There is immeasurably more left inside than what comes out in words.
The centrifugal force of our planet is still fearfully strong…I have a longing for life, and I go on living in spite of logic. Though I may not believe in the order of the universe; yet I love the sticky little leaves as they open in spring. I love the blue sky. I love some people, whom one loves, you know, sometimes without knowing why. I love some great deeds done by men, though I’ve long ceased perhaps to have faith in them, yet from old habit one’s heart prizes them.
Bookstore in Brussels, Belgium.
Books I Love: The Lord of the Rings by J.R.R. Tolkien“All that is gold does not glitter, Not all those who wander are lost; The old that is strong does not wither, Deep roots are not reached by the frost. From the ashes a fire shall be woken, A light from the shadows shall spring; Renewed shall be blade that was broken, The crownless again shall be king.”
A book is not an isolated being: it is a relationship, an axis of innumerable relationships.
George Orwell, 1984
I am overwhelmed with things I ought to have written about and never found the proper words.
To discover hidden beauty and meaning in small and trivial things is the fundamental element, not only for film, but also for all art genres. The problem is, beauty doesn’t exist per se. Like the light and shadow, whether it’s visible or not, beauty co-exists with pain, filth, and ugliness. Apricots need to fall down to earth to create a new life. Therefore, art is an irony as itself. As so are our lives.