By John Seabrook, from The New Yorker, September 18, 2000 “I’M HOME.” About four years ago, in a men’s store called Camouflage, in Chelsea, I tried on some trousers. They were perfectly ordinary-looking thin-wale corduroys, and yet something about them was different: the fabric was softer, the color was slightly subtler than basic black. The pants were unpleated, [...]
THE PROTAGONIST OF ةلحر ةيدبٔا I want to talk about the pathans, the people I love, which makes may task harder than ever. I want you to love them as I do. But the pathan is not easy to love. He takes a lot of knowing. He is a most complicated simplicity. I want to [...]
It’s the dusk of the evening that really gets me down. I just noticed it yesterday, at that time of day when it could be mistaken for early morning. It almost made me wonder if another day had indeed just passed or if it was just beginning. If none of the exchanges between friends and [...]
There was a time in my life when things made sense and I was angry. Now nothing makes sense and I’m at peace with my own damnation.
You were an interesting little child, eyes so bright and big. Do you remember when we first met in that glaring desert sun, full of humanity? It was my only aim to seduce you, like I had been seduced. “Go down,” I whispered. You reminded me of a girl I had met in my faded [...]