Nick: A street photograph of West Baltimore, home to the bravest, subtlest, smartest, and most moving television series ever made--one that ended tonight at 9:30, central. Strange, and so wonderful, that men and women who never lived, carrying burdens they never knew and suffering grief they never wanted or received, would affect me so deeply and so permanently. I've changed since first watching this show three years ago. I'm sharper, simpler, and, I hope, more purposefully myself. To its sixty hours of gossamer, novelistic brilliance, I owe more than I can possibly say here with my cautious words and compromised ideas. I owe what little bit of moral goodness I have. I owe the dignity I see in people, even those, like me, who cherish time even as they mock it with their indifference. I owe it whatever life I have left to live, all the years, the minutes, the feeble mind and careless body, the subdued cruelty of my own heart, the wasted but necessary kindness. I owe it my health, my sanity, my decency. This work of art--and it is art, as difficult and eternal as any Christ by Caravaggio or sprawling Eliotic township--affirms the strength and nobility of its subject even as it exposes its sick little weaknesses. It is a love song to a city, and as all lovers know, we find the fault, the imperfection, the human wreck far more compelling and overwhelmingly more beautiful than the dismal predictability of perfection. Place matters. People matter. McNulty, Michael, Cutty, Frank, glorious, bearded Pryzbylewski--I will miss you, all of you, so much. Now all we have are the deliberate words and gestures, the luminous narrative arcs, the completed masterpiece. Well, for such loss, I would believe, abundant recompense. Thank you, David Simon, for this magnificent gift. None of us deserves it; all of us profit by it. Your love redeems us in the quietest ways.
Sunday, March 9, 2008
The Wire
Nick: A street photograph of West Baltimore, home to the bravest, subtlest, smartest, and most moving television series ever made--one that ended tonight at 9:30, central. Strange, and so wonderful, that men and women who never lived, carrying burdens they never knew and suffering grief they never wanted or received, would affect me so deeply and so permanently. I've changed since first watching this show three years ago. I'm sharper, simpler, and, I hope, more purposefully myself. To its sixty hours of gossamer, novelistic brilliance, I owe more than I can possibly say here with my cautious words and compromised ideas. I owe what little bit of moral goodness I have. I owe the dignity I see in people, even those, like me, who cherish time even as they mock it with their indifference. I owe it whatever life I have left to live, all the years, the minutes, the feeble mind and careless body, the subdued cruelty of my own heart, the wasted but necessary kindness. I owe it my health, my sanity, my decency. This work of art--and it is art, as difficult and eternal as any Christ by Caravaggio or sprawling Eliotic township--affirms the strength and nobility of its subject even as it exposes its sick little weaknesses. It is a love song to a city, and as all lovers know, we find the fault, the imperfection, the human wreck far more compelling and overwhelmingly more beautiful than the dismal predictability of perfection. Place matters. People matter. McNulty, Michael, Cutty, Frank, glorious, bearded Pryzbylewski--I will miss you, all of you, so much. Now all we have are the deliberate words and gestures, the luminous narrative arcs, the completed masterpiece. Well, for such loss, I would believe, abundant recompense. Thank you, David Simon, for this magnificent gift. None of us deserves it; all of us profit by it. Your love redeems us in the quietest ways.
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