ROMAN CATHOLIC BOOKS
PARDON AND PEACE:
Fuddle and Fif
Alfred Wilson, CP
Imprimatur and Nihil Obstat,
IT IS an indisputable
fact that of all fanatics the most difficult
to deal with are religious fanatics. Religion tends to gather around it
pious people who are supremely obstinate; scrupulous people who are
morbid and unreasonable; and eccentric people who justify religiosity
by saying that "their conscience is different" and by quoting intuition
against --- and even despising --- commonsense. Religion, as history
shows, often produces a crop of illuminati, irrationalists, and
intolerant private pontiffs.
These are disturbing facts,
well worth careful study. Many take it for
granted that anti-social abnormalities are the natural outcome of
religion; and on that account they despise and hate religion as the
enemy of sanity and social progress. If we could rid religion of
fanatics and eccentrics, we should have gone a long way towards
converting the world.
Eccentricities, when they are
not due to personality, are occasioned by
misunderstanding of religion, especially by misunderstanding of the
meaning of the word "conscience." Shakespeare has expressed a very
common idea of conscience in the much-quoted lines of Hamlet:
Thus conscience doth make
cowards of us all;
And thus the native hue of
Is sicklied o'er with the pale
cast of thought:
And enterprises of great pith
With this regard, their
currents turn awry,
And lose the name of action. 
Conscience is regarded as a
sickly, emasculating thing, which causes
morbid introversion, produces characters who shy at shadows, and
destroys all strength of character. Nothing could be less true.
Fidelity to conscience requires and produces the heroic courage of the
Saint. Disastrous misconceptions of conscience have arisen because it
is so often confused with fuss, feeling, fuddle, funk and fif. Yes,
these are the ingredients of which many consciences --- or what
unfortunately pass for consciences --- are compounded.
Although "conscience" is a
vital word very much in use, there are not
many who could give a confident and accurate definition of it. Small
wonder that people get fuddled about examination of conscience when
they do not know what they are supposed to be examining. It is a
pathetic fact that of those who examine their consciences regularly,
the majority "know not what they do." Small wonder that their vain
fears and irrational obsessions prove strangely difficult to dislodge.
Experience teaches that many people entertain about conscience, not
merely woolly notions, but even definitely wrong notions. In such a
vital matter, haziness, not to mention error, is lamentable and
disastrous. Fuddle about conscience leaves the door wide open to
obstinacy, intuition, scruples, fanaticism and fif. (By fif is meant a
tendency to substitute emotional intuition for reason.)
WHAT IS CONSCIENCE?
Conscience is not a special
Needless to say, conscience is
in the soul. If you recall your
catechism, you will remember that in the soul there are three powers
--- memory, understanding and will. No mention of a fourth power called
conscience. In the soul there are two faculties, intellect and will.
Neither philosophy nor theology mentions a third faculty of the soul
Yet many people (one might
safely say "most people"), if they
reflected, would find that they cherish the notion of conscience as a
special faculty, a kind of spiritual instinct, an inner voice
whispering categorically of right and wrong, a mentor in the soul
making instructive suggestions analogous to revelation, inspiration or
immediate direction from God. Anyone with these ideas should pause to
ask himself what and where his supposed special faculty is and how it
operates. No such special faculty is known to theology.
Theology knows of two, and
only two, faculties in the soul, intellect
and will. Therefore, if conscience is in the soul, as obviously it is,
it must be found in these two faculties.
In other words, conscience is
not a separate reality, existing on its
own. It is not a fixture, a permanent thing. The mind and will are
permanent, not conscience. Conscience is a transient act
elicited by the mind in conjunction with the will. It is simply the
mind and will in operation about a practical (as distinct from a
speculative) moral issue, an act, not a habit.
There is the same difference
between conscience and the soul as there
is between a punch and a fist. The punch is an action of the fist, a
thing the fist does. Similarly, conscience is an action of the soul, a
thing the soul does. Precisely defined, conscience is the practical
moral judgment of the intellect --- the intellect being simply the soul
itself, considered in its activity of knowing things. 
Conscience is defined in the
textbooks as a dictate of practical reason deciding that a particular
action is right or wrong.
Whenever, in sermons, I have
enunciated that definition, I have noticed
animated question marks on the faces of my listeners, registering doubt
and the suspicion that this was a new-fangled and unorthodox definition
of my own. No! the definition is not copyright. It is the stock
definition of the textbooks.
Conscience is based on reason
and is, in fact, almost the same thing as right reason in actual moral
Conscience, good my lord,
Is but the pulse of reason. 
Here is an illustration of the
working of conscience. On a very hot day
in July, X. is out in the country, hiking. As he sits down to rest,
weary and parched with thirst, he espies a tempting bottle of iced beer
which is not for sale. Every moment the beer becomes more tempting, and
something like this goes on in his mind. "Stealing is wrong," says the
mind, enunciating a general principle of morality. "But," continues the
mind, "if I took this bottle of beer, it would be stealing."
"Therefore," concludes the mind, "if I took this bottle of beer, it
would be wrong." Thereupon, the will, if it is rightly disposed,
interjects: "Don't take it," which is a practical dictate of the mind.
If the will is not rightly
disposed, something else may happen. If the
will does not like the conclusion reached by the mind --- and human
nature being prone to evil, it often does not, as we all know from
intimate experience --- it will force the mind to reconsider the issue.
Then something like this will happen.
"Stealing is wrong," says the
mind. "Granted!" says the will, through
the prompted mind, "as a general principle. But in these particular
circumstances, isn't there reason for an exception? No decent person
would refuse to give you the beer in these circumstances, so is it
really stealing? Yes, all things considered, I think you may take it."
When the will is ill-disposed
towards truth, the mind is often induced
to indulge in wishful, or, better, in willful thinking. When this
occurs, we act against conscience. Conscience is always an affair of
the mind, with the will butting in. Passions influence the will, the
will influences the mind, and so "the wish is often father to the
Men vehemently in love
with their own new opinions, though never
so absurd, and obstinately bent to maintain them, give those opinions
also that reverenced name of con. science. ..and so pretend to know
that they are true, when they know at most that they think so. 
The will has a powerful
influence on practical moral judgments, i.e.,
on conscience; and that is why we must keep a vigilant watch on it,
guarding it against impulse and self-will. Hence, too, the peace of God
is promised, not to the "clear-minded," nor the "high-minded," but to
"men of good-will." "Glory to God in the highest and on earth peace to
men of good-will."
Possibly you are not conscious
of any such process of reasoning in
making your practical moral judgments. Probably not. In many moral
matters, because you have thought out the issue before or been clearly
instructed about it, the conclusion is immediately obvious and there is
no need for a reasoning process. Conscience often gives its decision at
once, without hesitation --- in a flash. From this we get the idea of a
voice. The dictate of conscience is, however, always the conclusion of
a piece of reasoning, made now or in the past.
Ethics and moral theology
supply the general speculative principles on
which our actual moral decisions are based. Reason then applies general
principles to our particular case and draws a practical conclusion,
i.e., decides what must or must not be done here and now in practice.
Sheed explains the matter with
his usual lucidity:
... The intellect makes many
judgments, and conscience only differs
from the others by its special scope. If I answer the question: "Did
Richard III 'murder the princes in the Tower?,' my answer is a judgment
of my intellect; but it is purely a historical judgment, not a moral
one; therefore, it is not my conscience. If the question is changed to:
"Ought Richard III to have murdered the princes?" --- my answer is
again a judgment of my intellect, and this time it is a moral judgment,
a judgment of right and wrong. But it is not my conscience, for it is
not a practical moral judgment. that is to say, it is not concerned
with what it would be right for me to do here and now. But if the
question is again changed to: "Ought I to murder the man next door
whose manners are so maddening?" --- the answer is not only a judgment
of my intellect and a moral one, but also a practical one. 
Conscience is, therefore,
basically a matter of the mind, that is, of instruction, knowledge,
clear thinking, mind-training.
Conscience is not an
independent and self-sufficient guide. It is a
judgment of the intellect, whose rectitude consists in its degree of
conformity to objective truth. All men have the duty of conforming, as
far as they can, to objective standards.
Conscience should depend not
on what we think about things, but on what
we ought to think about things. One of the greatest curses of religion
is subjectivism. The subjective idea of conscience, the self-sufficient
voice-theory, puts a premium on fanaticism, private interpretation,
modernism, illuminism, and all those other fantastic pseudo-spiritual
aberrations, which often have brought religion into contempt and
diverted millions from it. Until the rational idea of conscience is
made clear, there can be no cure for spiritual aberrations.
If a well-meaning yokel gets a
fantastic pseudo-spiritual idea "into
his head," nothing can be done about it, unless he can be brought to
the bar of reason.
One youth "gets it into his
head" that Christ was a pacifist; his
conscience tells him so. His conscience is possibly a voice from the
unconscious, originating in sheer funk. Psychology is very familiar
with this kind of voice, e.g., a girl who died of starvation in a
London hospital as a result of a self-immolation complex, told the
house physician that "there was something at the back of her mind
telling her it was wicked to eat."
One man "gets it into his
head" that Christ was a prohibitionist,
another that He was a nudist, another that He was a scientist, and so
on, indefinitely; and even Catholics shrug their shoulders
fatalistically and say: "Well, after all, "it's his conscience. You
must respect his conscience. You can't force a man to act against his
conscience." And so Christ is made a mockery and His religion
travestied, in the name of conscience.
Pathological symptoms must not
be glorified with the name of
conscience. Of course, you cannot force a man to act against his
conscience, but you ought to be able to convince him that his
conscience is wrong; and if he is not amenable to reason, he should be
treated, not as a martyr for justice' sake, but as a spiritual invalid.
We must beware of muddling
conscience with feeling and fif,
Conscience is not feeling. A
guilty feeling is an indication, and establishes a probability, that we
have acted wrongly; just as a feeling of satisfaction is an indication
that we have acted virtuously. An indication and no more; because a
guilty feeling is not necessarily induced by conscience and may be due
to a phobia or an exsurgence from the unconscious mind of wrong ideas,
due to a Jansenistic or Puritanical training. Certainly, a feeling of
guilt should be firmly investigated and removed; by contrition and
satisfaction, if it is found to be based on reason; by psychological
means, if it is irrational.
Feelings must never be
accepted as infallible guides in moral matters.
1£ we pay too much attention to feelings, we shall become
unstable characters, weather-cock personalities, "reeds shaken by every
wind"; and we shall be in danger of imagining ourselves zealous or
"pious, when we are only bilious." De gustibus non est disputandum
--- "argument is impossible about tastes." If conscience is made to
depend on how we feel about things, the whole basis of the moral law is
removed at one stroke; for then there can be no universal moral
standards; in fact, no room for an infallible arbiter of morals, such
as the Church.
The world would be a much
saner place if all men could be prevented from confusing conscience
with feelings and fif.
In his excellent book, Now I
See, Arnold Lunn recounts an amusing story which admirably illustrates
the meaning of fif:
"Oh, I think it's dreadful," I
once heard a woman remark, "to deny that
God exists. Of course, you can't prove He exists, but surely, surely,
everybody must feel that there is a God."
I happened to have been
playing bridge that afternoon with the lady in
question. She had a "feeling" that the blue cards would win. After the
blue cards had lost, because she did not play the blue cards correctly,
she had a "feeling" that the seat she was sitting in was unlucky. She
changed seats, but she did not change her method of play, which was
founded on emotion rather than on reason. After losing the second
rubber, she had a "feeling" that it would help if she sat upon her
handkerchief. Unfortunately, she never had a "feeling" that it would be
wise to apply reason to her bids.
I suggested to her that her
intuition on the subject of God might not
be much more trustworthy than her intuition on the subject of bridge. 
The same good lady probably
had innumerable exasperating intuitions. It
would not be surprising if, as a general rule, she "had a feeling" that
it is wrong to play cards or the piano or the fool on Sundays. Or at
least wrong for others to play cards on Sundays. If she were invited to
have a game herself on that sacrosanct day, she would probably "have a
feeling" that it was somehow right to play in the circumstances; and
this --- mind you --- without deliberate insincerity and without the
slightest advertence to her inconsistency. It is unnecessary to prolong
the description. Haven't you met her? Could you not name her?
The Fifites are not insincere,
but they certainly are tantalizing, and
the harm they do to religion is incalculable. For all their tearful
religious sentimentality, they are living on the level of "the ass and
the ox which have no understanding."
A near neighbour of fif is
bogus piety, sometimes called pietism, or
"pietosity" (by those who think pietism too nice a name). If piety is
not carefully subordinated to reason, inevitably it degenerates into
Sensible devotion is pleasant,
and pleasant experiences we naturally
desire to maintain or repeat. (By sensible devotion is meant, not
commonsense devotion, but a feeling of satisfaction and relish in
devotion.) Pleasure may easily be a snare and a delusion --- even ---
the pleasure called sensible devotion. After all, there must be some
excuse for the puritans! Pleasure must be kept in its place, and its
place is a secondary one.
Pleasure is meant as a
condiment of duty, mercifully given by God
to make the fulfillment of duty easier. Sensible devotion, which is a
form of pleasure, is no exception to this general rule.
Sensible devotion is of
secondary importance and must not be sought for
itself. We must not "seek the consolations of God, rather than the God
of consolations," because, if we do, our quest is motivated by nothing
nobler than self-love and refined sensuality.
Subtle self-seeking disguised
as piety is one of the gravest and least
suspected dangers of the spiritual life. Pietism originating in
self-love leads to a systematizing of self-will, complete disregard of
obedience and the will of God, and the glorifying, under false
pretences, of self-indulgence.
The pietist has a false
standard of values; he judges everything not by
its conformity to or deformity from God's holy will, but by its
capacity to occasion sensible consolation. Reading beautiful sugary
prayers in church is more consoling than doing housework and makes one
feel holier and more recollected, so house-work is neglected even
though it is a duty, i. e., the clearly manifested will of God.
The pietist becomes
unreasonable, head-strong, secretive and selfish.
For the pietist the big world does not exist; its problems and perils
mean nothing to him. He is detached; but with a detachment which is the
last remove from the detachment of the Saints. His detachment is
founded on selfishness, laziness and sensuality. Provided he is left
alone to continue his exercises of piety in peace, he is unconcerned if
the rest of the world runs headlong into Hell. Why should he concern
himself about it? Is he his brother's keeper? Why should he go out into
highways and hedges and compel them to come in?
The pietist has no sense of
any obligation to inform himself and train
himself to be an apostle of Christ, up and doing to win the world for
God. If he is appointed to train the young, he concentrates almost
exclusively on devotional exercises, and the impression is given that
other things, such as study, deportment, culture and zeal are of very
secondary importance. Is this a partial explanation of the
ineffectiveness of Catholic countries and of some ecclesiastics and
religious? The pietist cannot train strong, virile, broad-minded,
energetic characters, because he is anaemic, sensual, spiritually
flabby and purblind himself.
The pietists are affected with
spiritual pride and patronize and look
down on those who are not, in their esteem, pious. Newman and Ven.
Dominic were crucified by complacent and supercilious pietists, not to
mention the Master Himself, literally crucified at the instigation of
Pietists are often given a
false reverence and a very enervating
tolerance. Despite selfishness, fatuity, lack of zeal, and other clear
evidence of defective virtue, the pietist is treated as a bit of a
saint "in his own way." His idiosyncracies and omissions are glossed
over and palliated with the expression "after all you must admit that
he is pious." Not at all --- he is not pious. He is the worst of all
the enemies of true piety and responsible for bringing the word "piety"
into quasi-contempt. The pietist is warped, selfish and futile, and for
his own sake, as well as for the sake of the nerves and souls of
others, he should be made to realize it. Pietosity bears as close a
relationship to true piety as lust bears to love.
The disastrous confusion of
piety and pietism might be avoided if all
understood the meaning of conscience and the implied supremacy of
reason as the innate promulgator of the Will of God.
A right conscience depends on
correct moral principles. Therefore, we
must never cease to inform ourselves about the principles of morality
and their application, nor allow our minds to get set and become
We are never too old to learn,
just as we are never too old to mend. We
must always be prepared to revise our opinions and learn from
experience. If we will not learn from experience, life is wasted on us.
Whenever we suspect that our opinions are wrong or narrow, we must not
shirk the mental labour of surveying honestly and, if necessary,
re-laying our spiritual foundations.
The mind, instead of being a
faithful mirror of objective truth, tends
to be coloured and dulled by prejudice, fashion and environment. Beware
of confusing conservatism with conscience, and manners with morals.
Ideas are not necessarily correct because they are old-fashioned. We
must keep the mind open to correction and to new ideas. Closed minds
make moral and intellectual development impossible, and obstinacy and
"The fashions of this world
pass away." We must not presume, therefore,
that the fashions of our childhood were in every way correct and
conformable to the best traditions of the Church. There seems to be a
latent tendency in human nature to canonize the ideas and conventions
that were fashionable in one's youth. Granny, for example, confident
that she was correctly instructed in modesty, thinks that the modern
bright-young-thing is a brazen wench; whilst Miss Modern, equally
self-assured, thinks Granny a stuffy old fool. Neither has any doubt
about the rectitude of her attitude, because, having been brought up in
her own particular atmosphere, "she feels that way about it." Both have
closed minds and are quite unprepared to modify their views. Neither
will admit that something might be said for the other's point of view.
Neither is entirely right, neither entirely wrong. They are both
representatives of extremes; Granny of the Victorian extreme of
hush-hush and unnatural reserve. Miss Modern of the opposite extreme of
blasé rejection of reserve. Granny was hyper-modest and somewhat
Manichean; Miss Modern is sub-modest and affected by naturalism.
If both parties had the humility to suspect the rectitude of their
attitude, and bring the question to the bar of reason and faith, we
might get somewhere and achieve sanity. But, instead of that, they
continue complacently to sit in judgment and frown on each other, and
display mutual irritation, with little or no regard for either charity
or humility. Probably both experience difficulty in finding matter for
Many of the disagreements of
the old and the young, many of the
recriminations of one generation against its predecessor, are traceable
to a defective idea of conscience. Because all feel quite happy about
their conduct, none see any reason why they should subject it to
VOICE OF GOD
There is a consoling sense in
which conscience can be called the voice
of God, and it is this: God will always accept and approve our
conclusions in matters of personal morals, whenever the conclusion is
drawn in good faith --- even if the conclusion is wrong.
Through no fault of our own,
we may be misinformed; in which case, we
shall start our reasoning from false premises and our conclusion will
inevitably be wrong. God will not blame us for mistakes made in good
Again, our logical powers may
be undeveloped. We may start out with
correct principles but by defective logic arrive, in good faith, at a
wrong conclusion. God does not punish inculpable ignorance or
incapacity, but only ill-will.
The study of conscience
reveals the importance of what spiritual writers call indifference.
The will tends to exert undue
influence on the mind and prejudice its
judgments. To obviate this danger, the will must carefully be put in
order before important moral judgments are made. The will must be
reduced to indifference, i.e., to willingness to follow whatever course
of action unprejudiced reason suggests. If, for example, we are
undecided whether to go to the cinema or not, the will must be prepared
to accept either decision, and await, not force, the decision. Beware
of rationalization, i.e., of acting first, on impulse and without
thought, and then thinking out reasons, or --- better --- excuses, for
one's conduct afterwards. We must learn to look before we leap.
Practice should be adapted to
principles; not vice-versa, principles
adapted to practice, which human nature has a fatal tendency to do.
In early days the Conscience
has in most
A quickness which in later
life is lost. 
The reason for this fatal
tendency deserves careful study. When the
mind has drawn the same conclusion a sufficient number of times, it
dispenses with the reasoning process and begins to take the conclusion
for granted. The conclusion then becomes a premise for further
reasoning. If the conclusion is a false one and is not quickly
corrected, it is evident that a process of progressive distortion of
spiritual vision has begun, which it will be difficult to arrest. False
principles will lead to further false conclusions, and these in turn
will lead to other false conclusions, and so on indefinitely.
The will adds to the danger of
progressive moral deterioration, because
it is a faculty very quickly influenced by habit. Acts of ill-will soon
form habits of ill-ill. When the mind and will conspire together
against truth, the refinement and vitality of conscience must soon be
destroyed. The mind may eventually cease to advert to its own mistakes
and become "seared," to use St. Paul's expression; or "blinded," to use
the still stronger expression of the Master.
We cannot guard the
sensitiveness and delicacy of conscience too
carefully. There must be no compromise with sin, no deliberate dulling,
direct or indirect, of the sense of sin. Faults must be admitted as
faults and amendment quickly made, or the consequences will be
disastrous. We shall begin to live in a spiritual fog.
This above all, to thine own
self be true,
And it must follow, as the
night the day,
Thou cans't not then be false
to any man. 
There is great insight and
wisdom in Shakespeare's words. But to be
true to self is extremely difficult; in fact, the whole art of humility
in compendium. If we are false to self, we shall be false to God. Human
nature is so constituted that we must ultimately adapt our principles
to our practice. That is why morals have such an important bearing on
faith, why the practice of asceticism is more conducive to the
knowledge of God than the study of theology, why those who count on a
death-bed repentance are making such a perilous mistake, why Scripture
says that "as a man lives, so shall he die."
"If thy eye be single thy
whole body shall be lightsome. But if thy eye
be evil thy whole body shall be darksome. If then the light that is in
thee be darkness: the darkness itself how great shall it be?" 
Conscience is so important,
and yet so mutable and malleable, that we must safeguard its integrity
with most tender care.
HOW CAN WE SAFEGUARD
First, by the practice of
virtue. Secondly, by training the faculties
of the soul so that they may be prejudiced to act rightly in moral
We must strive to keep the
mind open, humble, unprejudiced and true. We
must guard the will against precipitation, cowardice and passion. We
can safeguard conscience effectively only by surrounding it with the
armour of unexceptional virtue. One chink in our armour is enough to
commence our undoing.
From what has been said,
it should be evident that many of our
expressions about conscience are inaccurate and misleading. Because of
the complexity of conscience, strictly accurate terminology is
difficult to find. "We say, for example, 'I have something on my
conscience,' which is loose speaking. It would be more accurate to say:
'I have something on my soul.' "  We talk about
"examining our conscience" and the impression is given of a permanent
recording machine. It would be more accurate to talk about examining
our acts of conscience.
Again, we are misled by the
consecrated phrases of moral theology about
an erroneous, a lax, and a scrupulous conscience. All these expressions
seem to imply that conscience is at least a habit. Would it be more
accurate to talk about a lax, erroneous or scrupulous moral outlook?
No! that will not do either; because men who have a lax outlook where
their own personal conduct is concerned, often (and, in fact,
generally) have a very rigid outlook where others are concerned. In
judging our own conduct, we are never disinterested nor entirely
dispassionate, and a will prompted by passion and self-interest readily
supplies excuses for loose conduct. When, however, we view the conduct
of others, we are either disinterested and dispassionate, in which case
we make no excuses; or we are passionate against them and moved by envy
or dislike, and then we tend not even to allow for the excuses which
could reasonably be made. There is liable to be a wide and unrecognized
divergence between our outlook on other people's conduct and on our
own. From the nature of the case, our judgment of personal conduct
tends to be unduly lax, our judgment of other people's conduct unduly
harsh. The die which is loaded in our favour is loaded against others.
The question of terminology is
complicated by the inevitable intervention in actual moral decisions of
passion and self-will.
The existing terminology will
be passable enough if we know how to
interpret it. When we examine our conscience, let us be quite clear
what we are supposed to be doing. We are not to examine our fears and
the state of our feelings. Examining our conscience should mean a calm
rational survey of our actions, contrasting them with the moral code to
see how far they are conformable to it, and how far we recognized the
conformity or deformity at the time of acting.
Beware of the voice,
special-faculty theory of conscience. It is
implicit heresy, and logically applied would dispense us from authority
and lead to private judgment in the realm of morals. If we have an
infallible guide within, we do not need an infallible guide without.
The Church, however, is our infallible guide in morals as well as in
dogma. By listening to her teaching, by absorbing it and making it our
own, and not by cultivating subjectivism, can we form a right
Conscience depends on
instruction and good-will. Let us, therefore,
inform our minds and train our wills. We are not guaranteed personal
infallibility, so we can never be certain of the objective rectitude of
our decisions; but if we are humble and co-operate with grace, God will
see to it that our judgments are always sincere, and therefore
acceptable to Him Who "searches hearts and reins" and profitable for
our eternal salvation.
What conscience dictates to be
Or warns me not to do,
This, teach me more than Hell
That, more than Heaven pursue.
1. Act III, Sc. 1.
2. F. J. Sheed, A Map of Life, pp.
3. Samuel Coleridge, Zapolya, I, 1.
4. Hobbes, Leviathan, Ch. 7.
5. op. cit., p. 91.
6. Now I See (Sheed and Ward), pp.
45-6. (See pp. 76-83 for an explanation of fif.)
7. Cowper, Tirocinium, 109.
8. Hamlet, Act. I.
9. Mt. 6:22-93.
10. Sheed, op. cit.
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