There are certain artists who are so visionary, so daring in their originality, whose work casts such a primal and enduring spell that it literally becomes hard to imagine the world without them. David Lynch, who died this week at 78, was one of those artists. Just to say that name, David Lynch (so ironic in its simplicity), is to conjure not merely a roster of immortal movies but a higher cosmos of the imagination: a darkly transfixing surrealist theme park where dreams could become real and reality felt like a dream.
Lynch, in his fearless way, reinvented movies, letting the homegrown avant-garde rapture of his brain flower into
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