Madrid, 1987 Page #5

---

I'm not f***ing impressed.

I'm not clever, I don't admire myself.

I disgust myself.

Physically.

And you're standing there like a muse,

mute and naked,

and instead of whispering verses

in my ear

you put a mirror in front of me.

If you see me as I do,

you must hate me.

Sleep with me.

What the hell were you thinking?

Are you that much of a climber?

What did you think you'd get from me?

It was a no-lose situation for me.

Look, my beard is growing.

They say sexual desire

makes your beard grow more quickly.

And fear.

Bullfighters' beards grow like crazy

the day of the bullfight.

If it didn't disgust me,

I'd shave with Luis' razor.

I'm going bald.

And nose hairs

are truly uncomfortable.

How absurd.

This is too damn absurd.

It's really no big deal.

The body is no big deal.

F***ing is no big deal.

Have you seen dogs in the street?

They sniff each other

and go right at it.

Why have we gone so astray?

Do we think we're that important

With our museums, our cathedrals

and our government advisors?

With you here in front of me

all that just gets right in the way

This is going to be a huge mess,

you know.

My enemies,

the ones I've made with eaeft success,

with each millimeter Ive taken

of their territory,

of what they consider theirs...

will have a field day.

Your father might have to kill me

as his final service to the homeland.

And my wife

might leave me,

more out of shame

than anything else,

I'll have to give up all the great

things about living with her...

I still desire her, you know.

And we've been together

for ages.

But there's a thing called...

Call it refuge, call it solace,

I don't really know.

It's a place far away

from the limelight

where it's very hard to find someone

who knows everything about you

and doesn't use it to destroy you,

rather

to put you back together

when you've fallen apart.

And you..

You'll forget me

in every body that awaits you.

The worst part is everyone will imagine

what we did in here all this time

and we won't be able to tell the truth

because it's too ridiculous.

The best comedies

are often based on the dirty old man

chasing after fresh, young meat

which is always unattainable

This absurd situation

is good for laughs.

But it reveals

that the distance between

insanity and balance

all comes down to

a single hair on your head.

Then laughter becomes terror.

Fear

that something similar

can happen to you.

Don't come inside.

Hungry

A little.

I hardly eat, I don't know why.

I ate terribly as a kid.

My mother would get extremely upset.

Please, eat or you'll die."

She'd cry on the table.

Back then eating was something else,

almost like breathing.

I was fat,

the fat girl in class.

One day my sister said.

Are you ready for what's coming"

She scared me.

She said,

Being fat at 14 is hell."

And I took her seriously.

So you've been hungry ever since.

Pretty much.

I like seeing people eat

in movies and books.

Nobody goes to the movies

to watch people eat.

Well, they're wrong.

In movies and in literature,

I like seeing people work

and eat.

Bogart eating stew.

Exactly.

I really liked a French detective movie

I saw a while back.

Don't ask me the title

because I'm lousy with titles.

Jean Gabin was in it.

You know him

Jean Gabin

A blond French actor with a gut.

Sort of a virile Spencer Tracy.

Never mind.

It was an action movie,

with guns, stolen money,

the femme fatale must have been

Brigitte Bardot, super young,

or a girl just like her,

typical bombshell,

and guys chasing each other

the whole time.

All of a sudden

Gabin and his friend got home,

sat down in a chair

and started eating cheese and bread

with a knife

with a little wine.

Damn.

That made me happy.

In literature it's the same.

The great artists

accept people as they are.

They give them refuge, in any case.

But they don't try

to force the world

into being what they imagine

it should be.

One of the greats walks in.

Pio Baroja, for example, and says.

The street was long

and it smelled like fried pork."

Or Simenon.

Her eyes were like two deep puddles."

Damn...

It matters to you

because you understand.

Because it's real.

People are only moved

by what is true.

Don't look at me like that,

like class is starting again.

Besides,

what could I possibly teach you

Don't you get tired of writing every day

about what happens after so long

How could I

Different things happen every day.

But having to say something...

We used to go to the cafe.

And lots of us went with

witty things to say there.

I got more for my buck

and spared myself

a few obnoxious jerks.

But your opinion counts...

No, it doesn't.

If I write sh*t about a minister,

it matters to the minister.

People only care about

being left alone.

What about your style

Don't talk about style.

There's no such thing as style.

And if it does it's bad.

But you have it.

Well, it's bad.

You can tell you wrote something.

Or one of my imitators.

I do have them.

Sure.

Or maybe you're imitating yourself.

At times.

On bad days.

What is style

An escort. The museum guide.

A pain in the ass.

People have to fall in love

with what you write.

You introduce them.

Here's a story, here's a reader.

And you disappear.

Imagine a guy introduces you to a friend

and you become his friend's girlfriend

and the guy keeps hanging around

with you in the park

and gets in bed with you.

He sits at your feet and says,

I think you should turn your head

a little bit when you kiss."

His ass, you forgot

to stroke his ass.

That guy who won't go away

is style.

The writer waving his hands in the air

so everyone looks at him.

I understand what you're saying,

but you don't follow it.

Well, if I have style,

it's out of fatigue.

I've written so much that

I can't help it...

I dont know.

Everybody combines words

in their own way.

But once the vase is finished,

it's better to break it

and start a new one the next day.

You don't think about

the people who read you

No, I'd rather think about

the company that pays me.

This profession is for cheapskates.

Cheapskates judging cheapskates.

Surgeons aren't allowed

to operate on family members

because the emotional involvement

is a distraction.

This is the same thing.

You see the world like an outsider.

You have to grab the scalpel

and cut away.

But the world being like this

is your responsibility too.

Don't tell me you're one

of those people who think

writing can change the world.

Why not?

The only thing a writer can do

for the world is write well.

It's a double feature tragedy.

They change the details,

but the plot is the same.

Of course a flood or an earthquake

always comes along to save the day.

If you want to move people,

but that doesn't interest me.

No.

What matters to me is saying,

The world is a joke.

A masquerade ball.

Come on, let's dance."

It's hard.

What's hard?

Why should we care about the world

Rate this script:0.0 / 0 votes