With his eyes closed he could draw the human body, stripped down to skeleton or muscle, reduced to what anatomy he knew. This much he understood about that body: what made it up, what composed it. He looked at his own fist clenched about the pen as he drew.
Every so often, Hollywood's ceaseless remake grinder accidentally turns out an incarnation which is both a hilariously dated product of its time and a film actually in conversation with its predecessor.
and these scarred arms, this scarred / heart does not send men to Hell.
