Category Archives: Poetry

Happy 75th to Penguin Books

The Penguin Archive Project has revealed some fascinating details in the history of Penguin Books, such as the story of their ‘secret editor’ as reported in the Telegraph.

Eunice Frost became an editor at Penguin in the late 1930s and went on to be its first female director. Along with the firm’s founder, Allen Lane, she revolutionised the way we read by making good writing accessible to anyone for the price of a packet of cigarettes. So much was she the guiding spirit of the historic house that its penguin mascot and logo is named ‘Frostie’ after her. In 1958 she became the first woman in publishing to be awarded an OBE for services to literature.

Yet her name never appeared on any book, and even those who knew her well are still in the dark about the specifics of her life and the causes of her chronic regret.

Beyond ‘secret’ editing she also generated original writings, poetry and paintings. A somewhat sarcastic view of identity is presented in her work:

If only I could get a small advance

You bet I’d go straight to the South of France —

You need a lot more for the USA

Than any publisher will give away.

Oh to be Shaw — or even Graham Greene

They are twice damned and still show on the screen.

I hear the Council’s puffed you in Peru,

That’s nothing to my puffing up of YOU,

And anyway the whole thing’s just a plot

To make us think we’re someone when we’re not.

She clearly struggled with how to judge quality when reflecting upon market demand. Penguin appears to have been founded upon the concept that valuable information still can be delivered in affordable packages — quantity should not have to require a lack of quality — so the job of an editor there was particularly important.

In 1935 Allen Lane, then a director of his family’s publishing firm, The Bodley Head, was returning from a visit to see Agatha Christie in Devon when he decided to buy something to read. Scanning the shelves of the shop at Exeter railway station, he found nothing but pulp fiction and reprints of Victorian novels. At that point paperbacks were synonymous with those genres; high-quality fiction came in hardback form.

Lane determined to produce the same fare with soft covers (for sixpence a volume), and to make it available in stations and chain stores, thereby creating a democracy of reading from which civilisation has never looked back

This view of Penguin’s history reminds me of a poetry magazine that was started in 1909 in London. Harold Monro of the Poetry Bookshop in London was the Poetry Review’s founder and first editor.

Published by the Society and sharing its aim of “helping poets and poetry thrive in Britain today” — a declaration of intent towards all schools and groups of poetry, not merely the fashionable or metropolitan…

Although a respected editor at the time his work is far less known than those who followed his vision (e.g. Harriet Monroe of Chicago) and is probably forgotten by most. This new review of Penguin Books history might bring the story of quiet yet influential editors back into focus. Penguin started 20 years later but like the Poetry Review they relied on someone special to find message integrity among authors that could innovate independently from market demand and influence.

Hacking passwords to Hell

Hell is actually a pizza chain that started in 1996 that now has 64 stores in New Zealand, England, Australia and Ireland:

Clever marketing strategy but a website they used to manage customer information is said to have been breached. A police report revealed more than 230,000 “entries” at risk with names, phone numbers, email addresses and passwords. Risky Business claims an exclusive on this story called I know what you ate last summer

One source Risky.Biz spoke to says they looked into the security of the website when rumours of the breach started doing the rounds:

Immediately I spotted the SQL Queries being made by the Flash SWF as part of the query string to the server-side. The Flash client makes queries which are hard-coded in the .swf (this is dumb as it means SQL Injection is effectively a ‘feature’ of the store).

You could easily alter the query string to show the hashes stored in the MySQL users table. I figured out the version of MySQL was 4.0 (Debian Sarge) – and the hashes in this version are very weak, cracking them would take less than a couple of hours.

MySQL was listening on a remote port, so one could simply log in remotely and run queries or dump the database slowly so as to not be noticed.

Security researcher and Metasploit creator H D Moore described the security arrangements of the online ordering portal, as described above, as “about 50 steps of fail”.

HD could have gone for the 9 levels of Infernal fail, or called it divinely comical, but 50 steps is still pretty good.

Compass Rose

Impressive guitar picking and lyrics by Chris Pureka

 

Well, I’m lost today
I’m almost wandering back to the door
That slammed in my face
Oh, but here I am
Here I am
Here I’ll stay
But when will the street signs stop pointing west
When will my thoughts stop drifting like smoke
Over the ridge to the trail we used to walk?

Oh, does it sound familiar?
The whole thing fades to black
And then you’re waiting
Waiting for it to burn again

Well, I’m lost today
I won’t deny it
I’m going to lay down
And wait for the compass rose
Under my skin to start to glow
But look how the sun has painted the trees
All these colors never known to them
Colors never known to their leaves
I’d like to sing like that

Oh, does it sound familiar?
The whole thing fades to black
And then you’re waiting
Waiting for it to burn again

But I know that someday, someday
I’ll offer up a song I was made to play
Until even the mocking birds
Don’t know what to say
And the mornings just make sense, sense, oh yeah
And where the dawn went I don’t know
Just hang a white flag out the window
Until the sunlight shines through it
Well is it morning yet?

I’m lost today
Here I am wandering
It’s late and I’m sure noticing
The crook of my arm is lonely
But look how the snow has painted the town
So that all of the street light is dancing, dancing around
I’d like to love like that

Does it sound familiar?
But I know that someday, someday
I’ll offer up all my Sunday afternoons
Until the rocking chairs have gone and worn
Right through the paint on the porch floor
And we’re gray and gray and gone, gone, gone