....set up

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Changing the Language In the basic setup snippet, the en_US version of the SDK is initialized, which means that all of the Facebook-generated buttons and plugins used on your site will be in US English. (However, pop-up dialogs generated by Facebook like the Login Dialog will be in the language the person has chosen on Facebook, even if they differ from what you've selected.) You can change this language by changing the js.src value in the snippet. Take a look at Localization to see the different locales that can be used. For example, if your site is in Spanish, using the following code to load the SDK will cause all Social Plugins to be rendered in Spanish.

MEDUSA The Medusa was an ugly creature. Let's have a look at how she came into existence, for she wasn't always that ugly... Again, the Gods played their role. The Medusa was the daughter of Phorkys and Keto, the children of Gaea (Earth) and cOeanus (Ocean). She was one of the three sisters known as the Gorgons. The other two sisters were Sthenno andE uryale. Medusa was the only mortal out of the three. She was originally a golden-haired and very beautiful maiden, who, as a priestess of Athena, was devoted to a life of celibacy; but, being wooed by Poseidon, whom she loved in return, she forgot her vows, and became united to him in marriage. For this offence she was punished by the goddess in a most terrible manner. Each wavy lock of the beautiful hair which had so charmed her husband, was changed into a venomous snake; her once gentle, love-inspiring eyes now became blood-shot, furious orbs, which excited fear and disgust in the mind of the beholder; whilst her former roseate hue and milk-white skin assumed a loathsome greenish tinge. Seeing herself thus transformed into so repulsive an object, Medusa fled from her home, never to return. Wandering about, abhorred, dreaded, and shunned by all the world, she now developed into a character, worthy of her outward appearance. In her despair she fled to Africa, where, as she passed restlessly from place to place, infant snakes dropped from her hair, and thus, according to the belief of the ancients, that country became the hotbed of these venomous reptiles. With the curse of Athene upon her, she turned into stone whomsoever she gazed upon, till at last, after a life of nameless misery, deliverance came to her in the shape of death, at the hands of Perseus.

Some intelligent  European preadolescents were in our day and set, and I doubt if
much individual genius should be assigned to our interest in  the  plurality
of  inhabited worlds, competitive tennis, infinity, solipsism and so on. The
softness and fragility of baby animals caused us the same intense pain.  She
wanted  to  be  a  nurse  in some famished Asiatic country; I wanted to be a
famous spy.
     All at once we were madly, clumsily, shamelessly, agonizingly  in  love
with  each  other;  hopelessly,  I should add, because that frenzy of mutual
possession might have been  assuaged  only  by  our  actually  imbibing  and
assimilating  every  particle  of  each other's soul and flesh; but there we
were, unable even to mate as slum children would have  so  easily  found  an
opportunity  to  do.  After one wild attempt we made to meet at night in her
garden (of which more later), the only privacy we were allowed was to be out
of earshot but not out of sight on the populous part  of  the  plage.
There,  on  the  soft sand, a few feet away from our elders, we would sprawl
all morning, in a petrified paroxysm of desire, and take advantage of  every
blessed  quirk  in space and time to touch each other: her hand, half-hidden
in the sand, would creep toward me, its slender brown  fingers  sleepwalking
nearer  and nearer; then, her opalescent knee would start on a long cautious
journey; sometimes a chance rampart built by  younger  children  granted  us
sufficient  concealment  to  graze each other's salty lips; these incomplete
contacts drove our healthy and inexperienced young bodies to such a state of
exasperation that not even the cold blue water, under which we still  clawed
at each other, could bring relief.
     Among  some  treasures  I lost during the wanderings of my adult years,
there was a snapshot taken by my aunt which showed Annabel, her parents  and
the  staid,  elderly,  lame  gentleman,  a  Dr. Cooper, who that same summer
courted my aunt, grouped around a table in a sidewalk cafe. Annabel did  not
come  out well, caught as she was in the act of bending over her chocolat
glacи, and her thin bare shoulders and the parting  in  her  hair  were
about  all  that  could  be identified (as I remember that picture) amid the
sunny blur into which her lost loveliness graded; but  I,  sitting  somewhat
apart  from  the  rest,  came out with a kind of dramatic conspicuousness: a
moody, beetle-browed boy in a  dark  sport  shirt  and  well-tailored  white
shorts,  his legs crossed, sitting in profile, looking away. That photograph
was taken on the last day of our fatal summer and just a few minutes  before
we  made our second and final attempt to thwart fate. Under the flimsiest of
pretexts (this was our very last chance, and  nothing  really  mattered)  we
escaped  from  the  cafe to the beach, and found a desolate stretch of sand,
and there, in the violet shadow of some red rocks forming a  kind  of  cave,
had  a  brief  session  of  avid  caresses,  with  somebody's  lost  pair of
sunglasses for only witness. I  was  on  my  knees,  and  on  the  point  of
possessing  my darling, when two bearded bathers, the old man of the sea and
his brother, came out of the sea with exclamations of ribald  encouragement,
and four months later she died of typhus in Corfu.

4
I  leaf  again  and  again  through  these miserable memories, and keep
asking myself, was it then, in the glitter of that remote summer,  that  the
rift  in  my  life began; or was my excessive desire for that child only the
first evidence of an inherent singularity? When I  try  to  analyze  my  own
cravings,  motives,  actions  and  so  forth,  I  surrender  to  a  sort  of
retrospective imagination which feeds the analytic  faculty  with  boundless
alternatives  and  which  causes  each  visualized route to fork and re-fork
without end in the maddeningly complex prospect of my past. I am  convinced,
however, that in a certain magic and fateful way Lolita began with Annabel.
     I  also  know  that  the  shock  of  Annabel's  death  consolidated the
frustration of that nightmare summer, made of it a permanent obstacle to any
further romance throughout the cold years of my youth. The spiritual and the
physical had  been  blended  in  us  with  a  perfection  that  must  remain
incomprehensible  to  the matter-of-fact, crude, standard-brained youngsters
of today. Long after her death I felt her thoughts  floating  through  mine.
Long  before  we met we had had the same dreams. We compared notes. We found
strange affinities. The same June of the same year (1919) a stray canary had
fluttered into her house and mine, in two widely  separated  countries.  Oh,
Lolita, had you loved me thus!
     I have reserved for the conclusion of my "Annabel" phase the account of
our unsuccessful  first tryst. One night, she managed to deceive the vicious