Do you know, the metropolis I mentioned earlier
was inspired by a film of Shinya Tsukamoto’s?
But the film I am thinking of now —
these gorgeous Japanese names! —
is The End of Summer, by Yasujiro Ozu.
Have you seen it?

Yes… The sky… The azure, that void
which can drain your looking;
a kind of vacuum, which orders us to look away
into each other, pretending that in our eyes
that same sky does not persist
and breaks our hearts, if we are truthful…

When I look at you, at least,
I see the sky. I am afraid.
I suppose you could say, this writing is a kind of looking.
Well, now, my love — I look.
And as I grow older, I see simpler things,
I think. The stumps of timbers at the old jetty,
the seagulls, the ferry with the line of smoke,
the azure of the summer sky —
the eloquence of the unvoiceable
calls me among these things again,
and I go to them, bringing with me
an altered silence, in the pages of my book:
I pause… There’s shade… Azure…
I look…

Yes, The End of Summer, by Yasujiro Ozu.
Have you seen it?

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