My Last Sigh

Sometimes, watching a movie is a bit like being raped.

I can't help feeling that there is no beauty without hope, struggle, and conquest.

Even today, I've no idea what the truth is, or what I did with it.

I also remember being struck by de Sade's will, in which he asked that his ashes be scattered to the four corners of the earth in the hope that humankind would forget both his writings and his name. I'd like to be able to make that demand; commemorative ceremonies are not only false but dangerous, as are all statues of famous men. Long live forgetfulness, I've always said—the only dignity I see is in oblivion.

As inexplicable as the accidents that set it off, our imagination is a crucial privilege. I've tried my whole life simply to accept the images that present themselves to me without trying to analyze them. I remember when we were shooting That Obscure Object of Desire in Seville and I suddenly found myself telling Fernando Rey, at the end of a scene, to pick up a big sack filled with tools lying on a bench, sling it over his shoulder, and walk away. The action was completely irrational, yet it seemed absolutely right to me. Still, I was worried about it, so I shot two versions of the scene: one with the sack, one without. But during the rushes the following day, the whole crew agreed that the scene was much better with the sack. Why? I can't explain it, and I don't enjoy rummaging around in the cliches of psychoanalysis.

What am I to God? Nothing, a murky shadow. My passage on this earth is too rapid to leave any traces; it counts for nothing in space or in time. God really doesn't pay any attention to us, so even if he exists, it's as if he didn't. My form of atheism, however, leads inevitably to an acceptance of the inexplicable. Mystery is inseparable from chance, and our whole universe is a mystery. Since I reject the idea of a divine watchmaker (a notion even more mysterious than the mystery it supposedly explains), then I must consent to live in a kind of shadowy confusion. And insofar as no explication, even the simplest, works for everyone, I've chosen my mystery. At least it keeps my moral freedom intact.

One of the greatest tragedies in my life is my deafness, for it's been over twenty years now since I've been able to hear notes. When I listen to music it's as if the letters in a text were changing places with one another, rendering the words unintelligible and muddying the lines. I'd consider my old age redeemed if my hearing were to come back, for music would be the gentlest opiate, calming my fears as I move toward death. In any case, I suppose the only chance I have for that kind of miracle involves nothing short of a visit to Lourdes.

De todas as pessoas que conheci, Federico vem em primeiro lugar. Não falo nem de seu teatro nem de sua poesia, falo dele. A obra-prima era ele. Parece inclusive difícil imaginar alguém comparável. Quer ao piano imitando Chopin, quer improvisando uma pantomima, um esquete teatral, era irresistível. Podia ler qualquer coisa, a beleza sempre jorrava de seus lábios. Ele tinha a paixão, a alegria, a juventude. Era uma labareda. Quando o conheci, na Residência dos Estudantes, eu era um atleta provinciano bem tacanho. Pela força da nossa amizade, ele me transformou, me fez conhecer outro mundo. Devo a ele mais do que consigo dizer. Seus restos mortais nunca foram encontrados. Lendas circularam sobre sua morte, e Dalí – de um jeito bem ignóbil – chegou a falar em crime homossexual, o que é totalmente absurdo. Na realidade, Federico morreu porque era poeta. Nessa época, do outro lado, ouvia-se gritar: “Morte à inteligência!

Of course, fantasy and reality are equally personal, and equally felt, so their confusion is a matter of only relative importance.

Si me dijeran: te quedan veinte años de vida, ¿qué te gustaría hacer durante las veinticuatro horas de cada uno de los días que vas a vivir?, yo respondería: dadme dos horas de vida activa y veinte horas de sueños, con la condición de que luego pueda recordarlos; porque el sueño sólo existe por el recuerdo que lo acaricia.

Mas creio que é preciso evitar ver, nessas leis necessárias que nos permitem viver juntos, uma necessidade fundamental, primordial. Parece-me, na realidade, que não é necessário que este mundo exista, que não é necessário que estejamos aqui vivendo e morrendo. Já que somos apenas os filhos do acaso, a terra e o universo poderiam ter continuado sem nós, até à consumação dos séculos. Imagem inimaginável, a de um universo vazio e infinito, teoricamente inútil, que nenhuma inteligência poderia contemplar, que existiria sozinho, caos duradouro, abismo inexplicavelmente privado de vida. Talvez outros mundos, que não conhecemos, sigam assim seu curso inconcebível. Atração pelo caos que às vezes sentimos profundamente em nós mesmos.

For me, it was a film about passion, l’amour fou, the irresistible force that thrusts two people together, and about the impossibility of their ever becoming one.

(I’ve always believed that the imagination is a spiritual quality that, like memory, can be trained and developed.)

Añadiré —Dalí me lo hizo observar— que los surrealistas eran guapos.

The real purpose of surrealism was not to create a new literary, artistic, or even philosophical movement, but to explode the social order, to transform life itself.

Me decía: ¡habrían tenido que hacerme leer a Sade antes que todas las demás cosas!

Muy nervioso, como es de suponer, yo me situé detrás de la pantalla con un gramófono y, durante la proyección, alternaba los tangos argentinos con Tristán e Isolda. Me había puesto unas piedras en el bolsillo, para tirárselas al público si la película era un fracaso.

Tengo que confesar aquí que la admiración que me merece el teatro de Lorca es más bien escasa. Su vida y su personalidad superaban con mucho a su obra, que me parece a menudo retórica y amanerada.

El profesor señala con el dedo a un alumno y le dice: «¡Refúteme a Buñuel!» Y es cuestión de dos minutos.

Imaginatively speaking, all forms of life are equally valuable - even the fly, which seems to me as enigmatic and as admirable as the fairy

The only reason to sign [petitions] is to assuage the conscience of the signatory.

Hay que haber comenzado a perder la memoria, aunque sea sólo a retazos, para darse cuenta de que esta memoria es lo que constituye toda nuestra vida. (...) Nuestra memoria es nuestra coherencia, nuestra razón, nuestra acción, nuestro sentimiento.

Buenazo, imprevisible, aragonés de Huesca, estudiante de Medicina que nunca aprobó un examen, hijo del director de la Compañía de Aguas de Madrid, ni pintor, ni poeta, Pepín Bello no fue nada más que nuestro amigo inseparable

(In the annals of Parisian cultural history, the episode is still known as “the scandal of L’Age d’or.”) A week later, Police Chief Chiappe closed the theatre; the film was censored, and remained so for fifty years.