A mother and a daughter–what a terrible combination of feelings and confusion and destruction. Everything is possible and everything is done in the name of love and solicitude. The mother’s injuries are to be handed down to the daughter, the mother’s disappointments are to be paid for by the daughter, the mother’s unhappiness is to be the daughter’s unhappiness. It’s as if the umbilical cord had never been cut.
(Source: chaplen, via binoches)
It’s sad, believe me, when you realize that the distressing things by far overweight the beautiful things you feel.
(Source: deadseymour, via mizoguchi)
We’re emotional illiterates. We’ve been taught about anatomy and farming methods in Africa. We’ve learned mathematical formulas by heart. But we haven’t been taught a thing about our souls. We’re tremendously ignorant about what makes people tick.
(Source: visionsofjoana, via mabellonghetti)
Like Someone in Love (2012) by Abbas Kiarostami.
“I meet you. I remember you. Who are you? You’re destroying me. You’re good for me. How could I know this city was tailor-made for love? How could I know you fit my body like a glove? I like you. How unlikely. I like you. How slow all of a sudden. How sweet. You cannot know. You’re destroying me. You’re good for me. You’re destroying me. You’re good for me. I have time. Please, devour me. Deform me to the point of ugliness. Why not you? Why not you in this city and in this night, so like other cities and other nights you can hardly tell the difference? I beg of you.”
Hiroshima, mon amour (1959) by Alain Resnais.
The inhuman thing about American TV is not so much that they hack everything up with commercials, though that’s bad enough, but in the end all programmes become commercials. Commercials for the status quo. Every image radiates the same disgusting and nauseated message. A kind of boastful contempt. Not one image leaves you in peace, they all want something from you.