(Alexis Soloski’s article appeared in The New York Times, 1/28; via Pam Green.)

“You change,” the playwright and actor Sam Shepard said. “You go through all kinds of contortions. But the play is the same.”

Mr. Shepard, 72, dressed in jeans, work boots, a ribbed sweater and a down vest, was sitting on an upper floor of a Midtown rehearsal studio, its windows facing the synthetic glamour of 42nd Street. He looked as if he’d rather be somewhere else, a quieter place, a vaster one, with fewer flashing lights. He is still strikingly handsome, with his cowboy mouth and sidewinder gaze, though he describes himself as “craggy,”and his hands, the left one bearing a tattoo of a quarter moon, are somewhat crabbed.


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