Roger Ebert continues to write meaningfully despite his mounting illnesses.
There are so many reasons why I consider myself a proud Ebert fan. Let’s add another to the pile: Since his health turned for the worse, not only has Ebert not let it to stop him from writing, but he has also refused to engage in any pseudo-psychology/self-esteem movement sentimental mumbo-jumbo. He has written about his experience candidly, and at times emotionally, but never melodramatically. Thus he’s retained his dignity.
Roger has always been a sober realist when it comes to movies. He’s the same when it comes to his condition:
I’ve written before about how I’ve come to terms with my appearance. The best thing that happened to me was a full-page photo in Esquire, showing exactly how I look today. No point in denying it. No way to hide it. Better for it to be out there. You don’t like it, that’s your problem. I’m happy I don’t look worse. I made a simple decision to just get on with life. I was a writer, so I was lucky. There was no question I would continue reviewing movies. And when I started writing this blog, it gave me even more focus, feedback, satisfaction. I plunged into it with sometimes desperate concentration. I wrote, therefore I lived. Another surgical attempt was proposed, but I said no. Enough is enough. I would look the way I looked, and express myself in print, and I would be content.