I Know That I Shall Have Lost

Art Lost Its Basic Creative Drive The Moment It Was Separated From Worship. It Severed An Umbilical Cord And Now Lives Its Own Sterile Life, Generating And Degenerating Itself. In Former Days The Artist Remained Unknown And His Work Was To The Glory Of God.

When You Feel Perpetually Unmotivated, You Start Questioning Your Existence In An Unhealthy Way; Everything Becomes A Pseudo Intellectual Question You Have No Interest In Responding Whatsoever. This Whole Process Becomes Your Very Skin And It Does Not Merely Affect You; It Actually Defines You. So, You See Yourself As A Shadowy Figure Unworthy Of Developing Interest, Unworthy Of Wondering About The World - Profoundly Unworthy In Every Sense And Deeply Absent In Your Very Presence.

I Supply My Own Angels And Demons. I Exist On A Stony Beach, Which Lowers Itself In Waves Toward A Protective Ocean. A Dog Barks; A Child Cries; The Day Sinks And Becomes Night. You Can Never Scare Me. No Human Being Will Be Able To Scare Me Ever Again. I Have A Prayer That I Repeat To Myself In Absolute Stillness: May A Wind Come To Stir Up The Ocean And The Stifling Twilight. May A Bird Come From Water Out There And Explode The Silence With Its Call.

I Think I'm Swedish Because I Like To Live Here On This Island. You Can't Imagine The Loneliness And Isolation In This Country. In That Way, I'm Very Swedish - I Don't Dislike To Be Alone.

Film As Dream, Film As Music. No Form Of Art Goes Beyond Ordinary Consciousness As Film Does, Straight To Our Emotions, Deep Into The Twilight Room Of The Soul. A Little Twitch In Our Optic Nerve, A Shock Effect: Twenty-four Illuminated Frames A Second, Darkness In Between, The Optic Nerve Incapable Of Registering Darkness.