Some Effective Opening Paragraphs


jriggenbach

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Can't we have O'biwan issue an executive order in secret and have a drone take Peikoff out?

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I listened to the Peikoff podcast that tries to answer how he chooses non-Objectivist fiction. For those who do not (like Phil, perhaps) subject themselves to The Voice, here is how he chooses, stripped of hums, haws, blabber and tics:

Your summary jibes perfectly with my memory of the podcast. Was I unfair earlier? Did I misquote? Was I "just disgusting"? Does Phil just hate schauzers?

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=nItN_4LJ0B0&feature=related

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http://youtu.be/P_NpxTWbovE <<<this was a great performance by K. D. Lang - intense voice - sorry about the 12 sec commercial with the sexy woman in the skin tight dress....

nah - not sorry at all...

Glorious. Hallelujah gives me chills everytime I hear it, it seems to be impossible for any singer to ruin. Even if Paul Anka gave it the Vegas treatment (shudder) it would survive. I think this one is a song for the ages.

Speaking of cheese did you know that an extra reason kd lang is beloved in her homeland is that kd also stands for Kraft Dinner. Are you familiar with the Barenaked Ladies hit with the line.....

"If I had a million dollars/I wouldn't have to eat Kraft Dinner/ but I would anyway"

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http://youtu.be/P_NpxTWbovE <<<this was a great performance by K. D. Lang - intense voice - sorry about the 12 sec commercial with the sexy woman in the skin tight dress....

nah - not sorry at all...

Glorious. Hallelujah gives me chills everytime I hear it, it seems to be impossible for any singer to ruin. Even if Paul Anka gave it the Vegas treatment (shudder) it would survive. I think this one is a song for the ages.

Speaking of cheese did you know that an extra reason kd lang is beloved in her homeland is that kd also stands for Kraft Dinner. Are you familiar with the Barenaked Ladies hit with the line.....

"If I had a million dollars/I wouldn't have to eat Kraft Dinner/ but I would anyway"

hmmm there's enough kink in that commercial to "phil" a cat house, even on a hot tin roof...sorry Tennesee!

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Anyway, I listened to the Peikoff podcast that tries to answer how he chooses non-Objectivist fiction. For those who do not (like Phil, perhaps) subject themselves to The Voice, here is how he chooses, stripped of hums, haws, blabber and tics:

Peikoff goes to a used book store.

He asks for the General Fiction aisle

He goes to that aisle and scans titles ... the titles must have some interest to him (eg, "I wonder what that's about?")

Gone with the Wind is a great title.

Next, Peikoff looks at the 'blurb.'

- if the book blurb contains any notice of Prizes, it's out.

- if there are any quotes from other authors, it's thrown out of consideration

- if the blurb smacks of Political Correctness, "minorities"(?), and any science fiction, which is grotesque.

- serial killers, subject: Evul, out.

- (but!) it does not have to be philosophically agreeable (?)

- "it can be anti-Objectivist as long as there's some aspect I find interesting."

- eg, Les Miserables, Dostoevsky ...

So, if the blurb is OK, then Peikoff reads Page One only...

I think I'll borrow Peikoff's method when contemplating whether or not to read his daughter's novel.

Oops, it looks as though it's going to have quotes from other authors. Maybe I'll just save my money and wait for some future revenge/hate fantasies from that amateurish Bosh Fausten guy.

J

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I think I'll borrow Peikoff's method when contemplating whether or not to read his daughter's novel.

Oops, it looks as though it's going to have quotes from other authors. Maybe I'll just save my money and wait for some future revenge/hate fantasies from that amateurish Bosh Fausten guy.

Oh! Jonathan! the pain of facing reality is no easier for the Objectivish than it is for any other human.

I haven't yet read the back blurb of Kira Peikoff's first novel, but I note that on the front cover of the image supplied to Amazon, there is this bit of log-rolling: "A tight and suspenseful thriller ... a remarkable debut!" The commendation comes from, um'Lisa Unger, New York Times bestselling author of Fragile."

Now, although Leonard Peikoff may find a different version of this book when it is remaindered and ends up on his favourite second-hand bookshop's General Fiction shelves, he may yet be swayed by familial feeling (Kira has earned his love, after all), or he just might be as energized by the publisher's blurb at Amazon as I am:

In 2027, destroying an embryo is considered first-degree murder. Fertility clinics still exist, giving hope and new life to thousands of infertile families, but they have to pass rigorous inspections by the United States Department of Embryo Preservation. Fail an inspection, and you will be prosecuted.Brilliant young doctor Arianna Drake seems to be thriving in the spotlight: her small clinic surpasses every government requirement, and its popularity has spiked—a sudden, rapid growth that leaves the DEP chief mystified. When he discovers Arianna’s radical past as a supporter of an infamous scientist, he sends undercover agent Trent Rowe to investigate her for possible illegal activity.

As Trent is pulled into Arianna’s enigmatic world, his own begins to unravel. The secret he finally uncovers will deeply move him—and jeopardize them both. With the clock ticking her life away, he finds himself questioning everything he knows to be true, and then must summon the courage to take the greatest risk of all. Nothing less than human life—and a major scientific breakthrough—hang in the balance.

A thought-provoking thriller by debut author Kira Peikoff, Living Proof is a celebration of love and life that cuts to the core of a major cultural debate of our time.

Now this excites me in a way I find difficult to describe, so I will leave the last word(s) to some other New York Times bestselling authors and other lesser beings, all of whom have been kind enough to roll their logs on Kira Peikoff's website, the one named, oddly enough, kirapeikoff dot com.

“LIVING PROOF by Kira Peikoff is a compelling and thought-provoking thriller, enriched with fascinating medical science, big ideas, and vivid characters caught in a dystopian future in which the destruction of an embryo is considered first-degree murder. This frighteningly plausible novel will keep you turning the pages all night long. A stunning debut.”–Douglas Preston, New York Times bestselling author of BLASPHEMY and IMPACT

“Makes you think, makes you sweat, leaves you happy – everything a good book should.”

–Lee Child, #1 New York Times bestselling author

“Risky, daring, and sure-to-be controversial, Kira Peikoff’s debut novel, LIVING PROOF, draws a jagged line between cautionary tale and romantic thriller. This story reminded me of the best of Margaret Atwood: a chilling and tangible portrait of the near future, where the best and the worst of humanity is challenged at every turn.”

–James Rollins, New York Times bestselling author of ALTAR OF EDEN

“Kira Peikoff’s imagination is a wonder to behold and an amazing place to visit. LIVING PROOF is not only thought provoking, it’s an all-too-believable premise that makes for some high drama. You have to check this one out.”

–Steve Berry, New York Times bestselling author of THE JEFFERSON KEY

“Taut, energetic, and imaginative, LIVING PROOF is a near-future page-turner that asks vital questions about the value of human life. Kira Peikoff bursts on the scene with style, offering readers a tight and suspenseful thriller that will not only keep them up past their bedtimes, but also have them pondering its life-and-death issues long after the book is closed. A remarkable debut!”

–Lisa Unger, New York Times bestselling author of FRAGILE

“Kira Peikoff gets suspense and how to write it. Arianna Drake is a fabulous character. This is a terrific read–tightly woven and tense as a coiled snake. I was a decade older than Kira Peikoff when I wrote my first thriller . . . I’m jealous. Do yourself a favor and buy this book.”

–Michael Palmer, New York Times bestselling author of A HEARTBEAT AWAY

“LIVING PROOF is a rare book. A thriller that keeps you turning pages. A novel of suspense fraught with danger. And at the same time it’s a fascinating look at a serious moral issue: What happens when scientific research steps on the toes of the church? Of the government? LIVING PROOF is a thriller about human values… about questions of morality… about human justice. And about what price sacrifice in the face of saving the life of someone you love. Kira Peikoff belongs to a very small cadre of writers to watch – who have something important to say and are hell bent about entertaining you at the same time. I cannot wait to see what she writes next!”
-International Bestseller M.J. Rose

“With LIVING PROOF, first time novelist Kira Peikoff comes out of the gate with power, grace and insight. This is a brilliant debut thriller!”
–Jonathan Maberry, New York Times bestselling author of THE KING OF PLAGUES and PATIENT ZERO

“First-time novelist Kira Peikoff’s LIVING PROOF is a page-whipping tour de force. Part medical thriller, part near-future mindbender, part psycho-drama, the book posits an all-too-plausible conceit of governmental jackboots on stem cell research. With the subtle sting of a bone marrow needle Peikoff’s lean prose and clockwork suspense get under the reader’s skin. A new voice in speculative techno-thrills is born! Highly recommended.”

–Jay Bonansinga, National Bestselling Author of PERFECT VICTIM, FROZEN, and PINKERTON’S WAR

“Deep questions, marvelously flawed characters and a sense of Orwellian paranoia stalk Kira Peikoff’s novel, LIVING PROOF. What do we give up in the name of science, in the name of religion? What do we gain? And what would we sacrifice to save ourselves? This is a book that will have readers thinking and asking many questions long after they’ve raced to the final page.”

–Graham Brown, author of the international bestseller BLACK RAIN

"A tremendous debut, Living Proof is smart, savvy, and suspenseful. Kira Peikoff is a writer to watch."

–Alafair Burke, author of LONG GONE

I know not all of you are yet ready to pre-order this book, so Kira has kindly made available an excerpt. Rather than excise its splendour, I include the entire epic sprawl here:

Exerpt (sic) from Living Proof

No one was near her when it happened. Trent watched in disbelief as Arianna stuck her right foot in the spokes of her front wheel, missing the pedal by inches. He could see her body tighten, as if clenching her muscles would forestall the blow, as her front tire stopped short and the momentum hurled her over the handlebars.

Even from his distance, he heard her shriek–a useless cry wrenched out of a voice he had never heard lose control. She flew forward, arms stretched out, clawing at the air in vain, as the bike collapsed underneath her. Onto the unforgiving pavement she crashed, skidding on her forearms, bouncing on her chin. With a smack, her knees followed. The momentum dragged her a foot until friction interceded. Then, facedown, she was still.

Jesus Christ, he breathed. She could be dead. Panic and restraint wrestled within him, keeping him in helpless limbo at the edge of the sidewalk. His urge to run over to her was growing dangerously compelling, but then she let out a moan and turned onto her side, bringing her knees up to her chest. Several passersby rushed toward her, yelling to one another to call an ambulance. A motherly looking woman crouched and held her hand, while a man collected her bicycle from the middle of the sidewalk. The last thing Trent saw before more people gathered around her was the blood streaming from her kneecaps, scarlet rivulets of pain.

He waited on that corner, an inconspicuous onlooker, until an ambulance arrived six minutes later. Even after she was placed on a stretcher and loaded into the back, and the siren wailed on, Trent remained standing. He watched the ambulance squirm and twist through the traffic until he could no longer see or hear it. He thought of calling the hospital to ask about her condition, but then he realized he didn’t know where she was going. Instead he grabbed his cell phone from his pocket and dialed Dopp’s office. No answer. He dialed Dopp’s home. No answer.

By default Trent started to walk north, as if a magnetic pull was dragging him to the one place he had no interest in going: home. It was more than 60 blocks away, but he passed the subway in Union Square that would have accelerated his trip, unable to bear standing still on a packed rush-hour train. Moving his legs provided a release of his escalating energy and gave him a sensation of purpose. As the sky deepened to indigo dusk, he walked on, passing storeowners pulling down metal fronts, closing their clothing boutiques, pet shops, used bookstores. Trent took no notice, insulated in a mental world by thick walls of concern, coated with dread. His body reacted appropriately to stop lights and traffic, although later he would have little memory of the journey home.

After 20 blocks, he began to tire, but pushed on, ignoring his chilled bones, blistering heels and grumbling stomach. He had not eaten for six hours, since Dopp had stopped by, interrupting his solitaire game and tuna sandwich. As he walked, he recalled his boss’s words: Don’t hesitate to call me at home if you get anywhere significant this time.

Trent snorted as he considered the last few words. What if they were forced to close the case because of significant injuries to the targeted party? That was certainly not a possibility his boss was expecting. And how would he explain the accident to Dopp? He imagined how their exchange might go:

She fell off her bike.

How come?

Missed the pedal.

Was she going very fast?

No.

It doesn’t make sense, Trent thought. Nothing was in her way to distract her. Suddenly he remembered that she had been limping several days before, but it had not been severe enough to hamper her speed, and he hadn’t noticed it when they walked home last night. Though he hadnt been too steady himself. Then he remembered their plans for tomorrow morning and cringed: they were supposed to bike the trail on the west side; he was supposed to call her tonight to confirm. So thats exactly what I will do, he thought. It gave him a perfectly innocent reason to call her.

The starless sky was now navy blue–as dark as the city of infinite nightlights would allow. Soon Trent noticed that the blur of stores around him was beginning to assume a familiar pattern, and he saw he was only four blocks from home. He stopped by a corner pizza place across from his building and devoured three slices, washing them down with two bottles of water, realizing just how hungry and thirsty he had become. Then he crossed the street and went up to his apartment with one goal flashing in his mind: Talk to her.

His studio apartment on the seventh floor looked like the physical form of an afterthought: it was half-heartedly decorated with a tan sofa, a futon with a black bedspread, a small wooden table with two chairs, and a bookshelf. Across from the sofa was a Yamaha keyboard waiting for its daily dose of attention. A 19-inch flat screen television hung on the wall like an empty black picture frame. Near the head of his futon, overlooking 73rd street, there was one window. Maroon curtains hung from either side, the one touch of color in the room. He liked the fiery glow they emitted in the mornings, making it seem as if he were tucked into a cozy den lush with color, rather than a sparse room, alone.

He walked to the window, withdrew his phone from his pocket, and called her. It had already begun ringing when he contemplated the possibility that she might not be able to answer at all. He paced over the wood floor, pressing the phone hard against his ear. One, two, three rings passed.

“Hello?” came her voice, scratchy and soft.

“Hey Arianna,” he said, his tone chipper. ”How are you? I just wanted to see if were still biking tomorrow.”

“Actually no. I’m in the hospital.”

“What?”

Her voice was flat. “I had an accident on my bike, and Im pretty scraped up. Got six stitches on my chin, and my knees and elbows are all ripped up. But luckily that’s about it.”

“Oh, wow, I’m so sorry to hear that. That must be so painful.” He exhaled a breath he did not know he was holding. “But at least it sounds like you’ll be fine in the end.”

Silence.

“Arianna?”

“I’m here.”

“What’s wrong?”

She sighed a long breath, and when she spoke, even her voice sounded deflated. ”I guess it’s only fair to tell you.”

“Tell me what?”

“Look Trent, I owe you an apology. I haven’t been completely honest with you.”

“Ok…” In spite of the irony, his heart began to race; was this the moment of her confession? He hadn’t imagined it like this–with his opponent bandaged and broken, a suddenly weaker match. But why would she tell him now about a secret lab?

“I have malignantly progressive multiple sclerosis. I lose my balance sometimes, and my limbs go numb out of nowhere, which is what happened today. I shouldn’t have been riding anymore, but I hate letting it interfere with my life. Which is also why I didn’t tell you. You may not mean to, but I don’t want you to start treating me with pity, like I’m some cripple. Because I’m not. Maybe it’s only in my mind, but I’m not.” Her voice rose, lifted by self-respect. “And if you still want anything to do with me after this, you’ll have to get that straight.”

Trent’s mind swirled with a montage of instantly linked events: her limp, her stumbling into the lobby, her foot thrust into the spokes of the wheel. He had never known anyone with MS, had no idea what it involved or implied.

“Jesus, Arianna. I had no idea! I can’t believe you were still biking, when you knew the danger, you’re a doctor for God’s sake!”

“Oh, and don’t even dare patronize me. I will live my life however I choose and take whatever risks I want. If I decide to skydive tomorrow as my last life’s wish, then you can either wave to me from the ground or–”

“Your last life’s wish?” he interrupted. ”What? What are you talking about?”

“It’s malignantly progressive. Soon I’ll be in a wheelchair, and after that….” After a pause, her voice dropped to a hard note. “I like you, Trent, but you’d be wasting your time to date me.”

He took a deep breath, trying to loosen the shock that was lodged in his throat like a clot. ”I don’t care,” he said, trying to sound brave and supportive, and not as rotten as he felt, “I still want to keep seeing you for as long as I can.”

“You do?”

“Yes. But isn’t there any treatment that could help you? Any drug?”

“There are some drugs that slow its progress,” she said slowly. ”But no, right now, there’s no cure.”

No cure.

Right now, there’s–

And then, flabbergasted, he latched on to the wildly glaring connection–could it be? His head began to throb as if from an ice freeze, oversaturated with information.

“I don’t know what to say,” he finally said.

“I need to go anyway. You probably need some time to digest this. You can call me later if you want. And needless to say, we can’t bike together anymore.”

He closed his phone and stared out the window. Dark treetops swayed below, but he hardly perceived them. Time passed–perhaps a minute or ten–before his hand mechanically lifted his phone and flipped it open. His finger found Dopp Home in the directory, and pressed send.

Dopp’s voice sounded incongruously normal, even pleasant, when he answered. ”Hey Trent, how did it go?”

Something deep within him, unacknowledged and unwanted, recoiled against his words as he answered:

“I think I found her motive.”
(yes, I have edited this five times. I am apparently so stupid or toefingered or anosognostic that I am not able to figure out obvious formatting pitfalls, grrr. Oh, and Phil, I have added a comment to your last entry on my Friends and Foes. Thanks, tête-carré)

bCf3.jpeg

Edited by william.scherk
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Next, Peikoff looks at the 'blurb.'

- if the book blurb contains any notice of Prizes, it's out.

- if there are any quotes from other authors, it's thrown out of consideration

- if the blurb smacks of Political Correctness, "minorities"(?), and any science fiction, which is grotesque.

- serial killers, subject: Evul, out.

Your summary jibes perfectly with my memory of the podcast.

Correction, I believe there was an ambiguity, or room for a different interpretation, of Peikoff's blurb test. He definitely says "it's out", but what's the "it"? Is "it" the book, or the blurb? In other words, Lee Child blurbed this book, ignore that, it's not evidence that the book is good or bad. See if there's another blurb, move on. But then who is eligible to be a writer of blurbs? Beats me, why not have the author write their own damn blurb? Like this:

Spanning the period between the Chicago World's Fair of 1893 and the years just after World War I, this novel moves from the labor troubles in Colorado to turn-of-the-century New York, to London and Gottingen, Venice and Vienna, the Balkans, Central Asia, Siberia at the time of the mysterious Tunguska Event, Mexico during the Revolution, postwar Paris, silent-era Hollywood, and one or two places not strictly speaking on the map at all.

With a worldwide disaster looming just a few years ahead, it is a time of unrestrained corporate greed, false religiosity, moronic fecklessness, and evil intent in high places. No reference to the present day is intended or should be inferred.

The sizable cast of characters includes anarchists, balloonists, gamblers, corporate tycoons, drug enthusiasts, innocents and decadents, mathematicians, mad scientists, shamans, psychics, and stage magicians, spies, detectives, adventuresses, and hired guns. There are cameo appearances by Nikola Tesla, Bela Lugosi, and Groucho Marx.

As an era of certainty comes crashing down around their ears and an unpredictable future commences, these folks are mostly just trying to pursue their lives. Sometimes they manage to catch up; sometimes it's their lives that pursue them.

Meanwhile, the author is up to his usual business. Characters stop what they're doing to sing what are for the most part stupid songs. Strange sexual practices take place. Obscure languages are spoken, not always idiomatically. Contrary-to-the-fact occurrences occur. If it is not the world, it is what the world might be with a minor adjustment or two. According to some, this is one of the main purposes of fiction.

Let the reader decide, let the reader beware. Good luck.

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The thing that irritated me was the tendency to belittle Peikoff by reducing all those points with a short "His big question was". It's a bit unfair, because he said much more - as WSS just pointed out in Post 100** - and those no reason to take that and make it his central step. Note that I would not use P's overall method, but there is a tendency on this website (and not just by ND, although I seem to recall his having done it more than once) toward caricaturing Peikoff...or others one disagrees with.

Implying that he just mindlessly dismisses books if he finds them 'difficult' verges on character assassination -- oh, gee, poor Leonard doesn't want to read anything that is too challenging.

It's certainly an oversimplification.

And, yes, when I see caricatures over and over instead of substantive engagement, I do tend to get angry.

It reminds me very much of the unfairness of what the liberals do to Rand and to Objectivism, how they represent views they dislike, smug contempt followed by nudge, nudge in group laughter. [another snotty chuckle, chuckle example: "Can't we have O'biwan issue an executive order in secret and have a drone take Peikoff out?"--Adam ]

**didn't P. also make a point about why he goes toward old books (and thus used bookstores), rather than new ones? I know he's spoken about that in the past. And that's one part of his method that (often) makes sense to me -- although I'd extend it to non-fiction as well.

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> Does Phil just hate schauzers?

I don't hate "schauzers".

Smug-looking bug-eyed schnauzers with their nose in the air needing a good combing or a shave, now that's another thing.

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More from WSS's transcription in #100:

- if the book blurb contains any notice of Prizes, it's out.

- if there are any quotes from other authors, it's thrown out of consideration

That would be silly if it meant he would cast the book aside if it won a Pulitzer or a Man Booker or was praised by another writer. The impression I had was that Peikoff would disregard those things in judging whether to read a book, not that he would cast one aside on that basis. So that may be unfair to Peikoff.

But by all means, snarkypusses, feel free to caricature this with meanspirited jokes about how he would judge his daughter's book because it was praised on the book jacket.

Much more entertaining.

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I know not all of you are yet ready to pre-order this book, so Kira has kindly made available an excerpt. Rather than excise its splendour, I include the entire epic sprawl here:

Exerpt (sic) from Living Proof

...Trent watched in disbelief as Arianna stuck her right foot in the spokes of her front wheel...blood streaming from her kneecaps, scarlet rivulets of pain.

bCf3.jpeg

Oy.

She is pretty though -- she's no Brit Hume, so that's a nice change for O-land.

Anyway, this is the official Objectivist position on Esthetic Judgment, but which is never practiced:

One does not have to agree with an artist (nor even to enjoy him) in order to evaluate his work. In essence, an objective evaluation requires that one identify the artist’s theme, the abstract meaning of his work (exclusively by identifying the evidence contained in the work and allowing no other, outside considerations), then evaluate the means by which he conveys it—i.e., taking his theme as criterion, evaluate the purely esthetic elements of the work, the technical mastery (or lack of it) with which he projects (or fails to project) his view of life...

Compare that to the unwritten Objectivist position which is almost always practiced:

Is the artist a Proper Objectivist, or has he or she publicly praised Ayn Rand and avoided criticizing her in any way, and has he or she associated only with Proper Objectivists? Does he or she advocate views that are Friendly to Objectivism? If so, then his or her art is great.

Is the artist on any Proper Objectivists' lists of Enemies of Objectivism, or is the artist associating with or being supported in any way by anyone deemed to be an Enemy of Objectivism? If so, then his or her art is crap, and probably evil.

If we were to take Kira Peikoff's next novel, remove her name and put a random name on it instead, would ARIans be falling over themselves to praise it? No, or course not. And if we were to take Kira Peikoff's next novel, remove her name and put Barbara Branden's name on it, would ARIans savage it? Yes, of course they would.

Likewise, if we had taken the film Atlas Shrugged, Part 1, put Kira Peikoff's name on it, and shown it to the ARIans who were disgusted and outraged by it, they'd be congratulating Kira on doing a fabulous job.

Btw, do you know what a fictional Randian hero would do in Kira Peikoff's situation? She would adopt an average-to-frumpy-sounding nom de plume, and tell no one her real name, or who her father is and whose estate he inherited. She would want to make it as an author strictly on merit.

J

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I listened to the Peikoff podcast that tries to answer how he chooses non-Objectivist fiction. For those who do not (like Phil, perhaps) subject themselves to The Voice, here is how he chooses, stripped of hums, haws, blabber and tics:

Your summary jibes perfectly with my memory of the podcast. Was I unfair earlier? Did I misquote? Was I "just disgusting"? Does Phil just hate schauzers?

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=nItN_4LJ0B0&feature=related

Quick, caption contest!

Photoshop some maple leaves and yarmulkes on them and I will lead off with "Hallelujah Chorus".

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I think I'll borrow Peikoff's method when contemplating whether or not to read his daughter's novel.

Oops, it looks as though it's going to have quotes from other authors. Maybe I'll just save my money and wait for some future revenge/hate fantasies from that amateurish Bosh Fausten guy.

Oh! Jonathan! the pain of facing reality is no easier for the Objectivish than it is for any other human.

I haven't yet read the back blurb of Kira Peikoff's first novel, but I note that on the front cover of the image supplied to Amazon, there is this bit of log-rolling: "A tight and suspenseful thriller ... a remarkable debut!" The commendation comes from, um'Lisa Unger, New York Times bestselling author of Fragile."

Now, although Leonard Peikoff may find a different version of this book when it is remaindered and ends up on his favourite second-hand bookshop's General Fiction shelves, he may yet be swayed by familial feeling (Kira has earned his love, after all), or he just might be as energized by the publisher's blurb at Amazon as I am:

In 2027, destroying an embryo is considered first-degree murder. Fertility clinics still exist, giving hope and new life to thousands of infertile families, but they have to pass rigorous inspections by the United States Department of Embryo Preservation. Fail an inspection, and you will be prosecuted.Brilliant young doctor Arianna Drake seems to be thriving in the spotlight: her small clinic surpasses every government requirement, and its popularity has spiked—a sudden, rapid growth that leaves the DEP chief mystified. When he discovers Arianna’s radical past as a supporter of an infamous scientist, he sends undercover agent Trent Rowe to investigate her for possible illegal activity.

As Trent is pulled into Arianna’s enigmatic world, his own begins to unravel. The secret he finally uncovers will deeply move him—and jeopardize them both. With the clock ticking her life away, he finds himself questioning everything he knows to be true, and then must summon the courage to take the greatest risk of all. Nothing less than human life—and a major scientific breakthrough—hang in the balance.

A thought-provoking thriller by debut author Kira Peikoff, Living Proof is a celebration of love and life that cuts to the core of a major cultural debate of our time.

Now this excites me in a way I find difficult to describe, so I will leave the last word(s) to some other New York Times bestselling authors and other lesser beings, all of whom have been kind enough to roll their logs on Kira Peikoff's website, the one named, oddly enough, kirapeikoff dot com.

“LIVING PROOF by Kira Peikoff is a compelling and thought-provoking thriller, enriched with fascinating medical science, big ideas, and vivid characters caught in a dystopian future in which the destruction of an embryo is considered first-degree murder. This frighteningly plausible novel will keep you turning the pages all night long. A stunning debut.”–Douglas Preston, New York Times bestselling author of BLASPHEMY and IMPACT

“Makes you think, makes you sweat, leaves you happy – everything a good book should.”

–Lee Child, #1 New York Times bestselling author

“Risky, daring, and sure-to-be controversial, Kira Peikoff’s debut novel, LIVING PROOF, draws a jagged line between cautionary tale and romantic thriller. This story reminded me of the best of Margaret Atwood: a chilling and tangible portrait of the near future, where the best and the worst of humanity is challenged at every turn.”

–James Rollins, New York Times bestselling author of ALTAR OF EDEN

“Kira Peikoff’s imagination is a wonder to behold and an amazing place to visit. LIVING PROOF is not only thought provoking, it’s an all-too-believable premise that makes for some high drama. You have to check this one out.”

–Steve Berry, New York Times bestselling author of THE JEFFERSON KEY

“Taut, energetic, and imaginative, LIVING PROOF is a near-future page-turner that asks vital questions about the value of human life. Kira Peikoff bursts on the scene with style, offering readers a tight and suspenseful thriller that will not only keep them up past their bedtimes, but also have them pondering its life-and-death issues long after the book is closed. A remarkable debut!”

–Lisa Unger, New York Times bestselling author of FRAGILE

“Kira Peikoff gets suspense and how to write it. Arianna Drake is a fabulous character. This is a terrific read–tightly woven and tense as a coiled snake. I was a decade older than Kira Peikoff when I wrote my first thriller . . . I’m jealous. Do yourself a favor and buy this book.”

–Michael Palmer, New York Times bestselling author of A HEARTBEAT AWAY

“LIVING PROOF is a rare book. A thriller that keeps you turning pages. A novel of suspense fraught with danger. And at the same time it’s a fascinating look at a serious moral issue: What happens when scientific research steps on the toes of the church? Of the government? LIVING PROOF is a thriller about human values… about questions of morality… about human justice. And about what price sacrifice in the face of saving the life of someone you love. Kira Peikoff belongs to a very small cadre of writers to watch – who have something important to say and are hell bent about entertaining you at the same time. I cannot wait to see what she writes next!”

-International Bestseller M.J. Rose

“With LIVING PROOF, first time novelist Kira Peikoff comes out of the gate with power, grace and insight. This is a brilliant debut thriller!”

–Jonathan Maberry, New York Times bestselling author of THE KING OF PLAGUES and PATIENT ZERO

“First-time novelist Kira Peikoff’s LIVING PROOF is a page-whipping tour de force. Part medical thriller, part near-future mindbender, part psycho-drama, the book posits an all-too-plausible conceit of governmental jackboots on stem cell research. With the subtle sting of a bone marrow needle Peikoff’s lean prose and clockwork suspense get under the reader’s skin. A new voice in speculative techno-thrills is born! Highly recommended.”

–Jay Bonansinga, National Bestselling Author of PERFECT VICTIM, FROZEN, and PINKERTON’S WAR

“Deep questions, marvelously flawed characters and a sense of Orwellian paranoia stalk Kira Peikoff’s novel, LIVING PROOF. What do we give up in the name of science, in the name of religion? What do we gain? And what would we sacrifice to save ourselves? This is a book that will have readers thinking and asking many questions long after they’ve raced to the final page.”

–Graham Brown, author of the international bestseller BLACK RAIN

"A tremendous debut, Living Proof is smart, savvy, and suspenseful. Kira Peikoff is a writer to watch."

–Alafair Burke, author of LONG GONE

I know not all of you are yet ready to pre-order this book, so Kira has kindly made available an excerpt. Rather than excise its splendour, I include the entire epic sprawl here:

Exerpt (sic) from Living Proof

No one was near her when it happened. Trent watched in disbelief as Arianna stuck her right foot in the spokes of her front wheel, missing the pedal by inches. He could see her body tighten, as if clenching her muscles would forestall the blow, as her front tire stopped short and the momentum hurled her over the handlebars.

Even from his distance, he heard her shriek–a useless cry wrenched out of a voice he had never heard lose control. She flew forward, arms stretched out, clawing at the air in vain, as the bike collapsed underneath her. Onto the unforgiving pavement she crashed, skidding on her forearms, bouncing on her chin. With a smack, her knees followed. The momentum dragged her a foot until friction interceded. Then, facedown, she was still.

Jesus Christ, he breathed. She could be dead. Panic and restraint wrestled within him, keeping him in helpless limbo at the edge of the sidewalk. His urge to run over to her was growing dangerously compelling, but then she let out a moan and turned onto her side, bringing her knees up to her chest. Several passersby rushed toward her, yelling to one another to call an ambulance. A motherly looking woman crouched and held her hand, while a man collected her bicycle from the middle of the sidewalk. The last thing Trent saw before more people gathered around her was the blood streaming from her kneecaps, scarlet rivulets of pain.

He waited on that corner, an inconspicuous onlooker, until an ambulance arrived six minutes later. Even after she was placed on a stretcher and loaded into the back, and the siren wailed on, Trent remained standing. He watched the ambulance squirm and twist through the traffic until he could no longer see or hear it. He thought of calling the hospital to ask about her condition, but then he realized he didn’t know where she was going. Instead he grabbed his cell phone from his pocket and dialed Dopp’s office. No answer. He dialed Dopp’s home. No answer.

By default Trent started to walk north, as if a magnetic pull was dragging him to the one place he had no interest in going: home. It was more than 60 blocks away, but he passed the subway in Union Square that would have accelerated his trip, unable to bear standing still on a packed rush-hour train. Moving his legs provided a release of his escalating energy and gave him a sensation of purpose. As the sky deepened to indigo dusk, he walked on, passing storeowners pulling down metal fronts, closing their clothing boutiques, pet shops, used bookstores. Trent took no notice, insulated in a mental world by thick walls of concern, coated with dread. His body reacted appropriately to stop lights and traffic, although later he would have little memory of the journey home.

After 20 blocks, he began to tire, but pushed on, ignoring his chilled bones, blistering heels and grumbling stomach. He had not eaten for six hours, since Dopp had stopped by, interrupting his solitaire game and tuna sandwich. As he walked, he recalled his boss’s words: Don’t hesitate to call me at home if you get anywhere significant this time.

Trent snorted as he considered the last few words. What if they were forced to close the case because of significant injuries to the targeted party? That was certainly not a possibility his boss was expecting. And how would he explain the accident to Dopp? He imagined how their exchange might go:

She fell off her bike.

How come?

Missed the pedal.

Was she going very fast?

No.

It doesn’t make sense, Trent thought. Nothing was in her way to distract her. Suddenly he remembered that she had been limping several days before, but it had not been severe enough to hamper her speed, and he hadn’t noticed it when they walked home last night. Though he hadnt been too steady himself. Then he remembered their plans for tomorrow morning and cringed: they were supposed to bike the trail on the west side; he was supposed to call her tonight to confirm. So thats exactly what I will do, he thought. It gave him a perfectly innocent reason to call her.

The starless sky was now navy blue–as dark as the city of infinite nightlights would allow. Soon Trent noticed that the blur of stores around him was beginning to assume a familiar pattern, and he saw he was only four blocks from home. He stopped by a corner pizza place across from his building and devoured three slices, washing them down with two bottles of water, realizing just how hungry and thirsty he had become. Then he crossed the street and went up to his apartment with one goal flashing in his mind: Talk to her.

His studio apartment on the seventh floor looked like the physical form of an afterthought: it was half-heartedly decorated with a tan sofa, a futon with a black bedspread, a small wooden table with two chairs, and a bookshelf. Across from the sofa was a Yamaha keyboard waiting for its daily dose of attention. A 19-inch flat screen television hung on the wall like an empty black picture frame. Near the head of his futon, overlooking 73rd street, there was one window. Maroon curtains hung from either side, the one touch of color in the room. He liked the fiery glow they emitted in the mornings, making it seem as if he were tucked into a cozy den lush with color, rather than a sparse room, alone.

He walked to the window, withdrew his phone from his pocket, and called her. It had already begun ringing when he contemplated the possibility that she might not be able to answer at all. He paced over the wood floor, pressing the phone hard against his ear. One, two, three rings passed.

“Hello?” came her voice, scratchy and soft.

“Hey Arianna,” he said, his tone chipper. ”How are you? I just wanted to see if were still biking tomorrow.”

“Actually no. I’m in the hospital.”

“What?”

Her voice was flat. “I had an accident on my bike, and Im pretty scraped up. Got six stitches on my chin, and my knees and elbows are all ripped up. But luckily that’s about it.”

“Oh, wow, I’m so sorry to hear that. That must be so painful.” He exhaled a breath he did not know he was holding. “But at least it sounds like you’ll be fine in the end.”

Silence.

“Arianna?”

“I’m here.”

“What’s wrong?”

She sighed a long breath, and when she spoke, even her voice sounded deflated. ”I guess it’s only fair to tell you.”

“Tell me what?”

“Look Trent, I owe you an apology. I haven’t been completely honest with you.”

“Ok…” In spite of the irony, his heart began to race; was this the moment of her confession? He hadn’t imagined it like this–with his opponent bandaged and broken, a suddenly weaker match. But why would she tell him now about a secret lab?

“I have malignantly progressive multiple sclerosis. I lose my balance sometimes, and my limbs go numb out of nowhere, which is what happened today. I shouldn’t have been riding anymore, but I hate letting it interfere with my life. Which is also why I didn’t tell you. You may not mean to, but I don’t want you to start treating me with pity, like I’m some cripple. Because I’m not. Maybe it’s only in my mind, but I’m not.” Her voice rose, lifted by self-respect. “And if you still want anything to do with me after this, you’ll have to get that straight.”

Trent’s mind swirled with a montage of instantly linked events: her limp, her stumbling into the lobby, her foot thrust into the spokes of the wheel. He had never known anyone with MS, had no idea what it involved or implied.

“Jesus, Arianna. I had no idea! I can’t believe you were still biking, when you knew the danger, you’re a doctor for God’s sake!”

“Oh, and don’t even dare patronize me. I will live my life however I choose and take whatever risks I want. If I decide to skydive tomorrow as my last life’s wish, then you can either wave to me from the ground or–”

“Your last life’s wish?” he interrupted. ”What? What are you talking about?”

“It’s malignantly progressive. Soon I’ll be in a wheelchair, and after that….” After a pause, her voice dropped to a hard note. “I like you, Trent, but you’d be wasting your time to date me.”

He took a deep breath, trying to loosen the shock that was lodged in his throat like a clot. ”I don’t care,” he said, trying to sound brave and supportive, and not as rotten as he felt, “I still want to keep seeing you for as long as I can.”

“You do?”

“Yes. But isn’t there any treatment that could help you? Any drug?”

“There are some drugs that slow its progress,” she said slowly. ”But no, right now, there’s no cure.”

No cure.

Right now, there’s–

And then, flabbergasted, he latched on to the wildly glaring connection–could it be? His head began to throb as if from an ice freeze, oversaturated with information.

“I don’t know what to say,” he finally said.

“I need to go anyway. You probably need some time to digest this. You can call me later if you want. And needless to say, we can’t bike together anymore.”

He closed his phone and stared out the window. Dark treetops swayed below, but he hardly perceived them. Time passed–perhaps a minute or ten–before his hand mechanically lifted his phone and flipped it open. His finger found Dopp Home in the directory, and pressed send.

Dopp’s voice sounded incongruously normal, even pleasant, when he answered. ”Hey Trent, how did it go?”

Something deep within him, unacknowledged and unwanted, recoiled against his words as he answered:

“I think I found her motive.”

(yes, I have edited this five times. I am apparently so stupid or toefingered or anosognostic that I am not able to figure out obvious formatting pitfalls, grrr. Oh, and Phil, I have added a comment to your last entry on my Friends and Foes. Thanks, tête-carré)

bCf3.jpeg

Oh. my. galt.

I hate to say it, but this really does look like a classic. Some lines just seem destined for iconic status. Already one is ringing in my brain, in my soul, in its stark blazing uncompromising truth:

"After 20 blocks he began to tire."

A slight niggle: this line would be even better if a competent line editor such as Adam Selene of the New York Times Wacko section had been employed. Its meaning would be made ruthlessly clear had it been rendered as:

"After twenty (20) blocks he began to tire."

But that is immaterial . I did not in fact read beyond this line, I do not need to.Actually I am not able to. Eyes squinted shut with tears, ribs aching, hugging self in the sheer joy of life.

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Oh. my. galt.

Speaking of, what's with all the Jesus and God stuff? Who the fuck talks like that?

Is this the beginning of the book? Or is it something from the middle, carefully chosen to demonstrate her chops?

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Oh. my. galt.

Speaking of, what's with all the Jesus and God stuff? Who the fuck talks like that?

Is this the beginning of the book? Or is it something from the middle, carefully chosen to demonstrate her chops?

Look "Doctor". if by "her" you mean me, I know you have something against people who like to talk about Jesus and show off her Phd in Sunday school and fantasize about St Stephen the martyr...OK fine. But do not penalize fine intellectual historians on other threads just because you did not get the "chops" you wanted at Seniors Luau so-I-thought therapy session over on Hyperaynia. in 41131..just let go fo the the past/future .

In fairness the session was/will be pretty wild fairly productive.

SUB JUDICE

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Speaking of, what's with all the Jesus and God stuff? Who the fuck talks like that?

Is this the beginning of the book? Or is it something from the middle, carefully chosen to demonstrate her chops?

I don't know. I made an inquiry with her website contact info (mostly to correct the 'exerpt' mistake) and also thought to ask where in the book the excerpt came from, but my inquiry was 404ed. I did let her know via Twitter that her dad didn't like blurbs ...

Edited by william.scherk
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I know not all of you are yet ready to pre-order this book, so Kira has kindly made available an excerpt. Rather than excise its splendour, I include the entire epic sprawl here:

Exerpt (sic) from Living Proof

...Trent watched in disbelief as Arianna stuck her right foot in the spokes of her front wheel...blood streaming from her kneecaps, scarlet rivulets of pain.

bCf3.jpeg

Oy.

She is pretty though -- she's no Brit Hume, so that's a nice change for O-land.

Anyway, this is the official Objectivist position on Esthetic Judgment, but which is never practiced:

One does not have to agree with an artist (nor even to enjoy him) in order to evaluate his work. In essence, an objective evaluation requires that one identify the artist’s theme, the abstract meaning of his work (exclusively by identifying the evidence contained in the work and allowing no other, outside considerations), then evaluate the means by which he conveys it—i.e., taking his theme as criterion, evaluate the purely esthetic elements of the work, the technical mastery (or lack of it) with which he projects (or fails to project) his view of life...

Compare that to the unwritten Objectivist position which is almost always practiced:

Is the artist a Proper Objectivist, or has he or she publicly praised Ayn Rand and avoided criticizing her in any way, and has he or she associated only with Proper Objectivists? Does he or she advocate views that are Friendly to Objectivism? If so, then his or her art is great.

Is the artist on any Proper Objectivists' lists of Enemies of Objectivism, or is the artist associating with or being supported in any way by anyone deemed to be an Enemy of Objectivism? If so, then his or her art is crap, and probably evil.

If we were to take Kira Peikoff's next novel, remove her name and put a random name on it instead, would ARIans be falling over themselves to praise it? No, or course not. And if we were to take Kira Peikoff's next novel, remove her name and put Barbara Branden's name on it, would ARIans savage it? Yes, of course they would.

Likewise, if we had taken the film Atlas Shrugged, Part 1, put Kira Peikoff's name on it, and shown it to the ARIans who were disgusted and outraged by it, they'd be congratulating Kira on doing a fabulous job.

Btw, do you know what a fictional Randian hero would do in Kira Peikoff's situation? She would adopt an average-to-frumpy-sounding nom de plume, and tell no one her real name, or who her father is and whose estate he inherited. She would want to make it as an author strictly on merit.

J

Let he who hath an ear listen to the wisdom above--especially the last paragraph.

Btw, and to state the obvious, the insanely talented Ms. Peikoff was clearly adopted, or crib-switched at birth.

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Also, there appears to be an important Q & A about "penis size" on Peikoff's website which, perhaps more than anything in Objectivish land that I have recently seen or read, explains why Ayn Rand should be dizzy from rolling in her grave.

I have not listened to LP's insights in this area--as such, I hereby implore Phil to venture into those waters on our collective behalf, with the fond hope that he will summarize and synthesize LP's comments about penis size and how they might relate to future direction of Objectivism, the Objectivist Movement and why, perhaps, Kant is to blame for making LP answer inane questions from those with tiny dicks.

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The opening of Twain’s Pudd’nhead Wilson is a real beauty. Particularly the second sentence, I don’t know about you but I’m looking forward to Phil’s critique:

A person who is ignorant of legal matters is always liable to make mistakes when he tries to photograph a court scene with his pen;
and so I was not willing to let the law chapters in this book go to press without first subjecting them to rigid and exhausting
revision and correction by a trained barrister--if that is what they are called. These chapters are right, now, in every detail,
for they were rewritten under the immediate eye of William Hicks, who studied law part of a while in southwest Missouri thirty-five years ago and then came over here to Florence for his health and is still helping for exercise and board in Macaroni Vermicelli's horse-feed shed, which is up the back alley as you turn around the corner out of the Piazza del Duomo just beyond the house where that stone that Dante used to sit on six hundred years ago is let into the wall when he let on to be watching them build Giotto's campanile and yet always got tired looking as Beatrice passed along on her way to get a chunk of chestnut cake to defend herself with in case of a Ghibelline outbreak before she got to school, at the same old stand where they sell the same old cake to this day and it is just as light and good as it was then, too, and this is not flattery, far from it. He was a little rusty on his law, but he rubbed up for this book, and those two or three legal chapters are right and straight, now. He told me so himself.

Let he who hath an ear listen to the wisdom above--especially the last paragraph.

Btw, and to state the obvious, the insanely talented Ms. Peikoff was clearly adopted, or crib-switched at birth.

A revelation!

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Dudes, I realize that you view me as your authority and guiding light on all matters testicular or literary and are waiting eagerly for my pronunciamentos (that's Italian, ND), but your last tutoring checks have not cleared. And I do have other duties.

2. On the second, the Mark Twain passage, it's a great sentence, hilariously funny. And in this case the run-on grotesque length of it adds to the humor.

1. On the first (the request for phil prodigiousness-of-penis parsing of peikoff), don't hold your breath.

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Dudes, I realize that you view me as your authority and guiding light on all matters testicular...

Do you mean that you're an authority on matters testicular because you've got so much experience playing with your own and other guys' balls?

...or literary and are waiting eagerly for my pronunciamentos (that's Italian, ND), but your last tutoring checks have not cleared. And I do have other duties.

So, you admit to being a Kantian! Ayn Rand on "duty":

One of the most destructive anti-concepts in the history of moral philosophy is the term “duty.”

An anti-concept is an artificial, unnecessary and rationally unusable term designed to replace and obliterate some legitimate concept. The term “duty” obliterates more than single concepts; it is a metaphysical and psychological killer: it negates all the essentials of a rational view of life and makes them inapplicable to man’s actions...

The meaning of the term “duty” is: the moral necessity to perform certain actions for no reason other than obedience to some higher authority, without regard to any personal goal, motive, desire or interest...

...The arch-advocate of “duty” is Immanuel Kant...

J

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Dudes, I realize that you view me as your authority and guiding light on all matters testicular...

Do you mean that you're an authority on matters testicular because you've got so much experience playing with your own and other guys' balls?

...or literary and are waiting eagerly for my pronunciamentos (that's Italian, ND), but your last tutoring checks have not cleared. And I do have other duties.

So, you admit to being a Kantian! Ayn Rand on "duty":

One of the most destructive anti-concepts in the history of moral philosophy is the term “duty.”

An anti-concept is an artificial, unnecessary and rationally unusable term designed to replace and obliterate some legitimate concept. The term “duty” obliterates more than single concepts; it is a metaphysical and psychological killer: it negates all the essentials of a rational view of life and makes them inapplicable to man’s actions...

The meaning of the term “duty” is: the moral necessity to perform certain actions for no reason other than obedience to some higher authority, without regard to any personal goal, motive, desire or interest...

...The arch-advocate of “duty” is Immanuel Kant...

J

It's definitionism that is the concept killer. Beware the thesauri within yourselves.

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my pronunciamentos (that's Italian, ND)

If you knew anything about Italian, you would know that the plural for pronunciamento would be pronunciamenti.

It is a great word, PRONUNCIAMIENTO, adopted into English (especially), French and Portuguese from its origins in Spanish. In Italian, The English/French/Spanish Pronunciamento translates as Pronouncement; Pronunciamentos, as pointed out by Doctor, does not translate into Italian.

Just in case you doubt my take on the linguistic claims of Phil, here once more is the French Wikipedia weighing in:

Un
pronunciamiento
est un procédé par lequel l’
armée
se déclare contre le gouvernement en place dans le but de le renverser
1
.
Signifiant «
déclaration
» en espagnol, le mot fut emprunté tel quel dans plusieurs langues, dont le français et l’anglais.

Le procédé fit son apparition dans l'
Espagne
du
xix
e
siècle
avant de se diffuser en
Amérique hispanique
. Au
Mexique
, ce type de soulèvements ont été nommés
plans
et ont pris un aspect plus formel que le modèle européen.

-- I won't bother to provide a URL this time, since I do not think Phil consults the language links I provide ...

But, in the off-chance readers may accept that I do occasionally do a little fitful research to support my position, I lazily and with degenerate intentions checked the Italian Wiki:

Il
pronunciamento
(pronuncia) è un tipo spagnolo e latino-americano di colpo di Stato. Il
golpe de Estado
era più comune in Spagna e in Sud America, mentre il
pronunciamento
era più comune in America Centrale.

By the way, Phil, did you yet have a chance to check your unreferenced musings about proper French usage of "place" against your copy of Robert or whatever massive Dictionnaire you usually thumb through?

PS. I am so frigging lazy, lazy, lazy. I lazily checked online with a fine Italian/English, English/Italian dictionary. Oh how sloppily I conduct my researches, sloppy sloppy sloppy.

But, being degenerate, I could not help myself. Lazy, fitful research is my specialty, after all ...

So, I hesitate to reveal what the stupid Italian dictionary returned to me upon attempting to discover the Italian meaning of Pronunciamento. I hesitate because it did not return Pronunciation, nor Announcement, nor Flabby Mistranslation Heroicly insisted upon Sorta Like Saint Paul ... but, OK, here it is:

nm
say-so

Edited by william.scherk
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