RIP Alan Rickman 2/21/46 – 1/14/16
As if it wasn’t enough to have David Bowie pass on at 69 from cancer this week, so we also lost Alan Sidney Patrick Rickman (21 February 1946 – 14 January 2016). Guest blogger Ron Wells writes:
- Actors are agents of change. A film, a piece of theater, a piece of music, or a book can make a difference. It can change the world.
- I’ve never been able to plan my life. I just lurch from indecision to indecision.
- I do take my work seriously and the way to do that is not to take yourself too seriously.
- All I want to see from an actor is the intensity and accuracy of their listening.
- I am the character you are not supposed to like.
- Three children have become adults since a phone call with Jo Rowling, containing one small clue, persuaded me that there was more to Snape than an unchanging costume, and that even though only three of the books were out at that time, she held the entire massive but delicate narrative in the surest of hands.
- Talent is an accident of genes – and a responsibility.
- Maverick is a word which appeals to me more than misfit. Maverick is active, misfit is passive.
- I want to swim in both directions at once. Desire success, court failure.
- Mellow doesn’t describe me. I’m hungry every day.
- I have a photograph at home of Fred Astaire from the knees down with his feet crossed. It’s kind of inspiring because it reminds me his feet were bleeding at the end of rehearsals. Yet when you watch him, all you see is freedom. It’s a reminder of what the job is about in general, not just being in musicals.
- A lot of the time I hate the theater. You think, ‘I have to climb Mount Everest, again, tonight.’ Oh, the theater is a scary place to be.
- Acting touches nerves you have absolutely no control over.
My mistress’ eyes are nothing like the sun;
Coral is far more red than her lips’ red;
If snow be white, why then her breasts are dun;
If hairs be wires, black wires grow on her head.
I have seen roses damask’d, red and white,
But no such roses see I in her cheeks;
And in some perfumes is there more delight
Than in the breath that from my mistress reeks.
I love to hear her speak, yet well I know
That music hath a far more pleasing sound;
I grant I never saw a goddess go;
My mistress, when she walks, treads on the ground:
And yet, by heaven, I think my love as rare
As any she belied with false compare.
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