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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.  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
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