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[Photo taken by my grandfather, on the day of liberation, Nordhausen Concentration Camp, 12 April 1945.]

Ferial, Saturday, 20 October 2012

We will not be remembered by our books: but by our films based on the remakes of movies that themselves are remakes of stories stolen once from a book or a magazine article or a scribbling on a cocktail napkin and stolen poorly at best. And these films only live a hundred years before they’re lost forever. Memories crashed. No more fossils left to fuel our fancies.

The writing was writ upon many walls with cans of spray paint, but it was too late (it is always too late) to do much more than read.

After that, the children of our children’s children will be free to dream in white, without hard drives blurting out gibberish. They will sleep soundly at night, in the thick and great silence of no certainty.

They may flounder for a while, but floundering is necessary for evolution to develop legs and to walk right up out of the primordial swamp. In time, they will re-discover paper and ink, and sentence structure, and jazz and the two-step, and begin again anew.

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