The photograph was certainly very off-coloured. An unkind critic might easily have misinterpreted that dim surface.
He swung the umbrella whippingly at a leaf on the pavement.
It's a fine place, even if it's located inside one of Vegas's zooiest J casino hotels, and no one blinks if you show up in casual clothes.
Take an extreme case. A group of people are photographed by Edison's new process—say Titiens, Trebelli, and Jenny Lind, with any two of the finest men singers the age has known—let them be photographed incessantly for half an hour while they perform a scene in Lohengrin; let all be done stereoscopically. Let them be phonographed at the same time so that their minutest shades of intonation are preserved, let the slides be coloured by a competent artist, and then let the scene be called suddenly into sight and sound, say a hundred years hence. Are those people dead or alive? Dead to themselves they are, but while they live so powerfully and so livingly in us, which is the greater paradox—to say that they are alive or that they are dead?
Lohengrin
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★★★★★★★★★★
