Jaipur

How come we're not marching in the streets after Newtown?

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He’s Leaving Home

ONCE UPON A TIME, in a realm called England, literary fiction was an obscure and blameless pursuit. It was more respectable than angelology, true, and more esteemed than the study of phosphorescent mold; but it was without question a minority-interest sphere. In 1972, I submitted my first novel: I typed it out on a second-hand Olivetti and sent it in from the sub-editorial office I shared at The Times Literary Supplement. The print run was 1,000 (and the advance was 250 pounds). It was published, and reviewed, and that was that.

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Samanth Subramanian is a staff writer for Mint in New Delhi. So much is still so unclear about the mechanics of the Mumbai terror attacks that, even these hours later, we're left only with the images off the television--of the Taj Mahal Hotel on fire, of the devastated waiting hall at the Chhatrapati Shivaji Terminus, of the army maneuvering around south Mumbai.

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