Robert Walker as Bruno was excellent. He had elegance and humor

In the reflective and discerning words of Patricia Highsmith, there lies both admiration and the quiet understanding of human complexity: “Robert Walker as Bruno was excellent. He had elegance and humor, and the proper fondness for his mother.” At first glance, this may appear as simple praise for an actor’s performance, but beneath it flows a current of deeper truth — a meditation on the duality of human nature, on the art of portraying darkness not as monstrosity, but as part of the fragile fabric of humanity itself. For Highsmith, the author who delved into the psychology of crime and conscience, this remark was not only an appreciation of artistry, but an acknowledgment of balance — the coexistence of charm and danger, love and obsession, humor and madness — within the soul of man.

The origin of this quote lies in the adaptation of Highsmith’s first and perhaps most famous novel, Strangers on a Train, brought to life by the legendary Alfred Hitchcock in 1951. The film tells the story of two men who meet by chance — one, ordinary and constrained; the other, charismatic yet deranged. Robert Walker, playing Bruno Anthony, transformed Highsmith’s literary creation into flesh and blood, capturing both his refinement and his instability. When Highsmith spoke of Walker’s elegance and humor, she was recognizing that true evil, in art and in life, rarely arrives as a monster — it comes disguised in grace, it wears the smile of charm, it moves lightly through conversation. And when she added that he had the “proper fondness for his mother,” she touched upon one of the oldest and most tragic truths of character: that even the darkest heart carries within it the echo of tenderness.

The ancients would have understood this paradox well. In the tragedies of Euripides and Sophocles, the greatest villains are not soulless beasts but human beings whose virtues are twisted by fate. Medea loves too fiercely and destroys all she loves; Oedipus, driven by courage and reason, unravels his own ruin. So too in Highsmith’s world, the villain is never one-dimensional. Bruno’s fondness for his mother is not a flaw in his madness but a fragment of his humanity — proof that even the corrupt are not devoid of warmth. In admiring Robert Walker’s portrayal, Highsmith recognized that the actor had grasped this fragile truth: the power of evil lies in its resemblance to good.

Robert Walker himself embodied this paradox beyond the screen. A man of great sensitivity, humor, and intelligence, he battled his own inner demons — and it was this very struggle, this tremor beneath the surface, that lent his performance its haunting authenticity. When Highsmith said he had “elegance and humor,” she was, perhaps unknowingly, describing the qualities that made Walker’s performance immortal: the grace of tragedy, the lightness that only deep suffering can produce. His Bruno is seductive not because he is insane, but because he is understandable. We fear him not for his strangeness, but for his familiarity.

Through her praise, Highsmith reveals a profound insight into art and life: that to portray or to understand a person fully, one must see both their light and their shadow. The artist who paints only virtue paints a lie; the actor who shows only villainy betrays the truth of the human soul. Highsmith, who spent her life writing about moral ambiguity — from Tom Ripley to Carol — recognized that beauty and darkness are not enemies but reflections of the same inner depth. In Walker’s performance, she saw this duality perfectly balanced — the elegance of the mask and the turmoil behind it.

There is, too, a deeper lesson about compassion hidden in her words. When Highsmith speaks of Bruno’s humor and his love for his mother, she reminds us that even in those who wander far from virtue, traces of human goodness remain. To understand does not mean to excuse; it means to see. The wise do not judge others by their worst acts alone, but by the totality of what they are — the wounds that shaped them, the love that lingers in their hearts, however distorted it may become. The ancients called this phronesis — the wisdom of discernment — the ability to perceive the complexity of the human condition without losing one’s moral compass.

So, my child of the future, take this teaching from the union of Patricia Highsmith and Robert Walker: to understand humanity is to embrace its contradictions. Seek not to divide the world into saints and sinners, for within every soul lives both. When you look upon another — even one lost to folly or cruelty — remember that somewhere within them remains a flicker of tenderness, a memory of love, a longing for meaning. And when you create, whether through art or through living, strive for this same balance of truth: elegance in expression, humor in darkness, and compassion even in judgment.

For the lesson of Highsmith’s praise is this — that the deepest portrayals of life come not from perfection, but from honesty. Elegance and humor, joined with the small, fragile bonds of human affection, form the true essence of both art and morality. To live well, therefore, is to live like the finest actor — aware of every shadow within, yet guided always by the light that remains.