Mr. Lickona, call your editor’s office…
The house of fiction has… not one window, but a million…. They have this mark of their own that at each of them stands a figure with a pair of eyes, or at least with a field-instrument, insuring to the person making use of it an impression distinct from any other…. The spreading field, the human scene is the “choice of subject”; the pierced aperture, either broad or balconied or slit-like and low-browed, is the “literary form”; but they are, singly or together, as nothing without the posted presence of the watcher — without, in other words, the consciousness of the artist. — Henry James, “The Art of Fiction” (1884)
I hope to build a house with my films. Some of them are the cellar, some are the walls, and some are the windows. But I hope in time there will be a house.
Rainer,
Do these distinctions break along thematic lines? Sounds like a cinematic Divine Comedy in the works.
Actually, yes … and if you'll take the trouble of strolling through my kinocenter, I think you'll find there are an ample number of bedrooms, bathrooms, and beyond.
And yes, I do bear an eerie resemblance to Rick Wescott.
I've also bit the occassional silo.
Please excuse me while I get back to Der Tagesspiegel and my morning cigarette.
I meant to say "built". Honestly.
Hey, you can't throw me in jail just because I misspoke. Other things, maybe, but not that!
The resemblance to Westcott is uncanny.