Friday, January 24, 2014

One of the nice things about writing or any art

is that if the thing’s real, it just kind of lives. All the success over it or the rejection, none of that really matters because in the end, the thing will survive or not survive on its merits. Immortality via art is no big deal. François Truffaut died. His films live on, but that’s not much help to François Truffaut. As I’ve said many times, rather than live on in the hearts and minds of my fellow man, I would rather live on in my apartment.

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