Why Doctors Are Sick of Their Profession
The circle of the mask was large enough now to shut out the vision of anything else. The wire door was a couple of hand-spans from his face. The rats knew what was coming now. One of them was leaping up and down, the other, an old scaly grandfather of the sewers, stood up, with his pink hands against the bars, and fiercely sniffed the air. Winston could see the whiskers and the yellow teeth. Again the black panic took hold of him. He was blind, helpless, mindless.
All too often these days, I find myself fidgeting by the doorway to my exam room, trying to conclude an office visit with one of my patients. When I look at my career at midlife, I realize that in many ways I have become the kind of doctor I never thought I'd be: impatient, occasionally indifferent, at times dismissive or paternalistic. Many of my colleagues are similarly struggling with the loss of their professional ideals.
"It was a common punishment in Imperial China," said O’Brien as didactically as ever.
It could be just a midlife crisis, but it occurs to me that my profession is in a sort of midlife crisis of its own. In the past four decades, American doctors have lost the status they used to enjoy. In the mid-20th century, physicians were the pillars of any community. If you were smart and sincere and ambitious, at the top of your class, there was nothing nobler or more rewarding that you could aspire to become.
The mask was closing on his face. The wire brushed his cheek. And then----no, it was not relief, only hope, a tiny fragment of hope. Too late, perhaps too late. But he had suddenly understood that in the whole world there was just ONE person to whom he could transfer his punishment----ONE body that he could thrust between himself and the rats. And he was shouting frantically, over and over.
Today medicine is just another profession, and doctors have become like everybody else: insecure, discontented and anxious about the future. In surveys, a majority of doctors express diminished enthusiasm for medicine and say they would discourage a friend or family member from entering the profession. In a 2008 survey of 12,000 physicians, only 6% described their morale as positive. Eighty-four percent said that their incomes were constant or decreasing. Most said they didn't have enough time to spend with patients because of paperwork, and nearly half said they planned to reduce the number of patients they would see in the next three years or stop practicing altogether.
Sunday, August 31, 2014
Saturday, August 30, 2014
August 30, 2014.
How to Fire Your Financial Adviser
O’Brien picked up the cage, and, as he did so, pressed something in it. There was a sharp click. Winston made a frantic effort to tear himself loose from the chair. It was hopeless; every part of him, even his head, was held immovably. O’Brien moved the cage nearer. It was less than a metre from Winston’s face.
Investors discuss many tough issues with their financial advisers. How much risk should I take? When should I cut losses?
"I have pressed the first lever," said O’Brien. "You understand the construction of this cage. The mask will fit over your head, leaving no exit. When I press this other lever, the door of the cage will slide up. These starving brutes will shoot out of it like bullets. Have you ever seen a rat leap through the air? They will leap on to your face and bore straight into it. Sometimes they attack the eyes first. Sometimes they burrow through the cheeks and devour the tongue."
Sometimes the most important question is when to say "You're fired."
The cage was nearer; it was closing in. Winston heard a succession of shrill cries which appeared to be occurring in the air above his head. But he fought furiously against his panic. To think, to think, even with a split second left — to think was the only hope. Suddenly the foul musty odour of the brutes struck his nostrils. There was a violent convulsion of nausea inside him, and he almost lost consciousness. Everything had gone black. For an instant he was insane, a screaming animal. Yet he came out of the blackness clutching an idea. There was one and only one way to save himself. He must interpose another human being, the BODY of another human being, between himself and the rats.
Cutting ties with someone who knows intimate details about your life and money can be fraught with emotion and doubt.
O’Brien picked up the cage, and, as he did so, pressed something in it. There was a sharp click. Winston made a frantic effort to tear himself loose from the chair. It was hopeless; every part of him, even his head, was held immovably. O’Brien moved the cage nearer. It was less than a metre from Winston’s face.
Investors discuss many tough issues with their financial advisers. How much risk should I take? When should I cut losses?
"I have pressed the first lever," said O’Brien. "You understand the construction of this cage. The mask will fit over your head, leaving no exit. When I press this other lever, the door of the cage will slide up. These starving brutes will shoot out of it like bullets. Have you ever seen a rat leap through the air? They will leap on to your face and bore straight into it. Sometimes they attack the eyes first. Sometimes they burrow through the cheeks and devour the tongue."
Sometimes the most important question is when to say "You're fired."
The cage was nearer; it was closing in. Winston heard a succession of shrill cries which appeared to be occurring in the air above his head. But he fought furiously against his panic. To think, to think, even with a split second left — to think was the only hope. Suddenly the foul musty odour of the brutes struck his nostrils. There was a violent convulsion of nausea inside him, and he almost lost consciousness. Everything had gone black. For an instant he was insane, a screaming animal. Yet he came out of the blackness clutching an idea. There was one and only one way to save himself. He must interpose another human being, the BODY of another human being, between himself and the rats.
Cutting ties with someone who knows intimate details about your life and money can be fraught with emotion and doubt.
Friday, August 29, 2014
August 29, 2014.
Google Is Testing Delivery Drone System
O’Brien picked up the cage and brought it across to the nearer table. He set it down carefully on the baize cloth. Winston could hear the blood singing in his ears. He had the feeling of sitting in utter loneliness. He was in the middle of a great empty plain, a flat desert drenched with sunlight, across which all sounds came to him out of immense distances. Yet the cage with the rats was not two metres away from him. They were enormous rats. They were at the age when a rat’s muzzle grows blunt and fierce and his fur brown instead of grey.
The latest endeavor to emerge from Google Inc. GOOGL -0.46% 's advanced-research lab is flying into a field buzzing with competitors.
"The rat," said O’Brien, still addressing his invisible audience, "although a rodent, is carnivorous. You are aware of that. You will have heard of the things that happen in the poor quarters of this town. In some streets a woman dare not leave her baby alone in the house, even for five minutes. The rats are certain to attack it. Within quite a small time they will strip it to the bones. They also attack sick or dying people. They show astonishing intelligence in knowing when a human being is helpless."
Google X said Thursday it is developing a system of drones to deliver goods. Rival Amazon.com Inc. AMZN -0.92% is also testing delivery drones, and Domino's Pizza Inc. DPZ +0.13% tested delivering pies via drone in 2013.
There was an outburst of squeals from the cage. It seemed to reach Winston from far away. The rats were fighting; they were trying to get at each other through the partition. He heard also a deep groan of despair. That, too, seemed to come from outside himself.
Google said a 5-foot-wide single-wing prototype from its Project Wing carried supplies including candy bars, dog treats, cattle vaccines, water and radios to two farmers in Queensland, Australia, earlier this month.
O’Brien picked up the cage and brought it across to the nearer table. He set it down carefully on the baize cloth. Winston could hear the blood singing in his ears. He had the feeling of sitting in utter loneliness. He was in the middle of a great empty plain, a flat desert drenched with sunlight, across which all sounds came to him out of immense distances. Yet the cage with the rats was not two metres away from him. They were enormous rats. They were at the age when a rat’s muzzle grows blunt and fierce and his fur brown instead of grey.
The latest endeavor to emerge from Google Inc. GOOGL -0.46% 's advanced-research lab is flying into a field buzzing with competitors.
"The rat," said O’Brien, still addressing his invisible audience, "although a rodent, is carnivorous. You are aware of that. You will have heard of the things that happen in the poor quarters of this town. In some streets a woman dare not leave her baby alone in the house, even for five minutes. The rats are certain to attack it. Within quite a small time they will strip it to the bones. They also attack sick or dying people. They show astonishing intelligence in knowing when a human being is helpless."
Google X said Thursday it is developing a system of drones to deliver goods. Rival Amazon.com Inc. AMZN -0.92% is also testing delivery drones, and Domino's Pizza Inc. DPZ +0.13% tested delivering pies via drone in 2013.
There was an outburst of squeals from the cage. It seemed to reach Winston from far away. The rats were fighting; they were trying to get at each other through the partition. He heard also a deep groan of despair. That, too, seemed to come from outside himself.
Google said a 5-foot-wide single-wing prototype from its Project Wing carried supplies including candy bars, dog treats, cattle vaccines, water and radios to two farmers in Queensland, Australia, earlier this month.
Thursday, August 28, 2014
August 28, 2014.
Abercrombie to Remove Logos From Most Clothing
O’Brien made no direct answer. When he spoke it was in the schoolmasterish manner that he sometimes affected. He looked thoughtfully into the distance, as though he were addressing an audience somewhere behind Winston’s back.
It's about to get a lot harder to tell who is wearing Abercrombie & Fitch. ANF -4.84%
"By itself," he said, "pain is not always enough. There are occasions when a human being will stand out against pain, even to the point of death. But for everyone there is something unendurable----something that cannot be contemplated. Courage and cowardice are not involved. If you are falling from a height it is not cowardly to clutch at a rope. If you have come up from deep water it is not cowardly to fill your lungs with air. It is merely an instinct which cannot be destroyed. It is the same with the rats. For you, they are unendurable. They are a form of pressure that you cannot withstand, even if you wished to. You will do what is required of you."
The teen retailer that built a lucrative business selling A&F emblazoned T-shirts and hoodies at premium prices is going to be logo-free in North America come spring.
"But what is it, what is it? How can I do it if I don’t know what it is?"
The move follows a change in teen behavior that caught Abercrombie & Fitch Co. on the wrong side of a trend. Teens who once sought brand names have shifted to cheaper, unmarked gear that they can use to put together their own individual styles.
O’Brien made no direct answer. When he spoke it was in the schoolmasterish manner that he sometimes affected. He looked thoughtfully into the distance, as though he were addressing an audience somewhere behind Winston’s back.
It's about to get a lot harder to tell who is wearing Abercrombie & Fitch. ANF -4.84%
"By itself," he said, "pain is not always enough. There are occasions when a human being will stand out against pain, even to the point of death. But for everyone there is something unendurable----something that cannot be contemplated. Courage and cowardice are not involved. If you are falling from a height it is not cowardly to clutch at a rope. If you have come up from deep water it is not cowardly to fill your lungs with air. It is merely an instinct which cannot be destroyed. It is the same with the rats. For you, they are unendurable. They are a form of pressure that you cannot withstand, even if you wished to. You will do what is required of you."
The teen retailer that built a lucrative business selling A&F emblazoned T-shirts and hoodies at premium prices is going to be logo-free in North America come spring.
"But what is it, what is it? How can I do it if I don’t know what it is?"
The move follows a change in teen behavior that caught Abercrombie & Fitch Co. on the wrong side of a trend. Teens who once sought brand names have shifted to cheaper, unmarked gear that they can use to put together their own individual styles.
Wednesday, August 27, 2014
August 27, 2014.
Trapped in Venezuela: Airlines Abandon Fliers Amid Currency Dispute
"You can’t do that!" he cried out in a high cracked voice. "You couldn’t, you couldn’t! It’s impossible."
CARACAS, Venezuela----When this city's professional soccer club traveled to a key match in Peru, its tough rival wasn't the only challenge. The team also had to endure an arduous four-day journey, including four connecting flights, a layover in neighboring Colombia and a jarring, cross-border bus ride.
"Do you remember," said O’Brien, "the moment of panic that used to occur in your dreams? There was a wall of blackness in front of you, and a roaring sound in your ears. There was something terrible on the other side of the wall. You knew that you knew what it was, but you dared not drag it into the open. It was the rats that were on the other side of the wall."
Like many of their compatriots, the players simply couldn't get a flight that would take them where they wanted to go.
"O’Brien!" said Winston, making an effort to control his voice. "You know this is not necessary. What is it that you want me to do?"
The 20-man team was a victim of the long-simmering dispute between international airlines and the leftist administration of President Nicolas Maduro. With the cash-strapped government holding back on releasing $3.8 billion in airline-ticket revenue because of strict currency controls, carriers have slashed service to Venezuela by half since January, adding another layer of frustration to daily life here.
"You can’t do that!" he cried out in a high cracked voice. "You couldn’t, you couldn’t! It’s impossible."
CARACAS, Venezuela----When this city's professional soccer club traveled to a key match in Peru, its tough rival wasn't the only challenge. The team also had to endure an arduous four-day journey, including four connecting flights, a layover in neighboring Colombia and a jarring, cross-border bus ride.
"Do you remember," said O’Brien, "the moment of panic that used to occur in your dreams? There was a wall of blackness in front of you, and a roaring sound in your ears. There was something terrible on the other side of the wall. You knew that you knew what it was, but you dared not drag it into the open. It was the rats that were on the other side of the wall."
Like many of their compatriots, the players simply couldn't get a flight that would take them where they wanted to go.
"O’Brien!" said Winston, making an effort to control his voice. "You know this is not necessary. What is it that you want me to do?"
The 20-man team was a victim of the long-simmering dispute between international airlines and the leftist administration of President Nicolas Maduro. With the cash-strapped government holding back on releasing $3.8 billion in airline-ticket revenue because of strict currency controls, carriers have slashed service to Venezuela by half since January, adding another layer of frustration to daily life here.
Tuesday, August 26, 2014
August 26, 2014.
Germany's Expensive Gamble on Renewable Energy
He had moved a little to one side, so that Winston had a better view of the thing on the table. It was an oblong wire cage with a handle on top for carrying it by. Fixed to the front of it was something that looked like a fencing mask, with the concave side outwards. Although it was three or four metres away from him, he could see that the cage was divided lengthways into two compartments, and that there was some kind of creature in each. They were rats.
WILSTER, Germany----In a sandy marsh on the outskirts of this medieval hamlet, Germany's next autobahn will soon take shape.
"In your case," said O’Brien, "the worst thing in the world happens to be rats."
The Stromautobahn, as locals call it, won't carry Audis and BMW's BMW.XE +0.01% , but high-voltage electricity over hundreds of miles of aluminum and steel cables stretching from the North Sea to Germany's industrial corridor in the south.
A sort of premonitory tremor, a fear of he was not certain what, had passed through Winston as soon as he caught his first glimpse of the cage. But at this moment the meaning of the mask-like attachment in front of it suddenly sank into him. His bowels seemed to turn to water.
The project is the linchpin of Germany's Energiewende, or energy revolution, a mammoth, trillion-euro plan to wean the country off nuclear and fossil fuels by midcentury and the top domestic priority of Chancellor Angela Merkel.
He had moved a little to one side, so that Winston had a better view of the thing on the table. It was an oblong wire cage with a handle on top for carrying it by. Fixed to the front of it was something that looked like a fencing mask, with the concave side outwards. Although it was three or four metres away from him, he could see that the cage was divided lengthways into two compartments, and that there was some kind of creature in each. They were rats.
WILSTER, Germany----In a sandy marsh on the outskirts of this medieval hamlet, Germany's next autobahn will soon take shape.
"In your case," said O’Brien, "the worst thing in the world happens to be rats."
The Stromautobahn, as locals call it, won't carry Audis and BMW's BMW.XE +0.01% , but high-voltage electricity over hundreds of miles of aluminum and steel cables stretching from the North Sea to Germany's industrial corridor in the south.
A sort of premonitory tremor, a fear of he was not certain what, had passed through Winston as soon as he caught his first glimpse of the cage. But at this moment the meaning of the mask-like attachment in front of it suddenly sank into him. His bowels seemed to turn to water.
The project is the linchpin of Germany's Energiewende, or energy revolution, a mammoth, trillion-euro plan to wean the country off nuclear and fossil fuels by midcentury and the top domestic priority of Chancellor Angela Merkel.
Monday, August 25, 2014
August 25, 2014.
Crowds Gather for Michael Brown's Funeral
"You asked me once," said O’Brien, "what was in Room 101. I told you that you knew the answer already. Everyone knows it. The thing that is in Room 101 is the worst thing in the world."
ST. LOUIS----Crowds gathered on Monday, singing hymns and calling for justice at the funeral of Michael Brown, whose shooting by a police officer in a nearby suburb sparked days of protests and brought national attention to the often tense relationship between police and young blacks.
The door opened again. A guard came in, carrying something made of wire, a box or basket of some kind. He set it down on the further table. Because of the position in which O’Brien was standing. Winston could not see what the thing was.
In the thick Missouri heat, some mourners sang "We Shall Overcome," while others solemnly walked through the doors of Friendly Temple Missionary Baptist Church. Still others talked of what brought them here Monday for the funeral, which was set to begin at 10 a.m. local time.
"The worst thing in the world," said O’Brien, "varies from individual to individual. It may be burial alive, or death by fire, or by drowning, or by impalement, or fifty other deaths. There are cases where it is some quite trivial thing, not even fatal."
"You see so much injustice going on in our communities," said Shirley Minter, 66 years old, who came to show her support for Mr. Brown's family. "Michael Brown was an innocent black man on his way home. And to be shot down like that is very disturbing."
"You asked me once," said O’Brien, "what was in Room 101. I told you that you knew the answer already. Everyone knows it. The thing that is in Room 101 is the worst thing in the world."
ST. LOUIS----Crowds gathered on Monday, singing hymns and calling for justice at the funeral of Michael Brown, whose shooting by a police officer in a nearby suburb sparked days of protests and brought national attention to the often tense relationship between police and young blacks.
The door opened again. A guard came in, carrying something made of wire, a box or basket of some kind. He set it down on the further table. Because of the position in which O’Brien was standing. Winston could not see what the thing was.
In the thick Missouri heat, some mourners sang "We Shall Overcome," while others solemnly walked through the doors of Friendly Temple Missionary Baptist Church. Still others talked of what brought them here Monday for the funeral, which was set to begin at 10 a.m. local time.
"The worst thing in the world," said O’Brien, "varies from individual to individual. It may be burial alive, or death by fire, or by drowning, or by impalement, or fifty other deaths. There are cases where it is some quite trivial thing, not even fatal."
"You see so much injustice going on in our communities," said Shirley Minter, 66 years old, who came to show her support for Mr. Brown's family. "Michael Brown was an innocent black man on his way home. And to be shot down like that is very disturbing."
Saturday, August 23, 2014
August 23, 2014.
Ferguson's Experience Offers Lessons on Integration
Chapter 5
At each stage of his imprisonment he had known, or seemed to know, whereabouts he was in the windowless building. Possibly there were slight differences in the air pressure. The cells where the guards had beaten him were below ground level. The room where he had been interrogated by O’Brien was high up near the roof. This place was many metres underground, as deep down as it was possible to go.
FERGUSON, Mo.----Sharon Golliday grew up in the Pruett-Igoe public housing project in St. Louis, a high-rise complex so violent that even the police were afraid to enter.
It was bigger than most of the cells he had been in. But he hardly noticed his surroundings. All he noticed was that there were two small tables straight in front of him, each covered with green baize. One was only a metre or two from him, the other was further away, near the door. He was strapped upright in a chair, so tightly that he could move nothing, not even his head. A sort of pad gripped his head from behind, forcing him to look straight in front of him.
So like many African-Americans, she and her family took advantage of a sea change in federal housing policy in the 1980s and 90s that came to regard projects as part of the problem. Using a government voucher to subsidize the cost, they eventually landed in this suburb.
For a moment he was alone, then the door opened and O’Brien came in.
"We needed to get out," said Ms. Golliday, a 58-year-old teacher. "No one forced us to move----we left."
Chapter 5
At each stage of his imprisonment he had known, or seemed to know, whereabouts he was in the windowless building. Possibly there were slight differences in the air pressure. The cells where the guards had beaten him were below ground level. The room where he had been interrogated by O’Brien was high up near the roof. This place was many metres underground, as deep down as it was possible to go.
FERGUSON, Mo.----Sharon Golliday grew up in the Pruett-Igoe public housing project in St. Louis, a high-rise complex so violent that even the police were afraid to enter.
It was bigger than most of the cells he had been in. But he hardly noticed his surroundings. All he noticed was that there were two small tables straight in front of him, each covered with green baize. One was only a metre or two from him, the other was further away, near the door. He was strapped upright in a chair, so tightly that he could move nothing, not even his head. A sort of pad gripped his head from behind, forcing him to look straight in front of him.
So like many African-Americans, she and her family took advantage of a sea change in federal housing policy in the 1980s and 90s that came to regard projects as part of the problem. Using a government voucher to subsidize the cost, they eventually landed in this suburb.
For a moment he was alone, then the door opened and O’Brien came in.
"We needed to get out," said Ms. Golliday, a 58-year-old teacher. "No one forced us to move----we left."
Monday, August 18, 2014
August 18, 2014.
Ukrainian Refugees Caught in Crossfire
"You hate him. Good. Then the time has come for you to take the last step. You must love Big Brother. It is not enough to obey him: you must love him."
Ukraine accused pro-Russian separatists of killing dozens of civilians by firing on a refugee convoy, the latest example of residents caught in the line of fire of a four-month-old war that has caused more than 2,000 deaths.
He released Winston with a little push towards the guards.
Rebels denied any role in the attack, or that an attack had taken place. The U.S. State Department condemned the "shelling and rocketing" of the convoy but said it couldn't confirm who was responsible.
"Room 101," he said.
Interviews at three different refugee camps in recent days showed that anger over shelling in residential areas is hampering the Kiev government's efforts to win the trust of people in the east.
"You hate him. Good. Then the time has come for you to take the last step. You must love Big Brother. It is not enough to obey him: you must love him."
Ukraine accused pro-Russian separatists of killing dozens of civilians by firing on a refugee convoy, the latest example of residents caught in the line of fire of a four-month-old war that has caused more than 2,000 deaths.
He released Winston with a little push towards the guards.
Rebels denied any role in the attack, or that an attack had taken place. The U.S. State Department condemned the "shelling and rocketing" of the convoy but said it couldn't confirm who was responsible.
"Room 101," he said.
Interviews at three different refugee camps in recent days showed that anger over shelling in residential areas is hampering the Kiev government's efforts to win the trust of people in the east.
Saturday, August 16, 2014
August 16, 2014.
BMW 535d: This Eco Car Is No Diesel in Distress
He paused, and went on in a gentler tone:
NOT THE DIESEL thing again.
"You are improving. Intellectually there is very little wrong with you. It is only emotionally that you have failed to make progress. Tell me, Winston----and remember, no lies: you know that I am always able to detect a lie----tell me, what are your true feelings towards Big Brother?"
Believe me, if I could, I would just avoid even mentioning the fact that the BMW 535d burns diesel fuel instead of premium gasoline. Why? Because you don't get the crazy email I get, OK? Diesel advocates, the true believers, scare me. They have an agenda and dwell in tunnels between gas stations.
"I hate him."
No, please! I'm not interested in your spreadsheet on the "diesel-payback period," the time it takes to recoup in fuel savings the additional cost of a diesel powertrain. Thank you for the picture of your uncle's million-mile 1983 Mercedes-Benz diesel S-class. Think of all the traffic he held up.
He paused, and went on in a gentler tone:
NOT THE DIESEL thing again.
"You are improving. Intellectually there is very little wrong with you. It is only emotionally that you have failed to make progress. Tell me, Winston----and remember, no lies: you know that I am always able to detect a lie----tell me, what are your true feelings towards Big Brother?"
Believe me, if I could, I would just avoid even mentioning the fact that the BMW 535d burns diesel fuel instead of premium gasoline. Why? Because you don't get the crazy email I get, OK? Diesel advocates, the true believers, scare me. They have an agenda and dwell in tunnels between gas stations.
"I hate him."
No, please! I'm not interested in your spreadsheet on the "diesel-payback period," the time it takes to recoup in fuel savings the additional cost of a diesel powertrain. Thank you for the picture of your uncle's million-mile 1983 Mercedes-Benz diesel S-class. Think of all the traffic he held up.
Thursday, August 14, 2014
August 14, 2014.
Harvard Scientists Devise Robot Swarm That Can Work Together
"Get up," said O’Brien. "Come here."
Harvard University scientists have devised a swarm of 1,024 tiny robots that can work together without any guiding central intelligence.
Winston stood opposite him. O’Brien took Winston’s shoulders between his strong hands and looked at him closely.
Like a mechanical flash mob, these robots can assemble themselves into five-pointed stars, letters of the alphabet and other complex designs. The researchers at Harvard's Wyss Institute for Biologically Inspired Engineering in Cambridge, Mass., reported their work Thursday in Science.
"You have had thoughts of deceiving me," he said. "That was stupid. Stand up straighter. Look me in the face."
"No one had really built a swarm of this size before, where everyone works together to achieve a goal," said robotics researcher Michael Rubenstein, who led the project.
"Get up," said O’Brien. "Come here."
Harvard University scientists have devised a swarm of 1,024 tiny robots that can work together without any guiding central intelligence.
Winston stood opposite him. O’Brien took Winston’s shoulders between his strong hands and looked at him closely.
Like a mechanical flash mob, these robots can assemble themselves into five-pointed stars, letters of the alphabet and other complex designs. The researchers at Harvard's Wyss Institute for Biologically Inspired Engineering in Cambridge, Mass., reported their work Thursday in Science.
"You have had thoughts of deceiving me," he said. "That was stupid. Stand up straighter. Look me in the face."
"No one had really built a swarm of this size before, where everyone works together to achieve a goal," said robotics researcher Michael Rubenstein, who led the project.
Wednesday, August 13, 2014
August 13, 2014.
Colombia Wins Investors' Favor----And That's the Problem
One day they would decide to shoot him. You could not tell when it would happen, but a few seconds beforehand it should be possible to guess. It was always from behind, walking down a corridor. Ten seconds would be enough. In that time the world inside him could turn over. And then suddenly, without a word uttered, without a check in his step, without the changing of a line in his face----suddenly the camouflage would be down and bang! would go the batteries of his hatred. Hatred would fill him like an enormous roaring flame. And almost in the same instant bang! would go the bullet, too late, or too early. They would have blown his brain to pieces before they could reclaim it. The heretical thought would be unpunished, unrepented, out of their reach for ever. They would have blown a hole in their own perfection. To die hating them, that was freedom.
When Colombia undertook an extensive tax overhaul, Wall Street rewarded it by making the country a bigger piece of one of the most widely used emerging-market bond indexes, handing fund managers a mandate to buy more of the nation's debt.
He shut his eyes. It was more difficult than accepting an intellectual discipline. It was a question of degrading himself, mutilating himself. He had got to plunge into the filthiest of filth. What was the most horrible, sickening thing of all? He thought of Big Brother. The enormous face (because of constantly seeing it on posters he always thought of it as being a metre wide), with its heavy black moustache and the eyes that followed you to and fro, seemed to float into his mind of its own accord. What were his true feelings towards Big Brother?
For Colombian plantain farmer Paula Martinez, the ripple effects of that decision have felt more like a punishment.
There was a heavy tramp of boots in the passage. The steel door swung open with a clang. O’Brien walked into the cell. Behind him were the waxen-faced officer and the black-uniformed guards.
The index reshuffling prompted investors to redirect billions of dollars to the country's local-currency-denominated debt, causing the value of Colombia's peso to surge against the dollar. That, in turn, has made it more difficult for Ms. Martinez, 57 years old, to compete with growers in other countries. A highly valued currency makes a country's exports more expensive and reduces profits for exporters when they convert overseas earnings back to pesos.
One day they would decide to shoot him. You could not tell when it would happen, but a few seconds beforehand it should be possible to guess. It was always from behind, walking down a corridor. Ten seconds would be enough. In that time the world inside him could turn over. And then suddenly, without a word uttered, without a check in his step, without the changing of a line in his face----suddenly the camouflage would be down and bang! would go the batteries of his hatred. Hatred would fill him like an enormous roaring flame. And almost in the same instant bang! would go the bullet, too late, or too early. They would have blown his brain to pieces before they could reclaim it. The heretical thought would be unpunished, unrepented, out of their reach for ever. They would have blown a hole in their own perfection. To die hating them, that was freedom.
When Colombia undertook an extensive tax overhaul, Wall Street rewarded it by making the country a bigger piece of one of the most widely used emerging-market bond indexes, handing fund managers a mandate to buy more of the nation's debt.
He shut his eyes. It was more difficult than accepting an intellectual discipline. It was a question of degrading himself, mutilating himself. He had got to plunge into the filthiest of filth. What was the most horrible, sickening thing of all? He thought of Big Brother. The enormous face (because of constantly seeing it on posters he always thought of it as being a metre wide), with its heavy black moustache and the eyes that followed you to and fro, seemed to float into his mind of its own accord. What were his true feelings towards Big Brother?
For Colombian plantain farmer Paula Martinez, the ripple effects of that decision have felt more like a punishment.
There was a heavy tramp of boots in the passage. The steel door swung open with a clang. O’Brien walked into the cell. Behind him were the waxen-faced officer and the black-uniformed guards.
The index reshuffling prompted investors to redirect billions of dollars to the country's local-currency-denominated debt, causing the value of Colombia's peso to surge against the dollar. That, in turn, has made it more difficult for Ms. Martinez, 57 years old, to compete with growers in other countries. A highly valued currency makes a country's exports more expensive and reduces profits for exporters when they convert overseas earnings back to pesos.
Tuesday, August 12, 2014
August 12, 2014.
Lauren Bacall, Actress, Dies at Age 89
He lay back on the bed and tried to compose himself. What had he done? How many years had he added to his servitude by that moment of weakness?
Seldom in Hollywood has a star risen from obscurity to headliner with such rapidity as Lauren Bacall.
In another moment he would hear the tramp of boots outside. They could not let such an outburst go unpunished. They would know now, if they had not known before, that he was breaking the agreement he had made with them. He obeyed the Party, but he still hated the Party. In the old days he had hidden a heretical mind beneath an appearance of conformity. Now he had retreated a step further: in the mind he had surrendered, but he had hoped to keep the inner heart inviolate. He knew that he was in the wrong, but he preferred to be in the wrong. They would understand that----O’Brien would understand it. It was all confessed in that single foolish cry.
Ms. Bacall, who died Tuesday at age 89 in New York, was among the last of the golden age screen goddesses, despite having appeared in relatively few films. She went on to star in Broadway plays and musicals.
He would have to start all over again. It might take years. He ran a hand over his face, trying to familiarize himself with the new shape. There were deep furrows in the cheeks, the cheekbones felt sharp, the nose flattened. Besides, since last seeing himself in the glass he had been given a complete new set of teeth. It was not easy to preserve inscrutability when you did not know what your face looked like. In any case, mere control of the features was not enough. For the first time he perceived that if you want to keep a secret you must also hide it from yourself. You must know all the while that it is there, but until it is needed you must never let it emerge into your consciousness in any shape that could be given a name. From now onwards he must not only think right; he must feel right, dream right. And all the while he must keep his hatred locked up inside him like a ball of matter which was part of himself and yet unconnected with the rest of him, a kind of cyst.
Part of the reason for her legend was that she was Mrs. Humphrey Bogart----Hollywood royalty almost from the start.
He lay back on the bed and tried to compose himself. What had he done? How many years had he added to his servitude by that moment of weakness?
Seldom in Hollywood has a star risen from obscurity to headliner with such rapidity as Lauren Bacall.
In another moment he would hear the tramp of boots outside. They could not let such an outburst go unpunished. They would know now, if they had not known before, that he was breaking the agreement he had made with them. He obeyed the Party, but he still hated the Party. In the old days he had hidden a heretical mind beneath an appearance of conformity. Now he had retreated a step further: in the mind he had surrendered, but he had hoped to keep the inner heart inviolate. He knew that he was in the wrong, but he preferred to be in the wrong. They would understand that----O’Brien would understand it. It was all confessed in that single foolish cry.
Ms. Bacall, who died Tuesday at age 89 in New York, was among the last of the golden age screen goddesses, despite having appeared in relatively few films. She went on to star in Broadway plays and musicals.
He would have to start all over again. It might take years. He ran a hand over his face, trying to familiarize himself with the new shape. There were deep furrows in the cheeks, the cheekbones felt sharp, the nose flattened. Besides, since last seeing himself in the glass he had been given a complete new set of teeth. It was not easy to preserve inscrutability when you did not know what your face looked like. In any case, mere control of the features was not enough. For the first time he perceived that if you want to keep a secret you must also hide it from yourself. You must know all the while that it is there, but until it is needed you must never let it emerge into your consciousness in any shape that could be given a name. From now onwards he must not only think right; he must feel right, dream right. And all the while he must keep his hatred locked up inside him like a ball of matter which was part of himself and yet unconnected with the rest of him, a kind of cyst.
Part of the reason for her legend was that she was Mrs. Humphrey Bogart----Hollywood royalty almost from the start.
Saturday, August 9, 2014
August 9, 2014.
Baghdad's Last Line of Defense
Suddenly he started up with a shock of horror. The sweat broke out on his backbone. He had heard himself cry aloud:
Sattar Jabbar stood at a Baghdad army recruiting station in June wearing nothing but a pair of blue boxer-briefs and a crooked grin. He was waiting for the medical exam required to join Iraq's army, he said, answering a call to arms issued by his spiritual leader, Iraq's senior Shiite cleric.
"Julia! Julia! Julia, my love! Julia!"
"I've been trying to volunteer for years, so now I'm seizing the opportunity," he said. "I'm doing this for the Ayatollah Ali Al Sistani and for the prime minister."
For a moment he had had an overwhelming hallucination of her presence. She had seemed to be not merely with him, but inside him. It was as though she had got into the texture of his skin. In that moment he had loved her far more than he had ever done when they were together and free. Also he knew that somewhere or other she was still alive and needed his help.
At 39 years old, the gray-haired, potbellied father of five doesn't look like the kind of vigorous young man usually sought by armies. But as Sunni militants led by the Islamic State push through Iraq, seizing towns and territory, Baghdad is desperately trying to rebuild its broken army with untrained, mostly Shiite recruits.
Suddenly he started up with a shock of horror. The sweat broke out on his backbone. He had heard himself cry aloud:
Sattar Jabbar stood at a Baghdad army recruiting station in June wearing nothing but a pair of blue boxer-briefs and a crooked grin. He was waiting for the medical exam required to join Iraq's army, he said, answering a call to arms issued by his spiritual leader, Iraq's senior Shiite cleric.
"Julia! Julia! Julia, my love! Julia!"
"I've been trying to volunteer for years, so now I'm seizing the opportunity," he said. "I'm doing this for the Ayatollah Ali Al Sistani and for the prime minister."
For a moment he had had an overwhelming hallucination of her presence. She had seemed to be not merely with him, but inside him. It was as though she had got into the texture of his skin. In that moment he had loved her far more than he had ever done when they were together and free. Also he knew that somewhere or other she was still alive and needed his help.
At 39 years old, the gray-haired, potbellied father of five doesn't look like the kind of vigorous young man usually sought by armies. But as Sunni militants led by the Islamic State push through Iraq, seizing towns and territory, Baghdad is desperately trying to rebuild its broken army with untrained, mostly Shiite recruits.
Wednesday, August 6, 2014
August 6, 2014.
Sprint Goes Off Beaten Track for New CEO Marcelo Claure
He set to work to exercise himself in crimestop. He presented himself with propositions----"the Party says the earth is flat," "the party says that ice is heavier than water"---- and trained himself in not seeing or not understanding the arguments that contradicted them. It was not easy. It needed great powers of reasoning and improvisation. The arithmetical problems raised, for instance, by such a statement as ‘two and two make five’ were beyond his intellectual grasp. It needed also a sort of athleticism of mind, an ability at one moment to make the most delicate use of logic and at the next to be unconscious of the crudest logical errors. Stupidity was as necessary as intelligence, and as difficult to attain.
Sprint Corp.'s S -18.96% new chief executive is going to stand out in Kansas.
All the while, with one part of his mind, he wondered how soon they would shoot him. ‘Everything depends on yourself,’ O’Brien had said; but he knew that there was no conscious act by which he could bring it nearer. It might be ten minutes hence, or ten years. They might keep him for years in solitary confinement, they might send him to a labour-camp, they might release him for a while, as they sometimes did. It was perfectly possible that before he was shot the whole drama of his arrest and interrogation would be enacted all over again. The one certain thing was that death never came at an expected moment. The tradition----the unspoken tradition: somehow you knew it, though you never heard it said----was that they shot you from behind; always in the back of the head, without warning, as you walked down a corridor from cell to cell.
Marcelo Claure is a 6-foot-6-inch Bolivian billionaire who built a global mobile-phone distributor from scratch and had singer Jennifer Lopez perform at his 40th birthday party. Now, he is relocating to the Midwestern suburbs to turn around a 38,000 person company that has spent the better part of a decade losing customers and money.
One day----but "one day" was not the right expression; just as probably it was in the middle of the night: once----he fell into a strange, blissful reverie. He was walking down the corridor, waiting for the bullet. He knew that it was coming in another moment. Everything was settled, smoothed out, reconciled. There were no more doubts, no more arguments, no more pain, no more fear. His body was healthy and strong. He walked easily, with a joy of movement and with a feeling of walking in sunlight. He was not any longer in the narrow white corridors in the Ministry of Love, he was in the enormous sunlit passage, a kilometre wide, down which he had seemed to walk in the delirium induced by drugs. He was in the Golden Country, following the foot-track across the old rabbit-cropped pasture. He could feel the short springy turf under his feet and the gentle sunshine on his face. At the edge of the field were the elm trees, faintly stirring, and somewhere beyond that was the stream where the dace lay in the green pools under the willows.
His efforts could determine whether Sprint's decision to end a $32 billion plan to buy smaller rival T-Mobile US Inc. TMUS -8.40% was a savvy, pragmatic move or a disaster.
He set to work to exercise himself in crimestop. He presented himself with propositions----"the Party says the earth is flat," "the party says that ice is heavier than water"---- and trained himself in not seeing or not understanding the arguments that contradicted them. It was not easy. It needed great powers of reasoning and improvisation. The arithmetical problems raised, for instance, by such a statement as ‘two and two make five’ were beyond his intellectual grasp. It needed also a sort of athleticism of mind, an ability at one moment to make the most delicate use of logic and at the next to be unconscious of the crudest logical errors. Stupidity was as necessary as intelligence, and as difficult to attain.
Sprint Corp.'s S -18.96% new chief executive is going to stand out in Kansas.
All the while, with one part of his mind, he wondered how soon they would shoot him. ‘Everything depends on yourself,’ O’Brien had said; but he knew that there was no conscious act by which he could bring it nearer. It might be ten minutes hence, or ten years. They might keep him for years in solitary confinement, they might send him to a labour-camp, they might release him for a while, as they sometimes did. It was perfectly possible that before he was shot the whole drama of his arrest and interrogation would be enacted all over again. The one certain thing was that death never came at an expected moment. The tradition----the unspoken tradition: somehow you knew it, though you never heard it said----was that they shot you from behind; always in the back of the head, without warning, as you walked down a corridor from cell to cell.
Marcelo Claure is a 6-foot-6-inch Bolivian billionaire who built a global mobile-phone distributor from scratch and had singer Jennifer Lopez perform at his 40th birthday party. Now, he is relocating to the Midwestern suburbs to turn around a 38,000 person company that has spent the better part of a decade losing customers and money.
One day----but "one day" was not the right expression; just as probably it was in the middle of the night: once----he fell into a strange, blissful reverie. He was walking down the corridor, waiting for the bullet. He knew that it was coming in another moment. Everything was settled, smoothed out, reconciled. There were no more doubts, no more arguments, no more pain, no more fear. His body was healthy and strong. He walked easily, with a joy of movement and with a feeling of walking in sunlight. He was not any longer in the narrow white corridors in the Ministry of Love, he was in the enormous sunlit passage, a kilometre wide, down which he had seemed to walk in the delirium induced by drugs. He was in the Golden Country, following the foot-track across the old rabbit-cropped pasture. He could feel the short springy turf under his feet and the gentle sunshine on his face. At the edge of the field were the elm trees, faintly stirring, and somewhere beyond that was the stream where the dace lay in the green pools under the willows.
His efforts could determine whether Sprint's decision to end a $32 billion plan to buy smaller rival T-Mobile US Inc. TMUS -8.40% was a savvy, pragmatic move or a disaster.
Tuesday, August 5, 2014
August 5, 2014.
A Patients' Group Scores a Win in Muscular Dystrophy Drug Research
He accepted everything. The past was alterable. The past never had been altered. Oceania was at war with Eastasia. Oceania had always been at war with Eastasia. Jones, Aaronson, and Rutherford were guilty of the crimes they were charged with. He had never seen the photograph that disproved their guilt. It had never existed, he had invented it. He remembered remembering contrary things, but those were false memories, products of self-deception. How easy it all was! Only surrender, and everything else followed. It was like swimming against a current that swept you backwards however hard you struggled, and then suddenly deciding to turn round and go with the current instead of opposing it. Nothing had changed except your own attitude: the predestined thing happened in any case. He hardly knew why he had ever rebelled. Everything was easy, except----!
When it comes to developing new drugs, pharmaceutical companies and federal agencies have always called the shots. Now patients and their families want a turn.
Anything could be true. The so-called laws of Nature were nonsense. The law of gravity was nonsense. "If I wished," O’Brien had said, "I could float off this floor like a soap bubble." Winston worked it out. "If he THINKS he floats off the floor, and if I simultaneously THINK I see him do it, then the thing happens.’ Suddenly, like a lump of submerged wreckage breaking the surface of water, the thought burst into his mind: ‘It doesn’t really happen. We imagine it. It is hallucination." He pushed the thought under instantly. The fallacy was obvious. It presupposed that somewhere or other, outside oneself, there was a "real" world where "real" things happened. But how could there be such a world? What knowledge have we of anything, save through our own minds? All happenings are in the mind. Whatever happens in all minds, truly happens.
Parent Project Muscular Dystrophy, an advocacy group founded by family members frustrated by a lack of research on Duchenne muscular dystrophy, initiated and wrote a draft guidance for pharmaceutical companies trying to develop drugs to treat the fatal condition.
He had no difficulty in disposing of the fallacy, and he was in no danger of succumbing to it. He realized, nevertheless, that it ought never to have occurred to him. The mind should develop a blind spot whenever a dangerous thought presented itself. The process should be automatic, instinctive. CRIMESTOP, they called it in Newspeak.
Guidances are issued by the Food and Drug Administration and set out the latest thinking on designing trials and which standards must be met by companies to get a new drug approved. The FDA typically initiates the creation of guidances. But with so many diseases, the agency can't cover them all.
He accepted everything. The past was alterable. The past never had been altered. Oceania was at war with Eastasia. Oceania had always been at war with Eastasia. Jones, Aaronson, and Rutherford were guilty of the crimes they were charged with. He had never seen the photograph that disproved their guilt. It had never existed, he had invented it. He remembered remembering contrary things, but those were false memories, products of self-deception. How easy it all was! Only surrender, and everything else followed. It was like swimming against a current that swept you backwards however hard you struggled, and then suddenly deciding to turn round and go with the current instead of opposing it. Nothing had changed except your own attitude: the predestined thing happened in any case. He hardly knew why he had ever rebelled. Everything was easy, except----!
When it comes to developing new drugs, pharmaceutical companies and federal agencies have always called the shots. Now patients and their families want a turn.
Anything could be true. The so-called laws of Nature were nonsense. The law of gravity was nonsense. "If I wished," O’Brien had said, "I could float off this floor like a soap bubble." Winston worked it out. "If he THINKS he floats off the floor, and if I simultaneously THINK I see him do it, then the thing happens.’ Suddenly, like a lump of submerged wreckage breaking the surface of water, the thought burst into his mind: ‘It doesn’t really happen. We imagine it. It is hallucination." He pushed the thought under instantly. The fallacy was obvious. It presupposed that somewhere or other, outside oneself, there was a "real" world where "real" things happened. But how could there be such a world? What knowledge have we of anything, save through our own minds? All happenings are in the mind. Whatever happens in all minds, truly happens.
Parent Project Muscular Dystrophy, an advocacy group founded by family members frustrated by a lack of research on Duchenne muscular dystrophy, initiated and wrote a draft guidance for pharmaceutical companies trying to develop drugs to treat the fatal condition.
He had no difficulty in disposing of the fallacy, and he was in no danger of succumbing to it. He realized, nevertheless, that it ought never to have occurred to him. The mind should develop a blind spot whenever a dangerous thought presented itself. The process should be automatic, instinctive. CRIMESTOP, they called it in Newspeak.
Guidances are issued by the Food and Drug Administration and set out the latest thinking on designing trials and which standards must be met by companies to get a new drug approved. The FDA typically initiates the creation of guidances. But with so many diseases, the agency can't cover them all.
Monday, August 4, 2014
August 4, 2014.
Polaris Throws Down Against Mighty Harley-Davidson
FREEDOM IS SLAVERY
Then almost without a pause he wrote beneath it:
TWO AND TWO MAKE FIVE
BLOOMINGTON, Minn.—In trying to expand its modest share of the motorcycle market, Polaris Industries Inc. PII +0.95% is up against the likes of Mike Meloy, who is fanatically loyal to Harley-Davidson Inc. HOG +0.53%
But then there came a sort of check. His mind, as though shying away from something, seemed unable to concentrate. He knew that he knew what came next, but for the moment he could not recall it. When he did recall it, it was only by consciously reasoning out what it must be: it did not come of its own accord. He wrote:
Wearing a black sleeveless Harley-Davidson T-shirt, the 65-year-old retired metal-recycling manager sat eating breakfast at a motel here last week. "I may be prejudiced," Mr. Meloy said when asked about the Indian Motorcycle brand that Polaris revived a year ago. "I've been riding Harleys for 46 years."
GOD IS POWER
For riders like Mr. Meloy----one of more than 700,000 motorcyclists who belong to Harley riding groups in the U.S. and Canada----it isn't just about the bike, it's about the cult of Harley riders.
FREEDOM IS SLAVERY
Then almost without a pause he wrote beneath it:
TWO AND TWO MAKE FIVE
BLOOMINGTON, Minn.—In trying to expand its modest share of the motorcycle market, Polaris Industries Inc. PII +0.95% is up against the likes of Mike Meloy, who is fanatically loyal to Harley-Davidson Inc. HOG +0.53%
But then there came a sort of check. His mind, as though shying away from something, seemed unable to concentrate. He knew that he knew what came next, but for the moment he could not recall it. When he did recall it, it was only by consciously reasoning out what it must be: it did not come of its own accord. He wrote:
Wearing a black sleeveless Harley-Davidson T-shirt, the 65-year-old retired metal-recycling manager sat eating breakfast at a motel here last week. "I may be prejudiced," Mr. Meloy said when asked about the Indian Motorcycle brand that Polaris revived a year ago. "I've been riding Harleys for 46 years."
GOD IS POWER
For riders like Mr. Meloy----one of more than 700,000 motorcyclists who belong to Harley riding groups in the U.S. and Canada----it isn't just about the bike, it's about the cult of Harley riders.
Sunday, August 3, 2014
August 3, 2014.
Rand Paul, Still Mum, Lays 2016 Groundwork
His mind grew more active. He sat down on the plank bed, his back against the wall and the slate on his knees, and set to work deliberately at the task of re-educating himself.
Sen. Rand Paul hasn't said whether he will seek the 2016 GOP presidential nomination. But his aggressive groundwork seems to point to no other outcome.
He had capitulated, that was agreed. In reality, as he saw now, he had been ready to capitulate long before he had taken the decision. From the moment when he was inside the Ministry of Love----and yes, even during those minutes when he and Julia had stood helpless while the iron voice from the telescreen told them what to do----he had grasped the frivolity, the shallowness of his attempt to set himself up against the power of the Party. He knew now that for seven years the Thought Police had watched him like a beetle under a magnifying glass. There was no physical act, no word spoken aloud, that they had not noticed, no train of thought that they had not been able to infer. Even the speck of whitish dust on the cover of his diary they had carefully replaced. They had played sound-tracks to him, shown him photographs. Some of them were photographs of Julia and himself. Yes, even . . . He could not fight against the Party any longer. Besides, the Party was in the right. It must be so; how could the immortal, collective brain be mistaken? By what external standard could you check its judgements? Sanity was statistical. It was merely a question of learning to think as they thought. Only----!
In recent weeks, the Kentucky Republican announced political hires in quick succession in Iowa, New Hampshire and Michigan----states key to winning his party's nomination. Staffers mention a future campaign headquarters in Louisville and claim an email list of one million supporters, details most potential presidential hopefuls keep quiet. A super PAC launched by backers shortly before the 2012 election offers a repository for big donors.
The pencil felt thick and awkward in his fingers. He began to write down the thoughts that came into his head. He wrote first in large clumsy capitals:
On Monday, Mr. Paul begins a three-day, 10-stop swing through Iowa, marking his 10th visit in this election cycle to one of the first three states on the traditional nominating calendar. Only Sen. Ted Cruz (R., Texas) has made more trips, at 11.
His mind grew more active. He sat down on the plank bed, his back against the wall and the slate on his knees, and set to work deliberately at the task of re-educating himself.
Sen. Rand Paul hasn't said whether he will seek the 2016 GOP presidential nomination. But his aggressive groundwork seems to point to no other outcome.
He had capitulated, that was agreed. In reality, as he saw now, he had been ready to capitulate long before he had taken the decision. From the moment when he was inside the Ministry of Love----and yes, even during those minutes when he and Julia had stood helpless while the iron voice from the telescreen told them what to do----he had grasped the frivolity, the shallowness of his attempt to set himself up against the power of the Party. He knew now that for seven years the Thought Police had watched him like a beetle under a magnifying glass. There was no physical act, no word spoken aloud, that they had not noticed, no train of thought that they had not been able to infer. Even the speck of whitish dust on the cover of his diary they had carefully replaced. They had played sound-tracks to him, shown him photographs. Some of them were photographs of Julia and himself. Yes, even . . . He could not fight against the Party any longer. Besides, the Party was in the right. It must be so; how could the immortal, collective brain be mistaken? By what external standard could you check its judgements? Sanity was statistical. It was merely a question of learning to think as they thought. Only----!
In recent weeks, the Kentucky Republican announced political hires in quick succession in Iowa, New Hampshire and Michigan----states key to winning his party's nomination. Staffers mention a future campaign headquarters in Louisville and claim an email list of one million supporters, details most potential presidential hopefuls keep quiet. A super PAC launched by backers shortly before the 2012 election offers a repository for big donors.
The pencil felt thick and awkward in his fingers. He began to write down the thoughts that came into his head. He wrote first in large clumsy capitals:
On Monday, Mr. Paul begins a three-day, 10-stop swing through Iowa, marking his 10th visit in this election cycle to one of the first three states on the traditional nominating calendar. Only Sen. Ted Cruz (R., Texas) has made more trips, at 11.
Saturday, August 2, 2014
August 2, 2014
Will This Billionaire Bring $3-a-Month Phone Plans to U.S.?
They had given him a white slate with a stump of pencil tied to the corner. At first he made no use of it. Even when he was awake he was completely torpid. Often he would lie from one meal to the next almost without stirring, sometimes asleep, sometimes waking into vague reveries in which it was too much trouble to open his eyes. He had long grown used to sleeping with a strong light on his face. It seemed to make no difference, except that one’s dreams were more coherent. He dreamed a great deal all through this time, and they were always happy dreams. He was in the Golden Country, or he was sitting among enormous glorious, sunlit ruins, with his mother, with Julia, with O’Brien----not doing anything, merely sitting in the sun, talking of peaceful things. Such thoughts as he had when he was awake were mostly about his dreams. He seemed to have lost the power of intellectual effort, now that the stimulus of pain had been removed. He was not bored, he had no desire for conversation or distraction. Merely to be alone, not to be beaten or questioned, to have enough to eat, and to be clean all over, was completely satisfying.
PARIS----When Iliad SA ILD.FR -7.01% founder Xavier Niel made a last-ditch attempt this spring to buy a French rival to gain scale, his adversaries thought he was bluffing.
By degrees he came to spend less time in sleep, but he still felt no impulse to get off the bed. All he cared for was to lie quiet and feel the strength gathering in his body. He would finger himself here and there, trying to make sure that it was not an illusion that his muscles were growing rounder and his skin tauter. Finally it was established beyond a doubt that he was growing fatter; his thighs were now definitely thicker than his knees. After that, reluctantly at first, he began exercising himself regularly. In a little while he could walk three kilometres, measured by pacing the cell, and his bowed shoulders were growing straighter. He attempted more elaborate exercises, and was astonished and humiliated to find what things he could not do. He could not move out of a walk, he could not hold his stool out at arm’s length, he could not stand on one leg without falling over. He squatted down on his heels, and found that with agonizing pains in thigh and calf he could just lift himself to a standing position. He lay flat on his belly and tried to lift his weight by his hands. It was hopeless, he could not raise himself a centimetre. But after a few more days----a few more mealtimes----even that feat was accomplished. A time came when he could do it six times running. He began to grow actually proud of his body, and to cherish an intermittent belief that his face also was growing back to normal. Only when he chanced to put his hand on his bald scalp did he remember the seamed, ruined face that had looked back at him out of the mirror.
"We told them: Either you tell us you are really for sale, or we turn to other options that may make it difficult to come back to this later," Mr. Niel said, referring to his attempt to buy France's No. 3 telecom company, Bouygues SA EN.FR -3.74% 's Bouygues Telecom.
His mind grew more active. He sat down on the plank bed, his back against the wall and the slate on his knees, and set to work deliberately at the task of re-educating himself.
On Thursday, the French billionaire made good on his threat.
They had given him a white slate with a stump of pencil tied to the corner. At first he made no use of it. Even when he was awake he was completely torpid. Often he would lie from one meal to the next almost without stirring, sometimes asleep, sometimes waking into vague reveries in which it was too much trouble to open his eyes. He had long grown used to sleeping with a strong light on his face. It seemed to make no difference, except that one’s dreams were more coherent. He dreamed a great deal all through this time, and they were always happy dreams. He was in the Golden Country, or he was sitting among enormous glorious, sunlit ruins, with his mother, with Julia, with O’Brien----not doing anything, merely sitting in the sun, talking of peaceful things. Such thoughts as he had when he was awake were mostly about his dreams. He seemed to have lost the power of intellectual effort, now that the stimulus of pain had been removed. He was not bored, he had no desire for conversation or distraction. Merely to be alone, not to be beaten or questioned, to have enough to eat, and to be clean all over, was completely satisfying.
PARIS----When Iliad SA ILD.FR -7.01% founder Xavier Niel made a last-ditch attempt this spring to buy a French rival to gain scale, his adversaries thought he was bluffing.
By degrees he came to spend less time in sleep, but he still felt no impulse to get off the bed. All he cared for was to lie quiet and feel the strength gathering in his body. He would finger himself here and there, trying to make sure that it was not an illusion that his muscles were growing rounder and his skin tauter. Finally it was established beyond a doubt that he was growing fatter; his thighs were now definitely thicker than his knees. After that, reluctantly at first, he began exercising himself regularly. In a little while he could walk three kilometres, measured by pacing the cell, and his bowed shoulders were growing straighter. He attempted more elaborate exercises, and was astonished and humiliated to find what things he could not do. He could not move out of a walk, he could not hold his stool out at arm’s length, he could not stand on one leg without falling over. He squatted down on his heels, and found that with agonizing pains in thigh and calf he could just lift himself to a standing position. He lay flat on his belly and tried to lift his weight by his hands. It was hopeless, he could not raise himself a centimetre. But after a few more days----a few more mealtimes----even that feat was accomplished. A time came when he could do it six times running. He began to grow actually proud of his body, and to cherish an intermittent belief that his face also was growing back to normal. Only when he chanced to put his hand on his bald scalp did he remember the seamed, ruined face that had looked back at him out of the mirror.
"We told them: Either you tell us you are really for sale, or we turn to other options that may make it difficult to come back to this later," Mr. Niel said, referring to his attempt to buy France's No. 3 telecom company, Bouygues SA EN.FR -3.74% 's Bouygues Telecom.
His mind grew more active. He sat down on the plank bed, his back against the wall and the slate on his knees, and set to work deliberately at the task of re-educating himself.
On Thursday, the French billionaire made good on his threat.
Friday, August 1, 2014
August 1, 2014.
Gaza Truce in Tatters as Hamas, Israelis Clash
Chapter 4
He was much better. He was growing fatter and stronger every day, if it was proper to speak of days.
A cease-fire meant to last three days and lead to talks on a lasting peace in the Gaza Strip collapsed Friday as heavy fighting erupted between Israeli forces and Hamas.
The white light and the humming sound were the same as ever, but the cell was a little more comfortable than the others he had been in. There was a pillow and a mattress on the plank bed, and a stool to sit on. They had given him a bath, and they allowed him to wash himself fairly frequently in a tin basin. They even gave him warm water to wash with. They had given him new underclothes and a clean suit of overalls. They had dressed his varicose ulcer with soothing ointment. They had pulled out the remnants of his teeth and given him a new set of dentures.
The Israeli military said a suicide bomber blew himself up as its forces were trying to plug up Hamas tunnels near the southern Gaza city of Rafah, and an Israeli soldier was missing and may have been captured during the ensuing clash.
Weeks or months must have passed. It would have been possible now to keep count of the passage of time, if he had felt any interest in doing so, since he was being fed at what appeared to be regular intervals. He was getting, he judged, three meals in the twenty-four hours; sometimes he wondered dimly whether he was getting them by night or by day. The food was surprisingly good, with meat at every third meal. Once there was even a packet of cigarettes. He had no matches, but the never-speaking guard who brought his food would give him a light. The first time he tried to smoke it made him sick, but he persevered, and spun the packet out for a long time, smoking half a cigarette after each meal.
Gaza's Health Ministry said Israeli tank fire killed four Palestinians in the fighting, the Associated Press reported.
Chapter 4
He was much better. He was growing fatter and stronger every day, if it was proper to speak of days.
A cease-fire meant to last three days and lead to talks on a lasting peace in the Gaza Strip collapsed Friday as heavy fighting erupted between Israeli forces and Hamas.
The white light and the humming sound were the same as ever, but the cell was a little more comfortable than the others he had been in. There was a pillow and a mattress on the plank bed, and a stool to sit on. They had given him a bath, and they allowed him to wash himself fairly frequently in a tin basin. They even gave him warm water to wash with. They had given him new underclothes and a clean suit of overalls. They had dressed his varicose ulcer with soothing ointment. They had pulled out the remnants of his teeth and given him a new set of dentures.
The Israeli military said a suicide bomber blew himself up as its forces were trying to plug up Hamas tunnels near the southern Gaza city of Rafah, and an Israeli soldier was missing and may have been captured during the ensuing clash.
Weeks or months must have passed. It would have been possible now to keep count of the passage of time, if he had felt any interest in doing so, since he was being fed at what appeared to be regular intervals. He was getting, he judged, three meals in the twenty-four hours; sometimes he wondered dimly whether he was getting them by night or by day. The food was surprisingly good, with meat at every third meal. Once there was even a packet of cigarettes. He had no matches, but the never-speaking guard who brought his food would give him a light. The first time he tried to smoke it made him sick, but he persevered, and spun the packet out for a long time, smoking half a cigarette after each meal.
Gaza's Health Ministry said Israeli tank fire killed four Palestinians in the fighting, the Associated Press reported.
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