|How awesome is this? Via Favim.|
The man who lost one voice and found another is Roger Ebert. Now, I used to be a big movie buff; I wanted to be a director from the age of twelve until sometime in my first year of college when I realized that making movies involved working with other people, at which point I decided to be something else instead. (The jury is still out on what, exactly.) So I read a lot of film books. I had some book of Ebert's that included his rating for practically every movie ever made, and I went through and carefully starred every one I'd seen. I read screenplays, and reviews, and everything William Goldman had ever written. (That includes Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid and The Princess Bride, for those of you not in the know. And if you don't know about those, there's something terribly terribly wrong with you and you should go away right now and watch them.) I decided the only film critic I "respected" was Ebert and the rest were hacks. (Gimme a break, I was 17.) Then I started studying nineteenth-century art history and basically stopped watching movies in the theater because I was too broke and stopped renting DVDs because our lovely local video store shut down and have pretty much just wandered around on my streaming Netflix for the last two years. Which is to say I didn't follow with any particular closeness the doings of Mr. Ebert. Until today somebody I'm friends with on Facebook posted this lovely, lovely quote:
|A post-it note Ebert wrote. From the Esquire article.|
The existence of an afterlife, the beauty of a full bookshelf, his liberalism and atheism and alcoholism, the health-care debate, Darwin, memories of departed friends and fights won and lost — more than five hundred thousand words of inner monologue have poured out of him, five hundred thousand words that probably wouldn't exist had he kept his other voice. Now some of his entries have thousands of comments, each of which he vets personally and to which he will often respond. It has become his life's work, building and maintaining this massive monument to written debate — argument is encouraged, so long as it's civil — and he spends several hours each night reclined in his chair, tending to his online oasis by lamplight. Out there, his voice is still his voice — not a reasonable facsimile of it, but his.
|Also from the Esquire article. Look at those books!|
And, he says, when he dreams, he always has his voice. As Jones says,
In his dreams, his voice has never left. In his dreams, he can get out everything he didn't get out during his waking hours: the thoughts that get trapped in paperless corners, the jokes he wanted to tell, the nuanced stories he can't quite relate. In his dreams, he yells and chatters and whispers and exclaims. In his dreams, he's never had cancer. In his dreams, he is whole.
These things come to us, they don't come from us, he writes about his cancer, about sickness, on another Post-it note. Dreams come from us.
The quote I found on Facebook is from the end of the story, and it seems right and apt to me. What a man to admire! What a man to emulate. In the halls of the Museum, we will hear his footsteps echoing; he will be there with us, shouting.
Read the whole story, which is just phantasmagorically moving, here.
|Guys, I tried really hard to find you a tasty peek at Caleb the|
dream dude. I guess he looked a little like this. Or like Joseph
Fiennes if he didn't look bloody silly all the time. No, scratch
that. He didn't look anything like Joseph Fiennes. Or this guy.
But still. Not bad to look at right? Via Ollie's Scrapbook.
|Oh look, I found him. He looked exactly like this |
guy except with short black hair. I just had to
google "man with long eyelashes" and there he
was. You guys know this is just for research
purposes, right? Guys? Via a place I am
embarrassed to admit
|I mean, let's face it, I just want a cover|
I can giggle about and an epic, epic title.
This one has assassins! See?
Oh, but before I go? The title of this post is a fragment of a quote, more commonly know for what it says about ships. I don't like Longfellow much, but I like this.
Ships that pass in the night, and speak each other in passing, only a signal shown, and a distant voice in the darkness; So on the ocean of life, we pass and speak one another, only a look and a voice, then darkness again and a silence.
Grim? Kinda. But also very beautiful: a reminder that voices resonate through the dark halls of the unknown that comes before us and the unknown that comes after us. So listen, that's all.