Of Walking in Ice: Munich-Paris, 23 November–14 December 1974

by Werner Herzog

The universe is filled with Nothing, it is the Yawning Black Void. Systems of Milky Ways have condensed into Un-stars. Utter blissfulness is spreading, and out of utter blissfulness now springs the Absurdity. This is the situation. A dense cloud of flies and a plague of horseflies swirl around my head, so I’m forced to flail about with my arms, yet they pursue me bloodthirstily nevertheless. How can I go shopping? They’ll throw me out of the supermarket, along with the insect plague swarming around my head. A flash of lightning bolts across the orange-black sky far below me, striking Francis the Miller, of all people, dead. He whose only friend was Stormy Joe. Francis the Miller has passed away the years in a wooden shack on the roof of the farm, as Francis’s wife was having an affair with Stormy Joe down in the house. They nailed him in with boards and he didn’t resist, since they’d bring him soup to eat.