The Line Between The Reality That Is

When I'm Writing A Book I Prefer Not To Speak About It, Because Only When The Book Is Finished Can I Try To Understand What I've Really Done And To Compare My Intentions With The Result.

The Book I'm Looking For,' Says The Blurred Figure, Who Holds Out A Volume Similar To Yours, 'is The One That Gives The Sense Of The World After The End Of The World, The Sense That The World Is The End Of Everything That There Is In The World, That The Only Thing There Is In The World Is The End Of The World.

I Had Fallen In Love. What I Mean Is: I Had Begun To Recognize, To Isolate The Signs Of One Of Those From The Others, In Fact I Waited For These Signs I Had Begun To Recognize, I Sought Them, Responded To Those Signs I Awaited With Other Signs I Made Myself, Or Rather It Was I Who Aroused Them, These Signs From Her, Which I Answered With Other Signs Of My Own . . .

The Close-up Has No Equivalent In A Narrative Fashioned Of Words. Literature Is Totally Lacking In Any Working Method To Enable It To Isolate A Single Vastly Enlarged Detail In Which One Face Comes Forward To Underline A State Of Mind Or Stress The Importance Of A Single Detail In Comparison With The Rest. As A Narrative Device, The Ability To Vary The Distance Between The Camera And The Object May Be A Small Thing Indeed, But It Makes For A Notable Difference Between Cinema And Oral Or Written Narrative, In Which The Distance Between Language And Image Is Always The Same.

You Reach A Moment In Life When, Among The People You Have Known, The Dead Outnumber The Living. And The Mind Refuses To Accept More Faces, More Expressions: On Every New Face You Encounter, It Prints The Old Forms, For Each One It Finds The Most Suitable Mask.