This is one in an occasional series of summertime essays.
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AT the end of the movie “Chinatown,” after clueless private eye Jake
Gittes has doggedly run down all the false leads about water and
power in Los Angeles, his partner pulls him back from Evelyn
Mulwray’s bullet-shattered face as gawking Chinese bystanders crowd
around, and sums up the story’s essence with the despairing line:
“Forget it, Jake.
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In two pairs, the officers pass through the swaying rail car, crisply
uniformed and armed, taking up positions that surveil the exits.
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HOW quixotic is Kwame Anthony Appiah, the mostly optimistic
philosopher of cosmopolitanism?
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THAT HOLLOW laughter you hear echoing from beneath your feet is the
Ghost of Mass Transit Past, stirring again like one of Ebenezer
Scrooge’s unwelcome holiday visitors below the intersection of
Wilshire Boulevard and Western Avenue, where the mid-city arm of the
Red Line subway terminated in 1996.
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AUTHOR LAWRENCE Clark Powell remembered his mother arriving in
Pasadena at the turn of the last century with her horticultural
triumph: a geranium.
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Can one man envision a city whole and will that city into existence?
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I
WALK EVERY DAY,
RARELY FOR PLEASURE AND NEVER FOR EXERCISE AND
without company or electronic media.
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Some old soldiers of the Red Army, in their odd, boxy uniforms
covered with rows of cheaply made medals, are getting ready in West
Hollywood for the dedication of a city- and county-sponsored memorial.
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