I try my hand at living, that is at looking, one eye turned wide open to the sky and sometimes toward others, the other eyes turned inward where it rediscovers..
over and over again, a year before starting the film, i would lie in my bed, thinking alone. (coming through a tight spot then, I did not speak, I mean I really did not speak to anyone, I did not confide in anyone and moreover I did not write either for myself or for anyone else..)
and, to myself, justifying a fierce desire for silence and enclosure, i would repeat this litany, always the same: I speak, I speak, I speak, I do not want them to see me..
it wakes you up and sets you on guard against some possible surrender, against the danger of a river of tears inside you overflowing
Shall I call the narrator Isma once again? “Isma”: “the name”. In the mixing confluences of this evocation, out of superstition or fearing pagan omens, I would so much like to extract her from her earlier exaltation, after the emotions that shook her ...
to the shores of the lake of serenity!
Favorite part:
The serenity that is called sakina in Arabic: not the sudden transparency of being that, they say, shortly precedes the coming of death, no! but the serenity of passages that seem never to need to end. As they stream by, sakina- serenity-fills your heart and soul, reinforces you with liquidity, nourishes you wish surfeit, while around you everything tips and capsizes and changes. And you have decided to go forward, eyes cast downward, to follow the path mysteriously traced out on the ground for you.
The sakina of a person who knows how to keep sight of the road, of a blind man who sees best at night...
But everything else, living and dying, the masculine (that is, the nationalist pride) and the feminine (the lucidity. That makes one strong or drives one crazy) nature of what I believe to be the soul of this land, the rest is draped in sheets of dust, in French words making the unformed voice, the gurgles, then disowned Berber, and barbarous sounds, modulated melodies made Arab, and laments - yes, the multiform voice of my genealogy. How hard it is for me to free myself from it!