?Most people choose to write a blog. I needed to.?
How devastating to learn that beloved critic Roger Ebert has died at the age of 70, after a long battle with the cancer that first claimed his jaw and, now, his life. Though I?d followed Ebert?s writing for some time, with the sort of detached appreciation one directs at cultural commentators, it wasn?t until I encountered him in the flesh at TED 2011, where he delivered his brave and stirring talk about learning to speak again, that I found myself in sheer awe of his spirit. A few months later, his memoir, Life Itself (public library), was released and I absorbed it voraciously. Today, some of its most resonant parts come back to mind, a bittersweet reminder of the incredible mind we?ve lost.
Roger Ebert (photograph by Anne Ryan, USA Today)
Ebert begins with an apt and beautiful metaphor for his existence:
I was born inside the movie of my life. The visuals were before me, the audio surrounded me, the plot unfolded inevitably but not necessarily. I don?t remember how I got into the movie, but it continues to entertain me.
In recalling the mismatch between his memory of his childhood home and the reality of the house once he returned as an adult, he captures that ineffable feeling of questioning the very fabric of reality:
I got the feeling I sometimes have when reality realigns itself. It?s a tingling sensation moving like a wave through my body. I know the feeling precisely. I doubt I?ve experienced it ten times in my life. I felt it at Smith Drugs when I was seven or eight and opened a nudist magazine and discovered that all women had breasts. I felt it when my father told me he had cancer. I felt it when I proposed marriage. Yes, and I felt it in the old Palais des Festivals at Cannes, when the Ride of the Valkyries played during the helicopter attack in Apocalypse Now.
The shape-shifting quality of memory is something Ebert returns to again and again:
One of the rewards of growing old is that you can truthfully say you lived in the past. ? In these years after my illness, when I can no longer speak and am set aside from the daily flow, I live more in my memory and discover that a great many things are safely stored away. It all seems still to be in there somewhere. ? You find a moment from your past, undisturbed ever since, still vivid, surprising you. In high school I fell under the spell of Thomas Wolfe: ?A stone, a leaf, an unfound door; of a stone, a leaf, a door. And of all the forgotten faces.? Now I feel all the faces returning to memory.
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I remember everything. All my life I?ve been visited by unexpected flashes of memory unrelated to anything taking place at the moment. These retrieved moments I consider and replace on the shelf. When I began writing this book, memories came flooding to the surface, not because of any conscious effort but simply in the stream of writing. I started in a direction and the memories were waiting there, sometimes of things I hadn?t consciously thought about since.
Thomas Wolfe was, in fact, a big part of how fell in love with reading shortly after his high school graduation:
I read endlessly, often in class, always late at night. There was no pattern; one book led randomly to another. The great influence was Thomas Wolfe, who burned with the need to be a great novelist, and I burned in sympathy. I felt that if I could write like him, I would have nothing more to learn. I began to ride my bike over to campus and steal quietly into the bookstores.
Roger Ebert
Echoing E. B. White?s famous admonition that ?writer who waits for ideal conditions under which to work will die without putting a word on paper? and Isabel Allende?s counsel to ?show up, show up, show up, and after a while the muse shows up, too,? Ebert shares some invaluable advice:
My colleague late at night, a year or two older, was Bill Lyon, who covered Champaign High School sports and became a columnist for the Philadelphia Inquirer. ? Bill and I would labor deep into the night on Fridays, composing our portraits of the [football] games. I was a subscriber to the Great Lead Theory, which teaches that a story must have an opening paragraph so powerful as to leave few readers still standing. ? Lyon watched as I ripped one sheet of copy paper after another out of my typewriter and finally gave me the most useful advice I have ever received as a writer: ?One, don?t wait for inspiration, just start the damn thing. Two, once you begin, keep on until the end. How do you know how the story should begin until you find out where it?s going?? These rules saved me half a career?s worth of time and gained me a reputation as the fastest writer in town. I?m not faster. I spend less time not writing.
Much like his ability to summon memories without deliberate effort, Ebert?s mastery of the writing process is largely an unconscious act, a state of mesmerism experienced in finding your purpose and doing what you love:
When I write, I fall into the zone many writers, painters, musicians, athletes, and craftsmen of all sorts seem to share: In doing something I enjoy and am expert at, deliberate thought falls aside and it is all just there. I think of the next word no more than the composer thinks of the next note.
He marvels at how the social web, despite his initial skepticism, liberated his impulse for self-expression as his writing took on an autobiographical life of its own:
My blog became my voice, my outlet, my ?social media? in a way I couldn?t have dreamed of. Into it I poured my regrets, desires, and memories. Some days I became possessed. The comments were a form of feedback I?d never had before, and I gained a better and deeper understanding of my readers. I made ?online friends,? a concept I?d scoffed at. Most people choose to write a blog. I needed to. I didn?t intend for it to drift into autobiography, but in blogging there is a tidal drift that pushes you that way. ? the Internet encourages first-person writing, and I?ve always written that way. How can a movie review be written in the third person, as if it were an account of facts? If it isn?t subjective, there?s something false about it.
The blog let loose the flood of memories. Told sometimes that I should write my memoirs, I failed to see how I possibly could. I had memories, I had lived a good life in an interesting time, but I was at a loss to see how I could organize the accumulation of a lifetime. It was the blog that taught me how. It pushed me into first-person confession, it insisted on the personal, it seemed to organize itself in manageable fragments. Some of these words, since rewritten and expanded, first appeared in blog forms. Most are here for the first time. They come pouring forth in a flood of relief.
Roger Ebert and wife Chaz, 2011 (photograph by Fred Thornhill/Reuters via The New York Times)
He captures the diverse spectrum of what we call ?journalism,? sharply aware of where he plants his own stake:
I used journalism to stay at one remove from my convictions: I wouldn?t risk arrest but would bravely report about those who did. My life has followed that pattern. I observe and describe at a prudent reserve.
At the heart of cinema, Ebert sees a deep resonance with the human condition:
If you pay attention to the movies they will tell you what people desire and fear. Movies are hardly ever about what they seem to be about. Look at a movie that a lot of people love, and you will find something profound, no matter how silly the film may be.
On the art of the interview:
My secret as an interviewer was that I was actually impressed by the people I interviewed ? I am beneath everything else a fan. I was fixed in this mode as a young boy and am awed by people who take the risks of performance. I become their advocate and find myself in sympathy.
On writing as a substitute for the human pleasures that were taken from him by his illness:
What?s sad about not eating is the experience, whether at a family reunion or at midnight by yourself in a greasy spoon under the L tracks. The loss of dining, not the loss of food. Unless I?m alone, it doesn?t involve dinner if it doesn?t involve talking. The food and drink I can do without easily. The jokes, gossip, laughs, arguments, and memories I miss. I ran in crowds where anyone was likely to start reciting poetry on a moment?s notice. Me too. But not me anymore. So yes, it?s sad. Maybe that?s why writing has become so important to me. You don?t realize it, but we?re at dinner right now.
On our relationship with mortality, at once rather complex and rather simple:
We?re all dying in increments.
Complement Life Itself with Ebert?s unforgettable TED talk:
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Source: http://www.brainpickings.org/index.php/2013/04/05/rip-roger-ebert-life-itself/
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