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.