
“That question, ‘Who am I?,’ or, more acutely,
‘Who the hell am I?,’ is the basis of everything.”
- - -
I am racing the rain in the back of a London cab with Mr. Delroy Lindo. I was advised by a well-traveled friend to trust only this as a means of conveyance—the pug-nosed solidity of the classic black taxi, the encyclopedic patter of drivers versed in every alleyway and heath. We jounce over cobblestones, heading out of St. Pancras station toward the Young Vic theater on the South Bank. Mr. Lindo has agreed to answer what questions he can in the little time we have.