“I will remember your small room, the feel of you, the light in the window, your records, your books, our morning coffee, our noons, our nights, our bodies spilled together, sleeping, the tiny flowing currents, immediate and forever. Your leg, my leg, your arm, my arm, your smile and the warmth of you who made me laugh again.”—Charles Bukowski (via lariviera)
“I want to get more familiar with you. I love you. I loved you when you came and sat on the bed—all that second afternoon was like warm mist—and I hear again the way you say my name—with that queer accent of yours. You arouse in me such a mixture of feelings, I don’t know how to approach you. Only come to me—get closer and closer to me. It will be beautiful, I promise you.”—Henry Miller (via little-harmonica)
n. the moment you realize that you’re currently happy—consciously trying to savor the feeling—which prompts your intellect to identify it, pick it apart and put it in context, where it will slowly dissolve until it’s little more than an aftertaste.
Dramatic stories should be thrown out. They have nothing whatsoever to do with cinema.
It seems to me that when one tries to do something dramatic with film, one is like a man who tries to hammer with a saw. Film would have been marvelous if there hadn’t been dramatic art to get in the way.
(excerpted from “The Question: Interview with Robert Bresson by Jean-Luc Godard and Michael Delahaye,” Cashiers du Cinéma in English, No. 8 p.12).