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27 January 12020 is International Holocaust Remembrance Day.
It honors the seventeen million (or so) who were murdered by the Nazi regime in
a program to eliminate certain people
from society—Jews, Slavs, Romani, gay men, the disabled—you know, those people. Undesirables. Under color
of purifying society German officials systematically arrested people, broke up
families, threw them in concentration camps, and then killed them in various
ways. One entire branch of the Fake History industry is dedicated to minimizing
or expunging this event from the records. It happened. Live with it.
It’s Lewis Carroll’s birthday—an event I’ve apparently been at
least observing since I was nine, as I see by the page of an old calendar
preserved among my records. Charles Dodgson was a mathematician by trade (apparently
a method of evaluating determinants is named after him), but he is remembered for
the body of literary work he turned out under the name Lewis Carroll. Possibly
my favorite is The Hunting of the Snark,
which I reread so often as a child (and since) that great sections of it are
engraved on my memory.
I’m feeling a bit better today, though I’m still sleeping way
more than usual. And the damn cough isn’t gone—just in abeyance.
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