The Devil (Zulawski, 1972)

When I dream of you, you don’t see me. I don’t exist; I don’t exist in my own dreams. How can that be? You are all men, and they want nothing of me. I don’t scream, I try to hold on, but I am weak and I let you go. My grasp was always tender, I hoped you would see, but you pull away as if my hold were spider webs. Even when you are me, you can’t be mine, you won’t be a pawn, you won’t surrender to my love.

I want freedom from grace, because it has only brought me unhappiness. I’ll be a child of God and I won’t touch man, because man is no good, and will poison my soul. He’ll slip through my pores and spread his illness to my heart and I will no longer live, if I am alive at all. It’ll start as a whisper, and end as a rape. You don’t want my body, you want my soul. It’s all the same though, and I’m bathed in white light like a newborn and you dirty me and I don’t want you anymore. You never wanted me?

The river ran through the valley of death and flooded the village, the people there had faces like daggers and their noses cut through butter. I forgot the way things used to be and your body was no longer yours, but mine was never mine, so it was a forgivable sin. What are we supposed to do when the blood stops, I can’t help thinking you misunderstood me when I said I loved you. It meant I needed you more than my soul, and I was giving myself to you in exchange for your soul. It wasn’t a game because you thought I was good and virtuous and you thought that meant I’d live forever, I can’t argue with your reality even if it isn’t my own.

Sparrows cry outside my window and the flowers sigh before they freeze. I’m breathing air but I don’t know how to make it stop, involuntary beatings, of the heart and fist have silenced me and I try to call out but I have no voice. There was a time when I saw God, but he turned his face on me, and pulled me away from darkness, where I was at home. Chipper, said the wise man and I believed him.

9 responses to “The Devil (Zulawski, 1972)

  1. I like your style though, and I like to pretend it’s your style and whoever you stole it from should be honored that it’s now named after you, though it isn’t. It’s something about people stealing jokes from Groucho Marks, though, we must always remember that X Marx the spot.

  2. There are plenty of other ways to write about film without being academic or making sense. (Not trying to pressure you into other writing styles (I’ll read whatever you do)…)

  3. rouge can convey more in a look than anyone else can in a treatise. All forms of writing differing from a treatise is merely an attempt to approximate the evocative power of her eyescape. Besides, treatises are only good for curing insomnia. I just wish this piece had more synopsis. How can one LIVE without synopses?

  4. Pingback: The Devil’s Clearing « Ballad of The Absent Mare

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