The largest mathematical proof in history is generally considered to be the classification of finite simple groups. The proof consists of tens of thousands of pages, published in several hundred journal articles, by about 100 authors, mostly between 1955 and 2004. It states that every finite simple group is isomorphic to one of the following groups:

The diagram above gives an overview of the 26 sporadic finite simple groups and the relations between them. The largest group is called the Monster and has order 808017424794512875886459904961710757005754368000000000. Nineteen other sporadic groups are involved in the Monster as subgroups or quotients of subgroups; together with the Monster group itself they form the “happy family”. The other six groups have no connection with the Monster and are called the “pariahs”. An arrow in this diagram means that one group is a homomorphic image of a subgroup of the other.

During the first phase of their Southern Italian conquest, the Normans included archers in their troops; but such usage seems to have been sporadic and simple. The tactic called fleindriva, of Viking origin, was employed in such battles as Civitate; but some records leave us to think that these were not professional archers. Instead it appears that they were simple foot soldiers recruited from the native populations and equipped [in case of necessity with…] with the necessary bows and arrows. This is confirmed by episodes at the Palermo siege and Battle of Durazzo. During the siege of Palermo (1071) Robert the Guiscard armed his infantrymen with bows and slings with which to shoot the Arabs that were attempting a sortie. According to Anna Commena, the archers that accompanied the Norman expeditionary force in Epirus were just young striplings and decrepit old men, recruited from every part of Southern Italy, and they did not have any knowledge of handling a bow…

anonymous asked:

I've seen asks about characters taking care of their s/o after a bad dream but none that are the other way around! I'd love a scenario where Uta wakes up from a nightmare and his partner comforts him- I imagine that he isn't afraid of much, but also probably that he's seen/ been through some shit.

Uta lives a sporadic lifestyle, doing things to his own whims and never following a specific set pattern. He remembers a lot of the things he’s done, though, and he was raised without much of a thought to life—such a thing that could be easily given could also have easily been taken away. But it’s such a shock when he decides to lie down to sleep with his partner for once and when he starts to dream, it isn’t pleasant as he thought it would be.

Now, Uta’s always been a sadistic ghoul, but even he’s lived long enough on the world to have witness some truly horrifying events. Tonight he’s recalling one them in hot flashes of light, screams and then silence, black warping into red—

He wakes up suddenly then, quietly so but enough to disturb his partner. They shift and lazily slides their eyes over his body, drenched in cold sweat. “Uta?” They whisper softly. “Are you okay?”

A characteristic smile appears on his lips as he slowly eases back into the bed covers. “Yeah, yeah, I’m fine.” He reassures gently, but the look they sent him didn’t believe them. They leisurely stretch out their arms and pulled him closer, hooking legs with him and burying their head into the crook of his neck.

"Stop lying…That’s a bad habit." They mumble. Uta thinks maybe it isn’t so bad being in love after all as he relaxes in their hold.

Big News!

So guys, tomorrow is the official start of my move to Arizona! This is a huge change that opens up so many doors for me - the possibility of a better paying job, the chance to find a place of my own and get away from my abusive mother, and, with luck, the opportunity to actually save enough money to get back to college classes within the year, not to mention moving to a much more liberal community where my gender representation is respected rather than ignored or berated.

I’m so fucking excited about this, I can’t even begin to describe it. Though this of course means that my presence after tonight is going to be sporadic until I’m in Arizona and somewhat settled in. A few days at most? So I’ll be seeing you all when I see you.


Dear Diary,

I met Robert at the beach. I was so nervous. He was cool, calm and collected as usual. It started to rain, one of those sporadic summer showers. Robert wanted to move inside but the beach was empty and there was a crowd inside the clubhouse; I wanted to keep this discussion private. Besides, I had to seize the moment before I lost my nerve. So I asked him to wait. Maybe I shouldn’t have, the rain has never put him in a very good mood. Maybe if we’d just gone inside things would have worked out differently. 

I explained things as slowly and simply as I could, which was pretty hard considering I was still coming to terms with the concept of asexuality myself. Once I was finished saying everything I thought I needed to say, he met my gaze with a face full of so many different feelings that I couldn’t tell if he was angry, shocked, terrified or just … sad.

"Is this my fault?" he asked, "Did I do something wrong? I was respectful, wasn’t I? I waited until you were ready."

"It has nothing to do with you, it has to do with me and the person that I am. I want to be with you, Robert. I just … I don’t want …" my words trailed away. I couldn’t think of any way to say ‘I don’t want to have sex with you’ without it sounding like a rejection.

He looked like he might cry.

(…to be continued…)

LOVE IN PRINT: Masaru's Sequel, Ep. 8


“He’s okay,” said Reiko, as she paced an empty hospital corridor. The signal kept cutting in and out, making it necessary to repeat herself multiple times. If chanting the words like a spell could make them come true and stay true, Reiko would have shouted herself hoarse. But assuring her mother that Masaru was okay didn’t necessarily make this into a reality; instead, it only made her hurt even more.

Static crackled over the line, prompting her to wince and hold the phone slightly away from her ear. The corridor had a few narrow windows set into it, looking out onto another walkway on the other side that was mainly utilized by sporadic groups of nurses. It was late, almost midnight, and traffic in their wing of the hospital had trickled to almost nothing. In Masaru’s room, Rika had nodded off at his bedside; not wanting to wake either of them, Reiko slipped out when Ayame’s phone call came through.


anonymous asked:

i pai'd with my little eyes some of your lewds, and they erupted sporadically out my sockets. why ARE you such a weenie?

I’m not sure what you’re getting at: you liked it or disliked it?

btw before like 6 more people are in my askbox asking me about hijabi things you are aware i wear the hijab sporadically and typically avoid wearing it outside of muslim-safe areas

Here’s my life. My husband and I get up each morning at 7 o’clock and he showers while I make coffee. By the time he’s dressed I’m already sitting at my desk writing. He kisses me goodbye then leaves for the job where he makes good money, draws excellent benefits and gets many perks, such as travel, catered lunches and full reimbursement for the gym where I attend yoga midday. His career has allowed me to work only sporadically, as a consultant, in a field I enjoy.

All that disclosure is crass, I know. I’m sorry. Because in this world where women will sit around discussing the various topiary shapes of their bikini waxes, the conversation about money (or privilege) is the one we never have. Why? I think it’s the Marie Antoinette syndrome: Those with privilege and luck don’t want the riffraff knowing the details. After all, if “those people” understood the differences in our lives, they might revolt. Or, God forbid, not see us as somehow more special, talented and/or deserving than them.
There’s a special version of this masquerade that we writers put on. Two examples:
I attended a packed reading (I’m talking 300+ people) about a year and a half ago. The author was very well-known, a magnificent nonfictionist who has, deservedly, won several big awards. He also happens to be the heir to a mammoth fortune. Mega-millions. In other words he’s a man who has never had to work one job, much less two. He has several children; I know, because they were at the reading with him, all lined up. I heard someone say they were all traveling with him, plus two nannies, on his worldwide tour.
None of this takes away from his brilliance. Yet, when an audience member — young, wide-eyed, clearly not clued in — rose to ask him how he’d managed to spend 10 years writing his current masterpiece — What had he done to sustain himself and his family during that time? — he told her in a serious tone that it had been tough but he’d written a number of magazine articles to get by. I heard a titter pass through the half of the audience that knew the truth. But the author, impassive, moved on and left this woman thinking he’d supported his Manhattan life for a decade with a handful of pieces in the Nation and Salon.

Example two. A reading in a different city, featuring a 30-ish woman whose debut novel had just appeared on the front page of the New York Times Book Review. I didn’t love the book (a coming-of-age story set among wealthy teenagers) but many people I respect thought it was great, so I defer. The author had herself attended one of the big, East Coast prep schools, while her parents were busy growing their careers on the New York literary scene. These were people — her parents — who traded Christmas cards with William Maxwell and had the Styrons over for dinner. She, the author, was their only beloved child.
After prep school, she’d earned two creative writing degrees (Iowa plus an Ivy). Her first book was being heralded by editors and reviewers all over the country, many of whom had watched her grow up. It was a phenomenon even before it hit bookshelves. She was an immediate star.
When (again) an audience member, clearly an undergrad, rose to ask this glamorous writer to what she attributed her success, the woman paused, then said that she had worked very, very hard and she’d had some good training, but she thought in looking back it was her decision never to have children that had allowed her to become a true artist. If you have kids, she explained to the group of desperate nubile writers, you have to choose between them and your writing. Keep it pure. Don’t let yourself be distracted by a baby’s cry.
I was dumbfounded. I wanted to leap to my feet and shout. “Hello? Alice Munro! Doris Lessing! Joan Didion!” Of course, there are thousands of other extraordinary writers who managed to produce art despite motherhood. But the essential point was that, the quality of her book notwithstanding, this author’s chief advantage had nothing to do with her reproductive decisions. It was about connections. Straight up. She’d had them since birth.
In my opinion, we do an enormous “let them eat cake” disservice to our community when we obfuscate the circumstances that help us write, publish and in some way succeed. I can’t claim the wealth of the first author (not even close); nor do I have the connections of the second. I don’t have their fame either. But I do have a huge advantage over the writer who is living paycheck to paycheck, or lonely and isolated, or dealing with a medical condition, or working a full-time job.
How can I be so sure? Because I used to be poor, overworked and overwhelmed. And I produced zero books during that time. Throughout my 20s, I was married to an addict who tried valiantly (but failed, over and over) to stay straight. We had three children, one with autism, and lived in poverty for a long, wretched time. In my 30s I divorced the man because it was the only way out of constant crisis. For the next 10 years, I worked two jobs and raised my three kids alone, without child support or the involvement of their dad.
I published my first novel at 39, but only after a teaching stint where I met some influential writers and three months living with my parents while I completed the first draft. After turning in that manuscript, I landed a pretty cushy magazine editor’s job. A year later, I met my second husband. For the first time I had a true partner, someone I could rely on who was there in every way for me and our kids. Life got easier. I produced a nonfiction book, a second novel and about 30 essays within a relatively short time.
Today, I am essentially “sponsored” by this very loving man who shows up at the end of the day, asks me how the writing went, pours me a glass of wine, then takes me out to eat. He accompanies me when I travel 500 miles to do a 75-minute reading, manages my finances, and never complains that my dark, heady little books have resulted in low advances and rather modest sales.
I completed my third novel in eight months flat. I started the book while on a lovely vacation. Then I wrote happily and relatively quickly because I had the time and the funding, as well as help from my husband, my agent and a very talented editor friend. Without all those advantages, I might be on page 52. OK, there’s mine. Now show me yours.

—  Ann Bauer, ““Sponsored” by my husband: Why it’s a problem that writers never talk about where their money comes from”, http://www.salon.com/2015/01/25/sponsored_by_my_husband_why_its_a_problem_that_writers_never_talk_about_where_their_money_comes_from/

i’ve been a fan of the yogscast for years and yet the first fanart i’ve ever drawn is this…this…whatever this is. this exercise in ridiculous faces. i’m so sorry. (original here: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=p1-LbTJoCuM)