The Paris Review

HILTON ALS

At first, the TV light is silver. Then it goes to black and white. A moment passes and we see the Columbia Pictures lady. She’s a figure in Adrienne Kennedy’s 1976 play, , where she speaks the author’s thoughts, but at present I don’t know Kennedy’s play. My own fan notes about the Columbia Pictures lady and the movies she introduces us to start now, in 1968 or 1969, when I’m eight or nine, somewhere in there. Dressed in Grecian robes and carrying a torch, the Columbia Pictures lady lights the way to a very real world we have no dates or production credits for, but what does any of that matter? Or the fact that the movies we watch on TV don’t “reflect” us. (The “we” I’m referring to is me, my little brother, and our older sister, a teenager.) Our wishes are our most

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