On the creepiness of China, again.

The New Yorker: "The Only Games In Town" by Anthony Lane

"Among visitors to Beijing, there was a touch of sympathy for the Chinese, who were reminded the hard way, and at the worst time, that you can build a wall against organized threats from without but cannot legislate for the lone wretch with a knife who lurks within. Wang Wei, the executive vice-president and secretary general of the Beijing Organizing committee for the Games, said in response, "We are living in a world where surprises do happen." True enough, although his next phrase seemed to hail from a different world: "We reassure you that nothing like this is going to happen again." It is the imprint of certainty - the implication that fate itself can be bent back in to position - that rings oddly in more jaded ears."

On the Opening Ceremonies for the Olympics: "China supports a population of 1.3 billion, and the knowledge of that resource was never far away; indeed, the whole evening became an exercise in number-crunching, as mass art was constructed from a mass of humanity. One townful of men and women would race on, swarm into a shape, and race off, to be replaced by the next; if, deep below the spectacle, there was an unspoken suggestion that it would be an extremely bad idea to go to war against this nation, it never rose to the surface..."

"We watch them both and ask ourselves, what kind of society is it that can afford to make patterns out of its people? India is hugely populous, too, but a Delhi opening ceremony would be a more rambunctious affair. Nobody will ever surpass the mathematical majesty of that night in Beijing, and, in retrospect, that may be a good thing."

"It will be scant consolation, however, to Lord Coe. Formerly Sebastian Coe, part of the shining generation of British middle-distance runners in teh nineteent-eighties, he now heads the team that will bring the Olympics to London in 2012. I trid to pick him out among the V.I.P.s on that first Friday, but without success. He may have been hiding in the men's room, calling home to order more light bulbs. You can imagine the rising panic in his voice: "They had two thousand and eight drummers, all lit up. Yes, two thousand and eight. And what have we got so far? Elton John on a trampoline.""

"One of the Italian girls, Francesca Benolli, was up on the balance beam, better known as the Official Olympic Human Life Metaphor. She was standing sideways on it, having a wobble. For a few seconds, she was no longer one of the master race from the Olympic Village, spotless in a silver leotard; she was all of us, gloved and scarved, flapping dumbly on our front paths on an icy morning."

Gosh, I love Anthony Lane.