I Have To Admit That Talking Authoritatively

And She Loved A Man Who Was Made Out Of Nothing. A Few Hours Without Him And Right Away She’d Be Missing Him With Her Whole Body, Sitting In Her Office Surrounded By Polyethylene And Concrete And Thinking Of Him. And Every Time She’d Boil Water For Coffee In Her Ground-floor Office, She’d Let The Steam Cover Her Face, Imagining It Was Him Stroking Her Cheeks, Her Eyelids And She’d Wait For The Day To Be Over, So She Could Go To Her Apartment Building, Climb The Flight Of Stairs, Turn The Key In The Door, And Find Him Waiting For Her, Naked And Still Between The Sheets Of Her Empty Bed.

I Think There Are Some Artists Whose Works Are Misanthropic.

Before I Started To Make Films, I Didn't Give Much Thought To The Way The Characters Were Physically Positioned In The Story World.

During The War, There Were People Wishing Me Death, Wishing My Son Death, Wishing My Wife Death In Very Graphic Ways. In The Past, I Would Go Overseas And I Would Say, "israel Is Like My Family: We Disagree, But We're All Brothers." I Can't Say That Anymore, Because Life Proves Me Wrong.

I Don't Have Facebook Or Twitter Accounts Yet. Being A Compulsive Storyteller, I Always Make Up For Myself Discouraging Stories About How Such Accounts Will Get Me Into Embarrassing And Time-consuming Situations.