All language subtitles for The.Pillow.Book.1996.1080p.BluRay.H264.AAC-RARBG

It was on my fourth birthday...

when my aunt was reading
Sei Shonagon...

that I saw my father and
his publisher together...

for the first time.

Though I�m certain that any clear
understanding of what I had witnessed...

would have to wait
until I was much older.

On my sixth birthday...

at the Matsuo Tiasha shrine
in Kyoto,

Encouraged by my aunt,

I vowed I would keep
a diary.

A pillow book of my own.

I would fill it with
all manner of observations,

Just like Sei Shonagon.

Perhaps one day, like her,

I could fill it with accounts
of all my lovers.

On the same day as I started
to keep my own pillow book,

I met my future husband
for the first time.

I was six.
He was ten.

We did not exchange a word.

He had been handpicked
by my father's publisher.

Like Sei Shonagon, my sense
of smell was very strong.

I enjoyed the smell of paper
of all kinds.

It reminded me
of the scent of skin.

My mother had
taught me mandarin.

When my father painted
a Japanese greeting...

on my face on my birthday,

She played her favorite
Chinese record.

It had been popular when my
parents had met in shanghai.

In remembrance of my father
and in memory of Sei Shonagon,

I was determined to take lovers
who would remind me...

of the pleasures
of calligraphy.

I could not be sure
which was more important-

An indifferent calligrapher
who was a good lover...

or an excellent lover who
was a poor calligrapher.

I became a wife.

I married.

I acquired a husband.

Whichever way you say it,

It was bound to end badly.

I had a ceremonial wedding
in style.

Separated from my parents
and my aunt,

I confided in my own pillow book
more and more frequently.

Like the pillow book of Sei
Shonagon, it was full of lists.

Unlike Sei Shonagon,
all the lists were negative.

That was the first fire.

There was to be a second.

Both fires marked
a big change in my life.

When I first arrived
in Hong Kong, I hid.

I lived in Kowloon city in the
cheapest rooming houses I could find.

I did not want to be found
by my parents...

or by my husband.

I tried hard to improve the
Chinese my mother had taught me.

In the meantime,
I was determined...

to keep alive
my father's tradition.

I learned to type
on my 21st birthday,

I tried to give myself
my father's blessing.

I found work in the offices
of a Japanese designer.

And I was determined to speak
English with an American accent.

I was planning
to go to California.

Twenty meter of pale
green organdy, pattern 14.

A meter of type-B tulle.

Uh, the small net size.

The type-B tulle
with the small net size.

We went to Kyoto,
back to japan,

To work
in the Matuso Tiasha shrine,

Which Sei Shonagon
had visited regularly.

I couldn't give up
such an opportunity.

I was also
a little homesick.

We didn't finish walking
the catwalk until midnight...

when all the audience
had gone.

Sei Shonagon had watched
the moon rise in that garden...

a thousand years ago.

I could have walked up and down
that path all night long.

You are not in a position
to preach clean living.

Oh, yes, I am.
And in blood red.

You could join us.

I'm too beautiful...
and too rich.

What's wealth got to do with
it? A great deal, I�d think.

I design material.
You can wear it.

Frighten the buyers.

Then I�d soon
cease to be wealthy.

You wouldn't need to be paid.
You would do it for free.

Oh, yeah?

What else would you
do for free?

I've been waiting to waste
my talent on your body...

for a little reward.

My search for the ideal
lover-Calligrapher continued.

But it was becoming less and
less likely that I would find him.

If they were old, they were
invariably in no position...

to take advantage
of what I had to offer.

And if they were young, they
were often easily distracted.

It's them!

Don't look!
Don't look.

What are you doing here?
Are you responsible for this?

You shrimp!
What do you think you're doing?

Shut up!

They were children
playing a game.

They used hoki, the Japanese
photographer from Tokyo,

As a pawn to find me.

I want those photos.

I had once kissed him on the
cheek in a moment of happiness.

You're a creep.
I'm sorry.

I have watched you,
followed you everywhere.

It's only too obvious.
And I could help you.

Oh? You haven't done
too well so far.

You are very beautiful.

I employed a calligrapher...

with an obsession
for mathematics.

While his wife sang
and waited in the kitchen,

This account clerk
filled my back with additions,

My front with subtractions.

I contacted
a magazine designer...

who insisted that I came back to
his apartment in the new territories,

Where he could show me off to his
parents who wanted grandchildren.

Write "dear Nagiko. "
What?

I took risks.
Where?

Here
I can't.

Yes, you can. Who knows what casual
meeting would produce a surprise.

Nagiko?

Some of the great
Japanese calligraphers...

were very modest
and unassuming men.

Humble clerks by day,
daring poets by night.

Good. Now write
something else here.

With great trepidation,

I sought to move away
from what I knew best.

After all, there were other
great calligraphic traditions.

What have you written?
That's for you to find out.

How am I
going to do that?

You know, some cultures
permit no images.

Perhaps some cultures ought
to permit no visible text.

I need writing.

Don't ask me why.
Just take out your pen and,

Please, write your name
on my arm.

Go on.

I met an English translator
at the cafe typo.

He said he spoke four languages,
including Yiddish.

I'll give you
another chance.

Write on my back.

Well,
what shall I write?

Write...

"We met for the first time
at the cafe typo. "

Write in three languages-

Japanese, French
and English.

Waitress!

Are we going to do
more writing?

Perhaps.

You smell strange.

Do you use perfume?

And your fingers.

What's wrong
with my fingers?

I'll give you another chance.
The last one.

Write on my breasts.
A little inappropriate.

I'll decide what's
inappropriate.

Write in Yiddish.
What's Yiddish for breasts"?

If you're a writer, surely
you'd write on anything?

This is not going to work.

You're not a writer.

This is not writing;
it's scribbling.

Distasteful scribbling.

Get out.

You're not a writer;
you're a scribbler.

I've watched you with your little
typewriter go click, click, clack.

Get out. Go!

You could show me.

Go on.
No. I can't.

How can I get pleasure
writing on you?

You have to write on me.

Go on.

Use my body
like the pages of a book.

Of your book.

Not a special
writing instrument at all.

I began very tentatively,

Thinking of Sei Shonagon's
lists of anatomical comparisons.

The thoughts were often hers,

But the words
were entirely mine.

For my first experiment
in using flesh as paper,

I made a deal with an Englishman who was
entirely ignorant of oriental languages.

Hoki, this is where you can prove
you have my interests at heart.

Come here quickly.

Off you go.
Beautiful photographs.

And you don't get paid
because you owe me.

This is where I begin
to do the writing.

I'm now going to be the pen,
not just the paper.

I could help you.

I think not.

Why not?
What's wrong with me?

Because you are from Kyoto,
and you're young.

And your handwriting
is illegible.

Besides, your skin
does not make a good paper.

Watch.

You see? In my diary,
I called you "the blotter. "

Hoki the blotter.

I could help you.

I think not.

Why not?

You're none too smart
with compliments.

Let me try.

Let me try.

Hoki set off at dawn for
a foreign language bookshop...

in Kowloon city in a street
full of restaurants.

He finally gave the packet
to some doorman.

"We feel that we are unable
to consider...

"publication
of this material.

It's not worth the paper
it's written on. "

So they're not satisfied
with the quality of the paper.

Perhaps it's not
Japanese enough.

Try writing on me.

Seduce him.

I met Jerome in the cafe typo...

and asked him for the services
of a translator.

He gave me a choice
of six languages.

They had increased by two.

I talked to him
and I flattered him,

And I admired all the books
he had yet to write.

You have to sign here.

Our first transaction
was strictly financial.

He wanted to pay the bill
but had no money.

He offered to write a check
but had no checkbook.

I volunteered the palm
of my hand.

If I could not seduce
the publisher,

Then perhaps I could seduce
the publisher's lover.

His writing,
in so many languages,

Made me a signpost pointing
east, west, north and south.

I had shoes in German,
stockings in French,

Gloves in Hebrew,
a hat with a veil in Italian.

He only kept me naked where I was
most accustomed to wear clothes.

Shut up.
Go away. Go away.

I would like to honor my
father by becoming a writer.

I could help.

I could learn
new languages...

to make you
understood...

all over the world.

When god made
his first human being-

He painted in the eyes.

And lips.

And the sex.

And when god approved
of his creation-

He was obliged
to sign his name.

There are so many publishers in
the world. Why worry about this one?

I have my reasons.

I suspect it's because
he rejected you so swiftly,

And few people, if any,
have ever done that.

Perhaps.

But... if you're so determined
to be published by him,

The publisher who rejects
you and who loves me...

then I have a plan.

I could be your messenger.
You could write on me.

And with your permission and, of
course, your blessing, I could, um-

Pay your publishing friend
a visit?

A sacrifice?

But not without pleasure
for you?

Perhaps.

You could be jealous?

Vtamo?

It's worked. He won't
let me go. Wait for me.

He's thinking
of an edition of 3,000...

if there are more, and there
will be more, won't there?

I'll see you this evening.
Wait for me here.

Hey, you are enjoying
it too much.

But with your permission. And only
according to the quality of the writing.

If you don't hurry it along,
I�ll be looking for someone else.

You dare.

He's making me wait.
Buy some new paper.

Don't get so upset.
You could use me.

Give me two more of these and some
more of this and some stuff for him.

You could have babies.

They're not bad-Looking ladies. I
need some skin, two meters and a half.

Sorry?
Back and front.

I could give you
three and a half.

True, but the quality of the paper would
not attract my fastidious publisher.

Jerome! Jerome.

Jerome!

Jerome!

Jerome!

I need you both.
Come with me?

I really do.
It's like wild kingdom.

All right, you're gonna like
this one. This one's funny.

Okay. There are these two lesbians,
all right? And one says to the other-

Oh, keep going. Keep
going. It felt good.

It felt good,
I swear to god.

You know something? If
you had a pair of tits-

Hey, you know something? They
got a song about you in America.

You know what it's called?
It's called the hokey pokey. "

You get it?
"The hokey pokey. "

Ready? You put your right foot
in you put your right foot out

Your put your right foot in
and you shake it all about

You do the hokey pokey. You turn your
- Oh!

Hello. Sorry.

Americans always say
they have nothing to hide.

I can see that's true.

Look what I got here?
It is a menu.

It's a menu to my very own
restaurant. So you come on in.

No, get off! Come on in. And you've known
me a long time. I'll let you in free.

Moo goo gai pan
and all that stuff.

You wanna come in?

How 'bout a little kiss? How 'bout you
kiss me in the hay? How does that sound?

Love me a long time, baby,
love me a long-

Nagiko? C'est moi.
C'est Jerome.

Nagiko?

Nagiko!

Nagiko-

Nagiko! Nagiko!

I know you're there!
Let me in!

Don't play games!
I know you're there!

Nagiko!

I met your friend.
I met your fat friend.

He was nice, huh?
Was he nice?

He was covered in my paint!
My paint for my body!

Nagiko! Nagiko!

Nagiko! Nagiko!

Oh, my god! What have I
done? What have I done?

I'll make it-
Make it up!

Please let me in!

I love you, Nagiko.

I love you.
Talk to me.

Nagiko!

Please!

I won't play games.

Let me in!
Let me in!

Let me in!

Hoki, why won't
she talk to me?

Nagiko, why won't she
talk to me? I don't know.

What do you mean, you don't
know? Have you seen her?

When did
you last see her?

Oi.

Whiskey.

Uh, whiskey.

She comes here, you know,
to pick up her clients.

She almost lives here.

The waiters are
all pimps.

She makes sure
they are very smooth-Skinned.

You know?
Between the legs?

Her maid usually washes them...

with lemon juice
to make their skin soft...

and smooth.

But you could scare her.

You are a writer,

Like in Romeo and Juliet.

Shakespeare?

Jerome? Jerome?
Jerome?

Jerome? Jerome?
I'm sorry.

We can start again
from where we left off.

I was angry.
You deceived me...

with a man I detest, with a
man who blackmailed my father.

But... we can
revenge him.

We need to work.

Jerome.

Jerome?

Jerome! Jerome!
Jerome!

Jerome!

Jerome always wanted
to be foreign,

Though not
necessarily oriental.

English wasn't enough
for him.

He'd never have made
a writer.

He didn't have
enough imagination.

Jerome was dyslexic
until he was 12,

Before it became
fashionable.

And he broke every pair
of glasses I gave him.

He hated wearing glasses.

He was very good
at breaking things,

Especially relationships,
just like his father.

His father was a catholic convert,
always experimenting with faith.

We called our first son Paul
and our second Jerome...

after his father's confessor,
who was a Jesuit in Singapore.

Jerome never liked me.

He preferred my sister,

A little fool who was
excited by modern literature.

All swear words and scatology,
before it became fashionable.

I hear you're fashionable.

I suppose that's
what excited Jerome.

We burned an effigy
of Jerome�s car.

We didn't burn his books.

They were too damp.

I burned my books...

and my clothes
and shoes...

and the photographs
and diaries.

It was the second major fire
in my life.

The first fire had taken me
out of japan.

The second took me back.

Hoki wrote to me.

Even after Jerome�s death,
he was still very, very jealous.

He wrote to tell me about the
publisher's act of sacrilege.

I had promised Jerome 13 books.

I could not now write them
on Jerome�s body.

I found substitutes in japan.

I would write the books for
the publisher as a bargain...

for the return of the pillow
book he had made of Jerome�s body.

Now you've been signed by me,

You can go and do my business.

Excuse me. Can I see
the manager, please?

Let's take
another photograph.

Excuse me. Give it to the
manager and tell him we are here.

Mm-Hmm.

This is the writing
of Nagiko Yujikino,

And I know you
to have blackmailed,

Violated and humiliated
my father.

I suspect you also
of ruining my husband.

You have now committed
the greatest crime.

You have desecrated
the body of my lover.

You and I now know...

that you have lived
long enough.

Today, I am 28 years old.

And on my 28th birthday
I have experiences enough...

to write my own pillow book.

Think of that.

The pillow book
of Nagiko Kiyohara.

I can now make my own list
of things...

that make
the heart beat faster.