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I work at Perigban's health clinic, which lacks the materials to diagnose almost any illness that can't be identified as malaria or dysentery. I don't perform any curative services; those are left to the two nurses andmidwife who staff the clinic. My hands-on experience has so far been limitedto weighing babies and assisting with prenatal consultations, although Ihave witnessed several births. My "assignment," according to Peace Corps and the Ministry of Health, is to to help carry out an initiative to decentralize health care by encouraging my clinic's management committee - a group of eightvillagers, all men - to become more autonomous. In concrete terms this meanstraining the members, most of whom are illiterate and speak little or noFrench, to write an annual budget and action plan, conduct community needsassessments, and execute "health promotion activities." Not an easy thingto do in a place where meetings scheduled for 8am don't begin until 11, where activity requiring community participation can take place during the planting season (June-October), where people have come to depend heavily on outside funding, and where I am propositioned by just about every breathing male over the age of twelve.

Paul van Dyk discography - Wikipedia

A touch of the hairbrush was necessary, and for his hands the file of the nail-scissors
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One of the few times during the early years of our marriage I saw my wife cry really hard was when I told her that a paperback publisher, New American Library, had paid a ton of money for the book she'd rescued from the trash. I could quit teaching, she could quit pushing crullers at Dunkin' Donuts. She looked almost unbelieving for five seconds and then she put her hands over her face and she wept. When she finally stopped, we went into the living room and sat on our old couch, which Tabby had rescued from a yard sale, and talked into the early hours of the morning about what we were going to do with the money. I've never had a more pleasant conversation. I have never had one that felt more surreal.

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We tell students frankly that they are being asked to think about style in an unnatural way and to learn to write in a style that is foreign to them, and that we know, based on our experience in teaching this course, that they will be profoundly confused and uncomfortable for about a month. We do not yet know of a way to speed up this period. Students appear to do a great deal of conceptual work during this month, but not to flower until the fifth or sixth week. We tell students that the first month ofwork may be the most important - certainly it is indispensable - but thatthere is almost no point in grading anything they write during that month,because it will bear little relation to what they can do by the end of theclass. We tell them that above all they must not approach the class by trying to understand it as fitting something they already know. They donot know what we are about to teach, or anything like it, and if they substitute something they do know for the activity of the course, it only means they will not learn. They are being asked to learn something new, and they must approach the course in that spirit - they are being asked to learn to walk on their hands, become a mime, fly. We tell them that the only way to learn an activity is by doing it routinely, to think about it all the time, to practice it as part of their daily intellectual equipment, and that if they try to learn classic style or the analysis of style by turning on their "stylemodule" for an hour or two the night before an assignment is due, not onlywill they fail completely to learn the activity, they may be worse writersat the end of the course than they were at the beginning. Scales must bepracticed every day, fan kicks must be worked on every day, front kicksevery day. To learn the activity, the student must do stylistic analysis as part of looking at the world, and try every day, a few times a day, to inhabit a style and write from it. At first, it is like learning to hold a violin bow - everything seems to go wrong. But after a while, it is like knowing how to hold a violin bow - it seems unnatural to hold it any other way.

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InNovember of 1918 my mother resolved to flee with Sebastian and myself from thedangers of Russia. Revolution was in full swing, frontiers were closed. Shegot in touch with a man who had made smuggling refugees across the border hisprofession, and it was settled that for a certain fee, one half of which waspaid in advance, he would get us to Finland. We were to leave the train justbefore the frontier, at a place we could lawfully reach, and then cross over bysecret paths, doubly, trebly secret owing to the heavy snowfalls in that silentregion. At the starting point of our train-journey, we found ourselves, mymother and I, waiting for Sebastian, who, with the heroic help of CaptainBelov, was trundling the luggage from house to station. The train wasscheduled to start at 8:40 A. M. Half past and still no Sebastian. Our guidewas already in the train and sat quietly reading a newspaper; he had warned mymother that in no circumstance should she talk to him in public, and as thetime passed and the train was preparing to leave, a nightmare feeling of numbpanic began to come over us. We knew that the man in accordance with thetraditions of his profession, would never renew a performance that had misfiredat the outset. We knew too that we could not again afford the expenses offlight. The minutes passed and I felt something gurgling desperately in thepit of my stomach. The thought that in a minute or two the train would moveoff and that we should have to return to a dark cold attic (our house had beennationalised some months ago) was utterly disastrous. On our way to thestation we had passed Sebastian and Belov pushing the heavily burdenedwheelbarrow through the crunching snow. The picture now stood motionlessbefore my eyes (I was a boy of thirteen and very imaginative) as a charmedthing doomed to its paralysed eternity. My mother, her hands in her sleevesand a wisp of grey hair emerging from beneath her woolen kerchief, walked toand fro, trying to catch the eye of our guide every time she passed by hiswindow. Eight-forty-five, eight-fifty . . . The train was late in starting,but at last the whistle blew, a rush of warm white smoke raced its shadowacross the brown snow on the platform, and at the same time Sebastian appearedrunning, the earflaps of his fur cap flying in the wind. The three of usscrambled into the moving train. It took some time before he managed to tellus that Captain Belov had been arrested in the street just as they were passingthe house where he had lived before, and that leaving the luggage to its fate,he, Sebastian, had made a desperate dash for the station. A few months laterwe learned that our poor friend had been shot, together with a score of peoplein the same batch, shoulder to shoulder with Palchin, who died as bravely asBelov. (pages 24-25)—->

Stephen King, Recipient of the National Book …

The American Book Review's 100 Best Last Lines from Novels.