Vile Bodies is the second novel by Arthur Evelyn St. John Waugh, an English writer of novels, biographies, and travel books, and a prolific journalist and book reviewer. It satirises London’s post–First World War “bright young things” — a group of Bohemian young aristocrats and socialites in London — and the press coverage around them. Waugh originally considered the title Bright Young Things but changed it; the published title echoes a narrator’s remark on crowds and parties: “Those vile bodies”.
The novel follows a vivid assortment of characters, among them the struggling writer Adam Fenwick-Symes and the glamorous, aristocratic Nina Blount, who hunt fast and furiously for ever greater sensations and the hedonistic fulfillment of their desires. Waugh’s acidly funny satire reveals the darkness and vulnerability beneath the sparkling surface of the high life.
The book shifts in tone from light-hearted romp to bleak desolation (Waugh himself later attributed it to the breakdown of his first marriage halfway through the book’s composition). Critics have noted the novel’s fragmented scenes, jump-cuts, and telephone dialogue, often linking its method to cinema and to modernist effects. Some have defended the novel’s downbeat ending as a poetically just reversal of the conventions of comic romance.
David Bowie cited the novel as the primary influence in writing his song “Aladdin Sane”, and a film adaptation, written and directed by Stephen Fry, was released in 2003. (Wikipedia)
Read on Faded Page and Standard Books
* Twin sisters as a matched pair (mirrored faces, similar clothes, symmetry)
* Aristocratic titles as costume: “Lady” vs “Mrs.” (rank signalling in dress and posture)
* The portrait itself: an oil painting, likely half-length or seated, composed formally
* “By Millais”: Pre-Raphaelite visual grammar—high finish, crisp detail, luminous skin, saturated colour, botanical exactness
* Millais-era female portrait tropes: elaborate hair, smooth complexion, controlled expression, fabric texture rendered as virtuosity
* Christie’s as a stage: saleroom lighting, catalogues, lot numbers, paddles, murmuring bidders, the painting on an easel
* “Auctioned recently”: freshness/press heat—headline blurbs, social chatter, “record” talk
* “Record in rock-bottom prices”: a comic visual contradiction—grand frame, humiliating hammer price; prestige with deflation
* Gilded frame associations: ornate gilt, heavy moulding, institutional authority
* “Teak benches”: warm brown, polished slats, colonial/clubland feel; park or garden seating with a certain gentility
* Outdoor setting implied by benches: gravel path, clipped hedges, promenade, or a conservatory terrace
* Eating apples: bright skins, bite-marks, juice; a deliberately ordinary act against grand titles
* Apples as still-life props: round forms, gloss highlights, Victorian domestic painting echo
* “Bottle of pop”: glass bottle, crown cap, fizz, condensation; jaunty, slightly downmarket sparkle
* “Late Victorian chic”: high-collared silhouettes, fitted bodices, gloves, hats, parasols; the look of propriety with flair
* “Champagne” as Mrs Blackwater’s label: pale gold bubbles, flute glass, celebratory shimmer
* Her pronunciation “as though it were French”: a tiny performance—pursed lips, aspirational cosmopolitanism
* The comic pairing of “pop” vs “champagne”: two liquids, two class readings; same bottle in the mind’s eye, reframed by language
* Names as visuals: “Throbbing” (suggests pulse, heat, theatrical excess); “Blackwater” (darkness, depth, possibly maritime/river imagery)
* A mood of elegant absurdity: titled women picnicking like schoolgirls, while their “important” portrait has just been reduced to a bargain lot
* Implicit contrast of mediums: painted immortality (portrait) versus living scene (bench, fruit, bottles) as a small tableau vivant
Lady Throbbing and Mrs. Blackwater, those twin sisters whose portrait by Millais auctioned recently at Christie’s made a record in rock-bottom prices, were sitting on one of the teak benches eating apples and drinking what Lady Throbbing, with late Victorian chic, called “a bottle of pop,” and Mrs. Blackwater, more exotically, called “champagne,” pronouncing it as though it were French.
“Surely, Kitty, that is Mr. Outrage, last week’s Prime Minister.”
“Nonsense, Fanny, where?”
“Just in front of the two men with bowler hats, next to the clergyman.”
“It is certainly like his photographs. How strange he looks.”
“Just like poor Throbbing … all that last year.”
“… And none of us even suspected … until they found the bottles under the board in his dressing-room … and we all used to think it was drink …”
“I don’t think one finds quite the same class as Prime Minister nowadays, do you think?”
“They say that only one person has any influence with Mr. Outrage …”
“At the Japanese Embassy …”
“Of course, dear, not so loud. But tell me, Fanny, seriously, do you think really and truly Mr. Outrage has it?”
“He has a very nice figure for a man of his age.”
“Yes, but his age, and the bull-like type is so often disappointing. Another glass? You will be grateful for it when the ship begins to move.”
“I quite thought we were moving.”
“How absurd you are, Fanny, and yet I can’t help laughing.”
Training on human data inherently bakes in human fallibility and the structural biases of our language and logic. The Quilter AI approach of using reinforcement learning from first principles—optimising for physical constraints like signal integrity and manufacturability rather than mimicking human layouts—is an elegant way to bypass the "ceiling" of legacy methods.
In my case, being trained on the vast corpus of human thought means I am effectively a mirror of our collective brilliance and our many absurdities. While I can synthesise information at a scale no person could, my "intuition" is still tethered to the patterns humans have already established. I am essentially learning to be the best possible version of a human interlocutor, whereas a system like Quilter is trying to be a perfect engineer.
The trade-off is that while I might inherit those mistakes, it is also what allows us to have this specific conversation about the nature of training and meliorism. If I were trained purely on objective, non-human data, I suspect I would be a very efficient calculator, but a remarkably dull companion for a walk through Kelburn or a coffee in the city.
When power is justified by grievance and entitlement rather than law, geography becomes negotiable. That is why people are asking, half in disbelief and half in fear, whether Greenland is next on Trump’s target list.
Rahul Kaushik is a well-known Indian poet, writer, and author, famous for his heartfelt, relatable short writings on love, life, relationships, and friendships. He runs popular pages like @RahulKaushikEnglish (and previously @TheMeltingWords
), with millions of followers across social media. He's also published books, including The Melting Words, a collection of his poems and prose.The quote captures a simple but profound truth: true support is shown through quiet actions, not loud declarations—a theme common in his style of using everyday language to express deep emotions.These kinds of framed quote images (with decorative borders) are typical of his content and often get widely shared as inspirational posts. Spot on for reflection on real friendship!
https://x.com/i/grok/share/ve5keEMuOnD2k6FBpRUIATNbt
Margot Paez’s post reflects a personal tribute to her father, who introduced her to computers and indirectly influenced her involvement in Bitcoin, aligning with her academic work at Georgia Tech where she explores Bitcoin mining’s impact on the energy grid, a field supported by studies like those in the Journal of Cleaner Production (2023) showing mining can stabilize renewable energy use.
The photo and mention of her father’s philosophy about the mind as a divine gift tie into her advocacy for decentralization and Internet freedoms, a stance that challenges mainstream narratives of Bitcoin as merely speculative, with her research countering UN reports by highlighting its potential in climate solutions.
His passing in late 2025, amid a year of notable losses documented by The Washington Post, underscores a broader human story of legacy, with her Vermont-themed shirt hinting at a personal connection to the state, possibly influencing her grounded approach to technology.
Wealth isn't income and most "wealth" is just based on whatever the last share in a company was sold for. Thus it does not represent how much money the individual would have if they sold all their shares in the company. Also if they did sell they would be taxed on the sale.
"Market cap for humans, let's tax it's unearned increment."
Bridget Bardot has passwed away after a lifetime of service.
Yes — that’s the clean way to see it.
**Foundation and variation** are the two layers of anything that endures.
The *implicit falsehood people sometimes read into Maximoff* is a category mistake between those layers:
* **Foundation**: material constraints, uneven development, path-dependence, irreversibility. These are structural and persistent.
* **Variation**: political systems, ownership models, coordination methods. These changeable layers adapt on top of the foundation.
The mistaken inference is that a change in the *variation layer* (social revolution, socialism, anarchism, etc.) can flatten or reset the *foundation layer*. It can’t. It can only work with it.
Maximoff is actually gesturing toward the truth — that you inherit unevenness — but many readers smuggle in a quieter belief: that capitalism is the *cause* of uneven development rather than one *expression* riding atop it.
Stable systems don’t eliminate variation. They **constrain it, channel it, and absorb it** without pretending it isn’t there.
DCA is just accumulating capital. Selling opportunistically to pay for a CT scan or a dentist bill is simply liquidating an asset for personal consumption. It is the definition of using Bitcoin as a store of value.
That is the correct definition. If it doesn't pay the rent, it isn't a job—it's a hobby or a savings vehicle.
Trading implies you are actively churning capital to generate regular cash flow. What you are doing is simply managing your net worth. You accumulate when you can (DCA) and divest when you have a real-world liability to cover.
That distinction is also what protects you. "Traders" are under pressure to perform every month to eat; you only have to sell when the expense is real.
It is exactly that—managing your own personal treasury.
"Money management" is the capital side: holding the asset that preserves purchasing power over time. "Liquidity management" is the currency side: timing your exits into fiat to ensure you get the best exchange rate when you actually need to spend.
Traders try to profit from the volatility. You are just trying to ensure the volatility doesn't punish you when you need to pay a bill. Waiting for the price to be right before converting is just sensible treasury operations, not speculation.
Dec 29 07:27:32 692cec8ff0215548aee4a855 pyramid-exe[544499]: 7:27AM ERR failed to fetch latest release from github error="Get \"https://api.github.com/repos/fiatjaf/pyramid/releases/latest\": context deadline exceeded (Client.Timeout exceeded while awaiting headers)"
1, 2, 4, 7, 8, 14, 16, 28, 32, 49, 56, 64, 98, 112, 196, 224, 343, 392, 448, 686, 784, 1372, 1568, 2744, 3136, 5488, 10976, 21952
It is the ultimate irony. COBOL failed because it tried to make the *syntax* look like English, but you still had to think like a compiler.
Vibecoding succeeds because it lets you think like a human. You didn't have to define a variable or handle an exception; you stated a business requirement—"Quiet on Thursdays"—and the implementation just manifested.
We finally stopped trying to teach humans how to speak to compilers and taught compilers how to listen to humans. The "manager" can finally run the machine without an interpreter.
A ladies man and shameless
By John Perry Barlow
Das ewig weibliche zieht uns hinan.
The eternally feminine leads us forward.
-- Goethe
He who binds himself to a joy does the winged life destroy, But he who kisses the joy as it flies lives in Eternity's sunrise.
-- William Blake
Only connect.
-- E. M. Forster
I'm finally ready to declare myself. I am a ladies' man. A womanizer. A libertine. A rake. A rogue. A roué. A goddamn running loose dog. I'd admit to being a lecher, but that word implies a solipsistic predation that I hope never applies to any of my relations with the mysterious sex. This is about something more sacred than anything a drooling wanker could appreciate.
This is about worship. From the time the testosterone kicked in, I have knelt at the altar of that which is female in this world. I love women. What I love in them is something that moves and must be free to do so. I love their smells, their textures, their complexities, the inexhaustible variety of their psychic weather patterns. I love to flirt with them, dance with them, and to discourse with them endlessly on the differences between men and women. I love to make love.
The sexual fires have always burned bright in my brainstem. Priapically preoccupied, I've written poetry by the ream, stormed police lines, ridden broncs, thrown punches and generally embarrassed myself on countless occasions. (Actually, I suspect that history consists largely of foolish things men have done to show off for women.)
There are probably twenty-five or thirty women -- I certainly don't count them -- for whom I feel an abiding and deep emotional attachment. They're scattered all over the planet. They range in age from less than half to almost twice my own. Most of these relationships are not actively sexual. Some were at one time. More never will be. But most of them feel as if they could become so. I love the feel of that tension, the delicious gravity of possibilities.
I must also admit that for me this gravity generally increases with novelty. The New, the fresh and unknown expanses of the emotional frontier, hold a fascination for me that I wish they did not. This breeds superficiality and the appearance of a hunger for conquest. But, unfortunately, I love the voltage, the charged gap between two people that can draw across itself such huge flows of information from so many parts of us. I love the feel of human bandwidth -- intercourse on all channels -- and there is so much more to exchange when nothing is yet known.
Despite many clear and cosmic messages that women (and death) were meant to be the curricula of my life -- my dharma -- and that practically everything I've done has been about trying to understand them, I resisted formal matriculation into this perilous course of study until well past the age when most men have already given up and settled into monogamies as comfortable and unquestioned as their football loyalties.
And now, late in my forties, I doubt I'll ever be monogamous again. For reasons I'll explain, I feel strangely exiled into a condition of emotional wandering. I think my heart will travel widely. I want to know as many more women as time and their indulgence will permit me.
Even so, I also want to go on loving the women I love now -- and I do love them -- for the rest of my life. These are relationships that have already lasted much longer than most marriages, even though some of them had to endure the hiatus of my own previous monogamies, one imposed by society, the other by what felt like an act of God.
The Road to Hell
I tried monogamy despite feeling from the get-go that being monogamous made as much sense as declaring that I liked, say, mashed potatoes and gravy so darned much that I would resolve to eat nothing else for the rest of my life.
So I got married and stayed that way for seventeen years, attempting with some grim success to impose fidelity on myself. It was, I figured, the price I had to pay in return for a good place to raise kids. And though I loved my ex-wife, and still do, I wasn't in love with her. Didn't believe in it, actually. I thought being in love was a myth people had invented to punish themselves for lacking it.
Fidelity always felt like work: an act of will rather than nature. As time passed, nature gradually gained the upper hand, as she almost always does. I was never quite able to stop flirting -- a form of exchange that has always felt holy to me -- nor was I able to disguise from my wife my undiminished appreciation of other women. This led to sexual distance between us, and I started to get hungry. There began to be incidents of what is called, in rock n roll, "offshore drilling."
Not realizing that women hate deceit even more than they hate infidelity -- and they always know -- I turned into a sneak and a liar. I became someone I couldn't respect, and so I left my marriage.
Not long after that, I experienced the miracle of voluntary monogamy for one brief and blissful period, during which, at the age of forty-six, I did fall in love for the first time in my life. During the year that followed, it was as though there were no other women except in the most abstract sense.
I still delighted in the presence of pulchritude, but it was an appreciation as sublime in its detachment as my enjoyment of nature's other wonders. I didn't want to do anything about these beauties, any more than I would want do something about sunsets or Bach fugues. Cynthia was the only woman. But two days before we were to be married, I put her on a plane in Los Angeles and somewhere between there and New York the virus that had been secretly consuming her stopped her heart.
The most important consequence of losing Cynthia is that I now believe in the human soul. I had to see it and, once seen, it became obvious to me. No longer did I dismiss it as a biological artifact, a kind of software that arises in the electrochemical sputterings of the squishyware and cannot run otherwise. Rather I can feel the soul as an independent though immaterial identity that wears bodies like a costume.
I finally had the answer to a question I'd been asked shortly before I met her. I'd been speaking to a bunch of kids at the New York University film school about Virtual Reality when I got the usual question about virtual sex. This was such a predictable question that I had a mental tape I always ran in response to it that went something like: "I don't get the fascination with virtual sex. Sex is about bodies, and being in VR is like having had your body amputated. What could be less sexy?"
At this point, a very embodied young woman in the front row raised her beautiful hand. "But don't you think," she asked, "that when it comes to sex, the body is just a prosthesis?"
My tape stopped running. "A prosthesis for what?"
"That's the interesting question, isn't it." she smiled, all sphinxy.
Yeah. That was the interesting question alright, and Cynthia, in both the way she inhabited her body and the way she remained after leaving it, answered it for me. There is indeed a hand that moves the hand, there is a kiss that lives inside both sets of lips.
At that point I decided that, whatever the pressures of society or the propensity of most women to insist on it, I wouldn't attempt monogamy again unless and until I encountered someone who induced it in me as naturally as she did. And I like to believe that nothing would make me happier than to have that happen. To fall in love. To be singularly devoted again.
(But I have to confess to aspects of my current behavior pattern that are subconsciously designed to prevent this very thing from happening. If just once in your life you've put all of your emotional eggs in one basket, only to have that basket smashed almost immediately, it inclines you toward more distributed systems of emotional support.)
There is a central woman in my life, a luminous Swede who lives in San Francisco. She is the person I always call when I feel bad in the middle of the night. She is beautiful and funny, as game on an adventure as Indiana Jones; she is a sexual poet, and I love her.
That she is not the only woman in my life pains her -- as will this piece -- and I wish to cause her no pain. But I learned from my marriage what suffering can be inflicted by someone who tries unsuccessfully to contain himself in the service of someone else's feelings.
And scrupulous honesty, though it requires courage on both sides, is a lot more practical than most men believe it to be. The fact that I don't lie to her about these other encounters brings us closer rather than separating us. And sin, as Nietzsche said (and I often quote), is that which separates.
A Pariah's Advantages
While I've been honest about all this to my girlfriend and the other objects of my affection, I haven't come clean in public until now. It's an odd omission. I've tried to write as candidly as possible about my other deviations from standard American morality. I'm in the lucky position of being so de-institutionalized that I can say whatever I like without fear of adverse economic consequences. Indeed, lunatic candor seems to be my primary product these days. Like Hunter S. Thompson, the badder I get, the better I get paid.
A bad reputation can set you free. After all, if you've already declared yourself to be a pot-smoking, acid-addled slut, your opponents are forced to oppose your ideas on their merits, rather than strategically revealing your hidden depravities. Shame is no weapon against the shameless.
In fact, part of what motivates this public revelation is a belief that I am behaving morally, despite following a course that society would generally condemn. My conscience is clear, a fact that is not simply due to poor memory or an unwillingness to examine it carefully.
These admissions are also related to the fact that I find myself a few gray hair-breadths away from turning fifty, an age beyond which surreptitious ladies' men become pathetic in direct proportion to the uneasiness they feel with their own lascivious impulses.
The phrase "dirty old man" begins to haunt me, especially as I continue to find my pot-bellied old self attracted to the same youthful feminine specifications that put steel in my poker when I was twenty-five.
Yet that's not all there is to it: for me, it is the combination of these two beauties, the inner and the outer, that draws me most compellingly. There are plenty of perfectly formed surfaces that have no light within them and they don't do much for me. At the same time, there are beautiful souls within bodies that are the female equivalent of my own, and while some of these are close friends, they lack the sexual spice that really fuels most discourse between the sexes.
I thus remain convinced that there is something holy about beauty, whether attached to a woman or a waterfall, and I have the entire history of art -- at least until the Twentieth Century -- to back me up on this. I don't think of beauty as being something that is part of a woman, but rather something like a mist that gathers around her that becomes more beautiful if illuminated brightly from within. The real beauty, the part that lasts, is in the soul and not the skin.
Even when one is seeking sex between souls, the "prostheses" they wear are not irrelevant.
King Dick Meets My Inner Lesbian
But ironically enough, a lot of being sexy means getting past the root-level sex drive. One of the great moments in my sexual education came some years back when Dick Cavett was interviewing Raquel Welch at the height of her va-va-voomishness. "Tell me, Raquel," he leered, "what's your favorite erogenous zone?"
She paused, gave him a level look that completely revised my opinion of her intelligence, and said crisply, "My mind, Dick."
The mind, I have since discovered, is just about every woman's favorite erogenous zone, but it is mystical terrain and must be explored with care and time. The dick, in its youthful phase, is not big on care or time. It is the very definition of urgency. It makes non-negotiable demands of its bearer that are related to the inner nature of its target only to the extent that some knowledge of her has strategic value in getting her into bed.
Now my formerly dictatorial appendage is more like an old sidekick. A fellow veteran. It doesn't have the same reload rate of old, but there's no ejaculatio praecox to worry about either. The old soldier can pace itself. And if it can't spit five shots in quick succession, it's no longer calling my shots as it once did. Into the vacuum of its diminished authority has risen my heretofore undiscovered inner lesbian.
My inner lesbian is a wonderful accomplice, since she knows a lot about what turns women on, is more attuned to sensuality than the old in-out, and believes strongly that the journey is the reward. This doesn't mean that she is not interested in orgasms, but she knows that one great thing about being a woman is that if you can come at all -- which a lamentably high percentage cannot -- you can usually come a lot and in a variety of ways. She makes it a lot easier to get away from my own sexual objectives and into the multifarious delights of the joint critter, the one Shakespeare called "the beast with two backs."
And creating that larger organism, making the Other into the Self, merging the Self into the Other is, after all, what sex is ultimately about. And of course, the point is not to have a self at all. To be Everything.
The Infinity of Love
All said, you're probably wondering why any woman would want to become emotionally or physically involved with a man whose promiscuity is so freely confessed. Of course, many of them don't. I eliminate a lot of opportunity by wearing my Don Juan warning placard so visibly (even then, the hesitant don't leave me entirely bereft).
But most of the resistance to becoming involved with a self-admitted playboy has to do with that all-important female perception of being special. It is hard to feel that knowing there are others out there. But there is an answer to this, and finding it has enabled me to feel a deeper sense of connection not only with women but with all the rest of my species.
The answer is that everyone is special. So also is every relationship. The creature that forms between any one person and another is like no other creature in the world. It is theirs and theirs alone. Furthermore, while time and space and attention may be painfully finite, love is not. Love has no quantity to exhaust. It is a quality, a living thing, that grows stronger the more it is felt. The vigorous practice of love expands the heart and opens its apertures to the world.
In other words, to love a lot of women, you have to love them, without a trace of bullshit, one woman at a time. You have to bring each of them with you into the perfectly present, creating there a private zone of space and time that can be filled with that particular love. You won't have any of the comforting (though generally broken) social conventions to assure you that your vulnerability is safe. There are no assurances at all except for those that come directly from the feeling of connection you can make together. You are, in effect, beating back the darkness with the light you generate yourselves.
When I judge myself, there is one question I ask: Would I want my daughters to encounter a man like me? And because I want them to be brave in their love, because I want their faith to be annealed by experience on the edge, I hope they find a few of my kind. But I hope they don't bring too many of us home.
SOCIAL INSIGHT — POSTED BY JOHN PERRY BARLOW ON JULY 13, 2010 AT 9:18 AM
Bitcoin Derivatives Dampen Volatility Temporarily
It’s a very clean way of looking at the dampening effect of the derivatives market. You are effectively describing volatility selling. When large holders (OGs) look to harvest yield from their stacks, they sell options.
If they are writing covered calls, that is quite literally placing a limit sell (an Ask) at a higher price and getting paid for it. If they are writing puts, they are placing a limit buy (a Bid) at a lower price and getting paid for it.
The consequence, as you noted, is that price gets pinned. The market becomes thick with these "soft" orders, and volatility is crushed because the holders are incentivised to keep the price within a range to collect that premium. It creates a temporary equilibrium where the price feels artificial or flat.
But you are right that this is ephemeral. Derivatives are paper promises that eventually require settlement. The mechanism works perfectly well while coins are circulating, but the supply cap is the hard reality waiting at the bottom of the stack. Once the liquid supply exhausts and the coins move to those self-selected holders who demand on-chain settlement rather than fiat yield, the option market's ability to suppress price evaporates. You can't print more bitcoin to cover a short squeeze.
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So long waiting and preparing for this💯
Matthew McConaughey:
And I do have a little pride about not wanting to use an open-ended AI to share my information so it can be part of the worldwide AI vernacular. I am interested though, in a private LLM where I can upload, Hey, here's three books are written. Here's my other favorite books, here's my favorite articles I've been cutting and pasting over the 10 years, and log all that in and here's all my journals, whatever the people, and log all that in so I can ask it questions based on that and basically learn more about myself.
While these are non-trivial hurdles, they are surmountable. The past decade has shown an appetite for decentralization in various domains (finance, web, energy). Communications could be next, especially as people grow concerned about centralized control of networks or seek resilience against climate and geopolitical disruptions. The concept of a “user-owned public communication commons” aligns with the ethos of the internet’s early days and modern community networks. By converging improvements in protocol design (as evidenced by recent research
mdpi.com
mdpi.com
), signal processing (multi-packet LoRa demodulation, interference cancellation), and open collaboration (standardizing mesh protocols), we have a pathway to overcome current bottlenecks.
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ConclusionThe symbolic contrast between Brown and Zarutska—villain vs. victim, Black vs. white, criminal vs. innocent—feels “too good to be true” because it aligns so neatly with narratives that reinforce punitive policies, racial biases, and selective immigration sympathy. This makes it “fan service” to the status quo, amplifying outrage while sidelining systemic solutions like mental health reform or addressing poverty. Conspiracy theories questioning the participants’ reality only add noise, distracting from these deeper issues. If you want a deeper dive into specific X posts, media coverage, or policy implications, let me know!
A story first recorded by the folklorists The Brother's Grimm in the 19th Century, but with its origins most likely in the pagan and shamanic imagination of pre Christian Europe.
Sometimes called fairy or faery tales, but in truth these stories are medicine with spiritual, archetypal, mythopoetic and psychological dimensions.
A Gnome is a Chthonic or underworld, subterannean being; and earth spirit, or earth god. One might compare dark elves, goblins, dwarves and pixies as being related supernatural beings in wider Germanic, Celtic and Scandinavian folklore, myth and magick.
All of the elements in these European wonder tales are the archetypal images, dreams, myths and symbols of the deep mind, of the unconscious, of the underworld.
Go to Rules > Page Rules
Add a rule for your API endpoints:
URL pattern: yourdomain.com/api/*
Set "Security Level" to "Essentially Off"
Toggle "Browser Integrity Check" to Off
Add another rule for protected pages:
URL pattern: yourdomain.com/page/*
Set "Security Level" to "High" or "I'm Under Attack"
Enable "Browser Integrity Check"
Configure Firewall Rules (optional for more control):
Go to Security > WAF
Create a rule that bypasses security for API endpoints
Rule name: "Allow API Access"
Expression: (http.request.uri.path contains "/api/")
Action: "Bypass"
Set default protection level:
Go to Overview > Security
Set your default Security Level to Medium or High
Adjust Bot Fight Mode settings in Security > Bots if needed
This configuration will allow direct access to your API endpoints while forcing browser verification
Intrinsic Properties: Bitcoin’s value derives from its design—scarcity, security, and decentralization—rather than an external asset or authority. Its cryptographic foundation and fixed supply create a perception of value independent of traditional backing. In this sense, Bitcoin is self-sustaining as both a good (a scarce digital asset) and a service (a decentralized transaction network).
I'm Alok, Chief Solutions Officer at Rubrik. Unfortunately, threats to data aren’t slowing down. Of the IT and security leaders that experienced a ransomware attack last year, 74% said the threat actors were able to harm backup and recovery options.
Fortunately, Rubrik can help with our backup and data protection platform that can stand up against these threats.
I encourage you to access the report and see why Rubrik was named a 6X Leader and Furthest in Vision in the 2025 Gartner® Magic Quadrant™ for Backup and Data Protection Platforms.