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Youssef Chahine died on Sunday. I have only ever seen his Alexandra…why? (Iskandereiya…lih? Egypt, 1980), but one recognizes the unmistakable mark of a master of world cinema. Or so one likes to think.
***
The words have gone limp because they’re no longer so many stolen goods. Can writing without the intent to affect be called creative? I hope not. All this is only so much shitting. Involuntary, requiring no great investment, done and just as quickly forgotten. An assignment reversed: forget your pensum, excise it. Cut this amount of words down to zero, but be judicious. Indolent fuck. What remains we expect to be more than what was started with.
This thing and its motivation–though it’s criminal to speak thus–is a hellish arrangement that was best described nigh on fifty years ago:
The expression that there is nothing to express, nothing with which to express, nothing from which to express, no power to express, no desire to express, together with the obligation to express.
Adhered to with increasing rigor, brought to its extremes and devastatingly completed, quietus delivered; now the question of how best to bore holes through an impregnable wall. At least to strip the drill-bits, pile them up from the feet.
No longer any considerations, then, of “less” or of “more”, nor of getting at this or that “feeling”, but of protesting vainly against those who would keep me convinced that I have anything at all to say.
A successful failing.
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