deja vu

Krotki Film O Zabijaniu, K.K., 1988

Krótki film o milosci, K.K., 1988

Bez Konca, K.K., 1984

Przypadek, K.K., 1981

Z Punktu Widzenia Nocnego Portiera, K.K., 1977

Algol, Hans Werckmeister, 1920
Emil Jannings

Werckmeister Harmoniak, Bela Tarr, 2001
Lars Rudolph

nuit du 4 au 5 avril,

Le monde m’apparait flou aujourd’hui, ne focaliser sur rien semble etre l’evidence salutaire.
Lorsqu’on veut déchiffrer d’anciennes notes que le temps a commencé à effacer,
lorsqu’on sait que ces notes sont importantes mais difficilement
lisibles, on a souvent cette tendance pleine de deception melee d’espoir
qui consiste a remettre a plus tard et a deposer dans un lieu en attente.
J ‘ai l’impression d’avoir passe ma journee a errer dans ce lieu:
l’envie de s’asseoir sur un banc,
de ne pas ouvrir la boite aux lettres,
de remettre les vetements de la veille,
de ne pas chercher de raison aux choses.
La voir apparaitre a un coin de rue sans en etre surpris,
la sensation de connaitre par coeur un morceau de musique inconnu,
regarder une rue vide et voir qu’il n’y a personne,
s’emerveiller devant une lampe allumée en plein jour,
s’apercevoir que la plante a besoin d’eau et sortir de l’appartement…
Chantonner l’air du telephone qui vient de sonner,
avoir envie de pleurer,incapable d’avoir pu compter jusqu’a dix avant que le feu ne passe au vert,
avoir envie de rire parce qu’une mouche s’est envolee,
et sursauter lorsque le silence parait…

Morne enthousiasme ou brillant spleen,
envie de te donner une poignee de main.

“But his chief trouble was that he did not know any editors or writers.
And not merely did he not know any writers, but he did not know anybody who had ever attempted to write. There was nobody to tell him, to hint to him, to give him the least word of advice. He began to doubt that editors were real men. They seemed cogs in a machine. That was what it was, a machine. He poured his soul into stories, articles, and poems, and intrusted them to the machine. He folded them just so, put the proper stamps inside the long envelope along with the manuscript, sealed the envelope, put more stamps outside, and dropped it into the mail-box. It travelled across the continent, and after a certain lapse of time the postman returned him the manuscript in another long envelope, on the outside of which were the stamps he had enclosed. There was no human editor at the other end, but a mere cunning arrangement of cogs that changed the manuscript from one envelope to another and stuck on the stamps. It was like the slot machines wherein one dropped pennies, and, with a metallic whirl of machinery had delivered to him a stick of chewing-gum or a tablet of chocolate. It depended upon which slot one dropped the penny in, whether he got chocolate or gum. And so with the editorial machine. One slot brought checks and the other brought rejection slips. So far he had found only the latter slot.

It was the rejection slips that completed the horrible machinelikeness of the process. These slips were printed in stereotyped forms and he had received hundreds of them – as many as a dozen or more on each of his earlier manuscripts. If he had received one line, one personal line, along with one rejection of all his rejections, he would have been cheered. But not one editor had given that proof of existence. And he could conclude only that there were no warm human men at the other end, only mere cogs, well oiled and running beautifully in the machine. ”

Martin Eden, chapter 14, Jack London,1909…