Like so many people, I only remembered Orson Welles as this huge

In the witty yet revealing words of Christian McKay, we find a reflection not merely on the vanity of appearance, but on the enduring struggle between image and identity, between how the world sees us and how we see ourselves: “Like so many people, I only remembered Orson Welles as this huge, fat, bearded figure selling wine in TV commercials. So whenever anyone said I looked like Orson Welles I said that I wasn't that fat, and I would get on a diet, quickly.” Beneath the humor of the statement lies a profound meditation on human perception — how greatness, if not remembered rightly, becomes buried under the weight of time and distortion. McKay’s words are not just about Welles, nor about weight; they are about legacy, about how we are shaped by the stories we tell of others and the reflections we fear in ourselves.

The origin of this quote arises from McKay’s portrayal of Orson Welles in the film Me and Orson Welles (2008), a role that earned him both acclaim and revelation. In preparing to embody one of cinema’s greatest prodigies, McKay was confronted with the paradox of Welles’ image: the young genius who once shook the world with Citizen Kane had, by the end of his life, become remembered by many only as a fallen giant — a man of vast talent and equal appetite. McKay’s humor hides a truth both painful and universal: that the passage of time often erases the glory of a person’s prime, leaving behind a caricature. To play Welles authentically, McKay had to look beyond the myth of decline and rediscover the fire of his brilliance — the true soul beneath the shadow of memory.

The ancients, too, warned of this danger — of forgetting the essence and remembering only the shell. The philosopher Plutarch, in his Lives, wrote that reputation is a fickle companion: it preserves the echo of a man’s deeds but often loses their meaning. Heroes, once radiant, become statues; thinkers, once alive with ideas, become names carved on dusty tablets. And when the world remembers only the surface, truth itself becomes distorted. So it was with Orson Welles — and so it is with many great souls. McKay’s quip about dieting is a modern echo of this ancient lament: we spend our lives correcting the outward image while the inward essence is forgotten.

Yet, his words carry more than sorrow; they hold humor and humility — virtues that have always been the armor of the wise. McKay does not scorn the comparison; he laughs at it. In that laughter is freedom — the same freedom the Stoics once praised as the mark of the untroubled spirit. Seneca taught that to laugh at oneself is to conquer vanity; to turn embarrassment into mirth is to gain mastery over pride. McKay’s humor disarms judgment, both his own and that of others. His instinct to “get on a diet quickly” is not simply about appearance, but about the human impulse to improve — to respond to criticism not with bitterness, but with action, even if that action begins in jest.

There is also a deeper layer of recognition — that the legends we admire are mirrors of our own fears and hopes. When McKay recalls Welles as “the huge, bearded figure selling wine,” he confronts the fate of every artist and dreamer: to be remembered not as they were, but as what they became. Welles’ story is the story of ambition unbound, of genius colliding with the limits of flesh and time. And in seeing that reflection, McKay — like all of us — feels the tremor of mortality. He jokes about dieting, but beneath the jest lies reverence: an understanding that the boundary between greatness and decline is thin, and that it is only through discipline — of body, of craft, of spirit — that one resists the slow erosion of purpose.

Consider also the tale of Nero’s Rome, where marble statues of gods were erected in glory, only to crumble within centuries under rain and neglect. The citizens who gazed upon their ruins remembered not the godlike image but the decay that followed. And yet, beneath every ruin lies the foundation of something eternal — the artistry that built it. McKay’s reflection on Welles invites us to look past the ruin, past the surface, and see the divine spark that remains. For though Welles’ later years may have been marked by excess, his genius — his daring, his voice, his rebellion — remains immortal. The man who sold wine was still the man who redefined cinema.

So, my child of tomorrow, take this teaching to heart: judge not by appearance, but by essence. Do not remember greatness for its decay, but for the light it once cast upon the world. Laugh at your imperfections, but do not let them define you. When others see in you what you do not wish to see — when they compare you, mock you, or misunderstand you — respond with humor, not shame, and with action, not despair.

For the wisdom of Christian McKay’s words lies not in the jest, but in its courage — the courage to face reflection with laughter, to meet legacy with humility, and to turn criticism into self-knowledge. The world will always remember us in fragments; it is our task to live in wholeness. And if the time comes when others recall only the shadow of who we were, may they still find, as McKay did in Orson Welles, the brilliance that once burned behind the mask — the eternal flame that no mirror, no jest, and no time can extinguish.