![]() That same day the eminent New Yorker journalist Lawrence Wright emailed his editor with a simple request: “put me to work.” Fluent in Arabic, Wright had done graduate work in Cairo and knew the complex-and often contradictory-Mideast well, the players in the palaces, the characters on the street, the zealots in the mosques. I heard the impact, two syncopated thumps, like a child’s drum: t hump, thump. I could see the plane’s snub-nosed profile, the fuselage’s gleaming colors.Īnother thought: No, no, that plane is flying too fast and too low, it’s all wrong. A plane swooped down over the Statue of Liberty in a shallow dive, canted on its side, triggering a thought quick as a reflex: La Guardia must be re-routing traffic because of the smoke. I’d been standing there for only a moment, fists clenching the rail, when a whine tugged my attention to the left, toward the south. With the television still on I moved through the kitchen, stunned, shutting the front door behind me without bothering to lock it, then dashed up the stairs to the roof deck. I glanced out the window at a plume of smoke, inky and trailing to the southwest, over downtown Brooklyn. Before the newscaster said a word, I saw the tower’s immense gash. ![]() on 9/11, I grabbed the remote from the top of the TV, settled on the couch in my living room, and clicked on CNN for a weather report. ![]()
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