The obits in the Economist
are my favorite part of the magazine. If the story is familiar, I come away from them with an enhanced appreciation. If the person was unknown to me, the coverage leaves me wanting to learn more.
From this week's story about Evel Knievel
[T]here was always something a bit fey about Mr Knievel, even in the 1970s, when long hair and tight crotches made every young man look like a member of a corps de ballet. In the black-clad Hells Angels world of motorbike racing, he sported white leathers inspired by Liberace and sprinkled with glittering stars; a short shoulder-cape, looking vaguely like a pair of wings; and a gold-topped cane. Mr Knievel didn't jump for America or for Jesus. He rode bikes, he said, because life was boring otherwise.