O que é este blog?

Este blog trata basicamente de ideias, se possível inteligentes, para pessoas inteligentes. Ele também se ocupa de ideias aplicadas à política, em especial à política econômica. Ele constitui uma tentativa de manter um pensamento crítico e independente sobre livros, sobre questões culturais em geral, focando numa discussão bem informada sobre temas de relações internacionais e de política externa do Brasil. Para meus livros e ensaios ver o website: www.pralmeida.org.

Mostrando postagens com marcador The Washington Post. Mostrar todas as postagens
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domingo, 17 de fevereiro de 2019

The 23 most unforgettable last sentences in fiction - Ron Charles (WP)

Nada como mergulhar na literatura, pelo menos de vez em quando.

The 23 most unforgettable last sentences in fiction

A book’s final lines can make or break the experience. Here are some of the best.

Julia Rothman for The Washington Post
For the Olympic gymnast, success comes down to how well she sticks the landing. A flubbed dismount sullies even the most awe-inspiring routine.
Stock-still at their desks, novelists face a similar demand for a perfectly choreographed last move. We follow them across hundreds of thousands of words, but the final line can make or break a book. It determines if parting is such sweet sorrow or a thudding disappointment.
A character in one of Jess Walter’s novels says, “A book can only end one of two ways: truthfully or artfully.” Alas, most don’t end truthfully or artfully, but there are rare exceptions: novels that conclude with such gracefully calibrated language that we close the back cover and feel physically imprinted, as though the words were pressed into us by a weight we can hardly fathom.
The rest is silence.
Some of those great final lines remain markers of our favorite novels, holy relics of our most cherished reading experiences. Others enter into the language, take on a life of their own, and eclipse their source.
Here are 23 final lines that I have never forgotten.

“I got to light out for the territory ahead of the rest, because Aunt Sally she’s going to adopt me and sivilize me, and I can’t stand it. I been there before.”

“Adventures of Huckleberry Finn,” 
by Mark Twain (1884)
“Huck Finn” is the most contentious Great American Novel. The Concord Public Library in Massachusetts banned it soon after it was published. Censors’ objections have shifted over the years (from truancy to the n-word), but it’s been banned in parts of the country ever since. Even the novel’s greatest fans have complained about those tedious final chapters, in which Tom and Huck plot to free Jim from the Phelpses’ farm. (Hemingway condemned this section as “cheating.”) But that last lonely line is pure genius. In Huck’s sweet accent, Twain captures the spirit of an adolescent nation determined to resist domestication and to keep exploring the unknown.

“There was the hum of bees, and the musky odor of pinks filled the air.”

“The Awakening,”
by Kate Chopin (1899)
At the end of Henrik Ibsen’s play “Hedda Gabler” (1891), a trapped and passionate woman shoots herself in the head, and her old friend exclaims, “Good God! — people don’t do such things.” A few years later, Chopin ran right up against those same stultifying expectations in her last novel, “The Awakening,” about a wife and mother who falls in love with another man and begins to imagine a different life. Although it inspired considerable condemnation at the time, it’s now recognized as one of the earliest modernist novels and a foundational feminist text. The first readers were shocked by the heroine’s decision to walk into the sea and drown herself. Even today, Chopin’s final image of sensuous natural beauty is deeply unsettling.


by Toni Morrison (1987)
Morrison’s classic novel about slavery begins with this enigmatic line: “124 was spiteful.” We come to understand that animus slowly, as the story of a murdered baby moves backward and forward in time, before and after the Civil War. Of course, former slaves and historians had described the horrors of slavery before, but nearly 125 years after Emancipation, Morrison made the psychological legacy of the South’s peculiar institution palpable as no other book ever had. After so much trauma and the exhausting exorcism that concludes the novel, what other ending would do but a final invocation of that child who represents so many snuffed out by our nation’s foundational sin? “Beloved.”

“We try, as my sister said. We try. All of us. We try.”

by Richard Ford (2012)
Ford is better known for his books about real estate agent Frank Bascombe, for which he won a Pulitzer Prize, but this novel is his finest. It’s a deeply contemplative story about a man whose inept parents were imprisoned for bank robbery, leaving him and his twin sister to fend for themselves when they were 15. Ford describes the adolescents’ harrowing adventures in beautifully polished sentences. But even more arresting is the book’s moral struggle to understand and forgive his parents’ failings — and his own. That final line, with its simple, imploring repetition, concludes the novel with just the right spirit of affirmation and regret.

“It’s funny. Don’t ever tell anybody anything. If you do, you start missing everybody.”

“The Catcher in the Rye,” 
by J.D. Salinger (1951)
Holden Caulfield would scoff at the idea, but he’s served ably as the patron saint of disaffected teens for almost 70 years. His mix of treacly self-pity, witty cynicism and clinical depression speaks for millions of lonely people forced to endure a world of phonies. His final advice, not to tell anybody anything, could have run anywhere in the novel, but it sounds especially poignant at the end of his journey. It’s a plaintive acknowledgment that his wandering confession to us has brought him no comfort. Considering Salinger’s many decades as the nation’s most famous recluse, we’re tempted, of course, to consign that same pain to the author.

“And so, as Tiny Tim observed, God bless Us, Every One!”

“A Christmas Carol,” 
by Charles Dickens (1843)
Dickens didn’t “invent Christmas,” as a recent movie starring Christopher Plummer claims, but the Victorian novelist certainly taught us how to celebrate it. His story about a reformed miser was an immediate bestseller, and, a few years later, he began offering public readings that attracted enormous crowds in England and America. Repetition — and cynicism — may have reduced Tiny Tim’s final prayer to a saccharine cliche, but the tale of lives reformed and saved has lost none of its real sweetness.

“He was soon borne away by the waves, and lost in darkness and distance.”

“Frankenstein; or, 
The Modern Prometheus,” 
by Mary Shelley (1818)
In 1816, Lord Byron suggested to friends vacationing with him in Switzerland that they each write a ghost story. In response to that challenge, 18-year-old Mary Shelley conceived of the world’s most famous monster. Although two centuries have passed since Dr. Victor Frankenstein “turned loose into the world a depraved wretch,” his creature’s plaintive cry still moves anyone who has a beating heart. Tortured by loneliness, the monster ultimately flees to the North Pole, and the doctor dies in pursuit. How brilliant to end the novel with the grieving creature drifting away into the vast darkness — and whiteness — at the end of the world.

“Reader, I did not even have coffee with him. That much I learned in college.” 

“A Gate at the Stairs,” 
by Lorrie Moore (2009)
Novels and short stories make different demands on their forms — and their readers. That contrast is most evident in the final moments. Lorrie Moore, one of the best short story writers alive, once said, “The end of a story is really everything,” and for many years it seemed she had abandoned novel writing altogether. Then — after a 15 year hiatus — came “A Gate at the Stairs,” about a witty young woman trying to figure out adult life in the face of two unspeakable tragedies. You can see in this novel’s last words how successfully Moore switches registers. Knowing that the complex power of her book is already complete, the very ending offers a sigh of emotional relief: a wry repudiation of “Jane Eyre.”

“I’ll pray, and then I’ll sleep.”

“Gilead,” by Marilynne 
Robinson (2004)
Perhaps the greatest failure of American literature, which is so bravely explicit about all other aspects of life, is its nervous avoidance of anything explicitly religious. Not so “Gilead,” the first book in Robinson’s Pulitzer Prize-winning trilogy about two families in Iowa. “Gilead” is not only one of the finest novels of the 21st century, it’s also one of the most theological. The narrative comes to us as a sprawling letter written by John Ames, a 77-year-old Congregationalist minister who fears he might die soon. What, he asks himself, must he tell his 7-year-old son before he’s carried away to imperishability? In prose of striking clarity, Rev. Ames describes adventures both historical and spiritual. His testimony, sealed with that line from “King Lear,” is enough to convert anyone to the power of great fiction.

“After all, tomorrow is another day.”

“Gone With the Wind,” 
by Margaret Mitchell (1936)
Americans have consistently called Mitchell’s Pulitzer Prize-winning novel one of their very favorites. It was a bestseller when it was published during the Great Depression, and just last year, it ranked No. 6 on PBS’s “Great American Reads.” But like several of our most popular books — I’m looking at you, “To Kill a Mockingbird” — its immortality has been buttressed by an exceptionally memorable film adaptation. All kinds of spot-on criticisms have been leveled against the novel (and producer David Selznick’s 1939 movie) for its romanticized racism. But no one can forget Vivien Leigh — I mean Scarlett O’Hara — uttering that blithely optimistic line, which has since slid away from its source and entered our vernacular as an expression of gallows humor. It’s also worth noting that Mitchell didn’t coin the phrase; it appeared as a well-known maxim in the first volume of Harper’s Weekly in 1857.

“She looked up and across the barn, and her lips came together and smiled mysteriously.” 

“The Grapes of Wrath,” 
by John Steinbeck (1939) 
Four decades later, I can still feel the shock of reaching the end of Steinbeck’s novel about an Oklahoma family traveling to California in search of work. Although initially attacked for its fierce critique of unregulated capitalism, “The Grapes of Wrath” was a phenomenal bestseller and won a National Book Award and a Pulitzer Prize. Even today, millions of people think of the ravages of the Great Depression through the lens of Steinbeck’s story. Its final scene, the culmination of a relentless series of hardships, losses and deaths, offers a moment of startling compassion and intimacy — the very milk of human kindness made flesh.

“So we beat on, boats against the current, borne back ceaselessly into the past.”

“The Great Gatsby,” 
by F. Scott Fitzgerald (1925)
Only months after it was published, Fitzgerald referred to “Gatsby” as a “flop,” and copies of the second printing were gathering dust in the publisher’s warehouse 15 years later when he died. Now, of course, his story about a handsome gangster is considered one of the greatest novels of the 20th century. It’s also one of the most poetic novels ever written, as this gorgeous closing line demonstrates. The mourning narrator, Nick Carraway, places Gatsby’s romantic quest in the context of those first Dutch settlers who projected their hopes on the lush shores of this now corrupted country. We know, he laments, that our first dreams can never be realized, but we can’t help pining for them anyhow.

“Are there any questions?”

“The Handmaid’s Tale,” 
by Margaret Atwood (1985)
If you haven’t read Atwood’s dystopian novel since it was first published, you may have forgotten what follows the story of Offred’s resistance to the Republic of Gilead. The book ends with an epilogue that takes place at an academic conference in the year 2195. Professor Pieixoto describes the challenges of transcribing the story we’ve just read from 30 cassette tapes found in an army footlocker. Lapsing into the bland objectivity of academia, the professor warns his fellow scholars to be “cautious about passing moral judgment upon the Gileadean. Surely we have learned by now that such judgments are of necessity culture-specific.” The lessons of the past, he notes chillingly, are obscured by the passage of time. When the applause dies down, he asks, “Are there any questions?” Those of us staring at a Supreme Court now tipping away from women’s reproductive rights probably have several questions. Perhaps they will be answered in a sequel that Atwood plans to publish in September called “The Testaments.”

“Who knows but that, on the lower frequencies, I speak for you?”

“Invisible Man,” 
by Ralph Ellison (1952)
It’s possible to measure the weight of a novel by the size of its impact crater. Ellison’s masterpiece, which won the 1953 National Book Award, remade the terrain of African American fiction — and American fiction. “I am invisible,” the unnamed narrator says at the start, “simply because people refuse to see me,” but by the end, no one could ever ignore him. The story he tells — sometimes horrific, sometimes absurd, often both — takes him across the country, from a Southern “state college for Negroes” to Harlem, where he falls in and out with a black activist group. In the final pages, the narrator knows some readers will continue to ignore the relevance of his life: “You’ll fail to see how any principle that applies to you could apply to me.” But he knows that’s not true. In fact, he confesses that the universality of his experience “frightens” him.

“I wish you all a long and happy life.”

“The Lovely Bones,” 
by Alice Sebold (2002)
The plot of Sebold’s debut novel sounds equally gruesome and mawkish: Susie, a 14-year-old girl, is raped and murdered by a neighbor, and then she describes her family’s reaction from heaven. Theologically, the story is a gooey mess of New Age mysticism, but it’s emotionally effective because Sebold got Susie’s voice just right. Although she’s still a teenager with a teenager’s silly attitudes and interests, death has given her preternatural insight into the suffering of those she’s left behind. Her simple, final wish looks banal out of context, but after watching her family — and her murderer — for years, it’s devastatingly pure.

“For an instant, everything was bathed in radiance.” 

by Geraldine Brooks (2005)
The father of the four March sisters is just a minor character in Louisa May Alcott’s beloved “Little Women” (1868), but Geraldine Brooks put him at the center of her historical novel “March,” which won a Pulitzer Prize. This Civil War story cleverly blends biographical details about the real Bronson Alcott, Louisa May’s father, with elements of the fictional Mr. March, who has gone south to serve as a chaplain to Union soldiers. Alcott gives little indication of what horrors may have shaken Father during his fight for abolition, and “Little Women” ends with Mrs. March saying, “Oh, my girls, however long you may live, I never can wish you a greater happiness than this.” But by the time March returns to his happy home at the end of Brooks’s novel, we know him as the haunted survivor of carnage — and a crushing spiritual crisis. The light of a single lamp brought into his dark parlor arrives like a foretaste of grace.

“And Madeleine kept squinting, as though Mitchell was already far away, until finally, smiling gratefully, she answered, ‘Yes.’”

“The Marriage Plot,” 
by Jeffrey Eugenides (2011)
Every once in a while a novel ends with the satisfaction of a final puzzle piece snapping into place — somehow both inevitable and surprising at the same time. Such is the effect of the last line of Eugenides’s most recent novel, which seems in retrospect constructed to bring us directly to these three letters. “The Marriage Plot” is a cerebral romantic comedy about Madeleine, a thoroughly modern young woman who gets her ideas of love from 18th- and 19th-century fiction. Torn between two very different men, Madeleine endures real tragedy before finally correcting her course, which we, her desperate fans, can’t know for sure until that very last word. Of course, Eugenides is also echoing the end of James Joyce’s “Ulysses,” whose last extraordinary sentence is about 4,000 words long and ends with Molly Bloom’s boundless enthusiasm: “yes I said yes I will Yes.”

“He loved Big Brother.”

“Nineteen Eighty-Four,” 
by George Orwell (1949)
Orwell’s classic dystopian novel about a totalitarian state has never gone out of print, but it got a huge boost two years ago from the election of Donald Trump. His administration’s unprecedented readiness to lie and to repeat lies aggressively reminds many readers of the Party that rules Oceania. Orwell’s protagonist, Winston Smith, works as a reviser of historical records in the Ministry of Truth before becoming a member of a doomed resistance movement. The novel’s final scenes of physical torture — including the gruesome “rat helmet” — are undeniably terrifying, but what’s most chilling is the government’s success at twisting the very minds of its subjects. In that haunting last line, we see the ultimate success of Big Brother’s deception, and we feel the full atrocity of what’s been done to Winston.

“He runs. Ah: runs. Runs.” 

“Rabbit, Run,” 
by John Updike (1960)
When we first meet 26-year-old Harry “Rabbit” Angstrom, he decides on a whim to run away from his wife and toddler. It’s a “monstrously selfish” act borne of panic over his lost youth and the soul-crushing responsibilities of adult life. Rabbit eventually crawls home, determined to be better, but his flight instinct is not so easily quelled. In the final pages, at the worst possible moment, he flees again, which Updike captures in that closing line swelling with deliverance and cowardice. There is no better portrayal of 20th-century white men than the Pulitzer Prize-winning “Rabbit” series, which went on to include “Rabbit Redux,” “Rabbit Is Rich,” “Rabbit at Rest” and the novella “Rabbit Remembered.” Each book ends with an echo of the first novel’s last word, a subtle coda that ties together the stages of Rabbit’s life.

“In the deep glens where they lived all things were older than man and they hummed of mystery.” 

“The Road,” 
by Cormac McCarthy (2006)
This novel, about a man and his little boy walking through an apocalyptic wasteland, mesmerized — and terrified — readers. “The Road” won a Pulitzer Prize and even spurred the normally shy author to agree to speak with Oprah for his first-ever television interview. What accounts for the power of this bleak tale to shake even the most cynical readers? I think it’s the tension between the countryside’s utter destruction and the father’s adamant love, all rendered in a style as spare as a sun-bleached bone. We arrive at the final page in a state of utter desolation. At that moment, McCarthy suddenly breaks away from his characters and describes trout that once swam in mountain streams. After the gray and blood-soaked pages that came before, it’s shockingly beautiful and places humanity’s horrors against the boundless life of the Earth.

“Yes,” I said. “Isn’t it pretty to think so?” 

“The Sun Also Rises,” 
by Ernest Hemingway (1926)
Hemingway’s vaguely autobiographical story about a group of dissipated friends in Europe after World War I has aged well. Its desultory plot and muffled despair still feel strikingly modern. But how painfully ironic that America’s most macho author should be remembered for a novel about an impotent man. In this closing scene, the lovely Lady Brett tempts Jake once again to imagine what “a damned good time” they could have had. But Jake isn’t having it anymore. The chaos and disappointments of the preceding months have cured him of pointless fantasies, and he dismisses Brett’s romantic speculation with this bitter rhetorical question.

“She called in her soul to come and see.”

“Their Eyes Were Watching God,”
by Zora Neale Hurston (1937)
“The fact that there is no demand for incisive and full-dress stories around Negroes above the servant class is indicative of something of vast importance to this nation,” Hurston wrote in 1950. She knew firsthand the deleterious effects of that lack of demand. Her first book, “Barracoon,” never found a publisher during her lifetime. Her extraordinary novel “Their Eyes Were Watching God” fell out of print and was essentially forgotten, until Alice Walker rediscovered it in the 1970s. Now, fortunately, the tumultuous story of Janie, a black woman in Florida, is firmly rooted in the canon of American literature, and every year new readers “come and see.”

“and it was still hot.” 

“Where the Wild Things Are,” 
written and illustrated by Maurice Sendak (1963)
The tale of Max, the mischievous boy sent to bed without his supper, was Sendak’s greatest achievement, the perfect pairing of text and image. In fewer words than most novelists use in a single paragraph, Sendak managed to capture our fundamental fears and thrills. When Max “gave up being king of where the wild things are,” sailed back to his room and found dinner waiting for him, his mother’s love is confirmed, and the natural order of his world is restored. For generations of us, this is the first final line that knocked our booties off. And we never forgot it.

Ron Charles

Ron Charles writes about books for The Washington Post. Before moving to Washington, he edited the books section of the Christian Science Monitor in Boston.

segunda-feira, 31 de dezembro de 2018

Um presidente mentiroso que quebra o seu próprio recorde de mentiras: quem seria?

Bem, pelo menos começaremos o ano com o presidente contado 0 km de mentiras. Vamos seguir para fazer como o Washington Post em relação ao super-hiper-mega mentiroso do Trump: ele consegue contar 15 mentiras POR DIA.
Nunca antes na história daquele país, o cargo de presidente tinha descido tão baixo na escala da mentira, das falcatruas, das manipulações, dos exageros, das trapaças deliberadas, um caso patológico, sem nenhuma dúvida.
Vamos criar um mentirômetro similar para o caso do Brasil...
Paulo Roberto de Almeida
Tubarão, 31/12/2018

A year of unprecedented deception: Trump averaged 15 false claims a day in 2018

The Washington Post, December 31, 2018

President Trump’s year of lies, false statements and misleading claims started with some morning tweets.
Over a couple of hours on Jan. 2, Trump made false claims about three of his favorite targets — Iranthe New York Times and Hillary Clinton. He also took credit for the “best and safest year on record” for commercial aviation, even though there had been no commercial plane crashes in the United States since 2009 and, in any case, the president has little to do with ensuring the safety of commercial aviation.
The fusillade of tweets was the start of a year of unprecedented deception during which Trump became increasingly unmoored from the truth. When 2018 began, the president had made 1,989 false and misleading claims, according to The Fact Checker’s database, which tracks every suspect statement uttered by the president. By the end of the year, Trump had accumulated more than 7,600 untruths during his presidency — averaging more than 15 erroneous claims a day during 2018, almost triple the rate from the year before.
Even as Trump’s fact-free statements proliferate, there is growing evidence that his approach is failing.
Fewer than 3 in 10 Americans believe many of his most-common false statements, according to a Fact Checker poll conducted this month. Only among a pool of strong Trump approvers — about 1 in 6 adults in the survey — did large majorities accept several, though not all, of his falsehoods as true.
Similarly, a November Quinnipiac poll found 58 percent of voters saying Trump wasn’t honest, compared with just 36 percent who said he was honest. The same poll found 50 percent saying he is “less honest” than most previous presidents, tying his own record for the highest share of registered voters saying so in Quinnipiac polling.
“When before have we seen a president so indifferent to the distinction between truth and falsehood, or so eager to blur that distinction?” presidential historian Michael R. Beschloss said of Trump in 2018.
Beschloss noted that the U.S. Constitution set very few guidelines in this regard because the expectation was that the first president would be George Washington and he would set the tone for the office. “What is it that schoolchildren are taught about George Washington? That he never told a lie,” the historian said. “That is a bedrock expectation of a president by Americans.”
President Trump speaks at a roundtable in the Roosevelt Room of the White House on Dec. 18, 2018 in Washington. (Jabin Botsford/The Washington Post)
Trump began 2018 on a similar pace as last year. Through May, he generally averaged about 200 to 250 false claims a month. But his rate suddenly exploded in June, when he topped 500 falsehoods, as he appeared to shift to campaign mode. He uttered almost 500 more in both July and August, almost 600 in September, more than 1,200 in October and almost 900 in November. In December, Trump drifted back to the mid-200s.
Trump’s midsummer acceleration came as the White House stopped having regular press briefings and the primary voice in the administration was Trump, who met repeatedly with reporters, held events, staged rallies and tweeted constantly.
Trump is among the more loquacious of recent presidents, according to Martha Kumar, professor emerita at Towson University, who has kept track of every presidential interaction with the media, dating to Ronald Reagan. Through Dec. 20, Trump held 323 short question-and-answer sessions with reporters, second only to Bill Clinton through the first 23 months, and granted 196 interviews, second to Barack Obama.
More than a quarter of Trump’s claims were made during campaign rallies. On Nov. 5, the day before the midterm elections, for instance, Trump held three rallies, yielding a total of 139 false or misleading claims. A review of every statement made by Trump at two of his earlier 2018 rallies found that he exaggerated or made up at least 70 percent of his assertions.
Almost as many false claims came during remarks at press events, and about 17 percent were the result of his itchy Twitter finger.
The president misled Americans about issues big and small. He told lies about payments that his now-convicted attorney says Trump authorized to silence women alleging affairs with him. He routinely exaggerates his accomplishments, such as claiming that he passed the biggest tax cut everpresided over the best economy in historyscored massive deals for jobs with Saudi Arabia and all but solved the North Korea nuclear crisis.
He attacks his perceived enemies with abandon, falsely accusing Clinton of colluding with the Russiansformer FBI Director James B. Comey of leaking classified information and Democrats of seeking to let undocumented immigrants swamp the U.S. borders.
The president often makes statements that are disconnected from his policies. He said his administration did not have a family separation policy on the border, when it did. Then he said the policy was required because of existing laws, when it was not.
The president also simply invents faux facts. He repeatedly said U.S. Steel is building six to eight new steel plants, but that’s not true. He said that as president, Obama gave citizenship to 2,500 Iranians during the nuclear-deal negotiations, but that’s false. Over and over, Trump claimed that the Uzbekistan-born man who in 2017 was accused of killing eight people with a pickup truck in New York brought two dozen relatives to the United States through “chain migration.” The real number is zero.
President Trump answers questions as he walks to board Marine One at the White House on Nov. 20, 2018. (Jabin Botsford/The Washington Post)
In one of his more preposterous statements of 2018, Trump labeled the Palm Beach Post as “fake news” for blaming him for traffic jams across the nation — when an article about the effect of low gas prices on driving habits never mentioned his name.
Sometimes, Trump simply attempts to create his own reality.
When leaders attending the U.N. General Assembly burst into laughter when Trump uttered a favorite false claim — that his administration had accomplished more in less than two years than “almost any administration in the history of our country” — the president was visibly startled and remarked that he “didn’t expect that reaction.” But then he later falsely insisted to reporters that the boast “was meant to get some laughter.”
In an October interview with the Wall Street Journal, Trump emphatically denied he had imposed many tariffs. “I mean, other than some tariffs on steel — which is actually small, what do we have? . . . Where do we have tariffs? We don’t have tariffs anywhere,” he insisted. The newspaper responded by printing a list of $305 billion worth of tariffs on many types of U.S. imports.
Trump exaggerates when the facts are on his side.
He routinely touts a job-growth number that dates from his election, not when he took office, thus inflating it by 600,000 jobs. And although there’s no question Trump can draw supporters to his rallies by the thousands, he often claims pumped-up numbers that have no basis in fact. At a Tampa rally, he declared that “thousands of people” who could not get in were watching outside on a “tremendous movie screen.” Neither a crowd of that size nor the movie screen existed.
The president even includes references to The Fact Checker in his dubious remarks.
On Oct. 18, in Missoula, Mont., Trump falsely said that no one challenges his description of the Democrats as the party of crime. “Democrats have become the party of crime. It’s true. Who would believe you could say that and nobody even challenges it. Nobody’s ever challenged it,” he said.
But then he had an unusual moment of doubt. “Maybe they have. Who knows? I have to always say that, because then they’ll say they did actually challenge it, and they’ll put like — then they’ll say he gets a Pinocchio.”

Meg Kelly and Salvador Rizzo contributed to this report.

sexta-feira, 21 de dezembro de 2018

The Washington Post: o que acontece nos EUA? Afundam?

Inacreditável: abro o Washington Post desta sexta-feira 21/12, e todas as notícias e comentários são, sem exceção, pessimistas, negativas, depressivas para os EUA e o mundo, isso tudo em virtude de um presidente inepto, confuso, obsessivo com certas coisas – o tal muro idiota, por exemplo, que ele jurava que os mexicanos iriam pagar por ele – e incapaz de trazer estabilidade para um país já tomado pelo temor de uma nova recessão, e trazer conforto e tranquilidade para os parceiros estrangeiros, que nunca tinham visto um presidente agressivo com os amigos e concessivo com os "inimigos".
Paulo Roberto de Almeida
Mattis resigns after clash with Trump over Syria withdrawal 
Defense Secretary Jim Mattis’s surprise resignation came a day after President Trump overruled his advisers, including Mattis, and shocked American allies by announcing the pullout. 
'A morning of alarm’: Mattis departure sends shock waves abroad
Overseas, the former marine was viewed as a steady hand as America's role in the world was thrown into question.
Trump orders major military withdrawal from Afghanistan
The president has directed the Pentagon to devise a plan to withdraw nearly half of the 14,000 troops deployed there.
‘A sad day for America’: Washington fears a Trump unchecked by Mattis
The defense secretary’s resignation letter seems to question the president’s fitness as commander in chief.
Isolated and under pressure, Trump sets government in crisis
The president abruptly moved to try to deliver on campaign promises to build a border wall and bring troops home.
Trump’s decision to withdraw from Syria marks a win for Putin
The move allows the Russian leader to consolidate gains for Assad in Syria and demonstrates the fragility of the Western alliance.
Government on track for shutdown as Trump threatens to veto Senate deal, demanding border-wall funds
House Republicans responded to the threat by passing a bill to keep the government funded until February and meet President Trump’s demand to fund a border wall, but Senate Democrats oppose funding the wall and have the votes to block the House measure.
Federal agencies prepare to cease operations Friday night
About a quarter of the government, including the State, Agriculture, Interior, Treasury and Housing and Urban Development departments, would shut down. More than 380,000 federal workers would be sent home without pay.
As stocks drop, Trump fears he’s losing his best argument for reelection
President Trump has pointed to market gains as proof that his economic policies are working and the country is thriving under his leadership. Now a favored talking point is crumbling.
U.S. stocks clobbered amid White House drama over shutdown
The Dow and the Standard & Poor’s 500-stock index are on pace for their worst quarter since 2011. The Nasdaq composite dropped into bear market territory.

William Barr’s memo on the Mueller probe is baseless and dangerous
With Mattis out, we’re in uncharted territory
Trump is now forging foreign policy on his own. Where will he take us?
Has the GOP tax cut delivered? Yes — and the tooth fairy was here just last night!
Is arming teachers a good idea? Depends on where you live.
Does the global fight against climate change stand a chance without the U.S.?

More News
End of Lean In: How Sheryl Sandberg’s message of empowerment unraveled
The Facebook executive’s long-cultivated image as a righteous feminist icon and relatable role model is in shambles.
Justice Dept. ethics official told Whitaker’s team he should recuse from Mueller probe
Earlier, a department official had said the ethics office advised acting attorney general Matthew Whitaker he need not step aside. Hours later, people familiar with the situation disclosed that a senior ethics official told Whitaker advisers that he should recuse to avoid the appearance of a conflict.
D.C. Council member Jack Evans received stock just before pushing legislation that would benefit company
A consulting firm created by Evans received 200,000 shares in Digi Outdoor Media; Evans says he returned the “stock certificate.”
Critic’s Notebook 
Michelle Obama can wear whatever she wants now. And she wants sparkly thigh-high boots.
A former first lady who once chafed at being called a celebrity is clearly now embracing it.
Unions expand in digital newsrooms
A wave of union-organizing has swept over the industry over the past three years as journalists working for the once-scrappy start-ups and venture-capital darlings of the Internet have banded together to negotiate collectively.
Ranking the most stressful airports during the holidays
A travel insurance company analyzed the flight cancellation rate at different airports.
Retropolis | The Past, Rediscovered 
NASA’s first moonshot was a bold and terrifying improvisation with Apollo 8
No human had gone past low Earth orbit before Frank Borman, James Lovell, Jr. and Bill Anders blasted off 50 years ago.
Post Reports | Listen Now 
U.S. troops to leave Syria. Now what?
What it means for the U.S. to pull forces out of Syria. The fashion industry’s mixed messages to plus-size women. Plus, when Congress weighed a journey to the center of Earth.