pure xsl homepage, with folding and toc

zed9h-2005.xsl

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<bio:doc author="carlo.caputo@gmail.com">
<fold id="music">
<fold id="Don't Like Mondays?" author="Boomtown Rats?" year="1980?" src="http://?/">
TODO: lyrics of don't like mondays - boom town rats
</fold>
<fold id="Bizarre Love Triangle?" author="New Order" year="1980?" src="http://?/">
TODO: lyrics of bizarre love triangle
TODO: +lyrics of siouxie dear prudence
</fold>
<fold id="Stuck on a Nerve?" author="Bad Religion feat Napolitano" year="1980?" src="http://?/">
TODO: lyrics of stuck on a nerve
TODO: +lyrics of condrete blonde heal it up and black birth
</fold>
<fold id="Jeremy" author="Pearl Jam" year="1980?" src="http://?/">
TODO: lyrics of jeremy
TODO: +lyrics of "Therapy?"
</fold>
<fold id="Happen" author="Sugar Cubes" year="1980?" src="http://?/">
TODO: lyrics of suposed to happen???!?
TODO: +lyrics of bjorj 5 years???
</fold>
<fold id="Around my finger" author="Tori and PJ" year="1980?" src="http://?/">
TODO: lyrics of arond my finger
TODO: +lyrics of PJ's big fish
</fold>
<fold id="Asa Branca" author="Elis and Hermeto" year="1980?" src="http://?/">
TODO: lyrics of asa branca montreux 1979
</fold>
</fold>

<fold id="literature">
<fold id="Text" author="Samuel Beckett" year="1932" src="http://www.samuel-beckett.net/">
COME COME and cull me bonny bony doublebed cony swiftly my springal and my thin Kerry twingle-twangler comfort my days of roses days of beauty week of redness with mad shame to my lips of shame to my shame hill for the newest news the shemost of shenews is I'm list- belepered and unwell oh I'd rather be a sparrow for my puckfisted coxcomb bird to bird and branch or a coalcave with goldy veins for my wicked doty's potystick trimly to besom gone the hartshorn and the cowslip wine gone and the lettuce nibbled up nibbled up and gone nor the last beauty day or the red time opened its rose and stuck with its thorn oh I'm all of gallimaufry or salady salmafundi singly and single to bed she said I'll have no toadspit about this house and whose quab was I I'd like to know that from my cheerfully cornuted Dublin landloper and whose foal hackney mare toeing the line like a Viennese Taubchen take my tip and clap a padlock on your Greek galligaskins before I'm quick and living in hope and glad to go snacks with my twingle-twangler and grow grow into the earth mother of whom clapdish and foreshop.
</fold>
<fold id="Premier Amour / First Love" author="Samuel Beckett" year="1945 / 1973" src="http://www.fluctuat.net/theatre/paris99/chroniq/premieram.htm">
<fold quoted="yes" context="les premiers mots">
J'associe, &#224; tort ou &#224; raison, mon mariage avec la mort de mon p&#232;re, dans le temps. Qu'il existe d'autres liens, sur d'autres plans, entre ces deux affaires, c'est possible. Il m'est d&#233;j&#224; difficile de dire ce que je crois savoir.

</fold>
<fold quoted="yes" context="last words">
One should not dread the winter, it too has its bounties, the snow gives warmth and deadens the tumult and its pale days are soon over. But I did not yet know, at that time, how tender the earth can be for those who have only her and how many graves in her giving, for the living. What finished me was the birth. It woke me up. What that infant must have been going through! I fancy she had a woman with her, I seemed to hear steps in the kitchen, on and off. It went to my heart to leave a house without being put out. I crawled out over the back of the sofa, put on my coat, greatcoat and hat, I can think of nothing else, laced up my boots and opened the door to the corridor. A mass of junk barred my way, but I scrabbled and badged my way through it in the end, regardless of the clatter. I used the word marriage, it was a kind o union in spite of all. Precautions would have been superfluous, there was no competing with those cries. It must have been the first. They pursued me down the stairs and out in the street. I stopped before the house door and listened. I could still hear them. If I had not known there was crying in the house I might not have heard them. And yet they must have been there. My father was the first to show them to me. He had shown me others, but alone, without him beside me, I could never find any but the Wains. I began playing with the cries, a little in the same way as I had played with the song, on, back, on, back, if that may be called playing. As long as I kept walking I didn't hear them, because of the footsteps. But as soon as I halted I heard them again, a little fainter or loud, cry is cry, all that matters it that it should cease. For years I thought they would cease. Now I don't think so any more. I could have done with other loves perhaps. But there it is, either you love or you don't. 
</fold>
<fold quoted="yes" context="epitaph">
Mine I composed long since and still pleased with it, tolerably pleased. My other writings are no sooner dry than they revolt me, but my epitaph still meets with my approval. There is little chance unfortunately of it ever being reared above the skull that conceived it, unless the State takes up the matter. But to be unearthed I must first be found, and I greatly fear those gentleman will have as much trouble finding me dead as alive. So I hastened to record it here and now, while there is yet time:
"Hereunder lies the above who up below / So hourly died that he lived until now."
The second and last or rather latter line limps a little perhaps, but that is no great matter, I'll be forgiven more than that when I'm forgotten.
</fold>
</fold>
<fold id="Le Mythe de Sisyphe / The Myth of Sysiphus" author="Albert Camus" year="1942 / 1955" src="http://www.anselm.edu/homepage/dbanach/sisyphus.htm" context="conclusion" quoted="yes">
<row>If this myth is tragic, that is because its hero is conscious. Where would his torture be, indeed, if at every step the hope of succeeding upheld him? The workman of today works everyday in his life at the same tasks, and his fate is no less absurd. But it is tragic only at the rare moments when it becomes conscious. Sisyphus, proletarian of the gods, powerless and rebellious, knows the whole extent of his wretched condition: it is what he thinks of during his descent. The lucidity that was to constitute his torture at the same time crowns his victory. There is no fate that can not be surmounted by scorn.</row>
<row/>
<row>If the descent is thus sometimes performed in sorrow, it can also take place in joy. This word is not too much. Again I fancy Sisyphus returning toward his rock, and the sorrow was in the beginning. When the images of earth cling too tightly to memory, when the call of happiness becomes too insistent, it happens that melancholy arises in man's heart: this is the rock's victory, this is the rock itself. The boundless grief is too heavy to bear. These are our nights of Gethsemane. But crushing truths perish from being acknowledged. Thus, Edipus at the outset obeys fate without knowing it. But from the moment he knows, his tragedy begins. Yet at the same moment, blind and desperate, he realizes that the only bond linking him to the world is the cool hand of a girl. Then a tremendous remark rings out: "Despite so many ordeals, my advanced age and the nobility of my soul make me conclude that all is well." Sophocles' Edipus, like Dostoevsky's Kirilov, thus gives the recipe for the absurd victory. Ancient wisdom confirms modern heroism.</row>
<row/>
<row>One does not discover the absurd without being tempted to write a manual of happiness. "What!---by such narrow ways--?" There is but one world, however. Happiness and the absurd are two sons of the same earth. They are inseparable. It would be a mistake to say that happiness necessarily springs from the absurd. Discovery. It happens as well that the felling of the absurd springs from happiness. "I conclude that all is well," says Edipus, and that remark is sacred. It echoes in the wild and limited universe of man. It teaches that all is not, has not been, exhausted. It drives out of this world a god who had come into it with dissatisfaction and a preference for futile suffering. It makes of fate a human matter, which must be settled among men.</row>
<row/>
<row>All Sisyphus' silent joy is contained therein. His fate belongs to him. His rock is a thing. Likewise, the absurd man, when he contemplates his torment, silences all the idols. In the universe suddenly restored to its silence, the myriad wondering little voices of the earth rise up. Unconscious, secret calls, invitations from all the faces, they are the necessary reverse and price of victory. There is no sun without shadow, and it is essential to know the night. The absurd man says yes and his efforts will henceforth be unceasing. If there is a personal fate, there is no higher destiny, or at least there is, but one which he concludes is inevitable and despicable. For the rest, he knows himself to be the master of his days. At that subtle moment when man glances backward over his life, Sisyphus returning toward his rock, in that slight pivoting he contemplates that series of unrelated actions which become his fate, created by him, combined under his memory's eye and soon sealed by his death. Thus, convinced of the wholly human origin of all that is human, a blind man eager to see who knows that the night has no end, he is still on the go. The rock is still rolling.</row>
<row/>
<row>I leave Sisyphus at the foot of the mountain! One always finds one's burden again. But Sisyphus teaches the higher fidelity that negates the gods and raises rocks. He too concludes that all is well. This universe henceforth without a master seems to him neither sterile nor futile. Each atom of that stone, each mineral flake of that night filled mountain, in itself forms a world. The struggle itself toward the heights is enough to fill a man's heart. One must imagine Sisyphus happy.</row>
</fold>

<fold id="Sneewittchen / Little Snow-White" author="Brothers Grimm" year="1812 / 1884" src="http://www.scils.rutgers.edu/~kvander/snowwhitetext.html">
<fold quoted="yes" context="the first deception">
And so she thought and thought again how she might kill her, for so
long as she was not the fairest in the whole land, envy let her have no
rest. And when she had at last thought of something to do, she painted
her face, and dressed herself like an old pedler-woman, and no one could
have known her. In this disguise she went over the seven mountains to the
seven dwarfs, and knocked at the door and cried, "Pretty things to sell,
very cheap, very cheap." Little Snow-white looked out of the window and
called out, "Good-day my good woman, what have you to sell?" "Good things,
pretty things," she answered; "stay-laces of all colours," and she pulled
out one which was woven of bright-coloured silk. "I may let the worthy
old woman in," thought Snow-white, and she unbolted the door and bought
the pretty laces. "Child," said the old woman, "what a fright you look;
come, I will lace you properly for once." Snow-white had no suspicion,
but stood before her, and let herself be laced with the new laces. But
the old woman laced so quickly and so tightly that Snow-white lost her
breath and fell down as if dead. "Now I am the most beautiful," said
the Queen to herself, and ran away.
</fold>
<fold quoted="yes" context="shortly after, the second attempt">
When she heard that, all her blood rushed to her heart with fear, for she
saw plainly that little Snow-white was again alive. "But now," she said,
"I will think of something that shall put an end to you," and by the help
of witchcraft, which she understood, she made a poisonous comb. Then
she disguised herself and took the shape of another old woman. So she
went over the seven mountains to the seven dwarfs, knocked at the door,
and cried, "Good things to sell, cheap, cheap!" Little Snow-white looked
out and said, "Go away; I cannot let any one come in." "I suppose you can
look," said the old woman, and pulled the poisonous comb out and held
it up. It pleased the girl so well that she let herself be beguiled,
and opened the door. When they had made a bargain the old woman said,
"Now I will comb you properly for once." Poor little Snow-white had no
suspicion, and let the old woman do as she pleased, but hardly had she
put the comb in her hair than the poison in it took effect, and the girl
fell down senseless. "You paragon of beauty," said the wicked woman,
"you are done for now," and she went away.
</fold>
<fold quoted="yes" context="and finally, the thirth attempt">
When the apple was ready she painted her face, and dressed herself up
as a country-woman, and so she went over the seven mountains to the
seven dwarfs.  She knocked at the door. Snow-white put her head out
of the window and said, "I cannot let any one in; the seven dwarfs
have forbidden me." "It is all the same to me," answered the woman,
"I shall soon get rid of my apples. There, I will give you one."

"No," said Snow-white, "I dare not take anything." "Are you afraid
of poison?"  said the old woman; "look, I will cut the apple in two
pieces; you eat the red cheek, and I will eat the white." The apple
was so cunningly made that only the red cheek was poisoned. Snow-white
longed for the fine apple, and when she saw that the woman ate part of
it she could resist no longer, and stretched out her hand and took the
poisonous half. But hardly had she a bit of it in her mouth than she
fell down dead. Then the Queen looked at her with a dreadful look, and
laughed aloud and said, "White as snow, red as blood, black as ebony-wood!
this time the dwarfs cannot wake you up again."
</fold>
</fold>

<fold id="Alice's Adventures in Wonderland" author="Lewis Carroll" year="1864" src="http://www.gutenberg.org/dirs/etext91/alice30.txt">
<fold quoted="yes" context="saving the baby from the kitchen fight">
<row>As soon as she had made out the proper way of nursing it,
(which was to twist it up into a sort of knot, and then keep
tight hold of its right ear and left foot, so as to prevent its
undoing itself,) she carried it out into the open air.  `IF I
don't take this child away with me,' thought Alice, `they're sure
to kill it in a day or two:  wouldn't it be murder to leave it
behind?'  She said the last words out loud, and the little thing
grunted in reply (it had left off sneezing by this time).  `Don't
grunt,' said Alice; `that's not at all a proper way of expressing
yourself.'</row>
<row/>
<row>The baby grunted again, and Alice looked very anxiously into
its face to see what was the matter with it.  There could be no
doubt that it had a VERY turn-up nose, much more like a snout
than a real nose; also its eyes were getting extremely small for
a baby:  altogether Alice did not like the look of the thing at
all.  `But perhaps it was only sobbing,' she thought, and looked
into its eyes again, to see if there were any tears.</row>
<row/>
<row>No, there were no tears.  `If you're going to turn into a pig,
my dear,' said Alice, seriously, `I'll have nothing more to do
with you.  Mind now!'  The poor little thing sobbed again (or
grunted, it was impossible to say which), and they went on for
some while in silence.</row>
<row/>
<row>Alice was just beginning to think to herself, `Now, what am I
to do with this creature when I get it home?' when it grunted
again, so violently, that she looked down into its face in some
alarm.  This time there could be NO mistake about it:  it was
neither more nor less than a pig, and she felt that it would be
quite absurd for her to carry it further.</row>
<row/>
<row>So she set the little creature down, and felt quite relieved to
see it trot away quietly into the wood.  `If it had grown up,'
she said to herself, `it would have made a dreadfully ugly child:
but it makes rather a handsome pig, I think.'  And she began
thinking over other children she knew, who might do very well as
pigs, and was just saying to herself, `if one only knew the right
way to change them--' when she was a little startled by seeing
the Cheshire Cat sitting on a bough of a tree a few yards off.</row>
<row>The Cat only grinned when it saw Alice.  It looked good-
natured, she thought:  still it had VERY long claws and a great
many teeth, so she felt that it ought to be treated with respect.</row>
<row/>
<row>`Cheshire Puss,' she began, rather timidly, as she did not at
all know whether it would like the name:  however, it only
grinned a little wider.  `Come, it's pleased so far,' thought
Alice, and she went on.  `Would you tell me, please, which way I
ought to go from here?'</row>
<row/>
<row>`That depends a good deal on where you want to get to,' said
the Cat.</row>
<row/>
<row>`I don't much care where--' said Alice.</row>
<row/>
<row>`Then it doesn't matter which way you go,' said the Cat.</row>
<row/>
<row>`--so long as I get SOMEWHERE,' Alice added as an explanation.</row>
<row/>
<row>`Oh, you're sure to do that,' said the Cat, `if you only walk
long enough.'</row>
<row/>
<row>Alice felt that this could not be denied, so she tried another
question.  `What sort of people live about here?'</row>
<row/>
<row>`In THAT direction,' the Cat said, waving its right paw round,
`lives a Hatter:  and in THAT direction,' waving the other paw,
`lives a March Hare.  Visit either you like:  they're both mad.'</row>
<row/>
<row>`But I don't want to go among mad people,' Alice remarked.</row>
<row/>
<row>`Oh, you can't help that,' said the Cat:  `we're all mad here.
I'm mad.  You're mad.'</row>
<row/>
<row>`How do you know I'm mad?' said Alice.</row>
<row/>
<row>`You must be,' said the Cat, `or you wouldn't have come here.'</row>
<row/>
<row>Alice didn't think that proved it at all; however, she went on
`And how do you know that you're mad?'</row>
<row/>
<row>`To begin with,' said the Cat, `a dog's not mad.  You grant
that?'</row>
<row/>
<row>`I suppose so,' said Alice.</row>
<row/>
<row>`Well, then,' the Cat went on, `you see, a dog growls when it's
angry, and wags its tail when it's pleased.  Now I growl when I'm
pleased, and wag my tail when I'm angry.  Therefore I'm mad.'</row>
<row>`I call it purring, not growling,' said Alice.</row>
<row/>
<row>`Call it what you like,' said the Cat.  `Do you play croquet
with the Queen to-day?'</row>
<row/>
<row>`I should like it very much,' said Alice, `but I haven't been
invited yet.'</row>
<row/>
<row>`You'll see me there,' said the Cat, and vanished.</row>
<row/>
<row>Alice was not much surprised at this, she was getting so used
to queer things happening.  While she was looking at the place
where it had been, it suddenly appeared again.</row>
<row/>
<row>`By-the-bye, what became of the baby?' said the Cat.  `I'd
nearly forgotten to ask.'</row>
<row/>
<row>`It turned into a pig,' Alice quietly said, just as if it had
come back in a natural way.</row>
<row/>
<row>`I thought it would,' said the Cat, and vanished again.</row>
<row/>
<row>Alice waited a little, half expecting to see it again, but it
did not appear, and after a minute or two she walked on in the
direction in which the March Hare was said to live.  `I've seen
hatters before,' she said to herself; `the March Hare will be
much the most interesting, and perhaps as this is May it won't be
raving mad--at least not so mad as it was in March.'  As she said
this, she looked up, and there was the Cat again, sitting on a
branch of a tree.</row>
<row/>
<row>`Did you say pig, or fig?' said the Cat.</row>
<row/>
<row>`I said pig,' replied Alice; `and I wish you wouldn't keep
appearing and vanishing so suddenly:  you make one quite giddy.'</row>
<row/>
<row>`All right,' said the Cat; and this time it vanished quite slowly,
beginning with the end of the tail, and ending with the grin,
which remained some time after the rest of it had gone.</row>
<row/>
<row>`Well!  I've often seen a cat without a grin,' thought Alice;
`but a grin without a cat!  It's the most curious thing I ever
saw in my life!'</row>
<row/>
<row>She had not gone much farther before she came in sight of the
house of the March Hare:  she thought it must be the right house,
because the chimneys were shaped like ears and the roof was
thatched with fur.  It was so large a house, that she did not
like to go nearer till she had nibbled some more of the lefthand
bit of mushroom, and raised herself to about two feet high:  even
then she walked up towards it rather timidly, saying to herself
`Suppose it should be raving mad after all!  I almost wish I'd
gone to see the Hatter instead!'</row>
</fold>
</fold>
</fold>


<fold id="poetry" format="pre">
<fold id="Os Ombros Suportam o Mundo" author="Carlos Drummond de Andrade" year="1940" src="http://www.releituras.com/drummond_osombros.asp"
>Chega um tempo em que n&#227;o se diz mais: meu Deus.
Tempo de absoluta depura&#231;&#227;o.
Tempo em que n&#227;o se diz mais: meu amor.
Porque o amor resultou in&#250;til.
E os olhos n&#227;o choram.
E as m&#227;os tecem apenas o rude trabalho.
E o cora&#231;&#227;o est&#225; seco.


Em v&#227;o mulheres batem &#224; porta, n&#227;o abrir&#225;s.
Ficaste sozinho, a luz apagou-se,
mas na sombra teus olhos resplandecem enormes.

&#201;s todo certeza, j&#225; n&#227;o sabes sofrer.
E nada esperas de teus amigos.


Pouco importa venha a velhice, que &#233; a velhice?
Teu ombros suportam o mundo
e ele n&#227;o pesa mais que a m&#227;o de uma crian&#231;a.
As guerras, as fomes, as discuss&#245;es dentro dos edif&#237;cios
provam apenas que a vida prossegue
e nem todos se libertaram ainda.
Alguns, achando b&#225;rbaro o espet&#225;culo,
prefeririam (os delicados) morrer.
Chegou um tempo em que n&#227;o adianta morrer.
Chegou um tempo em que a vida &#233; uma ordem.
A vida apenas, sem mistifica&#231;&#227;o.</fold>
<fold id="One Art" author="Elizabeth Bishop" year="1975" src="http://www.poets.org/viewmedia.php/prmMID/15212"
>The art of losing isn't hard to master;

so many things seem filled with the intent

to be lost that their loss is no disaster.



Lose something every day. Accept the fluster

of lost door keys, the hour badly spent.

The art of losing isn't hard to master.



Then practice losing farther, losing faster:

places, and names, and where it was you meant 

to travel. None of these will bring disaster.



I lost my mother's watch. And look! my last, or

next-to-last, of three loved houses went.

The art of losing isn't hard to master.



I lost two cities, lovely ones. And, vaster,

some realms I owned, two rivers, a continent.

I miss them, but it wasn't a disaster.





--Even losing you (the joking voice, a gesture

I love) I shan't have lied.  It's evident

the art of losing's not too hard to master

though it may look like (Write it!) like disaster.</fold>

<fold id="Goblin Market" author="Christina Rossetti" year="1862" src="http://www.scholars.nus.edu.sg/landow/victorian/authors/crossetti/gobmarket.html">
<fold quoted="yes" context="Laura Tastes the Goblin's Fruit"
>But sweet-tooth Laura spoke in haste:
"Good folk, I have no coin;
To take were to purloin:
I have no copper in my purse,
I have no silver either,
And all my gold is on the furze
That shakes in windy weather
Above the rusty heather."
"You have much gold upon your head,"
They answer'd all together:
"Buy from us with a golden curl."
She clipp'd a precious golden lock,
She dropp'd a tear more rare than pearl,
Then suck'd their fruit globes fair or red:
Sweeter than honey from the rock,
Stronger than man-rejoicing wine,
Clearer than water flow'd that juice;
She never tasted such before,
How should it cloy with length of use?
She suck'd and suck'd and suck'd the more
Fruits which that unknown orchard bore;
She suck'd until her lips were sore;
Then flung the emptied rinds away
But gather'd up one kernel stone,
And knew not was it night or day
As she turn'd home alone.</fold>
<fold quoted="yes" context="Lizzie Rejects the Goblin's Fruit"
>"Good folk," said Lizzie,
Mindful of Jeanie,
"Give me much and many"; --
Held out her apron,
Tossed them her penny.
"Nay, take a seat with us,
Honor and eat with us,"
They answered grinning;
"Our feast is but beginning.
Night yet is early,
Warm and dew-pearly,
Wakeful and starry:
Such fruits as these
No man can carry;
Half their bloom would fly,
Half their dew would dry,
Half their flavor would pass by.
Sit down and feast with us,
Be welcome guest with us,
Cheer you and rest with us."
"Thank you," said Lizzie; "but one waits
At home alone for me:
So, without further parleying,
If you will not sell me any
Of your fruits though much and many,
Give me back my silver penny
I tossed you for a fee."
They began to scratch their pates,
No longer wagging, purring,
But visibly demurring,
Grunting and snarling.
One called her proud,
Cross-grained, uncivil;
Their tones waxed loud,
Their looks were evil.
Lashing their tails
They trod and hustled her,
Elbowed and jostled her,
Clawed with their nails,
Barking, mewing, hissing, mocking,
Tore her gown and soiled her stocking,
Twitched her hair out by the roots,
Stamped upon her tender feet,
Held her hands and squeezed their fruits
Against her mouth to make her eat.</fold>
</fold>
<fold id="Can&#231;&#227;o" author="Emilio Moura"
>Viver n&#227;o d&#243;i. O que d&#243;i
&#233; a vida que se n&#227;o vive.
Tanto mais bela sonhada,
quanto mais triste perdida.

Viver n&#227;o d&#243;i. O que d&#243;i
&#233; o tempo, essa for&#231;a on&#237;rica
em que se criam os mitos
que o pr&#243;prio tempo devora.

Viver n&#227;o d&#243;i. O que d&#243;i
&#233; essa estranha lucidez,
misto de fome e de sede
com que tudo devoramos.

Viver n&#227;o d&#243;i. O que d&#243;i,
ferindo fundo, ferindo,
&#233; a dist&#226;ncia infinita
entre a vida que se pensa
e o pensamento vivido.

Que tudo o mais &#233; perdido.</fold>
</fold>

<fold id="code" format="pre">
<fold id="Picking the Dasy" author="Brian Westley" year="1990" src="http://www0.us.ioccc.org/1990/westley.hint" context="Best Layout"
><![CDATA[char*lie;

	double time, me= !0XFACE,

	not; int rested,   get, out;

	main(ly, die) char ly, **die ;{

	    signed char lotte,


dear; (char)lotte--;

	for(get= !me;; not){

	1 -  out & out ;lie;{

	char lotte, my= dear,

	**let= !!me *!not+ ++die;

	    (char*)(lie=


"The gloves are OFF this time, I detest you, snot\n\0sed GEEK!");

	do {not= *lie++ & 0xF00L* !me;

	#define love (char*)lie -

	love 1s *!(not= atoi(let

	[get -me?

	    (char)lotte-


(char)lotte: my- *love -
	
	'I'  -  *love -  'U' -

	'I'  -  (long)  - 4 - 'U' ])- !!
	
	(time  =out=  'a'));} while( my - dear

	&& 'I'-1l  -get-  'a'); break;}}

	    (char)*lie++;


(char)*lie++, (char)*lie++; hell:0, (char)*lie;

	get *out* (short)ly   -0-'R'-  get- 'a'^rested;

	do {auto*eroticism,

	that; puts(*( out

	    - 'c'
	
-('P'-'S') +die+ -2 ));}while(!"you're at it");


for (*((char*)&lotte)^=

	(char)lotte; (love ly) [(char)++lotte+

	!!0xBABE];){ if ('I' -lie[ 2 +(char)lotte]){ 'I'-1l ***die; }

	else{ if ('I' * get *out* ('I'-1l **die[ 2 ])) *((char*)&lotte) -=

	'4' - ('I'-1l); not; for(get=!


get; !out; (char)*lie  &  0xD0- !not) return!!

	(char)lotte;}


(char)lotte;

	do{ not* putchar(lie [out

	*!not* !!me +(char)lotte]);

	not; for(;!'a';);}while(

	    love (char*)lie);{


register this; switch( (char)lie

	[(char)lotte] -1s *!out) {

	char*les, get= 0xFF, my; case' ':

	*((char*)&lotte) += 15; !not +(char)*lie*'s';

	this +1s+ not; default: 0xF +(char*)lie;}}}

	get - !out;

	if (not--)

	goto hell;

	    exit( (char)lotte);}]]></fold>
<fold id="Time and Time Again" author="Brian Westley" year="1996" src="http://www0.us.ioccc.org/1996/westley.hint" context="Best One Liner"
><![CDATA[
main(h,m)char**m;{for(time(*m);h/=2;)m[4][m[h][h[(int*)localtime(*m)]]]=m[3][h];puts(m[4]);}

#!/bin/sh
./westley  \
"%%%&&&'''666EEESSSaaannn{{{zzzyyyxxxwwwhhhYYYKKK===000###\$\$\$" \
"34CQ_lkj[M?234CQ_lkj[M?2" \
" .*" \
"
 -<<==O==>>-  
--====v====-- 
|           |
|           |
|           |
|     0     |
|           |
|           |
|           |
=============
  \\       /
   \\     /
   |     |
   |  |  |
   |  |  |
   |  |  |
   |  |  |
   |  O  |
   |     |
)-----------(
|           |
============="
]]></fold>
<fold id="Postmodern Verbiage" author="Andrew C. Bulhak" year="1996" src="http://9hells.org/writer/dada-1.03/scripts/pomo.pb" context="text generated of a meta-text"
><![CDATA[
Deconstructing Social realism: The neoconceptual paradigm of concensus in the 
works of Spelling 

John D. H. Buxton 
Department of Sociolinguistics, Massachusetts Institute of Technology 



1. Spelling and the neoconceptual paradigm of concensus 


In the works of Spelling, a predominant concept is the distinction between 
destruction and creation. A number of discourses concerning the neoconceptual 
paradigm of concensus exist. 

An abundance of materialisms concerning the common ground between class and 
society may be revealed. Thus, the premise of neodialectic posttextual theory 
holds that context must come from the collective unconscious. However, the main 
theme of Hanfkopf's [1] critique of semioticist desublimation is a subdialectic 
reality. 

The subject is contextualised into a that includes culture as a whole. 

---- 
1. Hanfkopf, Q. Z. (1976) The neoconceptual paradigm of concensus and 
neodialectic posttextual theory. Loompanics 
]]></fold>
<fold id="qrpff" author="Keith Winstein and Marc Horowitz" year="2001" src="http://www.theregister.co.uk/2001/03/08/sevenline_program_beats_dvd_crypto/" context="Seven-line program beats DVD crypto"
><![CDATA[
#!/usr/bin/perl 
# 472-byte qrpff, Keith Winstein and Marc Horowitz <sipb-iap-dvd@mit.edu> 
# MPEG 2 PS VOB file -> descrambled output on stdout. 
# usage: perl -I <k1>:<k2>:<k3>:<k4>:<k5> qrpff 
# where k1..k5 are the title key bytes in least to most-significant order 

s''$/=\2048;while(<>){G=29;R=142;if((@a=unqT="C*",_)[20]&48){D=89;_=unqb24,qT,@
b=map{ord qB8,unqb8,qT,_^$a[--D]}@INC;s/...$/1$&/;Q=unqV,qb25,_;H=73;O=$b[4]<<9
|256|$b[3];Q=Q>>8^(P=(E=255)&(Q>>12^Q>>4^Q/8^Q))<<17,O=O>>8^(E&(F=(S=O>>14&7^O)
^S*8^S<<6))<<9,_=(map{U=_%16orE^=R^=110&(S=(unqT,"\xb\ntd\xbz\x14d")[_/16%8]);E
^=(72,@z=(64,72,G^=12*(U-2?0:S&17)),H^=_%64?12:0,@z)[_%8]}(16..271))[_]^((D>>=8
)+=P+(~F&E))for@a[128..$#a]}print+qT,@a}';s/[D-HO-U_]/\$$&/g;s/q/pack+/g;eval
]]></fold>
<fold id="efdtt" author="Charles M. Hannum and Phil Carmody" year="2001" src="http://www.theregister.co.uk/2001/03/08/sevenline_program_beats_dvd_crypto/" context="Tiny C code bests seven-line DVD decoder"
><![CDATA[
/* efdtt.c Author: Charles M. Hannum <root@ihack.net> */
/* Thanks to Phil Carmody <fatphil@asdf.org> for additional tweaks. */
/* Length: 434 bytes (excluding unnecessary newlines) */
/* Usage is: cat title-key scrambled.vob | efdtt >clear.vob */

#define m(i)(x[i]^s[i+84])<<
unsigned char x[5],y,s[2048];main(n){for(read(0,x,5);read(0,s,n=2048);write(1,s
,n))if(s[y=s[13]%8+20]/16%4==1){int i=m(1)17^256+m(0)8,k=m(2)0,j=m(4)17^m(3)9^k
*2-k%8^8,a=0,c=26;for(s[y]-=16;--c;j*=2)a=a*2^i&1,i=i/2^j&1<<24;for(j=127;++j<n
;c=c>y)c+=y=i^i/8^i>>4^i>>12,i=i>>8^y<<17,a^=a>>14,y=a^a*8^a<<6,a=a>>8^y<<9,k=s
[j],k="7Wo~'G_\216"[k&7]+2^"cr3sfw6v;*k+>/n."[k>>4]*2^k*257/8,s[j]=k^(k&k*2&34)
*6^c+~y;}}
]]></fold>
</fold>
<fold id="cinema">
<fold id="La Double vie de V&#233;ronique" author="Krzysztof Kieslowski" year="1991" src="http://www.imdb.com/title/tt0101765/">
Veronika lives in Poland. Veronique lives in Paris. They don't know each other. Veronika gets a place in a music school, works hard, but collapses and dies on her first performance. At this point, Veronique's life seems to take a turn and she decides not to be a singer...

</fold>
<fold id="Sheltering Sky" author="Bernardo Bertolucci" year="1990" src="http://www.imdb.com/title/tt0100594/">
The American artist couple Port and Kit Moresby travels aimless through Africa, searching for new experiences that could give new sense to their relationship. But the flight to distant regions leads both only deeper into despair.
</fold>
<fold id="Trust" author="Hal Hartley" year="1990" src="http://www.imdb.com/title/tt0103130/" quoted="yes" context="definition of love">
<row>(Maria sits and Mathew stand, against a block of concrete.)</row>
<row>Maria: What time is it?</row>
<row>Mathew: 17:03</row>
<row>Maria: Did you mean that would you marry me?</row>
<row>Mathew: Yes.</row>
<row>Maria: Why?</row>
<row>Mathew: Because I want to.</row>
<row>Maria: Not because you love me or anything line that, ahn?</row>
<row>Mathew: I respect and admire you.</row>
<row>Maria: Isn't that love?</row>
<row>Mathew: No that's respect and admiration. I think that's better than love.</row>
<row>Maria: How?</row>
<row>Mathew: When people are in love, they do all sort of crazy things, they... get jealous and lie, cheat, they kill themselves, kill each other.</row>
<row>Maria: Doesn't have to be that way.</row>
<row>Mathew: Maybe.</row>
<row>Maria: To be the father of a child you know isn't yours.</row>
<row>Mathew: Kids are kids. What does it matter?</row>
<row>Maria: Do you trust me?</row>
<row>Mathew: If you trust me first.</row>
<row>Maria: I trust you.</row>
<row>Mathew: Sure?</row>
<row>Maria: Yes.</row>
<row>(Mathew knees in front of Maria.)</row>
<row>Mathew: Than marry me.</row>
<row>Maria: I will merry you if you admit that respect, admiration and trust equals love.</row>
<row>Mathew: OK, they equal love.</row>
<row>(They kiss softly. Then, Maria take the glasses and climb up the block, that is higher than Mathew; she closes her eyes and let herself fall back; Mathew, that is not so close, jumps to catch her before she hits the ground.)</row>
<row>Maria: Good, I trust you, now is your turn.</row>
<row>(Mathew looks astonished)</row>
<row>Mathew: What?</row>
<row>Maria: Go on up.</row>
<row>Mathew: Maria, that's pretty high.</row>
<row>Maria: Don't you trust me?</row>
<row>Mathew: Of course I do.</row>
<row>Maria: Go on up!</row>
<row>Mathew: Maria, I am twice you size. If I fall on you from that height I will kill you.</row>
<row>Maria: Trust me.</row>
<row>Mathew: This isn't a matter of trust.</row>
<row>Maria: Mathew, go up. I will break your fall, I promise.</row>
<row>(Mathew shakes his head and goes up, but halt on the last step)</row>
<row>Mathew: If I do this, would you leave your mother?</row>
<row>Maria: What?</row>
<row>Mathew: You heard me.</row>
<row>Maria: Maybe.</row>
<row>Mathew: Not good enough.</row>
<row>Maria: You being selfish.</row>
<row>Mathew: The woman is a sadist.</row>
<row>Maria: She's just in shock. What's a sadist?</row>
<row>Mathew: Your mother or me.</row>
<row>Maria: Wait a minute, look.</row>
<row>(Mathew goes down the block, and they continue the thing they went there for.)</row>

</fold>
<fold id="Una voce umana" author="Roberto Rossellini" year="1948" src="http://www.imdb.com/title/tt0040092/">
In part one, The Human Voice, a woman alone speaks on the telephone to her lover, who has broken off the affair to marry someone else. He calls her several times in one night: he lies, she apologizes, she takes the blame, she weeps, she pleads, she asks a favor. Her pain and desperation drive the simple story. In part two, The Miracle, a homeless woman believes that a man she encounters on a hillside is Saint Joseph; he takes advantage of her. When she discovers she is pregnant, she knows it's a miracle. Other villagers mock her, and she has the baby alone, near a locked church, in the straw of a goat shed.
</fold>
<fold id="Il Portiere di notte" author="Liliana Cavani" year="1974" src="http://www.imdb.com/title/tt0040092/">
The dark and melancholy story of a former teenage Nazi concentration camp inmate, Lucia, and the S.S. officer who was her torturer/lover, Max , who accidentally meet again in a Vienna hotel in 1957 where Max works as the night porter. They resume their sadomasochistic relationship, although Max's former S.S. comrades have something different in mind for them. The story unfolds like a gruesome dance of death.
</fold>
<fold id="Dellamorte Dellamore" author="Michele Soavi" year="1994" src="http://www.imdb.com/title/tt0109592/">
This movie is based on a novel of Tiziano Sclavi, and it always reflects the "sclavian philosophy" diffused by the most succesful comics in Italy: Dylan Dog, the detective of the nightmare. There is the duality between love and dead (in Italian "dellamore" means "of love" and "dellamorte" means "of death"), a duality that Dellamorte feels in a really hard way. He is the guardian of the cemetery of Buffalora, a little town in the north of Italy, in which, we don't know why, corpses rise from tombs and Dellamorte has to destroy them. Dellamorte seems not to ask to himself why this happen, he shoots and loves. But at the end he wants to leave Buffalora...
</fold>
<fold id="Vendredi soir" author="Claire Denis" year="2002" src="http://www.imdb.com/title/tt0295743/">
Having packed up her possessions to move in with her lover, Laure is more unsettled than she appears. Needing to get out and have a change of scenery, she jumps in her car to go to have dinner with friends--only to become stuck in a terrible traffic jam. Laure completely forgot about the mass transit strike that has thrown the city into chaos. But Laure feels good in her car, the only place she has for herself right now. As she takes in the sights and sounds around her--the blare of horns and arguments, the shimmer of lights and camaraderie--Laure notices a calm and self-assured stranger, Jean, approach her car. Soon thereafter, she opens her car door to the man who--that night--will change her life.
</fold>
<fold id="Before Sunset" author="Richard Linklater" year="2004" src="http://www.imdb.com/title/tt0381681/">
Jesse, a writer from the US, and Celine, a Frenchwoman working for an environment protection organisation, acquainted nine years ago on the train from Budapest to Vienna, meet again when Jesse arrives in Paris for a reading of his new book. As they have only a few hours until his plane leaves, they stroll through Paris, talking about their experiences, views and whether they still love each other, although Jesse is already married with a kid.
</fold>
</fold>

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