For Sonny Rollins (1930–2026)
Imagine it: you’re scuffling in New York, Autumn 1959, writing your first stage play and believing that you might be Chekhov or Brecht. Your late shift ends somewhere in Brooklyn, and you make your way home through the New York night – across the Williamsburg Bridge and on toward your tiny studio with the grimy window overlooking Washington Square. Somewhere above you on the bridge, carried on the night air, you hear something – a sound at once keening and robust, probing and assured. Read More
