Sam Shepard dies

[Nan]

http://www.msn.com/en-us/movies/cel...s-at-73/ar-AApawiK?li=BBmkt5R&ocid=spartanntp

Another great man lost. RIP

 

[Sylvia]

NY times obituary (ETA: now updated): Sam Shepard, Pulitzer-Winning Playwright and Actor, Is Dead at 73

 

[skatesindreams]

What awful news!
His multiple gifts will be missed.

RIP

 

[chantilly]

So sad.
Had no idea he had ALS.
He was just on Bloodline two years ago or so.
He was a pioneer of off off Broadway.
A great actor and playwright.
I didn't love all his plays, some were just too absurd and dark for me.
But a lot of his work was ground breaking.

 

[Vash01]

R.I.P. A very talented man.

 

[kittyjake5]

RIP Mr. Sheppard you will be missed. You left a legacy of work that will never die.

 

[skatesindreams]

An appreciation:
http://www.cnn.com/2017/07/31/opinions/sam-shepard-opinion-seymour/index.html

 

[Japanfan]

Hard to believe he was 73 - it seems only yesterday that I saw him in 'Days of Heaven', one of my all time favorite films.

ALS is a rough way to go.

May he RIP.

 

[BittyBug]

Damn. May he rest in peace.

He had such a commanding presence on screen. A true hunk.

 

[MINAM]

Jeanne Moreau wasn't such a big surprise but this is. Didn't know he was ill. RIP

 

[Simone411]

Such sad news. RIP, Sam Shepard. You will definitely be missed. <3

 

[Artistic Skaters]

Patti Smith wrote a really beautiful & moving eulogy for Sam Shepard & it is in The New Yorker today.

*** My Buddy :
http://www.newyorker.com/culture/culture-desk/my-buddy-sam-shepard

He would call me late in the night from somewhere on the road, a ghost town in Texas, a rest stop near Pittsburgh, or from Santa Fe, where he was parked in the desert, listening to the coyotes howling. But most often he would call from his place in Kentucky, on a cold, still night, when one could hear the stars breathing. Just a late-night phone call out of a blue, as startling as a canvas by Yves Klein; a blue to get lost in, a blue that might lead anywhere. I’d happily awake, stir up some Nescafé and we’d talk about anything. About the emeralds of Cortez, or the white crosses in Flanders Fields, about our kids, or the history of the Kentucky Derby. But mostly we talked about writers and their books. Latin writers. Rudy Wurlitzer. Nabokov. Bruno Schulz.

We had our routine: Awake. Prepare for the day. Have coffee, a little grub. Set to work, writing. Then a break, outside, to sit in the Adirondack chairs and look at the land. We didn’t have to talk then, and that is real friendship. Never uncomfortable with silence, which, in its welcome form, is yet an extension of conversation. We knew each other for such a long time. Our ways could not be defined or dismissed with a few words describing a careless youth. We were friends; good or bad, we were just ourselves. The passing of time did nothing but strengthen that. Challenges escalated, but we kept going and he finished his work on the manuscript. It was sitting on the table. Nothing was left unsaid. When I departed, Sam was reading Proust.