Canst thou not minister to a mind diseased? Pluck from the memory a rooted sorrow? Raze out the written troubles of the brain? And with some sweet oblivious antidote, cleanse the stuffed bosom of that perilous stuff which weighs upon the heart?
I’m not Rocky Sullivan because I haven’t done anything criminal or even “wrong” except in the minds of…I’d rather not say. But in the quiet lull before every award season…nope, can’t go there. I’ve never liked Angels With Dirty Faces (’38) because of that famous last scene. The ambiguity of it, I mean. The horror of dying yellow. I don’t know what I’m saying.
