All language subtitles for The.Wall.2012.1080p.BluRay.x264.AAC5.1-[YTS.MX].en

THE WALL

Today, the 5th of November,
I shall begin my report.

I shall set everything down
as precisely as I can.

But I don't even know if today
really is the 5th of November.

Over the course of the past winter,
I've lost track of a few days.

I can't even say
what day of the week it is.

But I don't think
that is very important.

All I have to rely on
is a few meagre jottings;

meagre, because I never expected
to write this report.

I'm afraid there will be discrepancies
between my report

and my real experiences.

All reports probably suffer from this.

I'm not writing for the joy of writing;

it has just come about
that I must write

if I am not to lose my reason.

There is no one here
to think about and care for me.

I am all alone

and must try to survive
the long, dark winter months.

I have taken on this task

to keep me from staring into
the twilight and growing frightened.

For I am afraid.

Fear creeps up on me from all sides,

and I do not want to wait until
it gets to me and overpowers me.

I shall write until darkness falls,

and this new, unfamiliar work
should make my mind tired,

empty and drowsy.

I'm not afraid of morning,
only of the long, gloomy afternoons.

I write on the backs of old calendars

and on faded business notepaper.

The paper belonged to Hugo Ruttlinger,

a great collector and hypochondriac.

This account
should actually begin with Hugo:

if it weren't
for his collecting and hypochondria,

I shouldn't be sitting here today.

I probably wouldn't even be alive.

It was 3pm
before we reached the hunting lodge.

After a snack,
as Hugo was starting to nod off,

Luise suggested that he go back
to the village with her.

Come on...

We won't be long,

we're up at dawn for the hunt.

The car keys are in the ignition,
if you change your mind.

- Come on now!
- Yes.

Where is Lynx? Lynx?

The dog can stay!

The stupid beast won't obey.

What nonsense!

You can't handle him.

Lynx?

Lynx, come on!

Good dog! Come on now, heel!

Come on.

Come on, Lynx! Heel!

Come! Come on, Lynx!

Don't be so strict

Lynx, either you obey or you stay here.
Then go back! Go on!

Go!

At nine, I decided to go to bed.

I locked the door and took the key
with me to my room.

Hey, Lynx. What's up?

They must have stayed in the village.

I was very surprised.

Hugo couldn't stand the short beds
at the inn,

and he'd not have been so inconsiderate

as to leave me alone
in the lodge overnight.

I set off towards the village with Lynx.

I couldn't imagine what had happened.

I hardly noticed
how cool and damp it was in the gorge,

so concerned was I
about the Ruttlingers.

Hugo might have had a heart attack.

Because he was a hypochondriac,

we had stopped
taking his condition seriously.

I quickened my pace
and sent Lynx on ahead.

I hadn't thought
to put on my climbing boots,

and followed clumsily
along over the sharp stones.

Lynx, what's up?

What's the matter?

Did you hurt yourself?

Did you bite your tongue?

Lynx, come on!

Come on.

Lynx, what's wrong?

Then I heard a thumping sound
and glanced around

before realising it was my own heartbeat
thundering in my ears.

My heart had been frightened
before I knew anything about it.

I tentatively tried again,

and once more my hand rested
on something like a window pane.

Suddenly I realised what might have been
unconsciously worrying me all along:

the road was entirely deserted.

Someone would have raised the alarm
ages ago.

It would have been natural
for the villagers

to gather inquisitively by the wall.

Even if none of them
had discovered the wall,

Hugo and Luise
would surely have bumped into it.

That not a soul was to be seen

puzzled me even more
than the wall itself.

I got up three more times
and convinced myself

that here, three metres from me,

there really was something
invisible, smooth and cool

blocking my path.

I thought it might be an illusion,

but of course I knew
that it was nothing of the son.

I could have coped much more easily
with momentary insanity

than with this terrible,
invisible thing.

The first little farmhouse,

only a cottage, in fact,

was just around the next corner.

At last I could see the cottage.

It lay very still in the sunlight;
a peaceful, familiar scene.

Excuse me, I...

Come on, Lynx! Come!

We were in a bad situation, Lynx and I,

and at the time
we didn't know how bad it was.

But we weren't lost entirely,
because there were two of us.

It simply couldn't be true,
things like that didn't happen,

and if they did, then not
in little villages in the mountains,

not in Austria and not in Europe.

I know how ridiculous that thought was,

but I must admit
that this is what I was thinking.

I woke up refreshed around six o'clock,
when the birds started singing.

Although I had barely moved,
Lynx knew I was awake,

and came to my bed to greet me.

Suddenly it seemed quite impossible

that I would survive
that bright day in May.

At the same time
I knew I had to survive it,

and that I had no means of escape.

I had to stay quite calm
and simply get through it.

It wasn't the first day of my life
that I had had to survive like this.

The less I resisted it,
the more bearable it would be.

I no longer remember
what I did that morning.

Maybe the hours that followed
were so awful I've had to forget them;

maybe I spent them
in a state of numbness.

I can't remember.

The next thing I knew,
it was around 2pm.

I was walking in the gorge with Lynx.

This time I was better equipped.
I had Hugo's binoculars with me, too.

If the man at the well was dead,
and there could be no doubt about that,

then everyone in the valley was dead,

as was everything
that had been alive.

If this was death,
it had come very quickly and gently,

almost lovingly.

Perhaps it would have been wiser

to have gone with Hugo
and Louise to the village.

Lyhx!

What's up?

Lynx, come here.

Come!

Come on!

It had dawned on me
that the cow might well be a blessing,

but it was also a burden.

An animal like that
has to be fed and milked,

and needs someone there all the time.

I was the owner of a cow
and its prisoner.

I thought about the cow as well,
of course.

If I was especially lucky,
she would be expecting a calf.

But I couldn't rely on that.

I could only hope my cow

would give milk
for as long as possible.

I still saw my situation
as a transitory condition;

at least that's what I tried to do.

I thought of a name for my cow,
and called her Bella.

She didn't actually need a name at all.

She was the only cow in the forest,
perhaps the only cow in the region.

See you tomorrow, Bella.

Ten days had passed,

and nothing
about my situation had changed.

For ten days
I'd been numbing my mind with work,

but the wall was still there,

and nobody had come to get me.

I had no alternative
but to face up to reality.

I could kill myself,

or try and dig my way under the wall,

which would probably have been
a strenuous form of suicide.

Or I could stay here
and try to stay alive.

I was no longer young enough
to think seriously about suicide.

It was chiefly thoughts about Lynx
and Bella that kept me from it.

Thanks to Hugo's solicitude
I had provisions for the summer,

a home,
a lifetime's supply of wood and a cow.

I firmly resolved
to wind up the clocks each day,

and to cross off the days
from the calendar.

At that time
it seemed very important to me.

I was desperately trying to hold on
to the remnants of civilised life.

I don't know why.

It's almost an inner compulsion.

Perhaps I'm afraid
that if I did otherwise,

I'd slowly cease to be a human being

and soon start to crawl about,
filthy and stinking,

emitting incomprehensible sounds.

It wasn't that I was afraid
of becoming an animal;

that wouldn't have been so bad.

But a human being
can never become an animal;

they will fall into an abyss
beyond that which is animal.

I don't want this to happen to me.

Recently
that's what has made me most afraid,

and it is out of that fear
that I write my report.

On the 30th of May, it rained
a warm and fertile rain all day

that forced me to stay inside
or get drenched in a moment.

That evening
the cat came into my house.

So there were four of us:
the cow, the cat, Lynx and me.

Lynx was closest to me,

and soon he wasn't just my dog,
but my friend;

my only friend in a world
of woe and loneliness.

It's okay, Lynx.

Bella kept me tied to the lodge,

but I wanted to try
to have a look around.

I remembered a path
that led to a lodge higher up,

and then down into the valley opposite.

I wanted to follow it.

Lynx, heel!

Lynx, wait.

So now I had examined those valleys

that I could reach without staying
away for days at a time.

I could still climb up to the pasture
and look out over the landscape,

but I couldn't risk going any further
into the long mountain range.

Of course somebody would find me
if there was no wall over there.

Indeed, they surely would have found me
long since.

I could sit quietly at home and wait.

But I kept feeling compelled
to do something

to counteract uncertainty.

At about 1pm I sat down to rest.

The forest lay hazily
in the midday sun,

and the warm scent from the pines
floated up to me.

It was much quieter
than in the moonlit night,

as if the forest lay paralysed by sleep
beneath the yellow sun.

A bird of prey
circled high in the blue sky.

Lynx slept, his ears twitching,

and a great silence
descended on me like a bell jar.

I wished I could sit here forever,

in the warmth, in the light,

the dog at my feet
and the circling bird above.

When I walked on,
I did so with deep regret,

and on the way I slowly changed,

becoming the only creature
that didn't belong here:

a human,
troubled by chaotic thoughts,

cracking branches with clumsy shoes,

engaged in the bloody business
of hunting.

I realise that I never noted down
that days on which I'd shot game.

Now l remember I found it
too revolting to write about;

it was bad enough
that I had to do it at all.

I named the little cat Pearl;
she was so white and rosy.

In a few weeks I realised that Pearl,
an unkempt little thing,

was on the verge
of becoming a beauty.

Pearl was a small miracle,

but even then I knew
she'd been born in the wrong place.

A long-haired white cat
in the middle of the forest

is condemned to an early death.

She'd no chance at all.

Perhaps that's why
I was so fond of her.

If I think back to the first summer,

it is shadowed more
by the concern for my animals

than by my own desperate situation.

Catastrophe had relieved me
of much responsibility,

but I found, in time,
that it placed a new burden upon me.

Once I was able
to assess the situation a little,

I'd long since ceased being able
to change anything about it.

I don't think my behaviour
was due to weakness or sentimentality.

I was simply following an instinct
that had been implanted in me

which I could not combat

if I didn't want to destroy myself.

I can't see
what should be dishonourable

about bearing a burden,
as all animals must.

In the end,
we die as all animals do.

I don't even know what honour is.

Being born and dying
is not a matter of honour.

It happens to all creatures

and has no meaning beyond that.

On the 20th of July
I started to harvest the hay.

It took me three weeks
to harvest the meadow.

This wasn't only the weather's fault,

but also that of my clumsiness
and physical weakness.

I was overcome by a wave of despair,

and, for the first time,
I understood quite clearly

what a blow it was I had taken.

I don't know
what would have happened

if responsibility for my animals
hadn't forced me

to do at least
the most necessary things.

I don't like remembering that time.

It was 14 days
before I could pull myself together

and start living again.

Autumn was always my favourite season,

although
I never felt physically very well.

In the daytime
I was tired yet wide awake,

and at night I lay for hours
in restless half-sleep

and my dreams
were unusually confused and vivid.

My autumnal malaise
didn't spare me in the forest, either,

but since I could hardly afford it,
it took a less extreme form.

Perhaps I didn't have the time
to notice it.

Lynx was very cheerful,
in very high spirits

though an outsider
wouldn't have noticed.

He was, after all,
cheerful almost all the time.

I've never seen Lynx grumpy for more
than a few minutes.

He just couldn't resist happiness.

And life in the forest
was a constant lure for him.

Sun, snow, wind, rain,

everything was a cause for excitement.

I never could stay sad very long
next to Lynx.

It was almost shameful,
how happy it made him to be with me.

Perhaps man's megalomania
comes from dogs.

Sometimes I even imagined
there must be something special about me

that made Lynx almost keel over
with joy at the sight of me.

Of course there was never anything
special about me.

Lynx was, like all dogs,
simply addicted to people.

You are mine, Lynx.

You're a good doggy.

At times now,
when I walk alone in the wintry forest,

I talk to Lynx as I did before.

I have no idea I'm doing it

until something
startles me and I fall silent.

I turn my head and catch the gleam
of a reddish-brown coat.

But the path is empty:
bare bushes and wet stones.

I'm not surprised
that I still hear the dry branches

cracking under
the light tread of his paws.

Where else would his little dog soul
go a-haunting, if not on my trail?

He's a friendly ghost
and I'm not afraid of him.

Lynx... beautiful dog, good dog.

My dog,

it's probably my poor head
that makes the sound of your footsteps,

the gleam of your coat.

As long as I exist,
you'll follow my trail,

hungry and yearning,

as I myself, hungry and yearning,
follow invisible trails.

Neither of us will
ever bring our prey to the ground.

The first snow fell
on the 27th of October.

It took only a few days
for winter to set in.

Then came the fohn wind

and licked the young snow
from the mountains.

It became disagreeably warm,

and the wind hissed
day and night around the lodge.

I slept badly
and listened to the baying of stags

down below for the rutting season.

Both cats were drawn outside
into the warm, damp forest.

I lay awake and worried about Pearl.

The baying of the stags sounded sad,

threatening
and sometimes even desperate.

I only hoped the fohn
wouldn't last too long,

and that winter
would finally bring us peace.

The fohn only held out for three days,

just long enough to kill Pearl.

Pearl was buried,

and the fohn died down overnight,

as if it had accomplished its task.

I haven't forgotten Pearl.

Her death was the first loss
I suffered in the forest.

Once, it must have been
in the first winter,

I saw a fox
standing drinking at the stream.

I could have shot it;

I had the gun with me,
but I didn't do it.

Pearl had to die
because one of her ancestors

was an over-bred Angora cat.

She had been predestined
to become a victim

Was I to punish
the beautiful, vital fox for this?

Pearl had suffered an injustice,

but injustice
had also befallen her victims.

Was I to pass it on to the fox?

The only creature in the forest
that can really do right or wrong is me.

And I alone can show mercy.

Sometimes I wish away
the burden of decision-making.

But I am a human,

and I can only
think and act like a human.

Only death will free me from that.

When I think of winter, I see
the frost-coated fox at the stream.

A lonely, adult animal
bound to go its predetermined way.

It seems that this image
means something important to me,

as if it were
a symbol of something else.

But I can't explain its significance.

Right, my Bella.

Yes, you are so beautiful.

Bella had become more rounded,

but I still couldn't tell
if she was expecting.

After all we have been through,

Bella has become more than my cow.

She was a poor, patient sister,

who bore her lot
with more dignity than I.

In the night I heard the cold
creaking in the wood.

I'd put on a lot of extra logs,

but was shivering under the blanket
and couldn't sleep.

Sometimes a log would crackle,
then fall silent.

I felt sick.

I knew it was because
I had to keep on killing.

I tried to imagine what a person
who enjoyed killing might feel.

I could not do so.

The hair stood up on my arms,
and my mouth dried out with disgust.

You would probably need
to be born to it.

I could bring myself to do it
as quickly and skilfully as possible,

but I would never get used to it.

For a long time I lay awake
in the crackling darkness,

thinking about the little heart

freezing to a clump of ice
in the room above me.

After the great chill,
a wave of damp, warmer air set in.

Bella grew nervous,
and I had to see to her ten times a day.

On the 11th of January,
Bella bled a little.

It was after her evening feed,

and I decided to set myself up
in the byre for the night.

Come on, Bella, push!

Push!

Come on, Bella! Come!

So much had happened recently...

Pearl had been killed,
a little bull had come into the world,

roe deer had frozen

and the carnivores
had had a rich winter.

I myself had a lot of excitement,
and now I was tired.

When I closed my eyes I saw
snowy mountains on the horizon,

white flakes dropping onto my face
in a big, bright silence.

I had no thoughts, no memories;

there was only
the big, silent, snowy light.

I knew this feeling
could be dangerous for a lonely person,

but I couldn't muster
the strength to resist it.

Lynx didn't leave me in peace for long.

He kept coming to me
and prodding me with his nose.

Sighing, I got up
and set about my daily work.

Now Lynx, my friend and guardian,
has ceased to be,

and the desire to go
into the white and painless silence

is sometimes very great.

I must take care of myself

and be stricter with myself
than I was before.

Lynx was my sixth sense.

Now he's dead
I feel like an amputee.

I miss something
and will always miss it.

It isn't only that I miss him
when I'm hunting and following trails,

and have to spend hours
clambering after a deer I've shot.

It isn't that alone.

The worst thing is
that without Lynx I feel truly alone.

The question of moving to the Alm
occupied me more with every passing day.

The task struck me as terribly arduous,

even if I were
to take only necessities with me

and live quite primitively
in the pasture.

Once I realised
that I'd decided to move long before,

when I'd first seen the green pastures,
I grew calmer.

And on the 25th of May

came the day of departure
from the lodge.

The path was in good condition,

but it was still four hours
before our curious procession

reached the pasture.

It was approaching midday.

I was completely exhausted,

less from physical effort
than from nervous tension.

Something new began.

I didn't know what it would bring me.

But my homesickness and anxiety
about the future lost ground.

I started to realise that the Alm
is beautiful, strange and dangerous.

But like all strange things,
it is filled with secret seductions.

It was a strange feeling,
to have an overview of a wide area

unhindered by mountains and trees.

And it was not immediately
comfortable and liberating.

My eyes had to get used to it,

after a year
in the narrow, deep, circular valley.

During my time in the pasture
I wrote no diary entries.

I had taken the diary with me
and dutifully ticked off each day,

but I didn't even enter important events
such as the hay harvest.

The memory of that time
has remained fresh, however,

and it isn't hard
for me to write about it.

I shall never forget
the fragrance of summer,

the rainstorms
and the evenings glittering with stars.

For the first time in my life
I was calm;

not content or happy, but calm.

It was as if a big hand
had stopped the clock in my head.

Sometimes my thoughts grow confused,

and it is as if the forest
has put down roots in me,

and is thinking its old,
eternal thoughts with my brain.

Back then, in the second summer,
I hadn't reached that point.

The demarcation lines
were still rigidly drawn.

I find it hard when writing to separate
my old self from my new self,

and I'm not sure that my new self

isn't being slowly absorbed
into some greater "we".

But even then
the transformation was coming.

It was the Alm's fault.

It was almost impossible,
in the buzzing stillness of the meadow,

beneath the big sky,
to remain a single and separate self,

a little, blind, independent life

that didn't want to fit in
with a greater being.

My chief source of pride had been
that I was such a life,

but in the Alm it suddenly struck me
as pathetic and absurd,

an over-inflated nothing.

On the 16th of October,
after my return from the pasture,

I began to keep my diary again.

For almost all of October
the weather was fine.

I now made
the most of the promising climate

and doubled my wood supply.

On All Saints' Day
it suddenly grew warm,

and I knew that this
could only herald winter.

On the 10th of December,
I find a strange entry:

"Time is passing so quickly".

I can't remember having written it.

I don't know what happened
on that 10th of December

that led me to write, beneath
"New-fallen snow" and "Fetched hay":

"Time is passing so quickly".

Was time passing particularly quickly
back then?

I can't remember
or give an account of it.

And it isn't true.

It was merely
it seemed that way to me.

I think time stands quite still
and I move around in it,

sometimes slowly
and sometimes at a furious rate.

I do something, things race ahead,
and I forget time.

And then, quite suddenly,
it surrounds me again.

I shall have to get used to it,
its indifference and omnipresence.

Since Lynx died I feel that clearly.

I sit at the table
and time stands still.

I can't see it, smell it or hear it,

but it surrounds me on all sides.

Its silence and motionlessness
is terrible.

Really, these thoughts
are quite meaningless.

I pity animals,
and I pity people,

as they're cast into this life
without being consulted.

Maybe people are more pitiable,

as they have just enough intelligence
to resist the natural course of things.

It has made them wicked and desperate,
and not very lovable.

All the same,
life could have been lived differently.

There is no impulse
more rational than love.

It makes life more bearable
for the lover and the loved one.

We should have recognised in time
that this was our only chance,

our only hope for a better life.

For an endless army of the dead,

mankind's only chance
has vanished forever.

I keep thinking about that.

I can't understand
why we had to take the wrong path.

I only know it's too late.

This autumn a white crow appeared.

It flies a little behind the others,

and settles alone on a tree
avoided by its companions.

I can't understand
why the other Crow's don't like it.

I think
it's a particularly beautiful bird.

But its fellows find it repugnant.

A miserable anomaly
that shouldn't exist: a white crow.

It sits there
until the great flock has flown away,

and then I bring it a little food.

It can't know why it's been ostracised;

that's the only life it knows.

It will always be an outcast,
and so alone

that it is less afraid of people
than its black brethren.

Every day I wait for the white crow
and call to it,

and it looks at me attentively
with its reddish eyes.

I can do very little for it.

Perhaps my scraps are prolonging a life
that shouldn't be prolonged.

But I want the white crow to live,

and sometimes I dream
there's another one in the forest

and that they will find each other.

I don't believe it will happen;
I just wish it dearly.

Gradually I began to disengage me
from my past

and grow into a new order.

It was May by the time
the weather really improved.

Two years had passed in the forest.

The idea that someone
might at last find me

hardly crossed my mind any more.

I decided to set off soon
for the alpine pasture.

By the beginning of June
I'd managed to get used to the Alm,

but it wasn't as it had been
the previous year.

That first summer there
was gone irrevocably,

and I didn't want
a feeble repetition of it,

so I kept myself from succumbing
once more to the old magic.

But the pasture
didn't make this hard for me;

it had closed itself to me
and showed me an unfamiliar face.

That year
I again often sat on that bench

looking out over the meadow.

It hadn't changed from before,

and smelt just as sweet,

but I didn't go into
the old raptures ever again.

I'd stopped making longer expeditions,

for I'd drawn up my boundaries
the previous summer.

I no longer cared where the wall lay.

That summer I quite forgot
that Lynx was a dog and I a human.

I knew it, but it had lost
any distinctive meaning.

Lynx too had changed.

Now he had so much of my attention,
he had grown calmer,

and didn't seem constantly afraid
that I might vanish into thin air

as soon as he went off for five minutes.

Thinking about it today,

I believe this
was the only big fear in his dog's life:

being abandoned on his own.

I too had learned a lot more,

and understood
almost all his movements and noises.

Now, at last, mute comprehension
reigned between us.

I carried Lynx to the hut

and laid him on the bench.

He'd suddenly grown small and light.

And then, as if from a great distance,
I heard Bella roaring.

She was beside herself with fear.

I tried to calm her down.

Only then did I remember the man.

I knew he must be dead;

he had been such a big target
that I couldn't have missed.

I was glad he was dead;

it would have been hard for me
to kill an injured person.

Yet I couldn't have left him alive.

Or maybe I could, I don't know.

I didn't want to leave him on the meadow

beside the dead bull,
in the virgin grass.

So I picked him up by the legs

and dragged him
to the vantage point.

There, where the rocks
fall steeply to the scree slope

and alpine roses bloom in June,
I let him roll down the hill.

I dug a grave for Lynx in the evening.

I dug the hole deep, laid Lynx into it,

covered it with earth
and stamped the grass down over it.

And then I was very tired,

more tired than ever before.

Then I sat down on the bench
and waited for the long night.

It was a bright, starlit night,

and the wind blew coldly down
from the cliffs.

But I was colder than the wind
and didn't feel the chill.

At first light I got up
and left the Alm with Bella.

The next day I resumed my usual work.

October came,
and I harvested potatoes and fruit.

The straw needed cutting,
but that took only a week,

and finally,
physically beaten and broken,

I abandoned my senseless flight

and confronted my thoughts.

To no end.

I would like to know
why the stranger killed my animals.

I shall never find out,
and perhaps it is better that way.

Now I am quite calm.

I can see a short distance ahead.

I can see that this is not yet over.

Everything goes on.

Bullock, Pearl and Lynx
will never exist again,

but something new is coming,
and I can't escape that.

The memories,
the grief and the fear will remain,

as will the hard work,
for as long as I live.

Today, the 25th of February,

I am ending my report.

There isn't
a single sheet of paper left.

It's now around five o'clock
in the evening,

and now so light
that I can write without the lamp.

The crows have risen,
and circle screeching over the forest.

When they are out of sight

I shall go to the clearing
and feed the white crow.

It will already be waiting for me.

FOR E.P.

THE WALL

Subrip by mitbrille
Karagarga@2013

There was no subtitle from
00:59:46 to 01:00:17.

BacklineHero's ( http://subscene.com/subtitles/the-wall-die-wand/english/863864 )
custom translation was inserted there by TnS.