The Day Anthony Hopkins Quit Drinking | The Interview

How did you play Hannibal Lecter?

Well, I played the opposite of what they promised.

Oh, he's a monster.

Good morning.

You're not real FBI, how are you?

In so many of Sir Anthony Hopkins' greatest performances, he's able to suggest captivating hidden depths to his characters.

A census taker once tried to test me.

I ate his liver with some fava beans and a nice Chianti.

There's always a sense these characters are thinking and feeling things that, for whatever reason, they're keeping to themselves.

Let me see it.

But in his new autobiography, Hopkins himself is laying his life bare, revealing details about his tough childhood in Wales and his painful estrangement from his only child.

Hopkins is 87 now, and he makes it clear in the book that he's grappling with life's bigger questions, the why of it all, and what it means, and how mystified he feels by the sheer luck and improbability of his unlikely life.

Here's my conversation with Anthony Hopkins.

Hello, David.

Tony Hopkins.

I was wondering, do I go Sir Anthony?

No, no, no.

Tony.

Nice to meet you.

Good to meet you.

You know, I thought it might be interesting to start with a key epiphany that you write about in the book.

You know, we all have our turning points in our lives.

Would you have such a specific one and know exactly when it happened, a moment that sort of changed everything for you?

Can you tell me about what happened on December 29th, 1975, at 11 o'clock?

Well, it was almost 50 years ago.

I'm always slightly reluctant to talk about it because I don't want to sound preachy or like a goody two-shoes, but I was drunk, driving my car here in California in a blackout.

No clue where I was going.

And it was a moment when I realised that I could have killed somebody or myself, which I didn't care about, but I could have killed a family in a car, you know.

And I realised

that I was an alcoholic.

And I came to my senses and I said to...

It was an ex-agent of mine at this party in Beverly Hills.

I said, I need help.

So I made the fatal phone call to an intergroup in LA, 12-step programme.

So we'll send somebody over to meet you.

I said, no, I'll come to you.

So I went to this intergroup office.

It's 11 o'clock precisely.

Looked at my watch.

And this is the spooky part.

Some deep, powerful thought or voice spoke to me from inside and said, it's all over.

Now you can start living.

And it has all been for a purpose.

So don't forget one moment of it.

And it was just a voice from the blue.

From inside, deep inside me.

But it was vocal, male, reasonable, like a radio voice.

And it is a monotone, but it's all over.

The craving to drink was taken from me or left.

Now I don't know half any theories except, you know, divinity or that power that we all possess inside us that creates us from birth, life force, whatever it is.

It's a consciousness, I believe.

That's all I know.

But my whole life has been like that.

Should I give you another epiphany?

Mm-hmm.

I go back to 1955, Easter,

and I was,

my school report had arrived, the dreaded school report.

I was 17

and I was dreading this day because my parents would read these terrible reports on my progress in school because I was a dummy.

I was known as Dennis the Dunce.

Couldn't understand anything was going on.

Resentful, lonely, and all that.

I remember my father opening the report,

the dreaded moment, about five o'clock in the evening.

We were going to go off to see a film, I remember.

Beautiful spring day.

And he opened the report and it said, Anthony is way below the standard of this school, which is her death now, really.

My father said, I don't know what's going to happen to you.

I don't know.

But he was worried because, and quite reasonably, he'd spent a bit of money to give me an education and I wasn't capable of meeting that standard.

I couldn't understand anything.

My brain was sort of cut off.

But I remember taking a slight move away.

He said, one day I'll show you.

My father looked at me, he said, well, I hope you do.

At that moment, what I decided was to stop playing the game of being stupid and a dummy.

We step into circles of energy which are negative and we play a role because it's easy to say, well, you know,

I'm not, you know, it's not meant for me.

That's, well, there's a truth in it, but at the same time you have to say, wake up and live.

Act as if it is impossible to fail.

And that's what I did.

You know, you grew up the son of a baker, working class in Wales, and I can't imagine growing up that you knew that many artists or actors.

Was the idea of becoming an actor something that you or your family had ambivalence about?

No.

I think as a 17-year-old boy who didn't know anything really, something sparked me and I got a scholarship to an acting school in South Wales.

I'd never acted in my life, but I did an audition

and

they gave me a scholarship.

How?

I don't know.

And I remember, this is another thing, I remember going to see a play with the great Peter O'Toole at the Bristol Old Vic.

He was playing Jimmy Porter in Look Back in Anger.

And onto the stage came this lightning bolt, Peter O'Toole, very dangerous actor.

And I thought, God, if he stepped off the stage, he'd come and kill us all.

And

10 years later, I was in the theater, the National Theater, playing

Andrei in

Laurence Olivier's production of Three Sisters by Chekhov.

Knock on the door at the end of the evening, we should be there, Peter O'Toole.

Now that's weird.

And he said, I want you to do a film test for me.

It's a film with Catherine Hepburn called The Lion in Winter.

Yeah, it was your first film.

Yeah.

Yeah.

So I showed up and did the test.

He said, right, you've got it.

You've got the part.

And he'd had a few to drink and we had a few to drink after that.

Now that's beyond explanation to me.

And when I look at that film, which I do occasionally, I think, how on earth did that happen?

Why me?

I don't know to this day why.

And I am what I am and I do what I do because I love doing it.

It's all in the game.

Wonderful game called life.

No sweat, no big deal.

There are no big deals.

So when you were a kid and you would hear your father or teachers say you were a dummy, I'm sure that the voice, your voice in your own head when you were younger also said, I'm a dummy.

That's right.

How did, and I think people are often in their lives and certainly true for me, you know, we do battle with this voice in our head that tells us we can't do things or we're stupid or whatever it may be.

How did you quiet that voice or learn to control it?

Well, it's still there in me from childhood, but what you do, it now whispers.

So what I say, shut up.

Say, yeah, I just, yeah, thanks a lot.

We all have problems.

We've all got limitations,

but I do believe that if you say,

wake up and live, act as if it's an impossible thing, we actually tap into a power that's in ourselves, which helps us to do, well, not everything, but some things.

I discovered that I could compose music.

I discovered that I could write.

I discovered through my lovely wife, Stella, that I could paint.

And I remember she was an example because she changed my life.

She found some drawings in some old scripts of mine just after we got married.

She said, these drawings, you did these, I said, you've got to paint.

I said, I can't paint.

She said, of course you can, just do it.

So I then bought some canvases and acrylic paints and pens and inks

and I just do it.

I have a question about that, but before, I'm really having a hard time with these headphones.

All right, sorry about that.

We're back.

That's okay.

I have much bigger headphones now.

They look good.

All right, good.

Thank you.

You know, often when I've talked with actors, they've suggested that something about acting and something about their affinity for acting or gift for acting has to do with the way that acting fulfills something for them.

Is there anything

that you find acting fulfills for you?

Some inner need?

A need would sound rather sad.

I just enjoy it.

I enjoy the scientific fun of it, of learning a script or learning all the lines and I'm very good at that.

I learn everything there is to about the text that I'm studying because that reforms something in me and I suppose on a deep psychological level, I'm trying to escape from what I was.

I don't know.

What were you?

What is the thing you were trying to escape from?

Well, that lonely kid, you know, and actually the vain surprise of saying, I did it.

I survived my loneliness.

I survived those bullies.

Not that I blamed them.

God bless them all.

I mean, I'm not a victim.

And, you know, people choose to wallow in their, oh, well, okay, go ahead, but you're going to die

because you can't do that.

And that's why I drank, to nullify that discomfort of whatever it was in me because it made me feel big.

You know, booze is terrific because it makes you instantly feel in a different space.

And I enjoyed that.

I didn't do it that long.

I did it for 15 years.

But I remember thinking this is the life of all actors in those days, Peter O'Toole, Richard Burton, all of them.

you know, I remember those drinking sessions thinking this is the life.

We're rebels.

We're outsiders.

We can celebrate.

And at the back of the mind is, and it'll kill you as well.

And I remember thinking,

this is going to kill me.

The drinking.

Yeah.

Because I was doing it, I was drinking like I was going out of fashion.

And those guys who worked with they've all gone.

And they were very talented people.

Wonderful.

But once you get into that

schizophrenic stage when your personality becomes

rabid, and from the moment you're a jolly nice guy in the bar and suddenly you turn viciously and say, you talk to me.

That's what was

happening to me.

You write about how you were influenced by older actors like Laurence Olivier or Catherine Hepburn sort of helped you understand about film acting.

But I was curious about whether any of the younger actors that you've worked with over the years, people like, you know, Nicole Kidman or Brad Pitt or Ryan Gosling, have they taught you anything about acting or shown you anything about the craft?

Um,

it's always been a pleasure to work with them.

I mean, Brad and

everyone you've just mentioned,

nothing but praise for them.

I was working with a young actor a few years ago,

young Canadian actor who looked a bit like James Dean.

I think he thought he was James Dean.

But we were doing a scene together and see you mumbo and I said,

I can't hear a word you're saying.

Huh?

I can't hear you.

Why are you mumbling?

I didn't want to spoil his day.

Yeah.

But I said, if you do that, you see, they will go to the pub next door because you're supposed to tell us the story.

Speak up.

Be clear.

Wandering on like a backstreet Marlon Brown is not going to help you at all in your career.

I, uh,

never heard him since.

In reading the book and in reading, um, sort of older interviews with you or older articles about you.

I think to me there's a, a consistent sense, uh, that comes from you that, uh, you know, acting shouldn't really be taken that seriously.

Actors are entertainers.

And, and I wonder, do you think acting has any greater claim on the truth?

no,

it's an entertainment.

Maybe it's an educational way of entertaining.

So it has no deeper importance.

Not dismissing it, but I'm just saying, you know, if I start taking myself too seriously,

I do think it's only a job.

It's only, it's only acting.

So for me, they're just

pastiches, little dabs of paint in one's life

and not to be taken because of the moment when you get to a certain age in life you're going through, you've got ambitions, you've got great dreams and everything's fine and there on the distant hill

is death.

And you think, well, now is the time to wake up and live and really enjoy it.

Do you, do you feel like you achieved your dreams?

Oh, yeah.

I, I didn't know if they were dreams.

They just happened to me because I can't take credit for them at all.

I cannot.

I mean, my life is a mystery to me.

I'm not trying to sound

ultra modest or humble but I have to confess that I don't understand how it all happened.

The miracle is, I look at my hands, you know, my hands are an 87-year-old man's hands.

I'm slowing down.

And, you know, my body's creaky although I'm still strong.

But the miracle of it is I'm still here.

And that's not a mathematical formula.

That's a miracle of life that's in us all.

The heart that still beats.

I look at my cat.

I watch him sleeping out for the count and I look at the miracle of his life.

A little cat.

The miracle, the sheer miracle, to dismiss it is a sacrilege.

What snaps you out of the miracle?

My bad back.

That'll do it.

Yeah.

But it's not even that bad.

You know, I get a bit of treatment, lower back, a bit of stiffness.

And what I do now is slow down.

I take everything very slowly because, you know, I'm strong.

My legs are strong.

I work out.

But what I do is I take it easy because one trip, one fall, can kill you.

I mean, your age is, you know, it's a fact.

It's undeniable.

But it doesn't really seem from afar as if your productivity has slowed down.

You work a lot.

Yeah.

Do you know what to do with yourself when you're not working?

I play the piano, I read.

But why do you work

so much is my real question.

They still offer me work.

I don't know what's in their minds.

They may think I'm 40.

I don't know.

They give me these jobs to do.

And I think, okay.

And I think, well, if they're game to employ me, I hope I just show up fit and well and ready.

But what do you say yes to?

I mean, do you just say yes to everything?

Anything I can.

Well, why not?

No, I say yes.

As long as it's a good script, not too far-fetched.

As long as the writing is good

and directors amenable.

Yeah, why not?

How often these days do you get a director who's not amenable?

Well, they're all amenable now.

Is that a change?

Well, I used to, in the past, have a few problems with those days.

There was, there were tyrant directors, tyrannical bullies, few of those.

But when I used to confront them, I would confront them in no uncertain terms.

I'd say things like, you talk to me like that and you'll wake up with a crowd around you.

Whether I meant it or not, I don't know.

But I wouldn't put up with it.

I said, don't talk to me like that.

I said, no, you, shut up.

And either they would or they wouldn't.

I remember working with a director who was giving notes to a young, a young woman, fine actress.

And he started shouting at her.

I said, hold it.

You raise your voice one decibel

to this lady and I'm going.

And you, my dear, should leave as well.

She said, I said, thank you.

I said, how long has he been doing that?

She said, from the whole film, I said, you should have told me.

I can't even remember the text.

I think he's gone now.

But no, I defend people.

Don't raise your voice.

It's a film.

It's a stupid film.

That's all it is.

It's not important.

Doing take after take after take after take.

Who cares?

Do you feel that any of the films that you've made would,

would you call them important?

No.

Not one?

No.

The Elephant Man.

Give me The Elephant Man.

Yeah, it was a good film.

The Remains of the Day.

Yeah, they were good, but.

Silence of the Lambs.

Ah.

But the thing is, you know, about all that stuff, people ask me about Silence of the Lambs.

How did you do that?

I said, well, I am not Hannibal Lecter.

I am not a butler.

I am not this and I'm not that.

I'm just a mechanic.

I show up.

No matter what I like, somebody says, how did you play The Remains of the Day?

That butler, how did you play him?

I said, well, I was very quiet, very still,

and walked about quietly.

That's it.

Ah, how did you play Hannibal Lecter?

Well, I played the opposite of what they promised.

Oh, he's a monster.

Good morning.

You're not real FBI, are you?

Gives me the heebie-jeebies.

Don't do that.

Because you play the opposite

and it's easy.

This idea that essentially life is a game, there are no big deals, we don't need to take anything so seriously, just got to do the best you can.

That's sort of a, in a way, a recurring theme in your book.

And I wonder if we believe that, you know, we shouldn't take anything too seriously and

what should we take seriously?

What does matter in life?

Well, I don't mean to, you know, be irresponsibly, irresponsibly indifferent to everything.

There are difficulties, there are monstrous difficulties in life, and yeah, you take notice of them.

But finally, and I think now, approaching 80, 80 is the major, I wake up in the morning and think, I'm still here.

How?

I don't know.

But whatever is keeping me, I think, thank you very much, much obliged.

Beyond my finite self, there's not much I can do.

I had a gift when I was a boy.

I could suddenly learn

lots of words, speeches from Shakespeare, poems and all that.

Now at this age, I look at those poems that I wrote down, or they bring back clear memories of my childhood.

And I get very moved by it.

You know, I just have to think of them.

I get tearful, not through sadness, but through the wonder of having been alive, having lived those years, and my clear memories of Wales, my clear memories of my parents, their struggles, and hardships after the war years, you know.

They really struggle to make a living and to give me an education.

I look back with tremendous gratitude and I get kind of weepy because I remember the glory of being a child, you know.

I had a good childhood.

I wasn't bright in school.

I was hopeless and I was bullied a lot.

I was slapped around.

But I look back and I think, well, that's part of growing up.

And in those days, teachers could knock you about.

I remember being slapped across the head

by a teacher several times because I didn't know something.

And what I would do, revert to would be called in the army dumb insolence.

I wouldn't respond.

I'd just withdraw into myself and I'd stare at them blankly.

Yeah, can you show me

what that looked like?

Because you referred to it a couple of times in the book.

So I remember the principal of the school slapping me on the head.

He said, you're inadequate.

Do you know what I mean?

Yes.

No.

You're inadequate.

You've got an empty brain.

You're brainless.

There's the look.

And it drove them nuts and they're all dead now.

You won.

I won.

I don't know.

I'd like to return to the material from the book for a second.

And

the specific material I'd like to focus on, I know it's

sensitive for you.

I know what you're going to talk about my domestic life.

Yes.

No.

No.

Even though it's in the book?

No.

It's done.

Can I ask a general question that's not specifically about the material in the book?

Well.

But it's about the,

I'll stumble through this.

Part of the reason that the material in the book about your relationship with your daughter, your strange relationship with your daughter, part of the reason why I found it so painful is that it resonated with me for personal reasons.

I've seen my father

I think twice in 20 years.

You know, I've spoken to him once in those 20 years.

And I'm very curious about other people's experience of that kind of estrangement.

In this instance, the estrangement is my choice, but I just wonder if you have thoughts about where reconciliation might lie between estranged parents and children.

My wife,

Stella,

sent an invitation to come and see us.

Not a word of response.

So I think, okay, fine.

I wish her well, but I'm not going to waste blood over that.

If you want to waste your life being in resentment 50 years later, 58 years later, fine, go ahead.

It's not in my ken.

See, I could carry

resentment over the past, this and the other.

But that's death.

You're not living.

You have to acknowledge one thing,

that we are imperfect.

We're not saints.

We're all sinners and saints or whatever we are.

We do the best we can.

Life is painful.

Sometimes people get hurt.

Sometimes we get hurt.

But you can't live like that.

You have to say, get over it.

And if you can't get over it, fine.

Good luck to you.

But I have no judgment.

I did what I could.

So that's it.

Would,

do you hope

That's all I want to say.

Do you hope your daughter reads the book?

I'm not going to answer that, no.

I don't care.

I'll move on.

Please, I want you to.

Because I don't want to hurt her.

I understand.

I don't want to, I don't want to make any, no, 20 years the offer was made,

but fine.

Onwards.

In, towards the end of the book, you talk about a couple labels that might apply to you.

And one of which is Asperger's.

I think you say in there that your wife Stella sort of suspects that you may have Asperger's.

Have you ever been diagnosed?

No.

No.

I'm told I have all the symptoms.

I don't know what any of it means.

If I have it, then I'm happy.

I don't know.

But the, the other label, it's right in the, in, in the same paragraph.

You know, you, you say another label that might apply is the label cold fish.

And, and you say that you prefer the cold fish label to the Asperger's label.

Why is that?

Why does that feel more fitting or more comfortable?

Well, it's, it's only, it's only a, a turn of phrase of cold fish.

I'm not a cold fish.

I have lots of feelings bundled up with them.

They're deep inside me.

When I read something from the past, I get tearful.

It's not, I think what it is,

I don't get attached

to sentimentality

in this business with actors who I admire and I've worked with.

I form no attachment.

I respect them, but I form,

well, the cold fish is, I am remote.

I am a loner.

And I've never been able to shake that.

I have acquaintances, friends, if you want to call it that.

I don't have any close friends.

I'm, I'm, I'm a little distant,

a little suspicious, I suppose.

I'm comfortable just chuntering along through my, my slightly isolated life.

But I'm not a recluse.

I don't live in a tower.

I live in a house here and I'm traveling a lot.

I have my immediate family, my niece, Tara, and

my lovely wife, Stella, and they boss me about.

They tell me what to do.

And I'm happy with that.

The, the sort of personal remoteness you described, I was wondering if, if that, how that might actually benefit your performances sometimes.

Because when I think of some of your, some of my favorite performances that you've given, I'm thinking of things like Remains of the Day or 84 Charing Cross Road,

The Father,

even on some level, Silence of the Lambs or Shadowlands has this too.

There, I feel like there is, there is sort of an emotional remoteness to some of those characters.

And I wonder if that's something that is just sort of like a, like a fingerprint maybe or, or a signature of an, of a good Anthony Hopkins performance.

Or is that an intentional sort of performing strategy?

I think, I think it's partially intentional because many years ago there were two teachers at the Royal Academy.

They, they, they were brief visitors there.

They did not appreciate the academy, the academics.

but they were teachers of the Stanislavski system, let's say.

And I remember this one teacher called Jat Malmgren.

And, um, he was a dance teacher.

He's Swedish.

And I used to go to these painful classes of movement.

I hated them.

And I'm built like a Welsh rugby scrum, you know, a bit beefy.

And Jat said, Anthony said, you have too much

extroverted, extroverted motoric energy.

And you will become insensitive.

I didn't know what he was talking about, but now I gathered instinctively to develop the other side, which was to pull back, be in the darkness, be in the shade, called remote.

And it's the remote that paid off for me because I had to change my whole psychology to not be that rambunctious rugby player coming on the stage, bumping into people, being ferocious.

Gradually I learned, no, no, pull back, pull back.

There's one acting note that,

it was Gloria Graham, the great movie star.

She was doing a film with Bogart called In a Lonely Place.

And Bogart said to her,

stay in the shade.

Don't go to the camera.

Let it come to you.

He saw something in her because she was a little crazy, you know.

He said, let it come to you.

And I think he had that quality as well.

And that's the more magnetic side.

It compels you to watch.

Well, because you're not doing anything.

When Chilton says to Clarice Starling,

what's he like?

You mean Hannibal the cannibal?

And Chilton, the head of the asylum, says, oh, he's a monster.

And she goes down

the passageway to the cell,

maybe expecting to see a blubbering lunatic.

And Jonathan Demme said to me, he said, how do you want to be seen by Clarice?

Do you want to be lying on the bunk or do you want to be reading?

I said, no, I want to be standing.

Why?

I said, I can smell her coming down the corridor.

And when she sees me, there's this still perfectly civil gentleman.

Good morning.

You're not real FBI.

I hear you.

All the way to the FB.

That's the way to build a portrait.

And it's all remote because Lecter is the remote spellbinding character.

And if you have remoteness as the centrifugal force in you, that's the driving force that pulls you in.

There's another epiphany that I'd like to go back to, if you don't mind.

This is another one you describe in the book.

You were driving in Los Angeles in, I think, the late 70s.

And you felt a pull to go over to a Catholic church.

And you went inside and you told a young priest there that you had found God.

Now, I get the sense that, you know, I don't, you're not, you know, going to church every Sunday or sort of praying in a conventional way.

So, what is God to you?

Well, it's a touchy subject, isn't it?

Because I'm religion and, you know, but what happened that morning when that voice said, it's over, now you can start living and it is all been for a purpose.

So don't forget one moment of it.

I knew that was a power way beyond my understanding.

Not up there in the clouds, but here, in here.

So I chose to call it at that moment,

God.

I didn't know what else to call it.

Short word God, easy to spell.

And I,

I recently wrote a piece of music which was conducted in Riyadh, Goodbye, Piano and Orchestra.

And at the end,

it came to me as I was writing it,

as I was composing it,

that that's it.

We come full circle.

We dip down to, that's all, folks.

And that, it was all a dream anyway.

Everything is a dream.

And it's goodbye before death takes us.

If you're getting nearer to the, the big goodbye,

do you take any

pride or draw any meaning or take any solace from what you leave behind both as a person and as an, as an artist?

Oh, you mean a heritage?

A legacy.

A legacy.

I'd never think about it.

I never think about it.

When they cover the earth over you,

that's it.

We move on.

I remember going to,

I was asked by the widow of Lawrence Lillard, Joan Plowright, if I would read the last lines of King Lear at the casket in this little church in Sussex.

I was astounded that I was asked to do it.

There was Olivia's casket, full of the flowers and wreaths and collections of flowers from Shakespeare's A Winter's Tale.

And after that, we got into our cars and went to the crematorium.

And I was sitting next to Maggie Smith, the great actress, Maggie Smith.

I didn't know her that well, but we were sitting next to each other.

And we both worked with Olivia.

And there was the casket and finally as the curtains went,

you could hear the rollers taking them into the crematorium, into the flames.

Maggie Smith said, what a final curtain.

And you think, God almighty, what is it all about?

The wonder of all that energy that had gone into his life or anyone's life, not just a celebrity, but anyone's life, the energy that goes into survival.

seeing my own father

dying, you know, going to the hospital the night he died and standing at the foot of his bed, my mother

smoothing his hair.

And I felt his feet at the foot of the bed.

They were dead cold.

He'd gone.

And as I stood there, that silent night in that

empty-sounding hospital

in South Wales, a voice again came to me, you're not so hot either.

This is what will happen to you.

And it's a great wake-up call when you know that.

It's a fairly brusque voice.

You're not so hot.

But what it is, it's an awakening, several awakenings and epiphanies where you think, yeah, that's right.

But Sir Anthony, I realize I'm dancing around a question that I would like your answer to.

Do you think your life has had meaning?

The only meaning I can put to it

is that everything I sought

and yearn for found me.

I didn't find it.

It came to me.

On the interview, we try to talk to our guest twice.

So I spoke with Anthony Hopkins a few days later, this time without video.

Hi, Tony.

Hello, is that David?

It is David.

How are you?

Good.

Good.

So I, of course, saw that at the end of your book, there's an appendix that includes a handful of poems, which is something I'd never seen done in an autobiography before.

Can you tell me why you decided to include those poems?

When I was a kid, I learned a lot of poems, a lot of words, and I was very moved by them from, I think, from about the age of 11.

There was one occasion.

I was in school.

I was sitting in the back of the classroom where I was sat,

sullenly, not wanting to be involved in anything.

And the English teacher

called me and said, I want to come up here to the front of the class.

I thought, what for?

He said, I want you to read this poem.

He seemed to have an instinct about me that I knew something.

And he handed me a poem, which was Westwind by John Macefield.

He said, read that.

He said, out loud.

I read it, and I was strangely moved by it.

And at the end, he said, that's it.

OK, good.

Thank you.

It's very good.

So it was my first good review, I think.

And I think that's what it is.

It's an expression of my life.

I read poems and I get kind of, yeah, I get moved by them.

And I don't know why.

I think it's to do with my age and how poetry digs really deep inside us, you know, beyond our understanding.

Would you be willing to read The West Wind by John Macefield?

That is one of the poems that you included in the appendix.

Let me just find that.

Can I, have I got a minute?

Yep.

Hold on a second.

Ah, well, yes.

It's a warm wind, The West Wind Full of birds' cries I never hear the West Wind But tears are in my eyes For it comes from the West Lands The old brown hills And aprils in the West Wind And daffodils It's a fine land, The West Land For hearts as tired as mine Apple orchards blossom there The air's like wine There is cool green grass there Where men may lie at rest

And the thrushes Are in song there Fluting in the nest Will you not come home, brother?

You have been long away It's April and blossom time And white is the May And bright is the sun, brother And warm is the rain

Will you not come home, brother?

Home to us again The young corn is green, brother Where the rabbits run Its blue sky and white clouds And warm rain and sun It's song to a man's soul, brother Fire to man's brain To hear the wild bees And see the merry spring again

Larks are singing in the West, brother Above the green wheat So will you not come home, brother And rest your tired feet?

I have a balm for bruised hearts, brother Sleep for aching eyes Says the warm wind The west wind Full of birds' cries

It's the white road westward Is the road I must tread To the green grass The cool grass The rest for heart and head To the violence and the warm hearts And the thrush's song In the fine land The west land The land where I belong

I'd like to end on that Eloquent grace note Sir Anthony Hopkins Thank you very much Thank you

I'm Lulu Garcia Navarro

And I'm David Marchese

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