That nobody will not even have the memory of an affinity. As I am neither able nor willing to imagine another life, some kind of life beyond the frontier, the perspective is appalling. Nevertheless I lack the means of imagining the moment of separation. At five o’clock the wife of a neighbour came and cooked dinner, washed up and left. I got up early, went for a walk, worked and read. I entrenched myself and established machine-like routines. It corresponds to your innermost imaginings of forms, proportions, colours, horizons, sounds, silences, lights and reflections. Clear voices, not particularly comprehensible but impossible to ignore. I have created this.“ Ghosts, devils and demons, good, evil or just annoying, they have blown in my face, pushed me, pricked me with pins, plucked at my jersey. I whisper to myself with extreme satisfaction: “This is my production. Sometimes I dream a brilliant production with great crowds of people, music and powerful sets. I never dared go to sleep when Father was preaching. I fell pathetically to my knees and promised God he could have my films and all my apparatus as long as Mother and Father became friends again. Otherwise one ends up in an informal balancing act between indiscretion and keeping secrets. That is unrealistic, unless one is very old and one’s friends have already left this earth. Someone says I should write about my friends. I created an external person who had very little to do with the real me. I think I came off best by turning myself into a liar. I thought she was asleep and just about to wake, my habitual illusory game with reality. I thought that Mother was breathing, that her breast was heaving and that I could hear a quiet indrawn breath. If I went on turning, she would again lie there, then make exactly the same movements all over again.
I turned the handle and the girl woke up, sat up, slowly got up, stretched her arms out, swung round and disappeared to the right.
I vomited over everything I saw, fainted and lost my sense of balance. Day after day I was dragged or carried, screaming with anguish, into the classroom. In my old age, my dreams are escapist, but friendly, often comforting. When I was younger and slept well, I was tormented by loathsome dreams: murder, torture, suffocation, incest, destruction, insane anger. Today, as I lean over photographs of my childhood to study my mother’s face through a magnifying glass, I try to penetrate long vanished emotions. More than anything else, I longed for a cinematograph.
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