my life will never be the same again.
cesc fabregas in a bunny suit running after people on the street. BUT THE BEST THING IS ARSHAVIN.
the two, by yevgeny yevtushenko
two people loving each other make a rebellion of two.
tt is a thundering whisper breaking abuses through.
two lovers in hay, or woodbine, make god almighty’s light,
it is like a waltzing ball of innumerous threads of life.
two people adoring each other resemble two orphan kids
that cling to the skirt of beauty like puppies reaching for feeds.
they are a sort of skin-readers and linguists of human eyes.
to understand the tremors they don’t need any advice.
the bed-sheets they’ve crumbled they value more than anything else.
the names that they whisper are greater than any of greatest names.
it is a serious menace, conspiracy, biggest of all. it is a rebellion of body
against separation from soul. it is uncontrollable, and it’s
like two kingdoms, or two nations merged voluntarily
without declaring a war. staring like freaks and sneering,
the crowd have got a good mind to wait for severe punishment
for love is said to be blind. but would it be worth getting married
if we were to decide to cure ourselves from happiness,
the pleasure of being blind? if blindness is laughed at squeamishly,
then, i imagine, the world can perish from an explosion,
and rise from a whispered word.
(translated from the russian by alec vagapov)
among contemporaries only shane warne could draw an entire stadium's energy towards himself, but then warne worked elaborately towards this end. tendulkar on the pitch is as uncalculated as warne was deliberate. warne worked the moments before each delivery like an emcee at a title fight. tendulkar goes through a series of ungainly nods and crotch adjustments. batting, his movements are neither flamboyant nor languid; they are contained, efficient. utility is his concern. having hit the crispest shot between the fielders he can still be found scurrying down the wicket, just in case.
one hell of a piece of sportswriting.
the last few issues of the new yorker have driven home one point
do not mess with elizabeth kolbert.
