NUMBER 61

Lately, Roger Ebert has been riding a streak of phenomenal—and extremely personal—writing (see: his struggles with alcoholism, the bygone London of his memories, a love letter to a Chicago bar, how he hasn’t been able to eat food since he lost his jaw).

It is, as Chris Jones writes in his brilliant new Esquire article on the subject of Ebert, evidence of a man who has made his peace with lethal time.