I Love Paul Giamatti

Because for one thing, he's from Brooklyn Heights, and glares at strangers. A French guy (Parisian, of course) once remarked to me, "You Americans are nice to strangers--we are nice to people we know." Well, Giamatti subscribes to that, and if anyone claims soulful, however pragmatic, it's the French. And, for another thing, he (Mr. G) appears chronically stressed out. Sometimes not even Ma-ra-na-tha or that old chestnut OM chanted while deep-breathing helps; (though, clearly, no breath at all is a sure relaxant). My man Giamatti is making a movie about souls. He sees the souls of certain celebs as a chickpea, an ear of roasted corn, a set of nice whitewall tires, a doorknob, a crazy box of crabs, and best one of all, a blood orange left on a window sill, dried out and leathery. So, Mr. G, (Palpitation of my Heart), What does the soul of a poet look like? I imagine it as the invisible edge of the iced-over pond we skate on. Thank you, THE NEW YORKER