50 in 50: Fifty Stories for Fifty Years!
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The book is not just a sumptuous visual treat, illustrated with dozens of top-quality mountain images on glossy paper. The book includes 50 stories by Cicerone writers, covering everywhere from the Howgills to climbing K2. Some depict anecdotes from the long process of researching or updating a Cicerone guide, while others just tell an interesting or funny tale for its own sake.
The stories — which are all fantastic — add up to a book that is even more than the sum of its parts. Nobody is perfect. It started with janitors. Pretty soon burger flippers, fry cooks and everyone else was out. The franchises that resisted went out of business. People stopped buying cars when sharing economy firms could get one to most people in a big city in five seconds at less for satoshis on the bit-USD.
Singapore and Switzerland suffered as lending and investment dried up. Like so many times in our history, with people out of work, they get angry and they mass in the streets. Collations form and extremist groups multiply like cancer cells. It started as stealth cyberwar that quickly erupted into all out assaults on the electrical grid and communications infrastructures, leaving people in the dark and cut off from the wider world.
AI played a thousand different roles in the rising conflict.
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Bullets rarely missed as smart rounds curved around corners and slammed targets with shark like killer instinct. They delivered comprehensive big picture strategy analysis and directed battles better than any general, sending troops to fight and die on the hills and the beaches. They sent men and machines to kill, the generals increasingly relying on them to win the war, rather than human instinct. In the end, 10 billion machines and 1.
It was the war to end all wars but what followed was an profound era of peace. People came home and never wanted to fight again. They wanted to settle down and have children and spend time laughing and drinking with friends and shaking off the wounds and scars of the past. Many of the technologies that mushroomed during World War III, like quantum computing, augmented reality, digital ledgers, crypto-voting platforms, meshnet encrypted communication, molecular printing, payment systems, universal learning algorithms reverse engineered from simulating human brains, and advanced medical diagnostics swept into the civilian world.
AIs that once directed heavily bearded spec-ops soldiers to their prey, now chat with children about how to overcome bullies and make new friends. Battle AIs were repurposed to run entire economies, ordering goods and services before people even knew they wanted them and directing factories to speed up or slow down. Robotic soldiers were scrapped or redeployed as police or to plant trees to help the ecosystem recover from the devastating effects of all out war. Automated, self-contained hospital pods revolutionized paramedics, bringing the hospital to the patient. With less people needing jobs, the job market took off into a booming era of unprecedented expansion.
But sometimes a lot of broken windows can reboot the entire world economy. First came the destruction but then came the creation. Turns out the janitor bots needed a lot more maintenance then their creators thought and a whole industry spawned to clean them and upgrade them. Car modifiers and after-market upgrades to modular vehicles erupted all over the world, creating new economic powerhouses. Genetic designers, helped with centaur AIs, created brand new foods and organisms and antibiotics and medicines.
The childless writer who could compartmentalize with ease and take boundaries for granted has to learn an entirely new way of being. None of the chipper, treacly stuff here; motherhood deserves more respect than that. The Nobel Prize-winning J. Coetzee, in other words, is taciturn in the extreme. Out in the world, he lived in constant fear of violence and humiliation; at home he was cosseted by his mother and presided like a king. The memoir is told in the third-person present tense, which lends it a peculiar immediacy.
Coetzee is free to observe the boy he once was without the interpretive intrusions that come with age; he can remain true to what he felt then, rather than what he knows now.
We are carried from her childhood, in the lap of a family militantly opposed to conformity, to her long career as a reporter in England and Egypt. It is thrilling to watch her arrive at an understanding of a sense of self and language that is her own, bespoke. I did not query my condition, or seek reasons for it. I knew very well that it was an irrational conviction — I was in no way psychotic, and perhaps not much more neurotic than most of us; but there it was, I knew it to be true, and if it was impossible then the definition of possibility was inadequate.
Sonali Deraniyagala was searching the internet for ways to kill herself when one click led to another and she was staring at a news article featuring pictures of her two young sons. She herself survived by clinging to a branch. She recalls stabbing herself with a butter knife. Reading this book is like staring into the abyss, only instead of staring back it might just swallow you whole.
Her return to life was gradual, tentative and difficult; she learned the only way out of her unbearable anguish was to remember what had happened and to keep it close. Over there, cabdrivers know who James is: the ebullient man who hosted many comic and erudite television programs over the years. James is the author of five memoirs, to which many readers have a cultlike devotion. This autobiography is a disguised novel. He was born in and grew up with an absent father, a Japanese prisoner of war. Released, his father died in a plane crash on his way home when James was 5.
He is never less than good company. Eighner spent three years on the streets mostly in Austin, Tex.
50 in Fifty stories for fifty years! - AbeBooks - Harry Harrison:
The book he wrote is a literate and exceedingly humane document. On the streets, he clung to a kind of dignity. He refused to beg or steal. Day after day I could aspire, within reason, to nothing more than survival. Although the planets wandered among the stars and the moon waxed and waned, the identical naked barrenness of existence was exposed to me, day in and day out. Or maybe it only seems rich with incident because of an old maxim that still holds: Stories happen only to people who can tell them.
Like Mary Karr, Mann as a child was a scrappy, troublemaking tomboy, one who grew into a scrappy, troublemaking, impossible-to-ignore young woman and artist. She was raised in Virginia by sophisticated, lettered parents. This book is heavily illustrated, and traces her growth as an artist. Her anecdotes have snap. She dropped acid with her psychiatrist, R. Richard Burton and Marlon Brando tried to get her into bed. This earthy and evocative book also traces her youth and her development as a writer.
Her small family was religious. Her father was a farmer who drank and gambled; her mother was a former maid.
She moved to Dublin, where she worked in a drugstore while studying at the Pharmaceutical College at night. Why was it only in books that I could find the utter outlet for my emotions? At the age of 6, Marjane Satrapi privately declared herself the last prophet of Islam. Jefferson writes of the punishing psychic burden of growing up feeling that she was a representative for her race and, later, of nagging, terrifying suicidal impulses.
So much glory, banality, honor and betrayal? This shape-shifting, form-shattering book carves one path forward. Viv Albertine participated in the birth of punk in the mids. She was in a band with Sid Vicious before he joined the Sex Pistols.
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She dated Mick Jones while he was putting together his new band, the Clash. She could barely play guitar, yet she became the lead guitarist for the Slits.
Her memoir is wiry and fearless. Her life up to the breakup of the Slits occupies only half of the book. Throughout, this account has an honest, lo-fi grace. The Los Angeles-born glamour girl, bohemian, artist, muse, sensualist, wit and pioneering foodie Eve Babitz writes prose that reads like Nora Ephron by way of Joan Didion, albeit with more lust and drugs and tequila.
You can feel the wind in your hair. The book quickly became a beloved best seller when it was published, and went on to win the Pulitzer Prize for biography. Baker was born into poverty in Virginia in He was 5 years old when his father, then 33, fell into a diabetic coma and died.
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Anatole Broyard, a longtime book critic and essayist for The New York Times, died in of prostate cancer. What he had finished of this memoir before his death mostly concerned his time living in the West Village after World War II.
Joan Didion, so long an exemplar of cool, of brilliant aloofness, showed us her unraveling in this memoir about the sudden death of her husband of 40 years, the writer John Gregory Dunne, and the frightening illness of her daughter, Quintana. This account of a lifelong surfing obsession won the Pulitzer Prize in biography. William Finnegan, a longtime staff writer for The New Yorker, recalls his childhood in California and Hawaii, his many surfing buddies through the years and his taste for a kind of danger that approaches the sublime.
In his 20s, he traveled through Asia and Africa and the South Pacific in search of waves, living in tents and cars and cheap apartments.