De ce eu sunt eu si nu sunt tu?

himmel uber berlin

Ai renunta la eternitate pentru micile bucurii ale experientei omenesti? Pentru aroma de cafea si gustul perelor?


Damiel: It’s great to live by the spirit, to testify day by day for eternity, only what’s spiritual in people’s minds. But sometimes I’m fed up with my spiritual existence. Instead of forever hovering above I’d like to feel a weight grow in me to end the infinity and to tie me to earth. I’d like, at each step, each gust of wind, to be able to say „Now”. „Now and now” and no longer „forever” and „for eternity”. To sit at an empty place at a card table and be greeted, even by a nod. (…) No, I don’t have to beget a child or plant a tree but it would be rather nice coming home after a long day to feed the cat, like Philip Marlowe, to have a fever and blackended fingers from the newspaper, to be excited not only by the mind but, at last, by a meal, by the line of a neck, by an ear. (…) As you’re walking, to feel your bones moving along. At last to guess, instead of always knowing. To be able to say „ah” and „oh” and „hey” instead of „yea” and „amen”.

Cassiel: Stay alone! Let things happen! Keep serious! We can only be savages in as much as we keep serious. Do no more than look! Assemble, testify, preserve! Remain spirit! Keep your distance. Keep your word.

The Dying Man (thinking to himself while lying on the side of a road after a motorcycle accident): You never saw anyone die? I stink of gasoline. I saw it all clearly – the Mercedes, the pool of oil. Karin, I should have told you. It can’t be that simple. I’ve still so much to do.
Damiel (Damiel places his hands on the dying man’s head): As I came up the mountain, out of the misty valley into the sun. The fire on the cattle range, the potatoes in the ashes, the boathouse floating in the lake. The Southern Cross.

The Dying Man (slowly begins to speak Damiel’s thoughts out loud. They speak together at first. Then, Damiel walks away, and only the dying man speaks.): The Far East. The Great North. The Wild West. The Great Bear Lake. Tristan da Cunha. The Mississippi Delta. Stromboli. The old houses of Charlottenburg. Albert Camus. The morning light. The child’s eyes. The swim in the waterfall. The spots of the first drops of rain. The sun. The bread and wine. Hopping. Easter. The veins of leaves. The blowing grass. The color of stones. The pebbles on the stream’s bed. The white tablecloth outdoors. the dream of the house in the house. The dear one asleep in the next room. The peaceful Sundays. The horizon. The light from the room in the garden. The night flight. riding a bicycle with no hands. The beautiful stranger. My father. My mother. My wife. My child.

Der Himmel uber Berlin (Wings of Desire, 1987) – directed by Wim Wenders

links: Der Himmel uber Berlin

City of Angels (1998) este un remake tipic american al filmului Der Himmel… la o distanta de 11 ani. Relevant pentru a observa cat de mare este influenta „valorilor” americane asupra mentalitatilor si sensibilitatii europene de astazi. Gandul trivializarii te face sa rosesti. Comparate, devine evident contrastul dintre autenticitatea trairilor complexe in Der Himmel... si romantarea siropoasa in City of Angels, dintre accentul pus pe spirit si accentul pus pe simturi. Impresionant este efectul dat de alternarea imaginii alb-negru si imaginii color in filmul german. La fel si alegerea coloanei sonore hipnotice. City of Angels, cu toate cliseele sale superficiale, poate impresiona. Asta doar daca nu ai vedea filmul german si nu te-ai lasa prins in dialogurile sale metaforice memorabile.

Song of Childhood


(by Peter Handke)

When the child was a child
It walked with its arms swinging,
wanted the brook to be a river,
the river to be a torrent,
and this puddle to be the sea.

When the child was a child,
it didn’t know that it was a child,
everything was soulful,
and all souls were one.

When the child was a child,
it had no opinion about anything,
had no habits,
it often sat cross-legged,
took off running,
had a cowlick in its hair,
and made no faces when photographed.

When the child was a child,
It was the time for these questions:
Why am I me, and why not you?
Why am I here, and why not there?
When did time begin, and where does space end?
Is life under the sun not just a dream?
Is what I see and hear and smell
not just an illusion of a world before the world?
Given the facts of evil and people.
does evil really exist?
How can it be that I, who I am,
didn’t exist before I came to be,
and that, someday, I, who I am,
will no longer be who I am?

When the child was a child,
It choked on spinach, on peas, on rice pudding,
and on steamed cauliflower,
and eats all of those now, and not just because it has to.

When the child was a child,
it awoke once in a strange bed,
and now does so again and again.
Many people, then, seemed beautiful,
and now only a few do, by sheer luck.

It had visualized a clear image of Paradise,
and now can at most guess,
could not conceive of nothingness,
and shudders today at the thought.

When the child was a child,
It played with enthusiasm,
and, now, has just as much excitement as then,
but only when it concerns its work.

When the child was a child,
It was enough for it to eat an apple, bread,
And so it is even now.

When the child was a child,
Berries filled its hand as only berries do,
and do even now,
Fresh walnuts made its tongue raw,
and do even now,
it had, on every mountain top,
the longing for a higher mountain yet,
and in every city,
the longing for an even greater city,
and that is still so,
It reached for cherries in topmost branches of trees
with an elation it still has today,
has a shyness in front of strangers,
and has that even now.
It awaited the first snow,
And waits that way even now.

When the child was a child,
It threw a stick like a lance against a tree,
And it quivers there still today.

Anunțuri

~ de AlinaT pe 19/02/2008.

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