検索キーワード： ナレーター "Kevin Stillwell" すべてのカテゴリー

One hundred and fifty years after publication, Leo Tolstoy’s War and Peace still sheds light on the tensions that structure Moscow’s relations with other great powers, and in particular with the United States.

With Brexit approaching, Boris Johnson will be keen to capitalize on access to Washington. But don't expect much from Trump.

The United States is exceptional even in its polarization.

If the United States wants to increase the defensive power of Taiwan’s armed forces, then Washington must find other ways to give the Taiwanese leaders the symbolic victories they seek from arms packages.

The outcome of the peace process is less certain than the foreordained failure of military solutions.

Beijing won't invade Hong Kong to quash the protests. It will just sit them out.

Beijing’s newfound assertiveness is a sign of desperation, not ambition.

Turkey’s strategy is more than an exercise in geopolitics—for Erdogan, it touches on his very political survival.

Rather than cracking down with its military, Beijing is likely to step up other repressive measures to end the protests and restore comprehensive control in Hong Kong.

Trump has personalized and deinstitutionalized foreign policy to the detriment of the national interest.

Why Robert Mugabe’s ruinous legacy will live on as long as his party is in power.

The damage from the assault on Ambassador Yovanovitch will likely prove to be even more severe to both diplomatic tradecraft and U.S. foreign policy.

In May, 1988, in Everett, Washington, four-year-old Feather Rahier disappeared while playing outside after dinner. Her frantic cries drew Feather's mother to the dark garage that was home to Richard Matthew Clark. Clark had stolen the child, bound, and gagged her, and begun to undress her. Only at the last instant was the little girl saved by her mother's desperate intervention. The next victim wouldn't be so fortunate.

A brilliant, original exploration of how the CBD revolution is going to transform Americans’ lives. We are an anxious and uptight nation on the brink, divided by a broken political system and a president who is pushing us over the edge. Many of us are agitated about terrorism, guns, religious fundamentalism, and refugees.

Allan Pinkerton sat in the reception area of the Executive Mansion, wondering if he had made a mistake by coming. Many men would have been intimidated by the prospect of meeting with the President of the United States of America, but that wasn’t what was bothering Pinkerton. In fact, he had sat in the same chair in that outer office many times before, waiting to see the current president’s predecessor.

Harlowe Franklin blew out a tired, scotch-laced breath. It was May, yet he’d had Stevens light a fire before the personal concierge turned in around 10 p.m. He craved a sense of cozy, but would settle for any feeling other than the frustration that had taken up residence in his bones. The defense attorney sighed and sank deeper into the tufted leather chair, still missing the wallowed out one his wife donated to Goodwill months ago.

Thirty-five years now. Through American invasions and wars, and famines and genocides, and tsunamis and earthquakes and volcanoes, George Waite’s red, white, and blue mail truck has lurched from mailbox to mailbox with the utter predictability of a brightly painted figure on a cuckoo clock.

The tip of the needle is as sharp as a thorn, but it makes only a slight indentation as it touches the bulging, blue-black surface of the vein. George Hartley marvels that something as fine and sharp as that tip—created by slicing a hollow tube at a low angle—can even graze the delicate skin without piercing it. The flesh on the inside of the elbow is thin, pale, and dusted with freckles; the vein is engorged from the elastic tourniquet on the upper arm; the machined needle is precise, purposeful, and perfect .

She looked familiar, but when he had known her before, her chest had been no bigger than his then-skinny pecs. Now, she could float a platoon of capsized Marines. “Mary!” he exclaimed raising his eyes from her…nametag. “So good to see you again.” Thank goodness she had not accidentally pinned herself, the explosion would have blown out the windows. She was still as ugly as sin. No implant could fix that..p>

It is said that bad things come in threes. If there’s any truth to that, the first two were sure as hell about to show up at my front door. I hadn’t been home long, maybe a half hour or so spent watching the lingering remnants of the Kona sunset leach from the sky while I tipped a cold bottle of Asahi to my lips. I had skipped my regular visit to Snyder’s bar, and had dropped in at Lola’s instead, in order to catch a little face time with Lani, who bartended there.