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320 pages, Paperback
First published October 28, 2025
One day when my mother came home, I greeted her with "Göring committed suicide in prison. he took cyanide so he wouldn't be hanged."It's a rare occasion when I get sucked into the modern celebrity circuit, especially in my reading. However, when the subject is part of the small coterie that have exerted a singular level of fascination on you for the last few decades and your workplace sees fit to source the subject's one (and likely only) memoir, well. With both Silence of the Lambs and The Remains of the Day doing double favorite duty in both original text and adapted film, I'm one of the last folks who'd be able to resist those baby blues of Sir Philip Anthony Hopkins, CBE and all that jazz. And from the beginning on, I truly was enjoying myself, as while the veil of a ghost writer was certainly occluding, Hopkins comes through as humble, erudite, and at times brutally sympathetic, interesting through the sheer effort of being forthcoming without ever losing his professional dignity or mature composure. It made for reading that felt personable even, or perhaps especially, during the subject's darkest moments, but I'll let the folks more invested in the sordid details of that sort of thing to get into all that.
"Good God, how do you know that?" she said. "How morbid! You're nine. You shouldn't be listening to the news."
Nothing against anger in the proper dosage. Anger gets you places. But I don't have much time for it now. I wake up in the morning and I look at my cat.All in all, I just wanted an authentic glimpse into what had made a consummate professional tick for nearly a century in such a way that I'll probably take that core memory of "Good evening, Clarice," to my grave. The bottom did fall out the closer the timeline reached the modern day, as one of the surest ways of losing my interest is slinging out a bunch of names and expecting that to stand in for any sort of truly engaging narratology. Still, Hopkins presented himself in such a way that I don't feel cheated in having sustained an invested interest in him, even tangentially, for as long as I have. I honestly don't have much interest in seeing whatever else he puts out in the years he has left with us, but I'm glad he's spent his life figuring himself out, as that's all you can really ask of yourself when approaching the end of your mortal coil.
A young actor recently said to me, "You're very friendly with the crew, aren't you?"
"What do you mean?" I asked. I had noticed that he didn't give anyone the time of day.
He said, "You talk to everyone." He seemed surprised.
"Yes, I do," I said, "because I don't even know how to take a photograph, but those guys put my stupid face on the screen and they put your stupid handsome face on the screen. The most important people around here are plugging in the lights, driving the trucks, and making sure the set doesn't crush us. That answer your question?"
That was the last time he tried to talk to me.
But if you survive long enough, you come to the point: We come and say, "Hello," hang around, then say, "Goodbye, kids."
Believe that your life is all a matter of weaving; when you look back over the years, you'll see a tapestry.