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[For those of you with no knowledge of Russian, in itself that last sentence is an even more terrible joke than it may initially have seemed (I know this is hard to believe); in Russian there are no articles, entailing the distinction between 'a' and 'the' is entirely dependent on context. Thus, Edmund Wilson once wrote a letter to Vladimir Nabokov's son in English with all the articles omitted. Much hilarity ensued. This laboured point exits, chased by a bear.]
So, as I survey the week in which George Bush lost his brain, the most ardent of free marketeers were clamouring for government intervention in the markets, and Russia laid claim to the North Pole in virtue of placing a flag on the seabed (no, I'm not making this up) I feel surrounded by unreality, compounded by the absence of formal demands on my time.
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