An Extraordinary Chronicler of Ordinary American Life

If you haven’t read John Updike, stop what you’re doing and find one of his books immediately—okay, you can finish this column first, but don’t wait much past that.

If you haven’t discovered Updike, boy, are you in for a treat. If you’ve read Updike, but it’s been a while, rereading a great writer is a pleasure all its own.

And Mr. Updike was a great writer—perhaps the greatest of the second half of the twentieth century. In terms of both quantity and quality, breadth and depth, it seems to me that for this time period, he has no peers.

Sure, other writers are mentioned in the same breath as him—Roth and Bellow among them—but as great they are (particularly Roth for my money), no one quite compares to the last great man of letters. And a man of letters he truly was—extraordinary, prize-winning novels, sophisticated short stories, essays, poetry, memoir, and criticism. When he died two months ago, it was a devastating loss for American letters, but what a legacy he leaves behind.

With a writer like Updike, you can’t go wrong with any of his work, but for this column, I’d like to focus on his collection of short stories.

“The Early Stories,” released in 2003, has been called a harvest, not a winnowing, because it collects nearly all of Updike’s short fiction published between 1954 and 1975. Of the one hundred and three magnificent stories, eighty first appeared in “The New Yorker,” and the other twenty-three in journals from “Atlantic Monthly” to “Harper’s.”

Each story shows Mr. Updike’s capacity for compassion and understanding, his insightful observations, his appreciation for ordinary life, and his extraordinary way with words.

It has been noted that Mr. Updike seemed to spring full fledged as a short story writer, so he can hardly be said to have a body of apprentice work, and this collection of early stories certainly proves this. They are mature masterworks of short form fiction—stories of blistering insight into postwar American life in the suburbs and marital discontent, where backyards and bedrooms are the battlefields of the coldest war of all.

Though all the stories collected here are superior, the following have my highest recommendation: “Killing,” “A & P,” “Pigeon Feathers,” “The Persistence of Desire,” “Snowing in Greenwich Village,” “Gestures,” “Your Lover Just Called,” and “The Bulgarian Poetess.”

Mr. Updike once remarked, “Writers may be disreputable, incorrigible, early to decay, late to bloom, but they dare to go it alone.”

Writing might not be reputable, but Mr. Updike certainly was, which reminds me of what Jake Gittes said about his own disreputable profession: “What I do for a living may not be very reputable, but I am. In this town I’m known as the leper with the most fingers.”

I can picture Mr. Updike, the leper with the most fingers, going at it alone in the writing room he rented above a restaurant in Ipswich, Massachusetts, where he wrote for several hours every morning, six days a week—a schedule he kept throughout his career. He was daring—and brave, and noble, and honest, and insightful, and we, his readers, are the richer for it.

In one of his many autobiographical essays, Mr. Updike identified sex, art, and religion as “the three great secret things” within human experience, and he spent a lifetime daring to tell us his secrets, and in the process, telling us our own.

The Art of Dying

“Synecdoche, New York” is such a devastating, profound, and true masterwork of art I feel unequal to the task of telling you just how extraordinary, rare, stunning, and heartbreaking it really is.

Just two weeks ago, in this very column, I was celebrating the brilliance of Charlie Kaufman, proclaiming “Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind” to be the brightest object in his creative constellation. Now, after having seen “Synecdoche, New York,” I’m saying that what “Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind” does for love and memory, “Synecdoche, New York” does for virtually everything else—most notably life, art, meaning, aging, dying, and death.

The thing about life is, we die. That’s it. What does it mean to be human, but that we will one day be no more, and we are aware of it—some of us quite acutely.

When the film’s protagonist, Caden Cotard, tells his cast and crew about the new play he wants to stage, he says, “I’ve been thinking a lot about death lately. That’s what I want to explore. We’re all hurtling toward death, yet here we are for a moment alive, each of us knowing we’re gonna die, each of secretly believing we won’t.”

Claire Keen, one of the female actors, responds, “That’s brilliant . . . It’s everything.”

And though she says it out of a worshipful infatuation with Caden, it’s no less true.

More than any other film I can recall, “Synecdoche, New York” is so rich and multi-layered, its deepest profundity in the subtext, that it seems silly to try to tell what it’s about, but here goes:

Theater director Caden Cotard is mounting a new play. Having won a MacArthur grant, he is determined to create a piece of brutal realism, something he can put his whole self into. He gathers an ensemble cast into a warehouse in Manhattan’s theater district and directs them in a celebration of the mundane, instructing each to live out their constructed lives in a small mockup of the city outside. As the city inside the warehouse grows, Caden's own life veers wildly off the tracks. Populating the cast and crew with doppelgangers, he continually blurs the line between the world of the play and that of his own deteriorating reality.

The title is a play on Schenectady, New York, where part of the film is set. Synecdoche (pronounced si-NEK-duh-kee), from a Greek word meaning “simultaneous understanding,” is a figure of speech in which a term denoting a part of something is used to refer to the whole thing. In the film, the play represents life, and so a part of life represents the whole of life and the New York within the play represents the New York outside the warehouse where it’s being staged.

Does life imitate art? Do we each have doppelgangers wandering around, unseen by us, unknown to us, or, are we all one another’s double—interchangeable in ways we can’t even fathom because of our shared humanity and futility, in that we are alive and soon won’t be? And like Caden’s characters, women are interchangeable with men and vise versa (very Jungian anima/animus), because what we have in common—our mortality—makes us far more alike than not. In Caden’s play, “All the world’s a stage, And all the men and women merely players; They have their exits and their entrances, And one man in his time plays many parts.”

Even as “Synecdoche, New York” is full of people interacting—some of them intimately—and even though there are doubles and doppelgangers, ultimately, like us, Caden is alone. In addition to everything else, the film, the play within the film, and Caden’s journey, are about loneliness. The characters of the film, the actors in the play—even as they connect and share and become one another—are, like you and me, ultimately, utterly alone.

Just two days after experiencing Caden’s utter aloneness, I found myself alone at a funeral. Over the years, I’ve attended and spoken at a lot of funerals, but this was the only one I ever recall going to and sitting at alone, and as I sat there alone thinking about the birth, life, and death of the person who was alone in the box before me, I couldn’t help but think of Caden, couldn’t help but feel profoundly alone. And yet, having shared Caden’s journey made me less alone somehow—or perhaps made my aloneness more bearable.

“Synecdoche, New York” must be watched multiple times. When you finish it the first time, start it over and watch it again. But even with numerous viewings, we won’t understand everything in the film—and we’re not meant to. Life is mysterious. Art that reflects it, the very kind of brutally truthful art Caden is trying to make, will be mysterious, will be, in many ways, incomprehensible. In life, in art, in religion, there aren’t merely vague unknowns, but specific unknowables.

Though I think artists will likely relate to Caden most, there’s plenty in his journey for everyone—for it’s our journey, the betrayal of us by of our bodies, loss, regret, unrecognized potential, what is never quite living up to what might have been, sickness, suffering, aging, dying, and death.

Perhaps the word “genius” is tossed around too indiscriminately these days, but it fits here. Charlie Kaufman is truly a genius. His work requires us to work and then rewards us greatly for it. “Synecdoche, New York” isn’t just a great film, it’s perhaps one of the greatest films ever made. Like life, “Synecdoche, New York” is heartbreaking and painful, some parts particularly difficult to watch. It’s not an easy film, not easy at all, but it’s a worthy film—worth every moment invested into it. How many movies can you say that about?

Perhaps the greatest compliment I can give this matchless masterpiece of a play within a film is that it evokes within me echoes of the world’s greatest playwright, particularly these haunting, desolate, immortal words that now seem to have been written for Caden Cotard: “All our yesterdays have lighted fools; The way to dusty death. Out, out, brief candle! Life's but a walking shadow, a poor player; That struts and frets his hour upon the stage; And then is heard no more: it is a tale; Told by an idiot, full of sound and fury, Signifying nothing.”

Of course, that such words can be written, that such tales can be told argues against the very notion it expresses to signify something. Quite something. And that’s not nothing. In fact, it just might be everything.

Romance and Revelations

First, the film:

Finding a good romantic comedy is nearly as difficult as finding true love. It can be done, but not without some effort. You’ll likely kiss a lot of frogs like Nicholas Sparks before you find a true prince like Richard Curtis.

Did I say Richard Curtis was a prince? My bad. I meant he’s a king. Romantic comedies don’t get any better than “Four Weddings and a Funeral,” “Notting Hill,” and “Love Actually.” But some get closer than others. The best I’ve seen in recent memory is “Definitely, Maybe.”

“Definitely, Maybe” is smart, funny, modern, mature, and even somewhat sophisticated for a romantic comedy (which I realize is like saying someone looks good for their age, but . . . ).

The film is well written, the directing is good, Ryan Reynolds and Abigail Breslin are just fine, but what really elevates it are the powerhouse performances by its three leading ladies Elizabeth Banks, Isla Fisher, and Rachel Weisz. They’re all amazing, but Weisz is particularly beguiling, and Fisher is absolute perfection. In fact, I find Isla Fisher so irresistibly appealing I actually went to see “Confessions of a Shopaholic.” Hey, I’m not proud of it, but there it is—and she’s worth the embarrassment.

Will Hayes has just received divorce papers from his wife at his advertising office in New York City. He picks up his 11-year-old daughter, Maya at school where she has just been taught sex education. Will can’t take these new sex questions that Maya is asking, so agrees to tell her the story about how he met her mother. Will decides to tell Maya a bedtime story in the form of a puzzle with the names changed so she must figure out which of the three loves of his life became his wife and her mother.

There are so many things to love about this movie—as I’ve said, its leading ladies, chief among them. I love Will’s idealism. I love the film’s use of the time period to tether it to realism. Speaking of realism, I love the maturity and modernity of the adult relationships. And, of course, the relationship between dad and daughter—Will’s Maya, like my Meleah (and all our children) are truly the happy endings of all our relationships.

I love to lose myself in a good romance, but I’m of two minds about them. Sometimes I think they are, as others have suggested, a kind of secular scripture, reminding us of the supremacy and life-altering power of love. Others, I fear, the very notion of the more shallow side of romantic love sets up unrealistic expectations and prevents many of us from ever finding the deep-abiding-God-is-love kind of love that is beyond the heady-hysteria-I-love-you-so-much-it’s-retarded kind of romantic love. When the latter leads us to the former, infatuation can be a path to the divine, but if we spend a lifetime chasing the feelings the first blush of desire produces we might completely miss the far more profound, abiding, selfless love we were each created to give and receive.

“Definitely, Maybe” is a good romantic comedy. Is it great? Can it join the company of “Notting Hill” and “Love Actually?” Definitely. Maybe. Definitely. Maybe.

Now, some font:

There’s not much romance in “Nothing Right,” but there’s plenty of revelation.

I’d never read any of Antonya Nelson’s work until I picked up her latest collection of short stories, “Nothing Right” recently, which means I’d been missing out on one of the most brilliant practitioners of short form fiction of our time. Wow.

Simple.

Elegant.

Insightful.

Astonishing.

Set in the American Southwest, the penetratingly and realistically rendered characters in “Nothing Right” try to keep themselves intact as their personal lives implode. A mother and her teenage son finally find common ground when his girlfriend becomes pregnant. A woman leaves her husband and finds herself living with a stranger who is getting extensive plastic surgery while her best friend is dying of cancer. In “Or Else” a man brings his girlfriend to a house he claims belongs to his family, only to have his lie exposed when one of the real owners comes home to scatter her father’s ashes. My two favorites (yes, you can have two favorites) are “Party of One” about a man and a woman having a fight in a bar; and “Biodegradable” about a woman having an affair with a man who reminds her of someone else—of course, both stories are about far more than what they seem to be “about.”

The flawed, frighteningly familiar characters of Nelson’s eleven stories can do nothing right, but perhaps if we read them, become them, we just might be able to. And, if not, at least we’ll know we’re in good company.

The World Forgetting, by the World Forgot

Long before this year of revolution and reading and best actress Oscar, Kate Winslet was Clementine Kruczynski in Charlie Kaufman’s brilliant and altogether original, “Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind.”

A true genius, Kaufman’s work is always thought-provoking, inspiring, and mystical, but even in such stellar company, “Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind” stands out as the brightest object in his creative constellation.

Because of its neo-surrealistic elements, non-linear narrative, and its depiction of the degrading memories of its main characters, the film can be challenging, but it’s not inaccessible—and that it requires us to pay attention only adds to its power.

Joel is stunned to discover that his girlfriend Clementine has had her memories of their tumultuous relationship erased. Out of desperation, he contracts the same team to have Clementine removed from his own memory. But as Joel’s memories progressively disappear, he rediscovers their earlier passion. From deep within the recesses of his brain, Joel attempts to escape the procedure. As the team chase him through the maze of his memories, it’s clear that Joel just can’t get Clementine out of his head.

This rich, textured film has many themes, but the persistence of love is chief among them. I say persistence, but perhaps a better word is relentlessness. Maybe this is why the movie resonates with me so much. I believe in love above all else, in its eternal nature, in its relentless pursuit of the beloved. For me, God is love and love is god.

But love isn’t just relentless, it’s also painful. Joel and Clementine get hurt and hurt each other.

Life involves suffering. Love involves pain.

What to do?

The Buddha teaches that she who loves ten has ten woes, he who loves twenty has twenty woes. Jesus, whose teachings mirror those of the Buddha in so many ways, says the same thing, but whereas the Buddha’s solution is to detach and end desire, Jesus says to love all the more—hurt with and for others, open ourselves up to the pain that comes from loving others with the full awareness that this will happen. Be compassionate as God is compassionate—actually feeling what others feel.

Joel and Clementine go to the ultimate extreme to erase their painful memories of one another—one not available to those of us outside a world created by Kaufman—but we’ve certainly become an overly medicated, overly stimulated, overly busy, overly shallow people attempting to avoid or numb pain. Denial. Distraction. Intoxication. What’s our drug of choice to anesthetize ourselves from the unwanted gifts life gives? How many of us would choose to erase painful memories if the technology existed?

Like too many lovers, Joel and Clementine too quickly take each other for granted, grow complacent, but their lack of passion is a personal failing, and not one of the relationship. Like so many, they “fell” in love with the romantic ideal they were projecting onto each other and expected far more from the other than the other has to give. And like so many couples, the very things that initially attract them to each other, later became the very things that repel them.

But there’s an essential sweetness to Joel and Clementine that fits so well with Alexander Pope’s poem that provides the title for the film:

How happy is the blameless vestal's lot!
The world forgetting, by the world forgot.
Eternal sunshine of the spotless mind!
Each pray'r accepted, and each wish resign'd;

For all their flaws, Joel and Clementine are guileless.

Memory is magical—something “Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind” captures in dense and nuanced ways. And like the film, our memories are continually invading our present moments—informing, influencing, inspiriting.

Love, even our flawed, faulty, fragile love, is worth fighting for. Joel and Clementine realize this. I hope we will. As I watched the two lovers running away from the team trying to erase their memories of one another, I couldn’t help but think about the Song of Songs from the Hebrew Bible, and how its lovers, too, had to flee the city and those hostile to their love into the countryside to be alone.

Arise, my love, my beautiful one, and come away,
for behold, the winter is past; the rain is over and gone.
The flowers appear on the earth, the time of singing has come.
Arise, my love, and come.

Wether Joel and Clementine realize it, wether you and I realize it, it’s not just our lovers calling to us, but love itself.
Love is relentless. Give in.
Love opens us to pain. Embrace and experience it.
Love is god. God is love. Accept it.
Fight for love as Joel and Clementine do. Move heaven and earth if you have to. What else is worth fighting for?

Don’t Wait for the Movie

For the past six weeks, I’ve been teaching a film and literature class for Education Encore at Gulf Coast Community College. Each week we examine different books, the films they’ve inspired, and the adaptation process. It’s a fun class. This term we’ve covered, among others, “The Reader,” “Revolutionary Road,” “In the Cut,” “No Country for Old Men,” “Nick and Norah’s Infinite Playlist,” “The End of the Affair,” “Adaptation,” and “Doubt.”

Each term, my students and I learn something new about film and literature, about character and dialog and pacing and language and interiority, but more than anything else, year after year, term after term, class after class, we learn just how superior literature is to film.

Don’t get me wrong. I love film. But the very best films never come close to achieving what their literary counterparts do—and that’s the best films. What about the average or below average movies, the ones that attempt to reach the broadest audience of moviegoers? Do they provide anything more than diversion, than a couple of hours of escape?

There’s nothing wrong with a little diversion, with an occasional escape—even an essentially mindless one—but like junk food in our diets, more than a little of it quickly becomes harmful (though, deceptively, its true damage isn’t readily manifest in the short-term).

Again, I’m not arguing against film. Film has it’s place. It’s just become too big a place in our culture. I’m not saying don’t watch movies. I am saying read more books—and if this leads to less time to watch movies, that’s not a bad thing. Not a bad thing at all.

Why don’t we read more? Perhaps because of what it requires of us. It takes time to read. A movie cost us two hours, a book eight to ten times that—or more. Movies do all the work for us. We sit passively and take it in. Books require us to work. Reading is active. We’re not just using our eyes and minds, but our imaginations.

Books require more of us, but they give far more to us.

Reading isn’t just better for us, it’s better to us.

A good book isn’t just entertaining or informational, it’s transformational. Literature speaks to the deepest parts of who we are, enables us to connect with others in profound ways, learning about them as well as ourselves.

One of the greatest things movies do is draw out attention to books. Because movies have such large budgets and audiences, they often alert us to great books we may have missed. In fact, just recently I read both “Revolutionary Road” and “The Reader” because of the massive media campaigns their movies generated. Interestingly, “The Reader” was already on my shelf next to another Schlink book I’d read, “Flights of Love.” I’d picked up “The Reader” somewhere along the way during my countless hours of browsing in bookstores and just hadn’t gotten to it yet.

The idea of this column came about because certain of my students had seen “No Country for Old Men” and hated it, but found themselves really drawn in as we began to read the book together. I’d say odds are good this would happen a lot. Try it sometime. If you don’t like a particular movie, chances are still good you’ll like the book it was based on. If you like a movie, chances are good you’ll love the book that inspired it.

A longtime fan of Annie Proulx, I had somehow missed her short story, “Brokeback Mountain.” In anticipation of seeing the film when it came out, I pulled her collection, “Close Range” from the shelf so I could read the short story before I saw the movie. I read the story, but to this day, I still haven’t seen the movie. Why? Because I was so moved by the story of Ennis and Jack, so heartbroken by their fates, so in awe of Ms. Proulx’s stunning use of language, so completely satisfied with the entire experience, I knew that watching the adaptation couldn’t add anything to it, and therefore, would likely take something away.

I guess what I’m trying to say is don’t wait for the movie. Read the book.

This is the Zodiac speaking

My friend Michael Connelly, one of the world’s greatest practitioners of police procedurals, often says the best cases aren’t the ones cops work on, but the ones that work on cops.

It’s a profound statement—one that Connelly attributes to Joseph Heller(if memory serves)—and as I watched David Fincher’s “Zodiac,” just released on Blu-ray, I kept thinking about it. Few cases worked on those who worked on it like the Zodiac killer case—and not just cops, but reporters, forensics experts, and even a cartoonist.

It’s the stuff of enduring crime fiction—the unsolved case that clings to a cop like little bits of karma, haunting his or her work-obsessed days and sleepless, gin-soaked nights.

With respect to Brad and Benjamin, David Fincher’s masterwork is not the curious case of the backwards growing man-boy, but the disquieting case of the letter-writing serial killer who called himself the Zodiac.

More police procedural than a slick serial-killer flick, “Zodiac” is a slow-burn of a crime film that creeps into your consciousness and just sits there, waiting, breathing, readying to strike. It follows the investigation of the Zodiac killings that terrorized the San Francisco Bay area in the late 60s and early 70s. The Zodiac not only killed people, but created a Jack the Ripper aura by sending letters to the newspapers and daring readers to solve coded messages. But the film’s focus isn’t on the Zodiac so much as those who are working on and being worked on by his case.

All the performances in “Zodiac” are outstanding. Even so, some still standout among them—the amazing Robert Downey Jr., the awkward hero/cartoonist, Jake Gyllenhaal, and the hard-working cop, Mark Ruffalo.

Fincher and his genius cinematographer Harris Savides capture the period and feel of the city with restraint and precision, and James Vanderbilt’s screenplay is a throwback to character-driven storytelling far too rare these days.

The 70s are considered by many to be American Cinema’s best decade ever so it’s the highest compliment I can give this film and its director to say that it really fits well in the period in which it’s set. Put “Zodiac” right alongside “Chinatown,” “The Godfather,” “The Exorcist,” and “The French Connection.” It holds up. Put the name Fincher right alongside auteurs, Coppola, Polanski, and Scorsese. He holds his own.

More than anything else, I think “Zodiac” is about obsession. The cops and newspaper mens’ obsession with the Zodiac no less than David Fincher’s obsession with filmmaking or Robert Downey’s obsession with acting. This is something I understand, and it reminds me of a quote by John Gardner I often think of when I’m suffering from the tunnel vision working on a novel brings. “True artists, whatever smiling face they may show you, are obsessive, driven people.” People who are good at what they do are obsessed with it—this is no less true of teachers and homemakers than serial killers and cops.

“Zodiac” reminds me of a complex song. Unlike its pop counterparts, it’s not as catchy or obviously infectious at first, but long after bubble gum pop has lost its flavor, a great song that had to grow on you endures. I’ve seen “Zodiac” some 5 or 6 times now, and it only gets better with subsequent viewings, which makes it truly remarkable—a perfect 70s era character-driven police procedural.

Last Chance Romance

When we’re young, possibilities seem endless, chances infinite. As we get older, as we journey further and further down the paths chosen, as we get further and further away from the paths not chosen, we realize how every choice is actually many choices—and how way leads on to way and we’ll never be back to these particular two road diverging in a yellow wood ever again. Every path we choose is also a choice against other paths, making our choices far more limited than we can even imagine, and as we continue on we see, tragically, how fewer and fewer choices we have left.

Most romance movies are, unfortunately, about young, pretty people, untouched by disappointment, unlined by time, who will live forever and who have an eternity of chances to squander, but occasionally a film comes along for grownups—one in which the potential lovers are a bit bent over and world-weary, aware, perhaps acutely, that soon one of the chances encountered will be their last. This truth, this humbling awareness inspires sobriety and clarity, thoughtfulness and carefulness. These lovers aren’t reckless with their chances for they know their chances aren’t infinite. Perhaps this knowledge leads to a slight desperation, but more than anything it imbues them with a hesitancy I find irresistibly charming and gives them a gratitude for chances their younger selves took for granted.

Life has a way of lowering expectations (if our childhoods are good enough to make them high to begin with) and shattering illusions. What remains is far more real, far more interesting. It’s part of why, even as time goes by, Rick and Ilsa are quintessential, timeless lovers.

Though no Rick and Ilsa, Harvey Shine and Kate Walker are characters cut from the same well-worn cloth—elevated by the performances of well-worn actors Dustin Hoffman and Emma Thompson.

Set in London, “Last Chance Harvey” is a romantic dramedy starring Dustin Hoffman as Harvey Shine, a divorced and haggard jingle-writer quickly aging out of his career and workaholic ways. With a warning from his boss (Richard Schiff) not to bother rushing back, Harvey goes to London, begrudgingly, for his daughter's wedding, desperately fielding work calls the whole time he’s there.

When Harvey greets his estranged daughter, Susie (Liane Balaban), it becomes clear just how far away he’s grown from his family. The film never spells out in exactly what ways Harvey was a bad father, but that Susie asks her stepfather (James Brolin) to give her away says it all. As Harvey leaves his heartbreak at the ceremony for an emergency work call, he misses his flight and gets fired.

Nursing a whiskey at the airport bar, Harvey bumps into Kate (Emma Thompson), an airport employee escaping her own bad day with a glass of wine and a book. Suddenly taken by Kate's British charm, a tipsy Harvey bombards her with tales of his trouble. This unlikely trading of sob stories leads to lunch, a walk around London, and a day of unexpected romance.

Thompson and Hoffman bring far more to these characters than younger actors could (remind me again why our culture in general and Hollywood in particular is so obsessed with teens?) giving Kate and Harvey wit and charm just above their disappointments and essential sadness.

“Last Chance Harvey” is slow-paced (like its protagonists) and obvious in ways that border on cliché (and perhaps even crosses those borders sometimes), but it’s also adultly romantic and sweet and sad.

Over a decade ago, while in my twenties, a woman told me I had the priorities of a much older man. It was one of the best compliments I received at the time, the only one I even remember, and sitting alone in the theater watching Harvey on the enormous screen, I thought the greatest thing I could take from his experience is not to wait until late in life to figure out what really matters. For even as a still sort of youngish man it’s possible that some seemingly random chance to be and act loving just might be my last.