[middle]: My Life, chapter 3
— Vivre sa vie, Jean-Luc Godard
A street, thick-shadowed and mostly empty, with record shop, apartment, cafè, theater, is no real match for innocence. What she sees on the screen burns to the bone — Jeanne D’Arc in a fit of perfection or grief, not able to bend, not willing to stop, can’t help but question everything she touches, everything she wants — body and soul, body and soul. She gives herself only to herself, and finds that deliverance, sometimes, is no deliverance at all. You may believe in lines, but there aren’t any. Truth is nothing more than spirals of beauty and lust and essence and moment. Running like mad over the stiff mechanics of all things opposite, she lives simply because she says she lives, her words finding her at last — or should I say “at beginning” — finding her where she has always been.
(Excerpted from: Woman in Tableaux by Sam Rasnake; originally published at UCity Review. Photo: still from “La passion de Jeanne D’Arc”, 1928)
best writers I’ve ever read.