You see a fleeting perfection of form merging with a significant substance, and you make a clicking noise only a hair's breadth away. You have judged something, reported something, ostensibly truthfully... And when you made a clicking noise you said something eloquently if you are skilled.
The War Has Been Declared. Your Ally Been Ensnared. It Is Now Or It Is Never. Break The Code Or Die Forever. Time Is Running Out Running Out Running Out To the Warrior Give My Blade By His Hand Your Fate Is Made But Do Not Forget the Ticking Or the Clicking, Clicking, Clicking While a Rat's Tongue May Be Flicking With Its Feet It Does the Tricking For the Paw and Not the Jaw Makes the Code of Claw Time Is Standing Still Standing Still Standing Still Since the Princess Is the Key To Unlock the Treachery She Cannot Avoid the Matching or the Scratching, Scratching, Scratching When a Secret Plot is Hatching In the Naming Is the Catching What She Saw, It Is the Flaw Of the Code of Claw Time is Turning Back Turning Back Turning Back When the Monster's Blood Is Spilled When the Warrior Has Been Killed You Must Not Ingore the Rapping Or the Tapping, Tapping, Tapping If the Gnawers Find you Napping You Will Rot While They Are Mapping Out the Law of Those Who Gnaw In the Code of Claw
I was happy with how I played. I think the main thing for me was just being aggressive at both ends of the floor. I think every day more and more as I get yelled at and as I learn it helps you figure out your role. And then once you do what they tell you that you should be doing, and everything starts clicking with everybody else, you realize that they're right.
I figured the process of someone standing at a shelf and deciding what juice to buy is going to be very different than someone sitting at the computer clicking through a bunch of different books or CDs-until I actually looked at the data, and it turned out that the patterns were remarkably similar.
He pushed his two feet together and shot his right arm in the air before clicking his two heels together and saying in a deep and clear voice as possible the words he said every time he left a soldiers presence. 'Heil Hitler, ' he said, which, he presumed, was another way of saying, 'Well, goodbye for now, have a pleasant afternoon'.
If people wrote their reviews on paper and put them into a real, physical library, I am sure that the Goodreads administrators would be very reluctant to pull them down from shelves and burn them. When you can get rid of a piece of writing just by clicking on a few links, there's a temptation to believe that it's less serious. But it isn't. It's just less clear what you've done.
I have a mouse, but don't have a mouse driver for MINIX and have never felt the need to write one. Typing "rm x y z" is a lot faster than clicking five times and then having to convince the system that you really, truly, mean it and this is not a mistake and that you are consenting adult over 18 and that you completely understand the consequences and you still want to do it.
Andrew S. Tanenbaum
Painting to me is addictive. These are moments when it is inspiring, but they are few and far between. I keep my tools sharpened for the moment when things do start clicking, but that doesn't happen a lot. I really have to push myself sometimes. Painting is a profession in which it is very easy to be lazy, particularly if you have any degree of success.
I can only work between the hours of 8:30 and 4:30, because that's when the kids are at school. So I get to do all my work and have all of my fun in that time, which means just sitting on a chair, typing, alternately clicking between writing a column and being on Twitter, and smoking as many cigarettes as I can before my lungs give out.
Sometimes the show needs that kick in the ass so being able to sing a Nirvana song kind of takes it there. I've grown up putting on extravagant shows with Girl Talk so when I'm playing I like to go nuts. After 30 minutes of pointing and clicking it's nice to scream into a microphone for three minutes.
It's lame when I'm hanging out with my friends and they're so busy taking pictures to put on Facebook, instead of enjoying what they're doing. You're gonna look back and have 10 million pictures, but you're not in one of them because you were too busy clicking away. I think it's best to stop telling people about it and enjoy the moment you're in yourself.
So, things aren't clicking with this sweet guy who keeps calling you. So what? Things like chemistry and fate and all the rest actually exist. You don't need to flip out if you're seeing a guy who's really nice to you and you're not attracted to him. It doesn't have to necessarily be because he's nice to you and you hate yourself.
I'm just more comfortable at short. I've been playing there all my life. It's just more normal or more natural for me to play at short. Playing third was fine for that one year. I think it just made a better infielder. It's been a lot of fun so far this year because everything's clicking and it seems to be a great defensive year for us.
To him she seemed so beautiful, so seductive, so different from ordinary people, that he could not understand why no one was as disturbed as he by the clicking of her heels on the paving stones, why no one else's heart was wild with the breeze stirred by the sighs of her veils, why everyone did not go mad with the movements of her braid, the flight of her hands, the gold of her laughter. He had not missed a single one of her gestures, not one of the indications of her character, but he did not dare approach her for fear of destroying the spell.
Gabriel GarceÂa Me¡rquez
The man seemed not to have heard him. 'At this life-giving time of the year, Professor Scrooge, ' said the pastor, clicking his pen, 'it is more than usually desirable that we should make some slight contribution to babes and adults, who lie languishing in hospitals and care facilities, standing on street corners and under bridges, or living alone at home during this time. Many are in need of blood transfusions or food or pregnancy care every day in our large community; many others - especially the elderly - are in want of comfort and cheer.' 'Are there no abortion clinics?' asked Scrooge. 'Plenty of clinics, ' said the pastor, clicking the pen tip in again. 'And Euthanasia facilities?' demanded Scrooge. 'Are they still in operation?' 'They are. Still, ' returned the gentleman, 'I wish I could say they were not.' 'Welfare and Food Stamps are in full swing, then?' said Scrooge. 'Both very busy.' 'Oh! I was afraid, from what you said at first, that something had occurred to stop them in their useful course, ' said Scrooge. 'I'm very glad to hear it.' 'Under the impression that they scarcely furnish Christian cheer of mind or body to the multitude, ' returned the gentleman, 'a few churches are endeavoring to raise a fund to provide those in need with medical care and food as well as the comfort of a human presence and the message of eternal life through Jesus. We choose this time to sow into others' lives because it is a time, of all others, when we rejoice in the life God gave to us through His Son. What shall I put down - in time, money, or blood - for you?' 'Nothing!' Scrooge replied. 'You wish to give anonymously, then?' 'I wish to be left alone, ' said Scrooge.
Ashley Elizabeth Blair Tetzlaff
In my years of photography I have learned that many things can be sensed, seen, shaped, or resolved in a realm of quiet, well in advance of, or between, the actual clicking of shutters and the sloshing of films and papers in chemical solutions. I work to attain a state of heart, a gentle space offering inspirational substance that could purify one's vision. Photography, like music, must be born in the unmanifest world of the spirit.
He had tried to explain the way he felt to Danny once, about compulsive behavior and time rushing too fast and the Internet and drugs. Danny had only lifted one of his slender, mobile eyebrows and stared at him in smirking confusion. Danny did not think coke and computers were anything alike. But Jude had seen the way people hunched over their screens, clicking the refresh button again and again, waiting for some crucial if meaningless hit of information, and he thought it was almost exactly the same.
When you meet the one. It just clicks. Clicking is important in a relationship. When you click, you share the same passion and worldviews, ambitions and dreams. You are willing to share your inner thoughts, fears, desires and secrets. When you click, your partner makes you comfortable in your skin, he or she knows what you need even you're quiet, knows when to give advice and when to just listen. When you click, you allow your partner to steadily be what they desire to be, while you be a steady presence
In theory at any rate each militia was a democracy and not a hierarchy. It was understood that orders had to be obeyed, but it was also understood that when you gave an order you gave it as comrade to comrade and not as superior to inferior. There were officers and NCOs, but there was no military rank in the ordinary sense; not titles, no badges, no heel-clicking and saluting. They had attempted to produce within the militias a sort of temporary working model of the classless society.
Before the war Sofya Levinton had once said to Yevgenia Nikolaevna Shaposhnikova, 'If one man is fated to be killed by another, it would be interesting to trace the gradual convergence of their paths. At the start they might be miles away from one another - I might be in Pamir picking alpine roses and clicking my camera, while this other man, my death, might be eight thousand miles away, fishing for ruff in a little stream after school. I might be getting ready to go to a concert and he might be at the railway station buying a ticket to go and visit his mother-in-law - and yet eventually we are bound to meet, we can't avoid it...
I took one last look at the man who owned my body and soul for so many years. His face twisted into a mask of sheer devastation. I wanted to reach out and console him, to say everything would work out. It wouldn't though, not until he put his family before his career. 'I never thought our love story had an end, ' Luke said faintly. Clicking the door shut, I slid down the wooden frame into a heap on the floor. Sobs racked my body as I echoed the same sentiments in my head. Our love story shouldn't have had an end. Only a beginning.
I notice differences in how we all handle the mahjong tiles. Pat and Amy treat the tiles with something bordering on reverence. They silently select tiles for discard from their racks and place them gently on the tabletop, in a dainty almost whispering motion. Sue and I place our discard tiles down so they make that clicking sound I have always loved hearing. Betty flings her tiles onto the tabletop with a throw-away motion befitting the worthless items they are.
with a click, my novel would be born; it would come out into the light suddenly transformed from the hypothetical text composed in my imagination into finished, tangible thing with a real and independent existence. The moment of clicking on the print button always gave rise to strange and powerful ambivalence-a combination of self-satisfaction, gloom and anxiety. Self-satisfaction for having finished writing the book. Gloom because taking my leave of the characters has the same effect on me as when a group of friends have to depart. And anxiety, perhaps because I am on the verge of delivering up into other people's hands something that I treasure.
Alaa Al Aswany
In a world of intrusive technology, we must engage in a kind of struggle if we wish to sustain moments of solitude. E-reading opens the door to distraction. It invites connectivity and clicking and purchasing. The closed network of a printed book, on the other hand, seems to offer greater serenity. It harks back to a pre-jacked-in age. Cloth, paper, ink: For these read helmet, cuirass, shield. They afford a degree of protection and make possible a less intermediated, less fractured experience. They guard our aloneness. That is why I love them, and why I read printed books still.
Every now and then, a small plane arrives from nowhere - as tiny as the head of a match-stick - it flies around my head, buzzing, like a pesky little fly, then disappears into my ear. Later, it lands on my throbbing heart. Excited tourists get out of the plane, constantly clicking their cameras, watching the narrow chasms open-mouthed. After some time, the pilot tells the passengers to get back on the plane. The storms are unpredictable here, he warns. So the small plane flies out of my ear, and as I watch them leave, I wish I could go with them. But I know that's impossible. My fear of heights keeps me in the deep.
WOKE UP EARLY IN THE MORNING, ALL I THOUGHT WAS MONEY SHIT, TOO EARLY TO BE TALKING BUT IT'S TALKING TO ME AND IT'S SAYING GET TO BUSINESS 'FORE YOU GET TO LIVING THEY ALL THINKING THAT YOU FINISHED, YOU THE SICKEST WITH IT GET IT, GET IT TILL YOU GOT IT ALL I'M ON A LOBBY FLOOR UNTIL I NEED A TYLENOL BIG BUCK BITCH, BRING THEM DOWN FROM BODY MORGUE YOU GET ONE HIT, SHIT, I HAVE YOU NODDING OFF I'M IN THE BACK OF THE TRAP, COME AND SEE THE PIMP GET THIS CRACKHEAD A PACK, I AIN'T SEEN HIM SINCE TILL I SEE HIS ASS AGAIN HE GONNA OWE ME THAT BESIDES THAT I GOT IT CLICKING LIKE THE FOOL'S ATTACK HUSTLING 'CAUSE I AIN'T IN THE STRUGGLING HOW I PLAY THE BITCH SOMEBODY NEED TO SUB ME IN THROW THEM GS ON IT, TRY TO PLUCK J BUT I SPREEZED ON 'EM, TODAY WAS A GOOD DAY
Discussing it later, many of us felt we suffered a mental dislocation at that moment, which only grew worse through the course of the remaining deaths. The prevailing symptom of this state was an inability to recall any sound. Truck doors slammed silently; Lux's mouth screamed silently; and the street, the creaking tree limbs, the streetlight clicking different colors, the electric buzz of the pedestrian crossing box - all these usually clamorous voices hushes, or had begun shrieking at a pitch too high for us to hear, though they sent chills up our spines. Sound returned only once Lux had gone. Televisions erupted with canned laughter. Fathers splashed, soaking aching backs.
AFTER HOURS OF IL MULINO OR SOTTO SOTTO, JUST TALKING WOMEN AND VINO THE CONTRACT LIKE '91 DAN MARINO I SWEAR THIS GOT MICHAEL RAPINOS BOOSTING MY EGO OVERLY FOCUSED, IT'S FAR FROM THE TIME TO REST NOW DEBATES GROWING 'BOUT WHO THEY THINK IS THE BEST NOW? TOOK A WHILE, GOT THE JOKERS OUT OF THE DECK NOW I'M HOLDING ALL THE CARDS AND NIGGAS WANNA PLAY CHESS NOW I HEAR YOU TALKING, SAY IT TWICE SO I KNOW YOU MEANT IT FUCK IT, I DON'T EVEN TINT IT, THEY SHOULD KNOW WHO'S IN IT I'M AUTHENTIC, REAL NAME, NO GIMMICKS NO GAME, NO SCRIMMAGE, I AIN'T PLAYING WITH YOU NIGGAS AT ALL MY CLASSMATES, THEY WENT ON TO BE CHARTERED ACCOUNTANTS OR WORK WITH THEIR PARENTS, BUT THINKING BACK ON HOW THEY TREATED ME MY HIGH SCHOOL REUNION MIGHT BE WORTH AN APPEARANCE MAKE EVERYBODY HAVE TO GO THROUGH SECURITY CLEARANCE TABLES TURN, BRIDGES BURN, YOU LIVE AND LEARN WITH THE INK I COULD MURDER, WORD TO MY NIGGA IRV YEAH, I SWEAR SHIT JUST STARTED CLICKING DOG YOU KNOW IT'S REAL WHEN YOU ARE WHO YOU THINK YOU ARE
I saw the best minds of my generation destroyed by Facebook, starving hysterical naked, dragging themselves through photo slideshows at dawn looking for an angry fix, angelheaded hipsters burning for the ancient heavenly connections of their youth through the machinery of night, who clicking and poking and hollow-eyed and high sat up smoking in the supernatural brightness of tiny screens floating across the tops of cities contemplating likes, who bared their brains to the network and saw who got pregnant and who got fat and who's living the life best lived by posting Instagrams of themselves staggering on tenement roofs illuminated, who passed through newly cropped profile pics with radiant cool eyes obsessing over whose ex's new lover is the best looking ex-lover's lover, who breaking their backs falling out of ergonomic chairs while shouting into the icy streets, Everybody look how clever I am, Look how much fun I am having, Look at this amazing party I went to, Look at how well-liked I am, Look at my effortless carefully constructed casual desperate thrown together fun, Everybody look, This is fun, Look, Look, I swear to God I am having so much fun.
Let me sleep, " he said, and shut the door; it clicked in her face and she felt animal terror - this was what she feared most in life: the clicking shut of a man's door in her face. Instantly, she raised her hand to knock, discovered the rock... she banged on the door with the rock, but not loudly, just enough to let him know how desperate she was to get back in, but not enough to bother him if he didn't want to answer. He didn't. No sound, no movement of the door. Nothing but the void. "Tony?" she gasped, pressing her ear to the door. Silence. "Okay, " she said numbly; clutching her rock she walked unsteadily across the porch toward her own living quarters. The rock vanished. Her hand felt nothing. "Damn, " she said, not knowing how to react. Where had it gone? Into air. But then it must have been an illusion, she realized. He put me in a hypnotic state and made me believe. I should have known it wasn't really true. A million stars burst into wheels of light, blistering, cold light, that drenched her. It came from behind and she felt the great weight of it crash into her. "Tony, " she said, and fell into the waiting void. She thought nothing; she felt nothing. She saw only, saw the void as it absorbed her, waiting below and beneath her as she plummeted down the many miles. On her hands and knees she died. Alone on the porch. Still clutching for what did not exist.
Philip K. Dick
He is a demon, Clarissa, ' said Valentine, still in the same soft voice. 'A demon with a man's face. I know how deceptive such monsters can be. Remember, I spared him once myself.' 'Monster?' echoed Clary. She thought of Luke, Luke pushing her on the swings when she was five years old, higher, always higher; Luke at her graduation from middle school, camera clicking away like a proud father's; Luke sorting through each box of books as it arrived at his store, looking for anything she might like and putting it aside. Luke lifting her up to pull apples down from the trees near his farmhouse. Luke, whose place as her father this man was trying to take. 'Luke isn't a monster, ' she said in a voice that matched Valentine's, steel for steel. 'Or a murderer. You are.' 'Clary!' It was Jace. Clary ignored him. Her eyes were fixed on her father's cold black ones. 'You murdered your wife's parents, not in battle but in cold blood, ' she said. 'And I bet you murdered Michael Wayland and his little boy, too. Threw their bones in with my grandparents' so that my mother would think you and Jace were dead. Put your necklace around Michael Wayland's neck before you burned him so everyone would think those bones were yours. After all your talk about the untainted blood of the Clave - you didn't care at all about their blood or their innocence when you killed them, did you? Slaughtering old people and children in cold blood, that's monstrous.
Biju stepped out of the airport into the Calcutta night, warm, mammalian. His feet sank into dust winnowed to softness at his feet, ad he felt an unbearable feeling, sad and tender, old and sweet like the memory of falling asleep, a baby on his mother's lap. Thousands of people were out though it was almost eleven. He saw a pair of elegant bearded goats in a rickshaw, riding to slaughter. A conference of old men with elegant goat faces, smoking bidis. A mosque and minarets lit magic green in the night with a group of women rushing by in burkas, bangles clinking under the black and a big psychedelic mess of colour from a sweet shop. Rotis flew through the air as in a juggling act, polka-dotting the sky high over a restaurant that bore the slogan "Good food makes good mood". Biju stood there in that dusty tepid soft sari night. Sweet drabness of home - he felt everything shifting and clicking into place around him, felt himself slowly shrink back to size, the enormous anxiety of being a foreigner ebbing - that unbearable arrogance and shame of the immigrant. Nobody paid attention to him here, and if they said anything at all, their words were easy, unconcerned. He looked about and for the first time in God knows how long, his vision unblurred and he found that he could see clearly.
Pakistan were still just one major hurdle from victory, however, and Wasim thought he had vaulted it with Australia 132 runs short. There was a wooden, clicking noise as the ball passed Langer's bat on its way through to Moin Khan. It registered at precisely the right moment on the snickometer; there was even a small deflection, visible from the reverse-angle replay. (The reader is directed to YouTube.) But home umpire Peter Parker was having none of it. He shook his head, and Wasim was livid: 'I can't believe you didn't hear it!' 'Come on!' moaned Moin. 'Parker had earlier apologised to Langer for a poor first-innings decision-'a silly thing to do, ' in the view of his colleague Peter Willey. When the fact was publicised, the suspicion naturally arose that Pakistan had been hard done by. The umpire, it seemed, had attempted to make amends. 'I honestly believe I didn't hit it, ' Langer claimed afterwards. He was lying through his teeth, and he would lie a decade more, attributing the sound, whenever he was asked about it, to 'a clicky bat handle.' He even kept this up with his father. It is a wonder anyone believed it. 'Truth is, ' he admitted ten years later, when it no longer mattered, 'I absolutely smashed it.' 'But Langer's mendacity, and Parker's possible cowardice, is less interesting and salient for our purposes than the question of whether or not Gilchrist, too, was lying: 'I didn't hear anything-absolutely nothing.' These were his words to a press conference later that day. But many spectators heard it; Roebuck heard it; Langer's own team-mates heard it; even his father heard it. The claim is also crucially at odds with Gilchrist's own memoir, in which he affirms that 'there was a noise, but it was inconclusive.' It is difficult to say what he could mean by this. The bat had been nowhere near either pad or turf; it could only have been leather. As a 'walker' himself, Gilchrist is acclaimed for his probity. Someone ought to ask him about this episode.
from the upcoming novel, Agent White: A figure dressed all in black ran across the rooftops in the rain. A black cloak fluttered behind him as he ran two and sometimes three stories above the sidewalk where Ezra Beckitt stood. Long silver hair tied back in a ponytail flew out behind him, exposing ears that came to sharp points. His left ear was pierced with a silver ring, high up in the cartilage. Like the old man, this black figure wore a sword; but this weapon was long and thin, slightly curved. The blade stuck out behind him for three and a half feet, almost seeming to glow against the grey backdrop of the rain-soaked cityscape. Suddenly, the figure in black looked down into the street and saw Ezra there. More, he saw Ezra seeing him. Startled, he lost his sure footing and slid down the steep incline of an older building's metal roof, the busy street below waiting to catch him in an asphalt embrace. The figure in black got his feet under himself and pushed, flying out into space above the street. For an eternity Ezra watched him, suspended in the air and the rain with his cloak spread in midnight ripples around him, and then the figure in black flipped neatly and landed on the sidewalk half a block away. The pavement cracked, pushing up in twisted humps around the figure in black's tall leather boots. Before the sound of this impact even reached Ezra the figure was up and gone, dashing through the morning throngs waiting for buses or headed to the 'tram station. Ezra saw a girl's hair blow back in the wind created by his passing, but she never noticed him. A young techie blinked his 20-20's (Ezra's own enhanced senses picked up the augmented eyes because of a strange, silvery glow in the pupils) and turned halfway around, almost seeing him. And then the figure in black darted into an alley, gone. Ezra drew his service weapon and ran after, pushing his way through the sidewalk traffic. Turning into the alley he skidded to a stop, stunned; the figure in black was still there. The alley was just wide enough to accommodate Ezra's shoulders- he couldn't have held his arms out at his sides. Dumpsters spilled their trash out onto the wet pavement. The alley ended in a fire door, the back exit of a store on the next street over. Even if it was locked, Ezra didn't think it would pose a real problem for the figure in black. No, he was waiting for him. Ezra advanced with his gun out in front of him, and his eyes locked with the figure in black's. His were completely black- no pupils, no corneas, only solid black that held no light. The figure in black smiled, exposing teeth that looked very sharp, and laid his hand on the hilt of his sword. He wore leather gloves with the fingers cut off. His fingers were very long and very white. 'Don't even think about it, ' Ezra said, clicking the safety off his weapon. 'I am a Hatis City Guard, an if you move I will put you down.' This only seemed to amuse the figure in black, whose smiled widened as he drew his sword. Ezra opened fire.
As I became older, I was given many masks to wear. I could be a laborer laying railroad tracks across the continent, with long hair in a queue to be pulled by pranksters; a gardener trimming the shrubs while secretly planting a bomb; a saboteur before the day of infamy at Pearl Harbor, signaling the Imperial Fleet; a kamikaze pilot donning his headband somberly, screaming 'Banzai' on my way to my death; a peasant with a broad-brimmed straw hat in a rice paddy on the other side of the world, stooped over to toil in the water; an obedient servant in the parlor, a houseboy too dignified for my own good; a washerman in the basement laundry, removing stains using an ancient secret; a tyrant intent on imposing my despotism on the democratic world, opposed by the free and the brave; a party cadre alongside many others, all of us clad in coordinated Mao jackets; a sniper camouflaged in the trees of the jungle, training my gunsights on G.I. Joe; a child running with a body burning from napalm, captured in an unforgettable photo; an enemy shot in the head or slaughtered by the villageful; one of the grooms in a mass wedding of couples, having met my mate the day before through our cult leader; an orphan in the last airlift out of a collapsed capital, ready to be adopted into the good life; a black belt martial artist breaking cinderblocks with his head, in an advertisement for Ginsu brand knives with the slogan 'but wait-there's more' as the commercial segued to show another free gift; a chef serving up dog stew, a trick on the unsuspecting diner; a bad driver swerving into the next lane, exactly as could be expected; a horny exchange student here for a year, eager to date the blonde cheerleader; a tourist visiting, clicking away with his camera, posing my family in front of the monuments and statues; a ping pong champion, wearing white tube socks pulled up too high and batting the ball with a wicked spin; a violin prodigy impressing the audience at Carnegie Hall, before taking a polite bow; a teen computer scientist, ready to make millions on an initial public offering before the company stock crashes; a gangster in sunglasses and a tight suit, embroiled in a turf war with the Sicilian mob; an urban greengrocer selling lunch by the pound, rudely returning change over the counter to the black patrons; a businessman with a briefcase of cash bribing a congressman, a corrupting influence on the electoral process; a salaryman on my way to work, crammed into the commuter train and loyal to the company; a shady doctor, trained in a foreign tradition with anatomical diagrams of the human body mapping the flow of life energy through a multitude of colored points; a calculus graduate student with thick glasses and a bad haircut, serving as a teaching assistant with an incomprehensible accent, scribbling on the chalkboard; an automobile enthusiast who customizes an imported car with a supercharged engine and Japanese decals in the rear window, cruising the boulevard looking for a drag race; a illegal alien crowded into the cargo hold of a smuggler's ship, defying death only to crowd into a New York City tenement and work as a slave in a sweatshop. My mother and my girl cousins were Madame Butterfly from the mail order bride catalog, dying in their service to the masculinity of the West, and the dragon lady in a kimono, taking vengeance for her sisters. They became the television newscaster, look-alikes with their flawlessly permed hair. Through these indelible images, I grew up. But when I looked in the mirror, I could not believe my own reflection because it was not like what I saw around me. Over the years, the world opened up. It has become a dizzying kaleidoscope of cultural fragments, arranged and rearranged without plan or order.
Frank H. Wu