Magic
After watching the first part of Ingmar Bergman's "Fanny and Alexander" (the long version), then watching the father dying in the second part, I realize how much I love that man, how entirely he bound me to him with the story he told of the chair; that moment of genuine magic that transformed him and affected even me, a sad jaded adult.
Seeing him die, I mourned as if he were a member of my own family. In fact, he is.
And then I thought -- "and you think telling stories isn't important?"
Yes, I used to know better, but even then I didn't understand how urgently in need of magic we are. Because at that time it still existed for me.
Now I am surrounded by such infinite tracts of soulless filth, this current culture without a trace of humanity, love, beauty, or decency... Perhaps even now it exists for those who are not yet jaded. For ultimately it can only come from within oneself.
But it does make it easier, now and then, to see a little of it in the real world.
Seeing him die, I mourned as if he were a member of my own family. In fact, he is.
And then I thought -- "and you think telling stories isn't important?"
Yes, I used to know better, but even then I didn't understand how urgently in need of magic we are. Because at that time it still existed for me.
Now I am surrounded by such infinite tracts of soulless filth, this current culture without a trace of humanity, love, beauty, or decency... Perhaps even now it exists for those who are not yet jaded. For ultimately it can only come from within oneself.
But it does make it easier, now and then, to see a little of it in the real world.