The New Yorker: Spalding Gray’s Catastrophe.
“One of the special features of Spalding’s monologues was that, onstage at least, he rarely repeated himself; the stories always came out in slightly different ways, with different emphases. He was a gifted inventor of the truth, of whatever seemed true to him at the moment.” I consider myself privileged to have seen him perform live twice, at McCarter Theatre in Princeton. Riveting, both times. Both before his accident. RIP, Spalding. RIP.
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