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

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

When film is not a document, it is dream. That is why Tarkovsky is the greatest of them all. He moves with such naturalness in the room of dreams. He doesn't explain. What should he explain anyhow? He is a spectator, capable of staging his visions in the most unwieldy but, in a way, the most willing of media. All my life I have hammered on the doors of the rooms in which he moves so naturally. Only a few times have I managed to creep inside. Most of my conscious efforts have ended in embarrassing failure - The Serpent's Egg, The Touch, Face to Face and so on.

Here, in my solitude, I have the feeling that I contain too much humanity.

One of ennui's most terribel components is the overwhelming feeling of ennui that comes over you whenever you try to explain it.

We make each other alive; it doesn’t make a difference if it hurts.