There’s a profile on Roger Ebert up on Esquire by Chris Jones; I’m only contributing to the mass spread of it to emphasize that it really is a great article, perhaps the most candid look at his life since his series of speech-disabling surgeries.

I’ve been reading Ebert’s journal regularly since last year. It’s compelling, thoughtful writing, and some of his entries — my favorite being his struggle with alcoholism — don’t even concern movies. And that he’s capable of doing this kind of writing makes this statement from the Esquire article all the more true:

We have a habit of turning sentimental about celebrities who are struck down — Muhammad Ali, Christopher Reeve — transforming them into mystics; still, it’s almost impossible to sit beside Roger Ebert, lifting blue Post-it notes from his silk fingertips, and not feel as though he’s become something more than he was. He has those hands. And his wide and expressive eyes, despite everything, are almost always smiling.

There is no need to pity me, he writes on a scrap of paper one afternoon after someone parting looks at him a little sadly. Look how happy I am.