hill

Cross-posted at ANZ LitLovers where you can join in a conversation about the book if you want to.

 


The Bridge on the Drina (1945, Bosnian Trilogy #1) by Ivo Andrić, translated by Lovett F. Edwards


 

Another title from 1001 Books You Must Read Before You Die!

The Bridge on the Drina, by Nobel Prize winning author Ivo Andrić (1892-1975), is also listed on 'The World's Required Reading List at TEDEd' compiled from books assigned to students around the world, and I've also seen it reviewed at the Global Literature in Libraries blog.

As 1001 Books says, it's more a chronicle than a novel, organised into vignettes describing the life of the local population in Bosnia and Herzegovina and its transformations over the centuries. It's also rather a melancholy experience to read it, because the metaphor of the bridge as a symbol of coexistence, as depicted in the front cover image by Wiktor Sadowski, collapses under the weight of recent history.

(I wouldn't be the only Australian who didn't know where Bosnia was until the Bosnian War (1992-95) erupted.  But I learned fast.  In the 1990s I taught refugee Bosnian children who had fled dreadful experiences, and long afterwards I was still having to deal with unacceptable hostilities towards them from Serbian children in the playground.)

The book begins with the building of the bridge during the 16th-century Ottoman Empire, and ends with World War I, when it was partially destroyed.  For three centuries the bridge is cherished by the villagers as a gift of Mehmed-paša Sokolović, the Grand Vezir, a man who—in forced tribute to the Sultan—was taken as a boy from his Christian family, forced to convert to Islam, given a Turkish name, and served three Sultans during his lifetime.  When he rose to great power in the Sultan's court, he sought to assuage the pain that had never left him, by building a magnificent bridge in his homeland.

Designed by the Ottoman architect Mimar Sinan, the bridge was a marvel of engineering and until the funding for it ran out in the dying days of the Ottoman Empire, it boasted a caravanserai (a roadside inn) as a focal point for drinking and gossiping.  But the building of it was fraught with tension, and Andrić does not spare the reader the violence that was used on the hapless forced labourers who built it.  Legends of children walled up inside it are remembered along with the gruesome torture and death of a man thought to be a saboteur.

Andrić's genius lies in his brilliant juxtapositions of humanity at its best and its worst.  There is a story about a man whose high ambitions for his beautiful daughter are compromised by his own vanity.  She, unable to contemplate a marriage beneath her yet unable to defy the father she loves, throws herself off the bridge after the ceremony so that she can be true to herself and yet not humiliate him.

Peasants and shopkeepers alike, can be wily and foolish, diligent and lazy, or clever and ignorant.  They work hard and prosper, or they gamble away everything they have.  There is a great of intemperate drinking, and a general lack of enthusiasm for change.  As the years roll by, they weather new imperial ambitions culminating in the Austro-Hungarian Occupation, accommodating some impositions but struggling with others.

In truth the peasants too found it hard to grow accustomed to the railway.  They made use of it, but could not feel at ease with it and could not understand its ways and habits.  They would come down from the mountains at the first crack of dawn, reaching the town about sunrise, and by the time they reached the first shops they would begin asking everyone they met:

'Has the machine gone?'

'By your life and health, neighbour, it has gone long ago,' the idle shopkeepers lied heartlessly.

'Really gone?'

'No matter.  There'll be another tomorrow.'

They asked everyone without stopping for a moment, hurrying onwards and shouting at their wives and children who lagged behind.

They arrived at the station running.  One of the railwaymen reassured them and told them that they had been misinformed and there were still three good hours before the departure of the train.  Then they recovered their breath and sat down along the walls of the station buildings, took out their breakfasts, ate them, and chatted or dozed, but remained continually alert.  Whenever they heard the whistle of some goods engine they would leap to their feet and bundle up their things together, shouting:

'Get up! Here comes the machine!'

The station official on the platform cursed them and drove them out again:

'Didn't I just tell you that it was more than three hours before the train comes?  What are you rushing for?  Have you taken leave of your senses?'

They went back to their old places and sat down once more, but still suspicious and distrustful. (pp. 213-4)

But though the pages flow easily through the centuries, like an evil thread, the tensions between Christians, Muslims and Jews erupt from time to time.  And the story ends with the assassination of the Crown Prince as the catalyst for the destruction of the bridge, summarised best at Wikipedia:

In June 1914, Bosnian Serb student Gavrilo Princip assassinates Archduke Franz Ferdinand in Sarajevo, setting off a chain of events that lead to the outbreak of World War I. Austria-Hungary declares war on Serbia, and the local authorities begin to incite Višegrad's non-Serb population against the town's Serb residents. The bridge with the old road to Sarajevo suddenly regains its importance, as the railway line is not adequate to transport all the materiel and soldiers who are preparing to attack Serbia in the autumn of 1914. Austria-Hungary's invasion is swiftly repulsed and the Serbians advance across the Drina, prompting the Austro-Hungarians to evacuate Višegrad and destroy portions of the bridge.

Ivo Andrić's Nobel Prize citation reads "for the epic force with which he has traced themes and depicted human destinies drawn from the history of his country", and indeed, that is just what Andrić does in this unforgettable story.

Author: Ivo Andrić
Title: The Bridge on the Drina
Translated by Lovett F. Edwards
Front cover image by Wiktor Sadowski, design by Joan Sommers
Introduction by William H. McNeill
Publisher: University of Chicago Press, 1977, first published 1945
ISBN: 9780226020457, pbk., 314 pages
Source: Personal library, purchased from the Book Depository

© Lisa Hill

Cross-posted at ANZ LitLovers where you can join in a conversation about the book if you want to.


The Aunt’s Story (1948), by Patrick White,

 

This review is in two parts, from my first reading of the novel in 2005, and then my second thoughts after reading David Marr's biography of Patrick White. 

7th September, 2005

 I first read The Aunt's Story years ago, perhaps when I was at university, and my recollection was that it was more accessible than The Tree of Man.  Perhaps so, but not as an audio book?  I really liked Part I, which retraces Theodora's childhood and girlhood, but Part II in the Hotel Jardin d'Exotique, and Part III in America was very hard to follow.

BEWARE: SPOILERS (though anybody reading PW for the plot is going to be disappointed).

It begins when Theodora Goodman, unmarried aunt to Lou, which is a role she likes, is finally liberated by the death of her tyrannical mother.  White is savage in his portrait of this domineering woman, who openly preferred her daughter Fanny, who is pretty and vacuous but marriageable to Frank Porritt, a dull but comfortable farmer. Theodora's father likes his older daughter, and others, such as the travelling salesman, see her interesting personality too, but she is too stubborn to play flirting games with Huntly, and her teacher fears for her future.

Released from her mother, Theodora travels and meets an oddball cast of characters in France.  There's Katrina Pavlou, an American divorcée, a Russian military type, a disagreeable Englishwoman.  Are these characters real?  They reinvent Theodora to suit themselves, e.g. the Russian gent calls her Ludmilla, after his sister, but the conversations are bizarre.

The hotel burns down, and somehow Theodora ends up roaming around in the backblocks of America, where she is taken in by a poverty-stricken family until finally she taken away to an asylum.

What is White on about?? Is it spinsterhood that leads to madness, or eccentricity?  Or is Theodora's determination to be herself that alienates her from the shallowness of 'normal' life?  I don't know, and from what I've seen of website reviews, I am not alone. [BTW Goodreads didn't launch till Dec 2006, and Library Thing not until August 2005, so I think that this reference is to a now defunct ABC website titled 'Why Bother with Patrick White?']

But I loved Part I.  Scathingly funny and brilliant imagery.  I shall try to read it again one day.

I finished reading the book and journalled it on the 7th of September, 2005.


It so happens that working my way through the Nobel reviews that I have in my journals and reaching The Aunt's Story coincides with my reading of David Marr's Patrick White, a Life. It's a brilliant biography, and like all good literary bios, it analyses the influences on the novels and delves into the experiences from which they derive.  Marr tells me that PW was in Britain when he decided to cut himself free from his mother's ambitions... he had allowed her to think that he concurred with her plan for him to work in the diplomatic service so that he could go to Cambridge, but he wanted to be a writer.  This internal drama is explored repeatedly in his writing: heroes are escapees who abandon lives laid down for them.  As Theodora does.

Another gem from Marr is that PW was bored by a single PoV, he liked to lose himself by writing the PoVs of a number of characters, and 'acted them' at the typewriter.  (Hence the bizarre cast of characters in the Jardin d'Exotique.) But also...

...one of the fundamental assumptions in White's work is that all we value — society, relationships, even fortunes — are sliding into decay.  The familiar situation of most of his novels is the lone figure seeking fulfilment in a world drifting towards ugliness and violence, loneliness and poverty.' (p.151)

Marr also explains that the catalyst for The Aunt's Story was a painting he'd bought from his then lover Roy de Maistre.  It was called 'The Aunt' and was painted after Roy had visited the site where one of his relatives had been killed by a buzz-bomb late in the war. 

On a heap of rubble he found a photograph of the dead woman's mother and from this grim souvenir he painted the portrait of a woman in full Edwardian dress but with a face entirely blank, as if her clothes were on a tailor's dummy.

The image of 'The Aunt' fused in White's mind with a long-planned novel about a wandering spinster going mad in a world on the brink of violence. (p.237)

Theodora was based on PW's godmother: they were both women who thought a great deal but said very little; each was a distinguished creature in spite of her dowdiness and ugliness.  Theodora's horrible mother is based on Elizabeth Morrice, the first person to fire his literary imagination. That seems an unkind reward for introducing him to Hamlet, but there you are, that was PW. And Elizabeth Morrice had condemned her daughters to spinsterhood with her snobbery.)

As for Part II of the novel which I found so strange, this is what Marr has to say about Theodora already a little mad in the Jardin d'Exotique:

In this odd garden, Theodora becomes the people she encounters.  The writing shifts from the present to the past, from lives lived to lives imagined by the exiles in the hotel.  Theodora Goodman discovers, invents and enters their lives, drawing on her small store of experience and a deep well of imagination. These are the hallucinations of a lonely traveller, but also a picture of White's technique  as a writer.  A name, a glance, a snatch of conversation overheard leads her into these vividly imagined existences.  So it was with White, his imagination stimulated by a face in the street, tiny details of gossip, odd names discovered in a newspaper.  'How many of us,' she asks, 'lead more than one of our several lives?'

White drew into the jardin exotique the cross-currents of pre-war Europe. The German Lieselotte was a 'figment or facet' of himself born out of his experience in a world falling apart.  'I had lived in London through the 'Thirties, through the Spanish Civil War (certainly only at a distance), I discovered Spengler, and became fairly intimately involved in Hitler's War.  All those experiences contributed to Lieslelotte's remark, 'We must destroy everything, everything, even ourselves.  Then at last when there is nothing, perhaps we shall live.' (p.240)


You can see in my initial review that I had glimpsed that characters in Part II were inventing themselves, but it hadn't dawned on me that Theodora was inventing them...

Credits:

  • The Aunt's Story, by Patrick White, Penguin Books, 1962, first published by Eyre & Spottiswoode UK 1948, ISBN 9780670001064
  • Patrick White, a life, by David Marr, Random House Australia, 1991, ISBN0091825857, personal copy, purchased second-hand from Diversity Books $25
© Lisa Hill
Cross-posted at ANZ LitLovers where you can join in a conversation about the book if you want to.

The Adventures of Augie March (1953), by Saul Bellow

 

Saul Bellow's third novel, The Adventures of Augie March (1953) was the one that propelled him to fame when it won the (US) National Book Award for Fiction, and it's been on my 1001 Books I Must Read wishlist for a while, so I was quite pleased when it turned up on the display shelf at my library.  (The only other Bellow I've ever read was his last novel Ravelstein, (2000) which didn't really excite me, so I hadn't exactly been hunting for Bellows to read).  #TrueConfession: I borrowed it expecting not to like it very much, perhaps to eliminate it after 50 pages if it didn't engage me as Ravelstein had failed to do.  How nice it is to be so wrong about a book!

The Adventures of Augie March gets its place in 1001 Books because:

This lavish, bustling narrative written in the picaresque tradition reinvents the hero as a modern day Huck Finn.  Augie is a handsome and contemplative character who becomes embroiled in a series of increasingly exotic escapades.  In an odyssey that takes him from Chicago to Mexico, from Europe to an open boat in the mid-Atlantic, the footloose hero is recruited to a series of crackpot scams that include book stealing, arms trading and being appointed the task of guarding Trotsky.

(1001 Books You Must Read Before You Die, Edited by Peter Boxall, 2001  ABC Books edition, p.475)

In the Penguin edition that I read, Christopher Hitchens hesitates in the Introduction to bestow the title of The Great American Novel, but he admires Augie March for its scope, its optimism and its principles:

... 'the universal eligibility to be noble' (eligibility connotes being elected as well as being chosen) is as potent a statement of the American dream as has ever been uttered. (p. viii)

Augie's ambition to be noble on his own terms, like his quest to be an educated man on his own terms, seems like an anachronism in the proudly ignorant amoral era of Trump, but the expression of an ideal, even though largely unrealised, seems refreshing even though the book was written more than half a century ago.  The Sensational Snippet that I posted about the possibilities of sharing the great moments of nobility through reading tells us that a triumphant life can be real, even for a poor boy living in Depression era Chicago.

The nobility Augie aspires to can seem lost in the murk of what he actually does.  Most of Augie's enterprises, right from when Grandma sends him out for part-time work when he's barely into his teens, involve dishonesty at the least.  As a boy he creams off small amounts from a Christmas lucky-dip stall; as a man he's involved in all kinds of shonky business, though he would say that he gets manipulated into it by others.  But there are moments: he stops his all-powerful brother kicking a dog; he rescues his mother from a sordid old age; and he loses the prospect of marrying a rich woman when he shoulders responsibility for a girl (who's not his girlfriend) when she needs an abortion and then it's assumed he's the father.  She's a friend, and she needs support, and he doesn't just risk criminal prosecution when things go badly wrong for her, he also risks the one relationship that sustains him, the love of his brother Simon.

A critical moment occurs when he finds he admires an American eagle that won't cooperate with his girlfriend's plans for it.  He's a man who keeps his thoughts very much to himself, but he can't conceal his dismay about her behaviour with the creatures she wants to exploit, and that's the catalyst for another failed relationship.   We see this inclination towards nobility in extremis too, when in the Merchant Marines his ship is blown up by a torpedo and he finds himself stranded in a lifeboat with a madman.  It's a gripping episode in an episodic book, probably the one that I will best remember...

The Misanthrope by Pieter Bruegel the Elder (Source: Wikipedia Commons)The aspiration to be an educated man is curious.  He has numerous opportunities to get to college, (and perhaps then to a professional career) and he doesn't take them.  He could have been a teacher, but passes that up too.  But he reads voraciously, and the book is full of all kinds of allusions, some of which, I bet, made the book frustrating to read in the days before we could Google "wise old man walking in empty fields", +"Netherlands painting" + "Italian gallery"... to find The Misanthrope by Pieter Bruegel the Elder...

 There's an old, singular, beautiful Netherlands picture I once saw in an Italian gallery, of a wise old man walking in empty fields, pensive, while a thief behind cuts the string of his purse. The old man, in black, thinking probably of God's City, nevertheless has a foolish length of nose and is much too satisfied with his dream. But the peculiarity of the thief is that he is enclosed in a glass ball, and on the glass ball there is a surmounting cross, and it looks like the emperor's symbol of rule. Meaning that it is earthly power that steals while the ridiculous wise are in a dream about this world and the next, and perhaps missing this one, they will have nothing, neither this nor the next, so there is a sharp pain of satire in this amusing thing, and even the painted field does not have too much charm; it is a flat piece. (p. 190-1.)

This painting is held at the National Museum of Capodimonte in Naples and once I found it at Wikipedia I realised that I'd seen it before somewhere, because it's a famous painting with a moral still very relevant for our times.  Vanity tries to steal from a man who wants to relinquish the world.  He's not aware of the thief behind him, and he hasn't noticed the caltrops in front of him.  But when he finds his purse is gone and he stumbles into those traps, he's going to have to face up to the world he lives in and is part of.  He (and we) can't abandon responsibility for the world's difficulties.  Like the shepherd guarding the sheep in the background, he has to do his share.

Bellow doesn't just reference paintings: Augie laments that his brother Simon had gotten hold of some English schoolboy notions of honour and that Tom Brown's Schooldays for many years had an influence we were not in a position to afford.  Well, most people my age would be familiar with that book.   But other allusions are not so obvious.  Grandma doesn't want to read Tolstoi on religion. She didn't trust him as a family man because the countess had such trouble with him. Would I have known what this meant if I hadn't read War and Peace and Sonya by Judith Armstrong, a reimagining of Countess Sonya Tolstoy's relationship with her exasperating husband?  And this one, selected at random as I write this?

School absorbed [Simon] more, and he had his sentiments anyway, a mixed extract from Natty Bumppo, Quentin Durward, Tom Brown, Clark at Kaskaskia, the messenger who brought the good news from Ratisbon, and so on, that kept him more to himself.  (p. 12)

I've looked these up now that I'm online but I didn't recognise them when I was reading the book in bed and I certainly wasn't going to crank up the laptop in the middle of the night to find out.  I just let them (and others) wash over me with a vague idea that I might look them up later but of course I haven't because I didn't write them down. I don't think it matters: I enjoyed the allusions I recognised and I passed on the ones I missed.

I liked this book very much, and will one day get to the rest of the Bellows listed in 1001 Books. (He's got seven novels listed in my edition).  A good start to my reading year!

Author: Saul Bellow
Title: The Adventures of Augie March
Publisher: Penguin Modern Classics, 2001
ISBN 9780141184869
Source: Kingston Library

© Lisa Hill

Cross-posted at ANZ LitLovers where you can join in a conversation about the book if you want to.


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