College was behind me. I was in my tiny Greenwich Village apartment packing my battered suitcase, the same suitcase I took to North Carolina when I was nineteen, the same one I carried when I arrived at Penn Station four years after that, ambitious, confident, and ignorant as a post. I experienced a pang of anxiety as I held up my swimming trunks, worn and venerable as my suitcase and woefully out of style, but there was nothing to be done about them—my ride was arriving within the hour—so I tossed them in with the rest, the T-shirts, the cutoff jeans, my Dopp kit, the gray linen jacket with the Italian label that I’d gotten secondhand, the madras shirt, the oversize belt, the black dress jeans. I snapped the top down and went into the bathroom, where I stood before the mirror, combing my hair.Stanislavski described such a moment, a man combing his hair before a mirror, as one of perfect naturalness and ease, and therefore poetic; for him it epitomized “truth,” which was the condition an actor must discover in performance.
What do You think about The Confessions Of Edward Day?
