Then I felt that every inflection of my voice, every word in my mouth, was a lie, a play whose sole purpose was to cover emptiness and boredom. There was only one way I could avoid a state of despair and a breakdown. To be silent. And to reach behind the silence for clarity or at least try to collect the resources that might still be available to me.

I'm planning, you see, to try to confine myself to the truth. That's hard for an old, inveterate fantasy martyr and liar who has never hesitated to give truth the form he felt the occasion demanded.

I could always live in my art but never in my life

I feel very strongly that I’m surrounded by other realities.

First, I write down all I know about the story, at length and in detail. Then I sink the iceberg and let some of it float up just a little.

The older I become, the more I think about my mother.

I don't watch my own films very often. I become so jittery and ready to cry... and miserable. I think it's awful.