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ASCII Art Steganography

timothy posted more than 5 years ago | from the of-all-the-ideas-out-there-this-is-one dept.

Privacy 120

bigearcow writes "ASCII art is nothing new, but this site takes it one step further by allowing you to embed another data file within the image. The resulting ASCII art remains printable (i.e. no special unicode symbols) — this means you can print the image out, hang it on your wall, and have it look like an innocent ASCII art when it's hiding a secret document of your choice." You'll need a small (200x200 pixel max) base image from which the ASCII art will be built.

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120 comments

Excellent! (5, Funny)

Seriousity (1441391) | more than 5 years ago | (#26414519)

Now we can hide instructions on how to pirate movies in **AA logos! Great day for freedom!

Re:Excellent! (2, Funny)

Aiml (1450363) | more than 5 years ago | (#26414577)

Re:Excellent! (-1, Troll)

Anonymous Coward | more than 5 years ago | (#26414877)

I think it's about time you assholes get out of your ivory tower and realize your smugness and your lousy programming language does nothing but keep Computer Science back 20 years. Big deal! your precious C language can access the hardware. Big Whoop! you have no build in print function. I think it's about time to stop masturbating to your boring interrupt calls and grow up. The world is evolving and if we keep outself stuck to that crud that is C, we will no achieve worth while computing. So many projects would be so much better if your legacy dated language wasn't chosen. Yeah, I'm looking at you Linux and GTK. Writing a successful GUI program in C is just as ridiculous and time consuming as it gets. Grow up and realize there are other languages that are better suited for work rather than self satisfactory masturbation you retards get. Fuck Kernighan and Richie, those guys wrote good stuff back in the 70s when the tool was needed for the job. So while you are hunting down malloc() calls because that GUI that took you 10 years to write and pissing on itself in memory leaks the rest of the world will actually be getting some work done.

#include <fuckyou.h>
 
    int main(){
 
/* A very useless C program */
 
        fuck_the_c_language(0);
 
        return 0;
 
    }

Help me! 5 Minutes of Computer time (-1, Flamebait)

Anonymous Coward | more than 5 years ago | (#26414977)

Dear Slashdot

My name is Mike and I am serving the first week of a 10 year sentence in Federal Prison for severe SEC violations. I am very scared and I didn't know what else to do. I guess I have 5 good minutes to type this cry out for help until Tyrone and the crew come for me and give me what they call "Mandatory Showertime". I mean I have been exposed to more male cock in the first 3 days here than I have ever cared to know in my first 30 years of life. I guess it was some sort of sick joke that they gave me a big black cell mate named Tyrese who also part of Tyrones crew. As such he has first dibs on me or as he says "first dick in me". The nigger has beaten me senseless the first day here as he seems to get a real kick out of it and has repeatedly raped me and that's not even the worst of it. I never knew a man could cum 7 times in a row and with that I hadn't been able to get any sleep in the past day or so. The first time I met Tyrone was at our first shower time. Tyrese had "persuaded" me to go into the shower room and that's when I met the whole crew. There must have been 19 prison niggers in there and when the guards pulled out, thats when I was given a gangraping that I wouldn't wish on my worst enemy. Could you imagine 19 giant black cocks repeatedly ass raping and mouth fucking you? I think not, and don't think these guys went in one at a time. I swear it must have been 3 in my ass and 2 in my mouth at one point. I was in tears hearing Tyrone laughing at me saying "This be your life now cracka, you our bitch now". I still have the sharpie mark on my ass that says "Tyrone's ho". Uh oh it looks like it's mandatory shower time again. I think I am going to hang myself when Tyrese is out raping another white prisoner. Thanks for listening.

Re:Help me! 5 Minutes of Computer time (-1, Troll)

Anonymous Coward | more than 5 years ago | (#26415027)

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    along with this program. If not, see <http://www.gnu.org/licenses/>.
 
Also add information on how to contact you by electronic and paper mail.
 
If the program does terminal interaction, make it output a short notice like this when it starts in an interactive mode:
 
    <program> Copyright (C) <year> <name of author>
    This program comes with ABSOLUTELY NO WARRANTY; for details type `show w'.
    This is free software, and you are welcome to redistribute it
    under certain conditions; type `show c' for details.
 
The hypothetical commands `show w' and `show c' should show the appropriate parts of the General Public License. Of course, your program's commands might be different; for a GUI interface, you would use an "about box".
 
You should also get your employer (if you work as a programmer) or school, if any, to sign a "copyright disclaimer" for the program, if necessary. For more information on this, and how to apply and follow the GNU GPL, see <http://www.gnu.org/licenses/>.
 
The GNU General Public License does not permit incorporating your program into proprietary programs. If your program is a subroutine library, you may consider it more useful to permit linking proprietary applications with the library. If this is what you want to do, use the GNU Lesser General Public License instead of this License. But first, please read <http://www.gnu.org/philosophy/why-not-lgpl.html>.

Re:Help me! 5 Minutes of Computer time (4, Funny)

Anonymous Coward | more than 5 years ago | (#26415909)

Could you imagine 19 giant black cocks repeatedly ass raping and mouth fucking you?

Imagine a Beowulf cluster of those!

Re:Excellent! (2, Informative)

mathew7 (863867) | more than 5 years ago | (#26415051)

You're like someone who drives a Ferrari and when it breaks down he has to call the service...oh wait...there is no service because all the technical people are extinct since the new ones DID NOT learn the old ways.

I'm sure this kind of (programming) thinking is why Vista had so many bad reviews from enthusiasts.

And without those boring interrupt calls and HW access you would not have any other high-level language and you would be stuck in the old platforms (compatibility). Someone still has to do the dirty work.

I so hate the idea of "everyone can be a programmer".

Re:Excellent! (0)

Anonymous Coward | more than 5 years ago | (#26415239)

'Anyone can Program'.

Re:Excellent! (4, Funny)

seanellis (302682) | more than 5 years ago | (#26415699)

See how effective it is? There is a relevant comment hidden in the above post - I challenge anyone to find it!

Re:Excellent! (0)

Anonymous Coward | more than 5 years ago | (#26415083)

Why do I still see these when my minumum threshold is set to 1?

Re:Excellent! (1)

hobbit (5915) | more than 5 years ago | (#26415857)

Hmm, I think you might have posted to the wrong forum. There are no smug assholes here on Slashdot.

Re:Excellent! (-1)

Anonymous Coward | more than 5 years ago | (#26414913)

In my younger and more vulnerable years my father gave me some advice that I've been turning over in my mind ever since.

"Whenever you feel like criticizing any one," he told me, "just remember that all the people in this world haven't had the advantages that you've had."

He didn't say any more, but we've always been unusually communicative in a reserved way, and I understood that he meant a great deal more than that. In consequence, I'm inclined to reserve all judgments, a habit that has opened up many curious natures to me and also made me the victim of not a few veteran bores. The abnormal mind is quick to detect and attach itself to this quality when it appears in a normal person, and so it came about that in college I was unjustly accused of being a politician, because I was privy to the secret griefs of wild, unknown men. Most of the confidences were unsought--frequently I have feigned sleep, preoccupation, or a hostile levity when I realized by some unmistakable sign that an intimate revelation was quivering on the horizon; for the intimate revelations of young men, or at least the terms in which they express them, are usually plagiaristic and marred by obvious suppressions. Reserving judgments is a matter of infinite hope. I am still a little afraid of missing something if I forget that, as my father snobbishly suggested, and I snobbishly repeat, a sense of the fundamental decencies is parcelled out unequally at birth.

And, after boasting this way of my tolerance, I come to the admission that it has a limit. Conduct may be founded on the hard rock or the wet marshes, but after a certain point I don't care what it's founded on. When I came back from the East last autumn I felt that I wanted the world to be in uniform and at a sort of moral attention forever; I wanted no more riotous excursions with privileged glimpses into the human heart. Only Gatsby, the man who gives his name to this book, was exempt from my reaction--Gatsby, who represented everything for which I have an unaffected scorn. If personality is an unbroken series of successful gestures, then there was something gorgeous about him, some heightened sensitivity to the promises of life, as if he were related to one of those intricate machines that register earthquakes ten thousand miles away. This responsiveness had nothing to do with that flabby impressionability which is dignified under the name of the "creative temperament."--it was an extraordinary gift for hope, a romantic readiness such as I have never found in any other person and which it is not likely I shall ever find again. No--Gatsby turned out all right at the end; it is what preyed on Gatsby, what foul dust floated in the wake of his dreams that temporarily closed out my interest in the abortive sorrows and short-winded elations of men.

My family have been prominent, well-to-do people in this Middle Western city for three generations. The Carraways are something of a clan, and we have a tradition that we're descended from the Dukes of Buccleuch, but the actual founder of my line was my grandfather's brother, who came here in fifty-one, sent a substitute to the Civil War, and started the wholesale hardware business that my father carries on to-day.

I never saw this great-uncle, but I'm supposed to look like him--with special reference to the rather hard-boiled painting that hangs in father's office I graduated from New Haven in 1915, just a quarter of a century after my father, and a little later I participated in that delayed Teutonic migration known as the Great War. I enjoyed the counter-raid so thoroughly that I came back restless. Instead of being the warm centre of the world, the Middle West now seemed like the ragged edge of the universe--so I decided to go East and learn the bond business. Everybody I knew was in the bond business, so I supposed it could support one more single man. All my aunts and uncles talked it over as if they were choosing a prep school for me, and finally said, "Why--ye--es," with very grave, hesitant faces. Father agreed to finance me for a year, and after various delays I came East, permanently, I thought, in the spring of twenty-two.

The practical thing was to find rooms in the city, but it was a warm season, and I had just left a country of wide lawns and friendly trees, so when a young man at the office suggested that we take a house together in a commuting town, it sounded like a great idea. He found the house, a weather-beaten cardboard bungalow at eighty a month, but at the last minute the firm ordered him to Washington, and I went out to the country alone. I had a dog--at least I had him for a few days until he ran away--and an old Dodge and a Finnish woman, who made my bed and cooked breakfast and muttered Finnish wisdom to herself over the electric stove.

It was lonely for a day or so until one morning some man, more recently arrived than I, stopped me on the road.

"How do you get to West Egg village?" he asked helplessly.

I told him. And as I walked on I was lonely no longer. I was a guide, a pathfinder, an original settler. He had casually conferred on me the freedom of the neighborhood.

And so with the sunshine and the great bursts of leaves growing on the trees, just as things grow in fast movies, I had that familiar conviction that life was beginning over again with the summer.

There was so much to read, for one thing, and so much fine health to be pulled down out of the young breath-giving air. I bought a dozen volumes on banking and credit and investment securities, and they stood on my shelf in red and gold like new money from the mint, promising to unfold the shining secrets that only Midas and Morgan and Maecenas knew. And I had the high intention of reading many other books besides. I was rather literary in college--one year I wrote a series of very solemn and obvious editorials for the "Yale News."--and now I was going to bring back all such things into my life and become again that most limited of all specialists, the "well-rounded man." This isn't just an epigram--life is much more successfully looked at from a single window, after all.

It was a matter of chance that I should have rented a house in one of the strangest communities in North America. It was on that slender riotous island which extends itself due east of New York--and where there are, among other natural curiosities, two unusual formations of land. Twenty miles from the city a pair of enormous eggs, identical in contour and separated only by a courtesy bay, jut out into the most domesticated body of salt water in the Western hemisphere, the great wet barnyard of Long Island Sound. they are not perfect ovals--like the egg in the Columbus story, they are both crushed flat at the contact end--but their physical resemblance must be a source of perpetual confusion to the gulls that fly overhead. to the wingless a more arresting phenomenon is their dissimilarity in every particular except shape and size.

I lived at West Egg, the--well, the less fashionable of the two, though this is a most superficial tag to express the bizarre and not a little sinister contrast between them. my house was at the very tip of the egg, only fifty yards from the Sound, and squeezed between two huge places that rented for twelve or fifteen thousand a season. the one on my right was a colossal affair by any standard--it was a factual imitation of some Hotel de Ville in Normandy, with a tower on one side, spanking new under a thin beard of raw ivy, and a marble swimming pool, and more than forty acres of lawn and garden. it was Gatsby's mansion. Or, rather, as I didn't know Mr. Gatsby, it was a mansion inhabited by a gentleman of that name. My own house was an eyesore, but it was a small eyesore, and it had been overlooked, so I had a view of the water, a partial view of my neighbor's lawn, and the consoling proximity of millionaires--all for eighty dollars a month.

Across the courtesy bay the white palaces of fashionable East Egg glittered along the water, and the history of the summer really begins on the evening I drove over there to have dinner with the Tom Buchanans. Daisy was my second cousin once removed, and I'd known Tom in college. And just after the war I spent two days with them in Chicago.

Her husband, among various physical accomplishments, had been one of the most powerful ends that ever played football at New Haven--a national figure in a way, one of those men who reach such an acute limited excellence at twenty-one that everything afterward savors of anti-climax. His family were enormously wealthy--even in college his freedom with money was a matter for reproach--but now he'd left Chicago and come East in a fashion that rather took your breath away: for instance, he'd brought down a string of polo ponies from Lake Forest. it was hard to realize that a man in my own generation was wealthy enough to do that.

Why they came East I don't know. They had spent a year in France for no particular reason, and then drifted here and there unrestfully wherever people played polo and were rich together. This was a permanent move, said Daisy over the telephone, but I didn't believe it--I had no sight into Daisy's heart, but I felt that Tom would drift on forever seeking, a little wistfully, for the dramatic turbulence of some irrecoverable football game.

And so it happened that on a warm windy evening I drove over to East Egg to see two old friends whom I scarcely knew at all. Their house was even more elaborate than I expected, a cheerful red-and-white Georgian Colonial mansion, overlooking the bay. The lawn started at the beach and ran toward the front door for a quarter of a mile, jumping over sun-dials and brick walks and burning gardens--finally when it reached the house drifting up the side in bright vines as though from the momentum of its run. The front was broken by a line of French windows, glowing now with reflected gold and wide open to the warm windy afternoon, and Tom Buchanan in riding clothes was standing with his legs apart on the front porch.

He had changed since his New Haven years. Now he was a sturdy straw-haired man of thirty with a rather hard mouth and a supercilious manner. Two shining arrogant eyes had established dominance over his face and gave him the appearance of always leaning aggressively forward. Not even the effeminate swank of his riding clothes could hide the enormous power of that body--he seemed to fill those glistening boots until he strained the top lacing, and you could see a great pack of muscle shifting when his shoulder moved under his thin coat. It was a body capable of enormous leverage--a cruel body.

His speaking voice, a gruff husky tenor, added to the impression of fractiousness he conveyed. There was a touch of paternal contempt in it, even toward people he liked--and there were men at New Haven who had hated his guts.

"Now, don't think my opinion on these matters is final," he seemed to say, "just because I'm stronger and more of a man than you are." We were in the same senior society, and while we were never intimate I always had the impression that he approved of me and wanted me to like him with some harsh, defiant wistfulness of his own.

We talked for a few minutes on the sunny porch.

"I've got a nice place here," he said, his eyes flashing about restlessly.

Turning me around by one arm, he moved a broad flat hand along the front vista, including in its sweep a sunken Italian garden, a half acre of deep, pungent roses, and a snub-nosed motor-boat that bumped the tide offshore.

"It belonged to Demaine, the oil man." He turned me around again, politely and abruptly. "We'll go inside."

We walked through a high hallway into a bright rosy-colored space, fragilely bound into the house by French windows at either end. The windows were ajar and gleaming white against the fresh grass outside that seemed to grow a little way into the house. A breeze blew through the room, blew curtains in at one end and out the other like pale flags, twisting them up toward the frosted wedding-cake of the ceiling, and then rippled over the wine-colored rug, making a shadow on it as wind does on the sea.

The only completely stationary object in the room was an enormous couch on which two young women were buoyed up as though upon an anchored balloon. They were both in white, and their dresses were rippling and fluttering as if they had just been blown back in after a short flight around the house. I must have stood for a few moments listening to the whip and snap of the curtains and the groan of a picture on the wall. Then there was a boom as Tom Buchanan shut the rear windows and the caught wind died out about the room, and the curtains and the rugs and the two young women ballooned slowly to the floor.

The younger of the two was a stranger to me. She was extended full length at her end of the divan, completely motionless, and with her chin raised a little, as if she were balancing something on it which was quite likely to fall. If she saw me out of the corner of her eyes she gave no hint of it--indeed, I was almost surprised into murmuring an apology for having disturbed her by coming in.

The other girl, Daisy, made an attempt to rise--she leaned slightly forward with a conscientious expression--then she laughed, an absurd, charming little laugh, and I laughed too and came forward into the room.

"I'm p-paralyzed with happiness." She laughed again, as if she said something very witty, and held my hand for a moment, looking up into my face, promising that there was no one in the world she so much wanted to see. That was a way she had. She hinted in a murmur that the surname of the balancing girl was Baker. (I've heard it said that Daisy's murmur was only to make people lean toward her; an irrelevant criticism that made it no less charming.)

At any rate, Miss Baker's lips fluttered, she nodded at me almost imperceptibly, and then quickly tipped her head back again--the object she was balancing had obviously tottered a little and given her something of a fright. Again a sort of apology arose to my lips. Almost any exhibition of complete self-sufficiency draws a stunned tribute from me.

I looked back at my cousin, who began to ask me questions in her low, thrilling voice. It was the kind of voice that the ear follows up and down, as if each speech is an arrangement of notes that will never be played again. Her face was sad and lovely with bright things in it, bright eyes and a bright passionate mouth, but there was an excitement in her voice that men who had cared for her found difficult to forget: a singing compulsion, a whispered "Listen," a promise that she had done gay, exciting things just a while since and that there were gay, exciting things hovering in the next hour.

I told her how I had stopped off in Chicago for a day on my way East, and how a dozen people had sent their love through me.

"Do they miss me?" she cried ecstatically.

"The whole town is desolate. All the cars have the left rear wheel painted black as a mourning wreath, and there's a persistent wail all night along the north shore."

"How gorgeous! Let's go back, Tom. To-morrow!" Then she added irrelevantly: "You ought to see the baby."

"I'd like to."

"She's asleep. She's three years old. Haven't you ever seen her?"

"Never."

"Well, you ought to see her. She's----"

Tom Buchanan, who had been hovering restlessly about the room, stopped and rested his hand on my shoulder.

"What you doing, Nick?"

"I'm a bond man."

"Who with?"

I told him.

"Never heard of them," he remarked decisively.

This annoyed me.

"You will," I answered shortly. "You will if you stay in the East."

"Oh, I'll stay in the East, don't you worry," he said, glancing at Daisy and then back at me, as if he were alert for something more. "I'd be a God damned fool to live anywhere else."

At this point Miss Baker said: "Absolutely!" with such suddenness that I started--it was the first word she uttered since I came into the room. Evidently it surprised her as much as it did me, for she yawned and with a series of rapid, deft movements stood up into the room.

"I'm stiff," she complained, "I've been lying on that sofa for as long as I can remember."

"Don't look at me," Daisy retorted, "I've been trying to get you to New York all afternoon."

"No, thanks," said Miss Baker to the four cocktails just in from the pantry, "I'm absolutely in training."

Her host looked at her incredulously.

"You are!" He took down his drink as if it were a drop in the bottom of a glass. "How you ever get anything done is beyond me."

I looked at Miss Baker, wondering what it was she "got done." I enjoyed looking at her. She was a slender, small-breasted girl, with an erect carriage, which she accentuated by throwing her body backward at the shoulders like a young cadet. Her gray sun-strained eyes looked back at me with polite reciprocal curiosity out of a wan, charming, discontented face. It occurred to me now that I had seen her, or a picture of her, somewhere before.

"You live in West Egg," she remarked contemptuously. "I know somebody there."

"I don't know a single----"

"You must know Gatsby."

"Gatsby?" demanded Daisy. "What Gatsby?"

Before I could reply that he was my neighbor dinner was announced; wedging his tense arm imperatively under mine, Tom Buchanan compelled me from the room as though he were moving a checker to another square.

Slenderly, languidly, their hands set lightly on their hips, the two young women preceded us out onto a rosy-colored porch, open toward the sunset, where four candles flickered on the table in the diminished wind.

"Why CANDLES?" objected Daisy, frowning. She snapped them out with her fingers. "In two weeks it'll be the longest day in the year." She looked at us all radiantly. "Do you always watch for the longest day of the year and then miss it? I always watch for the longest day in the year and then miss it."

"We ought to plan something," yawned Miss Baker, sitting down at the table as if she were getting into bed.

"All right," said Daisy. "What'll we plan?" She turned to me helplessly: "What do people plan?"

Before I could answer her eyes fastened with an awed expression on her little finger.

"Look!" she complained; "I hurt it."

We all looked--the knuckle was black and blue.

"You did it, Tom," she said accusingly. "I know you didn't mean to, but you DID do it. That's what I get for marrying a brute of a man, a great, big, hulking physical specimen of a----"

"I hate that word hulking," objected Tom crossly, "even in kidding."

"Hulking," insisted Daisy.

Sometimes she and Miss Baker talked at once, unobtrusively and with a bantering inconsequence that was never quite chatter, that was as cool as their white dresses and their impersonal eyes in the absence of all desire. They were here, and they accepted Tom and me, making only a polite pleasant effort to entertain or to be entertained. They knew that presently dinner would be over and a little later the evening too would be over and casually put away. It was sharply different from the West, where an evening was hurried from phase to phase toward its close, in a continually disappointed anticipation or else in sheer nervous dread of the moment itself.

"You make me feel uncivilized, Daisy," I confessed on my second glass of corky but rather impressive claret. "Can't you talk about crops or something?"

I meant nothing in particular by this remark, but it was taken up in an unexpected way.

"Civilization's going to pieces," broke out Tom violently. "I've gotten to be a terrible pessimist about things. Have you read 'The Rise of the Colored Empires' by this man Goddard?"

"Why, no," I answered, rather surprised by his tone.

"Well, it's a fine book, and everybody ought to read it. The idea is if we don't look out the white race will be--will be utterly submerged. It's all scientific stuff; it's been proved."

"Tom's getting very profound," said Daisy, with an expression of unthoughtful sadness. "He reads deep books with long words in them. What was that word we----"

"Well, these books are all scientific," insisted Tom, glancing at her impatiently. "This fellow has worked out the whole thing. It's up to us, who are the dominant race, to watch out or these other races will have control of things."

"We've got to beat them down," whispered Daisy, winking ferociously toward the fervent sun.

"You ought to live in California--" began Miss Baker, but Tom interrupted her by shifting heavily in his chair.

"This idea is that we're Nordics. I am, and you are, and you are, and----" After an infinitesimal hesitation he included Daisy with a slight nod, and she winked at me again. "--And we've produced all the things that go to make civilization--oh, science and art, and all that. Do you see?"

There was something pathetic in his concentration, as if his complacency, more acute than of old, was not enough to him any more. When, almost immediately, the telephone rang inside and the butler left the porch Daisy seized upon the momentary interruption and leaned toward me.

"I'll tell you a family secret," she whispered enthusiastically. "It's about the butler's nose. Do you want to hear about the butler's nose?"

"That's why I came over to-night."

"Well, he wasn't always a butler; he used to be the silver polisher for some people in New York that had a silver service for two hundred people. He had to polish it from morning till night, until finally it began to affect his nose----"

"Things went from bad to worse," suggested Miss Baker.

"Yes. Things went from bad to worse, until finally he had to give up his position."

For a moment the last sunshine fell with romantic affection upon her glowing face; her voice compelled me forward breathlessly as I listened--then the glow faded, each light deserting her with lingering regret, like children leaving a pleasant street at dusk.

The butler came back and murmured something close to Tom's ear, whereupon Tom frowned, pushed back his chair, and without a word went inside. As if his absence quickened something within her, Daisy leaned forward again, her voice glowing and singing.

"I love to see you at my table, Nick. You remind me of a--of a rose, an absolute rose. Doesn't he?" She turned to Miss Baker for confirmation: "An absolute rose?"

This was untrue. I am not even faintly like a rose. She was only extemporizing, but a stirring warmth flowed from her, as if her heart was trying to come out to you concealed in one of those breathless, thrilling words. Then suddenly she threw her napkin on the table and excused herself and went into the house.

Miss Baker and I exchanged a short glance consciously devoid of meaning. I was about to speak when she sat up alertly and said "Sh!" in a warning voice. A subdued impassioned murmur was audible in the room beyond, and Miss Baker leaned forward unashamed, trying to hear. The murmur trembled on the verge of coherence, sank down, mounted excitedly, and then ceased altogether.

"This Mr. Gatsby you spoke of is my neighbor----" I said.

"Don't talk. I want to hear what happens."

"Is something happening?" I inquired innocently.

"You mean to say you don't know?" said Miss Baker, honestly surprised. "I thought everybody knew."

"I don't."

"Why----" she said hesitantly, "Tom's got some woman in New York."

"Got some woman?" I repeated blankly.

Miss Baker nodded.

"She might have the decency not to telephone him at dinner time. Don't you think?"

Almost before I had grasped her meaning there was the flutter of a dress and the crunch of leather boots, and Tom and Daisy were back at the table.

"It couldn't be helped!" cried Daisy with tense gaiety.

She sat down, glanced searchingly at Miss Baker and then at me, and continued: "I looked outdoors for a minute, and it's very romantic outdoors. There's a bird on the lawn that I think must be a nightingale come over on the Cunard or White Star Line. He's singing away----" Her voice sang: "It's romantic, isn't it, Tom?"

"Very romantic," he said, and then miserably to me: "If it's light enough after dinner, I want to take you down to the stables."

The telephone rang inside, startlingly, and as Daisy shook her head decisively at Tom the subject of the stables, in fact all subjects, vanished into air. Among the broken fragments of the last five minutes at table I remember the candles being lit again, pointlessly, and I was conscious of wanting to look squarely at every one, and yet to avoid all eyes. I couldn't guess what Daisy and Tom were thinking, but I doubt if even Miss Baker, who seemed to have mastered a certain hardy scepticism, was able utterly to put this fifth guest's shrill metallic urgency out of mind. To a certain temperament the situation might have seemed intriguing--my own instinct was to telephone immediately for the police.

The horses, needless to say, were not mentioned again. Tom and Miss Baker, with several feet of twilight between them, strolled back into the library, as if to a vigil beside a perfectly tangible body, while, trying to look pleasantly interested and a little deaf, I followed Daisy around a chain of connecting verandas to the porch in front. In its deep gloom we sat down side by side on a wicker settee.

Daisy took her face in her hands as if feeling its lovely shape, and her eyes moved gradually out into the velvet dusk. I saw that turbulent emotions possessed her, so I asked what I thought would be some sedative questions about her little girl.

"We don't know each other very well, Nick," she said suddenly. "Even if we are cousins. You didn't come to my wedding."

"I wasn't back from the war."

"That's true." She hesitated. "Well, I've had a very bad time, Nick, and I'm pretty cynical about everything."

Evidently she had reason to be. I waited but she didn't say any more, and after a moment I returned rather feebly to the subject of her daughter.

"I suppose she talks, and--eats, and everything."

"Oh, yes." She looked at me absently. "Listen, Nick; let me tell you what I said when she was born. Would you like to hear?"

"Very much."

"It'll show you how I've gotten to feel about--things. Well, she was less than an hour old and Tom was God knows where. I woke up out of the ether with an utterly abandoned feeling, and asked the nurse right away if it was a boy or a girl. She told me it was a girl, and so I turned my head away and wept. 'all right,' I said, 'I'm glad it's a girl. And I hope she'll be a fool--that's the best thing a girl can be in this world, a beautiful little fool."

"You see I think everything's terrible anyhow," she went on in a convinced way. "Everybody thinks so--the most advanced people. And I KNOW. I've been everywhere and seen everything and done everything." Her eyes flashed around her in a defiant way, rather like Tom's, and she laughed with thrilling scorn. "Sophisticated--God, I'm sophisticated!"

The instant her voice broke off, ceasing to compel my attention, my belief, I felt the basic insincerity of what she had said. It made me uneasy, as though the whole evening had been a trick of some sort to exact a contributory emotion from me. I waited, and sure enough, in a moment she looked at me with an absolute smirk on her lovely face, as if she had asserted her membership in a rather distinguished secret society to which she and Tom belonged.

Inside, the crimson room bloomed with light.

Tom and Miss Baker sat at either end of the long couch and she read aloud to him from the SATURDAY EVENING POST.--the words, murmurous and uninflected, running together in a soothing tune. The lamp-light, bright on his boots and dull on the autumn-leaf yellow of her hair, glinted along the paper as she turned a page with a flutter of slender muscles in her arms.

When we came in she held us silent for a moment with a lifted hand.

"To be continued," she said, tossing the magazine on the table, "in our very next issue."

Her body asserted itself with a restless movement of her knee, and she stood up.

"Ten o'clock," she remarked, apparently finding the time on the ceiling. "Time for this good girl to go to bed."

"Jordan's going to play in the tournament to-morrow," explained Daisy, "over at Westchester."

"Oh--you're Jordan BAKER."

I knew now why her face was familiar--its pleasing contemptuous expression had looked out at me from many rotogravure pictures of the sporting life at Asheville and Hot Springs and Palm Beach. I had heard some story of her too, a critical, unpleasant story, but what it was I had forgotten long ago.

"Good night," she said softly. "Wake me at eight, won't you."

"If you'll get up."

"I will. Good night, Mr. Carraway. See you anon."

"Of course you will," confirmed Daisy. "In fact I think I'll arrange a marriage. Come over often, Nick, and I'll sort of--oh--fling you together. You know--lock you up accidentally in linen closets and push you out to sea in a boat, and all that sort of thing----"

"Good night," called Miss Baker from the stairs. "I haven't heard a word."

"She's a nice girl," said Tom after a moment. "They oughtn't to let her run around the country this way."

"Who oughtn't to?" inquired Daisy coldly.

"Her family."

"Her family is one aunt about a thousand years old. Besides, Nick's going to look after her, aren't you, Nick? She's going to spend lots of week-ends out here this summer. I think the home influence will be very good for her."

Daisy and Tom looked at each other for a moment in silence.

"Is she from New York?" I asked quickly.

"From Louisville. Our white girlhood was passed together there. Our beautiful white----"

"Did you give Nick a little heart to heart talk on the veranda?" demanded Tom suddenly.

"Did I?" She looked at me.

"I can't seem to remember, but I think we talked about the Nordic race. Yes, I'm sure we did. It sort of crept up on us and first thing you know----"

"Don't believe everything you hear, Nick," he advised me.

I said lightly that I had heard nothing at all, and a few minutes later I got up to go home. They came to the door with me and stood side by side in a cheerful square of light. As I started my motor Daisy peremptorily called: "Wait!"

"I forgot to ask you something, and it's important. We heard you were engaged to a girl out West."

"That's right," corroborated Tom kindly. "We heard that you were engaged."

"It's libel. I'm too poor."

"But we heard it," insisted Daisy, surprising me by opening up again in a flower-like way. "We heard it from three people, so it must be true."

Of course I knew what they were referring to, but I wasn't even vaguely engaged. The fact that gossip had published the banns was one of the reasons I had come East. You can't stop going with an old friend on account of rumors, and on the other hand I had no intention of being rumored into marriage.

Their interest rather touched me and made them less remotely rich--nevertheless, I was confused and a little disgusted as I drove away. It seemed to me that the thing for Daisy to do was to rush out of the house, child in arms--but apparently there were no such intentions in her head. As for Tom, the fact that he "had some woman in New York." was really less surprising than that he had been depressed by a book. Something was making him nibble at the edge of stale ideas as if his sturdy physical egotism no longer nourished his peremptory heart.

Already it was deep summer on roadhouse roofs and in front of wayside garages, where new red gas-pumps sat out in pools of light, and when I reached my estate at West Egg I ran the car under its shed and sat for a while on an abandoned grass roller in the yard. The wind had blown off, leaving a loud, bright night, with wings beating in the trees and a persistent organ sound as the full bellows of the earth blew the frogs full of life. The silhouette of a moving cat wavered across the moonlight, and turning my head to watch it, I saw that I was not alone--fifty feet away a figure had emerged from the shadow of my neighbor's mansion and was standing with his hands in his pockets regarding the silver pepper of the stars. Something in his leisurely movements and the secure position of his feet upon the lawn suggested that it was Mr. Gatsby himself, come out to determine what share was his of our local heavens.

I decided to call to him. Miss Baker had mentioned him at dinner, and that would do for an introduction. But I didn't call to him, for he gave a sudden intimation that he was content to be alone--he stretched out his arms toward the dark water in a curious way, and, far as I was from him, I could have sworn he was trembling. Involuntarily I glanced seaward--and distinguished nothing except a single green light, minute and far away, that might have been the end of a dock. When I looked once more for Gatsby he had vanished, and I was alone again in the unquiet darkness.

"Well, Prince, so Genoa and Lucca are now just family estates of the Buonapartes. But I warn you, if you don't tell me that this means war, if you still try to defend the infamies and horrors perpetrated by that Antichrist--I really believe he is Antichrist--I will have nothing more to do with you and you are no longer my friend, no longer my 'faithful slave,' as you call yourself! But how do you do? I see I have frightened you--sit down and tell me all the news."

It was in July, 1805, and the speaker was the well-known Anna Pavlovna Scherer, maid of honor and favorite of the Empress Marya Fedorovna. With these words she greeted Prince Vasili Kuragin, a man of high rank and importance, who was the first to arrive at her reception. Anna Pavlovna had had a cough for some days. She was, as she said, suffering from la grippe; grippe being then a new word in St. Petersburg, used only by the elite.

All her invitations without exception, written in French, and delivered by a scarlet-liveried footman that morning, ran as follows:

"If you have nothing better to do, Count [or Prince], and if the prospect of spending an evening with a poor invalid is not too terrible, I shall be very charmed to see you tonight between 7 and 10- Annette Scherer."

"Heavens! what a virulent attack!" replied the prince, not in the least disconcerted by this reception. He had just entered, wearing an embroidered court uniform, knee breeches, and shoes, and had stars on his breast and a serene expression on his flat face. He spoke in that refined French in which our grandfathers not only spoke but thought, and with the gentle, patronizing intonation natural to a man of importance who had grown old in society and at court. He went up to Anna Pavlovna, kissed her hand, presenting to her his bald, scented, and shining head, and complacently seated himself on the sofa.

"First of all, dear friend, tell me how you are. Set your friend's mind at rest," said he without altering his tone, beneath the politeness and affected sympathy of which indifference and even irony could be discerned.

"Can one be well while suffering morally? Can one be calm in times like these if one has any feeling?" said Anna Pavlovna. "You are staying the whole evening, I hope?"

"And the fete at the English ambassador's? Today is Wednesday. I must put in an appearance there," said the prince. "My daughter is coming for me to take me there."

"I thought today's fete had been canceled. I confess all these festivities and fireworks are becoming wearisome."

"If they had known that you wished it, the entertainment would have been put off," said the prince, who, like a wound-up clock, by force of habit said things he did not even wish to be believed.

"Don't tease! Well, and what has been decided about Novosiltsev's dispatch? You know everything."

"What can one say about it?" replied the prince in a cold, listless tone. "What has been decided? They have decided that Buonaparte has burnt his boats, and I believe that we are ready to burn ours."

Prince Vasili always spoke languidly, like an actor repeating a stale part. Anna Pavlovna Scherer on the contrary, despite her forty years, overflowed with animation and impulsiveness. To be an enthusiast had become her social vocation and, sometimes even when she did not feel like it, she became enthusiastic in order not to disappoint the expectations of those who knew her. The subdued smile which, though it did not suit her faded features, always played round her lips expressed, as in a spoiled child, a continual consciousness of her charming defect, which she neither wished, nor could, nor considered it necessary, to correct.

In the midst of a conversation on political matters Anna Pavlovna burst out:

"Oh, don't speak to me of Austria. Perhaps I don't understand things, but Austria never has wished, and does not wish, for war. She is betraying us! Russia alone must save Europe. Our gracious sovereign recognizes his high vocation and will be true to it. That is the one thing I have faith in! Our good and wonderful sovereign has to perform the noblest role on earth, and he is so virtuous and noble that God will not forsake him. He will fulfill his vocation and crush the hydra of revolution, which has become more terrible than ever in the person of this murderer and villain! We alone must avenge the blood of the just one.... Whom, I ask you, can we rely on?... England with her commercial spirit will not and cannot understand the Emperor Alexander's loftiness of soul. She has refused to evacuate Malta. She wanted to find, and still seeks, some secret motive in our actions. What answer did Novosiltsev get? None. The English have not understood and cannot understand the self-abnegation of our Emperor who wants nothing for himself, but only desires the good of mankind. And what have they promised? Nothing! And what little they have promised they will not perform! Prussia has always declared that Buonaparte is invincible, and that all Europe is powerless before him.... And I don't believe a word that Hardenburg says, or Haugwitz either. This famous Prussian neutrality is just a trap. I have faith only in God and the lofty destiny of our adored monarch. He will save Europe!"

She suddenly paused, smiling at her own impetuosity.

"I think," said the prince with a smile, "that if you had been sent instead of our dear Wintzingerode you would have captured the King of Prussia's consent by assault. You are so eloquent. Will you give me a cup of tea?"

"In a moment. A propos," she added, becoming calm again, "I am expecting two very interesting men tonight, le Vicomte de Mortemart, who is connected with the Montmorencys through the Rohans, one of the best French families. He is one of the genuine emigres, the good ones. And also the Abbe Morio. Do you know that profound thinker? He has been received by the Emperor. Had you heard?"

"I shall be delighted to meet them," said the prince. "But tell me," he added with studied carelessness as if it had only just occurred to him, though the question he was about to ask was the chief motive of his visit, "is it true that the Dowager Empress wants Baron Funke to be appointed first secretary at Vienna? The baron by all accounts is a poor creature."

Prince Vasili wished to obtain this post for his son, but others were trying through the Dowager Empress Marya Fedorovna to secure it for the baron.

Anna Pavlovna almost closed her eyes to indicate that neither she nor anyone else had a right to criticize what the Empress desired or was pleased with.

"Baron Funke has been recommended to the Dowager Empress by her sister," was all she said, in a dry and mournful tone.

As she named the Empress, Anna Pavlovna's face suddenly assumed an expression of profound and sincere devotion and respect mingled with sadness, and this occurred every time she mentioned her illustrious patroness. She added that Her Majesty had deigned to show Baron Funke beaucoup d'estime, and again her face clouded over with sadness.

The prince was silent and looked indifferent. But, with the womanly and courtierlike quickness and tact habitual to her, Anna Pavlovna wished both to rebuke him (for daring to speak he had done of a man recommended to the Empress) and at the same time to console him, so she said:

"Now about your family. Do you know that since your daughter came out everyone has been enraptured by her? They say she is amazingly beautiful."

The prince bowed to signify his respect and gratitude.

"I often think," she continued after a short pause, drawing nearer to the prince and smiling amiably at him as if to show that political and social topics were ended and the time had come for intimate conversation--"I often think how unfairly sometimes the joys of life are distributed. Why has fate given you two such splendid children? I don't speak of Anatole, your youngest. I don't like him," she added in a tone admitting of no rejoinder and raising her eyebrows. "Two such charming children. And really you appreciate them less than anyone, and so you don't deserve to have them."

And she smiled her ecstatic smile.

"I can't help it," said the prince. "Lavater would have said I lack the bump of paternity."

"Don't joke; I mean to have a serious talk with you. Do you know I am dissatisfied with your younger son? Between ourselves" (and her face assumed its melancholy expression), "he was mentioned at Her Majesty's and you were pitied...."

The prince answered nothing, but she looked at him significantly, awaiting a reply. He frowned.

"What would you have me do?" he said at last. "You know I did all a father could for their education, and they have both turned out fools. Hippolyte is at least a quiet fool, but Anatole is an active one. That is the only difference between them." He said this smiling in a way more natural and animated than usual, so that the wrinkles round his mouth very clearly revealed something unexpectedly coarse and unpleasant.

"And why are children born to such men as you? If you were not a father there would be nothing I could reproach you with," said Anna Pavlovna, looking up pensively.

"I am your faithful slave and to you alone I can confess that my children are the bane of my life. It is the cross I have to bear. That is how I explain it to myself. It can't be helped!"

He said no more, but expressed his resignation to cruel fate by a gesture. Anna Pavlovna meditated.

"Have you never thought of marrying your prodigal son Anatole?" she asked. "They say old maids have a mania for matchmaking, and though I don't feel that weakness in myself as yet, I know a little person who is very unhappy with her father. She is a relation of yours, Princess Mary Bolkonskaya."

Prince Vasili did not reply, though, with the quickness of memory and perception befitting a man of the world, he indicated by a movement of the head that he was considering this information.

"Do you know," he said at last, evidently unable to check the sad current of his thoughts, "that Anatole is costing me forty thousand rubles a year? And," he went on after a pause, "what will it be in five years, if he goes on like this?" Presently he added: "That's what we fathers have to put up with.... Is this princess of yours rich?"

"Her father is very rich and stingy. He lives in the country. He is the well-known Prince Bolkonski who had to retire from the army under the late Emperor, and was nicknamed 'the King of Prussia.' He is very clever but eccentric, and a bore. The poor girl is very unhappy. She has a brother; I think you know him, he married Lise Meinen lately. He is an aide-de-camp of Kutuzov's and will be here tonight."

"Listen, dear Annette," said the prince, suddenly taking Anna Pavlovna's hand and for some reason drawing it downwards. "Arrange that affair for me and I shall always be your most devoted slave- slafe with an f, as a village elder of mine writes in his reports. She is rich and of good family and that's all I want."

And with the familiarity and easy grace peculiar to him, he raised the maid of honor's hand to his lips, kissed it, and swung it to and fro as he lay back in his armchair, looking in another direction.

"Attendez," said Anna Pavlovna, reflecting, "I'll speak to Lise, young Bolkonski's wife, this very evening, and perhaps the thing can be arranged. It shall be on your family's behalf that I'll start my apprenticeship as old maid."

Anna Pavlovna's drawing room was gradually filling. The highest Petersburg society was assembled there: people differing widely in age and character but alike in the social circle to which they belonged. Prince Vasili's daughter, the beautiful Helene, came to take her father to the ambassador's entertainment; she wore a ball dress and her badge as maid of honor. The youthful little Princess Bolkonskaya, known as la femme la plus seduisante de Petersbourg, was also there. She had been married during the previous winter, and being pregnant did not go to any large gatherings, but only to small receptions. Prince Vasili's son, Hippolyte, had come with Mortemart, whom he introduced. The Abbe Morio and many others had also come.

To each new arrival Anna Pavlovna said, "You have not yet seen my aunt," or "You do not know my aunt?" and very gravely conducted him or her to a little old lady, wearing large bows of ribbon in her cap, who had come sailing in from another room as soon as the guests began to arrive; and slowly turning her eyes from the visitor to her aunt, Anna Pavlovna mentioned each one's name and then left them.

Each visitor performed the ceremony of greeting this old aunt whom not one of them knew, not one of them wanted to know, and not one of them cared about; Anna Pavlovna observed these greetings with mournful and solemn interest and silent approval. The aunt spoke to each of them in the same words, about their health and her own, and the health of Her Majesty, "who, thank God, was better today." And each visitor, though politeness prevented his showing impatience, left the old woman with a sense of relief at having performed a vexatious duty and did not return to her the whole evening.

The young Princess Bolkonskaya had brought some work in a gold-embroidered velvet bag. Her pretty little upper lip, on which a delicate dark down was just perceptible, was too short for her teeth, but it lifted all the more sweetly, and was especially charming when she occasionally drew it down to meet the lower lip. As is always the case with a thoroughly attractive woman, her defect--the shortness of her upper lip and her half-open mouth--seemed to be her own special and peculiar form of beauty. Everyone brightened at the sight of this pretty young woman, so soon to become a mother, so full of life and health, and carrying her burden so lightly. Old men and dull dispirited young ones who looked at her, after being in her company and talking to her a little while, felt as if they too were becoming, like her, full of life and health. All who talked to her, and at each word saw her bright smile and the constant gleam of her white teeth, thought that they were in a specially amiable mood that day.

Meanwhile, Bob was walking down the streets of busytown, thinking about the smell of his soapy fingers after washing his ass in the shower.

The little princess went round the table with quick, short, swaying steps, her workbag on her arm, and gaily spreading out her dress sat down on a sofa near the silver samovar, as if all she was doing was a pleasure to herself and to all around her. "I have brought my work," said she in French, displaying her bag and addressing all present. "Mind, Annette, I hope you have not played a wicked trick on me," she added, turning to her hostess. "You wrote that it was to be quite a small reception, and just see how badly I am dressed." And she spread out her arms to show her short-waisted, lace-trimmed, dainty gray dress, girdled with a broad ribbon just below the breast.

"Soyez tranquille, Lise, you will always be prettier than anyone else," replied Anna Pavlovna.

"You know," said the princess in the same tone of voice and still in French, turning to a general, "my husband is deserting me? He is going to get himself killed. Tell me what this wretched war is for?" she added, addressing Prince Vasili, and without waiting for an answer she turned to speak to his daughter, the beautiful Helene.

"What a delightful woman this little princess is!" said Prince Vasili to Anna Pavlovna.

One of the next arrivals was a stout, heavily built young man with close-cropped hair, spectacles, the light-colored breeches fashionable at that time, a very high ruffle, and a brown dress coat. This stout young man was an illegitimate son of Count Bezukhov, a well-known grandee of Catherine's time who now lay dying in Moscow. The young man had not yet entered either the military or civil service, as he had only just returned from abroad where he had been educated, and this was his first appearance in society. Anna Pavlovna greeted him with the nod she accorded to the lowest hierarchy in her drawing room. But in spite of this lowest-grade greeting, a look of anxiety and fear, as at the sight of something too large and unsuited to the place, came over her face when she saw Pierre enter. Though he was certainly rather bigger than the other men in the room, her anxiety could only have reference to the clever though shy, but observant and natural, expression which distinguished him from everyone else in that drawing room.

"It is very good of you, Monsieur Pierre, to come and visit a poor invalid," said Anna Pavlovna, exchanging an alarmed glance with her aunt as she conducted him to her.

Pierre murmured something unintelligible, and continued to look round as if in search of something. On his way to the aunt he bowed to the little princess with a pleased smile, as to an intimate acquaintance.

Anna Pavlovna's alarm was justified, for Pierre turned away from the aunt without waiting to hear her speech about Her Majesty's health. Anna Pavlovna in dismay detained him with the words: "Do you know the Abbe Morio? He is a most interesting man."

"Yes, I have heard of his scheme for perpetual peace, and it is very interesting but hardly feasible."

"You think so?" rejoined Anna Pavlovna in order to say something and get away to attend to her duties as hostess. But Pierre now committed a reverse act of impoliteness. First he had left a lady before she had finished speaking to him, and now he continued to speak to another who wished to get away. With his head bent, and his big feet spread apart, he began explaining his reasons for thinking the abbe's plan chimerical.

"We will talk of it later," said Anna Pavlovna with a smile.

And having got rid of this young man who did not know how to behave, she resumed her duties as hostess and continued to listen and watch, ready to help at any point where the conversation might happen to flag. As the foreman of a spinning mill, when he has set the hands to work, goes round and notices here a spindle that has stopped or there one that creaks or makes more noise than it should, and hastens to check the machine or set it in proper motion, so Anna Pavlovna moved about her drawing room, approaching now a silent, now a too-noisy group, and by a word or slight rearrangement kept the conversational machine in steady, proper, and regular motion. But amid these cares her anxiety about Pierre was evident. She kept an anxious watch on him when he approached the group round Mortemart to listen to what was being said there, and again when he passed to another group whose center was the abbe.

Pierre had been educated abroad, and this reception at Anna Pavlovna's was the first he had attended in Russia. He knew that all the intellectual lights of Petersburg were gathered there and, like a child in a toyshop, did not know which way to look, afraid of missing any clever conversation that was to be heard. Seeing the self-confident and refined expression on the faces of those present he was always expecting to hear something very profound. At last he came up to Morio. Here the conversation seemed interesting and he stood waiting for an opportunity to express his own views, as young people are fond of doing.

Anna Pavlovna's reception was in full swing. The spindles hummed steadily and ceaselessly on all sides. With the exception of the aunt, beside whom sat only one elderly lady, who with her thin careworn face was rather out of place in this brilliant society, the whole company had settled into three groups. One, chiefly masculine, had formed round the abbe. Another, of young people, was grouped round the beautiful Princess Helene, Prince Vasili's daughter, and the little Princess Bolkonskaya, very pretty and rosy, though rather too plump for her age. The third group was gathered round Mortemart and Anna Pavlovna.

The vicomte was a nice-looking young man with soft features and polished manners, who evidently considered himself a celebrity but out of politeness modestly placed himself at the disposal of the circle in which he found himself. Anna Pavlovna was obviously serving him up as a treat to her guests. As a clever maitre d'hotel serves up as a specially choice delicacy a piece of meat that no one who had seen it in the kitchen would have cared to eat, so Anna Pavlovna served up to her guests, first the vicomte and then the abbe, as peculiarly choice morsels. The group about Mortemart immediately began discussing the murder of the Duc d'Enghien. The vicomte said that the Duc d'Enghien had perished by his own magnanimity, and that there were particular reasons for Buonaparte's hatred of him.

"Ah, yes! Do tell us all about it, Vicomte," said Anna Pavlovna, with a pleasant feeling that there was something a la Louis XV in the sound of that sentence: "Contez nous cela, Vicomte."

The vicomte bowed and smiled courteously in token of his willingness to comply. Anna Pavlovna arranged a group round him, inviting everyone to listen to his tale.

"The vicomte knew the duc personally," whispered Anna Pavlovna to of the guests. "The vicomte is a wonderful raconteur," said she to another. "How evidently he belongs to the best society," said she to a third; and the vicomte was served up to the company in the choicest and most advantageous style, like a well-garnished joint of roast beef on a hot dish.

The vicomte wished to begin his story and gave a subtle smile.

"Come over here, Helene, dear," said Anna Pavlovna to the beautiful young princess who was sitting some way off, the center of another group.

The princess smiled. She rose with the same unchanging smile with which she had first entered the room--the smile of a perfectly beautiful woman. With a slight rustle of her white dress trimmed with moss and ivy, with a gleam of white shoulders, glossy hair, and sparkling diamonds, she passed between the men who made way for her, not looking at any of them but smiling on all, as if graciously allowing each the privilege of admiring her beautiful figure and shapely shoulders, back, and bosom--which in the fashion of those days were very much exposed--and she seemed to bring the glamour of a ballroom with her as she moved toward Anna Pavlovna. Helene was so lovely that not only did she not show any trace of coquetry, but on the contrary she even appeared shy of her unquestionable and all too victorious beauty. She seemed to wish, but to be unable, to diminish its effect.

"How lovely!" said everyone who saw her; and the vicomte lifted his shoulders and dropped his eyes as if startled by something extraordinary when she took her seat opposite and beamed upon him also with her unchanging smile.

"Madame, I doubt my ability before such an audience," said he, smilingly inclining his head.

The princess rested her bare round arm on a little table and considered a reply unnecessary. She smilingly waited. All the time the story was being told she sat upright, glancing now at her beautiful round arm, altered in shape by its pressure on the table, now at her still more beautiful bosom, on which she readjusted a diamond necklace. From time to time she smoothed the folds of her dress, and whenever the story produced an effect she glanced at Anna Pavlovna, at once adopted just the expression she saw on the maid of honor's face, and again relapsed into her radiant smile.

The little princess had also left the tea table and followed Helene.

"Wait a moment, I'll get my work.... Now then, what are you thinking of?" she went on, turning to Prince Hippolyte. "Fetch me my workbag."

There was a general movement as the princess, smiling and talking merrily to everyone at once, sat down and gaily arranged herself in her seat.

"Now I am all right," she said, and asking the vicomte to begin, she took up her work.

Prince Hippolyte, having brought the workbag, joined the circle and moving a chair close to hers seated himself beside her.

Le charmant Hippolyte was surprising by his extraordinary resemblance to his beautiful sister, but yet more by the fact that in spite of this resemblance he was exceedingly ugly. His features were like his sister's, but while in her case everything was lit up by a joyous, self-satisfied, youthful, and constant smile of animation, and by the wonderful classic beauty of her figure, his face on the contrary was dulled by imbecility and a constant expression of sullen self-confidence, while his body was thin and weak. His eyes, nose, and mouth all seemed puckered into a vacant, wearied grimace, and his arms and legs always fell into unnatural positions.

"It's not going to be a ghost story?" said he, sitting down beside the princess and hastily adjusting his lorgnette, as if without this instrument he could not begin to speak.

"Why no, my dear fellow," said the astonished narrator, shrugging his shoulders.

"Because I hate ghost stories," said Prince Hippolyte in a tone which showed that he only understood the meaning of his words after he had uttered them.

He spoke with such self-confidence that his hearers could not be sure whether what he said was very witty or very stupid. He was dressed in a dark-green dress coat, knee breeches of the color of cuisse de nymphe effrayee, as he called it, shoes, and silk stockings.

The vicomte told his tale very neatly. It was an anecdote, then current, to the effect that the Duc d'Enghien had gone secretly to Paris to visit Mademoiselle George; that at her house he came upon Bonaparte, who also enjoyed the famous actress' favors, and that in his presence Napoleon happened to fall into one of the fainting fits to which he was subject, and was thus at the duc's mercy. The latter spared him, and this magnanimity Bonaparte subsequently repaid by death.

The story was very pretty and interesting, especially at the point where the rivals suddenly recognized one another; and the ladies looked agitated.

"Charming!" said Anna Pavlovna with an inquiring glance at the little princess.

"Charming!" whispered the little princess, sticking the needle into her work as if to testify that the interest and fascination of the story prevented her from going on with it.

The vicomte appreciated this silent praise and smiling gratefully prepared to continue, but just then Anna Pavlovna, who had kept a watchful eye on the young man who so alarmed her, noticed that he was talking too loudly and vehemently with the abbe, so she hurried to the rescue. Pierre had managed to start a conversation with the abbe about the balance of power, and the latter, evidently interested by the young man's simple-minded eagerness, was explaining his pet theory. Both were talking and listening too eagerly and too naturally, which was why Anna Pavlovna disapproved.

"The means are... the balance of power in Europe and the rights of the people," the abbe was saying. "It is only necessary for one powerful nation like Russia--barbaric as she is said to be--to place herself disinterestedly at the head of an alliance having for its object the maintenance of the balance of power of Europe, and it would save the world!"

"But how are you to get that balance?" Pierre was beginning.

At that moment Anna Pavlovna came up and, looking severely at Pierre, asked the Italian how he stood Russian climate. The Italian's face instantly changed and assumed an offensively affected, sugary expression, evidently habitual to him when conversing with women.

"I am so enchanted by the brilliancy of the wit and culture of the society, more especially of the feminine society, in which I have had the honor of being received, that I have not yet had time to think of the climate," said he.

Not letting the abbe and Pierre escape, Anna Pavlovna, the more conveniently to keep them under observation, brought them into the larger circle.

Just then another visitor entered the drawing room: Prince Andrew Bolkonski, the little princess' husband. He was a very handsome young man, of medium height, with firm, clearcut features. Everything about him, from his weary, bored expression to his quiet, measured step, offered a most striking contrast to his quiet, little wife. It was evident that he not only knew everyone in the drawing room, but had found them to be so tiresome that it wearied him to look at or listen to them. And among all these faces that he found so tedious, none seemed to bore him so much as that of his pretty wife. He turned away from her with a grimace that distorted his handsome face, kissed Anna Pavlovna's hand, and screwing up his eyes scanned the whole company.

"You are off to the war, Prince?" said Anna Pavlovna.

"General Kutuzov," said Bolkonski, speaking French and stressing the last syllable of the general's name like a Frenchman, "has been pleased to take me as an aide-de-camp...."

"And Lise, your wife?"

"She will go to the country."

"Are you not ashamed to deprive us of your charming wife?"

"Andre," said his wife, addressing her husband in the same coquettish manner in which she spoke to other men, "the vicomte has been telling us such a tale about Mademoiselle George and Buonaparte!"

Prince Andrew screwed up his eyes and turned away. Pierre, who from the moment Prince Andrew entered the room had watched him with glad, affectionate eyes, now came up and took his arm. Before he looked round Prince Andrew frowned again, expressing his annoyance with whoever was touching his arm, but when he saw Pierre's beaming face he gave him an unexpectedly kind and pleasant smile.

"There now!... So you, too, are in the great world?" said he to Pierre.

"I knew you would be here," replied Pierre. "I will come to supper with you. May I?" he added in a low voice so as not to disturb the vicomte who was continuing his story.

"No, impossible!" said Prince Andrew, laughing and pressing Pierre's hand to show that there was no need to ask the question. He wished to say something more, but at that moment Prince Vasili and his daughter got up to go and the two young men rose to let them pass.

"You must excuse me, dear Vicomte," said Prince Vasili to the Frenchman, holding him down by the sleeve in a friendly way to prevent his rising. "This unfortunate fete at the ambassador's deprives me of a pleasure, and obliges me to interrupt you. I am very sorry to leave your enchanting party," said he, turning to Anna Pavlovna.

His daughter, Princess Helene, passed between the chairs, lightly holding up the folds of her dress, and the smile shone still more radiantly on her beautiful face. Pierre gazed at her with rapturous, almost frightened, eyes as she passed him.

"Very lovely," said Prince Andrew.

"Very," said Pierre.

In passing Prince Vasili seized Pierre's hand and said to Anna Pavlovna: "Educate this bear for me! He has been staying with me a whole month and this is the first time I have seen him in society. Nothing is so necessary for a young man as the society of clever women."

Anna Pavlovna smiled and promised to take Pierre in hand. She knew his father to be a connection of Prince Vasili's. The elderly lady who had been sitting with the old aunt rose hurriedly and overtook Prince Vasili in the anteroom. All the affectation of interest she had assu

Re:Excellent! (0)

Anonymous Coward | more than 5 years ago | (#26414989)

Easily the most boring troll EVER. Was it your intention to put us to sleep, or is it just a by-product of your penchant for unchecked verbosity?

Re:Excellent! (0)

Anonymous Coward | more than 5 years ago | (#26415195)

Rejoice! A higher class of troll!

Re:Excellent! (0)

Anonymous Coward | more than 5 years ago | (#26415573)

Not really it's just a copy paste of the Great Gatsby, no originality or thought into it. I mean i'll be honest it is much better than the damn "nigger nigger nigger" posts or the random one about C programmers or even this new one in a letter format about being in Prison. I don't remember seeing so many trolls these days. That being said I am expecting to see a new sort of troll in the form of ASCII Art, just give it time, since 20% of story comments are trolls.

Re:Excellent! (4, Insightful)

Xest (935314) | more than 5 years ago | (#26414593)

Or even more amusingly, hide the keys for Bluray's DRM in the Bluray logo, although it would be more fun to not hide it and just make an ASCII Bluray logo out of the keys they tried to magic off of the net claiming the string was copyrighted or whatever when they were first released.

Re:Excellent! (0, Troll)

Tyrannicsupremacy (1354431) | more than 5 years ago | (#26416205)

ten bucks to whoever can figure out the hidden message in THIS ascii picture: 8===D ~ ~ ~ ~ ~O:

Re:Excellent! ...Not really embedded GOASTE - yuk! (0)

Anonymous Coward | more than 5 years ago | (#26418077)

Makes you wonder... jeez I've said enough already..... I'd rather not give the trolls any more ideas....

hang it on your wall? (5, Insightful)

commodoresloat (172735) | more than 5 years ago | (#26414531)

Who wants to hang ascii art on their wall? Besides:

2. Select data file. This will be the data file embedded in the ascii art. (Limited to around 40kb at the moment)

Hmmm, how secure can this tool be when you have to send your secure data, unencrypted, to another site to use it?

Re:hang it on your wall? (5, Insightful)

shitzu (931108) | more than 5 years ago | (#26414551)

Who says you may not encrypt it first? A little AES never hurt steganography.

Re:hang it on your wall? (1)

commodoresloat (172735) | more than 5 years ago | (#26414601)

Good point. I withdraw that remark. The wall comment stands, however.

Re:hang it on your wall? (1)

Kokuyo (549451) | more than 5 years ago | (#26414819)

And that would be a matter of opinion and taste, making that point rather redundant.

Re:hang it on your wall? (5, Informative)

HonestButCurious (1306021) | more than 5 years ago | (#26415055)

Um, actually AES does hurt steganography since steganalysis tools have an easier time finding uniformly distributed payloads (such as AES ciphertexts) than somewhat biased payloads (such as standard text).

So, it would be easier to know that you have some data in there, but harder to know what the data is. Your call.

Take a look at this tutorial:
www.citi.umich.edu/u/provos/papers/practical.pdf

Re:hang it on your wall? (1)

packeteer (566398) | more than 5 years ago | (#26415161)

Could you inject some type of padding or filler in to make the data appear less evenly distributed when in reality the filler simply follows some pattern that can be easily removed later? I know this is not going to actually make it more secure but it could obfuscate the fact that the data exists.

Re:hang it on your wall? (1)

Zerth (26112) | more than 5 years ago | (#26416423)

You could easily do so, but adding such padding either further limits the capacity of an already limited space, or greatly increases the file size needed to hide your message.

Re:hang it on your wall? (1)

shadowknot (853491) | more than 5 years ago | (#26415303)

True, although you could pop the file to be encrypted in a TrueCrypt container (not all that plausible right now with the 40K limit!) then encrypt it as TC containers appear as random data, no signature or common structure so it would essentially appear that the user had just encrypted junk.

Re:hang it on your wall? (1)

Bandman (86149) | more than 5 years ago | (#26416931)

You could wallpaper a room with it

Re:hang it on your wall? (0)

Anonymous Coward | more than 5 years ago | (#26416959)

That would be pretty awesome actually!

Re:hang it on your wall? (0)

Anonymous Coward | more than 5 years ago | (#26417601)

I think the 40k limit comes from the picture size. Generalize the algorithm to be effective for a picture of arbitrary dimensions and TC might work.

However, there's still a question, what are you going to do with a 1000x1000 Ascii Art poster. I mean, hang it on a wall? Do we have so huge walls?

Re:hang it on your wall? (0)

Anonymous Coward | more than 5 years ago | (#26415917)

So, it would be easier to know that you have some data in there, but impossible to know what the data is. Your call.

fixed that for you.

Re:hang it on your wall? (2, Funny)

digitalhermit (113459) | more than 5 years ago | (#26416615)

Ahh, memories.

Back in the 80s it was the height of geek couture to have an ASCII printout of Princess Leia adorning your wall.

Breaking news (5, Funny)

Aiml (1450363) | more than 5 years ago | (#26414537)

A Catholic priest has been cleared of child pornography charges after the only evidence the prosecution could offer was a series of ROFLcopters found on his harddrive.

Re:Breaking news (5, Funny)

Chrisq (894406) | more than 5 years ago | (#26414581)

That, plus being a Catholic priest should be enough to persuade most juries.

Re:Breaking news (3, Funny)

IBBoard (1128019) | more than 5 years ago | (#26414973)

Being a Catholic priest persuades most people to clear them? I must have missed that one!

Re:Breaking news (2, Insightful)

Main Gauche (881147) | more than 5 years ago | (#26417727)

It was sitting right next to the joke.

can only encode about 40kB (5, Funny)

OrangeTide (124937) | more than 5 years ago | (#26414543)

Not quite big enough for a torrent, yet.

Re:can only encode about 40kB (2, Funny)

spintriae (958955) | more than 5 years ago | (#26414891)

This Google App Engine application is temporarily over its serving quota. Please try again later.

Looks like 40kB was pushing it.

Re:can only encode about 40kB (1)

phoenix321 (734987) | more than 5 years ago | (#26415003)

Well, encode a 40kB keyfile then. AES-40000 should be enough for anyone :)

lenatorrent-win7.jpg (0)

Anonymous Coward | more than 5 years ago | (#26415021)

Has anyone considered encoding torrents as jpg or pngs, that way we could let google cache them? Perhaps we can standardize on using an image of Lena Söderberg [wikipedia.org]

Re:lenatorrent-win7.jpg (0)

Anonymous Coward | more than 5 years ago | (#26415191)

Google already caches torrent files. Searching by .torrent extension [letmegoogl...foryou.com]

Re:can only encode about 40kB (2, Insightful)

roachdabug (1198259) | more than 5 years ago | (#26415855)

2GB ASCII art would seem pretty suspicious to me.

Re:can only encode about 40kB (0)

Anonymous Coward | more than 5 years ago | (#26418843)

I believe he was referring to the actual .torrent tracker files.

Re:can only encode about 40kB (1)

aceofspades1217 (1267996) | more than 5 years ago | (#26417289)

This will be great, you know when you have download a movie from usenet and its encoded in ANCII art.

Take that MPAA!

They will never figure out what those 4GB collections of ANCII art could possibly be.

Checkout his phone number - total nerd! (0)

Anonymous Coward | more than 5 years ago | (#26414559)

Phone Number: The 10191th prime x (10 x a + b) where a-b = the month I was born

slashdot v google slashdot wins (5, Interesting)

Anonymous Coward | more than 5 years ago | (#26414575)

google has been slashdotted.. well only that users app, but still, slashdot > google ;-)

"App Engine Error

        Over Quota
        This Google App Engine application is temporarily over its serving quota. Please try again later. "

Though it is intermittent.

Re:slashdot v google slashdot wins (1)

the100rabh (947158) | more than 5 years ago | (#26414597)

for me its permanent....seems like slashdotters have used up all the bandwidth available

Re:slashdot v google slashdot wins (1)

slimey_limey (655670) | more than 5 years ago | (#26414655)

Omnomnomnomnom.

Coral doesn't have the static content for most of the pages, but I'm working on that.

Re:slashdot v google slashdot wins (1)

Yvan256 (722131) | more than 5 years ago | (#26417337)

If we read the text long enough, maybe we'll be able to decode the secret message inside that weird ASCII Art? It does look like a regular sentence to me, but isn't that the point?

Seriously? (1)

jadedoto (1242580) | more than 5 years ago | (#26414583)

This just up and slashdotted already?

Re:Seriously? (5, Funny)

im_thatoneguy (819432) | more than 5 years ago | (#26414587)

Behold Cloud Computing! Fast, Efficient, Scalab.. errr--hold that thought.

Re:Seriously? (4, Interesting)

m0i (192134) | more than 5 years ago | (#26414795)

Behold Cloud Computing! Fast, Efficient, Scalab.. errr--hold that thought.

It does if you can justify the need to Google, for now they have quotas (see http://code.google.com/intl/fr/appengine/articles/quotas.html [google.com] ).

Re:Seriously? (0)

Anonymous Coward | more than 5 years ago | (#26414837)

Cloud computing is nothing more than nickel and diming gone batshit insane.

Re:Seriously? (0)

Anonymous Coward | more than 5 years ago | (#26415221)

Google is not required to provide unlimited resources for free. Sorry.

Re:Seriously? (4, Funny)

BenoitRen (998927) | more than 5 years ago | (#26414881)

And they say people don't RTFA...

Huh? (5, Insightful)

Frosty Piss (770223) | more than 5 years ago | (#26414589)

From the application linky:

This Google App Engine application is temporarily over its serving quota. Please try again later.

From Google App Engine web site:

Google App Engine makes it easy to design scalable applications that grow from one to millions of users without infrastructure headaches.

Maybe not...

Re:Huh? (4, Insightful)

Fruit (31966) | more than 5 years ago | (#26414659)

Quota is about money headaches, not infrastructure headaches. Google can't help you with that.

Re:Huh? (3, Funny)

wisty (1335733) | more than 5 years ago | (#26414805)

Still, it's good to know we slashdotted google. I bet that hasn't happened for a while.

Re:Huh? (0)

Anonymous Coward | more than 5 years ago | (#26414903)

It's not slashdotted. Slashdotted would mean "down".

The owner of the application probably didn't pay enough for Google to allow to serve more pages. That's all. Not a technical issue...

Re:Huh? (1)

ATMD (986401) | more than 5 years ago | (#26417533)

Meh, close enough. I for one am willing to gloss over such technicalities for the ego boost =)

Re:Huh? (3, Insightful)

MrZaius (321037) | more than 5 years ago | (#26415137)

>Quota is about money headaches, not infrastructure headaches. Google can't help you with that.

No, it's about infrastructure. They allow for users to "apply" for more if the app is cool enough, and presumably award some free access to a higher quota - Read the grandparent post link. Google does at least offer to consider helping. Regardless, though, money buys and maintains infrastructure, and that's all that really is the issue here even if they are trying to milk most developers that use the service of a bit of cash.

Re:Huh? (1)

Kent Recal (714863) | more than 5 years ago | (#26415181)

Well, at a market cap of 100 billions I think this should rather read: Google doesn't want to help you with that. :P

Re:Huh? (4, Informative)

m0i (192134) | more than 5 years ago | (#26414731)

AppEngine quotas [google.com] explained

Re:Huh? (1, Insightful)

spintriae (958955) | more than 5 years ago | (#26414773)

I didn't realize scalability was analogous with free unlimited bandwidth. I'll keep that in mind.

Re:Huh? (2, Interesting)

HonestButCurious (1306021) | more than 5 years ago | (#26415025)

The App Engine cluster is not just a big dump truck of cycles you dip into on demand. The processing power is quantized into discrete machines. There's actually a nice scheduler there that checks how busy your app is and assigns new processors to handle it. This isn't a real-time process so there are transient periods with overload. On the long run, GAE will scale fine.

There are some nice vids about the architecture on the Google developer youtube channels.

Re:Huh? (0)

Anonymous Coward | more than 5 years ago | (#26415331)

Google App Engine is not like a truck? So I guess it's a series of Tubes then huh?

Re:Huh? (0)

Anonymous Coward | more than 5 years ago | (#26415795)

So it's not a big truck, it's a series of youtubes?

Re:Huh? (1)

hobbit (5915) | more than 5 years ago | (#26415709)

You think Google got rich by giving their customers unlimited quota?

already /.ed (1)

Yanimal (1434757) | more than 5 years ago | (#26414591)

at 2 in the morning on a sunday.

Re:already /.ed (4, Funny)

Copley (726927) | more than 5 years ago | (#26414675)

You might have a little bit of a narrow world-view...

It's midday here, and I hear that the time in other places is even more different!

;-)

Re:already /.ed (0)

Anonymous Coward | more than 5 years ago | (#26415247)

What are you talking about? Everybody knows that whole /. audience consists of only North Americans. It even says that majority of them do in the FAQ entry from 2002! So there can't be very big differences...

Re:already /.ed (0)

Anonymous Coward | more than 5 years ago | (#26415177)

You must be American.

Bandwidth fail (0)

Anonymous Coward | more than 5 years ago | (#26414605)

Lol - it's already over the limit. As /. tends to do to small sites... pity, it sounded like a cool app.

Re:Bandwidth fail (1)

Frosty Piss (770223) | more than 5 years ago | (#26414617)

As /. tends to do to small sites...

Yes, Google is just a little upstart, but they'll grow...

Meh (1, Interesting)

Anonymous Coward | more than 5 years ago | (#26414623)

I'm SO going to store the Wikipedia article on Linux underneath Windows' logo. *maniacal laugh*

An example of what it can do... (5, Funny)

Copley (726927) | more than 5 years ago | (#26414647)

      ilovet
    ow      at
   c   h  d   o
  n            k
  e  y      p  o
  r   nbutdo   n
   t          e
    ll      my
      mother

Re:An example of what it can do... (2, Funny)

shird (566377) | more than 5 years ago | (#26414719)

dont ell my mother?

But yes, it's not exactly difficult to have ascii art embed a message. It's text afterall.

Re:An example of what it can do... (1)

spintriae (958955) | more than 5 years ago | (#26414861)

dont ell my mother?

Don tell my mother.

Re:An example of what it can do... (4, Funny)

Copley (726927) | more than 5 years ago | (#26414875)

It's beta code... there's bound to be a few errors in the encryption algorithm!

Re:An example of what it can do... (0, Redundant)

evan_arrrr! (1406417) | more than 5 years ago | (#26415147)

I love to watch donkey porn but don't tell my mother. That's actually what it says. Hardly steganography.

Re:An example of what it can do... (0)

Anonymous Coward | more than 5 years ago | (#26415297)

oh dear, humor failer.

Re:An example of what it can do... (0)

Anonymous Coward | more than 5 years ago | (#26415667)

Thanks rain man. I'd have been puzzling over that for weeks.

Re:An example of what it can do... (0)

Anonymous Coward | more than 5 years ago | (#26415761)

Gosh, you'd have thought Copley would have realised that, but evidently not. What an ass! Just as well you were here to point it out.

Re:An example of what it can do... (0)

Anonymous Coward | more than 5 years ago | (#26415891)

Whooosh!

Can be done for code, too (0)

Anonymous Coward | more than 5 years ago | (#26414697)

The programming language Spoon (http://www.bluedust.com/spoon/) demonstrated this, as well. Hiding crypto, anyone?

Previous art (5, Informative)

dee.cz (1160027) | more than 5 years ago | (#26414755)

We r0mb ya d0nt [pouet.net] - 256b intro from 1999, has 200 bytes of additional code hidden in file_id.diz

Re:Previous art (0)

Anonymous Coward | more than 5 years ago | (#26415391)

The secret message is....

Over Quota
This Google App Engine application is temporarily over its serving quota. Please try again later.

Re:Previous art (1)

Fred_A (10934) | more than 5 years ago | (#26416631)

Another vaguely similar hack at
http://www.ollydbg.de/Paperbak/index.html [ollydbg.de]
Backing up your data on paper (and restoring with a scanner). Author claims 500K bytes of uncompressed data per standard page (A4). You can store it as ain image file if you like I think (it's a Windows app so I didn't actually try it)

You din't get any pretty pictures (unless you're very lucky) though.

huh (5, Funny)

pondermaster (1445839) | more than 5 years ago | (#26414797)

who needs steganography when you can hide whole sites with slashdotting at least for a while...

Real Men don't make backups (5, Funny)

andyn (689342) | more than 5 years ago | (#26414841)

Real Men don't make backups. They embed their private data into ASCII art and let the world mirror it.

It should also run as perl... (1)

whyloginwhysubscribe (993688) | more than 5 years ago | (#26414995)

I'd be more impressed if it was also a piece of perl code. It might be slashdotted one minute - then back up the next by the way...

Hey dawg (1, Funny)

Anonymous Coward | more than 5 years ago | (#26415017)

I heard you like pictures, so we put a ASCII image text string in your ASCII image, so you can look at a picture while you look at a picture

Extremely simple concept (1, Interesting)

Anonymous Coward | more than 5 years ago | (#26415033)

Algorithm 1 is used to transform an input (image) into an output (ascii art).
Algorithm 2 is used to modify the output of the first algorithm according to a pattern. The pattern is the data file encoded.
By seeing how the actual output deviates from the output that would have resulted if only algorithm 1 was used, and knowledge of algorithm 2, the pattern can be deduced.

This is really no different from hiding anything within anything. If you had an algorithm that converted spreadsheets to well-sounding MP3 files that it was possible to hide goat porn in, it would work according to the same principle. Although this is a slick implementation.

Re:Extremely simple concept (1)

JayJay.br (206867) | more than 5 years ago | (#26415951)

Except for the fact that if you are the only one that has the source image (i.e., some picture of yours) or even if you modify any source image (color, contrast, compression, you name it) in a way that is unique to your source image file, there's no easy way to discover the pattern, since you can't see the 'original' (pre-stego) picture.

Pretty much like a symmetrical cryptosystem.

You could call that security by obscurity, but even so it is a nice obscurity :).

What. (0)

Anonymous Coward | more than 5 years ago | (#26415299)

How many people read the title off the RSS feed and thought it said ASCII Art Stenography?

Waddabout camel code? (1)

Skiron (735617) | more than 5 years ago | (#26415357)

Camel Code [perlmonks.org]

Sorted words (2, Interesting)

cornicefire (610241) | more than 5 years ago | (#26415721)

I've always liked the way to hide information in a list of things. Peter Wayner wrote a Java thingee that starts with a list of top disco songs. [wayner.org] Talk about ambiguous. Any order would make sense. But you can use any list. Here's my favorites: Barry White: Barry White's Greatest Hits (20th Century, 1975) KC & The Sunshine Band: KC & The Sunshine Band (TK, 1975) Gregg Diamond Bionic Boogie: Hot Butterfly (Polydor, 1978) The Jimmy Castor Bunch: Butt Of Course (Atlantic, 1974) Silver Convention: Save Me (Midland International, 1975) Voyage: Voyage; Fly Away (Marlin, 1978) First Choice: Delusions (Gold Mind, 1977) Beautiful Bend: Beautiful Bend (Marlin, 1978) Candi Staton: Young Hearts Run Free (Warner Bros., 1976) Loleatta Holloway: Loleatta (Gold Mind/Salsoul, 1976) Trammps: The Trammps (Golden Fleece/CBS, 1975) Giorgio Moroder: From Here to Eternity (Casablanca, 1985) Cerrone: Love In C Minor (Cotillion, 1977) Santa Esmeralda: Don't Let Me Be Misunderstood (Casablanca, 1977) Chic: Chic (Atlantic, 1977) Taana Gardner: Taana Gardner (West End, 1979) LaBelle: Nightbirds (Epic, 1974) B.T. Express: Do It ('Til You're Satisfied) (Roadshow, 1974) Salsoul Orchestra: The Salsoul Orchestra (Salsoul, 1975) Michael Zager Band: Let's All Chant (Private Stock, 1977) Donna Summer: The Donna Summer Anthology (Casablanca/Chronicles, 1993) Linda Clifford: If My Friends Could See Me Now (Curtom, 1978) Direct Current: Direct Current (TEC Records, 1979) Cloud One: Atmosphere Strutt (P&P, 1976) Gloria Gaynor: Never Can Say Goodbye (MGM, 1975) Kano: Kano (Emergency, 1980) France Joli: France Joli (Prelude, 1979) Village People: Village People (Casablanca, 1977) Diana Ross: The Boss (Motown, 1979) Tantra: The Double Album (Importe/12, 1980) Cerrone: Cerrone 3 - Supernature (Cotillion, 1978) Hamilton Bohannon: Summertime Groove (Mercury, 1978) Love And Kisses: Love And Kisses (Casablanca, 1977) Ashford & Simpson: So So Satisfied; Send It (Warner Bros., 1977) Isaac Hayes: Chocolate Chip (HBS, 1975) Love Unlimited: Under The Influence Of . . . (20th Century, 1973) Disco-Tex & The Sex-O-Lettes: Disco Tex & His Sex-O-Lettes (Chelsea, 1975) Kool & The Gang: Wild And Peaceful (De-Lite, 1973) Sister Sledge: We Are Family (Cotillion, 1979) Sylvester: Step II (Fantasy, 1978) Change: The Glow Of Love (Warner Bros./RFC, 1980) Sister Sledge: Circle Of Love (Cotillion, 1975) Grace Jones: Portfolio (Island, 1977)

Re:Sorted words (2, Interesting)

peterwayner (266189) | more than 5 years ago | (#26415779)

For more information, you can find the Table of Contents, FAQ and a few other case studies at my site. [wayner.org]

The Third edition of the book just came out. I think Amazon just got their copies from the printer. [amazon.com]

 

ascii on *nix (0)

Anonymous Coward | more than 5 years ago | (#26416255)

how do I ascii on *nix with alt+numpad?

OOOOLLLLLDDD (2, Interesting)

drmitch (1065012) | more than 5 years ago | (#26416587)

There have been console programs for *nix that do this for YEARS!
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