SansSoleil/Sunless

ThefirstimagehetoldmeaboutwasofthreechildrenonaroadinIceland,in1965.Hesaidthatforhimitwasthe imageofhappinessandalsothathehadtriedseveraltimestolinkittootherimages,butitneverworked.Hewrote me:onedayI'llhavetoputitallaloneatthebeginningofafilmwithalongpieceofblackleader;iftheydon'tsee happinessinthepicture,atleastthey'llseetheblack. Hewrote:I'mjustbackfromHokkaido,theNorthernIsland.RichandhurriedJapanesetaketheplane,otherstakethe ferry:waiting,immobility,snatchesofsleep.Curiouslyallofthatmakesmethinkofapastorfuturewar:nighttrains, airraids,falloutshelters,smallfragmentsofwarenshrinedineverydaylife.Helikedthefragilityofthosemoments suspendedintime.Thosememorieswhoseonlyfunctionhadbeentoleavebehindnothingbutmemories.Hewrote: I'vebeenroundtheworldseveraltimesandnowonlybanalitystillinterestsme.OnthistripI'vetrackeditwiththe relentlessnessofabountyhunter.Atdawnwe'llbeinTokyo. HeusedtowritemefromAfrica.HecontrastedAfricantimetoEuropeantime,andalsotoAsiantime.Hesaidthatin the19thcenturymankindhadcometotermswithspace,andthatthegreatquestionofthe20thwasthecoexistence ofdifferentconceptsoftime.Bytheway,didyouknowthatthereareemusintheledeFrance? HewrotemethatintheBijagsIslandsit'stheyounggirlswhochoosetheirfiances. He wrote me that in the suburbs of Tokyo there is a temple consecrated to cats. I wish I could convey to you the simplicitythe lack of affectationof this couple who had come to place an inscribed wooden slat in the cat cemeterysotheircatTorawouldbeprotected.Noshewasn'tdead,onlyrunaway.Butonthedayofherdeathno onewouldknowhowtoprayforher,howtointercedewithdeathsothathewouldcallherbyherrightname.So theyhadtocomethere,bothofthem,undertherain,toperformtheritethatwouldrepairtheweboftimewhereit hadbeenbroken. Hewroteme:Iwillhavespentmylifetryingtounderstandthefunctionofremembering,whichisnottheoppositeof forgetting,butratheritslining.Wedonotremember,werewritememorymuchashistoryisrewritten.Howcanone rememberthirst? He didn't like to dwell on poverty, but in everything he wanted to show there were also the 4Fs of the Japanese model.Aworldfullofbums,oflumpens,ofoutcasts,ofKoreans.Toobroketoafforddrugs,they'dgetdrunkonbeer, onfermentedmilk.ThismorninginNamidabashi,twentyminutesfromthegloriesofthecentercity,acharactertook hisrevengeonsocietybydirectingtrafficatthecrossroads.Luxuryforthemwouldbeoneofthoselargebottlesof sakethatarepouredovertombsonthedayofthedead. I paid for a round in a bar in Namidabashi. It's the kind of place that allows people to stare at each other with equality;thethresholdbelowwhicheverymanisasgoodasanyotherandknowsit. HetoldmeabouttheJettyonFogo,intheCapeVerdeislands.Howlonghavetheybeentherewaitingfortheboat, patient as pebbles but ready to jump? They are a people of wanderers, of navigators, of world travelers. They fashionedthemselvesthroughcrossbreedinghereontheserocksthatthePortugueseusedasamarshalingyardfor theircolonies.Apeopleofnothing,apeopleofemptiness,averticalpeople.Frankly,haveyoueverheardofanything stupiderthantosaytopeopleastheyteachinfilmschools,nottolookatthecamera? Heusedtowritetome:theSahelisnotonlywhatisshownofitwhenitistoolate;it'salandthatdroughtseepsinto likewaterintoaleakingboat.TheanimalsresurrectedforthetimeofacarnivalinBissauwillbepetrifiedagain,as soonasanewattackhaschangedthesavannahintoadesert.Thisisastateofsurvivalthattherichcountrieshave forgotten,withoneexceptionyouwinJapan.Myconstantcomingsandgoingsarenotasearchforcontrasts;they areajourneytothetwoextremepolesofsurvival. He spoke to me of Sei Shonagon, a lady in waiting to Princess Sadako at the beginning of the 11th century, in the Heianperiod.Doweeverknowwherehistoryisreallymade?Rulersruledandusedcomplicatedstrategiestofight oneanother.Realpowerwasinthehandsofafamilyofhereditaryregents;theemperor'scourthadbecomenothing

morethanaplaceofintriguesandintellectualgames.Butbylearningtodrawasortofmelancholycomfortfromthe contemplationofthetiniestthingsthissmallgroupofidlersleftamarkonJapanesesensibilitymuchdeeperthanthe mediocrethunderingofthepoliticians.Shonagonhadapassionforlists:thelistof'elegantthings,''distressingthings,' orevenof'thingsnotworthdoing.'Onedayshegottheideaofdrawingupalistof'thingsthatquickentheheart.' NotabadcriterionIrealizewhenI'mfilming;Ibowtotheeconomicmiracle,butwhatIwanttoshowyouarethe neighborhoodcelebrations. He wrote me: coming back through the Chiba coast I thought of Shonagon's list, of all those signs one has only to nametoquickentheheart,justname.Tous,asunisnotquiteasununlessit'sradiant,andaspringnotquiteaspring unless it is limpid. Here to place adjectives would be so rude as leaving price tags on purchases. Japanese poetry nevermodifies.Thereisawayofsayingboat,rock,mist,frog,crow,hail,heron,chrysanthemum,thatincludesthem all.NewspapershavebeenfilledrecentlywiththestoryofamanfromNagoya.Thewomanheloveddiedlastyear andhedrownedhimselfinworkJapanesestylelikeamadman.Itseemsheevenmadeanimportantdiscoveryin electronics.AndtheninthemonthofMayhekilledhimself.Theysayhecouldnotstandhearingtheword'Spring.' He described me his reunion with Tokyo: like a cat who has come home from vacation in his basket immediately startstoinspectfamiliarplaces.Heranofftoseeifeverythingwaswhereitshouldbe:theGinzaowl,theShimbashi locomotive, the temple of the fox at the top of the Mitsukoshi department store, which he found invaded by little girlsandrocksingers.Hewastoldthatitwasnowlittlegirlswhomadeandunmadestars;theproducersshuddered beforethem.Hewastoldthatadisfiguredwomantookoffhermaskinfrontofpassersbyandscratchedthemifthey didnotfindherbeautiful.Everythinginterestedhim.Hewhodidn'tgiveadamniftheDodgerswonthepennantor about the results of the Daily Double asked feverishly how Chiyonofuji had done in the last sumo tournament. He askedfornewsoftheimperialfamily,ofthecrownprince,oftheoldestmobsterinTokyowhoappearsregularlyon television to teach goodness to children. These simple joys he had never felt: of returning to a country, a house, a familyhome.Buttwelvemillionanonymousinhabitantscouldsupplyhimwiththem. He wrote: Tokyo is a city crisscrossed by trains, tiedtogetherwithelectric wire she shows her veins. Theysaythat televisionmakesherpeopleilliterate;asforme,I'veneverseensomanypeoplereadinginthestreets.Perhapsthey read only in the street, or perhaps they just pretend to readthese yellow men. I make my appointments at Kinokuniya,thebigbookshopinShinjuku.ThegraphicgeniusthatallowedtheJapanesetoinventCinemaScopeten centuriesbeforethemoviescompensatesalittleforthesadfateofthecomicstripheroines,victimsofheartlessstory writersandofcastratingcensorship.Sometimestheyescape,andyoufindthemagainonthewalls.Theentirecityisa comicstrip;it'sPlanetManga.HowcanonefailtorecognizethestatuarythatgoesfromplasticizedbaroquetoStalin central? And the giant faces with eyes that weigh down on the comic book readers, pictures bigger than people, voyeurizingthevoyeurs. Atnightfallthemegalopolisbreaksdownintovillages,withitscountrycemeteriesintheshadowofbanks,withits stationsandtemples.EachdistrictofTokyoonceagainbecomesatidy ingenuouslittletown,nestlingamongstthe skyscrapers. ThesmallbarinShinjukuremindedhimofthatIndianflutewhosesoundcanonlybeheardbywhomeverisplayingit. HemighthavecriedoutifitwasinaGodardfilmoraShakespeareplay,Whereshouldthismusicbe? LaterhetoldmehehadeatenattherestaurantinNishinipporiwhereMr.Yamadapracticesthedifficultartof'action cooking.'HesaidthatbywatchingcarefullyMr.Yamada'sgesturesandhiswayofmixingtheingredientsonecould meditateusefullyoncertainfundamentalconceptscommontopainting,philosophy,andkarate.HeclaimedthatMr. Yamadapossessedinhishumblewaytheessenceofstyle,andconsequentlythatitwasuptohimtousehisinvisible brushtowriteuponthisfirstdayinTokyothewords'theend.' I'vespentthedayinfrontofmyTVsetthatmemorybox.IwasinNarawiththesacreddeers.Iwastakingapicture withoutknowingthatinthe15thcenturyBashohadwritten:Thewillowseestheheron'simage...upsidedown. The commercial becomes a kind of haiku to the eye, used to Western atrocities in this field; not understanding obviouslyaddstothepleasure.ForoneslightlyhallucinatorymomentIhadtheimpressionthatIspokeJapanese,but itwasaculturalprogramonNHKaboutGrarddeNerval. 8:40,Cambodia.FromJeanJacquesRousseautotheKhmerRouge:coincidence,orthesenseofhistory? InApocalypseNow,Brandosaidafewdefinitiveandincommunicablesentences:Horrorhasafaceandaname...you mustmakeafriendofhorror.Tocastoutthehorrorthathasanameandafaceyoumustgiveitanothernameand anotherface.Japanesehorrormovieshavethecunningbeautyofcertaincorpses.Sometimesoneisstunnedbyso muchcruelty.OneseeksitssourcesintheAsianpeopleslongfamiliaritywithsuffering,thatrequiresthatevenpain beornate.Andthencomesthereward:themonstersarelaidout,NatsumeMasakoarises;absolutebeautyalsohasa nameandaface. But the more you watch Japanese television... the more you feel it's watching you. Even television newscast bears witnesstothefactthatthemagicalfunctionoftheeyeisatthecenterofallthings.It'selectiontime:thewinning candidatesblackouttheemptyeyeofDarumathespiritofluckwhilelosingcandidatessadbutdignifiedcarry offtheironeeyedDaruma. TheimagesmostdifficulttofigureoutarethoseofEurope.Iwatchedthepicturesofafilmwhosesoundtrackwillbe addedlater.IttookmesixmonthsforPoland.

Meanwhile, I have no difficulty with local earthquakes. But I must say that last night's quake helped me greatly to graspaproblem. Poetryisbornofinsecurity:wanderingJews,quakingJapanese;bylivingonarugthatjestingnatureiseverreadyto pull out from under them they've got into the habit of moving about in a world of appearances: fragile, fleeting, revocable, of trains that fly from planet to planet, of samurai fighting in an immutable past. That's called 'the impermanenceofthings.' Ididitall.Allthewaytotheeveningshowsforadultssocalled.Thesamehypocrisyasinthecomicstrips,butit'sa codedhypocrisy.Censorshipisnotthemutilationoftheshow,itistheshow.Thecodeisthemessage.Itpointstothe absolutebyhidingit.That'swhatreligionshavealwaysdone. Thatyear,anewfaceappearedamongthegreatonesthatblazonthestreetsofTokyo:thePope's.Treasuresthathad neverlefttheVaticanwereshownontheseventhflooroftheSogodepartmentstore. Hewroteme:curiosityofcourse,andtheglimmerofindustrialespionageintheeyeIimaginethembringingout within two years time a more efficient and less expensive version of Catholicismbut there's also the fascination associatedwiththesacred,evenwhenit'ssomeoneelse's. SowhenwillthethirdfloorofMacy'sharboranexhibitionofJapanesesacredsignssuchascanbeseenatJosenkai ontheislandofHokkaido?Atfirstonesmilesatthisplacewhichcombinesamuseum,achapel,andasexshop.As alwaysinJapan,oneadmiresthefactthatthewallsbetweentherealmsaresothinthatonecaninthesamebreath contemplate a statue, buy an inflatable doll, and give the goddess of fertility the small offering that always accompaniesherdisplays.Displayswhosefranknesswouldmakethestratagemsofthetelevisionincomprehensible, ifitdidnotatthesametimesaythatasexisvisibleonlyonconditionofbeingseveredfromabody. Onewouldliketobelieveinaworldbeforethefall:inaccessibletothecomplicationsofaPuritanismwhosephony shadow has been imposed on it by American occupation. Where people who gather laughing around the votive fountain,thewomanwhotouchesitwithafriendlygesture,shareinthesamecosmicinnocence. Thesecondpartofthemuseumwithitscouplesofstuffedanimalswouldthenbetheearthlyparadiseaswehave alwaysdreamedit.Notsosure...animalinnocencemaybeatrickforgettingaroundcensorship,butperhapsalsothe mirrorofanimpossiblereconciliation.Andevenwithoutoriginalsinthisearthlyparadisemaybeaparadiselost.In theglossysplendourofthegentleanimalsofJosenkaiIreadthefundamentalriftofJapanesesociety,theriftthat separates men from women. In life it seems to show itself in two ways only: violent slaughter, or a discreet melancholyresembling Sei Shonagon'swhich the Japanese express in a single untranslatable word. So this bringingdownofmantothelevelofthebeastsagainstwhichthefathersofthechurchinvadebecomesherethe challengeofthebeaststothepoignancyofthings,toamelancholywhosecolorIcangiveyoubycopyingafewlines from Samura Koichi: Who said that time heals all wounds? It would be better to say that time heals everything exceptwounds.Withtime,thehurtofseparationlosesitsreallimits.Withtime,thedesiredbodywillsoondisappear, andifthedesiringbodyhasalreadyceasedtoexistfortheother,thenwhatremainsisawound...disembodied. HewrotemethattheJapanesesecretwhatLviStrausshadcalledthepoignancyofthingsimpliedthefacultyof communion with things, of entering into them, of being them for a moment. It was normal that in their turn they shouldbelikeus:perishableandimmortal. He wrote me: animism is a familiar notion in Africa, it is less often applied in Japan. What then shall we call this diffusebelief,accordingtowhicheveryfragmentofcreationhasitsinvisiblecounterpart?Whentheybuildafactory oraskyscraper,theybeginwithaceremonytoappeasethegodwhoownstheland.Thereisaceremonyforbrushes, forabacuses,andevenforrustyneedles.There'soneonthe25thofSeptemberforthereposeofthesoulofbroken dolls.ThedollsarepiledupinthetempleofKiyomitsuconsecratedtoKannonthegoddessofcompassionandare burnedinpublic. Ilooktotheparticipants.Ithinkthepeoplewhosawoffthekamikazepilotshadthesamelookontheirfaces. HewrotemethatthepicturesofGuineaBissauoughttobeaccompaniedbymusicfromtheCapeVerdeislands.That wouldbeourcontributiontotheunitydreamedofbyAmilcarCabral. Why should so small a countryand one so poorinterest the world? They did what they could, they freed themselves,theychasedoutthePortuguese.TheytraumatizedthePortuguesearmytosuchanextentthatitgave rise to a movement that overthrew the dictatorship, and led one for a moment to believe in a new revolution in Europe. Whoremembersallthat?Historythrowsitsemptybottlesoutthewindow. ThismorningIwasonthedockatPidjiguity,whereeverythingbeganin1959,whenthefirstvictimsofthestruggle werekilled.ItmaybeasdifficulttorecognizeAfricainthisleadenfogasitistorecognizestruggleintheratherdull activityoftropicallongshoremen. Rumorhasitthateverythirdworldleadercoinedthesamephrasethemorningafterindependence: Nowthereal problemsstart. Cabral never got a chance to say it: he was assassinated first. But the problems started, and went on, and are still goingon.Ratherunexcitingproblemsforrevolutionaryromanticism:towork,toproduce,todistribute,toovercome postwarexhaustion,temptationsofpowerandprivilege. Ahwell...afterall,historyonlytastesbittertothosewhoexpectedittobesugarcoated.

Mypersonalproblemismorespecific:howtofilmtheladiesofBissau?Apparently,themagicalfunctionoftheeye wasworkingagainstmethere.ItwasinthemarketplacesofBissauandCapeVerdethatIcouldstareatthemagain withequality:Iseeher,shesawme,sheknowsthatIseeher,shedropsmeherglance,butjustatananglewhereitis stillpossibletoactasthoughitwasnotaddressedtome,andattheendtherealglance,straightforward,thatlasteda twentyfourthofasecond,thelengthofafilmframe. Allwomenhaveabuiltingrainofindestructibility.Andmen'staskhasalwaysbeentomakethemrealizeitaslateas possible. African men are just as good at this task as others. But after a close look at African women I wouldn't necessarilybetonthemen. HetoldmethestoryofthedogHachiko.Adogwaitedeverydayforhismasteratthestation.Themasterdied,and thedogdidn'tknowit,andhecontinuedtowaitallhislife.Peopleweremovedandbroughthimfood.Afterhisdeath a statue was erected in his honor, in front of which sushi and rice cakes are still placed so that the faithful soul of Hachikowillnevergohungry. Tokyo is full of these tiny legends, and of mediating animals. The Mitsukoshi lion stands guard on the frontiers of whatwasoncetheempireofMr.OkadaagreatcollectorofFrenchpaintings,themanwhohiredtheChteauof Versaillestocelebratethehundredthanniversaryofhisdepartmentstores. In the computer section I've seen young Japanese exercising their brain muscles like the young Athenians at the Palaistra.Theyhaveawartowin.Thehistorybooksofthefuturewillperhapsplacethebattleofintegratedcircuitsat thesamelevelasSalamisandAgincourt,butwillingtohonortheunfortunateadversarybyleavingotherfieldstohim: men'sfashionsthisseasonareplacedunderthesignofJohnKennedy. Likeanoldvotiveturtlestationedinthecornerofafield,everydayhesawMr.AkaothepresidentoftheJapanese PatrioticPartytrumpetingfromtheheightsofhisrollingbalconyagainsttheinternationalcommunistplot.Hewrote me:theautomobilesoftheextremerightwiththeirflagsandmegaphonesarepartofTokyo'slandscapeMr.Akaois theirfocalpoint.Ithinkhe'llhavehisstatuelikethedogHachiko,atthiscrossroadsfromwhichhedepartsonlytogo andprophesyonthebattlefields.HewasatNaritainthesixties.Peasantsfightingagainstthebuildingofanairporton theirland,andMr.AkaodenouncingthehandofMoscowbehindeverythingthatmoved. Yurakucho is the political space of Tokyo. Once upon a time I saw bonzes pray for peace in Vietnam there. Today youngrightwingactivistsprotestagainsttheannexationoftheNorthernIslandsbytheRussians.Sometimestheyare answered that the commercial relations of Japan with the abominable occupier of the North are a thousand times betterthanwiththeAmericanallywhoisalwayswhiningabouteconomicaggression.Ah,nothingissimple. On the other sidewalk the Left has the floor. The Korean Catholic opposition leader Kim Dae Jungkidnapped in Tokyoin'73bytheSouthKoreangestapoisthreatenedwiththedeathsentence.Agrouphasbegunahungerstrike. Someveryyoungmilitantsaretryingtogathersignaturesinhissupport. IwentbacktoNaritaforthebirthdayofoneofthevictimsofthestruggle.Thedemowasunreal.Ihadtheimpression ofactinginBrigadoon,ofwakinguptenyearslaterinthemidstofthesameplayers,withthesamebluelobstersof police,thesamehelmetedadolescents,thesamebannersandthesameslogan: Downwiththeairport.Onlyone thing has been added: the airport precisely. But with its single runway and the barbed wire that chokes it, it looks morebesiegedthanvictorious. MypalHayaoYamanekohasfoundasolution:iftheimagesofthepresentdon'tchange,thenchangetheimagesof thepast. Heshowedmetheclashesofthesixtiestreatedbyhissynthesizer:picturesthatarelessdeceptivehesayswiththe conviction of a fanaticthan those you see on television. At least they proclaim themselves to be what they are: images, not the portable and compact form of an already inaccessible reality. Hayao calls his machine's world the 'zone,'anhomagetoTarkovsky. WhatNaritabroughtbacktome,likeashatteredhologram,wasanintactfragmentofthegenerationofthesixties.If tolovewithoutillusionsisstilltolove,IcansaythatIlovedit.Itwasagenerationthatoftenexasperatedme,forI didn'tshareitsutopiaofunitinginacommonstrugglethosewhorevoltagainstpovertyandthosewhorevoltagainst wealth.Butitscreamedoutthatgutreactionthatbetteradjustedvoicesnolongerknewhow,ornolongerdaredto utter. Imetpeasantstherewhohadcometoknowthemselvesthroughthestruggle.Concretelyithadfailed.Atthesame time,alltheyhadwonintheirunderstandingoftheworldcouldhavebeenwononlythroughthestruggle. Asforthestudents,somemassacredeachotherinthemountainsinthenameofrevolutionarypurity,whileothers hadstudiedcapitalismsothoroughlytofightitthattheynowprovideitwithitsbestexecutives.Likeeverywhereelse the movement had its postures and its careerists, including, and there are some, those who made a career of martyrdom. But it carried with it all those who said, like Ch Guevara, that they trembled with indignation every timeaninjusticeiscommittedintheworld.Theywantedtogiveapoliticalmeaningtotheirgenerosity,andtheir generosityhasoutlastedtheirpolitics.That'swhyIwillneverallowittobesaidthatyouthiswastedontheyoung. TheyouthwhogettogethereveryweekendatShinjukuobviouslyknowthattheyarenotonalaunchingpadtoward reallife;buttheyarelife,tobeeatenonthespotlikefreshdoughnuts. It's a very simple secret. The old try to hide it, and not all the young know it. The tenyearold girl who threw her friendfromthethirteenthfloorofabuildingafterhavingtiedherhands,becauseshe'dspokenbadlyoftheirclass

team,hadn'tdiscoveredityet.Parentswhodemandanincreaseinthenumberofspecialtelephonelinesdevotedto thepreventionofchildren'ssuicidesfindoutalittlelatethattheyhavekeptitalltoowell.Rockisaninternational languageforspreadingthesecret.AnotherispeculiartoTokyo. Forthetakenoko,twentyistheageofretirement.TheyarebabyMartians.IgotoseethemdanceeverySundayin theparkatYoyogi.Theywantpeopletolookatthem,buttheydon'tseemtonoticethatpeopledo.Theyliveina paralleltimesphere:akindofinvisibleaquariumwallseparatesthemfromthecrowdtheyattract,andIcanspenda wholeafternooncontemplatingthelittletakenokogirlwhoislearningnodoubtforthefirsttimethecustomsof herplanet. Beyond that, they wear dog tags, they obey a whistle, the Mafia rackets them, and with the exception of a single groupmadeupofgirls,it'salwaysaboywhocommands. Onedayhewritestome:descriptionofadream.Moreandmoremydreamsfindtheirsettingsinthedepartment storesofTokyo,thesubterraneantunnelsthatextendthemandrunparalleltothecity.Afaceappears,disappears... atraceisfound,islost.AllthefolkloreofdreamsissomuchinitsplacethatthenextdaywhenIamawakeIrealize thatIcontinuetoseekinthebasementlabyrinththepresenceconcealedthenightbefore.Ibegintowonderifthose dreamsarereallymine,oriftheyarepartofatotality,ofagiganticcollectivedreamofwhichtheentirecitymaybe theprojection.Itmightsufficetopickupanyoneofthetelephonesthatarelyingaroundtohearafamiliarvoice,or thebeatingofaheart,SeiShonagon'sforexample. All the galleries lead to stations; the same companies own the stores and the railroads that bear their name. Keio, Odakyuallthosenamesofports.Thetraininhabitedbysleepingpeopleputstogetherallthefragmentsofdreams, makes a single film of themthe ultimate film. The tickets from the automatic dispenser grant admission to the show. HetoldmeabouttheJanuarylightonthestationstairways.Hetoldmethatthiscityoughttobedecipheredlikea musicalscore;onecouldgetlostinthegreatorchestralmassesandtheaccumulationofdetails.Andthatcreatedthe cheapest image of Tokyo: overcrowded, megalomaniac, inhuman. He thought he saw more subtle cycles there: rhythms,clustersoffacescaughtsightofinpassingasdifferentandpreciseasgroupsofinstruments.Sometimes themusicalcomparisoncoincidedwithplainreality;theSonystairwayintheGinzawasitselfaninstrument,eachstep anote.Allofitfittogetherlikethevoicesofasomewhatcomplicatedfugue,butitwasenoughtotakeholdofoneof themandhangontoit. The television screens for example; all by themselves they created an itinerary that sometimes wound up in unexpectedcurves.Itwassumoseason,andthefanswhocametowatchthefightsintheverychicshowroomson theGinzawerethepoorestoftheTokyopoors.Sopoorthattheydidn'tevenhaveaTVset.Hesawthemcome,the deadsoulsofNamidabashihehaddrunksakwithonesunnydawnhowmanyseasonsagowasthatnow? Hewroteme:eveninthestallswheretheysellelectronicsparepartsthatsomehipstersuseforjewelrythereisin the score that is Tokyo a particular staff, whose rarity in Europe condemns me to a real acoustic exile. I mean the musicofvideogames.Theyarefittedintotables.Youcandrink,youcanlunch,andgoonplaying.Theyopenontothe street.Bylisteningtothemyoucanplayfrommemory. IsawthesegamesborninJapan.Ilatermetupwiththemagainallovertheworld,butonedetailwasdifferent.At thebeginningthegamewasfamiliar:akindofantiecologicalbeatingwheretheideawastokilloffassoonasthey showed the white of their eyescreatures that were either prairie dogs or baby seals, I can't be sure which. Now here'stheJapanesevariation.Insteadofthecritters,there'ssomevaguelyhumanheadsidentifiedbyalabel:atthe topthechairmanoftheboard,infrontofhimthevicepresidentandthedirectors,inthefrontrowthesectionheads and the personnel manager. The guy I filmedwho was smashing up the hierarchy with an enviable energy confidedinmethatforhimthegamewasnotatallallegorical,thathewasthinkingverypreciselyofhissuperiors.No doubtthat'swhythepuppetrepresentingthepersonnelmanagerhasbeenclubbedsooftenandsohardthatit'sout ofcommission,andwhyithadtobereplacedagainbyababyseal. HayaoYamanekoinventsvideogameswithhismachine.Topleasemeheputsinmybestbelovedanimals:thecat andtheowl.Heclaimsthatelectronictextureistheonlyonethatcandealwithsentiment,memory,andimagination. Mizoguchi's Arsne Lupin for example, or the no less imaginary burakumin. How one claim to show a category of Japanesewhodonotexist?Yesthey'rethere;IsawtheminOsakahiringthemselvesoutbytheday,sleepingonthe ground.Eversincethemiddleagesthey'vebeendoomedtogrubbyandbackbreakingjobs.ButsincetheMeijiera, officiallynothingsetsthemapart,andtheirrealnameetaisatabooword,nottobepronounced.Theyarenon persons.Howcantheybeshown,exceptasnonimages? Videogamesarethefirststageinaplanformachinestohelpthehumanrace,theonlyplanthatoffersafuturefor intelligence.Forthemoment,theinseparablephilosophyofourtimeiscontainedinthePacMan.Ididn'tknowwhen Iwassacrificingallmyhundredyencoinstohimthathewasgoingtoconquertheworld.Perhapsbecauseheisthe most perfect graphic metaphor of man's fate. He puts into true perspective the balance of power between the individualandtheenvironment.Andhetellsussoberlythatthoughtheremaybehonorincarryingoutthegreatest numberofvictoriousattacks,italwayscomesacropper. Hewaspleasedthatthesamechrysanthemumsappearedinfuneralsformenandforanimals.Hedescribedtomethe ceremonyheldatthezooinUenoinmemoryofanimalsthathaddiedduringtheyear.Fortwoyearsinarowthisday

ofmourninghashadapallcastoveritbythedeathofapanda,moreirreparableaccordingtothenewspapers thanthedeathoftheprimeministerthattookplaceatthesametime.Lastyearpeoplereallycried.Nowtheyseem tobegettingusedtoit,acceptingthateachyeardeathtakesapandaasdragonsdoyounggirlsinfairytales. I'veheardthissentence:Thepartitionthatseparateslifefromdeathdoesnotappearsothicktousasitdoestoa Westerner.WhatIhavereadmostoftenintheeyesofpeopleabouttodieissurprise.WhatIreadrightnowinthe eyesofJapanesechildreniscuriosity,asiftheyweretryinginordertounderstandthedeathofananimaltostare throughthepartition. I have returned from a country where death is not a partition to cross through but a road to follow. The great ancestoroftheBijagsarchipelagohasdescribedforustheitineraryofthedeadandhowtheymovefromislandto islandaccordingtoarigorousprotocoluntiltheycometothelastbeachwheretheywaitfortheshipthatwilltake themtotheotherworld.Ifbyaccidentoneshouldmeetthem,itisaboveallimperativenottorecognizethem. TheBijagsisapartofGuineaBissau.InanoldfilmclipAmilcarCabralwavesagestureofgoodbyetotheshore;he's right,he'llneverseeitagain.LuisCabralmadethesamegesturefifteenyearslateronthecanoethatwasbringingus back. GuineahasbythattimebecomeanationandLuisisitspresident.Allthosewhorememberthewarrememberhim. He'sthehalfbrotherofAmilcar,bornashewasofmixedGuineanandCapeVerdeanblood,andlikehimafounding member of an unusual party, the PAIGC, which by uniting the two colonized countries in a single movement of strugglewishestobetheforerunnerofafederationofthetwostates. Ihavelistenedtothestoriesofformerguerrillafighters,whohadfoughtinconditionssoinhumanthattheypitiedthe Portuguesesoldiersforhavingtobearwhattheythemselvessuffered.ThatIheard.Andmanymorethingsthatmake one ashamed for having used lightlyeven if inadvertentlythe word guerrilla to describe a certain breed of film making.Awordthatatthetimewaslinkedtomanytheoreticaldebatesandalsotobloodydefeatsontheground. Amilcar Cabral was the only one to lead a victorious guerrilla war, and not only in terms of military conquests. He knewhispeople,hehadstudiedthemforalongtime,andhewantedeveryliberatedregiontobealsotheprecursor ofadifferentkindofsociety. The socialist countries send weapons to arm the fighters. The social democracies fill the People's Stores. May the extremeleftforgivehistorybutiftheguerrillasarelikefishinwaterit'sabitthankstoSweden. Amilcarwasnotafraidofambiguitiesheknewthetraps.Hewrote:It'sasthoughwewereattheedgeofagreat riverfullofwavesandstorms,withpeoplewhoaretryingtocrossitanddrown,buttheyhavenootherwayout,they mustgettotheotherside. Andnow,thescenemovestoCassaque:theseventeenthofFebruary,1980.Buttounderstanditproperlyonemust move forward in time. In a year Luis Cabral the president will be in prison, and the weeping man he has just decorated,majorNino,willhavetakenpower.Thepartywillhavesplit,GuineansandCapeVerdeansseparatedone fromtheotherwillbefightingoverAmilcar'slegacy.Wewilllearnthatbehindthisceremonyofpromotionswhichin theeyesofvisitorsperpetuatedthebrotherhoodofthestruggle,therelayapitofpostvictorybitterness,andthat Nino's tears did not express an exwarrior's emotion, but the wounded pride of a hero who felt he had not been raisedhighenoughabovetheothers. And beneath each of these faces a memory. And in place of what we were told had been forged into a collective memory,athousandmemoriesofmenwhoparadetheirpersonallacerationinthegreatwoundofhistory. InPortugalraisedupinitsturnbythebreakingwaveofBissauMiguelTorga,whohadstruggledallhislifeagainst thedictatorshipwrote:Everyprotagonistrepresentsonlyhimself;inplaceofachangeinthesocialsettingheseeks simplyintherevolutionaryactthesublimationofhisownimage. That'sthewaythebreakersrecede.Andsopredictablythatonehastobelieveinakindofamnesiaofthefuturethat historydistributesthroughmercyorcalculationtothosewhomitrecruits:Amilcarmurderedbymembersofhisown party,theliberatedareasfallenundertheyokeofbloodypettytyrantsliquidatedintheirturnbyacentralpowerto whosestabilityeveryonepaidhomageuntilthemilitarycoup. That'showhistoryadvances,pluggingitsmemoryasoneplugsone'sears.LuisexiledtoCuba,Ninodiscoveringinhis turn plots woven against him, can be cited reciprocally to appear before the bar of history. She doesn't care, she understandsnothing,shehasonlyonefriend,theoneBrandospokeofinApocalypse:horror.Thathasanameanda face. I'mwritingyouallthisfromanotherworld,aworldofappearances.Inawaythetwoworldscommunicatewitheach other.Memoryistoonewhathistoryistotheother:animpossibility. Legendsarebornoutoftheneedtodeciphertheindecipherable.Memoriesmustmakedowiththeirdelirium,with theirdrift.Amomentstoppedwouldburnlikeaframeoffilmblockedbeforethefurnaceoftheprojector.Madness protects,asfeverdoes. IenvyHayaoinhis'zone,'heplayswiththesignsofhismemory.Hepinsthemdownanddecoratesthemlikeinsects thatwouldhaveflownbeyondtime,andwhichhecouldcontemplatefromapointoutsideoftime:theonlyeternity wehaveleft.Ilookathismachines.Ithinkofaworldwhereeachmemorycouldcreateitsownlegend.

He wrote me that only one film had been capable of portraying impossible memoryinsane memory: Alfred Hitchcock's Vertigo. In the spiral of the titles he saw time covering a field ever wider as it moved away, a cyclone whosepresentmomentcontainsmotionlesstheeye. In San Francisco he had made his pilgrimage to all the film's locations: the florist Podesta Baldocchi, where James StewartspiesonKimNovakhethehunter,shetheprey.Orwasittheotherwayaround?Thetileshadn'tchanged. HehaddrivenupanddownthehillsofSanFranciscowhereJimmyStewart,Scotty,followsKimNovak,Madeline.It seems to be a question of trailing, of enigma, of murder, but in truth it's a question of power and freedom, of melancholyanddazzlement,socarefullycodedwithinthespiralthatyoucouldmissit,andnotdiscoverimmediately thatthisvertigoofspaceinrealitystandsforthevertigooftime. Hehadfollowedallthetrails.EventothecemeteryatMissionDoloreswhereMadelinecametoprayatthegraveofa woman long since dead, whom she should not have known. He followed Madelineas Scotty had doneto the Museum at the Legion of Honor, before the portrait of a dead woman she should not have known. And on the portrait,asinMadeline'shair,thespiraloftime. ThesmallVictorianhotelwhereMadelinedisappearedhaddisappeareditself;concretehadreplacedit,atthecorner of Eddy and Gough. On the other hand the sequoia cut was still in Muir Woods. On it Madeline traced the short distancebetweentwoofthoseconcentriclinesthatmeasuredtheageofthetreeandsaid,HereIwasborn...and hereIdied. Herememberedanotherfilminwhichthispassagewasquoted.ThesequoiawastheoneintheJardindesplantesin Paris,andthehandpointedtoaplaceoutsidethetree,outsideoftime. ThepaintedhorseatSanJuanBautista,hiseyethatlookedlikeMadeline's:Hitchcockhadinventednothing,itwasall there.HehadrununderthearchesofthepromenadeinthemissionasMadelinehadruntowardsherdeath.Orwas ithers? FromthisfaketowertheonlythingthatHitchcockhadaddedheimaginedScottyastime'sfooloflove,findingit impossibletolivewithmemorywithoutfalsifyingit.InventingadoubleforMadelineinanotherdimensionoftime,a zone that would belong only to him and from which he could decipher the indecipherable story that had begun at Golden Gate when he had pulled Madeline out of San Francisco Bay, when he had saved her from death before castingherbacktodeath.Orwasittheotherwayaround? In San Francisco I made the pilgrimage of a film I had seen nineteen times. In Iceland I laid the first stone of an imaginaryfilm.ThatsummerIhadmetthreechildrenonaroadandavolcanohadcomeoutofthesea.TheAmerican astronautscametotrainbeforeflyingofftothemoon,inthiscornerofEarththatresemblesit.Isawitimmediately asasettingforsciencefiction:thelandscapeofanotherplanet.Orratherno,letitbethelandscapeofourownplanet for someone who comes from elsewhere, from very far away. I imagine him moving slowly, heavily, about the volcanicsoilthatstickstothesoles.Allofasuddenhestumbles,andthenextstepit'sayearlater.He'swalkingona smallpathneartheDutchborderalongaseabirdsanctuary. That'sforastart.Nowwhythiscutintime,thisconnectionofmemories?That'sjustit,hecan'tunderstand.Hehasn't comefromanotherplanethecomesfromourfuture,fourthousandandone:thetimewhenthehumanbrainhas reachedtheeraoffullemployment.Everythingworkstoperfection,allthatweallowtoslumber,includingmemory. Logicalconsequence:totalrecallismemoryanesthetized.Aftersomanystoriesofmenwhohadlosttheirmemory, hereisthestoryofonewhohaslostforgetting,andwhothroughsomepeculiarityofhisnatureinsteadofdrawing pridefromthefactandscorningmankindofthepastanditsshadows,turnedtoitfirstwithcuriosityandthenwith compassion.Intheworldhecomesfrom,tocallforthavision,tobemovedbyaportrait,totrembleatthesoundof music,canonlybesignsofalongandpainfulprehistory.Hewantstounderstand.Hefeelstheseinfirmitiesoftime likeaninjustice,andhereactstothatinjusticelikeChGuevara,liketheyouthofthesixties,withindignation.Heisa ThirdWorlderoftime.Theideathatunhappinesshadexistedinhisplanet'spastisasunbearabletohimastothem theexistenceofpovertyintheirpresent. Naturally he'll fail. The unhappiness he discovers is as inaccessible to him as the poverty of a poor country is unimaginabletothechildrenofarichone.Hehaschosentogiveuphisprivileges,buthecandonothingaboutthe privilegethathasallowedhimtochoose.Hisonlyrecourseispreciselythatwhichthrewhimintothisabsurdquest:a songcyclebyMussorgsky.Theyarestillsunginthefortiethcentury.Theirmeaninghasbeenlost.Butitwasthenthat for the first time he perceived the presence of that thing he didn't understand which had something to do with unhappinessandmemory,andtowardswhichslowly,heavily,hebegantowalk. Of course I'll never make that film. Nonetheless I'm collecting the sets, inventing the twists, putting in my favorite creatures.I'veevengivenitatitle,indeedthetitleofthoseMussorgskysongs:Sunless. On May 15, 1945, at seven o'clock in the morning, the three hundred and eighty second US infantry regiment attackedahillinOkinawatheyhadrenamed'DickHill.'IsupposetheAmericansthemselvesbelievedthattheywere conqueringJapanesesoil,andthattheyknewnothingabouttheRyukyucivilization.NeitherdidI,apartfromthefact thatthefacesofthemarketladiesatItomanspoketomemoreofGauguinthanofUtamaro.Forcenturiesofdreamy vassalage time had not moved in the archipelago. Then came the break. Is it a property of islands to make their womenintotheguardiansoftheirmemory?

IlearnedthatasintheBijagsitisthroughthewomenthatmagicknowledgeistransmitted.Eachcommunityhas itspriestessthenorowhopresidesoverallceremonieswiththeexceptionoffunerals. The Japanese defended their position inch by inch. At the end of the day the two half platoons formed from the remnantsofLCompanyhadgotonlyhalfwayupthehill,ahillliketheonewhereIfollowedagroupofvillagerson theirwaytothepurificationceremony. Thenorocommunicateswiththegodsofthesea,ofrain,oftheearth,offire.Everyonebowsdownbeforethesister deity who is the reflection, in the absolute, of a privileged relationship between brother and sister. Even after her death,thesisterretainsherspiritualpredominance. AtdawntheAmericanswithdrew.Fightingwentonforoveramonthbeforetheislandsurrendered,andtoppledinto the modern world. Twentyseven years of American occupation, the reestablishment of a controversial Japanese sovereignty:twomilesfromthebowlingalleysandthegasstationsthenorocontinuesherdialoguewiththegods. Whensheisgonethedialoguewillend.Brotherswillnolongerknowthattheirdeadsisteriswatchingoverthem. When filming this ceremony I knew I was present at the end of something. Magical cultures that disappear leave tracestothosewhosucceedthem.Thisonewillleavenone;thebreakinhistoryhasbeentooviolent. Itouchedthatbreakatthesummitofthehill,asIhadtoucheditattheedgeoftheditchwheretwohundredgirlshad used grenades to commit suicide in 1945 rather than fall alive into the hands of the Americans. People have their picturestakeninfrontoftheditch.Acrossfromitsouvenirlightersaresoldshapedlikegrenades. OnHayao'smachinewarresembleslettersbeingburned,shreddedinaframeoffire.ThecodenameforPearlHarbor wasTora,Tora,Tora,thenameofthecatthecoupleinGotokujiwasprayingfor.Soallofthiswillhavebegunwith thenameofacatpronouncedthreetimes. Off Okinawa kamikaze dived on the Americanfleet;theywouldbecomealegend. Theywere likeliermaterialforit obviouslythanthespecialunitswhoexposedtheirprisonerstothebitterfrostofManchuriaandthentohotwaterso astoseehowfastfleshseparatesfromthebone. One would have to read their last letters to learn that the kamikaze weren't all volunteers, nor were they all swashbuckling samurai. Before drinking his last cup of sak Ryoji Uebara had written: I have always thought that Japanmustlivefreeinordertoliveeternally.Itmayseemidiotictosaythattoday,underatotalitarianregime.We kamikazepilotsaremachines,wehavenothingtosay,excepttobegourcompatriotstomakeJapanthegreatcountry ofourdreams.IntheplaneIamamachine,abitofmagnetizedmetalthatwillplasteritselfagainstanaircraftcarrier. ButonceonthegroundIamahumanbeingwithfeelingsandpassions.Pleaseexcusethesedisorganizedthoughts. I'mleavingyouarathermelancholypicture,butinthedepthsofmyheartIamhappy.Ihavespokenfrankly,forgive me. EverytimehecamefromAfricahestoppedattheislandofSal,whichisinfactasaltrockinthemiddleoftheAtlantic. Attheendoftheisland,beyondthevillageofSantaMariaanditscemeterywiththepaintedtombs,itsufficestowalk straightaheadtomeetthedesert. Hewroteme:I'veunderstoodthevisions.Suddenlyyou'reinthedesertthewayyouareinthenight;whateverisnot desertnolongerexists.Youdon'twanttobelievetheimagesthatcropup. DidIwriteyouthatthereareemusintheIledeFrance?ThisnameIslandofFrancesoundsstrangelyontheisland of Sal. My memory superimposes two towers: the one at the ruined castle of Montpilloy that served as an encampmentforJoanofArc,andthelighthousetoweratthesoutherntipofSal,probablyoneofthelastlighthouses touseoil. A lighthouse in the Sahel looks like a collage until you see the ocean at the edge of the sand and salt. Crews of transcontinental planes are rotated on Sal. Their club brings to this frontier of nothingness a small touch of the seasideresortwhichmakesthereststillmoreunreal.Theyfeedthestraydogsthatliveonthebeach. Ifoundmydogsprettynervoustonight;theywereplayingwiththeseaasIhadneverseenthembefore.Listeningto RadioHongKonglateronIunderstood:todaywasthefirstdayofthelunarnewyear,andforthefirsttimeinsixty yearsthesignofthedogmetthesignofwater. Outthere,eleventhousandmilesaway,asingleshadowremainsimmobileinthemidstofthelongmovingshadows thattheJanuarylightthrowsoverthegroundofTokyo:theshadowoftheAsakusabonze. ForalsoinJapantheyearofthedogisbeginning.Templesarefilledwithvisitorswhocometotossdowntheircoins andtoprayJapanesestyleaprayerwhichslipsintolifewithoutinterruptingit. BroodingattheendoftheworldonmyislandofSalinthecompanyofmyprancingdogsIrememberthatmonthof JanuaryinTokyo,orratherIremembertheimagesIfilmedofthemonthofJanuaryinTokyo.Theyhavesubstituted themselves for my memory. They are my memory. I wonder how people remember things who don't film, don't photograph,don'ttape.Howhasmankindmanagedtoremember?Iknow:itwrotetheBible.ThenewBiblewillbe aneternalmagnetictapeofatimethatwillhavetorereaditselfconstantlyjusttoknowitexisted. As we await the year four thousand and one and its total recall, that's what the oracles we take out of their long hexagonalboxesatnewyearmayofferus:alittlemorepoweroverthatmemorythatrunsfromcamptocamplike Joan of Arc. That a short wave announcementfromHongKongradiopickeduponaCapeVerdeisland projects to Tokyo, and that the memory of a precise color in the street bounces back on another country, another distance, anothermusic,endlessly.

Attheendofmemory'spath,theideogramsoftheIslandofFrancearenolessenigmaticthanthekanjiofTokyoin themiraculouslightofthenewyear.It'sIndianwinter,asiftheairwerethefirstelementtoemergepurifiedfromthe countlessceremoniesbywhichtheJapanesewashoffoneyeartoenterthenextone.Afullmonthisjustenoughfor themtofulfillallthedutiesthatcourtesyowestotime,themostinterestingunquestionablybeingtheacquisitionat the temple of Tenjin of the uso bird, who according to one tradition eats all your lies of the year to come, and accordingtoanotherturnsthemintotruths. ButwhatgivesthestreetitscolorinJanuary,whatmakesitsuddenlydifferentistheappearanceofkimono.Inthe street, in stores, in offices, even at the stock exchange on opening day, the girls take out their fur collared winter kimono.AtthatmomentoftheyearotherJapanesemaywellinventextraflatTVsets,commitsuicidewithachain saw,orcapturetwothirdsoftheworldmarketforsemiconductors.Goodforthem;allyouseearethegirls. ThefifteenthofJanuaryiscomingofageday:anobligatorycelebrationinthelifeofayoungJapanesewoman.The citygovernmentsdistributesmallbagsfilledwithgifts,datebooks,advice:howtobeagoodcitizen,agoodmother,a good wife. On that day every twentyyearold girl can phone her family for free, no matter where in Japan. Flag, home,andcountry:thisistheanteroomofadulthood.Theworldofthetakenokoandofrocksingersspeeds away likearocket.Speakersexplainwhatsocietyexpectsofthem.Howlongwillittaketoforgetthesecret? And when all the celebrations are over it remains only to pick up all the ornamentsall the accessories of the celebrationandbyburningthem,makeacelebration. This is dondoyaki, a Shinto blessing of the debris that have a right to immortalitylike the dolls at Ueno. The last statebeforetheirdisappearanceofthepoignancyofthings.Darumatheoneeyedspiritreignssupremeatthe summitofthebonfire.Abandonmentmustbeafeast;lacerationmustbeafeast.Andthefarewelltoallthatonehas lost,broken,used,mustbeennobledbyaceremony.It'sJapanthatcouldfulfillthewishofthatFrenchwriterwho wanteddivorcetobemadeasacrament. Theonlybafflingpartofthisritualwasthecircleofchildrenstrikingthegroundwiththeirlongpoles.Ionlygotone explanation,asingularonealthoughformeitmighttaketheformofasmallintimateserviceitwastochaseaway themoles. And that's where my three children of Iceland came and grafted themselves in. I picked up the whole shot again, adding the somewhat hazy end, the frame trembling under the force of the wind beating us down on the cliff: everythingIhadcutinordertotidyup,andthatsaidbetterthanalltherestwhatIsawinthatmoment,whyIheldit atarmslength,atzoomslength,untilitslasttwentyfourthofasecond,thecityofHeimaeyspreadoutbelowus.And whenfiveyearslatermyfriendHarounTazieffsentmethefilmhehadjustshotinthesameplaceIlackedonlythe name to learn that nature performs its own dondoyaki; the island's volcano had awakened. I looked at those pictures,anditwasasiftheentireyear'65hadjustbeencoveredwithashes. So,itsufficedtowaitandtheplanetitselfstagedtheworkingoftime.Isawwhathadbeenmywindowagain.Isaw emerge familiar roofs and balconies, the landmarks of the walks I took through town every day, down to the cliff where I had met the children. The cat with white socks that Haroun had been considerate enough to film for me naturallyfounditsplace.AndIthought,ofalltheprayerstotimethathadstuddedthistripthekindestwastheone spokenbythewomanofGotokuji,whosaidsimplytohercatTora,Cat,whereveryouare,peacebewithyou. Andtheninitsturnthejourneyenteredthe'zone,'andHayaoshowedmemyimagesalreadyaffectedbythemossof time,freedoftheliethathadprolongedtheexistenceofthosemomentsswallowedbythespiral. Whenspringcame,wheneverycrowannounceditsarrivalbyraisinghiscryhalfatone,Itookthegreentrainofthe YamanotelineandgotoffatTokyostation,nearthecentralpostoffice.EvenifthestreetwasemptyIwaitedatthe redlightJapanesestylesoastoleavespaceforthespiritsofthebrokencars.EvenifIwasexpectingnoletterI stoppedatthegeneraldeliverywindow,foronemusthonorthespiritsoftornupletters,andattheairmailcounter tosalutethespiritsofunmailedletters. I took the measure of the unbearable vanity of the West, that has never ceased to privilege being over nonbeing, whatisspokentowhatisleftunsaid.Iwalkedalongsidethelittlestallsofclothingdealers.IheardinthedistanceMr. Akao'svoicereverberatingfromtheloudspeakers...ahalftonehigher. ThenIwentdownintothebasementwheremyfriendthemaniacbusieshimselfwithhiselectronicgraffiti.Finally hislanguagetouchesme,becausehetalkstothatpartofuswhichinsistsondrawingprofilesonprisonwalls.Apiece ofchalktofollowthecontoursofwhatisnot,orisnolonger,orisnotyet;thehandwritingeachoneofuswilluseto composehisownlistof'thingsthatquickentheheart,'tooffer,ortoerase.Inthatmomentpoetrywillbemadeby everyone,andtherewillbeemusinthe'zone.' HewritesmefromJapan.HewritesmefromAfrica.Hewritesthathecannowsummonupthelookonthefaceofthe marketladyofPraiathathadlastedonlythelengthofafilmframe. Willtherebealastletter?