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This woman is omnipotent. A working mother with dark shadowed eyes. She offers nothing more than serving drinks and mopping up the mess men leave behind, working stoical hands planted on the bar ready for action, ready for anything.
The smell of hot bitumen asserted itself in the chilled winter air. A family of saried women, nimble men and children sifted gravel and carried piles of stones on their heads. The driver, seeing the direction of my gaze, nodded towards the ghostly work party and explained: 'Delhi Games.'
'Anyone watching this saying it in some way supports or encourages violence is watching the film in a very perverse way.' UK filmmaker Michael Winterbottom has a point, but one must wonder what scenes of brutal violence against women contribute to the betterment of the public imagination.
Tony is the working class underdog battling to excel in a sport dominated by private school boys. The temptation for the poor westie Tony to engage in petty crime is a cliché too far, but does help to highlight the social structures that define Tony's world.
Winter in the Russian industrial city of Yaroslavl has been hard since the Global Financial Crisis. The 'contract' between Russia's elite and ordinary Russians, whereby the latter sacrifice their civil and political rights for economic wellbeing, is not delivering.
In the winter sun a soul twitches neck and head, neck buried in the pulse of a round and thinking flesh.
The Winter Olympics make for beautiful television — skiers hurtling down the slopes, snowboarders doing somersaults in the air, skaters dancing on the ice. Yet they occupy an unusual place in our imagination. They feel more like recreation than competitive sport.
The final gift of Ted Kennedy to the nation was to pass the torch of liberalism to Barack Obama. It was breathtaking to see this Irish Catholic embrace a black man as his political heir.
Are you the rain my Grandma knew so well? .. You're cold enough and sharp enough, my friend .. Perhaps you're rushing from the same wet hell .. Perhaps you're lines some minor devil penned.
Death of the king, Little argument, Words to end winter
Poem by John Kinsella
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