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The Monday Morning Memo

“…and he would so have loved this evening. The pirates, and the Indians; he was really just a boy himself, you know, to the very end. I suppose it’s all the work of the ticking crocodile, isn’t it? Time is chasing after all of us. Isn’t that right?”

–      – old Mrs. Snow,

speaking to J.M. Barrie on the opening night of his play, Peter Pan, in 1904. Transcribed from the movie Finding Neverland, in which Johnny Depp plays J.M. Barrie and Dustin Hoffman plays his financier. A good movie, deep and quiet, with no helicopters in it. (One can always determine the badness of a movie by the number of helicopters in it.) But don’t expect a happy ending. This is, sadly, a true story.

“Young boys should never be sent to bed. They always wake up a day older. And then before you know it, they’re grown.”

–      – Johnny Depp as J.M. Barrie, Finding Neverland (2004)


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Random Quote:

“In the kingdoms of England, the sound of the bells is already one of the customs of the afternoon, but the man, while still a boy, had seen the face of Woden, had seen holy dread and exultation, had seen the rude wooden idol weighed down with Roman coins and heavy vestments, seen the sacrifice of horses, dogs, and prisoners. Before dawn he would be dead and with him would die, never to return, the last firsthand images of the pagan rites. The world would be poorer when this Saxon was no more.

We may well be astonished by space-filling acts which come to an end when someone dies, and yet something, or an infinite number of things, die in each death—unless there is a universal memory, as the theosophists have conjectured. There was a day in time when the last eyes to see Christ were closed forever. The battle of Junín and the love of Helen died with the death of some one man. What will die with me when I die? What pathetic or frail form will the world lose? Perhaps the voice of Macedonio Fernandez, the image of a horse in the vacant space at Serrano and Charcas, a bar of sulfur in the drawer of a mahogany desk?”

- Jorge Luis Borges, The Witness

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