BOOK REVIEWS (2013): Alan Moore, Stephen Bissette, & John Totleben’s (2012) Swamp Thing: the Saga of the Swamp Thing (Volume 3)

28 September 2013


Good intentions gone awry in the representation of the Other.


Last year in 2012, I set myself the task to read at least ten pages per day, and now I’m not sure if I kept up. I have the same task this year, and I’ve added that I will write a book reaction (or reply) for each one that I finish (or give up on, if I stop). These will not be Amazon-type reviews, with synopses, background research done on the author or the book itself, unless that strikes me as necessary or if the book inspired me to provide one when I read it. In general, these amount to assessments of in what ways I found the book helpful somehow.

Consequently, I may provide spoilers, may misunderstand books or get stuff wrong, or get off on a gratuitous tear about the thing in some way, &c. I may say stupid stuff, poorly informed stuff. There are some in the world who expect everyone to be omniscient and can’t be bothered to engage in a human dialogue toward figuring out how to make the world a better place. To the extent that each reply I offer provides a here’s what I found helpful about this, then it becomes up to us (you, me, us) to correct, refine, trash and start over, this or whatever we see as potentially helpful toward making the world a better place. If you won’t bother to take up your end of that bargain, that signals of course part of the problem that needs a solution.

A Reply To:  Alan Moore, Stephen Bissette, & John Totleben’s (2012)[1] Swamp Thing: the Saga of the Swamp Thing (volume 3)

A professor of contemporary fiction at my college once remarked that Flannery O’Connor’s short stories suffer by proximity to one another; by which he meant, on the thesis that basically O’Connor only had one story, which she told over and over and over, to read a bunch of her stories in a collection could become tedious or tiresome.

A collection of a comic run can suffer a similar fate, inadvertently, one collected, to the extent that each issue (or a sequence within an issue) must once again threaten to destroy the whole world in some novel way. In this particular volume, the stakes get raised a bit, because a whole series of pre-disasters provide the narrative backbone along which Moore strings an accumulation portending an apocalypse (sometime in volume 4, perhaps, or later).

This volume has some of the consistently weakest writing so far. Not only does Nukeface seem to pre-occupy far too much of the early issues in this volume, the exposition between the naïve corporate type and his wife Treasure offers some of the most garishly clunky I’ve ever seen from Moore. The shifting frames—later made famous by Tarantino in various films, I suppose—offers a sort of narrative accumulation, but one still has to read in the toxic wasteland the Swamp Thing visits, “The song of stillborn birds[2] echoes through the deformed metal trees. There is a rattle in the throat of the wind. And I am alone. ALONE IN DEATHTOWN” (23–4). Yeah, no. The metaphor of Nukeface declaring, “I’m an American citizen” doesn’t really save any of this, but the general arc through the encounter in Rosewood finally gets things rolling.

Everything comes to a ghastly stop, however, with the last two pieces: the one-off “The Curse” and the diptych “Southern Change” and “Strange Fruit”.

The second piece concerns the filming of some sort of TV series on a Southern plantation and the resurrection of a horde of previously murdered or died, but by no means at rest, slaves.[3] As so often happens with white-authored engagements with slavery in the US south, an earnestness usually appears that tends to make things feel very schematic or wooden. It doesn’t matter at all whether Moore deliberately or merely conventionally conflates the usual sorts of tropes, mixing together interracial romance as an occasion for flaying a nigger alive (the “n-word” remains prominently bent in the “historical’ portions of the text) and a slapdash exoticism of Voudou, which functions in no way except as an atavistic force that “possesses” all of the African-American extras on the film set.

The story, of course, hinges on the repetition of injustice an breaking the cycle—something the Swamp thing proposes to do under the banner of ‘burn it with fire”—an all of Moore’s wit or narrative good sense simply abandons him throughout. The characters come across as wooden parodies of an (inverted) Romantic comedy, and the end has all the patness of a sit-com ending. I may incur the wrath of nabobs for making the comparison, but the Coen Brother’s (2001)[4] O Brother, Where Art Thou equally suffers from making a laughingstock of its own material and offering the most garishly simplistic doxa about the whole mess in place of anything useful.

All of this, of course, in a context of kicking the shit out of the US South, not out of whatever deserved scorn it warrants for horrible episodes in its past, but for certain kinds of Orientalist tropes the North continues to tell about it, as if this excuses Northern complicity in slavery, carpetbagging, and pure outright shittiness toward African-Americans in urban settings since Emancipation. The way we characteristically allow ourselves to resort to a southern accent to signal someone stupid remains a telling trace of this orientalist discourse about the US South, and it mirrors exactly in many respects the sort of Orientalism told by the global North about the global South generally as well.

Moore does not set out to reproduce this narrative; rather, unlike perhaps his deep an vast familiarity with the continuity of the comic genre itself, he fails to “play” with the available narratives here as he can and does with the comic form itself elsewhere, most famously in Watchmen and perhaps most damning in Judgment Day. One perhaps wants to blame Faulkner somewhat for setting the tone of such fiction o such narratives, but the singular difference obtains from the fact that Faulkner comes from the South, whereas most earnest critics, who bypass all of the Northern awfulness as regards race in order to tell a superior-sounding fable about race in the South, do not have to wrestle with the sin or stain or history, as Faulkner would have it, of being a (literal, not just figurative) descendant of a slave-owner.[5] I would even venture that, for all of its various issues or problems, Faulkner’s fiction probably has more relevance today for the sense of one’s engagement with white privilege than most white-authored fiction, especially where people frame the George Zimmerman verdict in terms of a “Florida” (i.e., egregiously Southern) thing. This merely continues the mythology that racism seethes only in the South, remains a problem only in the South (if at all), and leaves non-Southerners with a “nigger” (the white South) to tie to  post and whip from time to time when it gets uppity.

Moore’s narrative, unfortunately, avoids none of this, and so this makes National public Radio’s blurb on the back of this volume, “A cerebral meditation on the state of the American soul” (back cover) that much more dubious.[6]

However, white males seem to take critiques of racism as something of a luxury; I mean, the available discourses readily enough allow one to pick them up an wax indignant and earnest in the conventional sorts of ways, without necessarily really having to “feel” the material.

I don’t exactly mean this as a scathing dismissal. Perhaps, rather, the tragedy consists that one precisely does feel deeply the egregious horror of racism but that the recognized tropes one takes up for expressing that, the available narrative vocabulary of stories we have, ultimately ends up turning the whole thing into something of an overly obvious exercise. Gain, perhaps Faulkner tends to avoid this because in a sense he hammered together the narratives in a certain way in the first place, but it seems impossible to write out of the picture that he could not avoid implicating himself in that very project, whereas non-Southerners can at least take up a conceit of non-implication, however falsely or delusionally.

By contrast, however, most heterosexual males cannot avoid engagement with the “problem” of “woman” and Moore’s “The Curse” offers the most egregious dose of this I’ve ever read by him.[7] However, the issue does not devolve to his good intentions, which I don’t doubt; quoted in Condis’ (2011)[8] paper, Moore wrote:

This story was about the difficulties endured by women in masculine societies, using the common taboo of menstruation as the central motif…. [T]he plot concerned a young married woman moving into a new home built upon the site of an old Indian lodge and finding herself possessed by the dominating spirit that still resided there, turning her into a werewolf (Moore, Alan Moore’s Writing for Comics 6-7).

In the episode, mind you, the art suffices—and if I pick out especially select details to make my case about the egregiousness here, I do so very deliberately, and in descending order of garishness.[9]

First, however, I want to point to Condis’ (2011) analysis, which speaks favorably of Moore’s deployment of patriarchal constraints on (middle-class) women and also (if I understand her) the recognition that anger or rage constitute a rational reaction to these constraints. Condis’ main critique, then, centers on the recycling of misogynist (male) and sexist (first wave feminist) discourse about Native American peoples. I have this in the back of my mind as I proceed down the line of issues I would myself bring out in addition to what Condis has identified.

First of all, the story centers on a (presumably) typical middle-class housewife, for whom menstruation and lycanthropy have become synonymous, due to her now living on previously Native American land where a “Red Lodge” (the menstrual hut) had stood. In her werewolf rage, the woman, Phoebe, opts finally for suicide as the only way out of her condition, of lycanthropy and womanhood; a conclusion made notoriously (later) in Ridley Scott’s (1991)[10] also ostensibly feminist Thelma and Louise. As feminists made clear at the time, however powerfully feminism or women might critique the difficulties of the male-dominated world, perhaps committing suicide needn’t get advanced as the first or primary “solution” to the problem of male domination.[11] For example, males might simply stop dominating.

As the “climax” of the story, this leaves the strongest bad taste in my mouth, not made any better by the narrative’s maudlin elegiacs at the end. Not quite dead yet, Phoebe begs not to die indoors; chivalrously, Swamp thing takes her outside, at which point she first asks if her husband, who she’d threatened earlier, has survived—he has—and then says, “Good. That’s good. Oh, look at the moon. She’s so beautiful. She’s …” (155) and dies.

One might note that the woman requires at the end of her life help from the (psychologically male) hero of the story, not only to carry her outside but also to confirm her dying hope, that she did not in fact harm her husband. But more than this, somewhere in his (1846) “Philosophy of Composition” that quasi-southerner Poe declared, “the death, then, of a beautiful woman is, unquestionably, the most poetical topic in the world” (see here); less frequently reproduced, his further remark reads, “and equally is it beyond doubt that the lips best suited for such topic are those of a bereaved lover”. I don’t want to hazard here why Poe says this or certainly argue one way or another whether the point has merit; it seems enough to acknowledge it as a diagnosis—i.e., that no shortage of male authors have “delighted” in killing off women in narratives as (ostensibly) high tragedy.

Moore’s “The Curse” certainly takes up this conceit, but also, how many times has Abby died now? Enough times that when she gets killed in “Strange Fruit” (in this volume), Moore seems obliged to play the thing off as a stage-effect,  a mere special effect, even though this “cheap reversal” doesn’t wholly (or, really, even too successfully) negate the death. These male-authored deaths of women—never mind the howling legions of them in opera—stand behind gestures like “The Curse” and Thelma and Louise. In a more (half) joking vein, Selznick famously declared, “Write whatever you want, as long as there’s a love scene and the girl jumps in the volcano at the end” (quoted here). The horror movie trope of the last girl standing depends utterly on this notion, and torture porn spreads the love to include all genders, but never without a shortage of gruesome blood-lettings upon the ladies, &c. We might even discern something of this fantasy in the more overtly effeminate crucifixions of Jesus in Occidental art history.

But what particularly makes this death of a beautiful woman—naked of course—obnoxious involves her concern at the end of her life for her husband.[12] Earlier, in her primal rage, the woman has managed to battle her bestial nature, apparently, and not kill (or even maim or harm) her unpleasant dick-face husband. “Oh. I get it. It’s PMS, right? As if that were an excuse for everything! Phoebe, I’ve taken enough of this crap. If you’ve got something to say, if you want an argument, then let’s hear it. Well?” (142).

What a charmer.

Of course, I don’t advocate slaughtering assholes in real life, and Zarchi’s (1978) I Spit On Your Grave denotes—in his version of such a narrative—an actually feminist narrative just as much as Scott’s Thelma and Louise. Because Phoebe’s restraint here and her worry at the end of her life that the sperm donor in her marriage could still deliver the goods at some point to some other lucky lady reeks. In a male dominated culture, it means something different when representations of women in culture products “wrestle with a bestial nature” and come out on the side of love, forgiveness, and (most of all) self-sacrifice. Such a gesture, especially in this context, merely permits the status quo to go on its merry way some more. Whether Phoebe’s spouse has experienced even a tittle of transformation remains outside the frame of the narrative.

Mind you, I advocate suicide as an inalienable right, and both Thelma and Louise and Phoebe remain within their rights to exercise that option, but apparently males dig seeing beautiful women die so that in my opinion makes these particular exercises of that option dubious to a vast degree.

Weirdly—I must seem to digress slightly—in the last two pieces Moore throws some random, unmotivated Voudou into his US South narrative. It seems merely and conventionally linked to the “black” aspect of the story, and invokes and offers frames of Voudou figures that never figure in any specific way in the story, at least that seems obvious. In “The Curse,” Moore similarly invokes the setting of the Pennamaquot tribe’s menstrual hut and its traditions, a tribe (significantly) that he invents for his story.

Thus, both in “The Curse” and the ending diptych, more or less white folks come to occupy blood-soaked land, and the hunting spirit of those places (literally embodied in zombies in the diptych, embodied only in Phoebe as a werewolf in “The Curse”) ‘call forth’ a kind of revenge. This theme more obliquely occupies the greater bulk of this volume, except that the “toxin” in the earth becomes literal in the Nukeface stories and the “monsters” it calls forth wholly mutant and unnatural. I do not want to try to disentangle in immense detail how these two threads interconnect in grotesque and disastrous ways. It should suffice to say that providing some sort of analogy being toxic waste and the monstrous mutants this spawns relative to slavery and the zombies this creates or racist discourses about Native American menstrual practices and the PMS monsters that result erects a massive thicket of densely colonial fantasizing, which doesn’t seem at all Moore intention or project.

What we might pull from this—further informed by Condis’ (2011) research on the misogynist an sexist discourse that framed white (male and female) people as variously superior to the Native American populations displaced, murdered, and slandered involves that sense of orientalism by Said (1978)[13]  by which I mean the internally conducted and policed discourse about an Other that has an exceptionally instrumentalizing purpose (for control, domination, &c). This comes out most obviously in Moore’s decision to invent a fictional Native American tribe, the Pennamaquot Indians (of Maine), and then ascribe unpleasantly constraining menstrual taboos upon them.

I can imagine innocuous or narratively logistical reasons for this decision, but this does not necessarily erase or elide the mechanism it illustrates, whereby some kind of convention (in literature) proposes one invents an Other to fulfill a narrative role rather than actually use a real historical record—all the more so when one may already find no shortage of racist and misogynist material in the historical and anthropological record, some of which Moore may have consulted as research for his piece.

A point Condis does not tease out concerns (I suspect) the likely argument by Moore that he posited the Red Lodge as the Native American equivalent of those sorts of current-day constraints on women that would lead to (lycanthropic) rage. Were Condis to draw attention to such an argument, her research persuades me to believe she would criticize such a parallel, at least on the grounds that any number of native American cultures had gynocratic bases, or even when not, that the function of the menstrual hut did not necessarily or always connote separation due to impurity.[14] In light of this, we might wonder what kind of narrative would result if a “pro” Red Lodge attitude were taken; does modern lycanthropy result from a denial of the power that the Red Lodge symbolized and embodied? &c.

Another consequence of this discourse in Moore’s narrative shifts some of the blame onto women, and not on a trite “PMS excuse” basis. We do not see the men who force the “Pennamaquot” women into the hut; instead, we only see women “cruelly” inflicting the rigors of the hut upon one another. Similarly, for all of the stereotypically male affronts of patriarchy that Moore encodes, he includes “cruelty” by women on women in the contemporary scene as well, not simply in the fact that a female cashier treats Phoebe’s euphemistically described “feminine product s” with  vague (or not so vague) disgust, but also that “The checkout lady places the package in a paper bag, as if to protect her other groceries, and demands seven dollars” (134, emphasis added). Moore usually pays close enough attention to his prose to warrant emphasizing this harsh and demanding word at this moment. This sort of theme obviously connects to the meme of black-on-black crime one hears about too much from the wrong quarters.

A problem (previously noted) in the superhero genre involves the dichotomy of masculine/active (whether as hero or villain) and feminine/passive (whether as love interest or occasion for heroic action). Here, the active/passive dyad essentially dictates that phoebe will manifest (as an active villain) in a monstrous role typically assigned to men: the werewolf. Vast and long stand the traditions (European, African, and Asian, &c) that link this kind of were-transformation to warlocks and the like, men (or shamans) who mimic (I say) the female power of transformation, and this explains the association of this power with the moon, which in some mythologies gets identified as literally male anyway.

Like many female (super)heroes, who seem essentially only re-skinned males, we get a strangely literal depiction of this in the transformation, when the werewolf appears literally out of Phoebe’s mouth, and leaves behind an empty, rubbery skin. So her “real’ masculinity gets revealed, but this leads to a kind of silly or hesitating pseudo-tension as a result. Specifically, as she stands ready to destroy her husband, “She draws back her paw. One blow will remove the top of his head. Ugly man. Cowardly man. Nooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo! And in the end, she still cannot bring herself to do it” (148).

We may take heart that Rice’s (1988)[15] Queen of the Damned does not suffer from such sentimentality, and I find it difficult not to explain the difference in terms of the gender of the authors. The text continues:

She understands at last the nature of woman’s curse. And she shrieks her despair at the moon-bleached sky. The anger crashes blindly around inside her with nowhere to go, tearing at itself, raking its own flesh with frustrated talons. She destroys the greenhouse. And the mailbox. And it isn’t enough. She runs. And the night is too small a thing to contain the fury within her (148–9).

I could get carried away with oversignifying here, but (masculine) villains don’t usually “self-rake” like this; their anger does anything but “crash blindly”—it’s often positively visionary and directed; it doesn’t stay merely internal and most assuredly has everywhere to go. And when she does lash out, not only does the night seem too small, so does Moore’s imagination (strangely), since something destroying a greenhouse and mailbox comes off vaguely comically. Woodrue could persuade all of the world’s plants to the (frighteningly simple) resort of raising the oxygen to lethal levels, but here this creature who stands in her place of power, as the text insists, can aspire only to vandalism and mailbox baseball, to say nothing of not even allowing herself to scratch her husband.

She then proceeds, a la the well-built play, to rampage through the various different locations Moore showed us earlier: the bridal shop, the porn palace, the grocery store, to end in her suicide on the cutlery. Even in the larger arc that this story seems to participate in—that deliberate and growing malaise in the imagination of the world that will end finally with the return of the anti-Christ, or Cthulhu, or whatnot—doesn’t get any commentary from Constantine at the end. Where Swamp Thing failed with the water vampires, because some people escaped to tell the tale, here the werewolf has rampaged, and dozens of people have witnessed it, yet Constantine doesn’t have a word of scolding—and not because he doesn’t show up. On the last page he appears, but only to foreshadow that Swamp Thing will next return to Louisiana. Thus, the pointlessness of her rampage seems that much more emphasized, as just another way to deemphasize female agency and initiative. Here, we may remember again that it takes a male, Swamp Thing, to array her out into the moonlight so she can die. Simply, “I leave her there, doused in blood and moonlight, and I walk away. No one tries to stop me” (155).


One last point. Swamp Thing remains largely passive in this episode—one could almost try to imagine Moore indulging in role reversal, but such a hierarchical shift doesn’t “flip” in meaning or valence just because male- and female-identified bodies take up the behavior of the other. But more than this, when Phoebe stands over her husband and Swamp Thing tries to intervene, “In her, as in me, the elemental energies are strong. We stare into each other’s eyes. And I understand that I do not have the right, the authority, to stay her hand. Only the necessity to do so. But this is not my place of power. It is hers. And necessity alone is not enough” (147).

Nice speech, but what the hell? How does the blood of a former menstrual hut location trump or supersede “the earth” generally? Leave aside this diegetic question, this seems a peculiarly arbitrary excuse to avoid action on the Swamp Thing’s part. Put one way, Moore has more story to tell and needs to create a justification for it, but in the end Phoebe elects suicide and the Swamp Thing shouts no, trying to dissuade her. Why get involved then if not earlier, except that the death of a beautiful woman provides the most compelling narrative? Often in action movies, one sees that horrible moment when the female love interests stands with a big phallic gun in her hand an says let’s kick some ass with a sultry pout, and to no small extent that pretty much matches the level of mayhem Phoebe gets to operate at here, what with destroying mailboxes and wedding gowns.

I find it hard not to read this as trivializing the rage, and probably because of how justified and justly terrifying it probably should evoke, especially in heterosexual men. It doesn’t mean only that Phoebe’s suicide thoroughly represents a non-solution but even that her rampage gets (defensively?) minimized down to little more than girl/cute temper tantrum status—whatever degree of its epicness it does have obtains from occupying the conventionally stereotypical form of the (male) werewolf.


[1] Moore, A., Bissette, S., & Totleben, J., et al. (2012). Saga of the Swamp Thing. (volume 3). New York: DC Comics, pp. 1–205.

[2] I don’t mind  poeticism, but one may still call it reaching to write about the songs of stillborn birds echoing.

[3] For the most part. One modern day “extra” on the set finds herself confronting the corpse of her father, who had gotten buried in the old slave cemetery.

[4] Touchstone Pictures., Coen, J., Coen, E., Clooney, G., Turturro, J., Nelson, T. B., Durning, C., Goodman, J., Badalucco, M., Hunter, H., Root, S., King, C. T., Deakins, R. A., Jaynes, R., Cooke, T., Burnett, T., Homer., Universal Pictures (Firm)., Studio Canal+., Working Title Films., Touchstone Home Video (Firm)., & Buena Vista Home Entertainment (Firm). (2001). O brother, where art thou? Burbank, CA: Touchstone Home Video.

[5] Most likely.

[6] In fairness, out of context, the quotation may refer instead to the environmental catastrophism addressed by Moore an team in the greater portion of pages of this volume.

[7] The ostensible concern for Jack the Ripper’s victims, to whom he dedicated his (1999)* From Hell runs a very close second. I do not doubt the sincerity of the of the dedication, mind you, but the concern itself sets up a tension of  countervailing opinion that one may rather easily pick out of the text.

* Moore, A, Campbell, E., and Mullins, P (1999). From Hell (collected edition). Marietta, GA: Top Shelf.

[8] Condis, MA (2011). The saga of the swamp thing: feminism and race on the comic book stand. ImageTexT: Interdisciplinary Comics Studies, 5(4) retrieved 10 Sep 2013 from here.

[9] From Condis (2011):

Alan Moore’s Swamp Thing #40, “The Curse,” is a product of the complex history of race relations within the feminist movement. It presented a powerful portrait of the experience of women living under patriarchy to a mostly male audience of comic book readers. This audience, most likely, had encountered few examples of explicitly feminist literature within their medium of choice when the issue came out in 1985. However, a close reading of Moore’s story reveals the extent to which the “race problem” tainted the First Wave of feminism, which urged women of color to throw their weight behind the feminist cause by impeaching men of color as especially misogynist. The comic accepts the assumption held by the white women of the First Wave that Native American[1] cultures treat their women with more cruelty than do “civilized” European or American cultures. Unsurprisingly, a revisionist historical accounting of the actual practices of Native American First Nations reveals that this assumption is based in racist and sexist anthropological scholarship. Studies of gender within Native American cultures were long corrupted by both an over-reliance on the testimonies of male voices within the populations that were surveyed and by the faulty extension of Western ideas about gender to non-Western systems of thought. Unfortunately, many feminists in the First Wave used this biased science in order to push for their own political platforms, arguing that white women should be given positions of power in colonial missions and in assimilationist efforts aimed at “saving” Native American women from their own culture. As Moore’s comic shows, these racist sentiments tend to echo forward in time, creating further schisms within the women’s movement and leaving many activists of color at the tail end of the Second Wave when the comic was released feeling ostracized by the mostly white face of mainstream feminism (from here)

[10] Metro-Goldwyn-Mayer., Scott, R., Polk, M., Khouri, C., Sarandon, S., Davis, G., Keitel, H., Madsen, M., McDonald, C., Tobolowsky, S., Pitt, B., Biddle, A., Noble, T., Zimmer, H., McBride, E., Spencer, N., Star Partners III, L., & MGM Home Entertainment Inc. (2003). Thelma & Louise. Special ed.; Widescreen version. [United States]: MGM Home Entertainment.

[11] I have no interest in reprising the particularist arguments that for Thelma and Louise this represents the correct solution given their specific characters and situation, &c. Taken to its logical conclusion, such an argument means we can never learn anything from art, because nothing in any life we see depicted on the screen could have any relevance for me, &c. Secondly, whatever the specific sense of the events for the characters, the movie itself does not co-terminate with the characters, and the movie itself comprises a cultural and social representation placed in the world for people to witness, so the feminist objection to the ending remains entirely apt. Had the producers also included some character who, on equally good grounds, elected not to commit suicide, the producers would have had a much stronger case for defending the narrative choices they made. The movie, I say, does not advocate women should commit suicide; that people read it that way, however, seems a perfectly rational an plausible reading.

[12] I’d like to say that this generosity of spirit on her part signals her sheer awesomeness, but the dearth of female capability elsewhere through the series by Moore, and especially certain overly conventional tropes in the romantic interest category make reading this gesture more as something equally conventional and stereotypical, rather than motivated and revolutionary or some sort of authentic alternative to patriarchal violence, &c.

[13] Said, E. W. (1979). Orientalism. 1st Vintage Books ed. New York: Vintage Books.

[14] Or, I may have missed Condis making this point in point of fact.

[15] Rice, A., & Rice, A. (1988). The queen of the damned. [Book club ed.]. New York: Knopf.


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