THE man in the green hood steadies his heartbeat and tests the breeze one last time. He isn't https://mobile.nytimes.com/2017/02/04/public-editor/a-hard-look-at-times-editing-in-the-digital-era.html?utm_source=Daily+Lab+email+list&utm_campaign=f5368a1af3-dailylabemail3&utm_medium=email&utm_term=0_d68264fd5e-f5368a1af3-396102289&_r=0&referer= or at his rival's arrow embedded in its heart. He is feeling his shot, living its trajectory. He touches his lips to the bowstring, part kiss, part prayer. The meadow is silent: nobody dares breathe. He relaxes his fingers. A hiss. A gasp. And then a roar, drowning out the splintering of wood and the deep thud of an arrow hitting home, dead centre. When I first heard the story of Robin Hood splitting an arrow, I knew there could be no greater assertion of victory. It was the most emphatic act in the world. All arguments, I thought, should be decided thus. You claim it is my turn to wash the dishes, and yet — behold! Yonder quivers my arrow and y...

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