8 Films by Federico Fellini
8½, Amarcord, La Strada, Juliet of the Spirits, I Vitelloni,
Nights of Cabiria, City of Women, La Dolce Vita
At this point Kublai Khan expects Marco to speak of Irene as it is seen from within. But Marco cannot do this: he has not succeeded in discovering which is the city that those of the plateau call Irene. For that matter, it is of slight importance: if you saw it, standing in its midst, it would be a different city; Irene is a name for a city in the distance, and if you approach, it changes.
For those who pass it without entering, the city is one thing; it is another for those who are trapped by it and never leave. There is a city where you arrive for the first time; and there is another city which you leave never to return. Each deserves a different name; perhaps I have already spoken of Irene under other names; perhaps I have spoken only of Irene.
'Irene' - from Invisible Cities by Italo Calvino
Calvino would have been 90 years old today. O, how we miss him.
1. A house, or a flat, or a room of my own.
2. A child, or maybe three (two boys and a girl preferably).
3. A job with a regular salary, and responsibilities, and the space to be creative and professional.
4. A dog (a pointer called Chekhov, or a Labrador called John Irving).
5. A sense of knowing what I’m doing and who I am and what tomorrow is going to bring.
1. A husband who loves me, and whom I love (full range of emotions and small pleasures and unintended cruelties of intimacy included).
2. A handful of Really Good Friends I value above all else.
3. A terrifying sense of uncertainty towards the future.
4. A soft toy armadillo called Owen (after Owen Meany).
5. A dangerous tendency to swing wildly between putting myself down and picking myself up.
I have this friend, Diletta, she’s a professional cook and sous chef in a restaurant and she’s one of my best friends.
We have this monday night routine going: it’s day off for both of us, so we meet, cook and watch tv series. After years of resistance, I finally got her into Doctor Who and we are currently watching season two, the Ten years.
Sometimes I cook and she brings sweets and beer, and those are the times I make my specialties… I’m a “I could be a granny right now” sort of cook. I’m good, really good, but my forte are the traditional dishes.
She is a fucking pro. She can cook everything, but she loves making thai food and fusion, and tonight… tonight she made this AMAZING soup.
It was pumpkin and coconut milk, and chicken and curry, and… I don’t really know everything that was in there.
It was one of the most delicious things I’ve ever tasted in my life.
I want more.
I was so full that I couldn’t finish my second bowl, but I was trying to, because, fuck, it was awesome.
Given that said Top Chef is also my best friend, I want in on this Monday magic. You guys need to move to London. (Apart from everything else let’s do it for the lulz of watching a certain giant lizard in action.)
Our kiss is a secret handshake, a password.
We love like spies, like bruised prize fighters,
Like children building tree houses.
Our love is serious business.
One look from you and my spine reincarnates as kite string.
When I hesitate to hold your hand,
it is because to know is to be responsible for knowing.
There is no clean way to enter
the heavy machinery of the heart.
Just jagged cutthroat questions.
Just the glitter and blood production.
The truth is this:
My love for you is the only empire
I will ever build.
When it falls,
as all empires do,
my career in empire building will be over.
I will retreat to an island.
I will dabble in the vacation-hut industry.
I will skulk about the private libraries and public parks.
I will fold the clean clothes.
I will wash the dishes.
I will never again dream of having the whole world.
Cannes Film Festival 1983 - Special Jury Prize: Robert Bresson (L’Argent) and Andrei Tarkovsky (Nostalghia).
I have a videotape of the awards ceremony from the 1983 Cannes Film Festival, where a Special Jury Prize was jointly awarded to the then seventy-six-year-old Bresson for his last film, L’Argent, and to Andrei Tarkovksy, for Nostalghia. As Bresson, called up by Orson Welles, stepped on to the stage, a tumult broke out, a furious acoustic battle between those booing and those acclaiming him; the audience was asked for calm a number of times—only as Tarkovsky was invited on stage did the storm of protest abate.