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I was born in the city of Bombay... once upon a time. No, that won't

do, there's no getting away from the date: I was born in Doctor

Narlikar's Nursing Home on August isth, 1947. And the time? The

time matters, too. Well then: at night. No, it's important to be more

... On the stroke of midnight, as a matter of fact. Clock-hands joined

palms in respectful greeting as I came. Oh, spell it out, spell it out:

at the precise instant of India's arrival at independence, I tumbled

forth into the world. There were gasps. And, outside the window, fireworks

and crowds. A few seconds later, my father broke his big toe;

but his accident was a mere trifle when set beside what had befallen

me in that benighted moment, because thanks to the occult tyrannies

of those blandly saluting clocks I had been mysteriously handcuffed

to history, my destinies indissolubly chained to those of my

country. For the next three decades, there was to be no escape. Soothsayers had prophesied me, newspapers celebrated my arrival, politicos

ratified my authenticity. I was left entirely without a say in the matter.

I, Saleem Sinai, later variously called Snotnose, Stainface, Baldy,

Sniffer, Buddha and even Piece-of-the-Moon, had become heavily

embroiled in Fate - at the best of times a dangerous sort of involvement.

And I couldn't even wipe my own nose at the time.

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Found this thread looking for one on the Stainless Steel Rat series by Harry Harrison, which thread I did not find and will have to start when I finish The Stainless Steel Rat Wants You, which begins;

"Blodgett is a peaceful planet. The sun shines orangely, gentle breezes cool the brow, while the silent air is disturbed only slightly by the distant rumble of rockets from the spaceport. Very relaxing – but too much so for one like myself who must stay on guard, alert and aware at all times. And I admit that I was doing none of these things when the front door announcer bing-bonged. Hot water splattered my head and I was drowsy as a comatose cat."

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A young Male is Striding rapidly along the Burstah. as he walks, he darts Furious sidelong looks at the shop fronts which -here on the main street of altholm - are rather plentiful.

 

From "a small circus" by Hans fallada

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I CALL our world Flatland, not because we call it so, but to make its nature clearer to you, my happy readers, who are privileged to live in Space.

Imagine a vast sheet of paper on which straight Lines, Triangles, Squares, Pentagons, Hexagons, and other figures, instead of remaining fixed in their places, move freely about, on or in the surface, but without the power of rising above or sinking below it, very much like shadows - only hard and with luminous edges - and you will then have a pretty correct notion of my country and countrymen. Alas, a few years ago, I should have said "my universe": but now my mind has been opened to higher views of things.

Flatland; A romance of many dimensions by Edwin A Abbott

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So let me dish you this comedy about a family I knew when I was growing up. There's a part for me in this story, like there always is for a gossip, but more on that later.

First: the guestroom, with the orderly neglect of all guestrooms. Benjamin Paul Hood- the dad in what follows- in the guestroom. In the house belonging to Janey and Jim Williams, just up the street from Hood's own comfortable spread. In the most congenial and superficially calm of suburbs. In the wealthiest state in the Northeast. In the most affluent country on earth. Thanksgiving just passed and quickly forgotten. Three years shy of that commercial madness, the bicentennial.

The Ice Storm by Rick Moody

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Until a few years ago, Peter Kovach thought that he was among the coolest male specimens available on the market. Although, not a mature David Bowie or similar sort type of cool. Oh no, it was a basic case of as cool as an ordinary sucker can get, but since life has run him over, he doesn’t think so any more. Now he keeps quiet and observes the world from the sidelines.  

 

London for Immigrant suckers

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