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Orson Welles

May 24, 2009

Our works in stone, in paint, in print, are spared, some of them, for a few decades or a millennium or two, but everything must finally fall in war, or wear away into the ultimate and universal ash – the triumphs, the frauds, the treasures and the fakes.  A fact of life: we’re going to die.  “Be of good heart,” cry the dead artists out of the living past.  “Our songs will all be silenced, but what of it?  Go on singing.”  Maybe a man’s name doesn’t matter all that much.


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