In comics the reader is in complete control of the experience. They can read it at their own pace, and if there's a piece of dialogue that seems to echo something a few pages back, they can flip back and check it out, whereas the audience for a film is being dragged through the experience at the speed of 24 frames per second.
So i should be aware of the dangers of self-consciousness, but at the same time, ill be plowing through the fog of all these echoes, plowing through mixed metaphors, noise, and will try to show the core, which is still there, as a core, and is valid, despite the fog. The core is the core is the core. There is always the core, that cant be articulated. Only caricatured.
The lesson, i suppose, is that none of us have much control over how we will be remembered. Every life is an amalgam, and it is impossible to know what moments, what foibles, what charms will come to define us once we're gone. All we can do is live our lives fully, be authentically ourselves and trust that the right things about us, the best and most fitting things, will echo in the memories of us that endure.
The landscape was snow and green ice on broken mountains. these weren't old mountains, worn down by time and weather and full of gentle ski slopes, but young, sulky, adolescent mountains. they held secret ravines and merciless crevices. one yodel out of place would attract, not the jolly echo of a lonely goatherd, but fifty tons of express-delivery snow.