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Others, like rose-breasted grosbeaks, have made their way up from Central America. Something tugs at my heart. Farnsworth pulls out a smartphone. I watch the pixellation blossom on the animated radar map, a blue-and-green dendritic flower billowing out over the whole East Coast. Meteorologists have long known that you can detect animal life by radar. Just after World War II, British radar scientists and Royal Air Force technicians puzzled over mysterious plots and patterns that appeared on their screens.

Now the biologists want to do the reverse. And this new science is helping us understand how climate change, skyscrapers, wind turbines, light pollution and aviation affect the creatures that live and move above us. Ten minutes later, the sky is clear again, and the birds are still flying. We move to the east side of the observation deck. A saxophonist begins to play, and in concert with this unlikely soundtrack we begin to see birds far closer than before. Though it is overexposed in the light, we detect a smear of black at its chest and a distinctive pattern on its tail: It flickers past and disappears around the corner of the building.

A little while later, we see another flying the same way. It dawns on us that it this is the same bird, circling. Another one joins it, both now drawn helplessly toward and around the light, reeling about the spire as if caught on invisible strings. Watching them dampens our exuberant mood. And these birds have been attracted to it, pulled off course, their exquisite navigational machinery overwhelmed by light, leaving them confused and in considerable danger.

After being mesmerized in this way, some birds drag themselves free and continue their journey. New York is among the brightest cities in the world after Las Vegas, only one node in a flood of artificial illumination that runs from Boston down to Washington. We cherish our cities for their appearance at night, but it takes a terrible toll on migrating songbirds: You can find them dead or exhausted at the foot of high-rise buildings all over America. Disoriented by light and reflections on glass, they crash into obstacles, fly into windows, spiral down to the ground.

More than , die each year in New York City alone. We cherish our cities for their appearance at night, but it takes a terrible toll on migrating songbirds. They rise four miles into the air and are visible 60 miles from the city. On peak migration nights songbirds spiral down toward them, calling, pulled from the sky, so many circling in the light they look like glittering, whirling specks of paper caught in the wind.

Farnsworth was there with the Audubon team that got the lights shut off intermittently to prevent casualties. Each time the lights went back on, a new sweep of birds was drawn in — the twin towers made ghosts of light visited over and over by winged travelers intermittently freed into darkness before a crowd rushed in to take their place. Farnsworth is a lead scientist in BirdCast, a project that combines a variety of methods — weather data, flight calls, radar, observers on the ground — to predict the movements of migrating birds throughout the continental United States and forecast big nights like this that might require emergency lights-out action.

I make my farewell, take the elevator back down the building and wander uphill to my apartment. Part of what high-rise buildings are designed to do is change the way we see. To bring us different views of the world, views intimately linked with prospect and power — to make the invisible visible. The birds I saw were mostly unidentifiable streaks of light, like thin retinal scratches or splashes of luminous paint on a dark ground. As I look up from street level, the blank sky above seems a very different place, deep and coursing with life.

Two days later, I decide to walk in Central Park, and find it full of newer migrants that arrived here at night and stayed to rest and feed. A black-and-white warbler tacking along a slanted tree trunk deep in the Ramble, a yellow-rumped warbler sallying forth into the bright spring air to grab flies, a black-throated blue warbler so neat and spry he looks like a folded pocket handkerchief. These songbirds are familiar creatures with familiar meanings. Living in a high-rise building bars you from certain ways of interacting with the natural world. But you are set in another part of their habitual world, a nocturne of ice crystals and cloud and wind and darkness.

High-rise buildings, symbols of mastery over nature, can work as bridges toward a more complete understanding of the natural world — stitching the sky to the ground, nature to the city.

Bine ați venit pe situl limbelor străine !

For days afterward, my dreams are full of songbirds, the familiar ones from woods and back lots, but also points of moving light, little astronauts, travelers using the stars to navigate, having fallen to earth for a little while before picking themselves up and moving on. A winter gale enjoys an easy approach to Manhattan from the north-northeast. As the wind moves over the Hudson River, the waves put up a weak fight against the air at altitude.

Coming off the water, though, the wind hits the trees and buildings of Hudson Heights, and the mounting obstacles create huge vortices of air that join the increasingly turbulent flow. At West th Street, the wind tumbles into Central Park and then, skimming over oak and beech trees, it picks up speed while some of the great gyres it conveys spin down and vanish. Yet when the wind leaves the park at West 59th Street, it still contains tumultuous traces of its history, of the trees, the buildings and water it has traversed.

The wind, it can be said, has memory. At last, the wind happens upon one of the supertall towers south of the park and reveals a far more wicked talent. If air is moving quickly, these vortices form to a beat, pulling first one way, then the other. The gale is coming out of the north, but this force acts on the perpendicular, along the east-west axis, rocking the structure. The skyscraper would vibrate back and forth, like a guitar string. If it matches the crosswind tugs, the two are in resonance; the oscillations grow, like a child kicking on a swing. East then west, east then west.

With enough structural steel and high-performance concrete, a tower will soar. The more dogged foe is wind. While gravity pulls down, wind can come from any compass point. It can apply pressure or suction, or alternate between the two. The wind, unlike gravity, changes from city to city, from season to season. It is changed by everything it touches, and the wind even shapes itself, with every current pulling on all its neighbors.

Gravity is plodding and obvious, but give wind a chance, and it will gather itself together and riot. At feet, the structure was supported entirely by four nine-story columns, leaving an impressive hollow at its base. The structural engineer William LeMessurier was hailed, but the next year an engineering student pointed out that the building now called Lexington might indeed fall — in a strong-enough wind.

Welders rushed to make emergency reinforcements and, with Hurricane Ella threatening, the city contemplated evacuating the area. Ella turned out to sea, though, and Midtown was spared. In the world of tall buildings, a novel kind of specialist has come to prominence: As towers grow taller, they climb into more powerful winds, and lighter construction techniques can leave them more vulnerable. Developers have begun putting up very slender skyscrapers, like Park Avenue in New York, and these are particularly sensitive to the aerial environment.

When a wind engineer like Kelly looks at such a building, he understands that it is airborne, with one end pinned to underlying bedrock, the rest riding the winds of Manhattan. Imagine a one-foot ruler, stood on end and stretched to roughly twice its height. Another favorite weapon of wind confusion, seen on many skyscrapers, is cut corners, which disrupt suction forces along the side.

In the case of Park Avenue, the design team used five gap layers, each two floors in height, where the facade opens to allow air to pass through, sapping vortices. These horizontal bands give the tower a visual rhythm, but they are there because of the wind. In the natural world, wind sculpts sand dunes and cuts the snow, carving rings where it has whipped around a tree. It leaves its marks on buildings too. A tall building can be made eminently safe, capable of withstanding hurricanes and earthquakes, but no amount of beefing up its steel and concrete skeleton can force it to hold still.

Which raises the question: Now they would simulate a penthouse: Through the windows, rolling North Sea waves were replaced with a degree vantage of the city from a suitably astonishing height. The 1,foot Taipei is damped with a ton ball that does double duty as a tourist attraction.

From the observation deck, the ball appears to swing in heavy winds, though actually the tourists are also in motion. Hidden at Park Avenue, some 1, tons of combined mass stroke away on two dampers. He rested a laser pointer on the floor, aimed it up and stood back. The dot wandered as the tower flexed.

Serge Abad Gallardo, ex franc-maçon converti : "La franc maçonnerie est luciférienne"

With high-end damping, most people will not sense motion in normal weather. For supertall residential skyscrapers, tuned mass dampers are the rare luxury amenities that go unseen. Very tall buildings are a recent invention, and the public has not yet developed an intuitive sense for them. The walls, and everything they contain, will always be in motion. Most of the time, this will fall beneath your notice. Yet someday a storm will come, the wind will riot and you will feel its touch. At issue was a planned building on Columbus Circle by the developer Mortimer B.

Zuckerman with and story towers that would cast long shadows on the park.

Erfahrungsbericht - Pädagogischer Austauschdienst (PAD) (German Edition)

Zuckerman relented and agreed to scale down his design, which eventually became known as the Time Warner Center. Onassis said at the time. That means the shadows of the larger of these planned buildings would jut half a mile into the park at midday on the solstice and elongate to around a mile in length as they angled across the park toward the Upper East Side, darkening playgrounds and ball fields, as well as paths and green space like Sheep Meadow that are enjoyed by 38 million visitors each year.

Some damage has already been done. Despite the likely impact these buildings would have on the park, there has been remarkably little public discussion, let alone dissent, about the plans. Many of the buildings are so-called as-of-right developments that do not require the public filing of shadow assessments, which can ignite opposition with their eye-popping renderings of the impact shadows will have on surrounding areas. But New York City has also lost a kind of rabble-rousing infrastructure that once stood up to overzealous developers.

The Landmarks Preservation Commission, which approved plans for two of the towers this month, has also ignored the issue of shadows on the park in favor of a narrow concern with the aesthetics of the structures themselves. There are few New Yorkers around today with the gravitas and magnetism of Jacqueline Onassis to focus public attention on planning issues the way she did for Grand Central Terminal and Columbus Circle.

That means New Yorkers who want to protect Central Park will have to do it on their own, by picking up their umbrellas once again and by contacting community boards, politicians, city agencies and the developers themselves, to demand immediate height restrictions south of the park. Miller Jazz Age Manhattan was an electric vessel into which the hopes and desires of a nation were distilled. As these examples suggest, it is Mr. Miller quotes the editors of Fortune, who coined the term: They like its swift tempo because they are hurrying to absorb more than anyone in a lifetime could touch, let alone understand.

Of course, this dream city did not come into existence by itself. Using long tongs, the heater pulled a cherry-red rivet—a small steel cylinder with no threads and one round head—out of the portable oven. Others took risks in less visibly dramatic ways, working themselves to the point of exhaustion or collapse.

Clifford Holland, the Massachusetts-born designer of the tunnel that bears his name, suffered a nervous breakdown and died in a sanitarium before he could see the opening of his great project, which featured a groundbreaking ventilation system still in use today. Miller has done a fine job of piecing together his multiplicity of stories into a unified whole.

There are spots where the author seems uncertain of which elements of his narrative he wishes to emphasize: It was a time of rampant enterprise marked by faith in the American system, when few were able to foresee Depression and war just around the corner. New York was the United States intensified, an electric vessel into which the hopes and desires of a nation were distilled. When fire broke out there on March 25 of that year, nearly workers died, in part because their bosses had locked the exit doors from the outside.

Just two months later, on May 27, the Coney Island amusement park Dreamland caught fire and burned to the ground, after workmen preparing for the summer opening accidentally knocked over a pail of boiling tar. This blaze, while big enough to incinerate blocks of Coney Island and call out firemen from all over Brooklyn, claimed no human victims, which is why it is so little remembered today. One of the strangest exhibits at the park was a demonstration of incubators for premature babies, then a new invention; happily, all the babies were rescued. None of the extraordinary things in The Museum of Extraordinary Things, the new novel by Alice Hoffman, beats the true stories of those two fires.

The parallel is doubtful in some ways—Sept. Some jumped with their eyes closed, others with their hair and clothes already burning. At first, the falling girls had seemed like birds. Bright cardinals, bone-white doves, swooping blackbirds in velvet-collared coats. But when they hit the cement, the terrible truth of the matter was revealed. Their bodies were broken, dashed to their deaths right before those who stood by helpless. There is an uneasy tension in this passage between the bird image, with its soothing prettiness, and the reality of falling bodies, which Hoffman also captures—pointing out, for instance, how the jumpers broke through the life-nets stretched out for them and crashed through the sidewalk, ending up in the basements underneath.

That same tension, between the desire to capture a brutal world and to render it in the hues of romance and make-believe, pervades The Museum of Extraordinary Things. But that skill often means giving readers what they want, even at the expense of probability and realism. Even as her story is built around murder, sexual abuse, exploitation, and misery, she fills it with reassuring coincidences and consolations. No matter how many people suffer along the way, we know from the first that the hero and heroine are guaranteed a happy ending.

Before they get there, however, Hoffman offers an impressively disillusioned account of one of the most sentimentalized parts of American Jewish history: After losing his mother in a pogrom in the Ukraine, Eddie—originally called Ezekiel—and his father make their way to America, where they are barely better off. He survives, but from that moment Eddie despises him, and the boy decides that success in America requires looking out for number one, whatever it takes.

Hardened by his experiences, Eddie becomes a kind of Humphrey Bogart hero, sullen but sensitive, clearly in need of redemption by a good woman. When the father of a girl who disappeared in the Triangle fire hires Eddie to find out her fate—did she die in the blaze, or escape, or fall victim to foul play? Happily, the other narrator whose voice we hear in The Museum of Extraordinary Things is a good woman waiting for a rescuer. Coralie Sardie lives in the dark shadows of another frequently idealized part of New York, Coney Island in its heyday.

She has grown up on the grounds of the titular museum, which is actually a boardwalk freakshow, featuring wolfmen, butterfly girls, and fetuses in jars. Her father, a sinister tyrant known as the Professor, even forces Coralie to perform as a mermaid, inspired by the fact that she was born with webbed fingers.

Fearing competition from Dreamland, which threatens to put his small-time attraction out of business, the Professor comes up with a new scheme. He forces Coralie to swim around Manhattan dressed as a sea creature, in order to drum up newspaper reports of a local monster. On one of these trips, she stumbles across the corpse of a young woman, which the Professor quickly confiscates. His plan is to turn the dead body into a half-human, half-fish through horrible surgeries, then display it as the rumored sea-monster.

There she discovers that everything she knows about her past is a lie, and that the Professor is, if possible, even worse than he appears. In time, the novel confirms what the reader has already figured out, that the dead girl Eddie is looking for and the dead girl Coralie finds are one and the same. In this way, their paths finally cross, and each finds in the other the freedom they seek: But will they be able to overcome the opposition of the ruthless Professor? The answers will not surprise the reader used to the conventions of popular fiction, or Hollywood movies.

But The Museum of Extraordinary Things offers a picturesque journey, and sometimes even a disturbing one, on the way to its foreordained happy ending. Her devoted readers expect melodramatic stories imbued with the atmosphere of folk tales.


Omens and portents are her stock in trade. Feminist themes and generous amounts of Renaissance Faire-style potted history make her storytelling all the more suggestive. Eerie and powerful acts of nature signify undercurrents of mood the way irregular minor chords in the background music tell us how to feel during ominous scenes at the movies.

As she grows older, her sinister father compels her to perform lewd after-hours displays for a select audience of patrons willing to pay a premium. Coralie, who narrates parts of the story in an elegiac tone, has a freakish affinity for water. Her father has trained her from girlhood to swim extraordinary distances, even in the icy November Atlantic, most often at night. Her conditioning regimen is extreme: We bathed in ice water. My father had a breathing tube constructed so that I could remain soaking underwater in the claw-foot tub, and soon my baths lasted an hour or more.

I had only to take a puff of air in order to remain beneath the surface. Coralie has a secret shame. She was born with webbed fingers. Each drop was so brightly crimson, she had startled and quickly dropped the knife. As Coralie emerges from the river one evening, she catches a glimpse of a reclusive photographer named Ezekiel Cohen, who likes to take nocturnal walks with his dog in the woods of northern Manhattan.

An Orthodox Jewish immigrant who has abandoned his faith and his community, he has changed his name to Eddie. Continue reading the main story. Once Coralie and Eddie discover each other, their profound, mystical attraction and mutual obsession become forces of their own, driving the story forward. Does it rank with the best of her work?

In the words of Professor Sardie: For what men believe in, they will pay to see. Katharine Weber, the author of five novels and a memoir, is the Richard L. Chez les nuls je n'attends rien! Fenchy, tu sais bien que tu ne me vexes jamais ;. Donc merci de te reprendre et de n pas lui servir la soupe a cette connasse. Aller courir en dehors de la breizie?! Totalement hors de question et pour un 10 km encore moins. Aucun Breton ne te reconnait, t'es trop Va regarder 30 millions d'amis avec Boupy!! La neige et le froid.. Tiens donc, comme c'est marrant. Jamphy me porte toujours autant dans son coeur.

Perbe louseur aussi l'abruti flingueur de Parisse! Pour tes prochaines vacances bouap http: De rage il a foutu ses boston dans la poubelle. Viens mon Bernard T'1 depuis hier je kikiffe trop les vieux!!!!!!! Putain la franchouillie a peur!! En BZH nous ne reconnaissons plus wess wess. Nous on a les cerealiers: Et puis quoi encore? Je cours encore ce soir et vous? Va y avoir du foutre dans les dentelles, encore. Bouche en cul de poule: Tu te mets en slip-chaussettes s'il te plait c'est parti! Merci de votre accord explicite.

Mais de qui se moque thon! En plus, je surgirai avec mon gode ceinture pour te pourfendre, ah, ah! Alors respecte la lanque bordrel de pute!! J'ai les moyens de ne pas te faire rire!! De temps en temps, Sultant lui balance un curly. Bizarrement il n'a jamais choisi Le Pix!! D'ailleurs, il est ou ton bouquin? En plus tu post a heure fixe au moment ou les infirmiers relachent leur surveillance?

Pädagogischer Austauschdienst

T'es malade c'est tout. Donc la demagogie c'est donc de faire plaisir au grand nombre en annoncant que on aura bientot une sortie de crise. C'est le contraire de dire qu'il y a un probleme d'environnement et de dire que bientot on devra arreter les automobiles entre autres. Pourtant y a de quoi faire chauffer les mollets. A tous nuls qui sont ici: Aujourd'hui est ce un jour: Sommes nous en lune montante? Quand est-ce le prochain noeud lunaire?

Par la suite je vendrais mes centrales, de l'etranger , en france, pour etre competitif. Et en tu as fait la manche Tu caches les pistes. Je ne sais pas a quoi tu joues mais bon, avoir euro implique je l espere de vrais resultats Vous pouvez vous inscrire via le buletin d'inscription ou sur internet en cliquant sur le logo du sportif. Seraphin de 15h28 Mouais, bon, c'est pas mal pour un coureur lambda parce que si l'on compare avec moi c'est pipo! Payer pour faire un cross! Ca va de mal en pis! On dit pas "l'amour dans les feffes"? Donc tu te trompes, falope!

Bonjour tout le monde! Il ne peut plus rien lui arriver A quand la remise des prix? Ma parole ne vous suffit donc pas? T'as soit-disant des chronos hors norme et comme tu te fous de la gueule de bcp ici, ben il faut prouver. Pix, bouap des remarques? Salut les filles, un petit tour pour vous dire que j'ai fait un podiome ce ouiquende! Bravo Robby, on attend ton cr maintenant.. Avais tu de grandes chaussettes et un kamelback? Besoin de personne pour me tuer les pa-pattes moi huhu. Navrant de voir que l'on classe les 3 derniers! Sur la foto du lien fesse bouc, je crois qu'il y a Fench aussi.

On a surpris Sistere en train de laver sa voiture Bouap est une personne exceptionnelle. Auriez vous un restant de napalm ou que sais je une grenade de la derniere guerre? Manque plus que le rer a le plante ce soir et on a la totale. Je croise les doigts pour de bonnes nouvelles pour ta hanche Gros bisous!! La bave des crapauds n'atteint pas la blanche colombe. On vous a connu plus actifs! Adieu "les milles" ont t'aimait bien, tu sais! Mais keskesset que ce forum! Je t'ai reconnu la jante. Allez zou, sous la pluie, j'en profiterai pour me laver un peu Des nouvelles de jamphi?

On le voit plus! Pareil pour le Pixe d'ici? Il fait le taf annuel de quatres personnes pour le salaire d'une, et ce con il en est fiers Et je crois que personne aurait envie d'y toucher Je crois que je vais encore me marrer C'est que t'es beaucoup plus con que j'en ai l'air ;D. Fou zette tousse abzolumen fazinant!!! Y sont tous au coin? C'est d'un calme sur ce forum Pourtant, c'est pas vendredi Le ouikend est encore loin! Scusez-moi, je fais comme chez moi Tiens, je vais aller me faire une p'tite tisane Bouap, je ne peux pas poster sur "varices" Si on peut pas faire de pagination sans pages, peut-on faire de l'imagination sans images?

Par contre le jour ou y aura une course des cons. Je fixe l'objectif; qu'aucun apprenti ne soit sans employeur, et qu'aucun employeur ne soit sans apprenti. Aussi qu'aucun esclave ne soit sans esclavagiste, et qu'aucun esclavagiste ne soit sans esclave.

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Qu'aucun dentiste ne soit sans un sans dent, et qu'aucun sans dent ne soit sans dentiste. Fench, ce ne sont pas des cartes de franchouillie, au mieux des cartes d'andore ou du vatican. Quel bel homme croit-il. Mais a peine a t'il ouvert la porte de son garage ou il rangeait son motoculteurs staub qu'il se dit que quelque chose cloche!

Quelle ne fut pas sa surprise en s'approchant de voir C ale derange pas en fait. Sylvie, en passant avec son sac, accroche Lolo et pose sa galette sur le tapis roulant. Elle ne n'excuse pas, ni ne remercie qu'on la laisse s'incruster. Je ne m'en irai pas d'ici tant qu'il ne sera pas viendu! Merci pour le compliment, c'est trop chou Ces 2 femmes sont des plumes de canard, sur lesquelles glissent toute cette ignominie matinale. Bon, y r'vient quand le p'tit gros?

Achete une voiture et il te fait le baratin habituel! Toujours pas mieux la mega embrouille, le pere le pixe y perd son latin! Lutte du pere le pixe qui saisit son cric et commence a argumenter.. On meurt de plus en plus vieux mais on ne nait pas de plus en plus jeune. L'amour dans une fuego avec le chimiste RH? Pour la masse du gros mais surtout pour l'odeur caprine. L'abondance au lait cru de Savoye AOP Quelque part en France libre, en Expliquez-moi ce que vous voulez, je vais vous dire ce qui est possible!

Et vous trouvez que votre carte bancaire est superflue? Je n'en veux plus. The first two of them have acquired a status of great sanctity. Before noting these, it is convenient to describe the editorial task and the editorial procedures that constitute the developed science of Hadith criticism.

The second question certainly allowed a theoretically objective and reasonably precise pattern of criteria.


If the adjacent names in the chain of transmission overlapped in life, there was certainty that they could have listened to one another. Their travels were also investigated to see if their paths could have really crossed. Biographies could be built up to show that they were honest men and spoke truly. Comparative study could be made of their reputations for veracity as acknowledged by their contemporaries or indicated by their traditions when compared. The frequency of currency through several sources was yet another element in the testing of traditions. In all these ways, and others involving more minutiae , it was possible to establish categories of Hadith quality.

Each of the three classifications was liable to subdivisions, depending on refinements of assessment and, later, on their standing with the classic compilers. Distinctions were less rigorously seen if the traditions were cited not for legal definitions but merely for moral purposes. The subtleties in these and other questions were part of the active competence that attended the whole science.

The repute and authority of the canonical collections did much to stabilize the situation, but only because their emergence demonstrated that the zest for tradition had overreached itself. By the end of the 3rd century ah it was sorely necessary to solidify Hadith into a stable corpus of material to which no new element could credibly be added and from which extravagances had been purged. While a boy, he made the pilgrimage to Mecca and gathered traditions in wide travels. The flies represented the cloud of spurious traditions darkening the true image, and the fan was its tireless rescuer.

Allowing for repetitions, the net total was 2,, gathered, it is said, from more than , memorized items.

He arranged the whole into 97 books and 3, chapters or topics, repeating the traditions that bore on several themes. The material largely confirms his contemporaries, and all such traditions common to these two authorities are known as agreed muttafaq. There are four other classical collections of tradition, all belonging within the 3rd century ah and interdependent in part.

Preferences shifted between these four, and some were slower of recognition than others. All these factors inevitably involved the business of tradition. The schism read the origins according to the divided loyalties, and there was little that was not potentially contentious , apart from obvious matters—e. The issues were fought out in rivalry for the mind of the Prophet, the authority of which was the sole agreement in the very disputing of it. This altered the whole role that tradition might play.

Canonical collections of Hadith are, for the non-Muslim, an introduction to a world of faith—of behaviour, authority, and almost encyclopaedic inclusiveness. They contain a whole array of moral, social, commercial, and personal matters, as well as the themes of eschatology. All reaches of public and private conduct may be found there, from the disposal of a date stone to the crisis of the deathbed, from the manner of ablution to the duties of forgiveness, from the physical routines of digestion to the description of the Day of Judgment.

There is a Talmudic capacity for detail and scrupulousness in legal and ethical prescriptions and precepts. There are stories of integrity and right action—for example, that of the purchaser of a plot of ground who subsequently unearthed in it a pot of gold, which he brought back to the former owner, protesting that it was not within his bargain. The vendor, likewise, refused to claim it since he had not known the gold was there when he sold his field. An arbitrator solved their dilemma of honesty by proposing the marriage of the son of one with the daughter of the other so that, after alms, the gold might be settled on the couple.

Through and in tradition, Islam aligned itself authoritatively with all it found compatible in local usages and brought hospitably and masterfully within its purview the continuity of many cultures. But always the imprint of Islam is clear. Tradition is at once a mine and a kind of currency, the source and the circulation of the values it makes and preserves. We welcome suggested improvements to any of our articles. You can make it easier for us to review and, hopefully, publish your contribution by keeping a few points in mind. Your contribution may be further edited by our staff, and its publication is subject to our final approval.

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