Just a guy with a blog (or five) and a love of film, liquids and words. Like WSB, I eat images. Like everybody else, I keep getting older; I just happen to write about it, from a particular angle, on the internet where everybody can see. Sometimes people pay me to write things. I also make little mov
Charles Baudelaire's grave lies in Montparnasse Cemetery, smack in the middle of Paris' sixth arrondissement. The winter months are a sheet of gray, with an endless roof of clouds hanging close overhead. Built high, the walls of the cemetery are speckled with moss; the rain splatters across the crack
There is a particular grunt, sputter, and song in a Heaney poem: "Perch on their water perch hung in the clear Bann River/Near the clay bank in alder dapple and waver." This is another poet in love with his language -- specifically, the cadences of the Irish tongue. The sounds of clattering, bumping,
In a 1909 essay called "How to Write a Play," George Bernard Shaw argued that the great playwright must "pick out the significant incidents from the chaos of daily happenings and arrange them so that their relation to one another becomes significant, thus changing us from bewildered spectators of a m