Word: crickets
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...while Django Reinhardt plays guitar at breakneck speed on the soundtrack; France playing Beethoven or rising from bathing in a stream, like a figure out of myth; the grandmother opening herself up to nature at last, as she bends down with the eye of benevolent intelligence to watch a cricket on a leaf at sunset; the innate elegance and courage of Albert Horn; the noble face of the aristocrat's hound; and the images of the countryside itself, unearthly grey before a thunderstorm, intensely green beneath the rain...
...likes to see cricket and football matches," said Joe Jagger of his son the Rolling Stone. Then he added, "I don't want to spoil the idea his fans might have." Joe, a lecturer in the philosophy and psychology of physical education at London University, was visiting the U.S., unaware that Mick was already changing his image. In London, he threw a Lucullan feast on his 30th birthday for some 200 friends, including Debbie Reynolds, Britt Eklund and Peter Townshend of The Who, and sported a new and different look: short back and sides hairdo and a zoot suit...
Rudyard Kipling, England's national, not to say nationalistic, poet, dismissed England's two national games very scornfully: "The flannelled fools at the wicket, the muddied oafs at the goals." There was a flavor of sour grapes there. Though most will admit the gentlemanly folly of cricket, the imputation of oafishness to football was, even in Kipling's own day, a bit anachronistic. Kipling seems to have had in mind the ancient bloody kickaround of the village green with a dead dog or severed head for ball, not the modern game that started to shape itself...
GIMMICKRY and sentimentality are not enough. A good book of poetry should be both well-written and philosophical, expressing a cohesion of experience. Flying Inland, by Kathleen Spivack, is neither. Spivack's poetry lacks a unifying voice. Each poem remains a solitary, cricket-like rasp, grating in the reader's ear. Nothing justifies printing poor writing in any case, and nothing justifies placing these poems in a collection...
While two of the men are attracted to the two complex and enigmatic city girls they meet, and a third to the roulette wheel, Hari, the cricket star, concerns himself with a local girl whom the other men jokingly call "Miss India"--they use the English phrase. Her stunning beauty is so captivating, in Hari's eyes--and in ours--that we feel a whole country has been raped by the city boy when she suddenly appears as she really is: a pathetic pauper, drunk and asking for more, begging for work and selling herself to Hari...