Posts tagged with "seanfhocal"

(le Róislín)

Faoi dheireadh, an starr dheireanach!  Finally, the home stretch!  Cuid a ceathair as ceithre chuid (Part 4 of 4 parts).  Today’s blog will deal with the fifth of the cúig iontráil in Fintan O’Toole’s “Wasting Good Words on a Terrible Situation” (www.irishtimes.com/newspaper/opinion/2012/0103/1224309734610_pf.html).  I’ll repeat the SPOILER ALERT though.  You might want to wait until finishing an blag seo and the previous three sa tsraith cheathairchodach seo to read O’Toole’s article, since these four blogs are set up as a dúshlán to discover, via Irish, what English words he listed.

To quickly review the terms already covered in this series, seo cúig fhocal le meaitseáil:

1. déine                       a. difficult

2. tarrtháil                  b. austerity (1)

3. gátar                       c. sacrifice

4. íobairt                     d. bailout

5. deacair                    e. austerity (2)

If  you’ve just joined this dúshlán focal, the answers are sna trí bhlag roimhe seo: “austerity,” “bailout” http://www.transparent.com/irish/cuig-fhrasa-bearla-gan-mhaith-de-reir-fhionntan-ui-thuathail-aka-fintan-o%E2%80%99toole-cuid-13/; “difficult” http://www.transparent.com/irish/cuig-fhrasa-bearla-gan-mhaith-de-reir-fhionntan-ui-thuathail-aka-fintan-o%E2%80%99toole-cuid-24/, and “sacrifice” http://www.transparent.com/irish/cuig-fhrasa-bearla-gan-mhaith-de-reir-fhionntan-ui-thuathail-aka-fintan-o%E2%80%99toole-cuid-34/. Or just check na freagraí thíos.

At any rate, that brings us up to iontráil a cúig.  This one is a full-fledged seanfhocal, so instead of just listing comhainmneacha (synonyms), I’ll provide two keywords and see if you can piece the seanfhocal together.  It’s quite well known in English.

5. eochairfhocail (keywords): diabhal, mionsonra

But wait, it’s not quite that simple.  Or to paraphrase the pitchmen of the gnéchláracha fógraíochta, “Ach fan, tá a thuilleadh ann!”  

There are a couple of other possibilities for “mionsonra,” such as “mionphointe” or simply “sonra.”  The prefix “mion-“ can be added to “sonra” or to “pointe” to emphasize the miniaturizing aspect, and, of course it can also be added to hundreds, perhaps thousands of other words, like “mionarm” (small weapon), “mionchabhlach” (flotilla), “mionduirling” (small shingle-beach), “mionfheoil” (minced meat), “miongháire” (smile, soft chuckle), and “mion-ghnéchlár” (featurette).

For that matter, there are also a number of synonyms or nicknames (umm, “old”-nicknames?) for “an diabhal” in Irish, including “an giolla goillín (lit. the tormentor-lad)” “an mac mallachta (lit. the son of curses),” and “an t-áibhirseoir (the adversary).”  In fact, he goes by various names in English too, such as “Old Scratch,” “Mr. Splitfoot,” and “Old Nick.”  In today’s proverb, however, the most basic name, “devil,” is the one that applies.

There are still a few points to keep in mind with our “diabhal/mionsonra” proverb.  “Sonra” means “detail” and “mionsonra” is “minor detail,” but the words are sometimes used interchangeably.  “Pointe” can mean “point” in general, but also means “a particular (thing/aspect),” “a precise spot,” and “a distinctive trait;” I don’t think “pointe” is the best choice for “detail” here, since it can mean so many other things (including “headland,” “tip,” “direction,” etc.).  “Mionphointe” [MIN-FWIN-tchuh], though, means “fine point,” “small point,” or “particular detail,” so could be used here.

I looked for examples of this proverb in Irish online, and found, at most a mere handful of examples (about five!).  I was a bit surprised, since it is so widely used in English and seems to have a universal meaning.  How widely used in English?  1,370,000 hits worth.  In the search for Irish versions, I used all the variations for “detail” that I could think of.  That included both singular and plural forms for words like “pointe” (pointí), “mionphointe” (mionphointí), “sonra” (sonraí), and “mionsonra” (mionsonraí).  An interesting point is that in English, there is a split as to whether we’re just discussing one detail (or perhaps, with a bit of sineicdicé, one detail stands for all the detail) or whether we say “details” (plural).  At any rate, there is a fairly consistent split in English, with American writers tending to use the plural form (details) and both Irish and British writers using the singular (detail).

So if you want to translate this proverb with the plural sense, it would be: Tá an diabhal sna mionsonraí (sna mionphointí, sna sonraí, srl.), “the devil is in the details.”

O’Toole uses the proverb with the word “detail” in the singular, so that would be: Tá an diabhal sa mhionsonra (sa mhionphointe, sa sonra, srl.), “the devil is in the detail.”

At some other point, we can review the difference between “sna” (plural) and “sa” (singular), but that would definitely be at least blag iomlán eile.

Another thought that occurred to me in looking at this proverb is the possible use of the habitual form of the verb “to be” (which Standard English doesn’t differentiate).  So I also double-checked for examples with “bíonn” but found … tada (aka faic)!  “Bíonn” is routinely used in sentences that have adverbs like “i gcónaí” (always) or “go minic” (often), but even on its own, it suggests the habitual nature of an activity.  In theory, we could say “Bíonn an diabhal sna mionsonraí” (the devil does be in the details) but I found neither hide nor hair of that online either.

I also checked for fronting, which would be used for extra emphasis (Is sna mionsonraí atá an diabhal, etc.).  Diabhal amas a fuair mé mar sin (“Divil” a hit I got like that, that is to say, tada, rud ar bith, faic na fríde).

In other words, the picture is pretty clear.  This seemingly simple proverb just isn’t widely represented in Irish, at least not according to a fairly comprehensive search.  To the limited extent that I can find it online, it varies slightly in form (sonraí, mionsonraí, mionphointí) and it also tends to preceded or marked by a linguistic disclaimer, suggesting that the writers realize that they’re really using an English expression and translating it.  One such introductory phrase is “Mar a deirtear” (as it is said).  Another technique is to put the phrase in quotation marks.  Admittedly, that might be true of proverbs in general, but it seems to be all the more telling here, given the lack of Irish examples in a natural context.  Of the few places I found an Irish version of this proverb online, they were mostly translation sites, or primarily North American sites (or both together).  This suggests that the writers were aware that they were using an Irish version of a saying that is not traditionally found in Irish.  Which is done a-plenty these days, and makes life all the more interesting.

So, suimiúil, nach ea, that there should be so many examples of this proverb in English and so few in Irish, especially since Irish is rich in both humorous and threatening traditional expressions regarding the devil.  Some of these include  “An rud a thig thar dhroim an diabhail, imíonn sé faoina bholg,” “Beidh an diabhal is a mháthair le díol,” and “Cead an diabhail acu!”  But the translations for those will have to wait for blag eile!

Meanwhile, getting back to O’Toole’s list, somehow, in the back of my mind I keep mulling over yet another Irish proverb as a near-ish equivalent to “The devil is in the detail.”  It’s certainly not a literal equivalent, and takes a somewhat different slant on the issues like maolú (obfuscation, mollification, lessening, reduction, dulling) and dorchú (obfuscation, darkening, being secretive).  But nevertheless, I’d like to suggest it as at least an angle on looking at deliberately obfuscated material, perhaps overloaded with mionsonraí:

An rud a scríobhann an púca, léann sé féin é.  (What the pooka writes, he himself reads, i.e. only he can read it).

So perhaps that suggests that some of the mealy-mouthed, jargon-laden doublespeak that we encounter in official documents could be written by púcaí, and that would explain it all!  An fíor dom é?  Bhur mbarúlacha? 

And further checking out bhur mbarúlacha, what do you think of O’Toole’s conclusion, that these words (austerity, bailout, difficult, sacrifice, the devil is in the details) not be used, except, as he says, “ironically and in inverted commas”?  Of course, I’m sure he doesn’t realistically expect the words will actually be outlawed or that íoróin (irony) will trump tláithíneacht (“mealy-mouthedness”, wheedling, flattery) or béarlagair an mhaorlathais (bureaucratic jargon) or ceol draíochta an bhéalghrá (the magic music of lip-service).   Or that uaschamóga will be diligently used where advisable.  O’Toole does, however, make a strong plea for society as a whole to devote more attention to issues such as “republic,” “democracy,” equality,” “justice,” and “sanity.”  So in some future blog, we’ll get back to those terms in Irish, and perhaps cúpla ainmfhocal teibí eile (and perhaps a few other abstract nouns).  But idir an dá linn, ábhair níos éadroimeSGF, Róislín

Freagraí don “mheaitseáil”: 1b, déine, austerity (1); 2d, tarrtháil, bailout; 3e, gátar, austerity (2); 4c, íobairt, sacrifice; 5a, deacair, difficult

Gluais: amas, hit (in computer search); béalghrá, lip-service; ceathairchodach, four-part; éadrom, light; gnéchlár fógraíochta, infomercial (cf. gnéchlar, feature program); sa, in the (followed by a singular noun, as in “sa bhosca”); idir an dá linn, meanwhile; sineicdicé, synecdoche; sna, in the (followed by a plural noun, as in “sna boscaí”); sraith, series.

Nóta don iontráil “béalghrá”: as for “ceol draíochta an bhéalghrá,” thanks to Ruth Nic Giolla Iasachta (an t-iriseoir / drámadóir / scríbhneoir scripte) for that frása gonta (pithy phrase, which is, ironically, ar ábhar na neamhghontachta), from her article “Teannas agus Drochamhras” (http://www.beo.ie/alt-teannas-agus-drochamhras.aspx).  Both “ceol draíochta” and “béalghrá” are established, traditional Irish phrases, but the combination is, drmbansm, one of those moments of inspired journalistic phraseology.  In this case it neatly links Irish folklore (the “ceol draíochta”) with óráidíocht pholaitiúil thocsaineach (toxic political oratory), a rare combination!

Nóta don nóta: ar ábhar …, on the topic of …, drmbansm, my new acronym for IMHO, lit. de réir mo bharúla, ach nach saoi mé (according to my opinion but it’s not an expert that I am); neamhghontachta, non-pithiness

(le Róislín)

October, according to its Irish meaning, is the “month of the end of the harvest.”  But the word “deireadh” has several other meanings and many other applications.  Here’s a little sampler, and also a little mix and match, where you’ll need to determine whether to use “deireadh,” (the basic form), dheireadh, ndeireadh, or deiridh.  Aistriúcháin thíos, faoi fhreagraí na gceisteanna eile. 

deireadh seachtaine: Cad a rinne tú ar an deireadh seachtaine?

go deireadh: ó thús go deireadh

faoi dheireadh: Tháinig an litir faoi dheireadh

bulcaid deiridh [I’ll let you mull over your own “sampla” for that one, mar ní mairneálach mé!)

clib dheiridh (téarma ríomhaireachta): Tá an chlib dheiridh ar iarraidh.

dáta deiridh: Cad é an dáta deiridh?

deicín deiridh: I was going to skip over “deic dheiridh,” just because I thought we had enough examples, but I couldn’t resist “deicín deiridh.”  You’ll probably see why from the translation below.

And for good measure, a seanfhocal, mar ní sháraítear iad!

Deireadh gáire gol.  (Note: no verb is needed in this saying).

Agus anois, focail le meaitseáil (freagraí, A, thíos):

1.. cosa __   2..  siar go  __         3.. Mol a __.           4.. i __ a nirt            5.. crann __

a) ndeireadh   b) deiridh          c) dheireadh         d) deiridh        e) deireadh                

By the way, there is a caveat lookalike word: deireadh can also be a verb form, completely unrelated to all of the above.  Barúil agat cé acu briathar?  Leid: Is ceann de na briathra neamhrialta é.  Freagra (B) thíos

Gluais: cé acu, which (lit. which “of them,” but the “of them” part doesn’t really flow with most English translations); gáire, laughter; gol, weeping, lamenting; mairneálach, mariner; neacht, niece; neamhrialta, irregular; neart, strength (nirt, of strength); nia, nephew; seanfhocal, proverb.

Freagraí: 1b) cosa deiridh, hind legs; 2e) siar go deireadh, all the way to the end, lit. “west/back to (the) end; 3c) Mol a dheireadh, praise it (from, according to) its result; 4a) i ndeireadh a nirt, at the end of his/her strength; 5b) crann deiridh, mizzen-mast  

Freagra (B): deireadh, ón mbriathar “abair,” tríú pearsa, uatha, aimsir ghnáthchaite.  Which essentially says it means (he/she/it) “used to say.”  For this verb form, “deir” is the core, and the “-eadh” is the typical ending for something which happened continually in the past. 

Aistriúcháin:

deireadh seachtaine, weekend: What did you do on the weekend?

go deireadh, to (the) end: from beginning to end

faoi dheireadh, finally: The letter finally came.

bulcaid deiridh, afterpeak bulkhead

clib dheiridh, an end tag (in computing); lenited because “clib” (tag, tab) is feminine.  The end tag is missing.  I hope that example satisfies any cláraitheoirí out there – clibeanna deiridh aren’t my usual “ábhar cainte”!

dáta deiridh, closing date: What’s the closing date?

deicín deiridh, monkey poop (small deck on a boat – see how the Irish is so much more straightforward: deic, a deck; deicín, a little deck.  None of that nautical monkey business about jackets and balls (brass) and suchlike.  Well, if those don’t ring familiar, brush up on your Melville or some other 19th-century sailor-author.  And btw, this isn’t the ‘monkey poop’ celebrated in A. J. Jacobs curious account of reading all the volumes of the Encyclopedia Britannica (The Know-It-All: One’s Man’s Humble Quest to Become the Smartest Person in the World (NY: Simon & Schuster, 2004).  When he talks about “monkey poop,” with his nianna and neachtanna, no less, he really does mean eiscréid ó mhoncaithe.  And just for the sake of completion, deic dheiridh is the “poop deck” itself.

An seanfhocal: Deireadh gáire gol, laughter brings tears, lit. (the) end of laughter (is) crying.

Well, sin deireadh an bhlag seo.  SGF – Róislín

Agus mé ag éisteacht leis an raidió le déanaí, chuala mé clár faoi neamhshlándáil bia.  Bhí an clár i mBéarla ach shocraigh mé ag an am go scríobhfainn blag faoi théarmaí Gaeilge a bhaineanns le bia.  Níl mé ag caint anseo faoi chineálacha áirithe bia mar thrátaí grianthromaithe nó vaiféil, ach go ginearálta, faoi bhia agus ocras agus a leithéid.

While I was listening to the radio recently, I heard a program about food insecurity.  The program was in English but I decided at the time that I would write a blog about Irish terms pertaining to food.  I’m not talking here about specific types of food, like sun-dried tomatoes or waffles, but generally, about food, hunger, and the like. 

So here are the basics:

Tá ocras orm [taw OK-russ OR-um], I’m hungry, lit. hunger is on me.

Hunger, like many other feelings (tart, thirst; brón, sadness, srl.), is “on you” in Irish. 

There is an adjective “ocrach” (hungry), but it is reserved more for saying someone has a “hungry appearance” (cuma ocrach) or for being abstract (na blianta ocracha, the hungry years; talamh ocrach, hungry soil, srl.).  “Ocrasach” is a variation. 

You might be asked, “An bhfuil ocras ort?” (Are you hungry, lit. Is there hunger on you?)

Possible answers could be:

Tá, tá ocras orm: Yes, I’m hungry.

Níl, d’ith mé tamaillín ó shin: No, I ate a little while ago.  But don’t try turning down a cup of tea in Ireland – somehow it’s just not done.  Actually, let me revise that.  Often what’s done is that you politely decline the tea the first time it’s offered.  Then it will probably be offered again, so turn it down again but sounding a little more hesitant.  But you’re still saying you don’t want to put your host to any trouble and your host is insisting it’s no trouble at all at all.  But the tea will probably be offered a third time, at which time most people will acquiesce and accept the tea.  Which everyone knew all along would be the likely outcome.  I know that’s a bit of a scéal thairis (digression), so let’s get back to hunger.    

If you’re really hungry, you could say:

Tá mé stiúgtha leis an ocras [… SHTYOOG-huh lesh un OK-russ], I’m perished with hunger (famished). 

So, “ocras” is the word most commonly used to describe hunger that an individual feels.  Turning to the more somber side of the issue though, and to the reason why “slándáil bia” is such an important topic these days, we have the word “gorta.”  In fact, this word has pretty much entered the vocabulary everyone should know to discuss even the basics of Irish history, when speaking English, since the phrase “An Gorta Mór” (The Great Hunger) appears to have largely replaced the term “potato famine” referring to the 1845 to 1851 time period.  

If one is very new to learning the Irish language, but has read in general on Irish history, one might well have encountered the word “gorta” before learning the word “ocras.”  In that case, it might seem surprising that there’s this shift in vocabulary, that one can’t just take the word “hunger” from the phrase “An Gorta Mór” and drop it into the everyday question, “Are you hungry?”  But this kind of thing happens regularly with languages, one word for one context and another word, meaning almost the same thing, for another context. 

So how else is the word “gorta” used, aside from the phrase “An Gorta Mór”?  Here are some samples:

bliain ghorta, a year of famine

bás den ghorta, death from starvation or famine

There’s also the phrase, “Bhí gorta air” meaning “He was weak with hunger.”  In my experience, however, that’s not used in everyday situations, even when one feels starving simply because it’s been some hours since one’s last meal.  In that case, the phrase with “stiúgtha” would be more likely.  In fact, for any of us in a country or region where “slándáil bia” is not an active concern, I think we tend to use the phrase “starving” even when we’re nowhere near the medical definition.

And having said all of this, yes, there is some overlap.  For example, there are at least two ways to say someone starved to death: “Fuair sé bás den ocras” or “Fuair sé bás den ghorta.”  In both cases, the more literal translation is “he got death from (the) hunger.”

To end on a more upbeat note, there’s also the well-known seanfhocal, “Is maith an t-anlann an t-ocras” (Hunger is the best sauce).  Nice for the thought and nice also as a reminder about inserting the letter “t-“ after the definite article (“an”) when dealing with an “ainmfhocal” which is both “fireannach” (masculine) and “uatha” (singular) and which starts “le guta” (with a vowel).  Had to end on a grammar note, didn’t I?  Bhuel, tá mé ag dul amach le haghaidh bróinse.  Tá ocras orm anois agus is dócha go gcuirfidh sin anlann ar an mbia!

Nóta ginearálta:  It’s at least another blog’s worth, but there are dozens of other terms like “An Gorta Mór” that are used when discussing Irish history (in English) that either have no English equivalent or for which the literal English translation doesn’t have the same nuance as the Irish.  The same is true, of course, for other languages around the world, with terms such as “raj,” “glasnost,” or “wampum.”  In fact, it’s also true for some English terms that might be used in discussing American history in Irish, such as “the Pilgrim Fathers,” for which the Irish term is “na Pilgrim Fathers.”  One could always take “pilgrim” (oilithreach) and “father” (athair) and construct a term, but in some cases, it’s best just to leave the term in its original language.

This is probably the arena where most of the confusion with clásail choibhneasta starts to set in.  Remember how the “” form of the verb “to be” changes drastically (to “bhfuil”) for the question form?  You’ve probably seen this if you’ve done day one of almost any Irish language course.  Here’s an example, just for a refresher:

 

Tá an lá go breá.  An bhfuil an lá go breá?  Tá, tá an lá go breá. 

Not the world’s most exciting set of sentences but another good workhorse example (The day is fine.  Is the day fine?  Yes, the day is fine). 

 

For the indirect relative clause, we’re going to use the “bhfuil” form, as long as our base verb is “tá” (one of the present tenses of the verb “to be”).   Eventually we’ll expand all this to include such goodies as “raibh,” “bhfaighidh,” and “n-íosfadh,” but for now, let’s just contrast “tá” with “bhfuil” in relative clauses.

 

The indirect relatives clauses are used to express concepts such as “whose,” “to whom,” “by whom,” “for whom,” etc.  In other words, indirect relative clauses are used when the subject of the second clause isn’t the same as the subject of the first clause but is related indirectly to that first subject.  This blog will probably only have room to show examples of “whose” and we’ll save “to whom,” etc., for blag eile.   Somehow this is all reminding me of Michaleen Oge’s speech in The Quiet Man about the party of the first part and the party of the second part, but, The Quiet Man, sin ábhar do bhlag eile. 

 

Remember the last blog’s examples:

 

Sin é an fear atá tinn.  That is the man who is ill. 

The man you’re pointing out (by saying “sin é”) is also the subject of the second clause (he’s the one who is ill). 

 

Now contrast:

Sin é an fear a bhfuil a mhac tinn.  That is the man whose son is ill. 

Switch the verb to the “bhfuil” form, add a second subject (the son), and, hey, presto! — you’ve got an indirect relative clause!

 

We’ll save the past and future tenses for yet another blog but for now will simply show a few more examples of this in the present, to emphasize one more point about the indirects.  The verb introducing the second clause for these types of sentences gets eclipsed (gets the “urú”).  Since we always see “bhfuil” already eclipsed in modern Irish spelling, the fact that it’s eclipsed here isn’t particularly noticeable.  So let’s look at a couple of regular verbs (briseann, tógann) whose eclipsis will be obvious:

 

Briseann an mac an fhuinneog.  Sin é an fear a mbriseann a mhac an fhuinneog.

(The son breaks the window.  That is the man whose son breaks the window). 

Eclipsis: the initial “b” of “briseann” changes to the “mb” of “mbriseann” [MRISH-un]

  

And backtracking just a bit, if the man himself breaks the window, we’d be back to the direct relative clause (with lenition/séimhiú): Sin é a fear a bhriseann an fhuinneog (That’s the man who breaks the window).  Of course, we hope it isn’t a habit with him, but that’s beyond our control!

 

And one more set, and that’s it for today:

 

Tógann an mac an t-airgead.  Sin é an slíbhín a dtógann a mhac an t-airgead.

The son takes the money.  That is the sly person whose son takes the money. 

Eclipsis: tógann becomes “dtógann” [DOH-gun]

 

Now if it was the sleeveen himself taking the money, the sentence would be:

Sin é an slíbhín a thógann an t-airgead.  But the previous example focused on “mac an tslíbhín,” whose behavior we might have predicted from the proverbial wisdom, in its various forms: “An cleas a bhíonn ag an deaid, bíonn sé ag an mac” or “Toradh an chrainn fána bhun,” both more or less saying, “The apple doesn’t fall far from the tree.”   

 

Is deas iad na seanfhocail mar nimhíoc ar an ngramadach!   

 

Nótaí: díreach [DJEER-ukh] direct; neamh- [nyow] un-, non-, in-, etc.; neamhdhíreach [NYOW-YEER-ukh] indirect; Michaleen Oge in full-fledged Irish would be “Micilín Óg,” but the movie anglicizes the spelling; nimhíoc [niv-eek], antidote, lit. “poison-cure”

Hopefully this will prove an entertaining but useful review of the seanfhocail we just learned.  Below we’ll have a few more proverbs to fill in that will be new for this blog (old, of course, mar eolas traidisiúnta).  The choices are given first in a word bank, since columns may not work out in the various forms in which this blog is read:

 

Bunachar focal: chaint, ciúin, ionann, briathra, ola, shrón, folamh, dias, ciúin, más

 

1. Is minic a1 bhris béal duine a2 ______.        

 

2. Soitheach ________ is mó torann.   

 

3. Is ___ iad na linnte lána.                                  

 

4. Is é an ____ is troime is ísle a chromann a ceann.   

 

5. ___ maith leat síocháin, cairdeas, ‘s moladh, — éist, feic, agus fan balbh.     

 

                                                                       

6. Ní dhéanfaidh an _________ an obair.  . 

 

7. Ní bheathaíonn na _________ na bráithre.

 

8. Faigheann an roth díoscánach an ____     

 

9. Is minic _____ ciontach..                                   

 

10. Is __________ toil ‘s éisteacht.                    

 

 

Seanfhocail Nach Raibh sa Bhlag Seo Cheana (“Seanfhocail Nua”)

 

Bunachar focal: iasc, mhóra, gandal

 

1. Na héisc bheaga a bheathaíos na héisc ______.

2. Má chuireann tú gé go dtí an domhan theas, ní bheidh sí ina ___ a’ teacht ar ais

                                                               

3. Tá dúil ag an chat san ___ ach cha fhliuchann sé a chuid cosa le é a fháil. 

 

Nótaí: a1, that; a2, his; dias, ear of corn; is, “-est” or “most” in phrases like “is mó” (from “mór”), “is troime (from trom”), and “is ísle” (from “íseal”); más, if it is (not the noun “más,” buttock, ham); díoscánach, squeaky; ciontach, guilty; beathaigh, feed, nourish; domhan theas, southern world; gandal, gander; dúil, desire; cha=ní (Donegal Irish); fliuch, wet (verb or adjective); a fháil, to get

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Back to the Top