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Flappers and Philosophers
by F. Scott Fitzgerald
Head and Shoulders
Additional Information
- Year Published: 1920
- Language: English
- Country of Origin: United States of America
- Source: Fitzgerald, S. (1920). Flappers and Philosophers. New York, NY: Doubleday, Page & Company.
-
Readability:
- Flesch–Kincaid Level: 6.8
- Word Count: 9,570
- Genre: Realism
- Keywords: fiction, short story
- ✎ Cite This
Downloads
In 1915 Horace Tarbox was thirteen years old. In that year he took the examinations for entrance to Princeton University and received the Grade A—excellent—in C�sar, Cicero, Vergil, Xenophon, Homer, Algebra, Plane Geometry, Solid Geometry, and Chemistry.
Two years later while George M. Cohan was composing "Over There," Horace was leading the sophomore class by several lengths and digging out theses on "The Syllogism as an Obsolete Scholastic Form," and during the battle of Ch�teau–Thierry he was sitting at his desk deciding whether or not to wait until his seventeenth birthday before beginning his series of essays on "The Pragmatic Bias of the New Realists."
After a while some newsboy told him that the war was over, and he was glad, because it meant that Peat Brothers, publishers, would get out their new edition of "Spinoza's Improvement of the Understanding." Wars were all very well in their way, made young men self–reliant or something but Horace felt that be could never forgive the President for allowing a brass band to play under his window the night of the false armistice, causing him to leave three important sentences out of his thesis on "German Idealism."
The next year he went up to Yale to take his degree as Master of Arts.
He was seventeen then, tall and slender, with near–sighted gray eyes and an air of keeping himself utterly detached from the mere words he let drop.
"I never feel as though I'm talking to him," expostulated Professor Dillinger to a sympathetic colleague. "He makes me feel as though I were talking to his representative. I always expect him to say: 'Well, I'll ask myself and find out.'"
And then, just as nonchalantly as though Horace Tarbox bad been Mr. Beef the butcher or Mr. Hat the haberdasher, life reached in, seized him, handled him, stretched him, and unrolled him like a piece of Irish lace on a Saturday–afternoon bargain–counter.
To move in the literary fashion I should say that this was all because when way back in colonial days the hardy pioneers had come to a bald place in Connecticut and asked of each other, "Now, what shall we build here?" the hardiest one among 'em had answered: "Let's build a town where theatrical managers can try out musical comedies!" How afterward they founded Yale College there, to try the musical comedies on, is a story every one knows. At any rate one December, "Home James" opened at the Shubert, and all the students encored Marcia Meadow, who sang a song about the Blundering Blimp in the first act and did a shaky, shivery, celebrated dance in the last.
Marcia was nineteen. She didn't have wings, but audiences agreed generally that she didn't need them. She was a blonde by natural pigment, and she wore no paint on the streets at high noon. Outside of that she was no better than most women.
It was Charlie Moon who promised her five thousand Pall Malls if she would pay a call on Horace Tarbox, prodigy extraordinary. Charlie was a senior in Sheffield, and he and Horace were first cousins. They liked and pitied each other.
Horace had been particularly busy that night. The failure of the Frenchman Laurier to appreciate the significance of the new realists was preying on his mind. In fact, his only reaction to a low, clear–cut rap at his study was to make him speculate as to whether any rap would have actual existence without an ear there to hear it. He fancied he was verging more and more toward pragmatism. But at that moment, though he did not know it, he was verging with astounding rapidity toward something quite different.
The rap sounded—three seconds leaked by—the rap sounded.
"Come in," muttered Horace automatically.
He heard the door open and then close, but, bent over his book in the big armchair before the fire, he did not look up.
"Leave it on the bed in the other room," he said absently.
"Leave what on the bed in the other room?"
Marcia Meadow had to talk her songs, but her speaking voice was like byplay on a harp.
"The laundry."
"I can't."
Horace stirred impatiently in his chair.
"Why can't you?"
"Why, because I haven't got it."
"Hm!" he replied testily.
Across the fire from Horace was another easychair. He was accustomed to change to it in the course of an evening by way of exercise and variety. One chair he called Berkeley, the other he called Hume. He suddenly heard a sound as of a rustling, diaphanous form sinking into Hue. He glanced up.
"Well," said Marcia with the sweet smile she used in Act Two ("Oh, so the Duke liked my dancing!") "Well, Omar Khayyam, here I am beside you singing in the wilderness."
Horace stared at her dazedly. The momentary suspicion came to him that she existed there only as a phantom of his imagination. Women didn't come into men's rooms and sink into men's Humes. Women brought laundry and took your seat in the street–car and married you later on when you were old enough to know fetters.
This woman had clearly materialized out of Hume. The very froth of her brown gauzy dress was art emanation from Hume's leather arm there! If he looked long enough he would see Hume right through her and then be would be alone again in the room. He passed his fist across his eyes. He really must take up those trapeze exercises again.
"For Pete's sake, don't look so critical!" objected the emanation pleasantly. "I feel as if you were going to wish me away with that patent dome of yours. And then there wouldn't be anything left of me except my shadow in your eyes."
Horace coughed. Coughing was one of his two gestures. When he talked you forgot he had a body at all. It was like hearing a phonograph record by a singer who had been dead a long time.
"What do you want?" he asked.
"I want them letters," whined Marcia melodramatically—"them letters of mine you bought from my grandsire in 1881."
Horace considered.
"I haven't got your letters," he said evenly. "I am only seventeen years old. My father was not born until March 3, 1879. You evidently have me confused with some one else."
"You're only seventeen?" repeated March suspiciously.
"Only seventeen."
"I knew a girl," said Marcia reminiscently, "who went on the ten–twenty–thirty when she was sixteen. She was so stuck on herself that she could never say 'sixteen' without putting the 'only' before it. We got to calling her 'Only Jessie.' And she's just where she was when she started—only worse. 'Only' is a bad habit, Omar—it sounds like an alibi."
"My name is not Omar."
"I know," agreed Marcia, nodding—"your name's Horace. I just call you Omar because you remind me of a smoked cigarette."
"And I haven't your letters. I doubt if I've ever met your grandfather. In fact, I think it very improbable that you yourself were alive in 1881."
Marcia stared at him in wonder.
"Me—1881? Why sure! I was second–line stuff when the Florodora Sextette was still in the convent. I was the original nurse to Mrs. Sol Smith's Juliette. Why, Omar, I was a canteen singer during the War of 1812."
Horace's mind made a sudden successful leap, and he grinned.
"Did Charlie Moon put you up to this?"
Marcia regarded him inscrutably.
"Who's Charlie Moon? "
"Small—wide nostrils—big ears."
She grew several inches and sniffed.
"I'm not in the habit of noticing my friends' nostrils.
"Then it was Charlie?"
Marcia bit her lip—and then yawned. "Oh, let's change the subject, Omar. I'll pull a snore in this chair in a minute."
"Yes," replied Horace gravely, "Hume has often been considered soporific—"
"Who's your friend—and will he die?"
Then of a sudden Horace Tarbox rose slenderly and began to pace the room with his hands in his pockets. This was his other gesture.
"I don't care for this," he said as if he were talking to himself—"at all. Not that I mind your being here—I don't. You're quite a pretty little thing, but I don't like Charlie Moon's sending you up here. Am I a laboratory experiment on which the janitors as well as the chemists can make experiments? Is my intellectual development humorous in any way? Do I look like the pictures of the little Boston boy in the comic magazines? Has that callow ass, Moon, with his eternal tales about his week in Paris, any right to—"
"No," interrupted Marcia emphatically.  Come here and kiss me."
Horace stopped quickly in front of her.

"Why, yes," admitted Marcia, unruffled. "'At's all life is. Just going round kissing people."
"Well," replied Horace emphatically, "I must say your ideas are horribly garbled!  It might get to be a habit and I can't get rid of habits. This year I've got in the habit of lolling in bed until seven–thirty—"
Marcia nodded understandingly.
"Do you ever have any fun?" she asked.
"What do you mean by fun?"
"See here," said Marcia sternly, "I like you, Omar, but I wish you'd talk as if you had a line on what you were saying.  I asked you if you ever had any fun."
Horace shook his head.
"Later, perhaps," he answered. "You see I'm a plan. I'm an experiment. I don't say that I don't get tired of it sometimes—I do. Yet—oh, I can't explain! But what you and Charlie Moon call fun wouldn't be fun to me."
"Please explain."
Horace stared at her, started to speak and then, changing his mind, resumed his walk. After an unsuccessful attempt to determine whether or not he was looking at her Marcia smiled at him.
"Please explain."
Horace turned.
"If I do, will you promise to tell Charlie Moon that I wasn't in?"
"Uh–uh."
"Very well, then. Here's my history: I was a 'why' child. I wanted to see the wheels go round. My father was a young economics professor at Princeton. He brought me up on the system of answering every question I asked him to the best of his ability. My response to that gave him the idea of making an experiment in precocity. To aid in the massacre I had ear trouble—seven operations between the age of nine and twelve. Of course this kept me apart from other boys and made me ripe for forcing. Anyway, while my generation was laboring through Uncle Remus I was honestly enjoying Catullus in the original.
"I passed off my college examinations when I was thirteen because I couldn't help it. My chief associates were professors, and I took a tremendous pride in knowing that I had a fine intelligence, for though I was unusually gifted I was not abnormal in other ways. When I was sixteen I got tired of being a freak; I decided that some one had made a bad mistake. Still as I'd gone that far I concluded to finish it up by taking my degree of Master of Arts. My chief interest in life is the study of modern philosophy. I am a realist of the School of Anton Laurier—with Bergsonian trimmings—and I'll be eighteen years old in two months. That's all."
"Whew!" exclaimed Marcia. "That's enough! You do a neat job with the parts of speech."
"Satisfied?"
"No, you haven't kissed me."
"It's not in my programme," demurred Horace. "Understand that I don't pretend to be above physical things. They have their place, but—"
"Oh, don't be so darned reasonable!"
"I can't help it."
"I hate these slot–machine people."
"I assure you I—" began Horace.

"My own rationality—"
"I didn't say anything about your nationality. You're Amuricun, ar'n't you?"
"Yes."
"Well, that's O.K. with me. I got a notion I want to see you do something that isn't in your highbrow programme. I want to see if a what–ch–call–em with Brazilian trimmings—that thing you said you were—can be a little human."
Horace shook his head again.

"My life is blighted," muttered Marcia tragically. "I'm a beaten woman. I'll go through life without ever having a kiss with Brazilian trimmings." She sighed. "Anyways, Omar, will you come and see my show?"
"What show?"
"I'm a wicked actress from 'Home James'!"
"Light opera?"
"Yes—at a stretch. One of the characters is a Brazilian rice–planter. That might interest you."
"I saw 'The Bohemian Girl' once," reflected Horace aloud. "I enjoyed it—to some extent—"
"Then you'll come?"
"Well, I'm—I'm—"
"Oh, I know—you've got to run down to Brazil for the week–end."
"Not at all. I'd be delighted to come—"
Marcia clapped her hands.
"Goodyforyou! I'll mail you a ticket—Thursday night?"
"Why, I—"
"Good! Thursday night it is."
She stood up and walking close to him laid both hands on his shoulders.
 I'm sorry I tried to kid you.
He eyed her sardonically.
"I'm several thousand generations older than you are."
"You carry your age well."
They shook hands gravely.
"My name's Marcia Meadow," she said emphatically. "'Member it— Marcia Meadow. And I won't tell Charlie Moon you were in."
An instant later as she was skimming down the last flight of stairs three at a time she heard a voice call over the upper banister: "Oh, say—"
She stopped and looked up—made out a vague form leaning over.
"Oh, say!" called the prodigy again. "Can you hear me?"
"Here's your connection Omar."
"I hope I haven't given you the impression that I consider kissing intrinsically irrational."
"Impression? Why, you didn't even give me the kiss! Never fret—so long.
Two doors near her opened curiously at the sound of a feminine voice. A tentative cough sounded from above. Gathering her skirts, Marcia dived wildly down the last flight, and was swallowed up in the murky Connecticut air outside.
Up–stairs Horace paced the floor of his study. From time to time he glanced toward Berkeley waiting there in suave dark–red reputability, an open book lying suggestively on his cushions. And then he found that his circuit of the floor was bringing him each time nearer to Hume. There was something about Hume that was strangely and inexpressibly different. The diaphanous form still seemed hovering near, and had Horace sat there he would have felt as if he were sitting on a lady's lap. And though Horace couldn't have named the quality of difference, there was such a quality—quite intangible to the speculative mind, but real, nevertheless. Hume was radiating something that in all the two hundred years of his influence he had never radiated before.
Hume was radiating attar of roses.
II
On Thursday night Horace Tarbox sat in an aisle seat in the fifth row and witnessed "Home James." Oddly enough he found that he was enjoying himself. The cynical students near him were annoyed at his audible appreciation of time–honored jokes in the Hammerstein tradition. But Horace was waiting with anxiety for Marcia Meadow singing her song about a Jazz–bound Blundering Blimp. When she did appear, radiant under a floppity flower–faced hat, a warm glow settled over him, and when the song was over he did not join in the storm of applause. He felt somewhat numb.
In the intermission after the second act an usher materialized beside him, demanded to know if he were Mr. Tarbox, and then handed him a note written in a round adolescent band. Horace read it in some confusion, while the usher lingered with withering patience in the aisle.
"Dear Omar:
After the show I always grow an awful hunger.
If you want to satisfy it for me in the Taft Grill
just communicate your answer to the big–timber guide
that brought this and oblige.
Your friend,
Marcia Meadow."
"Tell her,"—he coughed—"tell her that it will be quite all right. I'll meet her in front of the theatre."
The big–timber guide smiled arrogantly.
"I giss she meant for you to come roun' t' the stage door."
"Where—where is it?"
"Ou'side. Tunayulef. Down ee alley."
"What?"
"Ou'side. Turn to y' left! Down ee alley!"
The arrogant person withdrew. A freshman behind Horace snickered.
Then half an hour later, sitting in the Taft Grill opposite the hair that was yellow by natural pigment, the prodigy was saying an odd thing.
"Do you have to do that dance in the last act?" he was asking earnestly—"I mean, would they dismiss you if you refused to do it?"
Marcia grinned.
"It's fun to do it. I like to do it."
And then Horace came out with a faux pas.
"I should think you'd detest it," he remarked succinctly. "The people behind me were making remarks about your bosom."
Marcia blushed fiery red.
"I can't help that," she said quickly. "The dance to me is only a sort of acrobatic stunt. Lord, it's hard enough to do! I rub liniment into my shoulders for an hour every night."
"Do you have—fun while you're on the stage?"
"Uh–huh—sure! I got in the habit of having people look at me, Omar, and I like it."
"Hm!" Horace sank into a brownish study.
"How's the Brazilian trimmings?"
"Hm!" repeated Horace, and then after a pause: "Where does the play go from here?"
"New York."
"For how long?"
"All depends. Winter—maybe."
"Oh!"
"Coming up to lay eyes on me, Omar, or aren't you int'rested? Not as nice here, is it, as it was up in your room? I wish we was there now."

"Too bad! We got along pretty well."
At this he looked suddenly so melancholy that she changed her tone, and reaching over patted his hand.
"Ever take an actress out to supper before?"
"No," said Horace miserably, "and I never will again. I don't know why I came to–night. Here under all these lights and with all these people laughing and chattering I feel completely out of my sphere. I don't know what to talk to you about."
"We'll talk about me.
"Very well."
"Well, my name really is Meadow, but my first name isn't Marcia—it's Veronica. I'm nineteen. Question—how did the girl make her leap to the footlights? Answer—she was born in Passaic, New Jersey, and up to a year ago she got the right to breathe by pushing Nabiscoes in Marcel's tea–room in Trenton. She started going with a guy named Robbins, a singer in the Trent House cabaret, and he got her to try a song and dance with him one evening. In a month we were filling the supper–room every night. Then we went to New York with meet–my–friend letters thick as a pile of napkins.
"In two days we landed a job at Divinerries', and I learned to shimmy from a kid at the Palais Royal. We stayed at Divinerries' six months until one night Peter Boyce Wendell, the columnist, ate his milk–toast there. Next morning a poem about Marvellous Marcia came out in his newspaper, and within two days I had three vaudeville offers and a chance at the Midnight Frolic. I wrote Wendell a thank–you letter, and he printed it in his column—said that the style way like Carlyle's, only more rugged and that I ought to quit dancing and do North American literature. This got me a coupla more vaudeville offers and a chance as an ing�nue in a regular show. I took it—and here I am, Omar."
When she finished they sat for a moment in silence she draping the last skeins of a Welsh rabbit on her fork and waiting for him to speak.
"Let's get out of here," he said suddenly.
Marcia's eyes hardened.
"What's the idea? Am I making you sick?"
"No, but I don't like it here. I don't like to be sitting here with you."
Without another word Marcia signalled for the waiter.
"What's the check?" she demanded briskly "My part—the rabbit and the ginger ale."
Horace watched blankly as the waiter figured it.
"See here," he began, "I intended to pay for yours too. You're my guest."
With a half–sigh Marcia rose from the table and walked from tile room. Horace, his face a document in bewilderment, laid a bill down and followed her out, up the stairs and into the lobby.
"See here," he repeated "You're my guest. Have I said something to offend you?"
After an instant of wonder Marcia's eyes softened.
"You're a rude fella!" she said slowly. "Don't you know you're rude?"
"I can't help it," said Horace with a directness she found quite disarming. "You know I like you."
"You said you didn't like being with me."
"I didn't like it."
"Why not?" Fire blazed suddenly from the gray forests of his eyes.
"Because I didn't. I've formed the habit of liking you. I've been thinking of nothing much else for two days."
"Well, if you—"
"Wait a minute," he interrupted. "I've got something to say. It's this: in six weeks I'll be eighteen years old. When I'm eighteen years old I'm coming up to New York to see you. Is there some place in New York where we can go and not have a lot of people in the room?"
"Sure!" smiled Marcia. "You can come up to my 'partment. Sleep on the couch if you want to."
"I can't sleep on couches," he said shortly. "But I want to talk to you."
"Why, sure," repeated Marcia. "in my 'partment."
In his excitement Horace put his hands in his pockets.
"All right—just so l can see you alone. I want to talk to you as we talked up in my room."
"Honey boy," cried Marcia, laughing, "is it that you want to kiss me?"
"Yes," Horace almost shouted.
The elevator man was looking at them reproachfully. Marcia edged toward the grated door.
"I'll drop you a post–card," she said.
Horace's eyes were quite wild.
"Send me a post–card! I'll come up any time after January first. I'll be eighteen then."
And as she stepped into the elevator he coughed enigmatically, yet with a vague challenge, at the calling, and walked quickly away.
III
He was there again. She saw him when she took her first glance at the restless Manhattan audience—down in the front row with his head bent a bit forward and his gray eyes fixed on her. And she knew that to him they were alone together in a world where the high–rouged row of ballet faces and the massed whines of the violins were as imperceivable as powder on a marble Venus. An instinctive defiance rose within her.
"Silly boy!" she said to herself hurriedly, and she didn't take her encore.
"What do they expect for a hundred a week— perpetual motion?" she grumbled to herself in the wings.
"What's the trouble? Marcia?"
"Guy I don't like down in front."
During the last act as she waited for her specialty she had an odd attack of stage fright. She had never sent Horace the promised post–card. Last night she had pretended not to see him—had hurried from the theatre immediately after her dance to pass a sleepless night in her apartment, thinking—as she had so often in the last month—of his pale, rather intent face, his slim, boyish fore, the merciless, unworldly abstraction that made him charming to her.
And now that he had come she felt vaguely sorry—as though an unwonted responsibility was being forced on her.
"Infant prodigy!" she said aloud.
"What?" demanded the negro comedian standing beside her.
"Nothing—just talking about myself."
On the stage she felt better. This was her dance—and she always felt that the way she did it wasn't suggestive any more than to some men every pretty girl is suggestive. She made it a stunt.
"Uptown, downtown, jelly on a spoon,
After sundown shiver by the moon."
He was not watching her now. She saw that clearly. He was looking very deliberately at a castle on the back drop, wearing that expression he had worn in the Taft Grill. A wave of exasperation swept over her—he was criticising her.
"That's the vibration that thrills me,
Funny how affection fi–lls me
Uptown, downtown—"
Unconquerable revulsion seized her. She was suddenly and horribly conscious of her audience as she had never been since her first appearance. Was that a leer on a pallid face in the front row, a droop of disgust on one young girl's mouth? These shoulders of hers—these shoulders shaking—were they hers? Were they real? Surely shoulders weren't made for this!
"Then—you'll see at a glance
"I'll need some funeral ushers with St. Vitus dance
At the end of the world I'll—"
The bassoon and two cellos crashed into a final chord. She paused and poised a moment on her toes with every muscle tense, her young face looking out dully at the audience in what one young girl afterward called "such a curious, puzzled look," and then without bowing rushed from the stage. Into the dressing–room she sped, kicked out of one dress and into another, and caught a taxi outside.
Her apartment was very warm—small, it was, with a row of professional pictures and sets of Kipling and O. Henry which she had bought once from a blue–eyed agent and read occasionally. And there were several chairs which matched, but were none of them comfortable, and a pink–shaded lamp with blackbirds painted on it and an atmosphere of other stifled pink throughout. There were nice things in it—nice things unrelentingly hostile to each other, offspring of a vicarious, impatient taste acting in stray moments. The worst was typified by a great picture fumed in oak bark of Passaic as seen from the Erie Railroad—altogether a frantic, oddly extravagant, oddly penurious attempt to make a cheerful room. Marcia knew it was a failure.
Into this room came the prodigy and took her two hands awkwardly.
"I followed you this time," he said.
"Oh!"
"I want you to marry me," he said.
Her arms went out to him.
"There!"
"I love you," he said.
She kissed him again and then with a little sigh flung herself into an armchair and half lay there, shaken with absurd laughter.
"Why, you infant prodigy!" she cried.
"Very well, call me that if you want to. I once told you that I was ten thousand years older than you—I am."
She laughed again.
"I don't like to be disapproved of."
"No one's ever going to disapprove of you again."
"Omar," she asked, "why do you want to marry me?"
The prodigy rose and put his hands in his pockets.
"Because I love you, Marcia Meadow."
And then she stopped calling him Omar.
"Dear boy," she said, "you know I sort of love you. There's something about you—I can't tell what—that just puts my heart through the wringer every time I'm round you. But honey—" She paused.
"But what?"
"But lots of things. But you're only just eighteen, and I'm nearly twenty."
"Nonsense!" he interrupted. "Put it this way —that I'm in my nineteenth year and you're nineteen. That makes us pretty close—without counting that other ten thousand years I mentioned."
Marcia laughed.
"But there are some more 'buts.' Your people—
"My people!" exclaimed the prodigy ferociously. "My people tried to make a monstrosity out of me." His face grew quite crimson at the enormity of what he was going to say. "My people can go way back and sit down!"
"My heavens!" cried Marcia in alarm. "All that? On tacks, I suppose."
"Tacks—yes," he agreed wildly—"on anything. The more I think of how they allowed me to become a little dried–up mummy—"
"What makes you thank you're that?" asked Marcia quietly—"me?"
"Yes. Every person I've met on the streets since I met you has made me jealous because they knew what love was before I did. I used to call it the 'sex impulse.' Heavens!"
"There's more 'buts,'" said Marcia
"What are they?"
"How could we live?"
"I'll make a living."
"You're in college."
"Do you think I care anything about taking a Master of Arts degree?"
"You want to be Master of Me, hey?"
"Yes! What? I mean, no!"
Marcia laughed, and crossing swiftly over sat in his lap. He put his arm round her wildly and implanted the vestige of a kiss somewhere near her neck.
"There's something white about you," mused Marcia "but it doesn't sound very logical."
"Oh, don't be so darned reasonable!"
"I can't help it," said Marcia.
"I hate these slot–machine people!"

And as Marcia couldn't talk through her ears she had to.
IV
Horace and Marcia were married early in February. The sensation in academic circles both at Yale and Princeton was tremendous. Horace Tarbox, who at fourteen had been played up in the Sunday magazines sections of metropolitan newspapers, was throwing over his career, his chance of being a world authority on American philosophy, by marrying a chorus girl—they made Marcia a chorus girl. But like all modern stories it was a four–and–a–half–day wonder.
They took a flat in Harlem. After two weeks' search, during which his idea of the value of academic knowledge faded unmercifully, Horace took a position as clerk with a South American export company—some one had told him that exporting was the coming thing. Marcia was to stay in her show for a few months—anyway until he got on his feet. He was getting a hundred and twenty–five to start with, and though of course they told him it was only a question of months until he would be earning double that, Marcia refused even to consider giving up the hundred and fifty a week that she was getting at the time.
"We'll call ourselves Head and Shoulders, dear," she said softly, "and the shoulders'll have to keep shaking a little longer until the old head gets started."
"I hate it," he objected gloomily.
"Well," she replied emphatically, "Your salary wouldn't keep us in a tenement. Don't think I want to be public—I don't. I want to be yours. But I'd be a half–wit to sit in one room and count the sunflowers on the wall–paper while I waited for you. When you pull down three hundred a month I'll quit."
And much as it hurt his pride, Horace had to admit that hers was the wiser course.
March mellowed into April. May read a gorgeous riot act to the parks and waters of Manhatten, and they were very happy. Horace, who had no habits whatsoever—he had never had time to form any—proved the most adaptable of husbands, and as Marcia entirely lacked opinions on the subjects that engrossed him there were very few jottings and bumping. Their minds moved in different spheres. Marcia acted as practical factotum, and Horace lived either in his old world of abstract ideas or in a sort of triumphantly earthy worship and adoration of his wife. She was a continual source of astonishment to him—the freshness and originality of her mind, her dynamic, clear–headed energy, and her unfailing good humor.
And Marcia's co–workers in the nine–o'clock show, whither she had transferred her talents, were impressed with her tremendous pride in her husband's mental powers. Horace they knew only as a very slim, tight–lipped, and immature–looking young man, who waited every night to take her home.
"Horace," said Marcia one evening when she met him as usual at eleven, "you looked like a ghost standing there against the street lights. You losing weight?"
He shook his head vaguely.
"I don't know. They raised me to a hundred and thirty–five dollars to–day, and—"
"I don't care," said Marcia severely. "You're killing yourself working at night. You read those big books on economy—"
"Economics," corrected Horace.
"Well, you read 'em every night long after I'm asleep. And you're getting all stooped over like you were before we were married."
"But, Marcia, I've got to—"
"No, you haven't dear. I guess I'm running this shop for the present, and I won't let my fella ruin his health and eyes. You got to get some exercise."
"I do. Every morning I—"
"Oh, I know!  I mean real exercise. You've got to join a gymnasium.
"I used to enjoy it," mused Horace, "but it would take up too much time now."
"All right," said Marcia. "I'll make a bargain with you. You join a gym and I'll read one of those books from the brown row of 'em."
"'Pepys' Diary'? Why, that ought to be enjoyable. He's very light."
"Not for me—he isn't. It'll be like digesting plate glass.  Well, you go to a gym three nights a week and I'll take one big dose of Sammy."
Horace hesitated.
"Well—"
"Come on, now!
So Horace finally consented, and all through a baking summer he spent three and sometimes four evenings a week experimenting on the trapeze in Skipper's Gymnasium. And in August he admitted to Marcia that it made him capable of more mental work during the day.
"Mens sana in corpore sano," he said.
"Don't believe in it," replied Marcia. "I tried one of those patent medicines once and they're all bunk. You stick to gymnastics."
One night in early September while he was going through one of his contortions on the rings in the nearly deserted room he was addressed by a meditative fat man whom he had noticed watching him for several nights.
"Say, lad, do that stunt you were doin' last night."
Horace grinned at him from his perch.
"I invented it," he said. "I got the idea from the fourth proposition of Euclid."
"What circus he with?"
"He's dead."
"Well, he must of broke his neck doin' that stunt. I set here last night thinkin' sure you was goin' to break yours."
"Like this!" said Horace, and swinging onto the trapeze he did his stunt.

"It did at first, but inside of a week I wrote the quod erat demonstrandum on it."
"Hm!"
Horace swung idly on the trapeze.
"Ever think of takin' it up professionally?" asked the fat man.
"Not I."
"Good money in it if you're willin' to do stunts like 'at an' can get away with it."

The night following this encounter Horace got home from work to find a rather pale Marcia stretched out on the sofa waiting for him.
"I fainted twice to–day," she began without preliminaries.
"What?"
"Yep. You see baby's due in four months now. Doctor says I ought to have quit dancing two weeks ago."
Horace sat down and thought it over.
"I'm glad of course," he said pensively—"I mean glad that we're going to have a baby. But this means a lot of expense."
"I've got two hundred and fifty in the bank," said Marcia hopefully, "and two weeks' pay coming."
Horace computed quickly'.
"Inducing my salary, that'll give us nearly fourteen hundred for the next six months."
Marcia looked blue.
"That all? Course I can get a job singing somewhere this month. And I can go to work again in March."
"Of course nothing!" said Horace gruffly. "You'll stay right here. Let's see now—there'll be doctor's bills and a nurse, besides the maid: We've got to have some more money."
"Well," said Marcia wearily, "I don't know where it's coming from. It's up to the old head now. Shoulders is out of business."
Horace rose and pulled on his coat.
"Where are you going?"
"I've got an idea," he answered. "I'll be right back."
Ten minutes later as he headed down the street toward Skipper's Gymnasium he felt a plaid wonder, quite unmixed with humor, at what he was going to do. How he would have gaped at himself a year before! How every one would have gaped! But when you opened your door at the rap of life you let in many things.

"Say," began Horace directly, "were you in earnest last night when you said I could make money on my trapeze stunts?"
"Why, yes," said the fat man in surprise.
"Well, I've been thinking it over, and I believe I'd like to try it. I could work at night and on Saturday afternoons—and regularly if the pay is high enough."
The fat men looked at his watch.
"Well," he said, "Charlie Paulson's the man to see. He'll book you inside of four days, once he sees you work out. He won't be in now, but I'll get hold of him for to–morrow night."
The fat man vas as good as his word. Charlie Paulson arrived next night and put in a wondrous hour watching the prodigy swap through the air in amazing parabolas, and on the night following he brought two age men with him who looked as though they had been born smoking black cigars and talking about money in low, passionate voices. Then on the succeeding Saturday Horace Tarbox's torso made its first professional appearance in a gymnastic exhibition at the Coleman Street Gardens. But though the audience numbered nearly five thousand people, Horace felt no nervousness. From his childhood he had read papers to audiences—learned that trick of detaching himself.
"Marcia," he said cheerfully later that same night, "I think we're out of the woods. Paulson thinks he can get me an opening at the Hippodrome, and that means an all–winter engagement. The Hippodrome you know, is a big—"
"Yes, I believe I've heard of it," interrupted Marcia, "but I want to know about this stunt you're doing. It isn't any spectacular suicide, is it?"
"It's nothing," said Horace quietly. "But if you can think of an nicer way of a man killing himself than taking a risk for you, why that's the way I want to die."
Marcia reached up and wound both arms tightly round his neck.
"Kiss me," she whispered, "and call me 'dear heart.' I love to hear you say 'dear heart.' And bring me a book to read to–morrow. No more Sam Pepys, but something trick and trashy. I've been wild for something to do all day. I felt like writing letters, but I didn't have anybody to write to."
"Write to me," said Horace. "I'll read them."
"I wish I could," breathed Marcia. "If I knew words enough I could write you the longest love–letter in the world—and never get tired."
But after two more months Marcia grew very tired indeed, and for a row of nights it was a very anxious, weary–looking young athlete who walked out before the Hippodrome crowd. Then there were two days when his place was taken by a young man who wore pale blue instead of white, and got very little applause. But after the two days Horace appeared again, and those who sat close to the stage remarked an expression of beatific happiness on that young acrobat's face even when he was twisting breathlessly in the air an the middle of his amazing and original shoulder swing. After that performance he laughed at the elevator man and dashed up the stairs to the flat five steps at a time—and then tiptoed very carefully into a quiet room.
"Marcia," he whispered.
"Hello!" She smiled up at him wanly. "Horace, there's something I want you to do. Look in my top bureau drawer and you'll find a big stack of paper. It's a book—sort of—Horace. I wrote it down in these last three months while I've been laid up. I wish you'd take it to that Peter Boyce Wendell who put my letter in his paper. He could tell you whether it'd be a good book. I wrote it just the way I talk, just the way I wrote that letter to him. It's just a story about a lot of things that happened to me. Will you take it to him, Horace?"
"Yes, darling."
He leaned over the bed until his head was beside her on the pillow, and began stroking back her yellow hair.
"Dearest Marcia," he said softly.
"No," she murmured, "call me what I told you to call me."
"Dear heart," he whispered passionately—"dearest heart."
"What'll we call her?"
They rested a minute in happy, drowsy content, while Horace considered.
"We'll call her Marcia Hume Tarbox," he said at length.
"Why the Hume?"
"Because he's the fellow who first introduced us."
"That so?" she murmured, sleepily surprised. "I thought his name was Moon."
Her eyes dosed, and after a moment the slow lengthening surge of the bedclothes over her breast showed that she was asleep.
Horace tiptoed over to the bureau and opening the top drawer found a heap of closely scrawled, lead–smeared pages. He looked at the first sheet:
SANDRA PEPYS, SYNCOPATED
BY MARCIA TARBOX
He smiled. So Samuel Pepys had made an impression on her after all. He turned a page and began to read. His smile deepened—he read on. Half an hour passed and he became aware that Marcia had waked and was watching him from the bed.
"Honey," came in a whisper.
"What Marcia?"
"Do you like it?"
Horace coughed.
"I seem to be reading on. It's bright."
"Take it to Peter Boyce Wendell. Tell him you got the highest marks in Princeton once and that you ought to know when a book's good. Tell him this one's a world beater."
"All right, Marcia," Horace said gently.
Her eyes closed again and Horace crossing over kissed her forehead—stood there for a moment with a look of tender pity. Then he left the room.
All that night the sprawly writing on the pages, the constant mistakes in spelling and grammar, and the weird punctuation danced before his eyes. He woke several times in the night, each time full of a welling chaotic sympathy for this desire of Marcia's soul to express itself in words.
He had meant to write a series of books, to popularize the new realism as Schopenhauer had popularized pessimism and William James pragmatism.
But life hadn't come that way. Life took hold of people and forced them into flying rings. He laughed to think of that rap at his door, the diaphanous shadow in Hume, Marcia's threatened kiss.
"And it's still me," he said aloud in wonder as he lay awake in the darkness. "I'm the man who sat in Berkeley with temerity to wonder if that rap would have had actual existence had my ear not been there to hear it. I'm still that man. I could be electrocuted for the crimes he committed.
"Poor gauzy souls trying to express ourselves in something tangible. Marcia with her written book; I with my unwritten ones. Trying to choose our mediums and then taking what we get— and being glad."
V
"Sandra Pepys, Syncopated," with an introduction by Peter Boyce Wendell the columnist, appeared serially in Jordan's Magazine, and came out in book form in March. From its first published instalment it attracted attention far and wide. A trite enough subject—a girl from a small New Jersey town coming to New York to go on the stage—treated simply, with a peculiar vividness of phrasing and a haunting undertone of sadness in the very inadequacy of its vocabulary, it made an irresistible appeal.
Peter Boyce Wendell, who happened at that time to be advocating the enrichment of the American language by the immediate adoption of expressive vernacular words, stood as its sponsor and thundered his indorsement over the placid bromides of the conventional reviewers.
Marcia received three hundred dollars an instalment for the serial publication, which came at an opportune time, for though Horace's monthly salary at the Hippodrome was now more than Marcia's had ever been, young Marcia was emitting shrill cries which they integrated as a demand for country air.
"It's not half bad," thought Horace one night as he was on his way from the station to his house. He was considering several prospects that had opened up, a four months' vaudeville offer in five figures, a chance to go back to Princeton in charge of all gymnasium work. Odd! He had once intended to go back there in charge of all philosophic work, and now he had not even been stirred by the arrival in New York of Anton Laurier, his old idol.
The gravel crunched raucously under his heel. He saw the lights of his sitting–room gleaming and noticed a big car standing in the drive. Probably Mr. Jordan again, come to persuade Marcia to settle down' to work.
She had heard the sound of his approach and her form was silhouetted against the lighted door as she came out to meet him.
"There's some Frenchman here," she whispered nervously. "I can't pronounce his name, but he sounds awful deep. You'll leave to jaw with him."
"What Frenchman?"
"You can't prove it by me. He drove up an hour ago with Mr. Jordan, and said he wanted to mat Sandra Pepys, and all that sort of thing."
Two men rose from chairs as they went inside.
"Hello Tarbox," said Jordan. "I've just been bringing together two celebrities. I've brought M'sieur Laurier out with me. M'sieur Laurier, let me present Mr. Tarbox, Mrs. Tarbox s husband."
"Not Anton Laurier!" exclaimed Horace.
"But, yes. I must come. I have to come. I have read the book of Madame, and I have been charmed"—he fumbled ill his pocket—"ah I have read of you too. In this newspaper which I read to–day it has your name."

"Read it!" he said eagerly. "It has about you too."
Horace's eye skipped down the page.
"A distinct contribution to American dialect literature," it said. "No attempt at literary tone; the book derives its very quality from this fact, as did 'Huckleberry Finn.'"
Horace's eyes caught a passage lower down; he became suddenly aghast—read on hurriedly:
"Marcia Tarbox's connection with the stage is not only as a spectator but as the wife of a performer. She was married last year to Horace Tarbox, who every evening delights the children at the Hippodrome with his wondrous flying performance. It is said that the young couple have dubbed themselves Head and Shoulders, referring doubtless to the fact that Mrs. Tarbox supplies the literary and mental qualities, while the supple and agile shoulder of her husband contribute their share to the family fortunes.
"Mrs. Tarbox seems to merit that much–abused title—'prodigy.' Only twenty—"
Horace stopped reading, and with a very odd expression in his eyes gazed intently at Anton Laurier.
"I want to advise you—" he began hoarsely.
"What?"
"About raps. Don't answer them! Let them alone—have a padded door."


CREA: national home sales up 12.9 per cent in October compared with last year
Greater Vancouver’s composite index price was down 6.4 per cent from a year ago to $994,900
by The Canadian PressThe Canadian Real Estate Association says the number of home sales was up 12.9 per cent nationally in October compared with the same month last year.
It says sales activity last month was almost the same as for September, but up almost 20 per cent from a six-year low reached in February. Home sales are still about seven per cent below the heights reached in 2016 and 2017.
CREA says sales activity was mixed across the country as growing sales in Greater Vancouver, the B.C. Fraser Valley, and Ottawa, was offset by a monthly decline in the Greater Toronto Area and Hamilton-Burlington.
Greater Vancouver’s composite index price was down 6.4 per cent from a year ago to $994,900, while in the GTA, the index price was up 5.6 per cent to $814,400. Ottawa recorded the highest price gains of major cities with a 10.25 per cent climb to $436,300.
Nationally, the composite index price was up 1.77 per cent to $633,600 despite declines in parts of B.C. as well as in major cities in Alberta and Saskatchewan.
ALSO READ: More than half of B.C. government housing projects have seen delays
The number of new residential home listings was down by 5.8 per cent in October compared with last year, and down 1.8 per cent from September.
The Canadian Press


| Package | net.yahoo.fireeagle.data |
| Class | public class XMLLocation |
| Inheritance | XMLLocation XMLObject |
| Implements | IFireEagleLocation |
| Property | Defined by | ||
|---|---|---|---|
| bestGuess : Boolean [read-only]
Is this location Fire Eagle's best guess?
| XMLLocation | ||
| boundingBox : BoundingBox
[read-only]
Gets the bounding box of the location if available.
| XMLLocation | ||
| label : String [read-only]
Location label?
| XMLLocation | ||
| level : Number [read-only]
The level number of the location (0-6).
| XMLLocation | ||
| levelName : String [read-only]
Name of the level of the location
(Country, State, County, Large Cities, Neighbourhoods/Local Area, Postal Code or exact location).
| XMLLocation | ||
| locatedAt : Date [read-only]
The date/time of the location update.
| XMLLocation | ||
| name : String [read-only]
Human-readable name for the location.
| XMLLocation | ||
| placeId : String [read-only]
The placeid of the location, same as on Flickr.
| XMLLocation | ||
| point : LatLon
[read-only]
Gets the point of the location if available.
| XMLLocation | ||
| woeid : uint [read-only]
The woeid of the location.
| XMLLocation | ||
| xml : XML
The raw XML object.
| XMLObject |
| Property | Defined by | ||
|---|---|---|---|
| _boundingBox : BoundingBox
The bounding box for the location.
| XMLLocation | ||
| _georss : Namespace
The georss namespace.
| XMLLocation | ||
| _locatedAt : Date
The date/time of the location update.
| XMLLocation | ||
| _point : LatLon
The point for the location.
| XMLLocation | ||
| _xml : XML
The xml data object.
| XMLObject |
| Method | Defined by | ||
|---|---|---|---|
|
XMLLocation(xml:XML)
Creates a new
XMLLocation object. | XMLLocation | ||
|
parseToArray(xmlList:XMLList, classToConstruct:Class):Array
[static]
Parses an XMLList object to a typed
Array . | XMLObject | ||
|
parseToBoundingBox(s:String):BoundingBox
[static]
Parses a georss:box bounding box string to a
BoundingBox . | XMLObject | ||
|
parseToLatLon(s:String):LatLon
[static]
Parses a georss:point string to a
LatLon . | XMLObject | ||
|
toString():String
String representation. | XMLLocation |
| bestGuess | property |
bestGuess:Boolean
[read-only]Is this location Fire Eagle's best guess?
Implementation public function get bestGuess():Boolean
| _boundingBox | property |
protected var _boundingBox:BoundingBox
The bounding box for the location.
| boundingBox | property |
boundingBox:BoundingBox
[read-only]Gets the bounding box of the location if available.
Implementation public function get boundingBox():BoundingBox
| _georss | property |
protected var _georss:Namespace
The georss namespace.
| label | property |
label:String
[read-only]Location label?
Implementation public function get label():String
| level | property |
level:Number
[read-only]The level number of the location (0-6).
Implementation public function get level():Number
| levelName | property |
levelName:String
[read-only]Name of the level of the location (Country, State, County, Large Cities, Neighbourhoods/Local Area, Postal Code or exact location).
Implementation public function get levelName():String
| _locatedAt | property |
protected var _locatedAt:Date
The date/time of the location update.
| locatedAt | property |
locatedAt:Date
[read-only]The date/time of the location update.
Implementation public function get locatedAt():Date
| name | property |
name:String
[read-only]Human-readable name for the location.
Implementation public function get name():String
| placeId | property |
placeId:String
[read-only]The placeid of the location, same as on Flickr.
Implementation public function get placeId():String
| _point | property |
protected var _point:LatLon
The point for the location.
| point | property |
point:LatLon
[read-only]Gets the point of the location if available.
Implementation public function get point():LatLon
| woeid | property |
woeid:uint
[read-only]The woeid of the location.
Implementation public function get woeid():uint
| XMLLocation | () | constructor |
public function XMLLocation(xml:XML)
Creates a new XMLLocation
object.
xml:XML — XML object to parse
|
| toString | () | method |
public function toString():String
String
representation.
String |


Botble Laravel Avatar is used to change profile image in Laravel project, it can works with Laravel 5.x and easy to setup. You will upload and resize avatar easily.
If you have problem when install this package or found any bugs, feel free to contact me via email<EMAIL_ADDRESS>or skype: live:minhsang2603.
Thanks for your purchase my product.
* Folder Structure
Please follow below steps to setup Avatar component in your laravel project.
"Botble\\Avatar\\": "app/Components/Avatar/src"
Then it will be look like:
"psr-4": {
"App\\": "app/",
"Botble\\Avatar\\": "app/Components/Avatar/src"
}
'providers' => [
...
// After others service providers
Botble\Avatar\Providers\AvatarServiceProvider::class,
],
php artisan make:auth
php artisan vendor:publish --provider="App\Components\Avatar\Providers\AvatarServiceProvider" --tag=assets
When you got a new version of Botble Laravel Avatar from Codecanyon. You just need to do below steps to upgrade it.
"Botble\\Avatar\\": "app/Components/Avatar/src"
php artisan vendor:publish --provider="Botble\Avatar\Providers\AvatarServiceProvider" --tag=assets --force


This tutorial focuses on a basic introduction to machine learning in python. Some experience with python is assumed. It will cover the basics of what machine learning is and how the various algorithms work, but it will focus mainly on how to get started using these algorithms.
It is recommended that you follow the tutorial in order. To begin, click on the first menu item on the left 1. Intro to Deep Learning
The content of this tutorial was created by Lindsey Kitchell as a way to consolidate her notes on Machine Learning. She is a Ph.D. candidate in the department of Psychological and Brain Sciences and the Program of Cognitive Science at Indiana University.
For learning about machine learning in general, I recommend this free introductory course from udacity. It will get you up and running with machine learning in python very quickly.
The following links were very helpful in the creation of this tutorial:


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Super Heroes
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module Dominators: sig
.. end
Compute dominators using data flow analysis
Author: George Necula
5/28/2004
val computeIDom : ?doCFG:bool -> Cil.fundec -> Cil.stmt option Inthash.t
Invoke on a code after filling in the CFG info and it computes the
immediate dominator information. We map each statement to its immediate
dominator (None for the start statement, and for the unreachable
statements).
type
tree
val computeDomTree : ?doCFG:bool -> Cil.fundec -> Cil.stmt option Inthash.t * tree
returns the IDoms and a map from statement ids to
the set of statements that are dominated
val getIdom : Cil.stmt option Inthash.t -> Cil.stmt -> Cil.stmt option
This is like Inthash.find but gives an error if the information is
Not_found
val dominates : Cil.stmt option Inthash.t -> Cil.stmt -> Cil.stmt -> bool
Check whether one statement dominates another.
val children : tree -> Cil.stmt -> Cil.stmt list
Return a list of statements dominated by the argument
type
order =
val domTreeIter : (Cil.stmt -> unit) -> order -> tree -> unit
Iterate over a dominator tree
val findNaturalLoops : Cil.fundec -> Cil.stmt option Inthash.t -> (Cil.stmt * Cil.stmt list) list
Compute the start of the natural loops. This assumes that the "idom"
field has been computed. For each start, keep a list of origin of a back
edge. The loop consists of the loop start and all predecessors of the
origins of back edges, up to and including the loop start


|
Guting Paper Implementation
Implementation of paper on Optimal Divide-and-Conquer to Compute Measure and Contour for a Set of Iso-Rectangles by Ralf Hartmut Guting
|
#include <algorithm>
#include <cmath>
#include <map>
#include <set>
#include <vector>
#include "coord.hpp"
#include "ctree.hpp"
#include "edge.hpp"
#include "interval.hpp"
#include "line_segment.hpp"
#include "point.hpp"
#include "rectangle.hpp"
#include "stripe.hpp"
#include "methods_measure.hpp"
Go to the source code of this file.
Functions | |
| void | RECTANGLE_DAC (set< Rectangle > Rect, set< StripeContour > &S) |
| Driver function for the main divide and conquer function STRIPES, returns a set of stripes with tree data structure giving pieces of line segments beloning to rectangles in a stripe. More... | |
| void | STRIPES (set< Edge > V, Interval x_ext, set< Interval > &L, set< Interval > &R, set< coord > &P, set< StripeContour > &S) |
| Function to perform the divide and conquer algorithm given a set of left and right edges and a x-interval, It gives four outputs as a result which are set of intervals for only left edges L, set of intervals for only right edges R, set of coord P and the set of StripeContour S. More... | |
| set< StripeContour > | copy (set< StripeContour > S, set< coord > P, Interval x_int) |
| Function to copy the set of Y-intervals of StripeContour of two partitions of divide algorithm into each other, to make the y-intervals of both partitions uniform. More... | |
| void | blacken (set< StripeContour > &S, set< Interval > J) |
| Function to find left and right edges such that their partners don't exist in the same set. More... | |
| set< StripeContour > | concat (set< StripeContour > S1, set< StripeContour > S2, set< coord > P, Interval x_int) |
| Function to perform the concatenation operation of two x-partitions with same y-interval. More... | |
| set< LineSegment > | postProcess (set< LineSegment > L) |
| Function to merge two or more overlapping linesegments. More... | |
| void | traverseCtree (Ctree *C, vector< coord > &start, vector< coord > &end) |
| Function used to traverse through Ctree. More... | |
| set< Interval > | getIntervals (Ctree *C) |
| Function used to make intervals using coordinates contained in Ctree. More... | |
| set< LineSegment > | contour_pieces (Edge h, set< StripeContour > S) |
| Corresponding to given edge this function finds the contour pieces. More... | |
| set< LineSegment > | contour (set< Edge > H, set< StripeContour > S) |
| Finds the set of Contour Pieces corresponding to all the edges in a set. More... | |
Header file for including functions required to find the contour for given set of input rectangles
| void blacken | ( | set< StripeContour > & | S, |
| set< Interval > | J | ||
| ) |
Function to find left and right edges such that their partners don't exist in the same set.
| [in,out] | S | set of StripeContour |
| [in] | J | set of Interval |
| set<StripeContour> concat | ( | set< StripeContour > | S1, |
| set< StripeContour > | S2, | ||
| set< coord > | P, | ||
| Interval | x_int | ||
| ) |
Function to perform the concatenation operation of two x-partitions with same y-interval.
| [in] | S1 | set of StripeContour |
| [in] | S2 | set of StripeContour |
| [in] | P | set of coord |
| [in] | x_int | Interval |
| set<LineSegment> contour | ( | set< Edge > | H, |
| set< StripeContour > | S | ||
| ) |
Finds the set of Contour Pieces corresponding to all the edges in a set.
| [in] | H | set of Edge |
| [in] | S | set of StripeContour |
| set<LineSegment> contour_pieces | ( | Edge | h, |
| set< StripeContour > | S | ||
| ) |
Corresponding to given edge this function finds the contour pieces.
| [in] | h | set of Edge |
| [in] | S | set of StripeContour |
| set<StripeContour> copy | ( | set< StripeContour > | S, |
| set< coord > | P, | ||
| Interval | x_int | ||
| ) |
Function to copy the set of Y-intervals of StripeContour of two partitions of divide algorithm into each other, to make the y-intervals of both partitions uniform.
| [in] | S | set of StripeContour |
| [in] | P | set of Coord |
| [in] | x_int | Interval |
Function used to make intervals using coordinates contained in Ctree.
| [in] | C | pointer to Ctree node |
| set<LineSegment> postProcess | ( | set< LineSegment > | L | ) |
Function to merge two or more overlapping linesegments.
| [in] | L | set of Line segment |
| void RECTANGLE_DAC | ( | set< Rectangle > | Rect, |
| set< StripeContour > & | S | ||
| ) |
Driver function for the main divide and conquer function STRIPES, returns a set of stripes with tree data structure giving pieces of line segments beloning to rectangles in a stripe.
| [in] | Rect | set of Rectangle |
| [out] | S | set of StripeContour |
| void STRIPES | ( | set< Edge > | V, |
| Interval | x_ext, | ||
| set< Interval > & | L, | ||
| set< Interval > & | R, | ||
| set< coord > & | P, | ||
| set< StripeContour > & | S | ||
| ) |
Function to perform the divide and conquer algorithm given a set of left and right edges and a x-interval, It gives four outputs as a result which are set of intervals for only left edges L, set of intervals for only right edges R, set of coord P and the set of StripeContour S.
| [in] | V | set of Edge |
| [in] | x_ext | Interval |
| [out] | L | set of Interval |
| [out] | R | set of Interval |
| [out] | P | set of Coord |
| [out] | S | set of StripeContour |


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DOGMA RATING: 7 /10 -->Good movie
For more reviews and screensavers, visit http://www.joblo.com/
Please note that I have written this review with a great strain on my objectivity. You see, besides Quentin Tarantino, there has been no greater writing influence in my life than Kevin Smith, the director of this film. I say this because I do not want you to think that I am pretending to forget or put aside my grand respect for the man, because I couldn't do that even if I tried. In fact, besides being a great writer/director, I simply believe him to be an upstanding human being as well.
PLOT: Two renegade angels attempt to get back into Heaven through a loophole that they find at a church in New Jersey. A woman who works at an abortion clinic is chosen by the voice of God to stop these men, along with the help of two "modern" prophets, the 13th unknown apostle and a muse/stripper, before the angels cross the threshold and lead to the end of all human existence. Simple enough?
CRITIQUE: Ambitious, original, funny film about a bunch of religious figures pasted into a modern fantastical world environment with a lot of tedious theological speak and a lot of "dick and fart" jokes (as Kevin would say). It's hard to say who this type of movie is going to attract, since the young, non-religious hipsters (okay, I'm not so young but I still consider myself part of this group) will probably not appreciate all of the religious points made in this film, and the older, religious non-hipsters will probably not appreciate any of the more juvenile humor, which I thought was hilarious. Maybe the older, non-religious, hipsters or the younger, religious, non-hipsters? Either way, I personally enjoyed it for most of what it represented which was an alternative point of view on religion, Catholicism in particular, and the unrelenting humor written by Smith for his Jason Mewes and Chris Rock characters. Jay simply rocked! I could honestly say that if Silent Bob and Jay were not in this movie, I might be hard pressed to recommend it so highly.
One thing that you have to know going into this film is that it is a fantasy. A modern-day comedic fantasy, but a fantasy nonetheless. On the whole, most of the mythical elements seemed to meche flawlessly within the modern-day environment, but others just appeared too fake for me to get around, like the wings on the angels and the horns on Jason Lee. Also, as much as I tried I could not help but think "that's singer Alanis Morissette" when God made her first appearance. I just couldn't help it! The more I tried not to think about it, the more I did. Isn't it ironic? Anyway, I recommend this film under the two main conditions that I liked it which were the overall story, which was interesting, and the humor-laced script which was peppered with particularly great lines for Jay and Rock. I thought the Affleck, Damon and Rickman characters were a little too drowned in their explanatory religo-babble (a 20-minute trim-job might've helped), and Hayek distracting (well, in some good ways but also in some bad), but overall, the film was original, funny and certainly inventive.
Little Known Facts about this film and its stars: A convention premiere of DOGMA in Atlanta during the first week of November 1999, provided some more insights into the man better known as Kevin Smith. 1) Kevin claimed that he only wants to direct ten films in total and that he only has three ideas for future films ready now, so it might turn out to be only seven. The one idea that he did mention was an adaptation of Mage (comic book). 2) Kevin said that Jay and Silent Bob would probably be in one more film and then would only appear in the comics and the Clerks Animated Series. 3) He also explained that one of the major problems that he had with Superman producer Jon Peters while he was still attached to the project was that Peters wanted Braniac to have a "gay" robot sidekick (similar to C3Po). He even wanted the black guy from CHASING AMY to do the voice. 4) Other than Ben Affleck, Chris Rock and Matt Damon, Smith said he would not try and get big name actors for his movies. 5) He said that the reason Jeff Anderson (Randall from CLERKS) wasn't in MALLRATS or CHASING AMY was that Anderson had a falling out with Smith over some money from CLERKS. The good news is that Anderson does have a small role in DOGMA as the gun store clerk. Note that Brian O'Halloran (Dante from CLERKS) also has a small role in DOGMA as the reporter. Kevin Smith wrote the DOGMA script before he had ever written his first flick, CLERKS, but shelved it because he wanted to do it with the proper special effects. British actress Emma Thompson was originally slated to play the part of God but pulled out before filming began in order to have a baby. As usual, dozens of other movie references show up in the film (too many to enumerate here, but I'm sure they'll show up on many a Kevin Smith fan page over the next few weeks), but at least five John Hughes films were referred to directly in this film. Smith has always said that he "grew up" on John Hughes comedies and admires them. Smith got married to reporter Jennifer Schwalbach in 1999 and had a daughter soon thereafter. The child was named Harley Quinn (also the name of a character in TV's "Batman: The Animated Series"). This should also go without saying but Kevin owns his own comic book store, "Jay and Silent Bob's Secret Stash" in Red Bank, New Jersey. He had apparently sold his comic book collection for money to film CLERKS (which cost about $27,000), but bought it all back once the film became a huge success. The "guy on the bus" character is played by none other than producer Scott Mosier.
Review Date: November 8, 1999 Director: Kevin Smith Writer: Kevin Smith Producer: Scott Mosier Actors: Ben Affleck as Bartleby Matt Damon as Loki Linda Fiorentino as Bethany Chris Rock as Rufus Genre: Comedy Year of Release: 1999 --------------------------------------- JoBlo's Movie Emporium http://www.joblo.com --------------------------------------- (c) 1999 Berge Garabedian
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Related links: index of all rec.arts.movies.reviews reviews


I think this is a good design for various reason. First would be that it is quite simple without not too many dials or sliders to worry about. You are mainly pressing up and down for each setting you want.
It keeps it simplier by not including too many presets such as different variety of foods. Most of the time I find myself not using the presets anyways. So the normal bake, broil and toast presets were what I mainly focused on. I wanted to keep the simplicity of it by getting rid of screen clutter where I could. So that is why I had the options disapper once another button was pressed since there is no need to display the modes more than one place on the screen. The toaster oven itself also spells out what you are setting, so Temp says temp set, same with timer that says timer set.
I also believe that the incrementing of the time and temperature by 5 is a good idea as opposed to doing it by single digits. I find that it is more logical to use a toaster oven for non precise cooking and instead using a full toaster for foods such as for baking where time and temperature have to be more precise. Having the 5 mintue increment is what I belive people would end up using anyways, similar to the usage of the +30 secs or +1 minute button on a microwave.


Timer Explanation:
This section should not be confused with the timing explained in the Getting Started
section. Those timers were about getting the speed of the emulation right and synchronizing the cpu with graphics. The gameboy
has a timer in memory which counts up at a certain frequency and requests an interupt when it overflows. This is the timer this section is about.
The timer is located in memoy address 0xFF05 and will count up at a set frequency. The frequency it counts up at is set by the timer controller in
memory address 0xFF07. Whenever the timer overflows (remember the memory elements are all unsigned bytes so overflowing means going greater than 255)
it requests a timer interupt and then resets itself to the value of the timer modulator in memory address 0xFF06. This gives us the following definitions:
#define TIMA 0xFF05
#define TMA 0xFF06
#define TMC 0xFF07
Emulating Time:
There are 4 frequencies the timer controller (TMA) can set the timer (TIMA) to count up at. These are:
4096 Hz
262144 Hz
65536 Hz
16384 Hz
#define CLOCKSPEED 4194304 ;
m_TimerCounter = CLOCKSPEED/frequency ;
So if the current frequency is 4096Hz then our timer counter will be 1024 (CLOCKSPEED/4096). This means that "for every 1024 clock cycles our cpu does our timer should increment itself once". However if our frequency was 16384 then our counter would be 256 (CLOCKSPEED/16384) which means "For every 256 clock cycles our cpu does our timer should increment itself once".
If you look at the main emulation update loop which is called 60 times a second (discussed in the Getting Started section) you can see that I've already taken into account the timers with the UpdateTimers funcation and as you can see Im passing in the clock cycle for the last opcode.
void Emulator::Update( )
{
const int MAXCYCLES = 69905 ;
int cyclesThisUpdate = 0 ;
while (cyclesThisUpdate < MAXCYCLES)
{
int cycles = ExecuteNextOpcode( ) ;
cyclesThisUpdate+=cycles ;
UpdateTimers(cycles) ;
UpdateGraphics(cycles) ;
DoInterupts( ) ;
}
RenderScreen( ) ;
}
void Emulator::UpdateTimers( int cycles )
{
DoDividerRegister(cycles);
// the clock must be enabled to update the clock
if (IsClockEnabled())
{
m_TimerCounter -= cycles ;
// enough cpu clock cycles have happened to update the timer
if (m_TimerCounter <= 0)
{
// reset m_TimerTracer to the correct value
SetClockFreq( ) ;
// timer about to overflow
if (ReadMemory(TIMA) == 255)
{
WriteMemory(TIMA,ReadMemory(TMA)) ;
RequestInterupt(2) ;
}
else
{
WriteMemory(TIMA, ReadMemory(TIMA)+1) ;
}
}
}
}
The Timer Controller:
The timer controller (TMC) is a 3 bit register which controlls the timer (DUH!). Bit 1 and 0 combine together to specify which frequency the timer should increment at. This is the mapping:
00: 4096 Hz
01: 262144 Hz
10: 65536 Hz
11: 16384 Hz
bool Emulator::IsClockEnabled() const
{
return TestBit(ReadMemory(TMC),2)?true:false ;
}
else if (TMC == address)
{
BYTE currentfreq = GetClockFreq() ;
m_GameMemory[TMC] = data ;
BYTE newfreq = GetClockFreq();
if (currentfreq != newfreq)
{
SetClockFreq();
}
}
// remember the clock frequency is a combination of bit 1 and 0 of TMC
BYTE Emulator::GetClockFreq( )const
{
return ReadMemory(TMC) & 0x3 ;
}
///////////////////////////////////////////
void Emulator::SetClockFreq()
{
BYTE freq = GetClockFreq( ) ;
switch (freq)
{
case 0: m_TimerCounter = 1024 ; break ; // freq 4096
case 1: m_TimerCounter = 16 ; break ;// freq 262144
case 2: m_TimerCounter = 64 ; break ;// freq 65536
case 3: m_TimerCounter = 256 ; break ;// freq 16382
}
}
Divider Register:
The final timing related area that needs emulating is the Divider Register. It works very similar to the timers which is why I have included it in this section aswell as put the code to emulate it inside the UpdateTimers function. The way it works is it continually counts up from 0 to 255 and then when it overflows it starts from 0 again. It does not cause an interupt when it overflows and it cannot be paused like the timers. It counts up at a frequency of 16382 which means every 256 CPU clock cycles the divider register needs to increment. We need another int counter like m_TimerCounter to keep track of when it needs to increment, this is called m_DividerCounter which initially is set to 0 and constantly increments to 255 then starts again. The Divider Register is found at register address 0xFF04. The DoDividerRegister function called in UpdateTimers is emulated like so:
void Emulator::DoDividerRegister(int cycles)
{
m_DividerRegister+=cycles;
if (m_DividerCounter >= 255)
{
m_DividerCounter = 0 ;
m_Rom[0xFF04]++ ;
}
}
//trap the divider register
else if (0xFF04 == address)
m_Rom[0xFF04] = 0 ;


singularity inspect¶
Show metadata for an image
Synopsis¶
Inspect will show you labels, environment variables, apps and scripts associated with the image determined by the flags you pass. By default, they will be shown in plain text. If you would like to list them in json format, you should use the –json flag.
singularity inspect [inspect options...] <image path>
Examples¶
$ singularity inspect ubuntu.sif
If you want to list the applications (apps) installed in a container (located at
/scif/apps) you should run inspect command with --list-apps <container-image> flag.
( See https://sci-f.github.io for more information on SCIF apps)
The following environment variables are available to you when called
from the shell inside the container. The top variables are relevant
to the active app (--app <app>) and the bottom available for all
apps regardless of the active app. Both sets of variables are also available during development (at build time).
ACTIVE APP ENVIRONMENT:
SCIF_APPNAME the name for the active application
SCIF_APPROOT the installation folder for the application created at /scif/apps/<app>
SCIF_APPMETA the application metadata folder
SCIF_APPDATA the data folder created for the application at /scif/data/<app>
SCIF_APPINPUT expected input folder within data base folder
SCIF_APPOUTPUT the output data folder within data base folder
SCIF_APPENV points to the application's custom environment.sh file in its metadata folder
SCIF_APPLABELS is the application's labels.json in the metadata folder
SCIF_APPBIN is the bin folder for the app, which is automatically added to the $PATH when the app is active
SCIF_APPLIB is the application's library folder that is added to the LD_LIBRARY_PATH
SCIF_APPRUN is the runscript
SCIF_APPHELP is the help file for the runscript
SCIF_APPTEST is the testing script (test.sh) associated with the applicatio
SCIF_APPNAME the name for the active application
SCIF_APPFILES the files section associated with the application that are added to
GLOBAL APP ENVIRONMENT:
SCIF_DATA scif defined data base for all apps (/scif/data)
SCIF_APPS scif defined install bases for all apps (/scif/apps)
SCIF_APPROOT_<app> root for application <app>
SCIF_APPDATA_<app> data root for application <app>
To list all your apps:
$ singularity inspect --list-apps ubuntu.sif
To list only labels in the json format from an image:
$ singularity inspect --json --labels ubuntu.sif
To verify you own a single application on your container image, use the --app <appname> flag:
$ singularity inspect --app <appname> ubuntu.sif
Options¶
--all show all available data (imply --json option)
--app string inspect a specific app
-d, --deffile show the Singularity recipe file that was used to generate the image
-e, --environment show the environment settings for the image
-h, --help help for inspect
-H, --helpfile inspect the runscript helpfile, if it exists
-j, --json print structured json instead of sections
-l, --labels show the labels for the image (default)
--list-apps list all apps in a container
-r, --runscript show the runscript for the image
-s, --startscript show the startscript for the image
-t, --test show the test script for the image
SEE ALSO¶
Linux container platform optimized for High Performance Computing (HPC) and Enterprise Performance Computing (EPC)
Auto generated by spf13/cobra on 2-Jul-2021


Selecting this menu item (or pressing Ctrl + A) will bring up the 'Add New Entry' dialog for the address book. The Address field will be filled in with the address of the user whose message is currently highlighted. This can be an e-mail, CIX forum or Newsgroup message that is currently showing in the Message Window. You can add additional details to the entry at this stage or just click the OK button to add the address to the Address Book.


The let keyword respects block scope the way C# and Java programmers are used to.
This was on a separate page because the syntax errors on page load.
function let4() { var a = 0; var a = 'hello'; // no errors, leads to madness let b = 0; let b = 'hello'; // can't redeclare variable identifier in same block scope let c = 0; let c = 1; // can't redeclare variable identifier in same block scope var d = 0; let d = 1; // can't redeclare a var declared variable }


-
C# Queue
In my last post you can find explanation of Stack Collection. Concept of both collections is similar. …
-
C# Stack
Stack is a LIFO(last-in, first out) collection of objects. It’s generic type that is part of System.Collections.Generic. You can read more about generics in my last post. There are three most important methods in this class: Peek(),Pop(),Push(). First lets explain the LIFO concept. …
-
C# Action Delegate
In last post about generics mentioned about Action delegate. Action is a type of delegates that takes 0 to 16 arguments and returns no value. It’s similar to void method. It’s part of System.collection.generic. Actions can point to anonymous function in form of lambda expression. Let’s take a look at example.
using System;
…
-
C# Dictionary
In last post about hashtables, I mentioned that there is more efficient type of hashtable called dictionary. I recommend you to read that article before moving to dictionaries. Dictionary is part of System.Generic. Concept of dictionary is the same as Hashtable , A It is a data structure that represents a collection of keys and values pair of data. In dictionaries we need to define the type of variable that will be stored in collection. This makes no need for boxing/unboxing process, what effects the collection performance. Dictionary is part of generic collection what means we can use it with any data types …
-
Hashtable
Hashtable is part of System.Collection namespace. You can read more about collections here. The Hashtable class represents a collection of key/value pairs that are organized based on the hash code of the key.  It uses the key to access the elements in the collection. The mapping function is used to assign numerical values (keys) to the data. This helps in categorizing the data, which speeds up search times when you search for it. Hashtable is an older .NET Framework type. It is slower than the generic Dictionary type. In hashtable we don’t declare type of the object with it signature. …
-
Interfaces
In post about abstraction abstract classes I used examples of method which implementation is defined in derived class. Here is when Interfaces comes in play. An interface contains only the signatures(declarations) of methods, properties, events or indexers. It looks like a class, but has no implementation. The reason interfaces only provide declarations is because they are inherited by classes and structs, which must provide an implementation for each interface member declared. It’s important to add that Class can inherit from multiple interfaces, but not multiple classes. …
-
Recursive function
In simplest possible way, recursive function is a function that calls itself. It’s common for function to call another function, but when it calls itself its a recursive function. Recursive method calls itself so many times until being satisfied, this method should call itself with new parameters to avoid infinite loop. …
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Lambda Expressions
Lambda expressions is an anonymous function used to transform data and create shorter representations of normal function as delegates. In c# we use => operator to transform data. This subject is strongly related to delegates, I suggest you reading the delegates post first. Let’s take a look at syntax:
(input parameters) => expression or statement block
We pass lambda expressions as arguments of functions. …
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Abstraction
This is the fourth principle of object oriented programming. Abstraction is a concept related to polymorphism. Abstraction in programming means declaring the methods that will be defined in derived class. The idea of abstraction works well with large and complex projects, where class contains multiple methods that performs different tasks. …
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Encapsulation
Encapsulation, also known as information hiding, Is the procedure of covering up of data and functions into a single class. Encapsulation is used to prevent the user of a given class from manipulating objects in ways that are not intended by the designer. This can be achieved by restricting access to the members. Unprotected data is vulnerable to accidental corruption due to the errors in other parts of program. …


| DOSE: |
12 mg |
oral |
2C-T-2 |
(pill / tablet) |
I was given some 2C-T-2 pills by a friend who had been in the Netherlands. Being cautious with new materials, I decided to take 12 mg, and gave Gaichi somewhere around the same dose. I found this material unremarkable, and at times downright annoying. This may have been due to the fact that I took a light dose. The body load was pretty strong, I felt muscle tension and my eyes felt strained. It felt a lot like LSD, but not as “juicy” or fun. It was really cerebral; Gaichi and I talked about stuff in this really analytical way, but the meanderings felt unsatisfying and empty. I quickly felt like, “OK where is this going, are we there yet?”
The only interesting thing that happened was this: Gaichi and I spent a lot of the trip (about 3 hours) sitting in bed, talking. I was holding court -- he would get up and leave my room to fetch anything I needed from the kitchen. He left 2 or 3 times for about 5 minutes each time. During the time he left the room and I was alone -- right after he shut the door after him -- I was suddenly awash in really interesting ideas and clear thoughts, and I wanted to share them with him as soon as he returned. When he was in the room with me, I didn’t feel the same degree of novelty in my thinking, but hooboy when he left; Boom! A carnival of neat thoughts. I thought that was strange.
I did not find it interesting enough to try again. I'll stick with 2C-B.
Experience Reports are the writings and opinions of the individual authors who submit them.
Some of the activities described are dangerous and/or illegal and none are recommended by Erowid.


Last updated: January 22, 2020
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import { AlertModule } from 'easy-framework';
Alerts are styled with an .alert-[bad || good || info || warn]
class.
Note: The aria role="alert", tabindex="-1", and a unique aria-labelledby and id will be automatically assigned to the alert.
import { AlertModule } from 'easy-framework';
Alerts are styled with an .alert-[bad || good || info || warn]
class.
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Alerts are closed by adding a .close
class.
Note: The aria role="alertdialog" will be automatically assigned to an alert with a .close
class.


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