Listen to the anchor persons on the evening news—the placid smiles pasted on their otherwise dead faces, their lips forming the words, their eyes glued to the teleprompters. They tell us in their singsong voices about murders and rapes and unspeakable horrors of every description, and even, occasionally, of joy. We are unmoved. We hear about thousands killed or maimed in bombings across the world. Nothing happens. We go on eating our popcorn. The flow of blood may turn the rivers scarlet and the dead bodies may well lie bloating in the sun, but as they read, the anchor persons provide us
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