Original subtitles

King Gustaf: In his novels, his plays and essays,

this writer has redefined modern literature.

He has shown us the condition of modern man,

in all its absurdity and futility,

with dark humor and profound insight.

It is our great honor to recognize this writer today.

The Nobel Prize for Literature is hereby awarded to...

Samuel Beckett.

Mr. Beckett, there is no speech?

So, you took the prize money?

I'm gonna give it away.

Do you really think that's gonna help?

No. Do you?

If anything, it might make things worse.

I'm still gonna do it.

Hmm.

So, who are the candidates for this money?

Whose forgiveness do you need the most?

You know, I'm spoiled for choice.

You know this is going to be a journey through your shame?

Isn't everything?

So then...

We shall begin with Mother.

How could we not?

Child Samuel: Had I The heavens' embroidered cloth

Enwrought with golden And silver light

The blue and the dim And the dark cloth

Of night and light And the half-light

I'd spread the cloth Under your feet

- But I, being poor... - "But I."

But I, being poor

He's shifting the focus of the poem.

You were astray with your emphasis.

No, thank you.

What did you say?

I'm happy with the delivery.

And I...

am not.

And I have considered your suggestion,

and find it inferior to my own.

Either will do.

Either will do.

But I, being poor Have only my dreams...

I spread my dreams Under your feet

Tread softly Because you tread on my dreams

Come on, faster, faster!

Let go, let go!

It's time to go.

Child Samuel: Not yet.

Not while the kite still flies.

That's not for you.

What is this obscenity?

This is me!

This me you are demonizing with your poison!

You could only ever imagine it as you,

because the whole world is you.

You are a liar!

This will be your last chance to speak...

to conspire against me.

Fight.

Fight.

Fight.

Did you read my story?

I did not.

If it's good enough to be published,

it's good enough for you.

Hmm.

There will always be a call for titillation.

So, you did read it?

What a waste.

I'm going to Paris, and I hope never to return.

The continent is peopled almost entirely by homosexuals.

Hmm.

There is, of course, a central flaw in your theory.

Always so clever.

You assumed eternal ownership over me.

Like I was yours to control.

It could only ever end like this.

I gave you everything.

I hope, for your sake, that's not true.

I could give the money to the hospital...

where she died.

She... she didn't exactly go quietly.

No.

You've already paid her all the repentance you could afford.

You're referring to what I told her?

As she died.

That I had regrets.

And telling her that became your greatest regret of all.

I knew that, even as I was telling her.

You might name your scars after her?

Hmm. I might name my joys as well.

Hmm, isn't that always the way with love?

Suzanne?

No, not yet.

So, it's Lucia?

It is Lucia.

Mr. Joyce?

I am in thought!

Mr. Joyce, my name is Samuel Beckett.

I'm studying English at EÉcole Normale Supérieure,

I'm from Dublin,

and I've a great respect for your work.

"I'm from Dublin" was wholly superfluous.

And there would have been no harm in starting out

with the admiration now, would there?

No harm at all.

You know, Mr. Beckett,

my great shame, and how could it not be,

is that I... don't know Greek.

Right.

Of course, I can handle modern Greek,

and I have spent a great deal of time with Greeks

of all kinds, from noblemen, down to onion sellers.

Chiefly the latter.

You know, I'm superstitious about Greek onion sellers.

Aren't you?

Well, I...

I mean, having not met one, it would be presumptuous.

Ah, but look, you show bewilderment.

Never show bewilderment, Beckett,

it surrenders control.

My point is, of course, that I do not speak Irish.

Right. And neither do you.

No.

I hope you do not think that you can learn from me...

that you have come to seek epiphany

at my broken altar?

No, that... I thought...

I wanted to make your acquaintance,

perhaps offer my services.

Some reading, or some research.

I know from my professors at Trinity

that you've offered similar postings

to students in the past.

You know, Mr. Beckett,

I am not the James Joyce of Ulysses.

I am the James Joyce of failed endeavor,

fading glory and encroaching decay.

My head is full of pebbles, and rubbish,

and bits of glass, and broken matches.

Why would you wish to set out on such a dispiriting journey?

Mr. Joyce, I'd rather watch you fail

than anyone else succeed.

Do not come early.

I am easily startled in the mornings.

Don't do it.

What?

Write.

Only something I was considering.

Ah, good! Well...

stay there... in consideration.

It's safe there.

A book should not be planned out beforehand,

Mr. Beckett.

As one writes, the book will form itself,

subject to, and shaped by,

the constant emotional promptings

of one's personality.

In Ulysses, I wanted only to give the color

and tone of Dublin, its hallucinatory vapors, its...

...tattered confusion.

The atmosphere of its bars, its social immobility.

These could only be conveyed by the texture of...

Dumplings.

For supper, we shall be having dumplings.

He is to stay?

Lucia would like him to stay.

Is that wise?

Lucia would like him to stay.

Then he shall stay.

Thank you, sir.

It's very kind.

Whether indeed this is a kindness, Mr. Beckett,

I suggest you...

save your conclusion for another day.

Younger Samuel: I was interested in something you said

in The Paris Review, Mr. Joyce,

that while life is fundamentally tragic,

that it also must be seen as humorous.

Ah, yes. Well, what I was clumsily aiming for there...

Do you know, the first night I met Jim,

I mistook him for a Swedish sailor,

what with his cap and his plimsolls.

I'm sorry, Mr. Joyce, The Paris Review...

Yeah, the object of any work of art

is the transference of emotion...

But when he spoke, sure I knew him at once

to be just another Dublin jackeen

chatting up a country girl.

- Did you arrive in Paris alone? - Uh, I did.

Oh. - Younger Samuel: Yeah.

I'm sorry, Mr. Joyce, the, uh, the role of humor...

There must be humor.

For the disparity of what a man wants to be and what he is,

is... no doubt laughable.

Do you know, I wish he'd been a musician.

I always said,

Jim's a better singer than he is a writer.

So sorry, would you let him finish his thought, please?

Would you take me dancing?

Me?

Tonight?

Now, there's an idea.

- I... I don't think that I... - Oh, it would be a blessing.

Right.

Not for you.

Then you can return tomorrow, to work.

Oh, but we are to dance.

And here's me, without a stitch to wear.

So, you're a writer?

How did you know?

Because you're in Paris, and because you can't dance.

And you?

- And me? - Younger Samuel: Yes, Lucia,

what will you do in this paltry life of ours?

I will dance!

- Why not? - I'll look after you.

Excuse me?

Well, can you imagine my father without my mother?

I often do.

We must tell them, Beckett, of our plans.

The world must know!

Younger Samuel: Lucia is...

Well, one might say,

and I mean this with no pejorative intention,

that she possesses... at least to some degree,

a certain giddiness.

Oh, she's mad, Beckett.

Gloriously so.

Right.

I'm sorry,

I'm not sure that I understand your usage of that term.

My use of it is, uh, medical, Beckett.

She is medically mad.

- Younger Samuel: I see. - The worst kind.

Undoubtedly.

Her mother wants to send her off to live

in some institution or other, but I... well, I don't know.

Because you see,

if she's here, then we can always send her there.

But if she's there...

...then there's nowhere else to send her.

Do you see?

Only too clearly.

Good, then we're squared away.

But perhaps... and... and... I mean, with hindsight,

perhaps you could have told me of this condition,

before I'd agreed to escort her.

Oh, I couldn't do that, Beckett.

For then you wouldn't have agreed. Do you see?

You would have run for the hills, and rightly so.

Dumplings. For supper, we shall be having dumplings.

I'm afraid, this evening I must reluctantly decline

your offer of kindness.

Oh, no, you can't!

Lucia's expecting you to stay, and then take her dancing.

And Lucia's not a spirit to unsettle,

as I... I suspect you have detected.

And we need that time, young Mr. Beckett.

We need that blessed tranquility,

we need it.

So, you can have your hot supper,

and then take Lucia dancing, or you can leave and not return.

So, what is it now?

Is it banishment...

or is it dumplings?

It is dumplings.

It is dumplings.

You know, Beckett, there's a...

a curious kind of honor code...

among men, which obliges them to assist one another

and huddle together for protection.

The result, quite often, is that they...

wake up the next morning sitting in the same ditch.

Welcome to the ditch.

♪ I ain't got nobody ♪

♪ And ain't nobody cares About me ♪

♪ That's why I'm sad ♪

♪ And lonely ♪

♪ Won't some sweet daddy ♪

♪ Take a chance with me? ♪

♪ I ain't ♪

♪ Got nobody ♪

♪ And ain't nobody care ♪

♪ About poor, silly me ♪

You know, Beckett, I have, uh,

found myself recently considering,

in some depth,

the central conflict of the writer.

Would you like to hear my findings?

I would, but I fear you won't be given

the time to tell me.

The important thing...

is not what we write, but how we write.

We must write dangerously, Beckett.

What is imaginative is the contrary

to all that is concise and clear.

Most people's lives are made up of jugs,

and pots, and plates, backstreets,

and blousy living rooms, inhabited by blousy women...

and a thousand daily sordid incidents

that seep into our minds,

no matter how we strive to keep them out.

These are the furniture of our lives.

The greatest secret of them all, Beckett...

...the biggest key to the biggest door...

It's time.

Yes, it is. It is time. - For fuck's sake.

- What? What is it? - Father, go easy on him.

Don't drag him over the coals.

He will not. He will support the endeavor, as I do.

This is the most wonderful moment of my life!

What is?

Our engagement.

This is the end.

Oh, Christ.

I'm sorry, but this is the end of it.

Would it be so bad?

So bad?

Mother, this is cause for jubilation!

No, Lucia, this is cause for revelation.

Shall we move to dessert? I've risked a trifle.

Younger Samuel: I've offered you companionship

these past few months as a kindness and as a favor...

but it's not what you think it is, Lucia.

And that's troubled me greatly, because I always assumed

that it would lead to this outcome.

And... now, here we are.

I am sorry, Lucia... for my part.

Was this you, Mother?

We simply encouraged the... Well, I mean, there is a...

there is a wonderful bond.

I mean, you are bonded, are you not?

There is a bond.

There's more of an unhappy welding.

They took her away soon after that.

Inner Sam: How could they not?

I could help her with the money...

pay for her... care.

She's been in the same asylum for 32 years.

You must have a great impression of yourself

that you can take the blame for 32 years and counting.

She hung over us, Joyce and I.

Every conversation, from that day on, there she was.

Dancing behind the words.

Don't you think that applies to all his conversations,

all his words? She was his daughter.

He never forgave me.

Oh, he told you he forgave you.

No, he had his revenge.

We'll come to that.

So who deserves this prize money?

Do we have to go on with this?

You were the one who started it.

I'm ill with regret.

You mean Suzanne?

No, no, not yet.

Alfred?

Alfy.

Alfy.

Do not use Alfy to sneak in Suzanne.

You have my word, I promise.

Good.

Keep going.

He'll never forgive me, Alfy.

Do you think he would let us translate his work

if you weren't already forgiven?

I think he'd find such simplicity insulting.

Thank you, thank you.

I speak not just for the publishing house,

but for Mr. Joyce himself, when I say that this work

is a masterpiece of modern translation.

First, we must thank two students,

Samuel Beckett and Alfred Péron,

for a valiant first attempt.

A what? - Here we go.

Which was then so expertly corrected

by our translators,

Paul Léon, Ivan Gul, and...

- Who the fuck are they? - ...of course, Mr. Joyce himself.

Revenge.

Welcome, Paul.

We were working with gold.

All we had to do was polish it. But let us be clear...

- Why? - ...this was not work.

Because she's in an asylum now.

This was the greatest fortune...

And you must be punished for that?

...we could have ever been granted.

And I must be punished for that?

To learn at the feet of a master.

I'm sorry, Alfy, you're collateral damage.

...literary jewels, and to turn them to catch the light.

What shall we do?

We shall drink.

Yes.

- For a long time. - Forever.

We should certainly give it a go.

Well, Alfy, we gave it a go.

Let me leave, while dignity still remains a possibility.

Nah.

Good evening, Sam.

Lucky for Stalin, we're drunk.

You've come to take him away...

to drag my friend from a life of possibility

to the eternal drudgery of commitment.

No, Sam, we came to join you.

It is Suzanne from the tennis.

Hello, Sam.

You've come to capture me, to add me to your tribe.

What makes you think that I want to capture you?

Then let us both avoid the trap.

Hey. Hey, mon cheri.

Hey.

Hey, Irish, you want a girl?

Hey.

Prudent, your stamina for this exchange is remarkable,

but I would never want...

Why?

Suzanne.

Yes.

Younger Suzanne: From the tennis.

Yes.

So, they gave you a private room.

Younger Samuel: Joyce.

You know, you shouldn't let a man be your keeper.

Younger Samuel: Thank you for your advice.

No, this is not advice.

This is instruction.

And... if this is to happen,

I suggest that you grow accustomed

to taking my instruction.

If what is to happen?

Such coyness.

You do not like attraction.

And neither do I.

Younger Suzanne: So, I think that this side of it

will be agreeable.

But more importantly, I...

Oui?

Younger Suzanne:

Bien sûr, madame.

Younger Suzanne: I brought you this.

It's Calvados.

Samuel, you should write about this...

because it feels like an experience

a writer should explore.

Especially one like you, with your great love of death.

I did read your book.

Well, you were in exclusive company.

No, I must speak to your publisher

about why I had to work so hard to find it.

What's more important?

You said there is something more important than attraction.

What is it?

Well...

you have a great talent...

and I don't think that you should waste it.

In fact...

I think that you would benefit from a companion

who would stop you from doing so.

And I think I would benefit from being that companion.

Hmm.

Well...

Um...

I will return tomorrow, if you'd like me to?

Yes, you will return tomorrow.

It is an unlikely match.

It's not a match.

She is so serious. And you?

Well, you were stabbed by a pimp.

I was a winged bird, Alfy,

and she came to me with a box of straw.

Well, I'm sure you can fit in one more.

Tone.

You and your archaic monogamy.

It brings rewards beyond the carnal, Samuel.

It is a higher state of being.

Well, maybe someday I'll clamber up from the dirt

and join on you in that higher state.

Perhaps with Suzanne from the tennis.

No.

The hand will not be overbid.

Younger Samuel: Are you safe?

Safer than most Jews.

And you?

As long as Ireland stays neutral.

And you, Sam? Will you be staying neutral?

You've joined.

I have joined.

Well... you're a soldier now.

And they do not just need soldiers.

Lucky for you.

Lucky for us.

Take me to them.

Sam.

You should speak to Suzanne first.

I don't need to.

We are one...

she and I.

Poor Suzanne.

Poor Suzanne.

I cannot let him join without me.

What now?

We write.

Troop movements from all over France.

Tips from farmers, postal workers,

anyone allowed to travel, they all come through to us,

God knows how.

And then we work through them.

We correlate, cross-reference.

We need two sources, or it doesn't count.

And then we put it all together, and we write our story.

Take a photograph.

And, once a week, the film is sent to Britain.

And how does it get to the Brits?

I only know how it leaves here.

You will like that part, just you wait.

This.

You see?

Yeah, this part.

I can do it? Okay, thank you, that's very kind.

Metaphors, Alfy. Metaphors...

Hmm.

They have taken Alfy. They are taking everyone.

Who?

[whispers] Gestapo!

Go, go!

The train is cancelled, rain at Poitiers.

The train is cancelled, rain at Poitiers.

Sam!

The train is cancelled, rain at Poitiers.

The train is cancelled, rain at Poitiers.

Younger Suzanne: Sam!

Younger Suzanne: Sam, now!

Why are you happy?

We spend our days scratching through the dirt

in hope of a potato,

while Europe falls around us, and yet...

you're happy.

I mean, being here could be many things, Sam.

Of course, there's the war, the fear...

But not for me.

Because, you see, for me, it's just you and I together

that stepped away from life.

There's no one who can get to you

or take you away.

And being trapped here with you...

it's a happiness I have never known before,

and I will likely never know again.

You know, I think you could probably leave the pot

for a little while.

Just for a little while.

You should take that as a compliment.

How far we have to fall for you to risk a compliment.

Well, let us fall further still.

Younger Suzanne: Sam.

Are you thinking of Alfy again?

Do you think he's still alive?

He stays alive in you.

Resistance Soldier:

Well, go on then...

my brave soldier.

You know they've given me a gun now?

I love you.

I love you.

Oh, what a hero.

Like a Boy Scout, with a toy gun in the wet grass,

waiting for Nazis,

who didn't have the decency to show up.

They gave you the Croix de Guerre.

Oh, they give you that for staying alive.

Is that your guilt, that you stayed alive?

It was me.

I was the one who filled Alfy's head full of... nonsense,

of dreams, and... and... and rainbows,

and... and Baudelaire.

But you were the one staring at the stars.

Because I knew he'd be staring at the same ones.

Even in that horrible place,

they couldn't turn off the stars.

And what did I do?

I went home to a warm bed, a warm woman, while he...

He...

Hmm.

You know that, in the camp...

they said that he sang to the others.

Oh, that's just... fairy tales

that we tell each other about death.

Inner Sam: But you used that...

in Waiting for Godot.

You used your worst fears about Alfy in your own work.

I... I... I thought it might resolve something in...

How could it?

You know, there are some men

who need to believe in a better world,

just like you need to believe in a world that's worse.

Who betrayed us to the Germans?

Who sent Alfy to that horrible place?

It was the priest.

Of course, it was.

Oh...

And to think that I mislaid my faith.

At least Alfy would have enjoyed that.

Inner Sam: Listen to me.

You cannot blame yourself for the war.

Oh, I can try.

No. Alfy's been dead.

He's been dead for a very long time,

and he does not need your money.

Now...

it's time.

Suzanne.

Properly.

Can...

can she come alone?

No.

Sam?

Sam...

you must go now.

Itinerary and tickets.

Don't sign anything without speaking to me first.

And don't drink before the meeting.

Do you really think the BBC will want to do this?

Yes!

They would not want to meet you if they did not.

But...

you like it, don't you?

Yes, I do.

Sam?

I love you.

I love you, too.

Hello, sir. How can I help?

Barbara Bray, please.

Okay. Take a seat, please.

Mr. Beckett?

I'm Barbara Bray from the Drama Department.

Sam.

What a bloody miserable day, hmm?

Well then, Sam, if, um,

if I were to sneak you up to the BBC bar for a whiskey...

and tell you everything I love about your work,

and beg you to bestow it upon us,

would that cause you to turn all Irish and bashful?

That would depend on the whiskey.

Well, this way.

After you.

So, they want the rights?

Yes.

Good.

We'll do a separate deal with the BBC

for the translation.

You must keep writing in French, Sam.

We get paid twice.

Hmm.

Please...

tell me you did not offer him a translation?

Her.

She will pay.

For the translation.

Yes.

She...

she'll pay for the translation.

Nothing happens.

Twice. Nothing happens, twice.

Don't short-change me.

It is maddening!

I hope so.

It is a masterpiece.

God...

I hope not.

What is this place, this wasteland where they wait?

It's...

it's the place we all go to, when life drives us there.

I should probably tell you that I'm moving.

Hmm. - Hmm.

And I should certainly tell you

that I'm moving to Paris.

No joy without pain.

Indeed not.

Quite the conundrum.

Mm-hmm.

So, what do you do?

What does escape look like at that time,

to a man like you?

Why?

Because...

Because I want her to have the royalties

of my work after I die,

and she deserves it.

She gave me the best days of her life.

She was the one who said, "Keep writing,"

when everybody else said, "Stop."

But all you are doing is moving pain between us.

No, you are who you are,

and she is who she is.

So...

I'm in Paris...

and nothing has changed?

You're in Paris and nothing has changed.

So, uh...

they want to produce the play.

In London and Germany and...

No.

I know you don't like the play.

I haven't read it.

- Oh, really? - No.

If you haven't read it, why...

Germany, London? It's too much, Sam.

They said it's really good. Yes, it's good.

You know why?

It's too much, Sam. It's all getting too much!

"When he came again, we had it out."

"He went on about why he had to tell her,

too risky and so on."

"That meant he'd gone back to her...

back to that."

This is about us.

How could it not be?

- Has she read it? - Yes.

And what she did she say?

That she hadn't read it.

She can't hide from this forever.

I wish she could.

I shall review it for The Observer.

Is there no end to your sinning?

No, we passed that a long time ago.

When he came again, we had it out. I felt like death.

He went on about why he had to tell her,

too risky and so on.

That meant he had gone back to her, back to that.

Pudding face, puffy, spots, blubber mouth, jowls,

no neck, dugs you could...

Actress 2: He went on and on. I could hear a mower, an old hand mower.

I stopped him and said that whatever I might feel,

I had no silly threats to offer,

but not much stomach for her leavings either.

He thought that over for a bit.

Calves like a flunkey.

When I saw her again, she knew she was looking...

...wretched.

Pardon.

Well?

Were the words not humiliation enough,

that you had to also put me in a pot?

It's an urn.

That is your defense, Sam, that it is an urn?

Sorry, but I have to write what I s--

- This is, uh... - The other pot.

I, um...

I thought it was very brave.

Thank you.

It could not possibly have been more cowardly.

Thank you for coming.

Please, be kind in your review.

We have a tax bill to settle in November.

Well... it was very nice to meet you.

Don't be absurd.

Good evening.

She... she shouldn't have come.

Sorry about that.

It is not her.

It is them.

What do you mean?

There are so many of them.

Publishers, theater agents, journalists.

They are talking about you as if they know you,

as if they own you.

Isn't that what we wanted,

after all these years, after all the struggle?

All... all the years of you,

running from publisher to publisher,

living like hermits. The denial, the sacrifice.

- Isn't the... - Mr. Beckett?

It's a masterpiece, you're a genius.

- Thank you. - Thank you so much.

- So... - All the years of sacrifice,

of struggle.

This is what we wanted. We need them.

But you have them. So, you don't need me.

Oh, so you want us to stay in obscurity?

You don't want us to have success?

You want us to be scratching in the mud for potatoes again?

You and I, Sam, we're not made for victory.

We won't survive it.

The fight? We need to fight.

So, let us retreat from these people, from victory.

Please...

don't let us win.

King Gustaf: The Nobel Prize for Literature

is hereby awarded to...

Samuel Beckett.

I didn't deserve it.

No, you do not.

But the work does.

And for the work...

I'm happy.

Goodnight.

Hard to take a man seriously in pajamas.

You should wear them more often.

I've decided I'm giving the money to Trinity College.

Set up a scholarship,

so that some boy like me

doesn't have to rely on a mother like her.

Hmm.

We've taken a long time to get to that.

Hmm. So, now, you can leave me alone.

I wish I could.

- Bonjour, Marie. - Bonjour, monsieur.

Fight.

Fight.

Fight.

This is yesterday's bread.

Don't you know they put at the front

yesterday's bread to trick the likes of you?

These peaches aren't ripe.

We can barely mark them with a finger.

It's like sending a child to the market.

A child!

These olives are Italian.

They'll have called them French, but they are Italian.

They are too big to be French.

You need to trust your eyes, not the traders.

What...

a waste.

You are a liar!

You used to tell me when you were going to her.

Now you just go.

There is none of the other... business.

Not for a long time.

It's...

just about work.

That makes it worse.

I know.

I notice you have been gilding her cage.

I can still read a cheque book.

My eyes can go on, Sam...

for the last of your betrayals.

She's a widow.

So am I.

The character slip, Sam. The voice, well, it...

it comes and goes.

You haven't found it...

because you haven't looked.

Oh, you're so cruel to an old man.

Sadism is all I have left.

The most worthwhile part

of writing...

the giving up.

If you abandon this one...

there will never be another.

Good.

I never wanted to be a writer.

Whatever I had, Barbara...

long gone.

I'm sorry for having to drag you through all this.

It was never about the work, Sam.

It was about working together.

And I ask you not to take that from me.

Hmm.

Not yet.

Fight, fight, fight.

Inner Sam: Oh, don't be so dramatic.

Oh, why don't you go away?

You're like a nomad.

Walking between the two of them with your life on your back.

Yes, but you see...

the walking is the thing.

It's like a blissful limbo.

The walk is peace...

hope.

You used to walk out here with Lucia, didn't you?

Oh, yes.

Yes. And Joyce.

And Alfy.

I like to be out here,

alone with them.

The dead are easy companions.

Oh.

Easier than you.

Hmm.

Though anybody is easier than you.

Well, it won't be long now for you and me.

Ah.

Does it... does it get worse?

Well, let's put it this way, Sam.

It doesn't get any better.

That's it.

Okay.

Right.

Right.

Right.

Oh, such a noise.

I'm sorry.

I always got the worst of you.

Sometimes...

I think back to...

Roussillon.

Our days there...

in the war.

Our little room.

You bending over the fire.

The nights.

The warmth of the bed.

The warmth of you.

I remember you said once that you could never...

imagine...

being happier.

And I thought,

"Oh...

that's a mad thing to say."

But now...

now I think you're completely right.

I said I...

I had been...

so happy.

And I will never be so happy again.

And I was right with both.

Because I knew you,

and I knew the... the life that was to come.

I knew that I would never have you again.

Not like that.

I owe everything...

to you.

And I...

owe... everything...

to you.

Hmm?

It's so hard...

to lose you.

But...

to lose you to England...

You never did like writing endings.

Hmm.

When I was a boy...

the happiest I ever was...

was one day with my father...

flying a kite.

And I stood on the hillside...

and I willed with everything in me

for it to stay in the sky.

Because... up there, there was hope...

and breath...

and freedom.

But... when it landed...

there was nothing.

I'm so happy that you're leaving when the...

when the kite is still in the air.

What a bloody miserable day.

Welcome to the ditch.

Hey, Irish, you want a girl?

Well, I'm sure you can fit in one more.

♪ Take a chance with me! ♪

Younger Suzanne: I love you.

Fight. Fight.

Fight.

What a waste.

Inner Sam: So, then...

Oh, just let me go.

Listen to me...

Oh, you're such a torture.

Listen to me.

There was joy.

For them, for you...

there was joy.

You know there's nothing interesting...

about joy.

Well, I... I... I would agree with you there.

Do you remember...

years ago...

a student asked you about life?

And you said...

"Dance first..."

Oh.

"...think later."

Well, it's later now.

Oh, it always was, Sam.

You couldn't wait to get through the pleasure to the pain.

That's not the way to talk to a dying man.

Oh, it is the way to talk to a dying man.

It was some life, wasn't it, Sam?

It was...

A life.

Well...

then...

There's nothing left...

to say.