Ghost in the fame machine By Andrew Crofts

Tony Schwartz did a brilliant job for Donald Trump. A number-one bestseller for weeks, the book brought the man’s name before a far wider public than would ever have heard of him when he was just another New York property developer. The book did all the things a ghosted autobiography is meant to do for the author, raising his profile to such a level that he was offered a role in a major reality television show. At that stage, Schwartz would have been pleased to know that his book had helped his client’s career. When Trump entered the race for president, however, Schwartz panicked and spoke up to say that in his opinion, having spent eighteen months in the man’s company, this was not a good idea. (I have never felt the need to spend more than a few days with any client. I wouldn’t be at all surprised if Trump had such a short attention span when being interviewed that it took Schwartz that long to get enough material to make up a full-length book.) It is quite possible that without Schwartz’s help, Trump would not have got to the Oval Office, and I can see why he may find that thought troubling in the small hours of the morning.
Trump appears to believe that he actually wrote every word himself. Some clients do end up believing that they wrote their own books, but many say how grateful they are to be spared having to write 80,000 words themselves: they nearly always have far more interesting things to do, like running countries or corporations, starring in Hollywood movies or playing their songs to arenas full of adoring fans.


Raiders of the lost archives  by John Sutherland 

It makes for huge efficiencies. But somehow, to paraphrase Bob Seger, it don’t have the same thrill. „Dramatise it! Dramatise it!” instructed Henry James. Where’s the drama in „calling up” things, never having to move a yard from the keyboard? There was something genuinely exciting – the thrill of the hunt. Modern techniques make one feel like Jabba the Hutt. Let the fingers do the research


Aceasta este o veste tristă, să trec pe ceai ?

My Morning Cup of Coffee Kills Monkeys By David Biello
My coffee habit is killing theblack-handed spider monkey, a cute New World simian (my favorite kind) that thrives in the canopy of Central American forests with tall trees. That’s pretty much the opposite of the kinds of forests that still exist where the spider monkey lives, because for decades we’ve been cutting down those tall trees to make room for farms. Worse, the monkey requires a large amount of such forest as a home range to find enough fruits to eat.


Social needs help sculpt primate faces  de Catherine Clabby 
It’s hard not to stare at another primate’s face. Those expressive eyes, so often like our own, demand attention. But so do the striking differences, whether it is tomato-red skin, a snout-like nose or thick, long fur.