This lovely old man, I saw him a month ago.
He used to be so close, and suddenly he went to the other side of the world.
It was a small Q&A at A Prairie Home Companion, and I skipped class to revisit the movies I'd seen.
The Q&A space was not large, but it was crowded with people. His wife also followed him to the scene, sitting in the back, he did not forget to say: THANK YOU MY LOVE.
He seemed in good spirits at the time, and he and the playwright Garrison Keillor kept digging and joking with each other.
They talked about the whole process of cooperation with ease, and his candid and humorous words made everyone in the room burst into laughter.
A Prairie Home Companion became his last work, and the whole film is about aging and death, new life replacing old things.
He was afflicted by illness and died at the age of 81.
This is the law of this world, we all know it, but we can't see it happening to the people we love.
Don't say it. sad.
Citation from NEW YORK TIMES: Robert Altman, one of the most adventurous and influential American directors of the late 20th century, a filmmaker whose iconoclastic career spanned more than five decades but whose stamp was felt most forcefully in one, the 1970s, died Monday in Los Angeles Angeles. He was 81.
http://www.nytimes.com/2006/11/21/movies/22altmancnd.html?ex=1321765200&en=aeb413a81ba314d0&ei=5088&partner=rssnyt&emc=rss
So, so you think you can tell Heaven from Hell,
blue skies from pain.
Can you tell a green field from a cold steel rail?
A smile from a veil?
Do you think you can tell?
And did they get you to trade your heroes for ghosts?
Hot ashes for trees?
Hot air for a cool breeze?
Cold comfort for change?
And did you exchange a walk on part in the war for a lead role in a cage?
How I wish, how I wish you we
How I wish, how I wish you were here.
We're just two lost souls swimming in a fish bowl, year after year,
Running over the same old ground.
What have we found? The same old fears.
Wish you were here.
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