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198 Publicações
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Female
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17/09/1995
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The Observer's SketchbookI have spent three years at the New York Academy of Art being a ghost. I am the student who sits in the back row, the one whose name the professors forget, the one who blends into the grey paint of the studio walls. My art is mediocre, my ambition is low, and my only real talent is observation. And for two years, I have observed Julian and Sarah. Julian is the sun of Studio 4—blinding,...0 Comentários 0 Compartilhamentos 0 Visualizações 0 AnteriorFaça Login para curtir, compartilhar e comentar!
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The Great Devourer's BallI The thing appeared over Manhattan on a Thursday in March, 1925, and by Friday every newspaper in the city had a different name for it. The Daily News called it the Sky Castle. The Tribune called it the Ring of Doom. I called it the end of everything that mattered, because I am Jack Morrison and I have always had a talent for seeing the truth in things other men dismiss as poetry. It hung in...0 Comentários 0 Compartilhamentos 0 Visualizações 0 Anterior
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The Rotting DeltaThe humidity in the Mississippi Delta doesn't just hang in the air; it weighs on you, a wet shroud that smells of river mud and slow decay. Silas was a mute boy, born without a voice but with a soul that saw the world in vibrations. He lived in a town that had been forgotten by God and bypassed by the railroad, a place of crumbling porches and weeping willows. Silas was known for a peculiar...0 Comentários 0 Compartilhamentos 4 Visualizações 0 Anterior
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The Girl on Fifth AvenueThe Girl on Fifth Avenue The jazz bar was called The Velvet Note and it smelled like gin and smoke and things people wanted to forget. Clara sat at the piano—she didn't play, but she sometimes sat at it, which was her way of pretending she belonged in places like this. It was past midnight. The last patrons had stumbled out into the green winter of a New York January. Clara was wiping down the...0 Comentários 0 Compartilhamentos 3 Visualizações 0 Anterior
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TITLE: The Pulse of the Lost GenerationThe summer of 1924 on Long Island was a study in contrasting silences. Gerald Vanderbilt Shaw stood on the white porch of his estate, watching the Atlantic Ocean arrive and depart with a repetitive waste that he found abhorrent. To Gerald, the ocean was a planetary glitch—a system that expended immense energy only to return to its origin. Gerald was a man of the Grid; he believed that the world...0 Comentários 0 Compartilhamentos 779 Visualizações 0 Anterior
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Where the Light Enters**Act I: The River** Jimmy Callahan had been a photographer before the war, or at least he had been trying to be one. The war had taken that ambition and folded it into something smaller and more functional: a man who could document things without interpreting them, who could capture a face without knowing what was behind the eyes. After the war, he settled in Paris because Paris was the only...0 Comentários 0 Compartilhamentos 5 Visualizações 0 Anterior
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The Melting Point of Iron WillThaddeus Ashburton had not smiled in eleven years. He knew this with the precision of a man who measured everything, including the muscles of his own face. He had once made a clerk weep by simply looking at him across a mahogany desk for four minutes without speaking. The clerk had been embezzling thirty-seven dollars a month from the railroad accounts, and Thaddeus had known it within thirty...0 Comentários 0 Compartilhamentos 1 Visualizações 0 Anterior
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The Patient from BelowDr. Evelyn Blackwood had been treating soldiers for fourteen months when she began to suspect that the war was happening inside their heads. The facility was a converted country estate outside New Carthage, all white corridors and padded rooms and the faint smell of carbolic and iodine. It housed the military's most difficult cases: men and women who had been brought back from the front lines...0 Comentários 0 Compartilhamentos 9 Visualizações 0 Anterior
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THE PHOTOGRAPHER AT GROUND ZEROACT I: THE SHUTTER (20%) The photograph appeared on page three of The Metropolitan Ledger, beneath the headlines about stock prices and the theatre season. It showed a soldier—Tommy couldn't tell you which side, and neither could anyone else—kneeling in the ruins of a building, holding a child. The child might have been three years old. The child might have been five. The soldier's face was...0 Comentários 0 Compartilhamentos 6 Visualizações 0 Anterior
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The Berlin EntropyBerlin in 1962 is a city obsessed with information, with the collection of it and the destruction of it, with the transmission of lies and the suppression of truths, with the constant, exhausting work of making the signal noise and the noise signal until nobody knows anything for certain and certainty is the first casualty of the Cold War and I know this because I work for the BND, West...0 Comentários 0 Compartilhamentos 6 Visualizações 0 Anterior
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The Street Between the Years1925 The woman who would one day be Rose's grandmother moved into number forty-seven in the autumn of 1925, when the street was new and the soot from the railway viaduct had not yet darkened the brickwork. She was eighteen years old, her name was Mary Connor, and she had come to London from a village in County Cork where the only thing smaller than the houses was the future they offered. The...0 Comentários 0 Compartilhamentos 5 Visualizações 0 Anterior
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The mansion on blackwood hillThe house had been dying for one hundred and fifty years, and Atticus Blackwood was its last physician. Or perhaps its last mourner. He was not sure which. Blackwood Manor stood on a hill above the Savannah River in South Carolina, a sprawling Victorian structure of faded white pillars and purple ivy that had grown over the cracks like a scar tissue trying to hold the building together. The...0 Comentários 0 Compartilhamentos 7 Visualizações 0 Anterior
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