During the past week, I've watched the documentary 'Ecriture' about Marguerite Duras three times. I might watch it again today. I want to sear her words into my skin, the sound of her voice, the twinkle in her eye when she says with glee,
"J'ai écrit des livres incompréhensibles". "I have written some incomprehensible books".
The film is a long interview with Duras about writing. A tiny figure, nestled inside an armchair, white hair scraped back by an Alice band, she narrates the madness of writing that began when she moved to her house in Normandy,
"Que faire avec cette solitude?" she says, her eyes fixing the camera, "What could I do with this solitude?"
The film is studded with verbal pearls, naked stars that lose some of their poetry in translation, "Un livre c'est la nuit", she proclaims, her eyes suddenly full of tears, "A book is the night".