You Know, One Of The Tragedies Of

If You Are Looking For Smart Judging Based On Merit, Skip The Academy Awards Next Year And Pay Attention To The Independent Spirit Awards.

I Didn't Have A Chance To Buy You Anything," She Said, Then Held Both Closed Hands Toward Him. Uncurled Her Fingers. In Each Cupped Palm A Brown Egg. He Took Them. They Were Cold. He Thought It A Tender, Wonderful Thing To Do. She Had Given Him Something, The Eggs, After All, Only A Symbol, But They Had Come From Her Hands As A Gift. To Him. It Didn't Matter That He'd Bought Them Himself At The Supermarket The Day Before. He Imagined She Understood Him, That She Had To Love Him To Know That It Was The Outstreched Hands, The Giving, That Mattered.

Their Silence Comfortable. Something Unfolding. But What? Not Love, Which Wrenched And Wounded. Not Love, Which Came Only Once.

If You Get The Landscape Right, The Characters Will Step Out Of It, And They'll Be In The Right Place.

We Face Up To Awful Things Because We Can't Go Around Them, Or Forget Them. The Sooner You Get It Over With, The Sooner You Say 'yes, It Happened, And There's Nothing I Can Do About It,' The Sooner You Can Get On With Your Own Life. You've Got Children To Bring Up. So You've Got To Get Over It. What We Have To Get Over, Somehow We Do. Even The Worst Things.