I knew that every word I spoke into the bank of microphones mattered, that the short, punchy speech I’d labored to write on the flight from Paris would be more effective than an hour-long diatribe. “Is it not cruel to let our city die by degrees, stripped of all her proud monuments, until there is nothing left of all her history and beauty to inspire our children? If we don’t care about our past, we can’t have very much hope for our future. We’ve all heard that it’s too late, or that it has to happen, or that it’s inevitable. But I think if there’s great effort, even if it’s the eleventh hour,
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