title: The Face: A Time Code
author: Ruth Ozeki
description: Ruth Ozeki, a Zen Buddhist priest, sets herself the task of staring at her face in a mirror for three full, uninterrupted hours; her ruminations ripple out from personal and familial memories to wise and honest meditations on families and aging, race and the body. (Patricia Hagen <i>Minneapolis Star Tribune</i>)<br /><br />This long essay, like the experiment it describes, is strange in the best sense, plus funny, moving and deeply wise. (Porter Shreve <i>San Francisco Chronicle</i>)<br /><br /><i>The Face</i>, as with the best of literary nonfiction, incorporates elements of memoir and essay, conjecture and meditation, allowing the reader to accompany each author as he or she creates a text that is utterly unique and universally affecting. Each book, on its own, is quirky, funny, sad, and profound; taken together, they have much to tell us about the culture at large, the ties that bind, and the truth  painful, hopeful, reassuring, provocative  of our place on the continuum as daughters, sons, and citizens. Its a brilliant idea: give a bunch of good writers a prompt that is at once personal and political, and youre bound to send readers running to the mirror, turning this way and that in an effort to reckon with who they are and who they want to be. (Dinah Lenney <i>Los Angeles Review of Books</i>)<br /><br />Throughout Ozekis essay her refreshing and cultivated wisdom leads us through the mind of a compassionate, grounded human and a writer of real integrity. (Melody Nixon <i>Electric Literature</i>)<br /><br />One of the most compelling through-lines is not surprisingly the problematics of a mixed race upbringing . . .It is fascinating to hear about Ozekis life . . .Ozeki squarely considers the thorny politics around aging and questions of beauty. Here, Ozeki ponders the kinds of decisions that go into things like plastic surgery and an authors publicity photo. As always, Ozeki injects humor into her prose, a characteristic of all of her earlier publications, making this reading experience undoubtedly captivating. (Stephen Hong Sohn <i>Asian American Literature Fans</i>)<br /><br />I couldnt help but marvel at Ruth Ozekis willingness to undertake the experiment that, moment by moment, she records in her book. Its remarkable to see how far this river journey takes her. In an honest and unadorned way, as Ruth Ozeki dares to stare at her own aging and unadorned face, she simultaneously dares to share with the reader her own minds foundering in dislike and like. And because she dares to stay with the founderingwhether what she sees is unbearable, beautiful, or somewhere in betweenthe minds essential peace, her own original face, keeps shining through. (Noelle Oxenhandler <i>Tricycle</i>)<br /><br />What stories can a face tell? This is the premise of <i>The Face</i> series from Restless Books, in which authors write an essay using their face as a focal point. Sound crazy? Well wait till you hear how Ruth Ozeki, Zen Buddhist priest and novelist, decided to stare at her face for three uninterrupted hours as the inspiration behind her book. Through this exercise of immersive attention, Ozeki writes a fascinating essay-memoir on heritage, ancestors and aging. (Sarah Ldp?` Manyika <i>Ozy</i>)<br /><br />Fascinating. Intriguing. This is certainly a very different type of autobiography, and a welcome one at that. Written in Ozeki's inimitably calming and charming style, there is nothing more to say except that this little book is a delight from start to finish. If you've ever read and loved any of Ozeki's works, you won't want to miss getting to know her better. I'm giving it five out of five stars. (Davida Charzan <i>The Chocolate Ladys Book Reviews</i>)
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  1984
  By George Orwell
  
  1984
  
  Part One
  
  
  Free eBooks at Planet eBook.com
  Chapter 1
  I
  t was a bright cold day in April, and the clocks were strik-
  ing thirteen. Winston Smith, his chin nuzzled into his 
  breast in an effort to escape the vile wind, slipped quickly 
  through the glass doors of Victory Mansions, though not 
  quickly enough to prevent a swirl of gritty dust from enter-
  ing along with him.
  The hallway smelt of boiled cabbage and old rag mats. At 
  one end of it a coloured poster, too large for indoor display, 
  had been tacked to the wall. It depicted simply an enor-
  mous face, more than a metre wide: the face of a man of 
  about forty-five, with a heavy black moustache and rugged-
  ly handsome features. Winston made for the stairs. It was 
  no use trying the lift. Even at the best of times it was sel-
  dom working, and at present the electric curr