They don't make them like this anymore. Each moment, cut as finely as flint, fondled like a pebble passed from hand to hand, with a beginning and end, a before and after... This isn't the kind of suffering that's proud of itself, but silent, contained, having few words and images at its disposal. What counts is that it's there. In the place that he's had to pass through.
Serge Daney
Şubat 19, 1983