All language subtitles for Golven.en

WAVES

on the novel of the same name
by Virginia Woolf (1931)

in the film were shot:

Atat Celelen / Neville /.

Thea Kosterink / Roda /.

Mikhel Van Roy / Louis /.

Truyus Te Selle / Ginny /.

Marianne Steiger / Susan /

Edwin De Fries / Bernard /

and in the role of Percival -
Gerard-Jan Reinders.

Composer Luis Andrisen.

Operator Theo van de Sande.

Written and directed
by Annette Apon.

"I see the ring," Bernard said.

"It's hanging over me." Trembling
and hanging in a loop of light.

I see a yellow liquid smear, -
Susan was talking.

He spreads and runs off into the distance,
until he stumbles on the red strip.

"I hear a sound," Roda said.

Chick-chirik; Chick-chirik; Up down.

"I see the balloon,"
Neville said, "he was

hanging down on the huge
side of the mountain."

"I see a red brush," Ginny said,
"she's threaded with gold threads."

"I hear someone
stomping," Louis said.

"A huge beast is chained by a chain."
And stomping, stomping, stomping.

"Bernard, Neville, Ginny
and Susan are running

rampets into the flower
beds," Louis says.

Peel the surface of the world.

They shout: "Louis, Louis!",
But they do not see me.

I'm hidden behind the hedge.

O Lord, let them throw their butterflies
on a handkerchief on the road.

If only they did not see me.

I am green, like a yew, in
the shadow of this hedge.

Hair - from leaves.

There's something pink glimmering past.

Between the leaves a quick glance.
His ray scorches me.

Ginny found me.

Something hit me in the back of my neck.

She kissed me.

And it overturned everything.

"After breakfast," Ginny
said, "I ran at a run."

Suddenly I see: The leaves
on the fence are moving.

I thought - the bird is
sitting on the nest.

I spread the branches and looked;

I see there are no birds.

And the leaves are moving.
I was frightened.

I cry myself, but I run
and run, all faster.

Why did the leaves jump so much?

Why is my heart jumping so much and
my legs will not be able to crouch?

And I rushed here and I see -
you stand, green like a bush,

you stand quietly, quietly,
Louis, and your eyes are frozen.

I thought: "Suddenly he died?" -
and I kissed you,

and my heart pounded
under the pink dress

and trembled like leaves,
it's unclear why.

"Susan passed us by,"
Bernard was speaking.

I'll follow her, Neville.

Quietly go after her, to be near
at hand with all my curiosity;

To console her when she walks, she
will cry and think: "I'm alone."

The golden warmth in my side
turned to stone, - Susan said, -

when I saw: Ginny kisses Louis.

I'll squeeze my anguish,
squeeze it in my handkerchief.

I'll go to lessons in a beech grove, alone.

"There's a white house, it's stretched
out among the trees," Bernard said.

This is Alvedon.

A lady sits between
two tall windows. The

gardeners sweep the
meadow with huge brooms.

We came here first.
We are the discoverers of new lands.

White-white - all my ships, -
Rod spoke.

Let the white petals float
when I swing the pelvis.

From the shore to the
shore floats my flotilla.

You can be a little alone,

While Miss Hudson is laying out
textbooks on the school desk.

A little while to be free.

And I will swing back
and forth a dark basin,

so that my ships will
overcome the waves.

Some will drown.

Others will break against the rocks.

Only one will remain. My ship.

"Where is this Bernard?" Neville said.

He left and my knife carried away.

We were in a barn, cut out boats,
and Susan walked past the door.

And Bernard threw his boat,
followed her, and took my knife.

Bringing me down;
Runs for Susan;

Susan will cry, and he will pull
out my knife and tell her stories.

Well, call, we'll be late.

We must give up toys.

And all enter the classroom together.

When I meet a stranger

and I want to show him,
here, at this table,

what I call "my life",

I'm not looking back for one life;

I'm not one person; I'm a few:

Ginny,

Susan,

Neville,

Family,

Louis...

To give you an idea of my life,
I must tell you a story,

but there are so many, there
are so many of them -

about childhood, about school,

about love, marriage,
about death and so on;

And all is a complete lie.

I'll tell you a story
about our doctor.

When Dr. Crane dives into the
wide door after evening prayers,

he seems to be convinced of
his immense superiority;

Let's imagine how he reveals himself
in his own room over the stables.

He unfastens the socks from
the elastic bands (let us

allow ourselves this
vulgarity, this indiscretion).

Dropping both hands along the
armrests of the chair, he reflects

(the moment is purely intimate;
But here we will cover it):

Is it worth crossing the pink bridge
to the bedroom or is it not worth it?

Two of these rooms are
united by a bridge of pink

light from a lamp at the head of Mrs.
Crane,

which, scattering hair on the
pillow, reads French memoirs.

At the same time, she sadly, happily passes
her hand across her forehead and sighs:

"And it's all?",

comparing himself with
the French duchess.

So, the doctor thinks, in
two years - resignation.

I could become an admiral; Judge;
Not a school teacher.

What mighty evil forces
brought me here? -

he asks and notices with longing,

that a burgundy fleecy carpet had grown
bald beneath the foot of his chair.

But how difficult it is to tell stories
about people in their private corners.

I can not continue this story.

Bernard says everything
in the world is history.

I'm history. Louis is history. We are
all phrases for the history of Bernard.

They murmur and effervesce - images.

From his stupid comparisons the
soul becomes empty, light.

And you flow and bubble,
as it is his murmur.

And then we all feel that
among us lies Percival.

I'm furious, I believe, bygone.

He was bored; I was bored too;

Bernard instantly feels
that we are bored.

I discern the stretch, the
pressure in his phrase,

as if he said: "Listen!",
and Percival said: "No!"

The phrase stumbles, fades.

Yes, it's a terrible moment when
Bernard's authority is changing him,

and there is no already connected plot, and
he settles, he trembles like a torn wire,

and he stops, his mouth gaping,
as if about to burst open.

Rising, I think every step,

with each trample something.

And every night I tear out the
old day from the calendar

and I squeeze into a tight ball.

So you end, died, you,
school day, hateful day.

All the days of June -
today the twenty-fifth -

Here they marked out, riddled
with gong blows, lessons,

teams - to wash,
change, engage, eat.

And at home the hay is in the meadows.

Dad smokes, leaning his elbows on the gate.

Then one door in the house
will knock, then another,

When an empty spring wind blows
through an empty corridor.

All this I see, I always see when we
go up the stairs by this mirror -

Ginny is in front, Rod
is woven from behind.

I do not tolerate a small
mirror at this site.

Only our heads show;

Cuts off our heads.

And I jump over the steps,
quickly to another platform,

where a tall mirror hangs and
I see myself as a whole.

Now I see myself all the
time - head and body;

Even in this twill dress
they are one whole,

my head and body.

I'm in awe, I'm dancing.

I shiver, as that leaf
trembled on the fence

and frightened me -
then, in my childhood.

I do not know how, like Susan, to stand
lost, in tears remembering the house;

Or, like Rod, huddled in the
ferns, planting a pink dress,

dream of flowers on the bottom of the sea,

about the rocks between which
slowly swims the fish.

I can not dream.

This is my face - there, in the
mirror, over Susan's shoulder.

But I'll duck, I'll
hide it, I'm not here.

I have no face.

Others have; Susan and Ginny have
faces; Here they are both here.

Their world is this, the real world.

What they raise has a weight.

They say "Yes"; They say "No";

And I am flaying and mnus and in a
second is visible right through.

To think, with what astonishing conviction
Ginny pulls on these stockings -

just play tennis.

It fascinates me.

When I am alone, I often
fall into nothingness.

I have to bang my head against the
hard door to go back, into myself.

These bouncers all
went to cricket.

If I could go with them, be among them,
I would give everything I know for it.

But they also throw trembling
butterflies, cutting off their wings;

Rasshvyrivayut in the corners of dirty,
stuck together, bloody handkerchiefs.

Lead up to the roar of
small on dark corridors.

Large red ears stick out
from under their caps.

And that's what we would
like to be - me and Neville.

I look with envy when they pass.

That Percival and left.

He only thinks about this match.

Despises me for being
too sick for cricket

(though always so sympathizes
with my this vileness).

He complains of my devotion;

Accepts my quivering and, what
to say, belittled sacrifice,

mixed with contempt for his mind.

He does not know how to read.

Although, when I'm lying in the tall
grass, I read Shakespeare or Catullus,

he understands more than Louis.

Not words - but what words?

It's clear that it's my destiny to stick
to the surface of words all my life.

But I could not live with him.
He will be rude and snoring.

Marries, will go scenes of
tenderness at breakfast.

But now - how he is young.

Nothing, there is not a piece of
paper between him and the sun,

between him and the rain,

between him and the moon,

when he, naked, hot,
rushes to the bed.

Here we are with a crash
screwed into the tunnel.

The master closes the window.

The tunnel flies behind the shining
window, and I look at the reflections.

The gentleman lowered the newspaper.

And he smiles at my
reflection in the tunnel.

My body immediately, in itself,
releases a ryushik under his gaze.

My body lives its own life.

The black window again becomes green.
We broke free.

He reads his newspaper. But our bodies
have already exchanged greetings.

Here we go.

I, not bound to anything,
hang out over the abyss.

We are nowhere.

We're on the train in England.

And I, actually, have nowhere to go.

Bernard and Neville,
Percival and all the rest

go to Oxford, to Cambridge,

in Edinburgh, Rome, Paris, Berlin,

in some American university.

I will not know where to
know how to make money.

I will be jealous of the
smoothness of their progress

under the shadow of
traditions and age-old yew,

while I involuntarily jakshayus
with office rats or with muzhlans

and trample down the London pavement.

So, in proof of my sensitivity
to the atmosphere,

hardly I enter the room, turn on
the light, I see a sheet of paper,

table, my robe, sleepily stretched
on the back of the chair,

I feel myself to be that dashing,
though reasoning person,

the risky, desperate type,

who, having easily thrown off his cloak,

There is a pen and he
writes a letter to the

girl, in which he is in
love without memory.

It will be a brilliant opus, written, she
decides, in one spirit, without amendments.

Who do I keep in mind?
Byron, of course.

So let's proceed without
sighing, giving ourselves

up to the rhythm of
the oncoming lines...

But suddenly everything niknet.
He's bursting.

It was not possible to give a pair, with
a running start to overcome the flight.

My true self has fallen
off the fictional.

No, I'd better write a letter in the
morning, right after breakfast.

- Who am I?
- I'm asking.

Bernard in public - the soul of society;
In a tight circle he is secretive.

That's what they do not understand.

They do not understand that I have
to make different transformations;

Cover the appearance and departure
of many different people,

alternately playing the role of Bernard.

You read Byron.

You mark out the places that
justify your own character.

You spent this line with
a pencil, and thought:

"I, too, are now taking off my cloak.
I also show my nose to fate."

Only Byron did not make tea like you:
Pour the kettle over the edge,

and when you cover it with a lid,
everything immediately splits.

There's a dark puddle on your table -
spreads among books and papers.

You squeeze it helplessly
with your handkerchief.

No, it's not Byron;

It's you; This is so typical of you,

that if I remember you
in about twenty years,

when both of us will be glorified, swollen
and unbearable, then this is the scene;

And if you die by
that time, I'll cry.

In me there is only one person, I myself.

I do not reincarnate in
Catullus, whom I adore.

You do not listen to me!

And while you are gesticulating,
you play with a cloak and a cane,

I'm trying to tell you a secret that
has not yet been revealed to anyone;

I ask you to take my
life into your own hands

and tell me, is it really
for eternity that I am

doomed to cause disgust
in those whom I love.

Is it a poet or not a poet?
On, get it.

The whole charge of my
lips I now release into

you, when I throw you - catch it!
- My poems.

Flew out the door like an arrow from a bow.

He left his poems.

Oh friendship, I, too,
know how to dry roses

between the pages of
Shakespeare's sonnets!

As the fog rose, swirling...

I will not die - I will not
forget this sign of trust.

Swept away all the similarities.

No, you're not Byron, you're you.

But in me I am more than
I think Neville thinks.

We are not as simple as our friends would
be capable of for their own needs.

In the foreground there
are glass shelves, and

there are puffs, bread
and ham on dishes.

I can not read a book, and I can not
order steak steadily, resolutely.

I look at the people
at the nearest table,

so as not to blunder and
do everything like them.

Flabby, with a withered skin,

tenacious, like monkeys (now
pomaded for some reason),

they are discussing the sale of the piano
with all the appropriate importance.

Here it is - the main rhythm;
Cross-cutting motif.

But it does not capture
me, does not absorb.

I, who, like everyone else, want to
hide under a flat wave of mediocrity, -

I'm an outsider, a stranger.

I woke up in the garden,

from a blow to the back of the head,

from the hot kiss of Ginny.

I always sleep, I wake up.

I'm forever the youngest,
innocent, trusting.

All of you are covered.
I'm naked.

I can not be separated
from this, not torn off.

I am the field, the barn, I am the trees.

I was sent to school; Sent to complete
the education in Switzerland.

I hate linoleum;
I hate fir trees and mountains.

Sometimes I think
that I'm not a woman,

and the light falling on
this grass, on the gate.

But now I feel the weight
that formed in my side.

Something has accumulated, accumulated, at
school, in Switzerland, something solid.

What I give is hard.

I do not know how to go with the
flow, get lost in the crowd.

But soon, on a hot noon,
when bees buzz over levkoi,

he will come, the one whom I will love.

And he will only say one word to me,
and I will answer with only one word.

I will have children; There will be maids
in aprons; Workers with pitchforks;

Kitchen, where they bring in the
baskets sick lambs to warm;

Where the ham hanging
and the onion glistens.

And I will, like my mother, silently,
in a blue apron, lock the cupboards.

This is my world.

Among the sparkling-green,
pink and pearl women

are very straight men.
They are black and white.

I again see that old reflection
in the tunnel window.

Black and white identical
strangers look at me;

I throw someone "Yes."

I throw another "No".

Someone breaks from his
place under the tapestry.

We are picked up by
splashing, timid music.

Our bodies - his solid body, my fluid
body - are clenched by her body.

She keeps us together; And
then rolled out in waves,

covers us, gently, roundly,
and carries, carries.

Diving in flight like a
bird, here is one of my

phrases overcoming the
emptiness between us.

The separating partition is falling us.

I was allowed into the warmth and
secrecy of someone else's soul.

We are together, alone,
high in the alpine meadows.

Here it is, a minute of delight.

And now it is over.

There was a chill between us.
We fade.

The door opens.

And I think the door will open -
and my whole life will change.

The door opens;
The tiger jumps up.

The door opens; Horror enters;

Horror after horror haunt me.

The door opens, people enter;

They come to me.

Skinning smiles to hide
cruelty, to hide indifference,

they take me by surprise.

We must give him a hand;
It is necessary to answer.

But what will I answer?

I'm thrown back and stand, and I'm burning
in this clumsy, poorly-fitting body.

Hide, I scream, protect me, I'm
the youngest, the most naked.

I'm all chopped up;
Everything is disjointed.

I'll go, I think, as if I remembered
something, through the living room,

on the balcony under a canopy.

I see the sky, gently pinned
by the moon suddenly shining.

And I also see the park fence

and two, without faces leaning
against the sky, like statues.

The couple in love was sitting
under the plane tree.

A policeman's watch is on the corner.

Someone passes.

There is, there is, therefore,
a world conspiracy to change.

Five to eight.

I came early.

Took place at this table ten
minutes before the deadline,

to savor every moment
of anticipation;

Seeing the door open, say:
"Is it Percival? No, this is not Percival."

What a sweet torture - to say:
"No, this is not Percival."

This is the table for which he sits.

Here, however it seems unthinkable,
it will be him, in the flesh.

The door opens, but it's not him.

This Louis is rushing to the doorstep.

This is his strange mixture
of timidity and arrogance.

Entering, he examines
himself in the mirror;

Touches the hair.

He is incredulous, overbearing, difficult.

But how striking he is,
laughter in his eyes.

Here Susan.

Not priparadilas:
Despises the London vanity.

For a moment she stayed in the door,

Looks like a small animal,
blinded by bright lamps.

Here - moved.

She has insinuating, but true steps (even
between tables and chairs) of a wild beast.

Whom Susan will fall in love with, will
be pierced like a sharp bird's beak,

nailed to the gate of the barn.

But there are moments when I even
want to be picked up and punched

and nailed to the gate of
the barn, once and for all.

And here is Rod, from nowhere;

Slipped, probably,
until we looked.

Walking twisty, probably, then hiding
behind the backs of the waiters,

then under the cover of a twisted column,
to delay the horror of recognition longer.

We wake her up. We torment.

She is afraid of us,
she despises us,

but still doomed,

because how cruel we are, there
is always a name, a face,

whose radiance will illuminate her path and
help her to populate her dreams again.

That's Ginny.
It is on the threshold.

She was staring at dinner
at a table near the door.

It is in the center;

Tables, doors, windows, ceiling -
all diverge from it with rays,

and they are surging with waves, and
are being poured out with novelty.

We are changing.
Louis plucks the knot of the tie.

Nevil - he waits, having
frozen, not himself -

nervously corrects the
device before his plate.

And I - though I collect all
wet grass in an armful,

and the gusts of the winter
wind, storming to our house,

to protect her from my soul, -

I feel her laughter surrounding
me with the tongues of flame,

mercilessly lighting
up my useless dress

and my square nails.

He is not. This is Bernard.

Every time the door opens, Neville
stumbles into the table -

eye lift does not dare,

Then he looks at the second
and says: "He did not come."

But here it is.

The heart jumps.
Spread the soul.

They took all the obstacles.

The kingdom of chaos is over.
He brought order.

The ability to cut was
returned to the knives.

Here is Percival.
Not priparadilsya.

Here is Percival. Hair smooth.

Not out of vanity (he did not look at the
mirror), but to humor the god of propriety.

He observes the conventions.

Now that he is about to leave
us, he will go to India,

all the little things grow,
everything is selected one to one.

He's a hero.

Leaf danced on the fence,
and no one blew on him.

In a corner, baked in the sun, petals
floated along the green depths.

In Elvedon, the gardeners were chopping,
chalking with their huge brooms,

and the woman sat at the table and wrote.

The minute was ringing.
Sharkali and giggled maids.

There, chairs moved along the linoleum.

But from one attic there was such a blue
view, a distant view of the meadows,

not touched, not soiled by
this measured exhaustion.

Suddenly, enraged, I grabbed my poems,

I threw my poems, I
ran, slamming the door.

Having lost sight of you, I
was sitting in my office,

tore off the pages from the calendar

and proclaimed to the world of ship
brokers, grain speculators and office rats,

that Thursday, the day of the ninth of
July, or Friday, the seventeenth day,

ascended now over the city of London.

But now we are together.

We were attracted and united by
one deep, one general feeling.

Can not you call him conditionally "love"?

Can you call it "love of Percival",
since Percival is going to India?

No, it's too narrow, too
targeted designation.

Here is the red carnation in the vase.

One whole flower, while
we sat and waited,

and now - a seven-sided flower,

multimachine, scarlet, crimson,

touched by purple,

frozen with silvered leaves -

an integral flower, and everyone's
eyes give him new wealth.

Between us is the difference,

maybe so deep that
it's hard to explain.

But I'll try.

Entering, I smoothed my hair,
trying to become like you all.

In vain attempts, because I'm not
like you, individual, whole.

I'm monstrously vanity,

I need air like the
sympathetic sighs of women.

I deliberately did not dine today, that
Susan thought - how deadly pale he is,

and Ginny poured a precious
balm of her sympathy on me.

But, admiring Susan and
Percival, I hate everyone else,

because because of them I
go for all these things:

Smooth my hair, try
to hide my accent.

You can never hate me.

At the far end of the room you look at
me and come up, looking for sympathy.

When I sat down, you all straightened your
ties, hid your hands under the table.

And I have nothing to hide.

Every time the door
opens, I scream: "More!"

I can not imagine anything beyond
the circle set by my body.

None of you saw me enter.

I came early;

Quickly and quickly went right here
to sit next to someone I love.

There is a life in my life
that you never dreamed of.

I am like a hound, who took the trail.
I'm hurrying from dawn to dusk.

I will have wealth; And glory be.

But I will never
have what I want.

With my troubles, I
cause pity - not love.

And I suffer unbearably.

I see everything with complete clarity.
This is my salvation.

If only to believe that I will grow
old in pursuit and forever changing,

I would be saved from this fear:
There is nothing lasting.

In one minute you do not
know what will happen next.

The door opens, the tiger jumps.

You did not see me enter.

I was circling around the chairs, I was
hiding from this fear: Here - will jump.

I'm afraid of all of you.

I'm afraid: Here - it will
come, jump, fall down -

because I can not, like you,
dissolve one minute into another.

But above all I
dream of a refuge,

but because when I fall behind
Ginny and Susan on the stairs,

pretending to have a goal.

I was drawn across the whole of London
to this place, precisely at this hour

not at all in order to
see you, you or you,

no, but to throw your beam

into your even flame,
indivisible, whole, carefree.

When I entered here,

I stopped at the doorstep

and looked around, as the beast looks
around, whose eyes are near the ground.

I hate this smell -
carpets, furniture, perfume.

I like to wander through
raw meadows, alone.

Of all that comes out of the mouth,
only the cries of love reach me,

hatred, anger and pain.

So to talk - it's like
to undress an old woman:

It seemed that she was one with clothes,

and we say, we speak, and
gooseflesh is found,

and crumpled thighs, and drooping breasts.

When you are silent,
you are again so good!

I will never have anything
but ordinary happiness.

My children will continue me.

Winters and winds will raise me so high
on the ridges as you never dreamed.

I will shamelessly spur on the
happiness of my children.

But I'm sick with jealousy.

I hate Ginny

because I notice with her that my hands
are red and my nails are bitten.

I can not bear the yoke of loneliness.

I do not see how the
words over me circling

smoky rings - and I'm in
darkness, I'm nothing.

At Louis, when he is alone, the
hawkish vigilance breaks through,

and he throws out two or three volatile
lines that will all of us survive.

Rode is better than one.

She is afraid of us because,

that we break the sense of
existence, so acute alone.

Look how the fork clamps -
weapons against us.

We have expanded feelings.

Our membranes, nervous gossip, we
used to hang around, white, flabby,

and now they strained, stretched themselves
and we were covered by a floating network,

and it makes the air tangible

and from it he chooses such distant
sounds, which do not happen in the world.

Percival is leaving.

We are sitting here, surrounded,
illuminated, colorful;

All - hands, curtains, knives and forks,

foreign chewing jaw -
flows into one another.

We are all within these walls.

But India is far away.

I see India.

I see a couple of oxen, they pull
the cart along the sun-baked road.

Here's one wheel bogged down in a rut,

and at once, from nowhere, the
natives run off in loincloths,

excited lopotcha.

But they will not strike a finger.

Time seems endless and
unnecessary all efforts.

But behold, there is Percival;

Percival on a mare overcome by
a gadfly, in a cork helmet.

In the course are the Western standards,
the word-whip, as he knows how,

and - five minutes does not pass -
the cart is out of trouble.

The problem of the East is solved.

He jumps on; The crowd is swarming around,
as if he is - yes, that is, he is God.

All is fluid gold, I tell him:
"Come to me," and he walks.

Our hands touched,
burned us like fire.

A chair, a glass, a table.
Everything lit up.

Everything trembles, ignites,
everything burns to the ground.

What important we are sitting here.

Everything is real; Everything is
solid, no shadows, no fantasies.

And our beauty shines.
My beauty, the beauty of Susan.

We are tight, cool.

Our differences are clearer than the
shadows of the mountains on a bright day.

And again, when we are about to
leave, having paid the bill,

the cycle of our blood will
again swell into a ring.

Something has been created.

We are creators.

We tried to stick out our differences.

From the desire to be
separate we emphasized

our shortcomings, our
own peculiarities.

But the chain is spinning and circling...

Yes, rising, nervously trailing a little,

we pray, keeping our common feeling:
"Do not move,".

Do not let the revolving door smash
into smithereens what we created,

this ball, shining among
the lamps, and cleaning,

and bread crumbs, and
other people's fuss.

"Keep it to yourself forever."

Let's hold this for a moment.

Love, hate, but
whatever you call it,

This ball, whose shell was created
from Percival, and youth, and beauty,

and something that is so deep inside
us that such a moment, probably,

with any one person
we will never see.

There are forests in it; And distant
countries beyond the world,

the sea and the jungle;

Howling jackals, and the moonbeam pours
up the top, and above it eagles eaves.

It is the happiness and
quiet of simple things.

A table, a chair, a book
with a knife in the pages.

It is the days of the week.
Monday Tuesday;

Horses go out into the
meadows, and horses return;

Rooks fly up and down, weave
a net and weave an elm.

Here - the agony began;
Horror overtook me with my fangs.

Here have served a taxi;
Percival leaves.

What should we do, how to keep it?

How to cover this distance between us?

As for all future times to give a signal,

that we, standing on this street, in the
light of this lantern, loved Percival?

Here is Percival with us and no.

He is dead.

The horse stumbled.

Everything is over.

The lights of the world have gone out.

Oh! Crumble this telegram, -

to give light again to fill the world, -

exclaim that it can not be!

But why shake your head?

It's true. It is a fact.

From that moment on, I'm alone.

No one else will know me.

Only for this single moment -
we are together. I hold you to my chest.

Eat me, the pain. Tear with your claws.
Rwee on the part.

Look at this street - now
that Percival is dead!

I'm alone in the enemy world.

I need publicity, violence, and that I
am thrown off like a stone from a cliff.

I'll throw myself into stormy waves and
drown, if only they do not save me.

Such here gave me
Percival his death:

Faces, faces - like soup
plates served by cooks;

Stupid, greedy, rude;

They are all hung up with shopping,
they look in the windows;

They build eyes, rush past,
they break everything

and even our love is
dirty, dirty fingers paw.

I'm thinking about Louis now,

he reads the sports
department in the newspaper,

he is afraid of
appearing ridiculous.

So he will efface the death of
Percival, to his own satisfaction.

Bernard, meanwhile, with tear-stained
eyes, will fall into an armchair.

He will take out his notebook;

Under the letter C will write: "Phrases,
used on the death of friends."

Ginny - skok on the arm
of the chair - will

ask: "And he loved me?
More than Susan, right?"

Susan, there, in her village,
wedded to her farmer,

stiffens with a telegram and
with a plate in his hand;

Then a nimble shoe slam the oven.

Nevil, standing all in tears at the window,
suddenly sees through the tears and asks:

"Who is it going there?"
What a wonderful boy?"

There is a river;
There steamships go to India.

A woman walks along the deck, around her
jumps around and goes barking a doggie.

They go out into the sea;
They leave us.

In a wave that beats against the shore,

In a wave that covers the earth
at the very edge with white foam,

I'll throw my violets -
my gift to Percival.

I'm standing here, at this
subway station, where

everything that my heart
desires converges.

But my God!
Is it really me in the mirror?

How miserable, how
shriveled, how old I am!

Yes, my youth passed.

Millions died.

Percival was dead.

And I'm still moving.
All I live.

But who will come, if
now give a signal?

A trembling creature -
that's who I am, with

flanks walking fearfully,
with a thumping heart.

But no, I will not be a coward.

It so at me, minute,
casually itself saw,

time was not prepared for what
I see, as I always prepare, -

Here and saves.

But now I give myself my word of
honor: Do not be afraid any more.

The elevators rise and plop down;

The trains stop, the trains start
moving steadily, like waves.

This world is for me.

So I'll powder it and make up my lips.
I will mark the shallow brows brusque.

And time drops a drop.

Last week I stood, shaved,
and this drop fell.

Standing with a razor in my
hand, I suddenly realized

that I was acting
mechanically, by pure habit.

All day at work, in breaks, my thoughts,
circling, stumbled upon emptiness,

and I asked myself:
"What's lost, what's over?"

When I buttoned my cloak before leaving
home, I said quite theatrically:

"Youth passed away."

This time, while passing by the travel
agency, I bought a ticket to Rome.

And now I sit on a stone bench in the
garden and look at the Eternal City.

Many things have passed.

I have experienced other desires;

I lost friends, some because of death.
Percival,

others solely because of laziness:
Take and cross the street.

And not so I am talented,
as at one time it seemed.

How many years I smug self-satisfied: "My
children... my wife... my house... my dog."

Opening the front door with his key,

Having performed the
usual order of the

meeting, I wrapped myself
in this warm cover.

Now she was asleep.

I have already written thousands
of different stories;

Uncountable notebooks filled
with phrases in case,

when I attack the true story,

that story, where by the way
all my phrases will come.

But so far I have not attacked her.

Here I also ask:
Are they stories?

Here I am here as a snake shedding my skin,

and after all about me only they will say
that "Bernard went for ten days to Rome."

Well, I will explain to you
the meaning of my life.

Since we do not know each other,
we can talk without hiding.

And now it seems that
this is my life.

If only it were possible, I
would give it to you whole.

I would break off as a
bunch of grapes break off.

Would say: "Please.
Here is my life for you."

But, to the trouble, what I see (this
full image of the ball), you can not see.

You see me sitting
opposite you at the table,

an elderly gentleman, in a
body, with gray temples.

You see, as I take a
napkin, I straighten it.

I pour myself a glass of wine.

You see how behind the door opens
the door, someone enters, leaves.

But for you to understand me,
to give you an idea of my life,

I must tell you a story -

but there are so many, there
are so many of them -

about childhood, about school, about
love, marriage, about death and so on;

And all is a complete lie.

So no, we, as children,
tell each other stories

and to paint them, we compose
funny, colorful, beautiful phrases.

This Susan cried the day I was
in the barn with Neville;

And my indifference melted away.

Neville did not melt.

"Therefore," I said, "I'm not Neville,
I'm on my own," is an amazing discovery.

Susan cried, and I followed her.

Far, far below, beyond
the thick foliage, the

gardeners took the
meadow with huge brooms.

The lady was sitting writing.

Shocked, dumbfounded, I thought: "I can
not prevent a single stroke of a broom."

They sweep and sweep.
And the lady writes and writes everything."

How strange - you can not stop these
brooms, nor drive this lady away.

So they stuck in me for life.

When I meet a stranger

and I want to show him, here, at
this table, what I call "my life",

I'm not looking back for one life;

I'm not one person; I'm a few;

I can not even say with
certainty who I am -

Ginny, Susan, Neville, Roda, Louis;

And how to separate me
from their lives is mine.

Here, on my forehead, is the blow
that I felt when Percival fell.

Here, at my back, a kiss is
burning since Ginny kissed Louis.

I have tears in my eyes Susan.

Far, far away, like a
golden quivering thread,

I see the pillar that Rod saw,

and I hear how, when she jumped,
the wind thundered in her ears.

The wave also rises in me.

It swells; Arching his back.

What enemy do we
see now before us?

It's death.

Death is the enemy.

Against death, I jump, holding
the spear at the head,

and my hair flows back
like a young man,

As at Percival, when
he rode through India.

I give the spurs a horse.

Unbeaten, unconquered, I'll
throw at you, O Death!

Subtitle preparation: Leburs, 2011
I The translation of Elena Surits /