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Articles tagged "Theft"

Tetsu of the Yamanote Line

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Japanese books, including manga like this one, are meant to be read from right to left. So the front cover is actually the back cover, and vice-versa. To read this excerpt, start in the top right-hand corner. Read the panels, and the bubbles in the panels, from right to left, then drop down to the next row and repeat. It may make you dizzy at first, but forcing your brain to do things backwards makes you smarter in the long run. We swear.—Editors

The Train

Some weekends my parents and I went from Mardin to Syria and stayed in Kamışlı, the town nearest to the Turkish border. Although it was a town, I compared Kamışlı, with its wide, well-kept roads, its big buildings and hotels, to the great cities I'd seen in films and come across illustrated in atlases and encyclopaedias. I remember we stayed in the Semiramis Hotel, then a night club ... it was the first time in my life I'd seen a nightclub. I think it...

Luís Paulo Neto

When Elisângela threw the box out, with all the authority of a woman who wears the pants, he didn't really care. To tell the truth, what shocked him most was that it had been two years since he'd last opened it. He was hiding out in Dourados, at the house of a cousin who didn't know that he was on the run and welcomed him with open arms, especially after the money he'd sent him to buy a plot of land. Those were the good old days, back when he could send money to...

from “Chaabi”

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from “Metro”

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Zaporozhets

My family has always had complicated relations with cars. Our first car was a beige Zaporozhets made in the USSR, which had a Beetle-like design. I was eligible for a model with manual controls because I had a problem with my leg. Getting the car was rather simple: tests on a treadmill, proof that my leg acted weirdly, a certificate proving that I had good eyesight and a stable psyche, and, above all, coming to terms with the woman in charge. To this person, who dealt out these cheap...

from “Out Stealing Horses”

We were going out stealing horses. That was what he said, standing at the door to the cabin where I was spending the summer with my father. I was fifteen. It was 1948 and one of the first days of July. Three years earlier the Germans had left, but I can't remember that we talked about them any longer. At least my father did not. He never said anything about the war. Jon came often to our door, at all hours, wanting me to go out with him: shooting hares, walking through the forest in...

Blue, White, Red

At the beginning, there was the name. A humdrum name. A two-syllable name: Moki... At the beginning, there was that name. Moki is standing in front of me. I see him again. He's talking to me. He is giving me instructions. He tells me to take care of the rest with Préfet. Don't ask him any questions. Just do what he asks me to do. Moki is there, his gaze turned upward toward the sky. He rarely takes a good look at his go-betweens. I listen to him. Continuously. Rapt. Am I...

from Framed

Thirty-five paintings, practically all the same: indescribable black scribblings on a black background. Obsessive, sick. The day they arrived at the gallery I unpacked them one by one, going faster and faster, wanting to see the surprise and the splash of color. At first glance everyone thought they were sinister. Even Jacques, my colleague. He's the master picturehanger; I'm just his apprentice. "We're pushed for time, kid. Doors open in twenty-five minutes!" The...

The Circus

For the Welsh original, please click here. When I close my ears to the sounds of this circus my eyes rise to the paths where Will High-Bridge-Arm waits for me. The papers said it was the sovereign in his pocket that was bait for thieves. I wonder whether time froze for him as he tasted, heard, felt the pain of the world passing by him? The gang laughed at him as they caught the glint of moon in his gold coin. Will High-Bridge-Arm sank into oblivion's fountain. When he rose from...

from “The Fourth Take”

As he was hastily and wearily glancing through the window at Gare du Nord, Michel felt as if he recalled Christophe's face at least twice a minute. Christophe's face was big and long, slow and thoughtful; but above all it was pale, pale as if Brussels had suddenly leaned inside through the window and spread all the fog from its bosom along his features. They were sitting in Christophe's flat somewhere in the vicinity of the Southern railway station. Christophe's mouth was...

“Villon and I,” from “Territoires d’Outre-Ville”

The ties between Arab youth and the law bring to mind, in many ways, a nineteenth-century novel. For a long time I was fragile, yet in the pervasive delinquency around me, I seemed driven by some borrowed force. Invariably, the ghetto child's first act of revolt is to commit an offence. Poverty, that traditional proletarian sickness, dictates every action. Therein lie the roots of begging, of thieving. I recall being hungry the way a grown man is hungry in the streets of this country. I...

from “The True Story of the Labyrinth”

One "Early in the morning, when the sun begins to reveal the objects around us, for me it will be late: another day to fill me with fear," Clara confessed to herself as she looked at her reflection out of the corner of her eye. She considered her almond-shaped eyes, pale face, and squalid body, lost in the folds of man's clothes she had put on before running away from home. It was Saturday. She could not leave the room where she had taken refuge. She had not spoken to anyone in a...

A Failed Journey

They warned her that one more offense against good behavior and the promised trip to the promised land (the United States) would be cancelled and to please return the mechanical pencil she'd filched from her classmate Agni's backpack during recess, Agni who was sobbing inconsolably like a coward in the arms of fat "Miss Becky" in a corner of the classroom. The little brat, without any trace of shame or guilt, slowly pulled a Superman refillable mechanical pencil from under her...

The Toughest Guy in Utouf

As evening fell, Boss Bayumi al-Fawwal left the Husseiniya Police Station clutching a "caution against vagrancy," his chest about to explode with exasperation and rage. He frothed and foamed as he muttered and snarled until the sounds built up into a shrill crescendo, crude and incomprehensible. The gathering roar grew louder and higher the further he drew away from the scene of his humiliation, gradually turning into curses, insults and sheer defamation--all screamed at the top of his...

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