Federico Fellini is considered to be one of the most important and influential European directors of the 20th century. Although not a diarist, he did, for many years, keep a record of his dreams, with descriptions and richly-coloured illustrations. These were given a lavish publication a few years after his death, and, more recently, have been made available in digital form.
These photographs all come from an exhibition held in Brussels, entitled “Clarity in the Mist”. The point of the title is that in the fuzziness of the deliberately blurred shot, there is clarity or truth.
It’s night-time. What an awful night. I am driving a black car that’s racing dizzyingly down a path that spirals down around a mountain. I can’t seem to stop despite the fact that I’m pushing the brake pedal.
‘Get out. Don’t go. ’‘Which?’ Stern, stone-faced, he rolls the gauntness of his naked chest over me, to reach a lighter by the bed. ‘I don’t care,’ he says, and lights up.
In The Book of Dreams, Fellini strives to crystallise dreams in snapshots — a proof of what did exist, however ephemeral and fleeting.
Townsend stepped out into the chilly air on the balcony. The new film building, lit by footlights, beckoned in the distance across the athletic field.
It's the woman's decision in the end, he thought, but it's not fair. She had told him she wanted children. Two weeks in she said it, staring down at her shoes, and he knew then she was serious.
By the time Fellini was working on 8 ½, he couldn’t decide what the protagonist did for a living: “I felt myself blundering, I was on the brink of abandoning the project”.
Sabina’s heavy, calloused feet hurt like hell. She had been pounding the pavement of Malaga’s historic central district for five hours, making her circular rounds in old flip flops that were coming apart at the toes.
There might be something inherently paradoxical about the presence of music in films, even as our experience as spectators seems to affirm that music quite ‘naturally’ belongs in movies.
If we can now freeze genes, / why not write a book of snow / on a field lain fallow / and read it / to pumpkin seeds
It’s probably August, given my short-sleeve shirt and buzz cut, and my big sister’s breezy blue outfit. I still remember those shoes. Our mom dressed us in unnecessarily nice clothes for kids of our age and rambunctious inclination, who would only go outside and get them grass-stained and torn without delay.
My mother, our first night in New York, / pointed to a pillowcase on my hotel bed. / There was a smile in it, she said, and indeed / there was, made by some folds in the fabric.
It is the year my sister is born. / A figure teeters on stilts far / above the town. There is no / hospital nor parking lot from / which one could look up and / point towards a figure waving
Every evening, the sandman waits patiently for Grandma above her bed. And every evening, as soon as her head finally rests on the feather pillow, the sandman sprinkles his magic, instantly carrying her away to the land of dreams.
Proserpina lives on the moon. She holds a fish and a key. People on Earth always think the face on the moon belongs to a man, that’s why they call it the man in the moon.
“Sweat does not ‘bead on foreheads.’ It does not form “lit-tle ri-vu-lets.’ You must sweat differently, Vronsky, you sap—you whoring wretch.
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