Betty Trask award, a finalist for the PEN/Hemingway award, and a New York Times Notable Book of the Year. His essays and journalism have appeared iniTime/i,iThe New York Times/iandiThe Guardian/i, among others. Mohsin Hamid currently lives, works and writes in London.Excuse me, sir, but may I be of assistance? Ah, I see I have alarmed you. Do not be frightened by my beard: I am a lover of America. I noticed that you were looking for something; more than looking, in fact you seemed to be on aimission/i, and since I am both a native of this city and a speaker of your language, I thought I might offer you my services.brbrHow did I know you were American? No, not by the color of your skin; we have a range of complexions in this country, and yours occurs often among the people of our northwest frontier. Nor was it your dress that gave you away; a European tourist could as easily have purchased in Des Moines your suit, with its single vent, and your button­down shirt. True, your hair, short­cropped, and your expansive chest – the chest, I would say, of a man who bench­presses regularly, and maxes out well above two­twenty­five – are typical of a certain type of American; but then again, sportsmen and soldiers of all nationalities tend to look alike. Instead, it was your bearing that allowed me to identify you, and I do not mean that as an insult, for I see your face has hardened, but merely as an observation.brbrCome, tell me, what were you looking for? Surely, at this time of day, only one thing could have brought you to the district of Old Anarkali – named, as you may be aware, after a courtesan immured for loving a prince – and that is the quest for the perfec@Â? (õÃÿ¾Û€  (less)

changing garden year, from spring projects such as wire baskets for young plants to spectacular summer planters and year-round features such a pebble mosaic path. Charming ideas for summer entertaining and evenings in the garden include handmade lanterns and candles, as well as plenty of practical projects for keen gardeners such as a lady scarecrow.  (less)

a broken home. They are of mixed ages (24-35), nationalities and sexualities; one is a mutual friend of the two others, who have not previously met. Two of them have come through a succession of relatively smart office jobs, but are now trying their hands at being self-employed. The third has held a responsible position in the catering industry, but is currently unemployed.brbrTwo of them begin the evening in the apartment that one of them rents. They drink a bottle of sparkling wine and a bottle of white wine. While drinking, they also get through two grams of cocaine, snorting it in lines two at a time about every twenty minutes. They meet the third in a bar later on, and drink several rounds--perhaps half a dozen--of spirits with mixers. At around 2 A.M., they go on to another late bar, where one of them knows that drugs can be bought quite easily. Within minutes, they are offered ecstasy by a complete stranger. Following some gentle haggling over the price, they buy two tablets.brbrOutside the bar, a group of elderly bikers is selling amphetamine. They buy two grams of that as well. Back at the flat, they divide the tablets into six fragments and take two each. There is a further half gram of cocaine to finish, and the two grams of amphetamine. Whilst ingesting the drugs, they drink a further six bottles of sparkling wine between them over the course of the night. At 10 A.M., without having slept, they venture out into town again and, after lolling on public benches for a while, go to a bar and embark on a round of bottled beers.brbrThis is not exactly a typical weekend. It counts in the running narrative of their leisure time as something of a "blinder." None of them suffers much in the?Р (less)

of women in the form of a fashion catalog, these stories provide short, sharp shocks as provocative as they are entertaining.  (less)

faced the game's human home-run-hitting machine, Mark McGwire. McGwire had shattered Roger Maris's thirty-seven-year-old record of 61 homers in a year-the game's most prestigious record-in early September, becoming baseball's all-time single-season home-run leader. Now, in the final at-bat of his inspiring season, with 69 home runs already to his credit, "Big Mac" stood in to face the rookie again.brbrI asked Carl to recount McGwire's historic clout.brbrCarl PavanobrbrSeth,brbrIn response to your letter, I am going to answer the question so many have asked. I knew it was the last game of the season and of my rookie year with the Montreal Expos. While sitting on the bench the previous three games against the Cardinals, I said to myself 'all along' if I get a chance to pitch against McGuire, I will not walk him. I will challenge and beat him.brbrFirst time in my professional career going into a game as a relief pitcher, he steps in as I tow the rubber. A 3 to 3 tie with 2 outs in the bottom of the eigth with 2 men on. 52,000 people up on their feet cheering.brbrFirst pitch, CRACK-GONE, #70brbrAnd the rest is HistorybrbrCarl PavanobrbrSTEVE CARLTONbrbrBorn 1944, Miami, Florida. "Lefty" has the second-most strikeouts in the game's history with 4,136 (first among left-handers). He won 329 games over his twenty-four-year career (1965-1988), spent most notably with the St. Louis Cardinals and Philadelphia Phillies. He won 20 or more games six times. In 1972, playing for the last-place Phillies, Steve won 27 games of his team's 59 wins. He was the unanimous winner of the Most Valuable Player award that year and won the Cy Young Award four times. H?Р (less)

day. That'd be lunch.brbrI saw Damon Ross by his locker. "Hey," I said. He lifted his hand in a wave and flashed a brief smile.brbrEven though Damon hangs around with a lot of people in my grade, he's actually a ninth-grader. He's been going out with Elizabeth's twin, Jessica, for a while, but I still don't know him all that well.brbrI continued walking toward my locker in the back, passing a bunch of guys grouped around a locker in the center of the room.brbr"Isn't she one of those cute blond twins?" I heard one of the guys say. I stopped, dropping down onto a bench between the guys and my locker as I waited to hear the response.brbr"Yeah, and she's even cuter up close," a familiar voice replied.brbriRichard Griggs./ibrbrI bent over and pretended to inspect something on my shoe.brbr"We went to Vito's yesterday," Richard said. "And we're catching a movie today. She isidefinitely/iinto me."brbrI felt my teeth clench.iStay calm,/iI told myself. So he was bragging to his friends about Elizabeth. It's not like he was saying anythingibad./ibrbr"So how long do you think this one will last?" someone asked him. "A week? Two weeks?"brbr"Yeah, how many girls have you gone through so far this year, Griggs?" another guy put in. "Like, twenty?"brbrMy hands tightened into fists. Richard was a player? He was using Elizabeth? I wondered if Elizabeth would visit me in prison after I killed him for her.brbr"No, guys, this one's different," Richard insisted. "Elizabeth's awesome. She's really sweet and smart too."brbrI let out a slow, deep ?Р (less)

convincing authority."i—Baltimore Sun/ibrbrbriFrom the Paperback edition./iRobert Ludlum was the author of twenty-one novels, each aiNew York Times/ibestseller. There are more than 210 million of his books in print, and they have been translated into thirty-two languages. In addition to the Jason Bourne seriesb—The Bourne Identity/b,bThe Bourne Supremacy/b, andbThe Bourne Ultimatum/b—he was the author ofbThe Scarlatti Inheritance/b,bThe Chancellor Manuscript/b, andbThe Apocalypse Watch/b, among many others. Mr. Ludlum passed away in March, 2001.brbrbriFrom the Paperback edition./iiChapter 1/ibrbrbrOctober 10, 1944—Washington, D.C.brbrThe brigadier general sat stiffly on the deacon's bench, preferring the hard surface of the pine to the soft leather of the armchairs. It was nine twenty in the morning and he had not slept well, no more than an hour.brbrAs each half hour had been marked by the single chime of the small mantel clock, he had found himself, to his surprise, wanting the time to pass more swiftly. Because nine thirty had to come, he wanted to reckon with it.brbrAt nine thirty he was to appear before the secretary of state, Cordell S. Hull.brbrAs he sat in the secretary's outer office, facing the large black door with its gleaming brass hardware, he fingered the white folder, which he had taken out of his attaché case. When the time came for him to produce it, he did not want an awkward moment of silence while he opened the case to extract @hÀ  (less)

whose tone is in between. Critics have called ""The Continuous Life"" a perfect poem, and other readers seem to agree. New York City, for example, thought so highly of the poem they had it inscribed on a park bench in Hudson River Park. Appearing roughly in the middle of the collection, sandwiched between ""Life in the Valley"" and ""From a Lost Diary,"" the poem resonates with images of absence and death, Strand's trademark subjects. The poem's speaker addresses parents, offering them advice on what to tell their children to expect from life, and he implicitly addresses himself as well. In twenty-eight lines, Strand plumbs the human consciousness, alluding to the bustle of perceptions, thoughts, and behavior that make up a person's life. The speaker is as intrigued by the chaos and emptiness of human life as he is by the ways that human beings stave them off, finding meaning in the mundane and strength in love. Though the language in ""The Continuous Life,"" like that in most of his poems, is abstract, the poem is relatively accessible, even for readers unfamiliar with Strand's work."  (less)

5, for prepared for, read delivered at. P. 21, last line, for bench as, read bench of. P. 237, line 24, for to that of, read of that to. P. 462, line I, for to have him received, read to receive him. P. 475, line 16, for to its defence, read to defence of itself. P. 477, for prepared for, read delivered at, and omit note. statement as to make them irresistible by any open, unperverted intelligence. They show, however, but a part of Mr. Curtiss strenuous and effective labors in this cause. The editorial columns of Harpers Weekdy, during the last twenty-five years of his life, bear witness to the constancy of his service, to the abundance of his resources, to his skill, good temper, and good sense in the conduct of the campaign against the forces of official corruption, partisan zeal, and popular indifference. EDITORIAL NOTE THIS volume contains the most important addresses and other writings on the Reform of the Civil Service by which, from 1869 to 1892, Mr. Curtis roused attention to the national peril resulting from the existing - system of appointment to and tenure of office, showed the feasibility and method of reform, and quickened that public opinion to which he appealed as the motive force of the action requisite for bringing reform about. They narrate the history of the origin and growth of the Spoils or Patronage system they present a vivid picture of its multiplied and constantly increasing evils, and they set fortil the arguments for its destruction with such variety of illustration and such cogency of statement as to make them irresistible by any open, uilperverted intelligence. They show, however, but a part of Mr. Curtiss strenuous and effective labors in this cause. The editorial columns of Harpers Weekly, during the last twenty-five years of his life@G±ë…¸Rÿ¾Û€  (less)

they would be extensively read. Lord Roseberry has said that people do not read old speeches, and there is much truth in this statement. My desire simply was to give them a local habitation. When this disastrous conflagration destroyed all my possessions, including all my literary and professional work for the past twenty-five years, I felt as if every foot-print that I had made had been obliterated, and I immediately endeavored to collect as many as I could of my speeches, for the purpose of carrying out my original intention. Through the kindness of friends and libraries living and situatel outside of San Francisco at the time of the fire, I have been able to obtain copies of a few of these speeches, and I republish them in this volume with the hope that, in event of another such fire, one copy of this work may escape destruction. SAN FRANCISC Se O pt , e mber 14, 1908. JOHN MARSHALL Deliz crcd Before the Orego c Bar Associatiojt a, t Portla td, Orcgojt, Joltjz Alarshall Day, February 4, 1901. T HE evil that men do is said to live after them, but the good is oft interred with their bones. There are, however, good men as well as bad men who departing leave behind them footprints on the sands of time, whose good work knows neither death nor dying but lives on through the centuries. To the memory of such a man, Chief Justice hlarshall, the bench and bar of this country are assembled to do honor and reverence on this the one hundredth anniversary of his elevation to the Supreme Bench. The close of a century is suggestive of retrospection, and invites us to revisit its dawning, as does the beginning of a century hurry us on the wings of anticipation to its close. The nineteenth century and the Republic were rocked in the same cradle. The two have gr@G±ë…¸Rÿ¾Û€  (less)

Watch/b, in 2008.PROLOGUEbrbrThe genuine old communal courtyards in Moscow’s apartment blocks disappeared sometime between the eras of the two popular bards Vysotsky and Okudzhava.brbrIt’s a strange business. Even after the revolution, when for purposes of the struggle against ‘the slavery of the kitchen’, they actually did away with kitchens in housing blocks, nobody tried to get rid of the courtyards. Every proud Stalinist block that displayed its Potemkin façade to the broad avenue beside it had to have a courtyard — large and green, with tables and benches, with a yard-keeper scraping the asphalt clean every morning. Then the age of five-storey sectional housing arrived — and the courtyards shrivelled and became bare, the yard-keepers who had been so grave and staid were replaced by yard women, who regarded it as their duty to give little boys who got up to mischief a clip round the ear and upbraid residents who came home drunk. But even so, the courtyards still hung on.brbrAnd then, as if in response to the increased tempo of life, the houses stretched upwards. From nine storeys to sixteen, or even twenty-four. And as if each building was allocated the right only to a certain volume of space, rather than an area of ground, the courtyards withered right back to the entrances and the entrances opened their doors straight onto the public streets, while the male and female yard-keepers disappeared and were replaced by communal services functionaries.brbrOkay, so the courtyards came back later, but by no means to all the buildings, as if they’d taken offence at being treated so scornfully before. The new courtyards were bounded by high walls, with fit, well@Aù™™™™šÿ¾Û€  (less)

I am today at the age of twelve, on a frigid overcast day in the winter of 1975. I remember the precise moment, crouching behind a crumbling mud wall, peeking into the alley near the frozen creek. That was a long time ago, but it’s wrong what they say about the past, I’ve learned, about how you can bury it. Because the past claws its way out. Looking back now, I realize I have been peeking into that deserted alley for the last twenty-six years.brbrOne day last summer, my friend Rahim Khan called from Pakistan. He asked me to come see him. Standing in the kitchen with the receiver to my ear, I knew it wasn’t just Rahim Khan on the line. It was my past of unatoned sins. After I hung up, I went for a walk along Spreckels Lake on the northern edge of Golden Gate Park. The early-afternoon sun sparkled on the water where dozens of miniature boats sailed, propelled by a crisp breeze. Then I glanced up and saw a pair of kites, red with long blue tails, soaring in the sky. They danced high above the trees on the west end of the park, over the windmills, floating side by side like a pair of eyes looking down on San Francisco, the city I now call home. And suddenly Hassan’s voice whispered in my head:iFor you, a thousand times over/i. Hassan the harelipped kite runner.brbrI sat on a park bench near a willow tree. I thought about something Rahim Khan said just before he hung up, almost as an afterthought.iThere is a way to be good again/i. I looked up at those twin kites. I thought about Hassan. Thought about Baba. Ali. Kabul. I thought of the life I had lived until the winter of 1975 came along and changed everything. And made me wha@×=p£×ÿ¾Û€  (less)