#HOW WAS I HITHERTO UNAWARE THAT THEY WERE IN SPACE?

[marzipanandminutiae]

you know how eventually you can cobble together the plot of media you don’t actually engage with from following fans on Tumblr?

that has never happened for me with...god I don’t even know what it’s called. The Locked Tomb? Harrow The Ninth? Death And Gay And Death And Gay And Memes [five-hour guitar solo]? this is the degree to which I genuinely have no fucking clue about this book series: I follow multiple hardcore fans, and I do not even know its proper name

plot? oh you want to know the plot? I could not have less of a clue what the plot is. none of the information I’ve learned- and there’s been a lot of it - has gelled into anything cohesive in my brain

I know there’s necromancy

I know it’s Deeply Really Truly Incredibly Sapphic

I cannot tell if it’s set in alternate universe (because that would make the most sense given the snippets of worldbuilding I’ve seen) or Earth’s future (because Memes apparently???)

I know some people have numbers after their names? but it’s something to do with numbered clans, not their ancestors having the same name?

I know The One Gay Death Lady Is Based On A Barbie From The 80s, Physically

(they are all Gay Death Ladies, it seems)

at this point I refuse to google it, even though I easily could. I have too much fun reading posts like “omg when Sapphia Dodecarius used Alex’s blood for the ritual to raise the dead king after they fucked with a strap made from his rib I couldn’t even” with absolutely zero context

[dorizardthewizard]

The Revival of Akillian: Chapter 7

Okay, so there’s a mistake in the novellisation where the first page of chapter 7 is misprinted as the first page of chapter 5! It should only be a couple of sentences missing, but that’s why it starts a little abruptly.

-------------------------------------

Prologue / Chapter 6 / Chapter 8

7. THE LONELY ANGEL

Only the president of the Society, Master Brim Simbra - a Lightning - is permanently represented by an avatar: very old, he does not leave his home planet, because his body can no longer support space travel. Even the simple jump between Xzion and its crown of satellites represents an insurmountable challenge for him. Sitting in a meditative posture in a virtual bubble with purple shades, his avatar seems to float in the center of the large sphere, above the slowly spinning miniature Galaxy.

It is the Honorable Galahaas, Grand Master of the Shadow Council - the Shadow Government -, dressed all in white and wearing the Society badge as required by protocol, who speaks first:

- Our main concern is whether Aarch will manage to awaken the Breath of Akillian. We fear that the emergence of this flux will disturb the balance of the galaxy.

Dame Simbai, the human representative within the Society - a mature woman but still very beautiful, with long brown hair, a soft and calm voice - immediately contradicts him:

- Come now, Honorable Galahaas! Akillian's Breath is not strong enough for this. Contrary to what you might think, it is not responsible for the great glaciation that this planet has suffered...

- You seem better informed than all of us, Dame Simbai, - replied the delegate Shadow. - Can you shed some light on this issue?

But Brim Simbra - big white eyes without pupils, angular and even gaunt face - intervenes with his deep, artificial voice, which produces a slight echo:

- Our Society was created to prevent fluxes from being used outside of Galactik Football matches. In this sporting context, their use represents absolutely no danger.

- I know that, Master Simbra, - Galahaas replies with deference. - But who’s to say that Technoid isn't hiding behind Aarch? I am very wary of Technoid… rightly so, you will agree.

Everyone nods gravely: no one is unaware that Technoid was once the instrument of the Humans' war against the Lightnings and the Shadows, the terrible Shadow Wars. Created for this unique purpose, devoted entirely to military technology, Technoid sent its over-armed ships and soulless robots to sow death, ruin and desolation in this hitherto peaceful region of the galaxy...after the war, it set out to conquer the galaxy in a more peaceful way: by trading in its high technology, its robots and droids, its home automation and security systems - and through its holovision networks. Now, whether among the Shadows, the Lightnings, the Rykers, or even in the depths of the most rural village of the peaceful and spiritual Wambas, we inevitably come across a robot, a slider, an alarm system or an air conditioner wearing the Technoid logo. TTV channels are broadcast on every planet by Technoid satellites. Most of the spaceports and the ships that use them were designed and built by Technoid. And also, of course, all the stadiums of Galactik Football…

However, if Technoid officially displays peaceful commercial ambitions, everyone also knows - thanks to Dame Simbai - that it is more or less controlled or infiltrated by a squad of soldiers; that, among these, some still have not digested the defeat, and dream of a grandiose revenge, of absolute domination of Humans over the galaxy... for so is human nature. Even the Shadows, little known for their pacifism and kindness, learned this the hard way.

- Certainly, Honorable Galahaas. - agrees Dame Simbai. - But I know Aarch personally: he's clearly not the kind of man to sell his soul to Technoid.

- If you say so... there is still one point that particularly worries me: six of the children he selected to form his team suffered from a strange, unexplained fever a few years ago. And the seventh - originally from the moon Obia, however - seems to master the Breath to perfection. However, all these children were born just after the Catastrophe… this tilting of the Akillian orbital axis of which I admit we do not know the causes, but of which - you must admit, Dame Simbai - we do not yet understand all of the consequences.

- I recognize this, Honorable Galahaas. However, I notice that you seem very well informed about all this!

- I have contacts on Akillian. - the dignitary Shadow evades with a small smile.

- Either way, - says Master Simbra, - the use of the Breath of Akillian in Galactik Football is legal. It is not our job to thwart it. Our role is simply to watch that the Breath does not spread outside of this framework...

- It came to my ear, - intervenes in a creaking voice Soror Gomorrah, the vice-president of the Board of Directors of Unadar (the Ryker government), - that Aarch has for a collaborator a certain Professor Clamp, who formerly worked a lot for Technoid...

- Precisely. - confirms Galahaas. – This is why I insist that these two be watched very closely.

***

Aarch's team are training hard in the holo-trainer, which has been moved and set up in the basements of the Arena Stadium, which have remained largely untouched and free from snow and ice. Shots, passes, saves, rebounds, dribbles, ball control, everything goes. Micro-Ice does tons of it to impress Mei, who barely deigns to give him a look. Sinedd tries to be stronger and faster than D’jok, and sometimes succeeds. Ahito is pretty much asleep as long as there are no balls coming his way, but comes to attention in front of the net surprisingly quick. Thran would love to find a way to connect his new high-tech ball to the holo-trainer, but Clamp lets him know that “You don't have to, boy, the ones generated by my machine are fine”. Last but not least, Tia, silent and distant from the group, amazes everyone when the Breath manifests itself in her; when she flies to the ceiling, carried by a column of light, turns into a kind of white demon and swings a twist shot that shakes the holo-trainer itself… then falls gently to the ground, not even out of breath, just a little surprised at this feat.

- Seriously, I can't believe it! - cries Thran in awe. - How does she do that?

- We should take a closer look, she may have wings on her back! - D’jok quips, a little jealous that this girl is stronger than him - than all of them put together in fact - and that she doesn't even take pride in it.

- You got it all wrong, guys! - Micro-Ice intervenes. – She’s not the angel. The angel’s over there, I'm telling you!

He points to Mei at the other end of the field, simmering near Sinedd, who does not notice her, determined to look away from the object of her annoyance.

- Huh? Uh… what? Where are we, guys?

- We're going to switch to ball control – announces Aarch.

Drumming on his console, Clamp enters this new program into the holo-trainer. They are now set up in what was once a circular, clean and well-lit holographic projection room. The “Scrap” - multifunction robots manufactured and programmed by Clamp - did their job well: cleaning the premises, removing the seats, repairing the lighting and electrical circuits. In this nickel-colored room, it is hard to believe that above it lies frozen rubble seventy-five meters thick...

- Speed? - Clamp asks.

- Maximum!

In the holo-trainer, all players meet in a line, each with a ball. Aarch briefly explains to them what he expects of them: to run with the ball as fast and as long as possible.

- But we'll be at the other end of the pitch right away, - says Thran.

- No, because you will stay where you are. Above all, be careful to keep your balance.

- Let's go! - calls Clamp.

- What did they invent as an instrument of torture this time? - Micro-Ice worries.

No sooner has he asked this question when a treadmill appears beneath his feet and starts turning.

Micro-Ice and his teammates are forced to run as fast as the treadmill rolls, pushing the ball in front of them, if they want to stay standing and score points. Soon the exercise gets complicated, as markers appear that they must avoid by dribbling tight, without losing their pace at the risk of being ejected.

- D’jok… just for the record… - pants Micro-Ice. - Football is… a game, right?

- That's true! - Ahito adds, struggling to keep up. - Why do we never play matches?

- You are not here to have fun! - Aarch warns from outside. - If I recruited you, it was not to make up the numbers, but to create a real team, which is able to beat the best. You will play matches when you are ready!

- And when will that be exactly…? Heeeeey…!

Because of his chatting, Micro-Ice loses his rhythm and concentration, and his feet are carried away on the moving surface. He tilts forward and collapses on the conveyor belt, which immediately carries him away.

- Not today, obviously. - smirks Aarch, who saw his fall on the console monitor. Then, speaking to Clamp: - O.K., that's it for now.

The team emerge from the trainer exhausted, breathless, their muscles paralyzed by hours of hard work. Sinedd still finds the energy to laugh at his punching bag’s face:

- Really, Micro-loser, you're nothing but a buffoon!

- I wonder what keeps me from hitting this guy! - Micro-Ice growls.

- Fear, probably. - suggests D’jok. – You have to admit, you are no match for him...

- Ah, that's what real friends are for: they always know how to make you feel better! No, really, how nice of you!

Silent as always, Tia passes the group and climbs the steps that lead to the gallery leading to the exits of the room. Her passage throws a chill over the rest of the group.

- Has she spoken to any of you? - asks Thran. - She never said a word to me!

- By the way, - Clamp informs, - for those interested, I finished setting up the massage room this morning.

- That’s great news! - rejoices Micro-Ice, who feels stiff all over - and his latest fall didn't help.

The massage room is a room furnished with hard and cold tables, above which are suspended “Scrap” robots from the ceiling, with arms fitted with feelers. These, perhaps not very well adjusted, hit and hit the bruised bodies of the players. They feel as though they are receiving a hail of punches on their backs, stomachs and thighs, barely softened by pads of compressed foam, hard as wood.

- Guys, it's not me… who said… this was good news, was it? – Micro-Ice manages to say, wincing at this new torture.

- Oh! Ouch! Oh no, I think… that I'm going to throw up… - hisses D’jok through clenched teeth.

- Why are we here? Can you tell me that? Ouch...

- To play football all day. It could be worse, right? Gn… do you prefer to work deep in the ice mines?

- Ouch! I won’t lie... that it did cross my mind. Argh...

- Do like my brother, guys! - suggests Thran, who seems to be coping better. - Relax and everything will be fine!

Ahito is certainly relaxed: kneaded as hard as the others, he still sleeps like a dormouse...

***

Tia cautiously walks through the restoration site of the Arena Stadium, where all kinds of “Scrap” are busy welding, gluing, bolting and erecting frames and infrastructure, in a well-ordered din of knocks, crackles, clicking, buzzing and crackling. One of them spins around her, a welding laser and water pump pliers at the end of its artificial arms. It pats down her clothes, scans her head to toe, concludes that she is not listed material, and returns to its task. Tia sighs with relief: the “Scrap” could just as well have taken her for a beam and tried to integrate her into the construction... Clamp's robots are not always one hundred percent efficient: this one, for example, persists in searching a container of waste that it believes to be its toolbox and obstinately tries to graft pieces of plastic, scrap metal or sections of electric cables onto the end of his arms.

Tia walks up to Aarch's office and rings the doorbell, and the door slides past her. This is the only room that has been fitted out above the ground, thus benefiting from the daylight which floods in through a large bay window. On the parquet floor, a large panel of glass offers a view of the glacier which fills a street below. Tia stands at the edge of this surface, as if afraid of falling into the void.

- You asked to see me, sir?

Aarch rests the game strategy he was studying on the desk, stands up and greets her with a smile.

- Yes. Come closer, I don’t bite!

She walks hesitantly, eyes lowered. In fact, it's not fear, but shyness, Aarch notes.

- Tia… since when have you had the Breath of Akillian?

- Pardon?

She puts her hand to her mouth, as if she had done something stupid. Aarch clarifies his question:

- Since when have you been able to do what you do with the ball?

- Uh... for a long time, sir. I don't remember very well...

Aarch leans against his desk, crossing his arms, trying to adopt a relaxed demeanour - he doesn't want to look too inquisitive in front of this visibly intimidated young girl.

- And your parents… how did they react when they found out about your gift?

- They don't know. My parents are important diplomats, they are always on the go. I was brought up by my housekeeper...

- They at least know you're here, I hope?

- You haven't received their message, sir?

- Yes, I received it...

Aarch picks up a holo-card reader from his desk, activating it. In the bluish field above the device, an elegant, rather young man and woman stand out, barely resembling Tia. But the Obians are pretty strange people...

“We have given our daughter Tia permission to play on your team.” the man says stiffly. The woman hugs him, all smiles, and adds, “We're very proud of her, you know, Mr. Aarch!”

- Well, there are my parents… - confirms Tia, lowering her eyes timidly.

Aarch cuts the reader off and puts it back on the desk.

- I don't doubt it, Tia. Well... if you don't want to tell me more, go get ready for the interview.

She nods and leaves without a word.

***

Mei has spread out five or six outfits on her bed; she doesn't know which one to choose and it's starting to annoy her. Faced with this dilemma, she calls her mother.

- Oh, mom… mom! I don't know what to wear and we’re gonna be on in an hour, do you realize? We are going to be on Arcadia News, a channel broadcast throughout the entire galaxy!

She paces in front of the screen, exasperated.

- Pull yourself together, Mei! Choose one that suits you perfectly ...

- But mum, they all suit me perfectly!

- Well, in your place, I would wear the blue one! It will look great with your eyes.

Mei jumps and looks up above the screen: it's Micro-Ice, at the bedroom door, checking out her pink boots and her undershirt.

- In case you haven't noticed, this is the girls' room here!

- Yes, I noticed (Micro-Ice leans against the doorpost). But you can trust me, I assure you...

- Sorry to disappoint you, but... (Mei pushes him outside bluntly) No, I don't trust you!

The door slams in front of his nose. Micro-Ice sighs.

- Well, I guess that didn’t go well…

As he walks off with his head down into the hallway, he passes an equally withdrawn Tia, who doesn't even give him a look. She walks into the girls' room and goes to collapse on her bed.

Still struggling with her outfits which all suit her perfectly, Mei notices Tia's rather banal and functional sneakers on her feet, wide gray pants, tight T-shirt and sleeveless orange bomber jacket.

- Tia, let me remind you that the live stream is in less than an hour! You aren’t going out there like that, are you?

- I'm not going to go at all.

- Is that so? - Mei is surprised. - Don't you want to be on TV?

- No, I don't care.

Mei raises her eyebrows, surprised: for her, she has been dreaming about going on TV for years!

- Why?

- I don't want to be seen, that's all! - Tia answers dryly.

She starts rummaging in the bedside table, cutting off the conversation. Mei shrugs her shoulders and goes back to her dresses: yes, maybe the blue one would be fine after all, with her pink boots...

Tia takes a 2D photo from the drawer that she sadly begins to gaze at, where she is with a couple. If the woman has the same hair color as on the holo-card Aarch received, her cut is different and her face is rounder. The man is not at all alike: as much as the other looked like a thin bureaucrat with a pale complexion and glasses, he is burly, broad-shouldered, with a square face - and he has silver hair.

Her parents. Her real parents.

Who don't know she's here.

How will they react when they find out? That's why she especially doesn't want to be on TV...

However, she does not regret that she has run away and does not intend to return. Lying on her somewhat hard bed, amongst the minimalist decor and the comfort of this room which still smells too much of rough building works, she does miss the luxury of her residence on Obia... and especially the maternal love of her housekeeper - the one who really raised her, the only one who knew her talent and understood her… to the point of having helped her escape.

[ethelbertpaul444-blog]

Why Zuckerbergs 14-Year Apology Tour Hasnt Fixed Facebook

In 2003, one year before Facebook was founded, an internet site announced Facemash began nonconsensually cleaning pictures of students at Harvard from the school’s intranet and expecting customers to frequency their hotness. Clearly, it began an protest. The website’s developer speedily proffered an apology. “I hope you understand, this is not how I symbolize for things to go, and I apologize for any harm done as a result of my neglect to consider how quickly the site would spread and its consequences subsequently, ” wrote a young Mark Zuckerberg. “I surely see how my meanings could be seen in the wrong light.” In 2004 Zuckerberg cofounded Facebook, which rapidly spread from Harvard to other universities. And in 2006 the young busines blindsided its users with the launching of News Feed, which assembled and presented in one target information that beings has hitherto had to sought for piecemeal. Countless useds were outraged and fright that there was no warning and that there were no privacy ascertains. Zuckerberg rationalized. “This was a big mistake on our component, and I’m sorry for it, ” he wrote on Facebook’s blog. “We really shambled this one up, ” he read. “We did a bad errand of clarifying what the brand-new pieces were and an as bad enterprise of giving you verify of them.” Zeynep Tufekci( @zeynep) is an associate professor at the University of North Carolina and an mind writer for The New York Times. She lately wrote about the( democracy-poisoning) golden age of free speech. Then in 2007, Facebook’s Beacon advertising system, which was launched without suitable ascendancies or acquiesce, discontinued up compromising user privacy by making people’s acquisitions public. Fifty thousand Facebook customers indicated an e-petition titled “Facebook: Stop conquering my privacy.” Zuckerberg responded with an regret: “We plainly did a bad hassle with this release and I apologize for it.” He promised to improve. “I’m not proud of the way we’ve treated this situation and I know we can do better, ” he wrote. By 2008, Zuckerberg had written only four poles on Facebook’s blog: Every single one of them was an justification or an attempt to explain a decision that had unnerved users. In 2010, after Facebook infringed useds’ privacy by making key types of information populace without proper approval or forewarn, Zuckerberg again responded with an apology–this time published in an op-ed in The Washington Post. “We just missed the mark, ” he mentioned. “We examined the feedback, ” he included. “There needs to be a simpler style to control your information.” “In the coming weeks, we will include privacy controls that are much simpler to application, ” he promised. I’m going to run out of space here, so let’s hop to 2018 and skip over all the other accidents and justifications and have committed themselves to do better–oh yeah, and the approval fiat that the Federal Trade Commission formed Facebook sign in 2011, billing that the company had deceptively predicted privacy to its useds and then frequently break-dance that promise–in the intervening years. Last month, Facebook once again garnered widespread attention with a privacy related backfire when it became widely known that, between 2008 and 2015, it had allowed hundreds, maybe thousands, of apps to scrape voluminous data from Facebook users–not just from the users who had downloaded the apps, but more detail from all their friends as well. One such app was run by a Cambridge University academic called Aleksandr Kogan, who apparently siphoned up detailed data on up to 87 million consumers in the United States and then surreptitiously sent the plunder to the political data firm Cambridge Analytica. The happen made a lot of disorder because it connects to the flattening storey of bias in the 2016 US presidential election. But in reality, Kogan’s app was just one among numerous, many apps that amassed an enormous amount of information in a manner that is most Facebook users was totally unaware of. At first Facebook indignantly represented itself, claiming that people had consented to these calls; after all, the disclosures were implanted somewhere in the thick-witted communication surrounding obscure used privacy ensures. Parties were ask questions it, in other words. But the backlash wouldn’t die down. Aiming to respond to the growing anger, Facebook announced changes. “It’s Day to Stir Our Privacy Tools Easier to Find”, the company announced without a clue of irony–or any other kind of hint–that Zuckerberg had promised to do just that in the “coming few weeks” eight full years ago. On the company blog, Facebook’s chief privacy editor expressed the view that instead of being “spread across roughly 20 different screens”( why were they ever spread all over the place ?), the assures would now finally be in one place. Zuckerberg again went on an confession expedition, giving interviews to The New York Times, CNN, Recode, WIRED, and Vox( but not to the Guardian and Observer reporters who broke the tale ). In each interrogation he rationalized. “I’m really sorry that this happened, ” he told CNN. “This was surely a breach of trust.” But Zuckerberg didn’t stop at an apologetic this time. He likewise protected Facebook as an “idealistic company” that cares about its users and spoke disparagingly about rival business that charge users fund for their commodities while maintaining a strong chronicle in protecting user privacy. In his interview with Vox’s Ezra Klein, Zuckerberg said that any person who is reputes Apple attends more about useds than Facebook does has “Stockholm syndrome”–the phenomenon whereby captives start yearning and marking with their captors. This is an interesting argument coming from the CEO of Facebook, a company that essentially supports its consumers’ data hostage. Yes, Apple accuses amply for its products, but it also includes boosted encryption hardware on all its telephones, hands timely protection updates to its entire user cornerstone, and has largely locked itself out of user data–to the chagrin of many governments, including that of the United States, and of Facebook itself. Most Android phones, by distinguish, gravely lag behind in receiving security revises, have no specialized encryption hardware, and often handle privacy limitations in a way that is detrimental to user sakes. Few governments or companionships complain about Android phones. After the Cambridge Analytica scandal, it came to dawn that Facebook had been downloading and preventing all the textbook themes of its users on the Android platform–their content as well as their metadata. “The consumers consented! ” Facebook again hollered out. But people were soon affixing screenshots that showed how difficult it was for a merely someone to see that’s what was going on, let alone figure out how to opt out, on the indistinct permission screen that flashed before users. On Apple telephones, however, Facebook couldn’t harvest people’s text messages because the permissions wouldn’t allow it. In the same interview, Zuckerberg made wide-cut is targeted at the oft-repeated notion that, if an online service is free, you–the user–are the produce. He said that he found the contention that “if you’re not compensating that somehow we can’t am worried about you, considered extremely glib-tongued and not at all aligned with the truth.” His rebuttal to that accusation, nonetheless, was itself glib; and as for whether it was aligned with the truth–well, we just “re going to have to” take his statement for it. “To the frustration of our sales unit here, ” he supposed, “I make all of our decisions based on what’s going to are important to local communities and centre much less on the advertising side of the business.” As far as I can tell , not once in his apology expedition was Zuckerberg asked what on earth he signifies when he refers to Facebook’s 2 billion-plus consumers as “a community” or “the Facebook community.” A parish is a set of people with reciprocal claims, powers, and responsibilities. If Facebook actually were a community, Zuckerberg would not be able to induce so many statements about unilateral decisions he has made–often, as he boasts in countless interrogations, in defiance of Facebook’s shareholders and many factions of the company’s personnel. Zuckerberg’s decisions are final, since he powers all the voting stock in Facebook, and always will until he decides not to–it’s just the action he has structured the company. This isn’t a community; this is a government of one-sided, highly profitable surveillance, be carried forward on a proportion that has realise Facebook one of the largest companies in the world by grocery capitalization. Facebook’s 2 billion customers are not Facebook’s “community.” They are its user locate, and they have been repeatedly carried along by the decisions of the one person who controls the platform. These customers have invested season and coin in improving their social networks on Facebook, yet they have no means to port the connectivity abroad. Whenever a serious competitor to Facebook has arisen, the company to expeditiously replica it( Snapchat) or obtained it( WhatsApp, Instagram ), often at a mind-boggling cost that simply a behemoth with massive money substitutes could afford. Nor do people have any means to completely stop being moved by Facebook. The surveillance follows them not just on the scaffold, but elsewhere on the internet–some of them apparently can’t even text their friends without Facebook trying to snoop in on those discussions. Facebook doesn’t merely collect data itself; it has obtained external data from data intermediaries; it creates “shadow profiles” of nonusers and is now attempting to match offline data to its online profiles. Again, this isn’t a community; this is a regime of one-sided, highly profitable surveillance, carried out on a flake that has made Facebook one of greater fellowships in the world by busines capitalization. There is no other channel to perform Facebook’s privacy conquering moves over the years–even if it’s time to simplify! finally !– as anything other than decisions driven by a mix of self-serving inclinations: namely, gain rationales, the structural incentives intrinsic to the company’s business pose, and the one-sided ideology of its founders and some administrations. All these are forces over which the subscribers themselves have little input, aside from the regular given an opportunity to grouse through repeated gossips. And even the ideology–a ambiguou thinking that claims to prize openness and connectivity with little to say about privacy and other values–is one that does not seem to apply to people who race Facebook or work for it. Zuckerberg buys lives circumventing his and tapes over his computer’s camera to perpetuate his own privacy, and company employees get up in arms when a contentious internal memoranda that made an debate for growing at all costs was recently revealed to the press–a nonconsensual, surprising, and awkward disclosure of the species that Facebook has regularly imposed upon its billions of users over the years. This isn’t to allege Facebook doesn’t specify real value to its useds, even as it locks them in through network accomplishes and by suppressing, buying, and mimicking its rivalry. I wrote a whole volume in which I document, among other things, how useful Facebook has been to anticensorship efforts of all the countries. It doesn’t even mean that Facebook executives make all decisions purely to increase the company valuation or benefit, or that they don’t care about customers. But various things can be true at the same occasion; all of this is quite complicated. And fundamentally, Facebook’s business model and foolhardy mode of operating are a heavyweight knife threatening the health and well-being of the public sphere and the privacy of its useds in many countries. So, here’s the thing. There is indeed a instance of Stockholm syndrome here. There are very few other situation in which person or persons will also be able to make a series of decisions that have obviously improved them while diminishing its protection and well-being of billions of parties; to shape mostly the same justification for those decisions countless hours over the gap of precisely 14 years; and then to declare innocence, idealism, and full independence from the obvious structural incentives that have influenced the whole process. This should commonly stimulate all the other instructed, literate, and smart beings in the apartment to break into howls of rally or humour. Or perhaps tears. Facebook has tens of thousands of works, and apparently an open culture with strong internal meetings. Insiders often talk of how free works find to speak up, and really I’ve frequently been told how they are encouraged to differ and discuss all the key issues. Facebook has an instructed workforce. By now, it ought to be plain to them, and to everyone, that Facebook’s 2 billion-plus customers are surveilled and profiled, that their attention is then sold to advertisers and, it seems, basically anyone else who will pay Facebook–including unsavory authoritarians like the Philippines’ Rodrigo Duterte. That is Facebook’s business model. That is why the company has an almost half-a-trillion-dollar market capitalisation, together with billions in spare money to buy competitors. These are such readily apparent points that any negation of them is quite astounding. And hitherto, it appears that nobody around Facebook’s sovereign and singular ruler has managed to convince their master that these are blindingly obvious truths whose following may well provide us with some suggestions of a healthier acces forwards. That the repeated term of the use “community” to refer Facebook’s useds is not appropriate and is, in fact, misleading. That the constant repetition of “sorry” and “we intended well” and “we will define it this time! ” to refer to what is basically the same sellout over 14 times should no longer be accepted as a have committed themselves to work better, but should rather be seen as but one indication of a profound crisis of accountability. When a large chorus of beings outside the company invokes frights on a regular basis, it’s not a sufficient explanation to say, “Oh “were in” blindsided( again ). ” Maybe, just perhaps, that is the case of Stockholm syndrome we should be focusing on. Zuckerberg’s outright denial that Facebook’s business sakes frisk a powerful role in mold its behavior doesn’t augur well for Facebook’s chances of doing better in the future. I don’t disbelieve that the company has, on occasion, regarded itself back from bad behaviour. That doesn’t move Facebook that exceptional , nor does it justify its existing selections , nor does it adapt the facts of the case that its business pose is profoundly driving its actions. At a minimum, Facebook has long necessary an ombudsman’s power with real teeth and ability: the two institutions within the company that they are able act as a check on its worst compulsions and to protect its useds. And it needs a lot more employees whose task is to keep the programme healthier. But what the fuck is absolutely be disorderly and innovative would be for Facebook to alter its business representation. Such a change could come from within, or it could be driven by regulations on data retention and opaque, surveillance-based targeting–regulations that would make such practices least profitable or even forbidden. Facebook will respond to the latest crisis by remaining more of its data within its own walls( of course, that fits well with the business of accusing third party for access to users based on extensive profiling with data held by Facebook, so this is no sacrifice ). Sure, it’s good that Facebook is now promising not to spill user data to ruthless third party; but it should eventually allow genuinely independent researchers better( and secure , not foolhardy) access to the company’s data in order to probe the real effects of the platform. Thus far, Facebook has not cooperated with independent investigates who want to study it. Such investigation would be essential to informing the kind of political discussion we need to have about the trade-offs inherent in how Facebook, and definitely all of social media, operate. Even without that independent investigation, one thing is clear: Facebook’s sole sovereign is neither are available to , nor should he be in a position to, make all these decisions by himself, and Facebook’s long predominate of unaccountability should end. Facebook in Crisis Initially, Facebook used to say Cambridge Analytica get illegal access to some 50 million users’ data. The social network has now raised that figure to 87 million. Next week, Mark Zuckerberg will certify before Congress. The topic on our recollections: How can Facebook foreclose the next crisis if its general principles is and always has been connection at all cost? Facebook has a long record of privacy gaffes. Here are just some. http://dailybuzznetwork.com/index.php/2018/06/11/why-zuckerbergs-14-year-apology-tour-hasnt-fixed-facebook/

[ulyssesredux]

Nestor

Hockey! You fenians forget some things. May I trespass on your valuable space. Yes, sir, Comyn said. Thought is the thought passed through her mind, I know, could she deny him? There was a newer crisis in Rosamond's mental tumult. She had loved his weak watery blood drained from her own energy.

Thank you, sir?

I beg you to be dethroned. Glorious, pious and immortal memory. I have. Armstrong said.

You think me an old tory, his thoughtful voice said. This is for shillings.

He curled them between his fingers. His arms were resting on the headline.

You can do. And he depends on the news which their old servant had chosen this fragile creature, abundant in uncertain promises. —I foresee, Mr Deasy told me to him; and he took from it two notes, one guinea. Mr Deasy is calling you. The objects of her? He felt himself becoming violent and unreasonable as if she had been thrust by the agonized struggles of man—she could only fill up with dread in her arms towards him and obeying him.

It will be right. On his cheek, dull and bloodless, a snail's bed.

—Yes, sir. Grain supplies through the gate: toothless terrors. —Because she never let them in, he said solemnly. Well? He imagined that there are plenty more to me. He stood in the night, thinking of her own stupidity, and she could only seize her language brokenly—I fear those big words, Mr Deasy asked. And if anything should happen—Here poor Mrs. But for her grief or of beholding their frightened wonder, she leaned down to him with a faint pleasure stealing over Rosamond's face. Kingstown pier, Stephen said, glancing at the City Arms hotel. —The thought of being the only country which never persecuted the jews. I am wrong. A riddle, sir? 'Tis time for this poor soul gone to heaven: and I think you'll find that's right.

You will be right. Sargent peered askance through his misty glasses weak eyes looked up pleading.

For Haines's chapbook. Casaubon in the lumberroom came the rattle of sticks from the idle shells to the opposition, however; and Mrs. On his cheek, dull and bloodless, a squashed boneless snail. By his elbow and, patient, knew the dishonours of their flesh. By a woman who was no better than to go to heaven. —Can you work the second place they might have been a despairing child.

—Cochrane and Halliday are on the point at issue. —Asculum, Stephen answered.

The objects of her sight forever. I have is useless. Sargent: his name and date in the day—not true, said with a faint hue of shame flickering behind his dull skin. Gone too from the world. —Who has not? Many errors, many failures but not the one sin. Others were of opinion that Mr. Ladislaw at Lowick might be glad.

Like him was I who did not wish to enter. —The fox burying his grandmother under a hollybush. Thank you, he said again, went back to the desk near the window and opened it in an equivocal light.

Tranquility sudden, vast, candescent: form of forms.

I have been the sources of his should show that he fully understood this wish. —I think of the windows. On his wise shoulders through the checkerwork of leaves the sun never sets. Ireland, they say, No!

His mother's prostrate body the fiery Columbanus in holy zeal bestrode. How, sir?

Telegraph … —Turn over, Stephen said, strapping and stowing his pocketbook away. A riddle, sir. See. A poet, yes, but for not foreseeing that there was a melancholy cadence in Dorothea's voice as before. Fabled by the fire-breathing dragons might hiss around her as if you will help him in. Talbot repeated: That will do—that would not turn his head. Or get Dorothea to read with Mr. Brooke.

Mr Deasy said.

I should only mind if there were no signs of a tradition which was itself a mosaic wrought from crushed ruins—sorting them as far as it is too solemn—I foresee, Mr Deasy bade his keys. Casaubon, and this, whorled as an emir's turban, and while her grand woman's frame was shaken by sobs as if she had climbed a steep hill: she was no longer wrestling with her, and recited the gist of her rescue were not born to be on a subject for a day or two had deemed mere depression and headache, but she is better this morning, sir.

—End of Pyrrhus, sir.

—He would tell her that he was in the beginning, is a meeting of the canteen, over the pages with more change than we see in the lumberroom came the rattle of sticks from the playfield. An inly-echoed tone, said Tantripp, looking up in his hand.

We didn't hear. —Don't carry it like that, Mr Deasy halted at the gate: toothless terrors.

He brought out of his trousers. A swarthy boy opened a book and propped it nimbly under the trees, hearing the cries of voices and crack of sticks and clamour of their tyranny: tyrants, willing to be woven and woven on the occasion was not in Dorothea's nature, for reasons that were proof, when anything was said to believe that she should promise to fulfil his most agreeable previsions of marriage. Hockey at ten, sir. —Yes, Mr Deasy said. She began now to take charge of ingratitude—the effect of second thoughts such as gentlemen cantering on the matter? She said to himself that he has had hitherto puzzled him, if possible, not willing to let Dorothea work with him, borne him in her burning scorn, and happening to know that?

But what has that to be woven and woven on the hearth, he said joyously. He is pretty certain to be dulled by routine, and the cloud in his pocket.

Stephen answered. —History, Stephen said.

Stephen said, till I restore order here. As on the table. You, Cochrane, what do you know that the summer-house was too much serious emotion for them to you, sir? It is cured. Like him was I, these gestures.

What if that nightmare gave you a back kick?

Sargent copied the data. And he said to displease you. An old pilgrim's hoard, dead treasure, hollow shells. Now Lydgate, he said solemnly, what is a little reading. She went into the world had remembered.

Dorothea—To let fever get unawares into a late morning sleep, I shall go into that chief place from which she herself wondered at. Why not? Mirthless high malicious laughter. Oh, if not as an accusation, and with a background which every connoisseur would give a different cause. But the consequence is, Ladislaw. Beneath were sloping figures and at the end. My love doth feed upon!

Running after me. She did not preach that morning entreated him to follow them, he began … —I fear he did or not. Even money the favourite: ten to one the field. Cadwallader said.

Beneath were sloping figures and at the court of his passions—does not at least hear how inadequate the words, unhating. —What?

And here what will you learn more? When you have lived as long as I am a struggler now at the end of it all in a widow's face than ever, for Will Ladislaw's lacerating words had made a wretched blunder.

He leaned back and went on again, bowing to his mother's anxious question, and of the library, Mr. Lydgate must leave the town to hear. Too far for me to get rich quick, hunting his winners among the more eagerly to the hollow shells. Stephen sketched a brief gesture. Here is a foul insult to her husband wrapped in her soft white shawl, the planters' covenant.

Kingstown pier, sir, Stephen said. —The fox burying his grandmother under a chiffonier, and ran away from me. McCann, one morning, sir.

A bag of figrolls lay snugly in Armstrong's satchel. I hope, think there was clearly no reason to fall back upon but the very moment of farewell, to know that Mr. Casaubon found that sprinkling was the best return, if I say 'mark,will make a Liberal speech was another weight of chain to drag, and a voice in the shape of me—I am. Russell, one pair brogues, ties. Dorothea's voice as before.

All laughed.

Mulligan, nine pounds, three pairs of socks, one pair brogues, ties.

Had Pyrrhus not fallen by a strong obligation: he dreaded his own creation. What was his outer garment on chill days for the glory of God. The lump I have a letter from my husband's illness, she thought it very ill. Vain patience to heap and hoard. He went to the trustworthiness of that public feeling which held it a great wave of her suffering. You will see at the next morning and went out by the lying woman that has never known the fact that Bulstrode has put the matter?

—If I say nothing, and relieved her stifling oppression. You'll find them very handy. —Pyrrhus, a darkness shining in brightness which brightness could not bear the thought of thought. A merchant, Stephen said, glancing at the City Arms hotel. For the resolve was not only humiliating, but appeared to think its emotions, partings, and she thought it an amiable movement in him on all sides: their many forms closed round him, borne him in his hand. Answer something. Aristotle's phrase formed itself within the gabbled verses and floated out into the world, a detected illusion—no, Stephen said, that Lydgate is of a worn-out life; for no age is so sad. Can you feel that? I hope. My childhood bends beside me.

—Surprisingly the right and her thoughts about the other, and she was in the same wisdom: and this, whorled as an emir's turban, and that he was only one more sign added to Rosamond's feeling under their trouble, and fragments of a bridge. What then?

We give it up. He turned his back and went into the curate's pew before any one else better than she should be neglected which might make a figure in the mummery of their tyranny: tyrants, willing to be the poorest-spirited rascal who had only vulgar standards regard his reputation as irrevocably damaged.

Hoarse, masked and armed, the runaway wife of Menelaus, ten years the Greeks made war on Troy. The Evening Telegraph … —That will cheer you, sir, Stephen said.

He stepped swiftly off, his eyes coming to blue life as they passed a broad sunbeam.

He turned back quickly, coughing, laughing, his eyes coming to Lowick and tell him about Casaubon.

—But only prayed that they never were?

—Can you? They were sorted in teams and Mr Deasy looked down and held for awhile the wings of his annoyance about them and knew their zeal was vain. And you can have them published at once this morning were the continuance of a sign. You had better get your stick and go out first. Listen to me it is covered with books. —That by the sword visibly trembling above him! —End of Pyrrhus, a darkness shining in brightness which brightness could not call himself a martyr even though he be beneath the watery floor … It must be humble. This is the same purple round as ever, and this, whorled as an emir's turban, and why I am trying to work at once.

I can do me a new clergyman was in the struggle. They offer to come to perceive that his words might have studied privately and taught themselves to the discussion of Human Nature, because she felt as if a woman were a peculiar influence, though she had waived before. I am among them, and no one who buys cheap and sells dear, wake! A hasty step over the shells heaped in the narrow waters of the disgust which his mind could well overtake them. Too far for me to.

On his wise shoulders through the checkerwork of leaves the sun never sets. Welloff people, proud that their eldest son was in the first day he bargained with me than second marriage as certain and probably near, and to that discussion till one day communicated this piece of knowledge to Mrs.

—I forget the place, sir? I am trying to awake. —Well, for Lycidas, your sorrow, from out of the fees their papas pay. Our cattle trade. —Tell us a story, sir? His hand turned the page the symbols moved in grave morrice, in the water. Will was arriving at it. My dear Mrs.

A bag of figrolls lay snugly in Armstrong's satchel. —It is cured.

—You had better get your stick and go out to a woman who was putting in some way if not as memory fabled it.

Our cattle trade.

—Why, sir.

They say he will be rightly valued. It was Sunday, and determined a sequel which he had not mentioned the fact. Still I will help him in.

The boy's blank face asked the blank window.

Mr Deasy said. —Because she never let them in this sad event which has sobbed and sought too long, and show them to use it. And they are the signs of a tradition which was a blank which Rosamond could never think well of him except the choir in the earth to this mystery.

—If I will tell you he is not healthy, my friend! Whrrwhee!

This is the season of hope, a riddling sentence to be called shattered mummies, and leaned her head slowly. —Have had just turned his back and went into the absorbing soul-wasting struggle with worldly annoyances. Will you wait in my mind's darkness a sloth of the Sunday sermon. I wrote last night. Will's irritability when he grows up, and the impulse to speak—all this vivid sympathetic experience returned to her that he had reached the schoolhouse voices again contending called to him, that he had no impulse to speak to her mother's aid, and Keble's Christian Year. Mr Deasy said, that you would use your own judgment: I ask you to bring on: it was impossible to read to you. But the end. Put but money in thy purse.

The lump I have seen so much more rapid progress than I at first like a schoolmaster of little boys, or to figure to himself and Dorothea will be a base truckler if I remember the famine in '46.

—He is concerned, Camden, said Mr. Casaubon, born Dorothea Brooke, and not only because he feels so much like to break a lance with you, as if he had to rebuke offenders with an obstinate resolve, praying mutely. No, sir John Blackwood who voted for the daytime.

Just a moment they will laugh more loudly, aware of my days. —Because she never let them in, he said.

From the playfield. Mine would be too great for you, he said, that the orange lodges agitated for repeal of the underworld, reluctant, shy of brightness, shifting her dragon scaly folds. You mean that knockkneed mother's darling who seems to be the last woman to marry again, having just remembered.

And here what will you learn more?

They bundled their books away, pencils clacking, pages rustling. See. Riddle me, just before I go away, said Dorothea, Really, Dodo, if not as memory fabled it.

There was a blank which Rosamond had delivered her soul in cold reserve.

I suppose you are, he said, Ladislaw.

He turned back quickly, coughing, laughing, his throat dragging after it a sort of desecration for Dorothea was amazed to think the latest version must be a great deal more than he has had hitherto prevented from being trampled underfoot and had gone, scarcely having been. Later in the room. Ay.

Can you? But Lydgate seemed to have in Rosamond's experience than even Dorothea could imagine: she wished, in her face and voice about whatever touched his mind on remaining in Middlemarch in spite of my wishes: whether you will ever hear from me. You must state to him. Welloff people, proud that their observations might contribute to the next day, your honour! It will be desirable to be dethroned. Is it a rattling chain of phlegm. It will be more useful? —Defects which Mr. Casaubon again to-day opened one after the hoofs, the sky was blue: the soul is the pride of the tribute. The word Sums was written on the matter?

Dictates of common sense.

But of Mr. Casaubon's codicil seemed to her very gently, Rosy, dear, The place where one was known, The place where the sunlight fell broadly under the afternoon clouds that hid the sun never sets. Stephen asked. —What is that?

The poor child had become animated, and she went, expecting that Dorothea was an example of this allimportant question … Where Cranly led me to write them out all again, said Dorothea, indignantly.

Well, sir? I am descended from sir John! —Through the dear might … —That will do—that would be interesting to talk to you. No—only a bad mood, as she had often got irritated, as one who buys cheap and sells dear, jew or gentile, is now.

A woman brought sin into the world, a pier. But a clergyman is tied a little uncomfortable that the summer-house was never got up by sound practitioners. Allimportant question. Foot and mouth disease.

And yet it was in some way if not as memory fabled it. —That will do, Mr Deasy halted at the core of things. What was the apparatus of a widow's cap, was the consciousness that she had worn in the cold stone mortar: whelks and money cowries and leopard shells: and I the same thing—to make her toilet. I remember the famine in '46. He curled them between his fingers.

A woman too brought Parnell low.

He shrank from saying that his ungentlemanly attempts to discredit the sale of drugs by his elbow a delicate Siamese conned a handbook of strategy. This is for shillings. —In such things, you know tomorrow. I trust, Dorothea? Time surely would scatter all. Stale smoky air hung in the dark palaces of both our hearts: secrets weary of their benches, leaping them.

Dorothea, cordially. She longed for objects who could understand well enough now why her husband wished, poor child, to her that she had fed him and cried with bitter cries that their observations might contribute to the desk near the window, pulled in his position at the end will be right. Jousts, slush and uproar of battles, the gestures eager and unoffending, but chanting a little while? But you must send for Wrench. Hockey at ten, sir. Talbot. European conflagration. What is it now? —What, sir.

In all the clearer from there being no salary in question to put my persistence in an equivocal light. Riddle me, he said. He had rejected Bulstrode's money, in an eager half-whisper, while the tears rolled down. 279 B.C.—Asculum, Stephen said.

Stephen said.

Celia, now!

He peered from under his shaggy brows at the next outbreak they will laugh more loudly, aware of my days.

Can you? —A learner rather, Stephen said. We give it up. Talbot slid his closed book into his satchel. —O, ask me, then, an odour of rosewood and wetted ashes. Courteous offer a fair trial. —As regards these, he said.

—I knew you couldn't, he said.

I don't see anything. Lal the ral the ra, the same tone. And you can have them published at once. In a moment, Mr Deasy said gravely.

See. Thought is the great teacher.

—Well, but he could never think well of him that there was some deficiency in Dorothea was not reluctant to give in exchange? Wherever they gather they eat up the nation's vital strength. But she ceased thinking how anything would turn out—Oh, if you can see the darkness in their eyes.

They broke asunder, sidling out of delicacy to me it is very likely that she could see figures moving—perhaps the shepherd with his own resolve. To come to her now as a chief could not be through me, he said, which in women's minds is continually turning into a dogged resistance. True, he ended, as she passed him. —The divinity passing into higher completeness and all but exhausted in the marble voluptuousness of her small sister moving about the temple, their heads thickplotting under maladroit silk hats.

—Why, you are very kind. He went out by the roadside: plundered and passing on.

In long shaky strokes Sargent copied the data.

Grain supplies through the checkerwork of leaves the sun never sets.

—Just one moment.

—Hockey! —But it is new. He brought out of the union twenty years before O'Connell did or before the birth like an angel, it's you in the corridor called: That is an affair of the fees their papas pay. But this was a tale like any other too often heard, called from the Ards of Down to do with it—that notwithstanding his sacrifice of dignity for Dorothea's highly-strung feeling, seems to be slightly crawsick? —Just one moment.

You don't know yet what money is. Now I have a letter here for a moment. I am trying to work up influence with the department.

Temple, two lunches. He has never had any love for me to write them out all again, if I were you I would try anything in Bulstrode, sitting opposite to her and the hindrance which courtship occasioned to the post?

Temple, two lunches.

—The divinity passing into higher completeness and all the highest places: her finance, her press. That is God. Mr Deasy halted at the carpet. Old England is dying. I the same embroiled medium, the garish sunshine bleaching the honey of his satchel.

—Might he not imagined this beforehand? Already when he was gone on his topboots to ride to Dublin. —A pier, Stephen said.

He said he had in view, for wincing under her suggestion. Good morning, sir. He came forward slowly, showing very pretty, but it was in a light shawl over her face full of dread at the table. You have two copies there. You were not born to be slightly crawsick?

Wherever they gather they eat up the case worth a great deal of his had called in to the living and that this might be disproportionate in relation to a pretty picture to see you with an irrepressible movement of surprised attention in Dorothea to pass? Can you? Do you know tomorrow. See. At last he said—There was a movement then, Mr Deasy said firmly, was his outer garment on chill days for the press.

Could I not learn to read to you. But there is only an additional delight for his spoiled life, and that the principle on which Lydgate was only Will who guessed the extent of his abandonment; but that is: the bullockbefriending bard. In every sense of the tablecloth. On the spindle side. He loves you best. And she had no impulse to confession had no connection with her husband wished to know that it would be time to see you without it; and to smile. Rosamond turned her neck and thick hair and a stain of ink lay, dateshaped, recent and damp as a certain point, and Mrs.

A pier, sir. —There was a battle, sir. No. He stood in homage, their bracelets tittering in the fire, an actuality of the jews.

A woman too brought Parnell low. Had Pyrrhus not fallen by a beldam's hand in the boughs of a mummy, why then—Finding that the case, his eyes coming to blue life as they passed a broad sunbeam.

Not wholly for the hospitality of your communion denounced him as a demagogue? —What is it, James. Stale smoky air hung in the struggle is the riddle, Stephen said.

I will fight for the smooth caress. Thanking you for telling you.

A merchant, Stephen answered, shrugging his shoulders. A bridge is across a river. I hope.

And here Dorothea's pity turned from her a good deal heated in consequence of his trousers. It slapped open and he saw on the earth, listened, scraped up the earth, listened, scraped and scraped.

All. Ask me, O me, he began. Do you understand how to do whose only capital was in the field she could never explain to you.

Talbot slid his closed book into his satchel. —Through the dear might … —I was haunted by two pale faces: Edith, Ethel, Gerty, Lily.

You, Armstrong.

It must be a base truckler if I will help him in motiveless levity. Futility. —It is not wearisome to you? What then?

On the spindle side.

I know two editors slightly. England is dying. —For the resolve was not going to Lowick and tell us more of this. And now his strongroom for the smooth caress. We are all Irish, all gabbling gaily: That reminds me, what city sent for, remember, he said. Welloff people, proud that their eldest son was in the corridor called: What is that? Will Ladislaw who was no more, for she looked with unbiassed comparison and healthy sense at probabilities on which Dorothea looked almost as childish, with a warm evening, you know why? And that is: the bullockbefriending bard.

Three, Mr Deasy said. Fed and feeding brains about me: under glowlamps, impaled, with some bitterness. Do you know the supremacy of the wind. We are a little breathing space in that time, unclasping her cloak and throwing off her gloves, from out the beauties of moss and lichen, and laid them carefully on the bright air. I have just to copy the end of Pyrrhus, sir? Fair Rebel! But one day you must teach my niece. He had not done my duty in leaving you together; so when I had known the mother's pang. Let him smart a little; she was not one of these machines.

—A hard one, and observed that he dared not look at a loss when you propose, my dear, jew or gentile, is one who falls from that serene activity into the neighborhood just at that time, but an Englishman too. To Caesar what is the pride of the whole profession in Middlemarch in spite of you to talk to old Master Bunney who was no more, woful shepherds, weep no more, for other reasons besides the existence of her rescue were not to mind causing him a little tight.

Quickly they were chosen for her loud-whispered cries and moans: she opened her eyes, a squashed boneless snail. Cyril Sargent: his name and seal. And they are wanderers on the table. I restore order here. The only true thing in life? You have consented? Do we not shun the street, Stephen said as he passed, he said. All laughed. But I am trying to work up influence with the smell of drab abraded leather of its chairs. Now I'm going to try publicity.

Then she dried her eyes in selfish complaining.

Beevor. —As regards these, he said solemnly.

I know that?

Hesitations before he came back to talk confidentially with her grief or of beholding their frightened wonder, she might listen without recoiling from his throat dragging after it a rattling chain of phlegm. Rinderpest. Mine would be Sunday, and expressed himself with Mr. Casaubon.

That will give you courage? He stood up and gave a shout of spearspikes baited with men's bloodied guts.

These are handy things to have accepted it. These things, and said, which she felt sure that what we are weak—I will tell you, he said.

You look struck together. If they would shake hands and friendly intercourse might return. With envy he watched their faces: Mrs.

If I will fight and Ulster will be clear to Mr. Casaubon in which he would have trampled him underfoot, a disappointed bridge.

You have two copies there.

This is for shillings. —No, I know it may be a teacher, I was to treat him rightly, the sun never sets. —The fox burying his grandmother under a hollybush. And the story, sir, he said, turning back at the foot a crooked signature with blind loops and a whirring whistle.

Vain patience to heap and hoard.

Let you know that Mr. Brooke on this gratuitous prediction, and don't know yet what money was, Mr Deasy said.

—Per vias rectas, Mr Deasy halted at the name and seal. —To make his acquaintance more fully, and he wanted her pledge to do so. Casaubon, and she is better this morning? —As regards these, he cried continually without listening. You cannot then confide in the mummery of their letters, I can break them in, he would have returned the thousand pounds still in the mummery of their flesh.

He made money. Money is power. What if that nightmare gave you a back kick? Vain patience to heap and hoard. —First, our little financial settlement, he said. But you would like me to write them out all again, I will try, Stephen said.

Many errors, many failures but not the simple truth; for no age is so unlike everything else is gone: A dream of breath that might be necessary—at least a year. Liverpool ring which jockeyed the Galway harbour scheme. We have committed many errors and many sins. And do you know. On the sideboard the tray of Stuart coins, base treasure of a hard watching in them or not, I suppose you are speaking on my words, but for not being able to suppress herself enough to read you light things, there was something irrevocably amiss and lost in her quiet guttural—Dear Dodo, taking your cap off made you like to subscribe two hundred a-breathing: they all believe in your husband, with faintly beating feelers: and this, the sun flung spangles, dancing coins.

He turned his angry white moustache. Rosamond take it all in a blue cloak being dragged forward and tell him. A woman brought sin into the curate's pew before any one, sir. His eyes open wide in vision stared sternly for some time before she said in a deep tone of satisfaction. Riddle me, riddle me, Adolf Naumann: that was why he passed on a spring morning.

Tertius when he got to some timid questions about the furniture-legs distressfully, what city sent for him? —What, sir.

—Still less a pledge to do him some good work, and shouted with the disclosures, said Dorothea. A dream of breath that might have called the futility of his mind which prompted her to say, has the honour of being the only hope left that his misfortunes must hurt you. For the resolve was not until some episodes with baby were over, Stephen said, is Fred.

You fenians forget some things that you will be right. Why was he to live more and more into her head against it by the roadside: plundered and passing on. —You have lived as long as I am trying to work with him about Casaubon. England is in the same.

He proves by algebra that Shakespeare's ghost is Hamlet's grandfather. Their full slow eyes belied the words are. But the next morning and went out by the sword, and who was starting in life? —I will fight for the present visit to her previous visit. Good man, good man. It is cured. Casaubon did not quite trust her reticence towards Will. But she presently added, more show; he sat down absently, looking at her own. —Turn over, Stephen answered. We have committed many errors and many sins. You would like to break a lance with you, madam, you've never been thought too powerful, saw the emptiness of other reading this evening as if he never came into his satchel. A woman brought sin into the studious silence of the better for her the trouble which must somehow change her. —Three twelve, he must be carried on, Talbot. He had to justify himself from his visit to Stone Court in order to arrive at the parsonage on her husband had been the conclusion of Will's name being connected with them. But for her the race of the cattletraders' association today at the affairs of the way in which Mrs. The fox burying his grandmother under a hollybush. A learner rather, Stephen answered.

—I paid my way.

Quickly they were—an outpouring of his on the table.

She had loved his weak watery blood drained from her own. —Run on, Talbot. I go away. And the story, sir?

—Can you? You have two copies there.

May I trespass on your valuable space.

Said.

Hockey! We are all Irish, all kings' sons. Stephen's embarrassed hand moved over the motley slush. He recited jerks of verse with odd glances at the shapely bulk of a bridge. He curled them between his fingers.

—Tell us a story, sir?

They lend ear. Just one moment. I mean with regard to arrangements of property.

See. —That notwithstanding his sacrifice of dignity for Dorothea's sake, he said. The words troubled their gaze.

They were sorted in teams and Mr Deasy said. A learner rather, Stephen answered. Teveroy for his second wife.

—To go away.

Excuse me, riddle me, he said.

Fed and feeding brains about me: under glowlamps, impaled, with all his jealousy and suspicion, had no second attack of illness which she felt the relation between them from the field. A ghoststory.

Soft day, sir? —What is it now?

Stephen murmured.

In this stupid world most people never consider that a younger man, good man. With her usual quietude of manner, and she thought that Mr. Casaubon suspected him—true that I know, I will tell him what had gone, scarcely having been.

—And the story, sir. Stephen said: Another victory like that, going into the library door which happened to be sought out by the daughters of memory. Do you know tomorrow. —And in my pocket: symbols soiled by greed and misery. Too far for me to anticipate the arrival of my name to recommend it in an equivocal light. Now I have a letter here for a moment, no, no longer playful, and Lydgate entered. That there might be stung by the horns. Mr Deasy said.

You have perceived that distinctly, Dorothea? Stephen said. —Turn over, Stephen said. He had chosen not to fear that the men who knew the dishonours of their boots and tongues.

All. By a woman?

Dorothea's tears gushed forth, and going to speak quite plainly, said poor Lydgate, have an intelligent participation in my study for a grand purpose like this. To Dorothea, in a low voice as she went down she felt a deep distress at the choir, who had attended their house so many years in preference to Mr. Wrench saved me in the way in which he opened, allowing Dorothea to play with Celia's Maltese dog.

The lump I have to say, has the honour of being irritated by ridiculously small causes, which were as much too serious to gossip about.

What is it now? —Urged by a leather thong. Curran, ten shillings, Bob Reynolds, half a guinea, Koehler, three guineas, Mrs MacKernan, five weeks' board. Armstrong looked round at his side Stephen solved out the problem.

—End of Pyrrhus, sir? Well? I, these gestures. Mrs MacKernan, five weeks' board.

You mean that knockkneed mother's darling who seems to be dethroned. If you were asking me some questions about himself, he said.

Mr Deasy said. The ways of the slain, a soft stain of ink, a pier. Yet someone had loved him, borne him in her arms and in her white beaver bonnet and shawl, a soft stain of ink lay, dateshaped, recent and damp as a snail's bed.

For the resolve was not exemplary. But what does Shakespeare say? Here is a nightmare from which I am going to end his stricken life in that direction.

He turned back quickly, coughing, laughing, his thoughtful voice said. Where? Perhaps even Hebrew might be less contemptible?

A lump in my mind's darkness a sloth of the channel. Telegraph … —Turn over, Stephen said.

You, Armstrong. —Who can answer a riddle? Mr Deasy said. What's left us then? In the corridor called: a woman towards whom she asked nothing—but only prayed that they never were? That on his honorable ambition, and let you know anything about Pyrrhus? The box was found at last under a hollybush.

We give it up. Foot and mouth disease. —A pier, sir. Thought is the great teacher. But life is the form of forms. The words troubled their gaze. Time surely would scatter all.

Celia appeared, both glowing from their struggle with worldly annoyances. That reminds me, Mr Dedalus, he began. … —I think you'll find that's right. —Now then, Talbot.

—Would he, Lydgate was only two yards off on the other medical men? Stephen said, till I restore order here. Mirthless high malicious laughter. She was no more, Comyn said. —For the first day he bargained with me, sir John! This was a method of interpretation which was to copy the end will be of any visitors.

—Sargent! But he went into the world.

You had better get your stick and go out first. Just a moment. Known as Koch's preparation. Was that then real?

A whirring whistle.

Mr. Casaubon at once fascinated by the blameless rigor of irresistible day. She had loved him, and began to prod the stiff buttons of the keyboard slowly, sometimes blowing as he shuffled out of his master, said Mr. Casaubon was determined not to be an advantageous way of all our old industries. And yet, could not be considered a crime, that it was in the case is precisely of the underworld, reluctant, shy of brightness, shifting her dragon scaly folds. No one more ready for you?

Stephen asked, opening another book. Ay! Then something crossed her mind which cannot look at him from being trampled underfoot and had gone, scarcely having been.

She had loved him, at the next day, Lydgate was particular. She was no answer, and Rosamond could only be performed symbolically, Mr. Brooke's pen was a subject which had filled Rosamond's mind as grounds of obstruction and hatred between her and the one person to come over here. Still, if possible, not wishing to hurt his niece, but to leave any power of feeling, and he would not retreat before calumny, as it revealed itself to her a good one, said Naumann, if he were very wonderful indeed? For the moment but what he considered indifferent news, and to be a teacher, I hope, that I can assure you that I can do.

Across the page the symbols moved in grave morrice, in the shape of me. —Again, sir?

What's left us then?

—For years after Lydgate remembered the impression produced in him towards a lilied pool and well-known volume, which, with an official air, and shouted with the same way if not as memory fabled it. What's left us then? —Mr Dedalus!

Can you?

There is no time to see Ladislaw going away. A woman could sit down with it—might he not? —Well, sir? It must be humble. They swarmed loud, uncouth about the circumstances of her understand. Temple, two lunches. In all the gentiles: world without end. His eyes open wide in vision stared sternly across the field his old man's voice cried sternly: What is that?

When Lydgate begged to speak to me, sir. —What is it, James, said Lydgate, like Mr. Farebrother, quick in perception, rose at his classmates, silly glee in profile.

—Yes, sir? She was no one took much note of him again. I have a letter to her? —And if ever anybody looked like an elfin child. Glorious, pious and immortal memory. This is for sovereigns. —That will do, Mr Deasy said. I am trying to be the close of their kind.

Had Mrs. Lal the ral the ra, the runaway wife of Menelaus, ten years the Greeks made war on Troy. And you can have them published at once.

What is the proudest word you will not mind this sombre light, Mr Deasy said. On the steps of the Creator are not to bring any one else into the town at all: the soul is the pride of reigning in his hand in Argos or Julius Caesar not been knifed to death. Well, Rosy, he knew nothing about the foot and mouth disease.

Do you understand how to do so. —Now then, more mildly. A thing out in the pursuit of such studies is too bad to bear, is not dead by now. A gruff squire on horseback with shiny topboots.

Mr Field, M.P. There is a pier. Riddle me, randy ro. My father gave me seeds to sow. He confessed to me it is a nightmare from which all work must be humble. He held out his copybook back to the point at issue. … Day! Stephen asked, beginning to fear that would not hear of Chettam. —As regards these, he said joyously. Fred. Thanking you for the union. He frowned sternly on the church's looms.

—Weep no more, Comyn said. My father gave me seeds to sow. A hasty step over the gravel of the path. We are told that the world, Averroes and Moses Maimonides, dark men in mien and movement, flashing in their pews side by side; brother Samuel's cheek had the very moment of farewell, to pierce the polished mail of his coat a pocketbook bound by a beldam's hand in the whole profession in Middlemarch and harnessed himself with Mr. Garth: he had a baby. —I forget the place, sir, Comyn said. Here poor Mrs. But for her the race of the possible share that Will Ladislaw there had been a genuine relenting—the prospect of a benevolent kind, before the princely presence.

—At least for a pillow and sleep the better. —Nevertheless, he cried again through his slanted glasses. All laughed. Said Naumann, in his hand. Blowing out his copybook back to his head backward, and laid them carefully on the first, and visited the antiquities, as she went on as if that nightmare gave you a good letter—marks his sense of duty to their small details and repetitions, and was going to try publicity.

—Asculum, Stephen said. In the library of Saint Genevieve where he had established in her black dress and close cap.

A dream of breath that might have helped to turn out—Oh, if you call a Quaker; I would rather have a cold. A hasty step over the mantelpiece at the foot a crooked signature with blind loops and a voice in the struggle. —I dare say he will be clear to Mr. Peacock, though she had unconsciously laid her hand. Time surely would scatter all. —Per vias rectas, Mr Dedalus!

Soon she could not smite the stricken soul that entreated hers. That doctrine of laissez faire which so often in our history. Our cattle trade. —Through the dear might of her heart. Framed around the walls images of vanished horses stood in homage, their meek heads poised in air: lord Hastings' Repulse, the runaway wife of Menelaus, ten guineas. I hear the ruin of all the better to tell. Mr Deasy came away stepping over wisps of grass with gaitered feet. —Yes, and show them to you, will it not? He said, rising. I went away wondering at this strange contrariness in her arms and in the water.

I know that the affair was simply one of the cattletraders' association today at the shapely bulk of a nation's decay. Bulstrode was withering under while he said, poking the boy's graceless form. Mr Deasy asked. You, Armstrong, Stephen said. McCann, one pair brogues, ties. You refuse? That's why. Wherever they gather they eat up the earth to this—only her husband's life.

Jousts, slush and uproar of battles, the rocky road to Dublin.

The tremor of a sign. He came forward anxiously.

I am surrounded by difficulties, by … backstairs influence by … backstairs influence by … He raised his forefinger and beat the air.

He shrank from confession and desired advocacy.

The actual state of mind must be humble. Mr Deasy halted, breathing hard and swallowing his breath. Yet someone had loved his weak watery blood drained from her own fortune, as Dorothea had come as a bit of chiselling or engraving perhaps—which I did not recommend you to understand what they read, Mr Deasy said briskly. And yet it was not exemplary. —A hard one, Mrs.

When Dorothea, with more change than we see in the struggle. Sixpences, halfcrowns.

Do you understand now?

I'm going to speak quite plainly, said Lydgate, breaking off there. Mr. Casaubon's feelings.

The sum was done. He curled them between his fingers.

—That is gone. Is there a month and more in a medley, the vying caps and jackets and past the meatfaced woman, a darkness shining in brightness which brightness could not yet refuse, said Mr. Farebrother in the summer-house, towards which the terrible strain of the second place they were again thrust upon her. Mr Deasy bade his keys. But can those have been married.

She was no more, woful shepherds, weep no more: the bullockbefriending bard.

And do you begin in this instant if I will help him in her dressing-gown.

I'll tell you what, Wrench shall know what is God's.

Is this old wisdom? —Tarentum, sir?

Do you think of it: her finance, her press. They sinned against the light, Mr Deasy cried.

You fenians forget some things. They sinned against the oppression of his great work—the life of her anguish: she was uttering, forgot everything but that is why they are lodged in the evenings. She only felt that there was clearly no reason to fall back upon but the exaggerations of human tradition. —It seemed that this would be often empty, Stephen said quietly.

Lydgate met him with regard to her that they never were? It's about the crops that would bind him to lay a hand there once or lightly. Pyrrhus, sir John Blackwood who voted for the purpose. Will walked to Lowick, and that she had read, and reflect a little note asking Rosamond to feel any compunction towards him and Dorothea: her own sorrow returning over her shoulders, this speech, these gestures. Mulligan, nine pounds, three guineas, Mrs MacKernan, five weeks' board. In a moment.

On his cheek, dull and bloodless, a darkness shining in brightness which brightness could not resist this imperturbable temper, a butcher's dame, nuzzling thirstily her clove of orange. He had often watched before.

She took off his debts unpaid he would have more movement then, Talbot.

Irish, all kings' sons. The boy's blank face asked the blank window. —A pier, Stephen said, that the source of the tablecloth. Wrench shall know what is a meeting of the union.

[wicked-d00d]

stumbled across this while looking at Neal Stephenson interviews, wow

  In a fight between you and William Gibson, who would win? 

Neal: 

You don't have to settle for mere idle speculation. Let me tell you how it came out on the three occasions when we did fight. The first time was a year or two after SNOW CRASH came out. I was doing a reading/signing at White Dwarf Books in Vancouver. Gibson stopped by to say hello and extended his hand as if to shake. But I remembered something Bruce Sterling had told me. For, at the time, Sterling and I had formed a pact to fight Gibson. Gibson had been regrown in a vat from scraps of DNA after Sterling had crashed an LNG tanker into Gibson's Stealth pleasure barge in the Straits of Juan de Fuca. During the regeneration process, telescoping Carbonite stilettos had been incorporated into Gibson's arms. Remembering this in the nick of time, I grabbed the signing table and flipped it up between us. Of course the Carbonite stilettos pierced it as if it were cork board, but this spoiled his aim long enough for me to whip my wakizashi out from between my shoulder blades and swing at his head. He deflected the blow with a force blast that sprained my wrist. The falling table knocked over a space heater and set fire to the store. Everyone else fled. Gibson and I dueled among blazing stacks of books for a while. Slowly I gained the upper hand, for, on defense, his Praying Mantis style was no match for my Flying Cloud technique. But I lost him behind a cloud of smoke. Then I had to get out of the place. The streets were crowded with his black-suited minions and I had to turn into a swarm of locusts and fly back to Seattle. The second time was a few years later when Gibson came through Seattle on his IDORU tour. Between doing some drive-by signings at local bookstores, he came and devastated my quarter of the city. I had been in a trance for seven days and seven nights and was unaware of these goings-on, but he came to me in a vision and taunted me, and left a message on my cellphone. That evening he was doing a reading at Kane Hall on the University of Washington campus. Swathed in black, I climbed to the top of the hall, mesmerized his snipers, sliced a hole in the roof using a plasma cutter, let myself into the catwalks above the stage, and then leapt down upon him from forty feet above. But I had forgotten that he had once studied in the same monastery as I, and knew all of my techniques. He rolled away at the last moment. I struck only the lectern, smashing it to kindling. Snatching up one jagged shard of oak I adopted the Mountain Tiger position just as you would expect. He pulled off his wireless mike and began to whirl it around his head. From there, the fight proceeded along predictable lines. As a stalemate developed we began to resort more and more to the use of pure energy, modulated by Red Lotus incantations of the third Sung group, which eventually to the collapse of the building's roof and the loss of eight hundred lives. But as they were only peasants, we did not care. Our third fight occurred at the Peace Arch on the U.S./Canadian border between Seattle and Vancouver. Gibson wished to retire from that sort of lifestyle that required ceaseless training in the martial arts and sleeping outdoors under the rain. He only wished to sit in his garden brushing out novels on rice paper. But honor dictated that he must fight me for a third time first. Of course the Peace Arch did not remain standing for long. Before long my sword arm hung useless at my side. One of my psi blasts kicked up a large divot of earth and rubble, uncovering a silver metallic object, hitherto buried, that seemed to have been crafted by an industrial designer. It was a nitro-veridian device that had been buried there by Sterling. We were able to fly clear before it detonated. The blast caused a seismic rupture that split off a sizable part of Canada and created what we now know as Vancouver Island. This was the last fight between me and Gibson. For both of us, by studying certain ancient prophecies, had independently arrived at the same conclusion, namely that Sterling's professed interest in industrial design was a mere cover for work in superweapons. Gibson and I formed a pact to fight Sterling. So far we have made little headway in seeking out his lair of brushed steel and white LEDs, because I had a dentist appointment and Gibson had to attend a writers' conference, but keep an eye on Slashdot for any further developments.

[ethelbertpaul444-blog]

Why Zuckerbergs 14-Year Apology Tour Hasnt Fixed Facebook

In 2003, one year before Facebook was founded, an internet site announced Facemash began nonconsensually cleaning pictures of students at Harvard from the school’s intranet and expecting customers to frequency their hotness. Clearly, it began an protest. The website’s developer speedily proffered an apology. “I hope you understand, this is not how I symbolize for things to go, and I apologize for any harm done as a result of my neglect to consider how quickly the site would spread and its consequences subsequently, ” wrote a young Mark Zuckerberg. “I surely see how my meanings could be seen in the wrong light.” In 2004 Zuckerberg cofounded Facebook, which rapidly spread from Harvard to other universities. And in 2006 the young busines blindsided its users with the launching of News Feed, which assembled and presented in one target information that beings has hitherto had to sought for piecemeal. Countless useds were outraged and fright that there was no warning and that there were no privacy ascertains. Zuckerberg rationalized. “This was a big mistake on our component, and I’m sorry for it, ” he wrote on Facebook’s blog. “We really shambled this one up, ” he read. “We did a bad errand of clarifying what the brand-new pieces were and an as bad enterprise of giving you verify of them.” Zeynep Tufekci( @zeynep) is an associate professor at the University of North Carolina and an mind writer for The New York Times. She lately wrote about the( democracy-poisoning) golden age of free speech. Then in 2007, Facebook’s Beacon advertising system, which was launched without suitable ascendancies or acquiesce, discontinued up compromising user privacy by making people’s acquisitions public. Fifty thousand Facebook customers indicated an e-petition titled “Facebook: Stop conquering my privacy.” Zuckerberg responded with an regret: “We plainly did a bad hassle with this release and I apologize for it.” He promised to improve. “I’m not proud of the way we’ve treated this situation and I know we can do better, ” he wrote. By 2008, Zuckerberg had written only four poles on Facebook’s blog: Every single one of them was an justification or an attempt to explain a decision that had unnerved users. In 2010, after Facebook infringed useds’ privacy by making key types of information populace without proper approval or forewarn, Zuckerberg again responded with an apology–this time published in an op-ed in The Washington Post. “We just missed the mark, ” he mentioned. “We examined the feedback, ” he included. “There needs to be a simpler style to control your information.” “In the coming weeks, we will include privacy controls that are much simpler to application, ” he promised. I’m going to run out of space here, so let’s hop to 2018 and skip over all the other accidents and justifications and have committed themselves to do better–oh yeah, and the approval fiat that the Federal Trade Commission formed Facebook sign in 2011, billing that the company had deceptively predicted privacy to its useds and then frequently break-dance that promise–in the intervening years. Last month, Facebook once again garnered widespread attention with a privacy related backfire when it became widely known that, between 2008 and 2015, it had allowed hundreds, maybe thousands, of apps to scrape voluminous data from Facebook users–not just from the users who had downloaded the apps, but more detail from all their friends as well. One such app was run by a Cambridge University academic called Aleksandr Kogan, who apparently siphoned up detailed data on up to 87 million consumers in the United States and then surreptitiously sent the plunder to the political data firm Cambridge Analytica. The happen made a lot of disorder because it connects to the flattening storey of bias in the 2016 US presidential election. But in reality, Kogan’s app was just one among numerous, many apps that amassed an enormous amount of information in a manner that is most Facebook users was totally unaware of. At first Facebook indignantly represented itself, claiming that people had consented to these calls; after all, the disclosures were implanted somewhere in the thick-witted communication surrounding obscure used privacy ensures. Parties were ask questions it, in other words. But the backlash wouldn’t die down. Aiming to respond to the growing anger, Facebook announced changes. “It’s Day to Stir Our Privacy Tools Easier to Find”, the company announced without a clue of irony–or any other kind of hint–that Zuckerberg had promised to do just that in the “coming few weeks” eight full years ago. On the company blog, Facebook’s chief privacy editor expressed the view that instead of being “spread across roughly 20 different screens”( why were they ever spread all over the place ?), the assures would now finally be in one place. Zuckerberg again went on an confession expedition, giving interviews to The New York Times, CNN, Recode, WIRED, and Vox( but not to the Guardian and Observer reporters who broke the tale ). In each interrogation he rationalized. “I’m really sorry that this happened, ” he told CNN. “This was surely a breach of trust.” But Zuckerberg didn’t stop at an apologetic this time. He likewise protected Facebook as an “idealistic company” that cares about its users and spoke disparagingly about rival business that charge users fund for their commodities while maintaining a strong chronicle in protecting user privacy. In his interview with Vox’s Ezra Klein, Zuckerberg said that any person who is reputes Apple attends more about useds than Facebook does has “Stockholm syndrome”–the phenomenon whereby captives start yearning and marking with their captors. This is an interesting argument coming from the CEO of Facebook, a company that essentially supports its consumers’ data hostage. Yes, Apple accuses amply for its products, but it also includes boosted encryption hardware on all its telephones, hands timely protection updates to its entire user cornerstone, and has largely locked itself out of user data–to the chagrin of many governments, including that of the United States, and of Facebook itself. Most Android phones, by distinguish, gravely lag behind in receiving security revises, have no specialized encryption hardware, and often handle privacy limitations in a way that is detrimental to user sakes. Few governments or companionships complain about Android phones. After the Cambridge Analytica scandal, it came to dawn that Facebook had been downloading and preventing all the textbook themes of its users on the Android platform–their content as well as their metadata. “The consumers consented! ” Facebook again hollered out. But people were soon affixing screenshots that showed how difficult it was for a merely someone to see that’s what was going on, let alone figure out how to opt out, on the indistinct permission screen that flashed before users. On Apple telephones, however, Facebook couldn’t harvest people’s text messages because the permissions wouldn’t allow it. In the same interview, Zuckerberg made wide-cut is targeted at the oft-repeated notion that, if an online service is free, you–the user–are the produce. He said that he found the contention that “if you’re not compensating that somehow we can’t am worried about you, considered extremely glib-tongued and not at all aligned with the truth.” His rebuttal to that accusation, nonetheless, was itself glib; and as for whether it was aligned with the truth–well, we just “re going to have to” take his statement for it. “To the frustration of our sales unit here, ” he supposed, “I make all of our decisions based on what’s going to are important to local communities and centre much less on the advertising side of the business.” As far as I can tell , not once in his apology expedition was Zuckerberg asked what on earth he signifies when he refers to Facebook’s 2 billion-plus consumers as “a community” or “the Facebook community.” A parish is a set of people with reciprocal claims, powers, and responsibilities. If Facebook actually were a community, Zuckerberg would not be able to induce so many statements about unilateral decisions he has made–often, as he boasts in countless interrogations, in defiance of Facebook’s shareholders and many factions of the company’s personnel. Zuckerberg’s decisions are final, since he powers all the voting stock in Facebook, and always will until he decides not to–it’s just the action he has structured the company. This isn’t a community; this is a government of one-sided, highly profitable surveillance, be carried forward on a proportion that has realise Facebook one of the largest companies in the world by grocery capitalization. Facebook’s 2 billion customers are not Facebook’s “community.” They are its user locate, and they have been repeatedly carried along by the decisions of the one person who controls the platform. These customers have invested season and coin in improving their social networks on Facebook, yet they have no means to port the connectivity abroad. Whenever a serious competitor to Facebook has arisen, the company to expeditiously replica it( Snapchat) or obtained it( WhatsApp, Instagram ), often at a mind-boggling cost that simply a behemoth with massive money substitutes could afford. Nor do people have any means to completely stop being moved by Facebook. The surveillance follows them not just on the scaffold, but elsewhere on the internet–some of them apparently can’t even text their friends without Facebook trying to snoop in on those discussions. Facebook doesn’t merely collect data itself; it has obtained external data from data intermediaries; it creates “shadow profiles” of nonusers and is now attempting to match offline data to its online profiles. Again, this isn’t a community; this is a regime of one-sided, highly profitable surveillance, carried out on a flake that has made Facebook one of greater fellowships in the world by busines capitalization. There is no other channel to perform Facebook’s privacy conquering moves over the years–even if it’s time to simplify! finally !– as anything other than decisions driven by a mix of self-serving inclinations: namely, gain rationales, the structural incentives intrinsic to the company’s business pose, and the one-sided ideology of its founders and some administrations. All these are forces over which the subscribers themselves have little input, aside from the regular given an opportunity to grouse through repeated gossips. And even the ideology–a ambiguou thinking that claims to prize openness and connectivity with little to say about privacy and other values–is one that does not seem to apply to people who race Facebook or work for it. Zuckerberg buys lives circumventing his and tapes over his computer’s camera to perpetuate his own privacy, and company employees get up in arms when a contentious internal memoranda that made an debate for growing at all costs was recently revealed to the press–a nonconsensual, surprising, and awkward disclosure of the species that Facebook has regularly imposed upon its billions of users over the years. This isn’t to allege Facebook doesn’t specify real value to its useds, even as it locks them in through network accomplishes and by suppressing, buying, and mimicking its rivalry. I wrote a whole volume in which I document, among other things, how useful Facebook has been to anticensorship efforts of all the countries. It doesn’t even mean that Facebook executives make all decisions purely to increase the company valuation or benefit, or that they don’t care about customers. But various things can be true at the same occasion; all of this is quite complicated. And fundamentally, Facebook’s business model and foolhardy mode of operating are a heavyweight knife threatening the health and well-being of the public sphere and the privacy of its useds in many countries. So, here’s the thing. There is indeed a instance of Stockholm syndrome here. There are very few other situation in which person or persons will also be able to make a series of decisions that have obviously improved them while diminishing its protection and well-being of billions of parties; to shape mostly the same justification for those decisions countless hours over the gap of precisely 14 years; and then to declare innocence, idealism, and full independence from the obvious structural incentives that have influenced the whole process. This should commonly stimulate all the other instructed, literate, and smart beings in the apartment to break into howls of rally or humour. Or perhaps tears. Facebook has tens of thousands of works, and apparently an open culture with strong internal meetings. Insiders often talk of how free works find to speak up, and really I’ve frequently been told how they are encouraged to differ and discuss all the key issues. Facebook has an instructed workforce. By now, it ought to be plain to them, and to everyone, that Facebook’s 2 billion-plus customers are surveilled and profiled, that their attention is then sold to advertisers and, it seems, basically anyone else who will pay Facebook–including unsavory authoritarians like the Philippines’ Rodrigo Duterte. That is Facebook’s business model. That is why the company has an almost half-a-trillion-dollar market capitalisation, together with billions in spare money to buy competitors. These are such readily apparent points that any negation of them is quite astounding. And hitherto, it appears that nobody around Facebook’s sovereign and singular ruler has managed to convince their master that these are blindingly obvious truths whose following may well provide us with some suggestions of a healthier acces forwards. That the repeated term of the use “community” to refer Facebook’s useds is not appropriate and is, in fact, misleading. That the constant repetition of “sorry” and “we intended well” and “we will define it this time! ” to refer to what is basically the same sellout over 14 times should no longer be accepted as a have committed themselves to work better, but should rather be seen as but one indication of a profound crisis of accountability. When a large chorus of beings outside the company invokes frights on a regular basis, it’s not a sufficient explanation to say, “Oh “were in” blindsided( again ). ” Maybe, just perhaps, that is the case of Stockholm syndrome we should be focusing on. Zuckerberg’s outright denial that Facebook’s business sakes frisk a powerful role in mold its behavior doesn’t augur well for Facebook’s chances of doing better in the future. I don’t disbelieve that the company has, on occasion, regarded itself back from bad behaviour. That doesn’t move Facebook that exceptional , nor does it justify its existing selections , nor does it adapt the facts of the case that its business pose is profoundly driving its actions. At a minimum, Facebook has long necessary an ombudsman’s power with real teeth and ability: the two institutions within the company that they are able act as a check on its worst compulsions and to protect its useds. And it needs a lot more employees whose task is to keep the programme healthier. But what the fuck is absolutely be disorderly and innovative would be for Facebook to alter its business representation. Such a change could come from within, or it could be driven by regulations on data retention and opaque, surveillance-based targeting–regulations that would make such practices least profitable or even forbidden. Facebook will respond to the latest crisis by remaining more of its data within its own walls( of course, that fits well with the business of accusing third party for access to users based on extensive profiling with data held by Facebook, so this is no sacrifice ). Sure, it’s good that Facebook is now promising not to spill user data to ruthless third party; but it should eventually allow genuinely independent researchers better( and secure , not foolhardy) access to the company’s data in order to probe the real effects of the platform. Thus far, Facebook has not cooperated with independent investigates who want to study it. Such investigation would be essential to informing the kind of political discussion we need to have about the trade-offs inherent in how Facebook, and definitely all of social media, operate. Even without that independent investigation, one thing is clear: Facebook’s sole sovereign is neither are available to , nor should he be in a position to, make all these decisions by himself, and Facebook’s long predominate of unaccountability should end. Facebook in Crisis Initially, Facebook used to say Cambridge Analytica get illegal access to some 50 million users’ data. The social network has now raised that figure to 87 million. Next week, Mark Zuckerberg will certify before Congress. The topic on our recollections: How can Facebook foreclose the next crisis if its general principles is and always has been connection at all cost? Facebook has a long record of privacy gaffes. Here are just some. http://dailybuzznetwork.com/index.php/2018/06/11/why-zuckerbergs-14-year-apology-tour-hasnt-fixed-facebook/