Original subtitles

But I wanted this to be a narrative...

I still do.

Nothing from outside to distract memory.

I barely hear, from time to time...

the earth softly creaking...

one ripple breaking the surface.

I am content with the shade...

of a single poplar, tall behind me in its mourning.

We've had no time to discover, like a lamp just lighted...

the chestnut tree in blossom...

or a few splashes of gleaming ochre...

strewn among the jade-green shoots of wheat.

Bang, you're dead! Madame is leaving.

It hasn't rained in ages.

Maybe famine is ripening in this summer heat.

Madame's leaving, idiot.

Even yesterday's bright sky...

made us feel our fragility.

No, Laurent, not the Mercedes.

I want to be alone.

It's New York; Mr Dorfman.

What do I say?

If you come back tomorrow, you'll be tired.

Tomorrow, the day after...

Want yesterday's Financial Times?

Jules, hurry up. What a jerk!

He loves you; comes in handy.

You're hurt.

Who puts any value on a well-executed death?

Even the rich, who can afford it, no longer bother.

The wish to keep your death to yourself is rarer and rarer.

Are you in pain?

How wonderful...

to be able to give what you don't have.

Miracle of empty hands.

Same old story; again, they offer us the future.

Never mind, the answer is Utopian. Look around you.

Who, I ask you, who... loves life?

Once the masses were happy without knowing why.

Now happiness is defined daily and they're miserable.

They still dwell in class consciousness...

but no longer pay rent.

The profound immorality of the State...

arises from the fact that it not only allows and encourages...

but at times forces its workers to give free rein to...

innate particularities which are mankind's general lot:

Indifference, distrust...

pride of power, desire for revenge...

without punishment; indeed, often...

with prospect of reward.

- Where is she? - On the phone.

Women love love; men love solitude.

A woman can't do much to ruin a man.

He carries his tragedy within him.

She can provoke him, ; irritate him.

She can kill him...

that's all.

Contessa Torlato-Favrini...

Five more minutes.

The Secretary of State for Scientific Research.

Schpuntz, show him your project.

Come on; what're you doing?

Arousing pity.

Abstract love doesn't exist.

- Water circulates, evaporates... - "Womankind"...

- its memory remains. - That's meaningless.

- Movement is established... - Not love, only affection...

- allowing all forms of creation. - Forced affection.

Nonsense. All forms?

As a young attach� to the US Embassy in Rome...

I knew a Torlato Favrini.

That was my father.

He was friendly with the ambassador.

Joseph Mankiewicz... what a man.

He didn't make scenes like others, just did his job.

So Torlato Favrini Industries is you.

That's the mystery of it.

It's all mine.

The Japanese?

No copy is possible. We're the only ones.

Our inane clich�s offered as payment.

- Againstpayment. - No, Della, as payment.

We must plant the idea of debt. Right, Schpuntz?

Our friends in Budget will love that.

- Schpuntz, explain your project. - Sorry, I forget the name.

Filament-Oriented Spark Process...

So you don't put your trust in me...

but in love.

It doesn't die.

People die.

It goes away...

if we're not good enough.

We can't withdraw from others' lives...

and yet remain, ourselves.

I'm not...

holding you.

Know how to drill a hole?

Elena!

Mr Secretary, we're at the heart of the matter.

It's all in the hole.

I say me, but I could say a man, any man.

They say love dies...

it's not true.

It doesn't die, it deserts you.

Goes away.

There he is.

It's not the impassioned idea of two damned souls...

alone and in revolt against the world...

and God and the irrevocable which lures man.

What, then?

Part of her loves no one... nothing.

Fourth time.

Keep it steady!

Discipline, Cecile.

We're poor; don't forget it.

Fifth time.

Are the rich...

- so different? - Yes, they have more money.

Summer was early this year and a bit deranged.

Everything bloomed at once...

the meadows, white lilacs, cherry trees...

apple trees, which lost their stipple of pink...

the short-lived iris, so glowing and grave...

the hawthorn...

dressing a copse with its dense corsage.

I'll talk to him.

One man isn't enough for a woman...

or too much.

Well, Mr Duborgel?

Yet man is born into misery...

and adversity.

Why is he not accustomed to deceit...

a bit more inured against mishap?

It's prosperity he can't handle...

as if he'd had his fill of it.

What'll I do?

Admire nature!

We realize too late whether a heart was only lent to us...

given to us...

or sacrificed.

It's all right there.

Elena wants to be conquered in her own eyes.

She recognized long ago...

that her nature was...

destructive.

But no one has ever conquered her.

No man was ever equal to it; least of all me.

And another thing...

sex is only an accessory.

I need my book.

Sorry, I lent it to the Duborgel girl. I'll get it.

Speak French. What's "must have"?

It means... happiness.

She's better off here.

You, too.

Yvonne!

Madame's parents.

Yes, contessa?

What's it mean?

Che sar�, sar�... no one ever told me.

Three whiskeys.

- For you, Miss Muller? - Glass of milk.

Coming, Raoul?

That cornball music gets on my nerves.

What'll I do?

Admire the architecture.

- You gave it to me. - It's not mine, Cecile.

ON THE NATURE OF THINGS

Women's inborn bent for nest-building.

This confidence...

in an amorous destiny.

THINGS, NOT WORDS

This serene confidence...

in an amorous destiny.

Nothing to do with economy or industry...

something much more remote.

This calm, unshakable faith...

in personal happiness as their rightful due...

making them hurl themselves, wings spread wide...

into unknown and empty space... where no shore...

is visible.

I don't believe in sin.

The thing is to arouse them without looking like a nympho.

You may go, Cecile.

We learn something from imbeciles...

gone astray in high drama.

Imbeciles are like doors...

anyone can open them.

But, like doors...

Like doors, we often forget to shut them.

Music, Roger.

You can't kiss a man who needs a shave.

Why kiss my hand?

I'm just a son of a bitch.

My love, my love...

it matters not that I am born.

You become visible at the place where I am no more.

Hound of the Baskervilles.

No, Andalusian Dog.

I'll work for you the whole day.

At night, you'll reproach me for my faults...

one by one.

Among our fundamental vows of love...

Before we met, we were already...

unfaithful to each other.

By seizing this beginning of happiness...

we may be the first to destroy it.

Before we met, we were already unfaithful.

Thank you for accepting.

The presence you chose grants no farewells.

Say no more.

Say no more.

Do you exist?

Do you really exist?

Thank you for accepting.

Like this.

Softly.

We can take as defunct, society as we know it.

Future ages will recall it only as...

a charming moment in history. (123... ARTIS FREE)

They'll say...

I'm from the Neufchatel Echo.

How about critics, Miss Parker?

Read Jules Renard, darling.

A critic is a soldier who fires on his own regiment.

Or deserts to the enemy.

- Who's the enemy, Miss Parker? - Dorothy?

Millennia to observe, reflect, write and we've let them slip...

like eating a sandwich during a show...

or an apple.

It's possible.

No comment.

You're a major stockholder in Torlato-Favrini.

My pleasure, miss.

How about the Warner's takeover?

With 3 percent you can think but not tell.

It wasn't in the papers. Elena or Raoul made it up.

I never read. Write your books.

And if I did, screw it; it's all backwards.

Let people in books make things up: Read about us.

The Parkers, Favrinis, Dorfmans...

male and female.

But minus pricks and pussy.

She discovers...

I told her so.

The lover's fatal error. ; inability to exist.

She asked for it.

Which leaves melancholy.

Society's aware of it.

That's why above all it glorifies love.

It's a key to productivity.

I have to talk to you.

Me too.

You okay, Joe?

It's you who's unokay.

"Unokay." When will he learn grammar?

Let passion overwhelm us...

French syntax is incorruptible.

Antoine Rivarol.

Why doesn't she go with you, Dorothy?

A berth on the Nile: Ideal for a racing pulse.

We really must talk.

Egypt's taken us for a ride for 4000 years.

The contessa has the draft-agreement?

- I'll ask Mr Dorfman. - Check it, Miss Delarue.

We'll send a communiqu� tomorrow.

Now Dorothy can trade in her Jaguar.

What can we say with 3 percent?

True. 3 percent of 5 billion dollars...

a far cry from the Queen of England.

Her blouse lightly shakes as if she was digesting poison.

Amazing...

the crowd around you,

when you think you're alone with your man.

People you don't suspect: Your ex-lovers.

Knives on the right!

Others he doesn't suspect: Your future lovers.

Bread on the left!

- We're poor! - Nevermore will I give my heart...

Remember it! Breeding!

...to one man, to hurt so much.

I'll be many women.

Why was Dostoyevsky obsessed by...

I quote...

the torture of an innocent child by a brute?

Yes, but why first of all, always why.

- You were always alone... - Why always why?

...and never knew it.

The wizards of the Stock Exchange.

Hello, friend.

You know Aristotle...

- my friends, there are no friends. - Raoul, you coming?

What's Offenbach's finest work?

The Grand Duchess of Gerolstein.

I am General Boom Boom!

No, smaller.

Afunny thing, desire, I must say...

if it lets me long for what can never be.

We need action!

What kind of action?

Any kind. There is within action a lofty pessimism towards words.

- Where's your brother? - Eating.

He'll eat tonight!

So far all we've done is talk.

Yes, but let's think it over, anyway.

You have an idea?

Nothing is more abstract than crime.

See Nixon's article? Don't break China.

The first time I saw Terry Lennox...

he was dead drunk in a Rolls Royce...

For me, a novel starts this way...

"The first time I saw Terry Lennox..."

Talk about the capitalist "dynamic".

Only Balzac is allowed to write badly.

It should be..."dynamite."

Have him read Denis de Rougemont.

"Love speaks only to that which is hidden in its object."

Love in the Western World.

Women love love; men love solitude.

So why throw them together?

What agreement?

To rob one another of solitude and love.

You decide, as you always do...

that I was your destiny.

"It's all in the face"... face are for fatheads.

Tomorrow.

Did you ever ask if I was a man; where I came from and why?

Tonight, Elena! You're irresponsible!

You don't understand my silence.

You talk, you talk...

How could you understand that there are others?

Others who exist.

Who think, who suffer...

who live.

You only think of you.

I thought: Love is a creation.

We'll live...

It's a taste for perfection.

...when you change.

Yet it's taking a woman as she is; free...

Why ask someone to change?

...allowed to be herself.

If I change, I'm no longer who I was.

And if I'm not that...

Could it be our view of the past is false...

since we're always told about assemblies of men...

but never whom they gathered around...

Who's talking?

...because he was foreign... or sick?

Could be.

Could it be we try to recapture...

what happened before we were born?

I guess.

Could it be we say: "Women", "children", "boys"...

unaware that these words no longer have a plural...

only an infinity of singulars?

It could!

We rarely form our own conscience; we let ourselves be had.

And the very coupling of these two verbs is obscene.

What's wrong, Mr Whoozis-face?

Watch what you're doing!

Forgive her.

What's his name?

Whoozis-fart.

Careful, for Chrissake.

- Apologize! - People have no scruples.

Screw scruples. You know Schiller, of course.

Long pause. Nobody knows Friedrich Schiller?

I do.

"Scruples of conscience."

Friends, what a pleasure to serve you.

But what I do is by honest preference.

I therefore deserve no credit...

and am sorely distressed.

How can I remedy that?

I must learn to hate you...

and, loathing in my heart, to serve you...

since such is my duty.

They'll say...

They'll say.; "It was a time when there were rich and poor...

"fortresses to take, heights to scale...

"treasures well enough guarded to preserve their appeal.

"Luck was in business."

They're over there.

She is bespoke, praise be.

But such audacity, to be a lover...

near to a girl betrothed.

Where are they?

You know they're never together.

Tahiti.

No, Dorothy's in Egypt; I got a fax.

A woman can't do much to ruin a man.

He carries his tragedy within him.

She can provoke him...

irritate him...

she can kill him.

That's all.

In London...

I saw people stand in the rain for days to look at art.

I know.

Especially the poor.

Wrong. There were rich people, too.

Why spend so much money...

for a picture of something so simple?

I can't tell you.

It'd be nice if for once you said something.

- Yes, but I never know what. - Improvise!

Work... just a little.

It's time.

This the one from Sweden?

- The Maserati's ready? - Not yet, madame.

Were you ever stung by a dead bee?

What does he mean?

Helene...

- Forget love; study mathematics. - Love...

it's much more than love.

Ever get stung by a dead bee?

Enough, Laurent; we don't pay you for nothing.

Strange.

They don't want to be workers...

yet they want all the advantages.

The jacket's fine.

Pants... fine.

- Shirt? - It'll pass.

Not jacket and pants.

I'll remember.

I'll remember.

Memory is the only paradise we can't be expelled from.

That's not always true.

Then memory is the only hell to which we're condemned...

in all innocence.

For the first time...

we have a chance to say things...

for the last time.

Any regrets?

I'll say it in Italian, not to get it wrong.

Regret...

is rarely anything other...

than the realization that we've had to pay...

too high a price...

for indifferent value.

Indifferent.

You, too.

That's the second serious thing you've said to me in 8 months.

My mother said...

"Giving a hand is all I wanted of joy."

All of them...

silhouetted against summer's luxuriant green...

and the royal blaze of autumn and the ruin of winter...

before spring flowers anew...

all dirty now.

Another phrase, please.

It occurred to him...

that she, too...

Dirty now, ; blackened by time and weather and use...

- mirrored all she saw. - Yet calm, inscrutable, distant...

their eyes vacant, ; not like sentinels...

not protecting with their monolithic mass the living from the dead...

but rather the dead from the living.

Protecting instead the hollow and powdered bones...

the harmless and defenseless dust...

from anguish and pain, and the inhumanity of the human race.

I'll continue.

She felt that her happiness...

if ever she hesitated...

might well in its turn vanish...

as swiftly as the leaves...

burned by the unsettled summer.

I don't need to say anything, ; I help her, after all.

She admits it, moreover.

Sometimes she wants company, sometimes not.

Sometimes not.

That's ridiculous!

You should know if the dollar drops.

It's elementary!

Your filthy money.

Don't sneer; it can be yours, too.

A woman whom you love...

deprives you of other women...

and sometimes of love.

The lake wasn't there...

where it usually was.

And when they glimpsed it through the trees...

it wasn't the same.

One small word to tell us where we are; where we're going...

would be worth fortunes.

Where is he? I looked everywhere.

No idea, madame.

Think about it.

Think about it.

THE PLAY IS OVER

The hour was now at hand...

that turns back sailors and melts their hearts...

when they have...

bidden fond friends farewell...

that pricks the new voyager with love...

Where do you run to and what will you do?

Alas, I waste away in impotent striving...

to return to the confusion from whence I strayed.

How often will I die, to go on living?

Do you know the crime or by whom you are betrayed?

Hello, Mr Lennox.

Roger, come on.

We leave-ederci.

Don't wait for us; we're going across.

We'll stay with the De Sicas.

What're these images?

- Ever get stung by a dead bee? - I don't know!

She knew.

May I go to the movies?

Come on.

I can't swim.

It's wonderful.

I can't swim, you know that.

Come!

Come on, you piss me off.

I can't swim!

So piss off.

No-good Frenchman.

Right.

Let's go home.

- If you want. - Give me your hand.

No, for once.

Let her hoist her own fat ass.

Give me your hand.

I'm cold... give me your hand.

Helene!

Cecile, what are these images...

sometimes free, sometimes confined...

this vast thought...

where shapes pass...

while colors shine?

It's space.

Let the wail of the wind, the sigh of the wave...

the gentle perfume of your sweet-scented air...

all we hear, see and breathe...

all; everywhere... let it say...

they have loved.

The light is failing.

- The dark is rising. - No, darkness falls.

No matter.

There is work until evening to redeem the sins of the night.

Get rid of these.

No one knows.

Midway through the journey of life, I found myself in a dark wood...

where the straight way was lost.

Ah, how hard it is to tell of it...

that wood so wild and harsh and dense...

that to think of it renews my fear.

The bitterness it brings is hardly less than death.

It's still winter.

But a few pale rays shine through the mist...

and at dusk, a gray cloud is outlined in fire.

This token of light...

this timid annunciation, we will forget in the rain...

and deception of March.

But to recount the good I found there...

I will tell of other things I perceived.

We plot within set E...

an algebraic structure...

by combining 2 variables: X and y of E...

which corresponds to a third: Function xy.

I... IS ANOTHER

Where's the contessa?

What's going on?

Take the blue room, counselor.

What "counselor"?

I've had it: London, New York, Geneva in one night.

I hope the bathtub's fixed.

Where's the dollar at?

You know something, Joe?

Raoul knows nothing, either. She's going too far.

Men create the mystery...

women find the key.

Meaning what?

I made it up, darling.

What about me?

What'll I do?

Check the water. Pick that up, Cecile.

Okay, talk.

Mr Roger's come back to life.

Wiseasses get a lesson.

A man rang the bell; the spitting image.

Says he's his brother. Mama accepts it; I don't.

He talked to Madame?

They shouted all night. Next day she said it was okay.

Beat it.

- What's the dollar worth? - Beat it!

The water's cold. What now?

You pay a price for being good, ; as you do for being bad.

I swear, ; he said he'd tell.

He's after one of her companies.

Tell what?

The lawyer handled it.

"Eulogy to crime."

Please, Dorothy.

It's Karl Marx.

Nice going. Murder and collusion.

Involuntary; not even that. I have the death certificate.

Okay, but anything new?

But... what'll I do?

Admire the furniture.

How long's he been here?

Two days.

What could I do?

You were gone.

No Godfroi, no Della... I don't know what to do.

Come with me.

I'll handle it.

Joe and I'll handle our own 3 percent.

We're not staying.

He can't be worse than the other clown.

Every clown has a clone.

We'll see.

Being and time are very different.

Light sparkles eternally...

when it has transcended being and time.

We say someone leads a double life...

Mr Lennox.

Richard Lennox.

Doesn't he often lead one life, full and complete...

his own life... by seeming to lead two?

True. But how many lead only half a life...

lacking guts to lead a whole one, which others see as double?

We hear you'd like to head one of our firms.

How do you conceive the role of a CEO?

Act as an innovator...

dream as a strategist.

Tough job.

How d'you avoid a crash?

Up to now we've staved it off.

But it's getting harder to cope with imbalances...

running out of control.

Central banks are puppets; raising lending rates...

is just stage fakery.

Except people die.

In the past, such rampant manipulation...

of credit and debt always led to major problems.

There must be some long-ago disaster...

to serve as a model today.

Go back to the collapse of the ancient world.

What we call peace looks very like war.

It's hard to distinguish between...

and out and out theft; and to determine...

No you don't, ; not with me!

...when a loose woman...

becomes a liberated one.

Since you know so much...

tell me my name.

Yes, her name... only that.

Press attach� for Guggenheim, Lifchitz, Kramer, Jones & Dorfman...

now with Godfroi, prince of Portsmouth and duke of Boulogne.

Right!

Born Delarue, in Montreal... "I'll be back to lovely Quebec".

Calls herself Della Street...

in honor of Erle Stanley Gardner.

I once told you there's a price to pay...

for being good, as for being bad.

- Memory is the only paradise... � The good can't refuse the bill...

- we can't be expelled from. �... the bad can.

No one expects them to pay, ; now or later.

The good can't do that.

Maybe we pay longer for being good than bad.

Only when memories become blood, look, gesture...

when they've no more name, are inseparable from us...

only then can it happen...

in a rare moment, in their midst...

Aren't you going to finish?

Speaking of silence...

now we've bought Warner's...

We've bought.

Right. We have to define an image...

with all those films in stock.

An image.

I'll say something and you create an image.

Snow... on water.

Silence...

on silence.

Not bad, Joe.

Jules Renard.

Awise woman said...

men always know how far they've got with us.

But...

They haven't the foggiest idea how far...

they haven't got.

What're our engineers working on?

A highly advanced project.

They think they've found a subatomic particle...

which will multiply by 10,000...

the speed of microchips.

Who told him?

He reads Business Week.

When will the dollar rise?

When Europeans send up a prayer...

to America.

And decline?

When they go on their knees...

to ask for charity.

A garden is never finished...

like prose.

It always needs touching up: Its pattern, its colors...

as if it suggests its own corrections.

But if you neglect it...

Give us your views on what Paul Fabra...

Le Monde's economist, calls...

"the web of intersecting interests".

Actually, joint stock takeovers...

bids for some gadget or discovery, are so numerous...

the web is woven so tightly, you can't tell...

companies apart.

Quiet!

Can Daimler rival Japan when Germans make Mitsubishis?

Let the world be without name for a moment.

Let things listen to themselves.

In silence...

in their own time and their own way.

And everyday life... what's that?

The average of...

all our crimes.

By pursuing parables, you become parables...

and thus shake free from your daily treadmill.

Another parable, I bet.

You win, Raoul.

Alas, only in parable.

No, in reality.

Parabolically...

he loses.

We'll try you out.

When Middle East Air is flying again, go to Beirut.

Della'll set it up.

Coming, Raoul?

Middle East Air is no prize.

He knows.

And he knows.

What's his price?

Ten percent.

How far it is to work.

How far it is to the angels.

Dorothy has friends in Lebanon.

We'll give you addresses.

2 months ago in Cannes...

I played tennis with a Syrian army colonel.

Whenever it was my serve, he'd yell...

"Bomb it, Mr Lisbona, bomb it!"

Tell this one you'll love him.

Among our vows of love was a promise never to force.

A whopping lie...

can be a splendid thing.

Well, Bob?

Boss, when will you call me by my name?

Mr Robert Dirty Dozen Aldrich, you know that...

we can't upgrade your name and your salary.

In banking, what counts is a balance.

Sorry, boss.

There they are.

We may do more, we may do less, than our duty...

and that governs its accomplishment.

That's the problem we always face.

The Swiss make a cross on the tail.

- Beirut? - What about it?

Our stores, our hotels, the bank.

Beirut is Stalingrad; your loans are in rubble.

In good company: Bank of Suez, Chase Manhattan, Lavoro.

And Miss Delarue? I hope nothing's happened.

I order you to talk, Mr Lennox...

Mr Richard Lennox.

Not so rich, but it'll come.

Where is she?

Della dear, I was worried.

We made a trade.

Look at the signature.

The disasters of war for... Miss Delarue?

The crimes of love.

Goya.

The Iranians agreed to the deal?

All deals are sacred.

S...A...C...R...E...D.

Not negligible...

this act of faith...

out of interest, by creditor unto debtor.

Our economy, alias charity, and by way of this alias...

breaks down barriers of politics and superstition.

A commentary on Isaiah; ask Miss Parker.

Weird to find the Nude Maya in a Beirut cellar.

Islam isn't built on doubt, like our civilization...

but on certainty.

Arabesque...

the nude without the sensuality.

Very lubricious; I'd forgotten the splayed breasts.

Rather a hussy, seems to me.

Call it hush-hush and forget it.

She's looking at someone.

Yes, really quite lubricious.

Lucrative.

The man who's made it in society...

succeeded in the market...

been accepted abroad...

comes a cropper over a woman.

She craves a real person.

The man realizes...

that others had asked very little of him!

Not to worry; Mitsubishi will pay you more than sunflowers.

What sunflowers?

My precious Della...

I allow you a glass of kirsch.

Awfully precious, Della.

You know, in Arabic...

"keersh" is "shark".

What sunflowers?

The man realizes that the woman...

asked very little of him.

ALL AND NO MORE My friends and I hold 24%.

Friends! There are no friends!

We've increased our efforts in the US...

- Aristotle, right? ...as is our custom.

We go into a country to create a market...

not exploit it.

You're through at Torlato Favrini!

All bandits take others for crooks!

Raoul! 8:30 sharp; in the office!

Assuming that you never strike up acquaintance...

on any personal basis.

� Servitude, however... - Why can't a dog fake pain?

� freedom, war, peace... - He's too honest.

All whose passage leaves intact the nature of being...

- Why do you stay? �... we rightly call accident.

In Madame's service?

I'm not like you, Mr Lennox.

I lack courage.

What courage?

Eat your soup!

The positive is given to us.

It remains for us to make the negative.

Madame doesn't need me?

Goodnight, Mr Lennox.

There's no judge; anywhere.

What isn't resolved by love...

stays forever in suspense.

FROM THE BEGINNING

Whatever I say...

within me are only words which will resurrect me.

All this grass; is it within me?

Is it grass, when it's without me?

If no one labels it; gives it a name...

what then is grass?

YOUR HUMBLE SERVANT

Soon certain social conventions. ; customs, principles...

inbred attitudes, will vanish.

We can take as defunct, society as we know it.

Future ages will recall it only as a charming moment in history.

They'll say...

They'll say.; "It was a time when there were rich and poor...

"fortresses to take, heights to scale, treasures...

"well enough guarded to preserve their appeal.

"Luck was in business."

I'm here to see Mr Lennox.

He's coming.

I'll look around.

Summer was early this year...

and a bit deranged.

Everything bloomed at once.

It isn't time nor staleness that most threaten love...

but a sense of security...

a state of distraction.

We forget how transient it is...

barely savor it; as with a summer bound to come again...

we let slip...

many fine days.

Where is he?

I'm very busy, miss.

Madame.

The newspapers.

On strike, but I'll go.

NY Times and Messagero.

If I feel like it.

I'll train 'em right.

- Where is she? - Inside.

400 million dollars!

Is there anything you can't do?

Yes... fold my pants in the dark.

Unless you see...

I see.

See what?

... from beyond the grave...

- Love's made me blind. �... the soul of one who...

Must I apologize?

How, blind?

- Your face. �... loved you.

What about it?

- I'll be outside. - I'm coming.

I don't see you.

So look at me.

No, I don't see you...

not yet.

I hope...

They profaned...

the meaning of personality in their zeal to be a personage.

Whatever I say, within me are only words to resurrect me.

The absurdity of budding desire...

powerless to bloom, ; to fulfill...

its destiny.

I'll be back.

Displaying neither boldness...

- If not for your face... �... nor prudence.

I wouldn't be forced to love you.

Even were you not another, you still would be.

We'll kill all that for good.

From the moment I saw you...

you stole my life.

Because I run things?

By delivering me from my life...

you stole it.

The presence you chose delivers no goodbyes.

You came from outside...

and...

through love...

installed yourself in me, and...

I took you in...

through love.

TO DIE OF NOT DYING

No goodbyes.

I'm a trap for you.

Whatever I told you.

The more faithful I am...

the more I'll deceive you.

My candor will ruin you.

You know, you mustn't worry about me.

I think we aspire to live in hell because we can't...

bear to be loved and forgiven.

No matter; come on.

Please.

Because I love you...

... it's us against the world. - You mustn't worry about me.

� I did no harm. - Us against the world.

I had to do what I did, you know that.

Kiss me.

It happens here...

in water; on earth.

Behind you must appear a second you.

You tell the shadows things you haven't said.

Then was the fear a little soothed...

which had endured in the lake of my heart...

all that long dolorous night.

And as he who with labored breath...

having come from open sea to the shore...

turns back to gaze at the perilous waters...

so my spirit, still fleeing...

turned to look once more at the ravine...

which never before let any go alive.

Don't look back!

It was as if they had already lived all this.

Their words seemed frozen...

in the traces of other words from other times.

They paid no heed to what they did...

but to the division which set today's actions in the present...

and parallel actions in the past.

They felt tall, motionless...

above them past and present. ; identical waves in the same ocean.

Goodbye...

my friends.

Goodbye, Jules... Yvonne... Cecile.

- Laurent... - Marcel, madame.

You too changed your name?

No, Contessa. Laurent Marcel Paul Ravel.

Not Paul. You can keep one of the Mercedes.

Mr Dorfman will arrange it.

Goodbye, friends.

While the sudden flight scattered them over the plain...

to the mountain where reason probes us...

I drew near to my faithful companion.

How could I have made my way without him?

He seemed to me to suffer from remorse.

Pancho Gonzales!

Henri...

Cochet!

Budge Patty!

Vic Seixas!

Once in a final a player jumped the net...

to have his opponent tie his shoes.

My mind, till then so narrow...

grew clear and broader as it wandered...

and I turned to face the hill rising to the heavens...

�... highest from the sea. - My mother said...

"Giving a hand is all I wanted of joy".

So it was you.

So it was you?

It's you...

it's me.

I'll lead.

The exchange is made.

Were you ever stung by a dead bee?

Were you?

- If you walk barefoot... - it stings as if it were alive.

- Provided that... - it died in a rage!

Mr Richard is Mr Roger? Think so, Jules?

Only Madame knew the answer.

It's not the same one.

It's another.