Watashi no niisan (1934) - full transcript
This restful calm...
This tranquillity spreads through us.
We slide gently into torpor, numbness.
And suddenly we come awake.
The years have come and gone...
almost without our knowing...
almost without us.
We will sweep away all the clouds.
I am not a seller of words.
Yes, it's decided.
Without a backwards look,
I left the familiar grounds
to bloom...
to die.
Be silent.
To drown me.
My one friend,
Please sing.
Sing!
Sing!
While I was speaking,
were you aware that
the day was fading?
And we didn't even notice.
Now we are seated here,
waiting for the evening...
the night.
Already, before my eyes,
I can feel you flowing
into the evening...
into the night.
Horrible!
Horrible!
The seasons have passed by.
We remained here or often we travelled.
We roamed through towns,
came to know faces...
streets,
where we happily became lost.
And then we came home,
full of memories and forgetting.
And now we sit
here on these chairs...
in the late afternoon light.
Listen Catherine,
We feel close...
We think of ourselves as close...
But in truth, we are far apart.
Very far apart.
We sit in our chairs,
in their usual places.
We seem to be close to one another.
But only in seeming.
For if we stretch out
our hands to one another...
We have loved each other.
We were used to one another
We forgot about ourselves.
And now, you see,
it's simple, it's...
There is space.
Light.
At times I stretch out in this chair.
And I stay a long time.
Sometimes the whole afternoon.
For no reason.
No reason, I...
Just being there.
These I'll keep.
I'll take them with me.
Those are yours.
Do with them as you like.
Keep them, tear them up,
burn them.
Town.
O, town...
Town.
O, town...
Town...
O, town...
Are you looking for someone?
I'm looking for Jacques Mortin.
He's not here.
Are you sure?
I recognise this entrance and stairway.
I often came here to see him.
Maybe, but he's disappeared.
He didn't really leave,
but he's disappeared.
He was in a bad way
He sank lower each day.
I tried to help him.
But it was no use.
He didn't care about himself.
And his friends?
His friends?
He saw no one any more.
Occasionally he would
come down to the office.
He would stay there sitting,
not saying a word.
Watching the passers-by.
for hours and hours
And then one day, he disappeared.
I'd like to see Lucien.
Wait, I'll go and see.
Ah yes, I recognise you.
But Lucien, you understand...
Our parents helped us a lot.
Lucien too,
He's trying really hard.
He likes his work.
He's in charge of the factory now.
He's happy.
We're happy.
It would be better
if you don't see him again.
Excuse my frankness, but...
I would be grateful if?
- Yes, I understand.
I understand.
Yes?
Emil has disappeared.
Lucien has settled down.
He's changed.
He's been transformed.
Natalie left the country.
You and I...
When the magazine folded,
we went down with it.
Which made sense, was natural.
Was it a business, a company?
It was us...
mortally wounded,
impossible to recover
A failure?
To have the whole world against us...
But was it really a failure?
It was obvious from the beginning
Even before the first issue came out.
But what finished us off,
was the indifference.
That was more troubling, more deadly.
People's indifference, the
indifference of the passer-by.
that person, this couple...
And then, the town -
where, I don't know -
this unknown person that
you don't see and I don't see...
whom we have never seen,
whom we will never see...
is, however, sitting now,
on the terrace of
a café I don't know,
reading their newspaper..
It was for them that
we made this magazine.
But we never reached them.
Now, I do a bit
of work with a friend
in a building firm.
I only look at what is
near me, right next to me,
in front of me.
I try to look the other way.
At least, I'm making the effort.
And I am carrying on.
Now I'm going to work.
The basics are there,
everything that was left undone.
I want to re-examine everything,
to build something tangible, solid...
open...
which can live without me
It's all there...
I'll finish the remaining work.
It's difficult.
Yes, it's difficult.
So difficult.
So much drought.
So little rain.
Wounded...
Bled dry with a dark, fixed, storm...
which does not move on,
does not fade away.
No prospect of sun,
no prospect of wind...
nor rain.
It's difficult.
Yes...
it's difficult.
Is it urgent?
Well...
If it's for Paris, you can
send it by pneumatic tube.
It'll be there in 2 hours..
No, it's not for Paris.
Then...
You must send a telegram.
Is it for France?
No.
I don't understand.
But...
You see, I would like
to send an urgent message
Simply urgent.
It must be done quickly, it's serious.
Outside the country, then?
Not that either.
I don't understand.
To nowhere then?
No.
No.
No.
No.
No
No
No.
No. No. No.
No
So it's you...
You left.
You went around the world.
And now you've come back.
All those years gone
by without any news...
Now, sit down...
and tell me about it.
All those years...
I tried, I struggled...
wrote, undertook...
loved, turned away...
and now I've come back here
to stay with you in this school.
I want to start again,
to forget;
and then to start everything...
all over again.
Do you really think that it
no longer has the same sound?
That it's changed?
And now?
And now?
You see?
The same voice.
The same word.
The same song.
But it is now I who
hear it differently.
Yes,
I stayed here
and I changed.
And they came,
moving from one class to another,
until the last one.
And they left...
heading for life, the uproar.
Immediately, others took their place.
in the same rooms,
behind the same desks.
And the town grew larger.
The streets grew wider.
The prisons too.
Only the river remained unchanged.
True to itself.
And then...
there are those who left town,
shut up their house...
and will never return.
What hand will ever
dare to open these doors,
forever closed?
As for the cedars,
the old cedars...
they are there, still solid...
one hundred years old...
We'll go and see them together.
So my interpretation
is only right for me.
It is good for me and
not necessarily for you.
It's better therefore that you
don't replicate my interpretation,
as if it were your own,
nor my thoughts without
examining them for yourself.
What interests me is to
know your own interpretation.
what you yourselves think,
your own opinions.
And moreover, each of you has
an interpretation, an opinion,
different from that of
the person next to you,
or another person,
or even that of your parents.
You may not realise it, but I'm sure
that you have an interpretation.
which is somewhere inside you.
You just have to discover it.
It must be gathered up.
Once acquired, it will
not fall asleep again.
It will accompany you
and remain with you always.
It will slip into
everything that you see,
into all that you read,
and all that you understand.
And then you will have
your own opinion on things.
The day will come when you won't
accept everything you are told.
You won't think anything
that doesn't seem right to you.
You will do only what
seems right to you.
This is the way that things change...
that the world changes.
What does it matter what I think
about this tree or this branch,
or a story I heard on the
radio or read in the papers...
So now let's start.
I shall write some
lines on the board.
Let's try to see what
we really think about them,
to hear what these lines tell us...
within each one of us.
This one perhaps?
Yes...
To change...
Change.
To sing.
Sing.
Sing.
And finally you will copy
down the topic of your essay,
which I will write on the board.
Life must first be remade.
Once remade, it must be sung.
No, I don't agree.
No, I can't accept that.
On second thoughts,
your topic alarms me.
It's hiding something.
And the one who gave it to you
knows very well what it's hiding.
He knows what he is doing.
No, I don't agree.
And how about you?
Does all this make sense to you?
And what does it mean in fact?
It's about change.
Changing everything.
And then we can sing.
But change what?
Change for what?
Don't you have
everything you need?
Don't we have
everything we need?
Aren't we happy together?
What exactly is being happy?
Being happy?
But to be happy is to be simple,
to be well.
To have what you need.
To be contented.
And so...
Do you want to know what I
really think of your subject?
About your changings?
About your happiness?
It's disruption.
Destruction.
Why?
It's sabotage.
Lies.
It's a horror.
Why?
But why?
Why?
Why?
Why?
So it's here?
What work, what solidity.
What a sanctuary.
A sanctuary?
Yes.
This is where I work.
I like stones,
their solidity, their serenity
I began alone.
Stone by stone.
I continued alone...
without ever trying to finish.
Besides, it never will be finished.
It will stay there, sturdy.
Facing the sea and the waves.
Now we'll go and
see the big cedar.
The house!
The sanctuary!
I don't understand!
I don't understand.
I don't understand...
The sanctuary!
The house!
The house...
the sanctuary...
will be yours.
I'm giving it to both of you.
I don't understand...
I don't understand.
The house...
The sanctuary.
The house.
He's giving it to us.
To both of us.
I don't understand.
I don't understand.
Now, let's start.
Didn't you hear?
I know this little street well.
Also this house so low.
There were many
years of dire misfortune.
and then the wild and crazy years.
I remembered my
childhood in the village.
I remembered my blue countryside.
Yes, and next?
I sought neither rest not glory.
I know their conceits too well.
And now, as soon as my eyes close,
I see only my former home.
I see the garden with its blue patches.
The silent host was
leaning against the hedge.
The lime trees clasp in
their green hairy fingers...
I need Dupret for a moment.
It's terrible, it's terrible.
Let's go on.
I loved that wooden cottage.
An ominous strength
slumbered in its beams.
Our stove, in a wild and bizarre way,
howled in the rainy nights.
But this sweet reverie died away.
All was consumed in blue smoke.
Peace on you, wicked straw
Peace on you,
poor wooden cottage.
Here, take this.
Don't cry any more.
Now I want to stay here and work.
I feel that this book
has become crucial...
inseparable from what I do in my
days, inseparable from what I live,
it has become indispensable.
Therefore I shall stay here.
At least for this period.
"Here again we'll fight,
"we'll drink, weep.."
Here again we'll fight,
we'll drink, weep..
"Beneath the yellow
sorrow of the accordion."
When it's written, I would like
my book to come apart by itself...
its pages to spread through
the streets, the towns,
enter courtyards, go into houses...
to resonate and live among people...
to mingle in their lives
and in their thoughts,
in their everyday lives,
simply, naturally.
Of course, the magazine was
an attempt, an effort.
But I believe only in attempts.
An attempt is, first of all, a
breach opened in what is stagnant,
in all things that are
dormant, motionless.
An attempt is Life.
Life itself, with its risks, its fears...
and then its vast regions of shadow...
and half-light...
and silence.
"Here again, we'll fight,"
"we'll drink, weep."
And reality?
Yes, reality.
Reality?
Which one?
Yours, mine?
We constantly imagine reality.
We invent it each morning...
to forget it at night
before going to sleep.
And then we mix up
reality and appearance.
Reality must be rich, deep;
beyond appearances.
We happen, by accident,
to see it, touch it, pursue it.
We are surprised then
by its extent, its secrecy...
its endless whisperings.
And apprehension?
Yes, apprehension.
Apprehension.
Yes, apprehension.
Apprehension...
No.
It's not like fear,
worries, dread...
Apprehension is something else.
I experienced it only once.
It was an autumn day,
with Catherine.
On that day, I felt apprehension.
We were walking together.
It was a cloudy day,
with sunny spells.
We walked away from one
another without realising.
And suddenly I
found myself on a hill.
I was looking at
Catherine from far away.
We were separated by a river.
The clouds, passing
before the sun,
made patches of light and
dark on the meadow.
Catherine was sometimes in the
light and sometimes in the shade.
In one moment I saw that the shade
around Catherine was getting thicker,
that she would be
engulfed by darkness
On that day I felt apprehension.
No, really, it's nothing.
It will pass.
It must be the effect of
the moon but it will pass.
I must talk to you.
I didn't tell you the truth just now.
No.
It wasn't the effect of the moon.
Last night I had a dream...
of a landscape on a cloudy day.
The hill, the river...
the darkness...
you and I.
You were standing on the hill.
And I, there, on the
other side of the river.
Since then I've been wondering.
I wonder.
I ask myself if...
You are suffering.
It's serious.
I must speak to you.
The town is getting restless.
People are talking, whispering.
Stupidity is rising up...
But why close your eyes?
So as not to guess what is next?
We have seen too much,
known too much.
We still bear the wounds.
You have to help me.
I'm asking you
before it's too late.
I demand it...for you and for me.
Look, it's Jacques.
Julian!
Julian!
You want to leave?
Leave the country, the school?
And never come back?
What can I do for you?
Tell me. Don't hesitate.
All is devastated,
ravaged, extinguished...
Dead.
Nothing holds together any more
So you want to leave...
Leave and not come back.
No.
No, I'm staying.
I will stay with you for good.
Stay...
Find my room again,
my satchel, read again,
Read the pages again.
Live here...
accessible and true.
Stay.
Stay, find her...
And...
live near her,
with her.
A troubled life, a full life.
A serene life.
Nothing is permanent, stable.
Everything blooms,
everything withers.
Everything must change.
To build and be re-built.
Begin and begin again.
Live again.
Closed indefinitely.
Indefinitely
There you are...
with your satchel...
on the road again.
It is not you I'm leaving.
Everything suddenly seems unclear...
uncertain.
I know it's temporary.
I'll be back soon.
And we'll work together again.
And thank you for the music.
Thank you.
Take this scarf.
It will be a long journey.
You'll be cold.
90 centimes, sir.
90 centimes, sir.
90 centimes, sir.
What's that for?
For the bread.
Are you making fun of me?
Give me back my bread.
Please.
Give me back the bread.
Thank you.
Your change, sir.
Sir, your change.
It's not for the landscapes,
it's for you, for your
faces, that I'm trying...
that I try...
I asked them...
to prepare your room.
We did everything.
We've been very
understanding, very patient.
We learned of his departure recently.
We were relieved.
And we were proud
of our moderation.
Now we hear of his return.
It is serious, very serious.
Inspector, we have come here,
to ask that this matter
be settled once and for all.
Ladies and Gentlemen...
I am aware of your concerns.
And then?
He remembers...
And how is it that he remembers?
Because he kept the memory.
And...
what is memory?
Memory is an image
or a sound that he
kept from his childhood...
or from his garden.
Go on.
Sir, look.
We will continue.
That's all for today.
Sir, your satchel.
Your satchel.
...with courage, my strength
was visibly declining.
But I didn't tell you
everything, brotherly heart...
now I can truly play
from far and wide...
with the shades of my lost hours.
I haven't told you everything,
brotherly heart...
Tomorrow...
Perhaps tomorrow.
Tomorrow...
Tomorrow...
Tomorrow.
Tomorrow.
Tomorrow!
Tomorrow!
This tranquillity spreads through us.
We slide gently into torpor, numbness.
And suddenly we come awake.
The years have come and gone...
almost without our knowing...
almost without us.
We will sweep away all the clouds.
I am not a seller of words.
Yes, it's decided.
Without a backwards look,
I left the familiar grounds
to bloom...
to die.
Be silent.
To drown me.
My one friend,
Please sing.
Sing!
Sing!
While I was speaking,
were you aware that
the day was fading?
And we didn't even notice.
Now we are seated here,
waiting for the evening...
the night.
Already, before my eyes,
I can feel you flowing
into the evening...
into the night.
Horrible!
Horrible!
The seasons have passed by.
We remained here or often we travelled.
We roamed through towns,
came to know faces...
streets,
where we happily became lost.
And then we came home,
full of memories and forgetting.
And now we sit
here on these chairs...
in the late afternoon light.
Listen Catherine,
We feel close...
We think of ourselves as close...
But in truth, we are far apart.
Very far apart.
We sit in our chairs,
in their usual places.
We seem to be close to one another.
But only in seeming.
For if we stretch out
our hands to one another...
We have loved each other.
We were used to one another
We forgot about ourselves.
And now, you see,
it's simple, it's...
There is space.
Light.
At times I stretch out in this chair.
And I stay a long time.
Sometimes the whole afternoon.
For no reason.
No reason, I...
Just being there.
These I'll keep.
I'll take them with me.
Those are yours.
Do with them as you like.
Keep them, tear them up,
burn them.
Town.
O, town...
Town.
O, town...
Town...
O, town...
Are you looking for someone?
I'm looking for Jacques Mortin.
He's not here.
Are you sure?
I recognise this entrance and stairway.
I often came here to see him.
Maybe, but he's disappeared.
He didn't really leave,
but he's disappeared.
He was in a bad way
He sank lower each day.
I tried to help him.
But it was no use.
He didn't care about himself.
And his friends?
His friends?
He saw no one any more.
Occasionally he would
come down to the office.
He would stay there sitting,
not saying a word.
Watching the passers-by.
for hours and hours
And then one day, he disappeared.
I'd like to see Lucien.
Wait, I'll go and see.
Ah yes, I recognise you.
But Lucien, you understand...
Our parents helped us a lot.
Lucien too,
He's trying really hard.
He likes his work.
He's in charge of the factory now.
He's happy.
We're happy.
It would be better
if you don't see him again.
Excuse my frankness, but...
I would be grateful if?
- Yes, I understand.
I understand.
Yes?
Emil has disappeared.
Lucien has settled down.
He's changed.
He's been transformed.
Natalie left the country.
You and I...
When the magazine folded,
we went down with it.
Which made sense, was natural.
Was it a business, a company?
It was us...
mortally wounded,
impossible to recover
A failure?
To have the whole world against us...
But was it really a failure?
It was obvious from the beginning
Even before the first issue came out.
But what finished us off,
was the indifference.
That was more troubling, more deadly.
People's indifference, the
indifference of the passer-by.
that person, this couple...
And then, the town -
where, I don't know -
this unknown person that
you don't see and I don't see...
whom we have never seen,
whom we will never see...
is, however, sitting now,
on the terrace of
a café I don't know,
reading their newspaper..
It was for them that
we made this magazine.
But we never reached them.
Now, I do a bit
of work with a friend
in a building firm.
I only look at what is
near me, right next to me,
in front of me.
I try to look the other way.
At least, I'm making the effort.
And I am carrying on.
Now I'm going to work.
The basics are there,
everything that was left undone.
I want to re-examine everything,
to build something tangible, solid...
open...
which can live without me
It's all there...
I'll finish the remaining work.
It's difficult.
Yes, it's difficult.
So difficult.
So much drought.
So little rain.
Wounded...
Bled dry with a dark, fixed, storm...
which does not move on,
does not fade away.
No prospect of sun,
no prospect of wind...
nor rain.
It's difficult.
Yes...
it's difficult.
Is it urgent?
Well...
If it's for Paris, you can
send it by pneumatic tube.
It'll be there in 2 hours..
No, it's not for Paris.
Then...
You must send a telegram.
Is it for France?
No.
I don't understand.
But...
You see, I would like
to send an urgent message
Simply urgent.
It must be done quickly, it's serious.
Outside the country, then?
Not that either.
I don't understand.
To nowhere then?
No.
No.
No.
No.
No
No
No.
No. No. No.
No
So it's you...
You left.
You went around the world.
And now you've come back.
All those years gone
by without any news...
Now, sit down...
and tell me about it.
All those years...
I tried, I struggled...
wrote, undertook...
loved, turned away...
and now I've come back here
to stay with you in this school.
I want to start again,
to forget;
and then to start everything...
all over again.
Do you really think that it
no longer has the same sound?
That it's changed?
And now?
And now?
You see?
The same voice.
The same word.
The same song.
But it is now I who
hear it differently.
Yes,
I stayed here
and I changed.
And they came,
moving from one class to another,
until the last one.
And they left...
heading for life, the uproar.
Immediately, others took their place.
in the same rooms,
behind the same desks.
And the town grew larger.
The streets grew wider.
The prisons too.
Only the river remained unchanged.
True to itself.
And then...
there are those who left town,
shut up their house...
and will never return.
What hand will ever
dare to open these doors,
forever closed?
As for the cedars,
the old cedars...
they are there, still solid...
one hundred years old...
We'll go and see them together.
So my interpretation
is only right for me.
It is good for me and
not necessarily for you.
It's better therefore that you
don't replicate my interpretation,
as if it were your own,
nor my thoughts without
examining them for yourself.
What interests me is to
know your own interpretation.
what you yourselves think,
your own opinions.
And moreover, each of you has
an interpretation, an opinion,
different from that of
the person next to you,
or another person,
or even that of your parents.
You may not realise it, but I'm sure
that you have an interpretation.
which is somewhere inside you.
You just have to discover it.
It must be gathered up.
Once acquired, it will
not fall asleep again.
It will accompany you
and remain with you always.
It will slip into
everything that you see,
into all that you read,
and all that you understand.
And then you will have
your own opinion on things.
The day will come when you won't
accept everything you are told.
You won't think anything
that doesn't seem right to you.
You will do only what
seems right to you.
This is the way that things change...
that the world changes.
What does it matter what I think
about this tree or this branch,
or a story I heard on the
radio or read in the papers...
So now let's start.
I shall write some
lines on the board.
Let's try to see what
we really think about them,
to hear what these lines tell us...
within each one of us.
This one perhaps?
Yes...
To change...
Change.
To sing.
Sing.
Sing.
And finally you will copy
down the topic of your essay,
which I will write on the board.
Life must first be remade.
Once remade, it must be sung.
No, I don't agree.
No, I can't accept that.
On second thoughts,
your topic alarms me.
It's hiding something.
And the one who gave it to you
knows very well what it's hiding.
He knows what he is doing.
No, I don't agree.
And how about you?
Does all this make sense to you?
And what does it mean in fact?
It's about change.
Changing everything.
And then we can sing.
But change what?
Change for what?
Don't you have
everything you need?
Don't we have
everything we need?
Aren't we happy together?
What exactly is being happy?
Being happy?
But to be happy is to be simple,
to be well.
To have what you need.
To be contented.
And so...
Do you want to know what I
really think of your subject?
About your changings?
About your happiness?
It's disruption.
Destruction.
Why?
It's sabotage.
Lies.
It's a horror.
Why?
But why?
Why?
Why?
Why?
So it's here?
What work, what solidity.
What a sanctuary.
A sanctuary?
Yes.
This is where I work.
I like stones,
their solidity, their serenity
I began alone.
Stone by stone.
I continued alone...
without ever trying to finish.
Besides, it never will be finished.
It will stay there, sturdy.
Facing the sea and the waves.
Now we'll go and
see the big cedar.
The house!
The sanctuary!
I don't understand!
I don't understand.
I don't understand...
The sanctuary!
The house!
The house...
the sanctuary...
will be yours.
I'm giving it to both of you.
I don't understand...
I don't understand.
The house...
The sanctuary.
The house.
He's giving it to us.
To both of us.
I don't understand.
I don't understand.
Now, let's start.
Didn't you hear?
I know this little street well.
Also this house so low.
There were many
years of dire misfortune.
and then the wild and crazy years.
I remembered my
childhood in the village.
I remembered my blue countryside.
Yes, and next?
I sought neither rest not glory.
I know their conceits too well.
And now, as soon as my eyes close,
I see only my former home.
I see the garden with its blue patches.
The silent host was
leaning against the hedge.
The lime trees clasp in
their green hairy fingers...
I need Dupret for a moment.
It's terrible, it's terrible.
Let's go on.
I loved that wooden cottage.
An ominous strength
slumbered in its beams.
Our stove, in a wild and bizarre way,
howled in the rainy nights.
But this sweet reverie died away.
All was consumed in blue smoke.
Peace on you, wicked straw
Peace on you,
poor wooden cottage.
Here, take this.
Don't cry any more.
Now I want to stay here and work.
I feel that this book
has become crucial...
inseparable from what I do in my
days, inseparable from what I live,
it has become indispensable.
Therefore I shall stay here.
At least for this period.
"Here again we'll fight,
"we'll drink, weep.."
Here again we'll fight,
we'll drink, weep..
"Beneath the yellow
sorrow of the accordion."
When it's written, I would like
my book to come apart by itself...
its pages to spread through
the streets, the towns,
enter courtyards, go into houses...
to resonate and live among people...
to mingle in their lives
and in their thoughts,
in their everyday lives,
simply, naturally.
Of course, the magazine was
an attempt, an effort.
But I believe only in attempts.
An attempt is, first of all, a
breach opened in what is stagnant,
in all things that are
dormant, motionless.
An attempt is Life.
Life itself, with its risks, its fears...
and then its vast regions of shadow...
and half-light...
and silence.
"Here again, we'll fight,"
"we'll drink, weep."
And reality?
Yes, reality.
Reality?
Which one?
Yours, mine?
We constantly imagine reality.
We invent it each morning...
to forget it at night
before going to sleep.
And then we mix up
reality and appearance.
Reality must be rich, deep;
beyond appearances.
We happen, by accident,
to see it, touch it, pursue it.
We are surprised then
by its extent, its secrecy...
its endless whisperings.
And apprehension?
Yes, apprehension.
Apprehension.
Yes, apprehension.
Apprehension...
No.
It's not like fear,
worries, dread...
Apprehension is something else.
I experienced it only once.
It was an autumn day,
with Catherine.
On that day, I felt apprehension.
We were walking together.
It was a cloudy day,
with sunny spells.
We walked away from one
another without realising.
And suddenly I
found myself on a hill.
I was looking at
Catherine from far away.
We were separated by a river.
The clouds, passing
before the sun,
made patches of light and
dark on the meadow.
Catherine was sometimes in the
light and sometimes in the shade.
In one moment I saw that the shade
around Catherine was getting thicker,
that she would be
engulfed by darkness
On that day I felt apprehension.
No, really, it's nothing.
It will pass.
It must be the effect of
the moon but it will pass.
I must talk to you.
I didn't tell you the truth just now.
No.
It wasn't the effect of the moon.
Last night I had a dream...
of a landscape on a cloudy day.
The hill, the river...
the darkness...
you and I.
You were standing on the hill.
And I, there, on the
other side of the river.
Since then I've been wondering.
I wonder.
I ask myself if...
You are suffering.
It's serious.
I must speak to you.
The town is getting restless.
People are talking, whispering.
Stupidity is rising up...
But why close your eyes?
So as not to guess what is next?
We have seen too much,
known too much.
We still bear the wounds.
You have to help me.
I'm asking you
before it's too late.
I demand it...for you and for me.
Look, it's Jacques.
Julian!
Julian!
You want to leave?
Leave the country, the school?
And never come back?
What can I do for you?
Tell me. Don't hesitate.
All is devastated,
ravaged, extinguished...
Dead.
Nothing holds together any more
So you want to leave...
Leave and not come back.
No.
No, I'm staying.
I will stay with you for good.
Stay...
Find my room again,
my satchel, read again,
Read the pages again.
Live here...
accessible and true.
Stay.
Stay, find her...
And...
live near her,
with her.
A troubled life, a full life.
A serene life.
Nothing is permanent, stable.
Everything blooms,
everything withers.
Everything must change.
To build and be re-built.
Begin and begin again.
Live again.
Closed indefinitely.
Indefinitely
There you are...
with your satchel...
on the road again.
It is not you I'm leaving.
Everything suddenly seems unclear...
uncertain.
I know it's temporary.
I'll be back soon.
And we'll work together again.
And thank you for the music.
Thank you.
Take this scarf.
It will be a long journey.
You'll be cold.
90 centimes, sir.
90 centimes, sir.
90 centimes, sir.
What's that for?
For the bread.
Are you making fun of me?
Give me back my bread.
Please.
Give me back the bread.
Thank you.
Your change, sir.
Sir, your change.
It's not for the landscapes,
it's for you, for your
faces, that I'm trying...
that I try...
I asked them...
to prepare your room.
We did everything.
We've been very
understanding, very patient.
We learned of his departure recently.
We were relieved.
And we were proud
of our moderation.
Now we hear of his return.
It is serious, very serious.
Inspector, we have come here,
to ask that this matter
be settled once and for all.
Ladies and Gentlemen...
I am aware of your concerns.
And then?
He remembers...
And how is it that he remembers?
Because he kept the memory.
And...
what is memory?
Memory is an image
or a sound that he
kept from his childhood...
or from his garden.
Go on.
Sir, look.
We will continue.
That's all for today.
Sir, your satchel.
Your satchel.
...with courage, my strength
was visibly declining.
But I didn't tell you
everything, brotherly heart...
now I can truly play
from far and wide...
with the shades of my lost hours.
I haven't told you everything,
brotherly heart...
Tomorrow...
Perhaps tomorrow.
Tomorrow...
Tomorrow...
Tomorrow.
Tomorrow.
Tomorrow!
Tomorrow!