Gisteren de film Away from her gezien, over een vrouw van middelbare leeftijd die aan alzheimer lijdt (een geweldig spelende Julie Christie). Niet echt feel good materiaal, een aangrijpende film. Een citaat wilde ik u niet onthouden, als haar man haar voorleest uit Letters from Iceland, van W.H. Auden:

‘Isn’t it true however far we’ve wandered into our provinces of persecution, where our regrets accuse, we keep returning back to the common faith from which we’ve all dissented, back to the hands, the feet, the faces? Children are always there and take the hands, even when they are most terrified. Those in love cannot make up their minds to go or stay. Artist and doctor return most often. Only the mad will never, never come back. For doctors keep on worrying while away, in case their skill is suffering or deserted. Lovers have lived so long with giants and elves, they want belief again in their own size. And the artist prays ever so gently, let me find pure all that can happen. Only uniqueness is success. For instance let me perceive the images of history. All that I push away with doubt and travel, today’s and yesterdays alike, like bodies.’

Note to self; meer proberen van W.H. Auden te lezen.