Hasford called him an earwig he’d go in one ear and not come out the other until he’d eaten clean through your head. Not only that, by the time he was through having what he called, in quite another context, “strenuous intercourse” with you, he knew most of what you knew as well. Somebody who knew him 45 years ago, when he was starting out, said, “Stanley always acted like he knew something you didn’t know,” but honestly, he didn’t have to act. I’ve been hearing about all the people who say they talked to Stanley on the last day of his life, and however many of them there were, I believe them all. The writer Gustav Hasford claimed that he and Stanley were once on the phone for seven hours, and I went over three with him many times.

An hour was nothing, mere overture, or opening move, or gambit, a small taste of his virtuosity. He viewed the telephone the way Mao viewed warfare, as the instrument of a protracted offensive where control of the ground was critical and timing crucial, while time itself was meaningless, except as something to be kept on your side. Still, he was one of the most gregarious men I ever knew, and it didn’t change anything that most of this conviviality went on over the phone. Sometimes he even went out to see people, but not often, very rarely, hardly ever. Famously reclusive, as I’m sure you’ve heard, he was in fact a complete failure as a recluse, unless you believe that a recluse is simply someone who seldom leaves his house. Stanley Kubrick was a friend of mine, insofar as people like Stanley have friends, and as if there are any people like Stanley now.

Redoxon i can hear your voice