#i am a vessel of love light and whimsy and you have no say over what i waste my time on

[pigeonwit]

the opinions i have on the pets the newsies would have in modern era are:

stupid

inane

not even slightly fun or interesting to anyone who is not me

but i persist.

[kristen-lockhart-blog]

Book Review of “(Im)Proper Nouns” by Donna Sparrowhawk

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Kristen Lockhart (Im)Proper Nouns By Donna Sparrowhawk Book Review

In the collection of poems, (Im)Proper Nouns, poet Donna Sparrowhawk utilizes an effortless flow and rhythm within and between her poems. Some of my favorite literary tools she uses throughout her poems are imagery and metaphors. Her collection is split into three sections, that are the nouns persons, places, and things. The poems within each section complement each other nicely as well as the three sections to form the whole collection. Sparrowhawk’s themes and imagery gives insight to a well-rounded and fulfilling life so far as well as holds hope for a fulfilling life to come. In the section titled Persons, Sparrowhawk has an array of poems, some dedicated to someone by use of their name, others with a more metaphorical title. The poem “Even Now I Listen,” is a pretty straight forward poem about the speaker’s dad. I really appreciate the glimpse into the speaker’s relationship with her father growing up. She hones in on the relationship between her and her father through her diction and metaphors.

“I know what tone you would use Soft, sliding your words under The door of my pain-induced silence.” I like the imagery that this stanza creates. I imagine a teenage daughter distraught and not wanting to talk to anyone, but her dad is the one who can truly reach her in these times. As if gently whispering through the crack of her door or sliding a letter with some heartbreak advice on it. In the last stanza, the speaker is reminiscing on times when her father could give her advice in person.

“Would you lift your eyes to mine and gently with your Fatherly tenderness, sweep the hair fallen in my eyes Remind me

To lessen fear…love more.”

She is admittedly fearful and doubtful of something throughout this poem. Perhaps, felt she was not ready to take on some things in her life without her father always being right there with her. All she has is these memories and can only imagine the advice that her father could give her now. Because of the vulnerability, I feel like this poem is a lovely and intimate glimpse into the speaker and maybe even the poet’s life. Moreover, in the poem “Not Quite a Sonnet for Susan on Her Sixtieth Birthday,” Sparrowhawk has a very compelling free form as well as great diction to portray the speaker’s feelings towards “Susan.” The poet reflects on her own use of form in which she originally intended a sonnet that actually became a free form poem.

“I tried to write you a sonnet for your birthday… abab cdcd efef gg but the fact of the matter is you are definitely free verse and otherwise and wise.”

She admittedly switches gears from a sonnet form to a free form. Moreover, I like the analogy of comparing her friend, Susan, to a free form poem herself. As well as the wordplay in “…you are definitely free, verse and otherwise, and wise.” Moreover, she utilizes lots of little comments inside of parentheses throughout the poem.

“extraordinarily fun deliciously irreverent outlandishly chi-ful (and I love it that you know what that means)”

The use of her parenthetical inserts creates more intimacy between her and the friend receiving this gift. She adds some fun, witty inside jokes and personality. And the way she describes Susan; the words she uses, “extraordinary, deliciously irreverent.” She is describing a deep admiration of everything that makes Susan the way she is. While keeping few elements of a sonnet throughout the piece, the author iterates that her Susan cannot be described in any one form. She reminisces on the first time they met recalls specific details with her imagery and describes the instant connection the friends had. I love the final line of the poem, comparing Susan to a child, having the same whimsy and wonder as a newly Sixty year old woman. And ending the poem on an ellipse as to say that her and Susan’s friendship and story is far from over. Much like in the poem about her father, the speaker creates an intimacy between not only her and the person the poem is dedicated to, but also her and the reader. She does so through the use of parentheses, her imagery in describing her memories, and her witty metaphors. The first poem in the “Places” section of the book is one of my favorites called, “Musings on a Train.” I find the setting of this poem so refreshing. She truly captures what it is to feel like you are in the story itself with this poem. “I glance out as sheep newly shorn And young, bolt as the train Whistles, and the old ewes lazily graze, Ignoring the fray.”

I am fortunate to have ridden on a train in England as well, especially as someone who lives in Florida with very few, if any, passenger trains. This poem describes to calm whimsy of riding on a train traveling past hills and grassy fields. A quite relatable stanza in this piece, is as follows:

“I doze in strange comfortable discomfort Drifting in and out, nestled against my Ferdinand’s Jacket, crumpled on the table under my head.”

Though, not all readers might have had the experience of riding a train, the images she creates can certainly come to life in the reader’s imagination. I particularly love the phrase, “comfortable discomfort,” to describe falling asleep on a train. Again, maybe not all readers would know this as exactly as described, but I feel like the sensation of trying to fall asleep on a bus or car even, can be a strangely calming scenario in a not quite so comfortable vessel. Especially if you are riding in said vehicle with a loved one. The scene described in this poem is that of a comfortable, daily event that is intimate between the speaker and a loved one. Sparrowhawk’s imagery allows the readers a glimpse into the speaker’s life because of her descriptions of this sweet life. Another one of my absolute favorite pieces is “Ballad of Equeurdreville.” Sparrowhawk’s effortless rhyme scheme creates a hilariously witty and whimsical story in this poem. I love how while reading this poem the reader gets a scene laid out in front of them of this funny banter between a traveling couple.

“My, what a pleasant urban walk! said he As she dodged the biker […] I’m sure my mate said repast was just beyond this hill A lovely place for dinner, in lovely Equeurdreville.

Why, yes, my love! cooed she to he Somewhat loudly over the roar of the passing lorry.”

From the very first line, the setting is being described as “urban” and disruptive with the biker needing to be dodged, as well as the “roar of the passing lorry.” Yet, the positive attitudes of this couple is already creating a humorous build up.

“I fear a restaurant I will never see, said he. Her reply reassuringly whispered, perhaps more a shrill— Do you think we’ll ever bloody find this Equeurdreville?”

“[…] I dare say one can look from here to eternity, said he. But no sign, no hope of food, nor drink—no, nada, nil In this, this, uh…lovely…Equeurdreville.”

The couple have a shift in attitude the longer it takes for them to find this restaurant. I particularly love the last line of that stanza; it makes it seem like a sassy narrator is reading this poem aloud to the reader. “Oh my, said she. Oh my, indeed, said he As they walked and pondered what was the key Don’t know, said she, but make out a Will Next time you suggest to me Equeurdreville!”

The final stanza after the couple had finished their long awaited meal in Equeurdreville, we get the final round of witty commentary. The poem ends on a silly joke as well, adding to the fun nature of the rest of the poem. This poem reminded me of the whimsical ways of rhyming of Dr. Seuss. This poem is different from the other poems in the collection due to its playful theme. Yet it still holds the particular style especially when it comes to Sparrowhawk’s romantic diction and intimacy between characters. The contrast in playfulness from this poem compared to more mature themes in other poems, as well as her consistent rhyming scheme shows how talented and versatile Sparrowhawk is with her writing. Finally, in the section “Things,” there is a poem entitled, “Twilight,” that has just more of that calming scenery that Sparrowhawk paints.

“It’s that time of day again… The light, in its fade Softens… Well, softens Everything.”

This opening stanza creates such a lovely setting with just a few simple phrases, which is magical. I also love the third stanza continues with this serene imagery and the fourth begins to introduce another theme into this poem.

“I wonder if the fox Will make his appearance tonight Now that you, Not I, Are absent.

“I’ve missed you today I should have been with you today, But, painfully I really couldn’t Because we You and I Know how to love.” The speaker is describing beautiful scenery yet is lonely or missing her loved one. Yet, I gather this is the type of missing someone when they are just out for the day, perhaps at work.

“I know you are on your Way back to me now.

Warm soup is waiting And music, and me,

The words can wait.”

The lines of her poetry feel comfortable and familiar. Sparrowhawk has been able to take sorrow in her poems such as this one and spin it around into hope. This entire collection of poems by Donna Sparrowhawk reflects on a life filled with beauty and love for these persons, places, and things. She uses wonderous imagery and metaphors to describe these loved ones and locations in such intimate detail. The warmth, wit and charm in her words are the ties that carry over and connect all her poems in this collection, (Im)Proper Nouns.

[ratherhavetheblues]

ANDREI TARKOVSKY’S ‘STALKER’ “Prisoner? I’m imprisoned everywhere…”

© 2021 by James Clark

Our protagonist, early on in this mammoth undertaking, and en route to a client, protests to an imaginary companion, “My dear, the world is so utterly boring. There’s no telepathy, no ghosts, no flying saucers… They can’t exist. The world is ruled by cast-iron laws. These laws are not broken. They just can’t be broken…” On reaching his customer, there is also a woman, in furs and with a cool sports car. He continues his rant, now addressing her. “Don’t hope for flying saucers. That would be too interesting…”She retorts, “But what about the Bermuda Triangle?” This annoys him. “You’re not going to contradict…” And she quickly declares, “Yes, I am.”/ “There is no Bermuda Triangle,” he insists. “There is Triangle ABC which equals Triangle A prime, B prime, C prime.” She yawns, “It’s all so tedious, so very tedious.” She might have added that it’s all very pedantic. It’s all very pushy, in a thrust that doesn’t yield power. Pedantic, to the point of desperation. Shifting back to his whimsy, he tells her, “In the Middle Ages, life was interesting. Every house had its goblin, each Church a God. People were young. Now every fourth person is old…” The client had placed his hat on her car; and, in the woman’s resenting the protagonist being so adamant, she races away from them, leaving his hat on the roof. That dogmatic display had been mitigated in several ways. Surrealism had landed with the hat. The triad of the Bermuda Triangle was also a breath of fresh air, a visit from a source to be seen soon. Telepathy, ghosts, flying saucers, all in the mix, somehow.

Beginning as we did, there requires now a more complete sense of the crisis. His career of being known as a “Stalker”—a term implying harsh measures—focuses down to his being a sort of pilgrimage tour guide. Whereas such a calling could be lucrative, one look toward our protagonist’s home makes very clear that money is scarce there. His bedroom and kitchen have been reinforced by a living room operating as a public bar. Could that polyglot become a manifestation of the passionate innovator himself? Whereas those typically doing pilgrimages rush to prove how old-fashioned they are, our Stalker finds a market (obviously not numerous) for those with a hankering of the rebellious. The saga of the missing hat would be a case of a lady’s man, a popular, wealthy writer purveying the chic and solid classical rational thought from many centuries ago. That he’s fond of “risk” is one thing; that he’s bought into the ways of the Stalker is a very different thing. The first visitor seen at that surrealist bar is the other client of the adventure, a scientist. Curiosity being smiled upon in that realm, where standard curiosity does not have a hope. Not about smidgens, but a new cosmos. Both would be proud to call themselves skeptics. Both would be impostors.

  Insofar as being that, in my view, the core of this elusive film is concerned with a planet of impostors, we will attempt things in the most incisive and compelling way, that being left for the crisis and what to make of it, while beginning with an idiosyncratic triumph which does, in fact, form the ending.

“You came back,” says the Stalker’s wife in a needling way, and in the bar. Where did the dog come from? (He was feeding the dog.) “It tagged along. Don’t chase it away…” Though unimpressed by the new family member, she is concerned that he join her on a walk to carry her crippled daughter, Monkey, needing the elements. “Monkey’s waiting.” (The elements being contaminated by a striking, unabating force.) Mom smoking, pacing the floor of the bar. The two tourists being morose. The smoker asks, “Does anybody want a dog?” The Writer responds, “I’ve got five already…” The dog goes to the girl. Mom says, to the barman, with no enthusiasm, “So you like dogs.”/ “That’s a good one.” The Stalker gets around to, “Alright, let’s go.” The Family Man raises the girl to his shoulders. The Professor/ Scientist and the Writer watch nonplussed. The daughter and her crocheted shawl seem to be a haven. Their arresting and dashing procession, along a shoreline, frees the gala to its simple and graceful height. A ringing sound is heard. Cut to a wooden bowl being filled with milk.

   In great contrast to the playfulness, back home the marching man complains to his wife, “If you knew how tired I am… Only God knows… They still call themselves the intelligentsia. Writers! Scientists!”/ His wife says, “Calm down…”/ He insists, “They don’t believe in anything. Their capacity for faith has atrophied.”/ “Calm yourself,” she tells him, in the action of his being overrun by the lack of focused emotional force. Surprisingly, one more room shows up—an impressive library./ “Stop it. Calm down. Don’t worry…”/ By now, he’s lying on the floor. She tells him, “It’s dark. You can’t stay here.” She helps him up. “Take it off,” she says./ Toward the bed, a surreal cave wall, rippled, primeval but also vaguely chic./ She helps him take off his pants. He lies down in their only bed. She touches his forehead. She sits on the bed. She adjusts the pillow. “Calm down. It isn’t their fault. They should be pitied, not abused. Their eyes are blank.” She gives him a sleeping pill./ He perseveres, “Their thinking how not to sell themselves cheap. How to get paid for every breath they take. They knew they were born “to be someone,” to be an elite!”/ She touches his temple./ He says, of them, “You live only once… How can such people believe in anything at all?” (Ambiguity here must be embraced.)/ “Relax, now,” she urges. “Try to get some sleep…” She sponges his face and forehead. “Go to sleep…”/ He argues, “Nobody believes. Not only those two. Nobody” [Tarkovsky, we must account for, could be using “belief” in a rare way]. Then he delivers a prayer. “Who shall I take there, O Lord… The most troubling is that nobody needs The Room [the great delivery of his product]. And all my efforts are in vain.”/ She argues, “Why do you say that? Don’t…”/ He pitying himself, “I’ll never go there again with anyone.”/ “If you want,” she says, “I’ll go with you. Do you want that?”/ “No, you mustn’t.”/ “Why?”/ “What if you fail, too?”

She sits down and has a smoke. She speaks to the void. Their void. Our void. “You know, Mama was very opposed to it. You’ve probably already guessed that he’s one of God’s fools…” (The footprints of Bergman’s theatrical dialogue; and the heavy woolens on her presence, in lieu of heating. As with Bergman’s films, dialogue is crucial in a film like this. Tarkovsky’s pictorial genius does not invite your guesses as to what he might be thinking. The depths of dialogue deliver exactly what he is thinking—a thinking not to be imagined as normal, nor a quick grab. The métier of the business of film-entertainment might as well be tricked up by Shakespearean garb, inasmuch as nothing has essentially changed in essence since more than two thousand years. Bergman and Tarkovsky [along with a few ignored figures hoping to make a change] know of another way, an emotive key having been in a form of long imprisonment. Here we have questionable nonsense; and overrated smarts. Closely following the dialogue is not a choice.) “Everyone around her used to laugh at him. He was such a wretched muddler. Mama used to say, ‘He’s a stalker, a marked man, an eternal jailbird… Remember, the kind of children stalkers have…’”/ “I didn’t even argue. I knew all about it—that he was a marked man, a jailbird, mocked by children. Only, what could I do? I was sure I’d be happy with him. I knew there’d be a lot of sorrow. But I’d rather know bittersweet happiness [pathos, a Bergman specialty] than a grey, uneventful life. (Moreover, far beyond personal distinction, the lift is an uncanny “zone.”) Perhaps I invented this later. But when he came up to me and said, “Come with me,” I went. And I’ve never regretted it.” (At the film’s beginning, she becomes hysterical about his stealing her watch for the current job… You gave me your word. I believed you…) There was a lot of grief and fear and pain. But I never regretted it nor envied anyone. It’s just fate… It’s life. It’s us. And if there were no sorrow in our lives, it wouldn’t be better. It would be worse. Because then there would be no happiness either. And there’d be no hope. So… (a little smile).

   Cut to the daughter, reading at a table. (At first sight it seems a Bible. But on closer inspection it’s far from a Bible.) A freight train goes past their window. Flecks of light show up. Monkey’s voice-over, surveying her prospects.) “I love those eyes of yours, my friend. Their sparkling, flashing, fiery wonder./ Where suddenly those lids descend/ Then lightning rips the sky asunder/ You swiftly glance, and there’s an end… (Panning down, she in profile.)/ There’s greater charm, though, to admire/ When lovely are those eyes divine./ In moments kissed by passion’s fire;/ Where though the downcast lashes shine/ The smoldering embers of desire…” (She looks out the window. A pink color in the sky.)

On the table are three glass vessels: her medicine; a tropical  fish; and an empty vase. A dialectical site, not as sterile as you might think. The pulsation from a train moves the medicine bottle toward the edge of the table. But the ensuing pause outside allows the bottle to stay in play. A second glass, containing the fish, also stays in play. (She places two fingers toward the window and the pink sky.) She places her head at one side of the table. The third and empty glass, devoid of substance, plunges to the floor. Is it a case of one’s frailty, or a case of one’s dead history? “Then lightning rips the sky asunder…” Is there a way for her to elicit that  “greater charm?”A ringing bell. The table shakes, the glasses shake. The train shakes the table. “In moments kissed by passion’s fire…”

   Stalker is far from the graces of Monkey. He and his two adventurers show us most graphically that being alive can be already dead. The figure of the Scientist, aka, the Professor, the early-bird, the typical go-getter, gives us a whack of big-reality in the form a Nobel Prize winner. “Was it a meteorite or a visitation from outer space? Whatever it was, in our small country there appeared a miracle—The Zone; imagined to be a singularity. Stalker went to work upon a mystique of that meltdown.

Right from the terminology of Zone, you know embarrassment awaits. In fact, the entire enterprise of that safari is one long episode of the concerns of Theatre of the Absurd. (That being a tonality very useful to the films of Ingmar Bergman, and now dawning upon Tarkovsky. Also, Bergman was not slow to see  that Hollywood melodrama had unwittingly taken up an early version of the tendency of bathetic overkill, in many entertainments. The pathos of that moment of Monkey’s day, introduces something very unique.) Whereas the alarm of Theatre of the Absurd would be heavily involved by way of rational (and irrational) analysis, the Stalker’s approach derives from the possibility that, given enough woe, a frenzy of physical action can break through to serious truth. (He being far from coherent, his other notion becomes that when the magic field is found, the hero is given all the joy anyone would need.)

Rounding off the take-off, our two bold candidates declare statements of concern. The Writer admits, “I dig for the truth, but, while I do, something happens to it. The truth changes into a pile of… I won’t say what… I seldom think. It’s bad for me. The Scientist posits: “I’ve lost my inspiration. I’m going to beg for some.

In the course of stealing a side-car to access what is seen to be a magical place, they invade the large railway complex nearby in the Scientist’s jeep. The pollution count provides the making of film noire, but the actions in the railway yard are so hare-brained as to become a parody, a very young children’s entertainment. What does, though, amidst the jeep-hopping tracks and the Keystone Cops, is the intensity of physical motion, driven to crazy ends by the enthusiast, ends with potential, but light-years away. The atrocious dramaturgy opens the door to the realization that the clientele here—and everywhere—are dead in the water. (In the lull of the race, one of them blurts out, “If I don’t come back, tell my wife…” And, “Hurry, for God’s sake! Keep your eyes open!”) Finding this pitch to be only a specialty of the guide, the Scientist tells them, “What I said about going there… It’s all a lie. I don’t give a damn about inspiration… But how can I put a name to what I want or really don’t want. These are intangibles where the moment you name them, their meaning evaporates, like jelly fish in the sun. You’ve seen them around. My consciousness wants the triumph of vegetarianism. My subconsciousness longs for a juicy steak. So what do I want? I want world supremacy, at the very least.”

   Having outrun the ruined land, they come upon a vital valley and fresh streams. Stalker feels like flexing the muscles of his arms. “Here we are, home at last!” The Writer adds, “It’s so still.” Stalker proudly declares, “It’s the quietest place on earth. You’ll see yourself. It’s so beautiful. There is no one here. The protagonist quips, “Three men can’t foul it up in one day.” The Writer contradicts, “Why can’t we? Sure we can… It stinks like a swamp…” The guide tells of an earlier client who trampled all the flowers there. As such, here is the point of leaving off the study as an adventure per se, and instead an exposure of the perversity of educated people finding their heavy preparations to be, in the final analysis, a farce. The bizarre and conflicting meanderings have been allowed to run amok in order to illuminate a quicksand having become supreme. Some mad duress by the leader forces the experience to freeze until twilight. In the hiatus, the protagonist going for a walk that becomes a sleep, the Professor ridicules the so-called businessman. “He was in prison several times. His daughter is a mutant, a so-called Zone-victim. They say she has no legs…” There is a cut to Stalker, body and face plunged into thick grasses. Consulting the elements. The Professor had a friend who had an idea the meteorite was a message to mankind… or a gift.

Making a trek into damaged military ruins of a distant war, the invasion had been forced to proceed in single file, as if that war were still in force. Along with the recent attacks of advantage, there was the protagonist, happy to be pushing around a notable physicist and a best-selling novelist, living in a big villa. “I’ll point out the path.” The advertised athletic force is nowhere to be seen, due to keeping up with big-mouths. “I said, don’t touch it! What, are you crazy? I said this wasn’t a place for a stroll… The Zone demands respect, otherwise it’ll punish you… Don’t try anything like that again!” / “Why can’t we go in a straight line. It’s right under our noses.”/ “I’m fed up with you nuts…”/ “Forget it. I’m going my way…”

   This skirmish being the opposite of attempting to deliver disinterestedness by way disciplined, dynamic toil. The three of them settling into that what looks like The Three Stooges. Hollywood melodrama early; and Hollywood comedy late. “Keep the last pole in sight. You go first, Professor…”/ “No, you…” / “We’ll go roundabout.”/ “Why?”/ “Here the straight path isn’t shortest. The more indirect, the less risk there is.”/ “Is it fatal to go straight ahead.”/ “I told you. It’s Dangerous.”/ “Is the detour less dangerous?”/ It’s not, but nobody goes straight…”/ “You and you’re detours.…”/ “How about if I just go straight.”/ “Listen you…”/ “It’s risky here, risky there. What the hell… Forget it. I’m going this way…”

Being duped about a childish magic, the buyers recoup what they can. An assault from science: “You’re a fine one, Mr. Shakespeare. Afraid to advance, afraid to retreat…” A response from literature: “It might seem capricious. But at each moment, it’s as if we construct it accordingly to our own state of mind—the states of mind here overlook honest concentration, and therefore we have just another “fabulous” entertainment. The Stalker also finds a statement transcending Stooges. “All of them are death traps. I don’t know what happens here when humans aren’t around. But as soon as humans appear, everything begins to change. Former strengths disappear, new ones appear. Safe ways become impossible. The way becomes more easy, now confused beyond words.”

Making the best, after making the worst, the protagonist also grasps the sense of the  capricious. “But at each moment it’s as if we construct it according to our state of mind. I won’t hide the fact that some people turned back half-way. Some perished on the threshold of the Room. But everything that happens here depends on us.” So far the sobriety holds. And now it doesn’t. It loses its purchase upon one’s readiness to embrace the kinetic. “So the Zone lets the good through, and kills the evil.” Stalker is somewhat amenable to revise that position. “I don’t know. I don’t believe that. I think it lets through those who’ve lost all hope. Not the good or the bad, but the unhappy. But even the most unhappy will perish if they don’t know how to behave here.” Pedantry gone wild.

The semi-anarchy holds to the point where more disclosure of the captains of wow can fall down a hole. The fantasy of the Zone allows the two customers some diversion. But it is the poverty of The Scientist and The Writer resuming their feud that matters. The man of science and technology addresses the writer, “You bedraggled hack, you home-grown psychologist, fit only to scribble graffiti in lavatories.”/ The Writer has his own way to portray the enemy’s being needing to be terminated. The ways of history. The Writer laughs, “That’s feeble stuff. Call that an insult?” (Before more childishness occurs, a dog runs their way. It sits with The Stalker. It easily steals the show. But the sensationalists all but ignorance it.) They’ll soon stumble upon, while in their supposed destination, a striking formation of undulating snow-white domain, in the cave being a supposed heaven. They haven’t a moment to appreciate the strange beauty there.) The Writer’s Response: “What are you after?”/ “All right. So I’m after a Nobel Prize. What are you after? Want to bestow on mankind the pearls of your bought inspiration?”/ “I spit on mankind. In all of your mankind, only one man interests me. And that’s me… Coming to the conclusion that his life is “shit,” the popular sweetheart comes to, “Know something, Einstein, I don’t want to argue with you.” This prompts the image-of-steel, to a militant overrun—the only like of, being religion. He concocts, lyrically, the heavens creating the mountains. “And from the wrath of the Lamb who shall be able to stand…. Truth is born in arguments, dammit! Happiness, but what kind of happiness?” The Stalker’s reverie: “And lo, there was a great earthquake…and the sun became black as sackcloth, and the moon became as blood… And the stars of heaven fell into the earth… And they said to the mountains and rocks, ‘Fall on us and hide us from the face of him that sits on the throne’…And it came to pass that Jesus himself drew near and walked with them, but they didn’t recognize him.” Dribs and drabs: “Mankind exists in order to create works of art. At least that’s unselfish compared with other human activities.”/ “You’re unable to think in abstract terms. Why don’t you teach me the meaning of life…”/ “You may be a professor, but you’re ignorant…”

   The Stalker will back into something perhaps a little less hopeless. “Now, take music. It’s connected least of all with reality. Or, if connected, then it’s without ideas. It’s surely empty sound without associations. Nevertheless, music miraculous presents your very soul.” (An agency of force. What chord in us responds to its harmonics? Why is this necessary? )

The “climax,” of course,  isn’t. The Writer pulls out a gun; and then throws it into a body of water. The Scientist pulls out of his rucksack a bomb. Much Three Stooges. A large, beautiful hawk comes by where they’ve buried themselves in the cave of nothing. The Writer blurts out, “They devour the film in your soul… What kind of writer am I, if I detest writing? I wanted to change them, but they changed me to fit their own image. The Scientist phones his office to divulge, crazy-heroically, that he had taken from the institute his brainwave. The speaker on the line exclaims, “You realize this finishes you as a scientist.”/ Now, having burned his bridges, he brazens, “Go on, do your dirty work…”/ From the zone of the “true,” the former colleague has a familiar good-bye: “I can see you hanging from your belt over a prison latrine.” The gunman could resume his effete vexation. The bomber, however, seems to have taken on a remarkable problem. Desperate ways. His last words to the messenger—”And not for money or inspiration, but to remake the world!—may still be wrongheaded and wrong hearted.

We’ll call it a day, with Algot, the hunchback-sexton in Bergman’s Winter Light (1962), when Tarkovsky was a young, eager learner. Here he saw some real innovative excitement, excitement like what was in store with Monkey. Algot’s discovery was, “that the Bible’s real sense pertains to one sensibility, Jesus, whose sensual virtuosity was never grasped by anyone as realizing that the spirit driving it all has nothing to do with human immortality.”