IT’S A DAY of rest, and you may be in the mood for a quiet corner and a comfy chair. We’ve hand-picked the week’s best reads for you to savour.
The explosion blew off his legs, his left arm and his right hand. After receiving immediate medical attention in Afghanistan, he transferred to a hospital in Germany, and May 6th was taken to Walter Reed Medical Academy in Washington DC to begin the long rehabilitation process. That following week his closest friends began meeting nightly.
She was ready for a change of genre. “I had a lot of real-world material in me, believe you me,” Rowling said. “The thing about fantasy—there are certain things you just don’t do in fantasy. You don’t have sex near unicorns. It’s an ironclad rule. It’s tacky.”
From what we could tell, Steph’s home life was weird. Her mother, as described to us, was some combination of nemesis and chauffeur, shuttling Stephanie between medical appointments while having towering arguments with her daughter. We saw Stephanie’s mom sometimes when she dropped Steph off, but never interacted with her.
“This is my best friend,” said Alana, who was holding hands with her publicist as we approached the Macon Mall. It was spoken like a true celebrity. And then: “We have so many security guards, I get their names mixed up.” Wearing a pair of heeled sandals, she regularly came off as the “Princess” her T-shirt had labelled her.
Eventually, a conspiracy theory took root: The unknown actor behind Smiling Bob had died in a boat accident in the Caribbean. Something sinister seemed afoot. Hypotheses varied: Perhaps Smiling Bob had been murdered? Or maybe he had faked his own death?
“No one is going to save you,” she warned an audience that filled the tables to the back wall. “You are going to save you. Every morning, rub the sleep from your eyes and say, ‘What am I going to do to save the republic?’ We will win,” she declared, “But every single one of you must be a soldier.”
… AND A CLASSIC READ FROM THE ARCHIVES…
In August 2007, Laurie Abraham spent a year sitting in on a couples therapist – watching spouses working out whether their marriage could be saved. She wrote about it for the New York Times.
“You ask me for intimacy,” Marie was telling her husband of 22 years, Clem — and, unavoidably, the therapist and four other couples in the room — “the same way you ask if I’d like croutons on my salad.” She spoke slowly, deliberately, each word chipping out of her mouth like an ax striking wood. “I don’t hear the difference.”