One Has To Manage Alone As Best

There Are Moments When I Can Wander Through My Childhood's Landscape, Through Rooms Long Ago, Remember How They Were Furnished, Where The Pictures Hung On The Walls, The Way The Light Fell. It's Like A Film - Little Scraps Of A Film, Which I Set Running And Which I Can Reconstruct To The Last Detail - Except Their Smell.

It's A Strange Thing That Every Human Being Has A Sort Of Dignity Or Wholeness In Him, And Out Of That Develops Relationships To Other Human Beings, Tensions, Misunderstandings, Tenderness, Coming In Contact, Touching And Being Touched, The Cutting Off Of A Contact And What Happens Then.

Art Lost Its Basic Creative Drive The Moment It Was Separated From Worship. It Severed An Umbilical Cord And Now Lives Its Own Sterile Life, Generating And Degenerating Itself. In Former Days The Artist Remained Unknown And His Work Was To The Glory Of God.

Film As Dream, Film As Music. No Form Of Art Goes Beyond Ordinary Consciousness As Film Does, Straight To Our Emotions, Deep Into The Twilight Room Of The Soul. A Little Twitch In Our Optic Nerve, A Shock Effect: Twenty-four Illuminated Frames A Second, Darkness In Between, The Optic Nerve Incapable Of Registering Darkness.

I Make All My Decisions On Intuition. But Then, I Must Know Why I Made That Decision. I Throw A Spear Into The Darkness. That Is Intuition. Then I Must Send An Army Into The Darkness To Find The Spear. That Is Intellect.