The Individualists Stare Into Each Other's Eyes

Old Age Is Like Climbing A Mountain. You Climb From Ledge To Ledge. The Higher You Get, The More Tired And Breathless You Become, But Your Views Become More Extensive.

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.

No Other Art-medium–neither Painting Nor Poetry–can Communicate The Specific Quality Of The Dream As Well As The Film Can. When The Lights Go Down In The Cinema And This White Shining Point Opens Up For Us, Our Gaze Stops Flitting Hither And Thither, Settles And Becomes Quite Steady. We Just Sit There, Letting The Images Flow Out Over Us. Our Will Ceases To Function. We Lose Our Ability To Sort Things Out And Fix Them In Their Proper Places. We're Drawn Into A Course Of Events–we're Participants In A Dream. And Manufacturing Dreams, That's A Juicy Business.

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.

No Form Of Art Goes Beyond Ordinary Consciousness As Film Does, Straight To Our Emotions, Deep Into The Twilight Room Of The Soul.