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Case-in-point: Witness last month's orgy of mourning surrounding the death of Frank Sinatra. Despite all of the tribute albums, concerts and books already dedicated to him during his life, oceans of ink about the Chairman of the Board were spilled on the pages of every magazine from Rolling Stone to the New York Review of Books...

Author: By Rustin C. Silverstein, | Title: POSTCARD FROM CAMBRIDGE | 6/26/1998 | See Source »

...mein cartoon: Chinese savor meets American-do. Now that industry analysts no longer expect every Disney animated feature to do $300 million domestic, they can appreciate the suave storytelling and cross-generational lure of a nice little epic like this. And accountants at the Mouse House can expect black ink, not Mulan rouge...

Author: /time Magazine | Title: Cinema: Aieee! It's Summer!! | 5/11/1998 | See Source »

...shroud is a centuries-old object of superstition long ago declared not to be authentic. It is hardly worth the ink you wasted on it. Stick with the facts and your credibility won't suffer. RICHARD L. CRAWFORD Columbia...

Author: /time Magazine | Title: Letters: May 11, 1998 | 5/11/1998 | See Source »

...which politely said the Australian-born tycoon and ANNA, his wife of nearly 31 years, were trying to work it out. Somewhat less naturally, he broke it to most of his family at about the same time. How do the media cover the split of a guy who buys ink by the tankerful? Delicately. In Australia, the big tabloids, which are Murdoch-owned, ran teensy items on inside pages. In Britain, Murdoch's Sun, for whom this type of scandal would normally warrant huge headlines, ran a six-paragraph item on page 10. Its sister paper, the London Times...

Author: /time Magazine | Title: People: May 4, 1998 | 5/4/1998 | See Source »

...trekked through the mists of the Huang Shan mountains, I came upon a young man painting the scenery with traditional brush and ink on rice paper. He smiled proudly as he showed me his work. It was indeed quite beautiful...for a painting, but it paled in comparison to the living scene before my eyes: a silken shimmer of pastel clouds clinging in tendrils to the tops of mountains, an endless dance of wind and fog that alternately revealed and concealed subtle changes in the dark hills beneath. How futile it must feel for a mere mortal...

Author: /time Magazine | Title: A Poet's Place | 4/20/1998 | See Source »

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