Vigo Quotes

In a sense, fear is the daughter of God, redeemed on Good Friday. She is not beautiful, mocked, cursed or disowned by all. But don’t be mistaken, she watches over all mortal agony, she intercedes for mankind; for there is a rule and an exception. Culture is the rule, and art is the exception. Everybody speaks the rule; cigarette, computer, t-shirt, television, tourism, war. Nobody speaks the exception. It isn’t spoken, it is written; Flaubert, Dostoyevsky. It is composed; Gershwin, Mozart. It is painted; Cézanne, Vermeer. It is filmed; Antonioni, Vigo. Or it is lived, then it is the art of living; Srebrenica, Mostar, Sarajevo. The rule is to want the death of the exception. So the rule for cultural Europe is to organise the death of the art of living, which still flourishes.

Vigo: Please make yourselves at home. Some tea? Coglsey: We don't have time for this! Vigo: There is always time for tea. Miskit: You don't understand. We're on an important mission, and our friends need help! Vigo: If your mission is so important, you should sit down and reflect about what to do. - The Last Council

Bruno withdrew from the field of history more resolutely than Vigo; that is why I prefer the former’s retrospect but the latter’s prospect. As an anarch, I am determined to go along with nothing, ultimately take nothing seriously – at least not nihilistically, but rather as a border guard in no man’s land, who sharpens his eyes and ears between the tides.

El tiempo no es eterno, pero la felicidad sí. Las horas no son eternas, pero nuestros recuerdos, sí.

You mean poor?” I laughed in disbelief. “Speaking of which… maybe if I were actually getting paid for the work I’m doing here, the class divide wouldn’t be so big.” “It’s coming,” Vigo promised. “For real, when am I getting paid?

la sinceridad del dolor nos recuerda, una y otra vez, que estamos vivos.

Sueño contigo todas las noches. Pienso en ti a todas horas. Las horas muertas, todas esas horas que mueren, están llenas de tu ausencia

la felicidad es el imposible más posible que existe para el ser humano.

However paradoxical it may seem, the film studio's ideal would be to produce only one film which would go on making money forever.

Know this Mr. Davis. I am not crazy. I am not sane. I am not alive. I am not dead. I am not even the human being who you call Dr. Vigo Andersen. I was never born and I will never die. I am an eternal being. I am that I am. This, what you call reality, is just a collective dream. I was about to wake up from it permanently when I was yanked back into this temporal space. I did not try to kill myself. I tried to wake up.

If it is written in the books of providence", the sorceress said after a while, “that Geralt will find Ciri, then it will happen. Regardless of whether the witcher sets off into the mountains or sits in Toussaint. Predestination overtakes humans. Not vice versa. Do you understand that? Do you understand, Mr. Regis Terzieff-Godefroy?" "Better than you think, Miss Vigo.” The vampire turned the sausage link in his fingers. "However, you must excuse me, I do not accept that predestination is in some book, written by the hand of a great Demiurge, or the will of heaven, or the unalterable judgment of any providence. Rather, it is the result of many seemingly unconnected facts, events, and actions. I tend to agree with you that the predestination overtakes humans...and not only humans. However, I accept much less the view that it could not also be reversed. Because this view is a convenient fatalism. It is a paean to apathy and baseness on a feather bed and the charming warmth of a woman’s womb. In short, to live in a dream. Life, Miss Vigo may be a dream, may end in a dream ... But it's a dream that you must actively dream. Therefore, Miss Vigo, the road awaits us." "Go ahead." Fringilla stood up, almost as violent as Milva had recently. "As you wish! Snow, cold, and predetermination await you on the passes. And the atonement that you so urgently seem to need. Go ahead! But the witcher is staying here. In Toussaint! With me!" "I believe," the vampire replied calmly, "You are mistaken, Miss Vigo. The dream you dream with the witcher is, I confess with a bow, magical and beautiful. However, any dream that we dream for too long becomes a nightmare. And from it we awake with a scream.

El tiempo no es eterno, pero la felicidad, sí. Las horas no son eternas, pero nuestros recuerdos, sí. La vida no es hermosa, pero podemos creer que sí lo es. Porque, en efecto, hay personas maravillosas en ella que nos hacen olvidar su fealdad.

During his time at VGIK, Tarkovsky and his fellow students studied all aspects of filmmaking, watching the classics of Soviet cinema and taking part in workshops in which they would demonstrate their technical ability. This even included acting; Tarkovsky’s fellow student and friend, Alexander Gordon, remembers him giving a superb performance as the aging Prince Bolkonsky when Romm got the students to perform scenes from War and Peace during their third year at VGIK. Tarkovsky saw many classics from outside the Soviet Union, including Citizen Kane, the films of John Ford and William Wyler, and the works of the fathers of the French New Wave, Jean Renoir and Jean Vigo. Tarkovsky developed a personal pantheon that included Bergman, Bunuel, Mizoguchi and Kurosawa, Fellini and Antonioni. The only Soviet director who made it into his pantheon was Dovzhenko, although he was good friends with the Georgian director Sergei Parajanov, whom he regarded as ‘a genius in everything’. He also spoke highly of Iosseliani, and, on occasion, of Boris Barnet. But above them all was the towering figure of Robert Bresson, whom Tarkovsky regarded as the ultimate film artist.

El miedo, que forma parte de mí, es lo que me ha impedido seguir. Lo que no sé determinar es desde cuándo tengo miedo. Porque podría decirse que solo se siente terror cuando existe algo que perder. Yo creo, firmemente, que nunca he tenido nada que perder.

He estado tanto tiempo sola que la escasa parte de mi vida que estuve contigo se me antoja mi eternidad. Como mi sol, mi luna, la marea de mi mar seco o el río que ya no sigue la corriente. Metáforas hermosas, demasiado simples para expresar.

Cucarachas Existían momentos efímeros de tregua en los que se podía ser feliz. No eran algo demasiado común, ni algo que se alargase demasiado. Ni tampoco era algo de lo que la mayor parte de las personas pudiesen disfrutar. Era (es) un derecho reservado únicamente a un puñado de seres, llamémosles privilegiados, que saben sonreír en medio de la tempestad y carecen de temor al sufrimiento. Y, además, obvian la muerte como si nunca hubiera estado ahí. ¿Es posible, pues, gozar de la existencia mortal, efímera, condenada a su extinción, ignorando el destino irremediable hacia el que se camina, definido por el final absoluto del todo? El tic-tac, tic-tac, tic-tac, tic-tac que todos, todos, todos llevamos dentro. Como una maldición hiriente, que nos desangra poco a poco, que va abriendo nuestras heridas, brotando de ella segundos, minutos, horas de vida. Presente en cada acción de nuestra vida, que llamamos cotidiana, es el tufillo constante que sufrimos por el simple y mero hecho de existir. Nos creemos grandes y no somos ni tan siquiera cucarachas. Cucarachas. Cucarachas.

Randy looks into the ballroom at Victoria Vigo, who, if she were any more radiant, would cause paint to peel from the walls and windowpanes to sag like caramel.

I am not a doctor, but here is my personal definition: Anxiety is the feeling that takes away my confidence, frustrates me, and makes me physically sick. Anxiety was a wild animal in my mind that would terrorize every effort I put into creating a good, quality life. It sabotaged me until I realized that it needed attention, love, and understanding. Anxiety still exists and will continue, but I managed to domesticate it, therefore making peace with it.

I wish I could speak about all my experiences freely, without my voice cracking, feeling visibly uncomfortable, crying, or experiencing a panic attack. Writing has been easier for me than speaking. In a way, writing has given me a voice I did not know I had.

I would be inclined to agree with you that destiny catches up with people ... And not just people. But the view that it can't be the other way around doesn't convince me. For such a view is facile fatalism, a paean praising torpor and indolence, a warm eiderdown in the beguiling warmth of a woman's loins. In short, life in a dream. And life, Madam Vigo, may be a dream, may also finish as a dream... But it's a dream that has to be dreamed actively. Which is why, Madam Vigo, the road awaits us.

It was my credit card statement. I steadied my breath as I ripped it open. Of course, Vigo hadn’t paid my balance. Those guys didn’t give a shit about me. I was just a cog in a wheel, useful but replaceable. If I wanted my life to change, I needed to do it myself.

A lot of people would rather follow their own desires than work for a shared good,” Vigo said slowly. “To be grotesquely rich in a broken system rather than merely fabulously rich in a functional one.

«È la predestinazione a raggiungere gli uomini. Non il contrario. Lo capite? Lo capite, signor Regis Terzieff-Godefroy?» «Meglio di voi, signora Vigo. Ma, per me, vogliate scusarmi, la predestinazione non è un libro scritto per mano del Grande Demiurgo, né la volontà del cielo, né gli irrevocabili verdetti di chissà quale provvidenza, bensì il risultato di una serie di fatti, avvenimenti e azioni apparentemente non legati tra loro. Sarei incline a sostenere con voi che è la predestinazione a raggiungere gli uomini... e non solo gli uomini. Ma non mi convince l’idea che il contrario non possa verificarsi. Perché tale idea è un comodo fatalismo, è un peana al torpore e all’infingardaggine, alle piume della trapunta e al calore ammaliante del grembo femminile. In una parola, a una vita che si svolge in sogno. E la vita, signora Vigo, può anche essere un sogno, può anche finire con un sogno... Ma è un sogno che bisogna sognare attivamente.»

I think,” the vampire said calmly, “that you are wrong, Madam Vigo. The dream that the Witcher is dreaming, I humbly submit with respect, is an enchanting and beautiful one. But every dream, if dreamed too long, turns into a nightmare. And we awake from such dreams screaming.

Aprendía, poco a poco, que las heridas no siempre dejaban marcas visibles, a pesar del daño sufrido

Mi mirada, en la que residía gran parte de la personalidad de una misma, estaba quebrada por la asimetría

Buscando mi ejemplar de Nubosidad variable me di cuenta de que me lo había olvidado en casa. Tampoco lo echaría de menos, pues en él se hablaba de dos amigas, de una amistad. Y amistad, para mí, era una palabra difícil y triste. Seca. Vacía. Hueca. Con cierta crueldad.

La amistad se vuelve débil cuando se habla de la muerte o de la enfermedad.

Mis ausencias eran los huecos entre las líneas que no sabían unirse. Y mientras escribía encontraba tanto alivio como dolor en el acto de hacerlo. En una burlona contradicción, crecía cada vez más y me hacía cada vez más pequeña. Me curaba y me enfermaba. Me enfermaba. Notaba esa herida sangrar en alguna parte. Las gasas eran ese procesador de textos. La polividona yodada eran los libros abandonados en todas partes.