Sans soleil

He remembered another film in which this passage was quoted.
The sequoia was the one in the Jardin des plantes in Paris,
and the hand pointed to a place outside the tree,
outside of time.

The painted horse at San Juan Bautista,
his eye that looked like Madeline's:

Hitchcock had invented nothing,
it was all there.

He had run under the arches of the promenade in the mission
as Madeline had run towards her death.

Or was it hers?
From this fake tower
—the only thing that Hitchcock had added—

he imagined Scotty as time's fool of love,
finding it impossible to live with memory without falsifying it.

Inventing a double for Madeline in another dimension of time,
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 casting her back to death.

Or was it the other way around?
In San Francisco I made the pilgrimage of a film
I had seen nineteen times.

In Iceland I laid the first stone of an imaginary film.
That summer I had met three children on a road
and a volcano had come out of the sea.

Encore un coup de... *I don't know*
The American astronauts came to train before flying off to the moon,
in this corner of Earth that resembles it.

I saw it immediately as a setting for science fiction:
the landscape of another planet.

Or rather no, let it be the landscape of our own planet
for someone who comes from elsewhere, from very far away.

I imagine him moving slowly, heavily,
about the volcanic soil that sticks to the soles.

All of a sudden he stumbles,
and the next step it's a year later.

He's walking on a small path near the Dutch border
along a sea bird sanctuary.