My Giants - Part I: Woody Allen

Nietzsche. Sorkin. Dostoyevsky. Allen

We've never met and never will. You get me. There are not many who do. Your work reminds me that humans are complicated creatures whose desires are rarely compatible. Frequently it breaks my heart. As often it makes me laugh.  And though I cringe when showing your work to others, this is not your failing. You make art for a particular breed. The neurotic; the intellectual, though you'd never admit it, the cheaters; the perpetually dissatisfied. In short, you make movies for me.

Don't let me be misunderstood. You've made some real garbage. Like a long marriage, I've seen every side of you. And I've stuck by you during your lapses in judgment and your utter failures. Yet, after all these years, I'm fascinated by your approach. You build like Camus' absurd artist. Erecting a sandcastle monument today and building a new the next. The beach is littered with your treasures. 

Melville once wrote to a friend of Moby Dick, "You did not care a penny for the book. But, now and then as you read, you understood the pervading thought that impelled the book—and that you praised. Was it not so? You were archangel enough to despise the imperfect body, and embrace the soul."

Your pervading thoughts carry your work. They sing like a Greek chorus. I forgive the imperfect body and smile at those who overlook your gems as they pass. 

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