He could still be wild and self-destructive, and the psychiatrists had been no help. All he knew was that within him, simmering in the smithy of his soul, were confusion and conflict, and they were probably all linked somehow with Ireland and the Church, with his smashing up so many cars that his license had to be taken away, and with marching in Ban-the-Bomb parades, with becoming obsessed with Lawrence of Arabia, with detesting cops, barbed wire, and girls who shave under their arms; with being an aesthete, a horse player, a former altar boy, a drinker who now wanders streets at night buying the same book (“My life is littered with copies of Moby Dick”) and reading the same sermon on that book (“…and if we obey God, we must disobey ourselves…”); with being gentle generous, sensitive, yet suspicious (“You’re talking to an Irish bookie’s son, you can’t con me!”); with devotion to his wife, loyalty to old friends, great concern over the uncertain eyesight of his three-year-old daughter, now wearing very thick glasses (“Daddy, Daddy! I broke my eyes!” “Don’t cry, Kate, don’t cry—we’ll get you a new pair”); with theatrical genius that is equally moving whether performing pantomime or Hamlet; with anger that can be sudden (“Why should I tell you the truth? Who are you, Bertrand Russell?”) and with anger that quickly subsides (“Look, I’d tell you if I knew why, but I don’t know, just don’t know…”); and with the as yet unrealized contradictions in the Peter O’Toole who, at this very moment, was about to land in Ireland…where he was born thirty-one years ago…where he would have his next drink.

Fucking Gay Talese.  Fuck!  That guy… Him writing about Peter O’Toole in August 1963. (via twiststreet)

While this is no “Frank Sinatra Gets a Cold”, Gay Talese’s piece on Peter O’Toole is the best tribute to him you’ll ever read, even if it was written 50 years before O’Toole’s death.

Reblogged from twiststreet