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Stanley Kubrick
B. 7.26.28 Bronx, New York / D. 3.7.99 Hertfordshire, England
Heart Attack

War is darkness in daylight and sick-making smells—it is pollution. Someone tell me what I am supposed to do with the information contained in the following statement: “And then the other group leader put her palm on my forehead and I still remember so vividly how the whole room vanished and I was all alone in a place filled with white light. And the light felt very warm and holy and I was filled with this sense of peace, and suddenly I perceived this movement in front of me which I realized was a newborn baby, this sticky little newborn infant glowing in the center of this bright bright light, squinting right up into its source with this great big smile, squirming on a bed of straw. And somehow I knew that was me. That was my soul.”
But the potential for comedy—ooof! What a field day. You’ve got your hoaxes, your pratfalls (“We found someone alive! We found—oh, it’s you guys”), your tongue-tripping place names, your pantomime beards; misalliance, misprision, mistaken identity, chopped onion, sauerkraut, the works. When you know that Blake painting of King Nebuchadnezzar become like the beasts of the field? That’s me.
And you just want it all to be over faster but it has to play out, has to play out. “Touch my head,” I say across the vast and packet-strewn expanse of booth table. “See for yourself.”

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