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...sound, don't you think? The low whir that could be a breeze on a hedge, until you realize that there is no breeze and that you live in a high-rise. So it must be a generator someplace, or an old fan with rubber blades. The sound Definitely. Maybe it's the light: the way it slants like a guillotine on a dark wall, or fills the moon so that it glows meekly like a pale bruise on the night. Of course. The light. Or is it the heat? Could be the heat too; dead-quiet heat, seems...

Author: /time Magazine | Title: In Praise of August | 6/21/2005 | See Source »

...young protagonist of The Coffin on the Hill climbs aboard a houseboat on the Yangtze River (Welch was born in Shanghai, where his father was a partner in a firm that managed rubber plantations): "Leaning forward and putting out my tongue I licked the brass rim of one of the portholes, in order to realize the ship with all my senses. Then I curled up in a corner of the fitted seat and felt like a mole, or some other perfectly happy blind animal, burrowing deeper and deeper, coming at last to its true home...

Author: /time Magazine | Title: That Rare Being, a Born Writer: DENTON WELCH | 6/21/2005 | See Source »

When Deng and 88 other Chinese arrived in Marseilles in late 1920, they found jobs scarce and funds even scarcer. Nor was there any opportunity for formal schooling. Deng worked for a time at a Renault factory and at a rubber-footware plant in Montargis, south of Paris. Though he wore Western-style clothes and acquired a lifelong fondness for croissants and bridge, he associated almost exclusively with other Chinese, among them Chou...

Author: /time Magazine | Title: Deng Xiaoping: The Comeback Comrade | 6/21/2005 | See Source »

Since his October 2003 letter that laid out “planning assumptions,” committees have rubber stamped all of his central ideas. The campus, as Summers had outlined, will be composed of undergraduate Houses, a major science complex, and the education and public health schools...

Author: By May Habib, CRIMSON STAFF WRITER | Title: Critical Mass. | 6/9/2005 | See Source »

...treat yet another barf-crusted freshman, one officer chirped: “The intoxication squad is on its way.” The dispatcher responded: “Don’t forget your rubber boots.” Police complain to their buddies about the bullets, beats, and boredom they face on the job and this bubbles over onto the radio. They become more human than Dirty Harry, if not as funny as Beverly Hills...

Author: By Jonathan P. Abel, | Title: Scanning the News | 6/8/2005 | See Source »

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