It starts so young and Im angry about that. The garbage were taught. About love about whats romantic. Look at so many of the so-called romantic figures in books and movies. Do we ever stop and think how many of them would cause serious and drastic unhappiness after The End Why are sick and dangerous personality types so often shown a passionate and tragic and something to be longed for when those are the very ones you should run for your life from Think about it. Heathcliff. Romeo. Don Juan. Jay Gatsby. Rochester. Mr. Darcy. From the rigid control freak in The Sound of Music to all the bad boys some woman goes running to the airport to catch in the last minute of every romantic comedy. She should let him leave. Your time is so valuable and look at these guys--depressive and moody and violent and immature and self-centered. And what about the big daddy of them all Prince Charming What was his secret life We dont know anything about him other then he looks good and comes to the rescue.

As a very young man I thought of Europe as a place that could not exist except in the imagination in glorious dreams and through the careful lies of the silver screen.

And in that moment he realised that even though the dreams theyd seen together hoped for and believed in had come true it wasnt enough. It was far from reality which was lonesome and woeful. And conceived that love had no lastingness it was brief and momentary. It wasnt the cherishable sensation spoken of in movies and written in books rather a delusion inclined on ruining the very spirit giving way to mournfulness and disappointment.

And eventually in that house where everyone even the fugitive hiding in the cellar from his faceless enemies finds his tongue cleaving dryly to the roof of his mouth where even the sons of the house have to go into the cornfield with the rickshaw boy to joke about whores and compare the length of their members and whisper furtively about dreams of being film directors Hanifs dream which horrifies his dream-invading mother who believes the cinema to be an extension of the brothel business where life has been transmuted into grotesquery by the irruption into it of history eventually in the murkiness of the underworld he cannot help himself he finds his eyes straying upwards up along delicate sandals and baggy pajamas and past loose kurta and above the dupatta the cloth of modesty until eyes meet eyes and then

I have a theory that movies operate on the level of dreams where you dream yourself.

Man is a genius when he is dreaming.