King of Kings •
By Jon Lee Anderson
How does it end? The dictator dies, shrivelled and demented, in his bed; he flees the rebels in a private plane; he is caught hiding in a mountain outpost, a drainage pipe, a spider hole. He is tried. He is not tried. He is dragged, bloody and dazed, through the streets, then executed. The humbling comes in myriad forms, but what is revealed is always the same: the technologies of paranoia, the stories of slaughter and fear, the vaults, the national economies employed as personal property, the crazy pets, the prostitutes, the golden fixtures…
Last Words •
By Mona Simpson
I want to tell you a few things I learned from Steve, during three distinct periods, over the 27 years I knew him. They’re not periods of years, but of states of being. His full life. His illness. His dying…
We all — in the end — die in medias res. In the middle of a story. Of many stories…
Steve’s final words, hours earlier, were monosyllables, repeated three times…
OH WOW. OH WOW. OH WOW.
“Pfc. Gibson Comes Home” •
By John Fetterman
Honey, listen, if anything happens to me I want you to know that I love you very very much and I want you to keep seeing my family the rest of their lives and I want you to know you are a wonderful wife and that I’m very proud of you. If anything happens I want Big Duck and Betty Jo to know I loved them very much. If anything happens also tell them not to worry, that I’m prepared for it.
The service lasted two hours and ended only after scores of people, of all ages, filed past the coffin.
Then they took Little Duck to Resthaven Cemetery up on a hill in Perry County. The Army provided six pallbearers, five of whom had served in Vietnam. There was a seven-man firing squad to fire the traditional three volleys over the grave and bugle to sound taps.
The pallbearers, crisp and polished in summer tans, folded the flag from the coffin and Sgt. Ritter handed it to the young widow, who had wept so much, but spoken so little, during the past three days.
Then the soldier’s widow knelt beside the casket and said softly, “Oh, Little Duck.”
Oglivy on Advertising •
By David Ogilvy
I doubt if more than one campaign in a hundred contains a big idea. I am supposed to be one of the more fertile inventor of big ideas, but in my long career as a copywriter I have not had more than 20, if that. Big ideas come from the unconscious. This is true in art, in science and in advertising. But your unconscious has to be well informed, or your idea will be irrelevant. Stuff your conscious mind with information, then unhook your rational thought process. You can help this process by going for a long walk, or taking a hot bath, or drinking half a pint of claret. Suddenly, if the telephone line from your unconscious is open, a big idea wells up within you.
Let’s Play White •
By Chesya Burke
“I thought so. I remember when you was born. They say you two was special, ya know.” She paused for a long time. So long Fannie almost thought she’d fallen asleep with her eyes open. “It hurts… real bad.” Janice touched her stomach and moved her hand between her legs. “It ain’t time, though. I got me two months to go. It’s somethin’ else. I can feel it.”
“I know,” Iona said.
Two’s Company •
By Jonathan Franzen
You could see him at a certain kind of party, standing near open windows, wearing black, smoking cigarettes, and hoping to talk about his favorite subject, which was the badness of his ex-wife’s films.
