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Its biggest pivot came in , when it announced it should show its users more items shared by friends and family and less from professional publishers; publishers saw Facebook referral traffic drop dramatically after that. By contrast, the program Zuckerberg is announcing Friday appears rather straightforward: Facebook will pay publishers for work they already make and then share to the platform, which means it is pure profit.

Which is what Thomson and Murdoch have been asking for in a series of public announcements and speeches for some time. The pressure seems to have done the trick. Now, Thomson is praising Facebook and its founder. As I wrote then:. Zuckerberg may well see the program as a reasonable way to compensate publishers for work he thinks is important, even as his company competes against publishers — and almost always wins — in a battle for digital advertising dollars.

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Republicans and Democrats now use him and his company as short-hand for tech billionaires who need to be reined in, and regulators are lining up to do just that. Call me biased, but spending a small fraction of that to please publishers seems like a decent investment. Public Health Solutions is one of nearly clinics that lost federal funding this year.

He could not have answered, or if he had, I could not have borne the answers. I started walking. We reached the subway station. I nodded. I took one step down.

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I looked up at him. He grinned again. You ain't got a dollar on you, have you? Just for a couple of days, is all. I didn't hate him any more. I felt that in another moment I'd start crying like a child. A terrible, closed look came over his face, as though he were keeping the number on the bill a secret from him and me. Maybe I'll write him or something.

So long. I went on down the steps. And I didn't write Sonny or send him anything for a long time. When I finally did, it was just after my little girl died, and he wrote me back a letter which made me feel like a bastard. Here's what he said: Dear brother, You don't know how much I needed to hear from you. I wanted to write you many a time but I dug how much I must have hurt you and so I didn't write. But now I feel like a man who's been trying to climb up out of some deep, real deep and funky hole and just saw the sun up there, outside.

I got to get outside. I can't tell you much about how I got here. I mean I don't know how to tell you. I guess I was afraid of something or I was trying to escape from something and you know I have never been very strong in the head smile. I'm glad Mama and Daddy are dead and can't see what's happened to their son and I swear if I'd known what I was doing I would never have hurt you so, you and a lot of other fine people who were nice to me and who believed in me. I don't want you to think it had anything to do with me being a musician. It's more than that. Or maybe less than that.

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I can't get anything straight in my head down here and I try not to think about what's going to happen to me when I get outside again. Sometime I think I'm going to flip and never get outside and sometime I think I'll come straight back. I tell you one thing, though, I'd rather blow my brains out than go through this again. But that's what they all say, so they tell me.

Give my love to Isabel and the kids and I was sure sorry to hear about little Gracie. I wish I could be like Mama and say the Lord's will be done, but I don't know it seems to me that trouble is the one thing that never does get stopped and I don't know what good it does to blame it on the Lord. But maybe it does some good if you believe it. When I saw him many things I thought I had forgotten came flooding back to me.

This was because I had begun, finally, to wonder about Sonny, about the life that Sonny lived inside. This life, whatever it was, had made him older and thinner and it had deepened the distant stillness in which he had always moved. He looked very unlike my baby brother. Yet, when he smiled, when we shook hands, the baby brother I'd never known looked out from the depths of his private life, like an animal waiting to be coaxed into the light.

And you? I was remembering, and it made it hard to catch my breath, that I had been there when he was born; and I had heard the first words he had ever spoken. When he started to walk, he walked from our mother straight to me. I caught him just before he fell when he took the first steps he ever took in this world.

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She's dying to see you. They're anxious to see their uncle. You know they don't remember me. Of course they remember you.


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We got into a taxi. We had a lot to say to each other, far too much to know how to begin. As the taxi began to move, I asked, "You still want to go to India?

Hell, no. This place is Indian enough for me. And he laughed again. He read books about people sitting on rocks, naked, in all kinds of weather, but mostly bad, naturally, and walking barefoot through hot coals and arriving at wisdom. I used to say that it sounded to me as though they were getting away from wisdom as fast as they could. I think he sort of looked down on me for that. On the west side-I haven't seen the city in so long.

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I was afraid that I might sound as though I were humoring him, but I hoped he wouldn't take it that way. So we drove along, between the green of the park and the stony, lifeless elegance of hotels and apartment buildings, toward the vivid, killing streets of our childhood. These streets hadn't changed, though housing projects jutted up out of them now like rocks in the middle of a boiling sea.

Most of the houses in which we had grown up had vanished, as had the stores from which we had stolen, the basements in which we had first tried sex, the rooftops from which we had hurled tin cans and bricks. But houses exactly like the houses of our past yet dominated the landscape, boys exactly like the boys we once had been found themselves smothering in these houses, came down into the streets for light and air and found themselves encircled by disaster.

Some escaped the trap, most didn't. Those who got out always left something of themselves behind, as some animals amputate a leg and leave it in the trap. It might be said, perhaps, that I had escaped, after all, I was a school teacher; or that Sonny had, he hadn't lived in Harlem for years. Yet, as the cab moved uptown through streets which seemed, with a rush, to darken with dark people, and as I covertly studied Sonny's face, it came to me that what we both were seeking through our separate cab windows was that part of ourselves which had been left behind.

It's always at the hour of trouble and confrontation that the missing member aches. We hit th Street and started rolling up Lenox Avenue. And I'd known this avenue all my life, but it seemed to me again, as it had seemed on the day I'd first heard about Sonny's trouble, filled with a hidden menace which was its very breath of life.