All language subtitles for The Words (2012).eng

The Words,

by me.

"The old man stood in the rain.

"He watched as Rory
and Dora Jansen made
their way to the limo.

Somehow it seemed as if
the raindrops missed them."

- Thank you.
- Good night.

No, no, tell Mom not to worry.
Look, we just want her
to feel better, okay?

All right?

Yeah. No, no. She brought her
camera. They're gonna take
a lot of pictures.

There's a lot of photographers
there. It's an event, Dad.

Okay, all right, we got--
Yes, yes.

- We love you too.
- Love you, Chuckles.

Bye.

My parents are very excited.

And they love you very much.

Are you excited?

Yeah, sure,
it's a big night, right?

It's a big honor.

Baby, it's-- You're just
nervous. It's normal.

I'm just a little overwhelmed,
you know?

I didn't expect any of this.

Where are you? Hm?

It was supposed to be
a little book, you know?

I know.

The Window Tears has
introduced us to the one of
the most exciting

and sensitive young writers

to appear on the literary
horizon in a very long time.

We are privileged
to have with us here tonight

the winner of this year's
American Fellowship
of Arts and Letters Award,

Mr. Rory Jansen.

Thank you.

I simply tried to set
down the truth as I imagined it.

The story of one man,
his wife and child.

I never thought a little book
like this would affect so many
different people.

I only wish I had an idea
for my second book.

Anyway, I don't want to take up
any more of your time tonight.

I'll just end by saying

that the honor this evening
is truly all mine. Thank you.

"Right after college,
they moved to Brooklyn.

"They found a first floor loft
in an old factory.

"It was five years before
the book and the awards,

but Rory already knew what
his life was supposed to
look like."

- Okay, here?
- Yeah.

- Let it go.
- Just let go?

Dora?

You're gonna drop me.

Okay, I think we should
put pictures up there.

Mm-hmm.

And I think your desk is fine
where it's at over there.

And I think we should paint
the bathroom pink.

Never.

"A young, struggling
writer, fighting to make
his voice heard."

- How much is it?
- " He loved her."

Oh.

It matches my eyes, babe.
What do you want me to do?

" He loved New York."

"But at night, when the city
was finally quiet,

he wrote."

Thanks, babe.

Just doing a final pass.

And then what?

And then I'm gonna head into
an agent that Professor Waller
recommended.

And then what?

And then we're gonna
celebrate.

But we don't have any money.

Shh. Then we're gonna celebrate.

Just gotta finish this.

- Babe.
- Mm?

Babe.

Babe.
Come on, I gotta finish this.

- Okay, I gotta
finish this.
- Fine.

But you're missing out.

Finished.

Well, if he doesn't
want to do it, he doesn't want
to do it.

Listen, I said I'll try.

What do you mean?
Of course that's my word.

Listen, I gotta know by
Wednesday, because that's when
I place the orders, alright?

- I'll call you back. Goodbye.
- Working hard?

All I do is put out fires.
It never stops.

Listen, I know you're busy,
so, uh, I'm gonna come at you
straight, okay?

Let's go into my office.

How much?

Just enough for the next month
to cover us.

And then what? You show up again
here next month?

No. I got my book into an agent
who says it's got potential.

Rory, did they give you
any money?

No, but look, Dad, it doesn't
work like that. It's not like
your business, okay?

It's not like you do work,
you get paid for it, okay?

- I gotta pay my dues.
- No, I gotta pay your dues, right?

Look, I wouldn't ask you
if I didn't need it.

You think I like coming down
here like this?

You think I like saying no?

I feel like I'm hurting you
more than helping you.

You gotta start taking
responsibility for your life.

I've been taking responsibility
for my life.

I've had a job since I was
15 years old. I worked at
Alexander's.

I was a busboy.
Okay, we decided two years ago

that I was gonna dedicate myself
to being a writer.

We had this conversation
in the living room, Dad.

- Mom was right there.
She agreed--
- But, Rory, it's been a while.

Okay? So maybe now
this should be a hobby

instead of a profession until
you get your feet on the ground.

Well, thanks for
the encouragement, Pop.

- What about Dora?
- What about Dora?

Well, I mean, you got to have
money before you get married.

You know what?
I'm sorry I wasted your time.

Come here! Hey, sit down!
Sit down.

Talking about marriage...?

What are you, 11?

This is the last time.

You gotta get a job, something
steady, support yourself.

That's just part of being a man.

I'm trying to be a man, Dad.

Another part of being a man,

no matter how painful it might
be, is accepting your own
limitations.

Come here.

- I love you.
- I love you.

- I'm gonna pay you back,
you know.
- Yeah.

Yeah. Hey, you can always
work here.

Ha-ha. We'd kill each other.

"He continued to write,

"believing he had
a story to tell.

"He sent his work anywhere
they might publish him.

"But all he heard back
was rejection, disinterest,

"or the loudest sound of all:

Silence."

"Finally, Rory Jansen was
forced to take a day job.

"He found a position at one
of the biggest publishing
houses

in New York, hoping to make
some connections."

I made a million connections
around here.

- What, you're a writer?
- Yeah.

I got all my stuff into
different agents around here.

I'm actually glad it's taking me
a while to break through.

It's given me a chance to
develop my style, you know,
understand the market.

So, what kind of stuff
do you write?

Uh, angry young men, I guess.

I used to be like that.

Now I write sci-fi.

You mature, you know.
Just give it time.

Ah...

- Are you gonna write tonight?
- Uh...

I'll just stay in and watch a
movie or get food or something.

Okay.

"Without even knowing it

they had settled into
their lives.

And on a Friday afternoon,
they were married at
City Hall."

They honeymooned in Paris."

You ready?

Yup.

Two minutes, okay?

- Just two more minutes.
- No more antique shops.

Mm, thank you. Put that down.

Rory.
Klondike 474.

Repeat 47...

What do you think of this?
It's like some...

Oh.

That's nice.

What do you think of it?

I think it's old.

I think it's great.

I feel like if we clean it up,
you can use it for work.

- Yeah?
- It's classy.

I'm gonna get it for you.

All mail and packages
go to the assistants only.

Hey, Irene.

"And then, with no
warning at all,

Rory got the call
that he had been waiting for."

Thank you.
Okay.

Thank you very much.
All right, okay.

It's good.

It's really good. I mean,
it's a beautiful piece of
writing,

and the truth is that you should
be very proud of yourself.

Thank you very much. Wow. Uh...

- I worked very hard on it.
- The work shows.

I look at you, I can't believe
how young you are.

Well...

I have to tell you, Rory, I just
see so much truth in your work.

I-- I am... I'm so impressed.

Wow, I can't believe this.
This is--

Whoo.

But unfortunately,

the nature of
the publishing business
right now,

at this particular time,
is such that I don't know

how to publish a book like this.

Look, Rory, no one is gonna
support a book like this.

- Book like this?
- From an unknown writer.

There's just no market for it.

Now, it's hard for any writer,
under any circumstances,

without a track record to get
published. And this book--

I mean, it's so interior.

Interior? What is that?

It's artistic, it's subtle.
It's...

It's a piece of art.

So this book, I should just
shelve this and forget about it.

I just-- I spent three years
working on it.

I'm just trying to be honest
with you.

I'm just telling you
the reality of the situation.

Have patience.

You know, I wouldn't have
brought you in here

if I really
didn't believe in you.

You're gonna be fine.

So we have two weeks
in September.
We're planning a trip.

We think we're gonna charter--
What? We're gonna charter
a boat.

We're going to Turks,
but we're gonna get a boat.

- Like a 50-footer.
- Nothing crazy.

Great, but it's the first
two weeks of September.

- It's the beginning--
- Get a sub.

You don't wanna miss this.

- This is gonna be truly great.
- It's gonna be amazing.

- Breakfast, lunch, dinner.
- You pull out fish,

right out of the ocean,
they cook them up.
It's incredible.

"He couldn't stop
thinking about that story.

"In those words,

"he had been confronted
by everything

"he had ever aspired to be,

and the reality
of what he would never become."

Buddy, what's going on
with you, man?

- You're 100 miles away.
- We want you to go.

Why don't you shut up?

- What the hell?
- Oh, don't. Just don't.

- Don't. Please don't.
- What is the matter with you?

I can't...

How the...

How the hell do you
end up where you are?

How the hell does that happen?

- Rory.
- I don't know.

I look at my life,
I look at your life,
I look at his life,

I look at my father's life,
I look at everybody's life,

and I don't have a clue
how anybody winds up
where they do.

- I don't know.
- You don't have to know.

- I don't know!
- It's okay!
You don't have to know.

There's so much time, Rory.

So much time? I'm talking about
my goddamn life here!

- What about your life?
- It's not right!

Nothing's right!

Rory, how is that supposed
to make me feel?

How is that supposed
to make me feel?

I'm not who I thought
I was, okay?

I'm not.

And I'm terrified
that I never will be.

I'm sorry.

It's okay.

"He didn't know
why he was doing it.

"He just wanted to feel the
words pass through his fingers,

through his mind."

"He retyped every word as it
was written on those pages.

He didn't change a period,
a comma, or even correct
the spelling mistakes."

"He needed to know
what it felt like...

"to touch it,

if only for a moment."

Rory, can you come here?

What's up?

Hey. You all right?

What's wrong, babe?

Hey.

Just kiss me.

Hey, what is it?

- Oh, my God.
- What?

- What?
- Are you pregnant?

No, no, no.
I want you to listen to me.

I was working on the computer
today, and, um...

And I swear to you
I've never gone through
your things before,

but your book was on the screen

- and I started reading
one sentence,
- Oh, no, no, no.

- then I read the second,
and I couldn't put it down.
- But why did you...

Listen to me. You are everything
you've always wanted to be.

Dora, you don't under...

Why would you keep this
a secret from me?

No, it's not a secret.

These stories, they're so
different from anything you've
ever done before.

It's as if you stopped hiding.

They're fuller, they're truer,
they're more honest.

There are parts of you in this
novel that I always knew
were there,

but I had never seen before.

- I've never--
- What parts?

What parts?

All of you.

All of you, baby.

This has to be seen.

Just listen to me, okay.

You always said that all you
ever wanted to do was be a good
writer.

With this, Rory,

you're a great writer.

Baby...

take it to work
and show it to someone.

And if you're not gonna do it
for yourself,

then please do it for me.

Sorry to bother you, Mr. Cutler.

Hey, Rory. How are you today?

- Good.
- Good.

Do you have a minute?

Uh, I'm kind of busy here.
What can I do for you?

I've worked here for,
uh, over two years.

I haven't asked anybody
for anything.

Uh, I have a feeling you're
about to ask for a thing now.

You see, there's this novel,
um...

And I know that you get
submissions all the time
and you're very busy,

but I don't want anything
other than your opinion.

I would really appreciate it.

Rory.

Can I help you, Mr. Cutler?

- Come on in here for a second.
- I'm in the middle of training--

Yeah, yeah, he'll find
his way back. Shut the door.

You know what I did last night?

On the absolute insistence
of Debra, and God knows
I tried to blow her off,

I read your novel last night.

You did?

Have you, uh,
shown this to anyone else,
anyone outside the agency?

No, no, you're the only one
that's seen it.

I mean, uh, outside of my wife.

What does she think?

She was the one that insisted
I show it to you.

Well, I can't wait to meet her
and thank her.

Rory, I would very much
like to represent you

and your work.

You've written

a remarkable work of fiction.

"There was no epiphany.

"No sign from the gods to point
him in the right direction.

The book was a unanimous
critical and commercial
success."

Thank you. Hi.

"He was the darling of
the New York literary world."

The winner of this year's
American Fellowship
of Arts and Letters Award,

Mr. Rory Jansen.

Let's raise a glass here
to our son, the writer.

- To Rory.
- To Rory.

"Rory Jansen had
made his choice."

"And then he met the old man."

That's, um, the end of part one.

Thank you.

Thank you for coming.

Come along, people.

Give the man
some breathing room.

It's his break, after all.

Ah.
Thank you.

If you want to lie down
or relax for a while,

you know where the room is.

I read that you
liked the 2005 Rosé.

Don't forget, Clayton,
30 minutes, so no time
for foreplay.

- I'm so sorry.
- That's okay,
I've read his books.

Ah.

So, what'd you say
your name was again?

I didn't. It's Daniella.

Mmm. That's a beautiful name.

Oh, can't you think
of something better than that?

- Shut up.
- I have to rest my voice.

It gets really dry when I read,
and I have a whole other
section.

- Don't bullshit me.
- I'm not.

It's okay. I already know
everything about you anyway.

- Oh, really? Everything?
- Mm-hmm.

Everything.

What do you know?

I know you hate tomatoes.

I know...

Miles Davis' Kind of Blue
is your favorite jazz recording.

I know you love to watch
Cheers reruns.

And I know you took Latin
for seven years

and cheated on every
single test.

How do you know that?

- Esquire, you said it yourself.
- Ugh.

I've got to start reading
my interviews.

So...

what else do you know?

I know that you've been with
your wife since your freshman
year of college.

I know that you go to every
single Yankees home game,

and I know that you,
Clayton Hammond, are a genius.

- Shows how much
you know.
- Why's that?

I missed two Yankee games
last year.

Oh, sorry.

And, uh, my wife and I are,
um...

separated.

I actually did know that,
but you're wearing a ring.

Yeah.

So, uh, Daniella,

how did you get
backstage tonight?

I'm a grad student at Columbia,
and I begged my professor
for his ticket.

I won the Elman Fellowship,
just like you.

Mr. Hammond,
they're ready for you.

Yes, Mr. Hammond,
we're ready for you.

This is the second and, uh,
final selection of the evening.

"It was a crisp
and clear autumn morning.

The old man was dressed
exactly as the day before."

- Can I hail you a cab, sir?
- I'm gonna take the bus, thanks.

You're welcome.

Go to Central Park? Great.

How you doing today?

I'm okay. How are you?

Comme ci, comme ça.

- You know what I mean?
- Sure.

What's that book you're reading?

Ask the Dust, John Fante.

Oh, how did you find him?
Nobody knows him.

You read Fante?

Read him? I knew him.

You knew John Fante.

Met him in Los Angeles.

Must have been 1958.

He should have been someone
that everybody knows.

Yeah.

What happened?

Life.

So how does it feel?

How does what feel?

To be somebody everybody knows?

You know,
I don't really think about it.

Oh, come on.

Don't bullshit
an old bullshitter.

It feels good, right?

Feels good to have your work
recognized, yeah.

Mm, yeah, heh-heh,
I'm sure it does, yeah, hm.

Bet you get good tables
in restaurants now.

- I do.
- Mm.

Life was kind to you.

Gods smiled when you were born.

They looked down and they said,
"Ooh, look there, that one is
a writer.

His words will be celebrated."

I don't know
if it's that grandiose.
You know, I just got lucky.

I wrote a book,
and people happened to like it.

I mean, I don't know
how things happen.

I mean, I wrote two books

that wouldn't have gotten
published if that one never did.

Well, I'll bet they'll publish
them now.

I read your book.

I liked it very, very much.

Thank you. I appreciate that.

And now forgive an old fan
for a moment.

Just indulge me.

You wrote about Paris

- right after the war.
- Mm-hmm.

And when I read your stories,
I was right there.

I tasted that wine,
the sweetness of that wine.

I...

made love to the girl.

I sat in the cafe that morning

wondering what the future
held for me.

Or if it held anything
at all for me.

I heard...

that child cry in the night.

And I felt the longing

for my home so far away.

You are some writer, my friend.

Thank you.

Wow, thank you.
I really do appreciate that.

I, uh...
Wow, I have to go. My wife--

I know, I know.

Artists always feel
uncomfortable talking
about their work.

- No, no, no.
- I wonder if there's
just one thing

- you'd do for me.
- Sure.

I wondered if you'd autograph

- my copy of your book.
- Ah, of course.

Do you have a pen?

Oh.

A writer without a pen.

Well...

Well, today's a reading day.

Oh, yes.

Well, I have a pen.

So...

I do have a story.

A very good story.

Now, I know you get this line
all the time,

but I think
you'll like the story. Hm?

If I was to tell you the story
and you wrote it,

well, then, maybe

you could give me
a little credit?

Well, that wouldn't be fair,
would it?

Have a good day.

It's about a man who wrote
a book and then lost it

and the pissant kid
who found it.

You still here?

Do you want to hear my story?

Or don't you have the time?

So...

it's 1944, and there's this
18-year-old kid,

a soldier in the army,
never saw any action.

He was sent to Paris
right at the end of the war.

There he is,

a dumb kid with a dumbass
grin on his face.

There he is in Paris.

To him, it might as well have
been the other side of the
goddamned world.

It was a joke that his unit
was constantly drawing
the worst details.

Most of the time,
they were relaying sewage pipes

blown apart by the Germans
during the occupation.

It was god-awful work.

Street smell.

I miss Utah.

Somehow the kid was happy,

like a pig in shit.

The guys in his unit,
most of them were different

from anybody he'd known
in his neighborhood.

They were from all over,
little towns he'd never
even heard of.

Poor kid probably hit a mine.

Let's get the body
to the morgue.

That was the only
dead body he saw his whole time
in the Army.

There was this one guy in his
unit real different to him,

an intellectual, real bookworm,

and over time, he became
the boy's best friend.

He lent him some books to read,

the first books the kid had
ever read about anything.

For the first time

he saw a world that was bigger
than the one he'd been
born into.

And he wanted more.

He wanted to be something more.

- A writer.
- Yeah,

but he had no idea what the word
really meant.

Certainly didn't have a clue
about how to go about it.

- You grew up in Philadelphia?
- Hmm.

Grew up in Philly,
but born in London.

- London?
- Hm.

What did she just say?

- What did she say?
- My French is a little weak,

but I'm pretty sure
she said she loves you.

- Go talk to her.
- No.

- Go. ha-ha.
- That's not funny.

Go talk to her.

Come on, if you don't, I will.

He found out sometime
later that what she'd actually
said was:

"Pay your check
and get the hell out of here."

But who was he to
question fate?

He'd picked up
one word of French.

Oui.

And she knew one word
of English.

Yes.

It was
the perfect relationship.

What is ice cream?

- Oh-oh.
- What?

- What?
- It's cold in my head.

- Cold in your head?
- Yeah, pain.

Go like this.
Take your finger like this.

Under your tongue.
It's a little trick.
It'll make it go away, okay?

- It doesn't wanna go.
- Give it a second, okay?

Now?

It's gone.

Told you.

Okay, one more.

What happened?

He got discharged from the Army.

But what once was his
whole world suddenly seemed...

small.

Nothing had changed
since he'd been away.

Except him.

He had changed.

For the first time in his life,

he tried to write.

Tried to write about Paris,

about what he'd seen

and how he'd felt.

But the words just
wouldn't come.

He knew the life he wanted.

He knew what he had
to do to get it.

The young man began
his apprenticeship as a writer.

He got a job as a journalist
for a small English-language
weekly.

There were a lot of them
springing up for all
the expats,

and they'd hire anyone who
could string a few words
together.

It was a good place to learn.

He married Celia
two weeks later.

Six pounds and three ounces,
eyes like her mother.

That was his moment,

not that he knew it
at the time.

Maybe one never does.

She used to cry so much.

At times, he could barely think,
let alone write.

Sir?

She was sick.

The wife?

My daughter.

There was nothing he could do.

I'll be back later.

Celia?

She said she'd gone
home to her mother's
in the country.

Needed time to think.

She needed to be apart.

The words simply
poured out of him.

A stream that
he could not control

nor question
where they came from.

The words became form,
the form became whole,

and after two weeks,
it was finished.

And then?

Then he slept.

Dreamless sleep.

When he woke,
he cleaned the apartment
and went to find his wife.

She looked like a child to him,

sitting in the room
she grew up in.

She begged him to go back to
Paris without her.

Just go. Go.

A few weeks later,
she finally came home.

He was so grateful
to have her home.

He just wanted to hold her,

see her laugh again.

So you, um...?
You read my story?

She said she wanted
to start life over.

Said it like it would
be the easiest thing
in the world to do.

No.

I don't understand,
I had it with me on the train.

- What?
- I had it with me on the train.

But it was in a different case?

It shouldn't have
meant anything,

but writing that story
had somehow saved him.

How could she not understand?

You know what?

You are not the only one
who lost her.

She left something.
Listen to me, okay?

For a time, they tried
to patch things up together,

but you can't erase the past,

no matter how much you want to.

And for the first time,
the young man began to
long for home.

Soon the longing grew
so strong he...

He left.

Never went back to Paris.

Never saw Celia again.

But after he lost those pages...

he was never able
to set down one word...

that looked right to him.

Maybe he was afraid
of going that deep again.

Perhaps he just lost the knack.
Anyway, he stopped trying.

And after a time...

he found a little town up north,
settled there.

Found a kind of peace.

How's that feel?

Hm.

Wait.

It's not over yet.

This is where it really
gets interesting.

Long after all of this
faded into the past,

the young man,
who was now an old man,

wandered into a bookstore.

I opened the book
and began to read.

Your book.

And the narrator
was standing over a crib.

His child was dying,

and there was nothing
he could do.

Look...

I...

A misunderstanding,
I...

No, no, my friend,

there's no misunderstanding, no.

You can't slide out of it now.

These are my words,

my stories.

Hmm?

What the hell
is a window tear anyway?

I don't know how you did it.

I just thought
you should know the story

behind these stories
in case anyone was to ask.

Maybe now
you've got your next book.

" After a few hours,
the sun finally set

"and Rory Jansen slowly rose,

searching for his way home."

Thank you.

If you wanna know
the rest of the story,

you'll just have to
buy the book.

How much of your work is
drawn from your life?

- You've always been hesitant
to talk about it.
- Yes, I am hesitant.

What I think is great
about art and artists

is that we get to ask
the questions...

even though
we may never know the answers.

Excuse me a minute.

I wanna see where you write.

I can assure you,
it's not that exciting.

Oh, why don't you let
me be the judge of that?

Wow.

This place, it's, um...

Empty.

- Empty, yeah.
- Mm.

Somehow it's exactly
the way I imagined it.

Really? So you imagined me
living in a place for eight
months

and barely unpacking a box?

It's very elegant,
Mr. Hammond.

Oh.

- May I take your jacket?
- Yes.

See, I told you
it's not all that exciting.

Are you kidding?

I could write my entire
dissertation on your view.

That was hit by Babe Ruth.

Unfortunately, it was when
he was a goddamn Red Sock,

but what can you do?

I've got a bottle
of Bordeaux downstairs

that's just been screaming
for an occasion like this.

- You know, that sounds good.
- Mm-hm.

- Your wine.
- Thank you.

So, what should we drink to?

Your new book,
of course.

- How about we drink to--?
- Your book.

Will you tell me something?

What happens?

What happens to Rory
after the old man finds him?

Why would such a beautiful,
intelligent girl such as
yourself

wanna be something
so silly as a writer?

Ha. Silly?

Don't you know
words ruin everything?

I don't believe you for
a second. You love words.

I'm young, spoiled, impetuous,
and American. Humor me.

Now, like so many
of the great clichés,

Rory Jansen decided
the only thing to do was

drink on it.

And so he gets rip-roaring,
death-defyingly drunk,

and now he's got his nerve.

And he starts to think.

He allows himself to think
the whole thing through.

Hey. Guess what,
I spoke to the realtor today,

and she said that we can move in
as early as the 6th.

Isn't that awesome?

We'll need to buy
some carpets and stuff--

Why do you love me?

- Dora?
- Are you drunk?

I need to know why you love me.

Okay. Uh...

I love you because
you have beautiful eyes.

I love you because
you're serious all the time,

but deep, deep down,
you're nothing but a goofball.

I just love you.

Rory, what's going on?

You really think
my eyes are beautiful?

I think your eyes
are beautiful, yes.

They're not mine.

Okay.

I'm a liar.

I don't...

What are you
doing right now?

What's wrong?

I didn't write the book.

What do you...?

The book, I stole it.

I just found it.

I didn't even change any of it.
I mean, I...

I don't know who
I was stealing it from and...

But I knew it wasn't mine.

Wait a minute.
I'm very confused right now.

So you didn't--? You--?
You didn't write the book?

None of it is mine,
not one single word.

I don't know what's going on.

Uh-- It-- It was there and...

I think I wanted so badly

for it to have come from me...

and then the look,
the way you looked at me

when you thought it was mine...

And for a moment I actually
convinced myself that
I wrote it.

Do you believe that?

I could never write
anything that good. I know that.

- Okay, so then--
- You-- I mean,
you said so yourself--

I said-- I said what?

- It doesn't matter.
- What? What did I say?

You should've known.
You did know, right? You knew--

- What do you mean?
- You knew when you read them

- that they weren't my words.
- I knew?

You know me so well.

You were doing research
on Paris.

We had just gotten back
from our honeymoon.

Yeah, but you had to have known.

What do you mean?
I believed you, Rory.

- No, you wanted to believe.
- I know, I believed you!

- You wanted to--
- I believed you!

Dora?

Don't touch it.

You lied to me.

When you...

When you read those words,
when you copied them,

did you ever stop
to think about us?

Did you think about
what this was gonna do to us?

To you?

Did I ever cross your mind?

I can't be here right now.

I'm sorry, I just can't be here.

You really messed up.

I think we need
to think this through.

What does that mean?

You got the cover
of the book review this Sunday.

I didn't get the cover of this,
some old man got it.

The other book of yours I sold,
did you write that?

Of course I wrote that.
But I didn't plan this.

This isn't something
that I planned.

But the only reason why anybody
ever read my stuff

is because of this book.

You don't want this.

Everything you're saying
you want, you don't want it.

Just take my name off the book.

And what do you think
is gonna happen?

Do you think they're gonna
give you a hall pass?

The media? The press?
They're gonna crucify you.

And my ass is out there
on the line with you.

You wanna pay this man
off your advance,

that's the right thing to do.

You wanna cut him
into the movie rights, fine.

You wanna buy him a house,
a car, a boat?

But don't screw yourself
for the rest of your life

over one stupid mistake.
And don't you screw me!

You know, we can find him for
you, if that's what you really
want, but...

Trust me, this isn't the first
time an author's done something
like this.

Don't do that.

You may not believe me now...

but you will thank me later.

My book, the one you sold...

is it as good as this book?

Tell me the truth, Joe.

Thank you.

How are you doing today?

What type of plant is that?

Plectranthus.

Swedish ivy.

It's nice.

Did you come up here
just to bullshit about plants?

I wanna fix this.

There's nothing to fix.

You just go live the life
you made for yourself.

If you didn't want anything,
why did you come find me
and tell me?

It couldn't be just
to torture me.

You don't even know who I am.

You don't know how,
you don't know why.

I just...

thought you should know,
that's all.

Do you think you can just steal
part of my life? Hmm?

Any man's life?

Take it as your own

and expect
there'd be no price to pay?

No. Don't you understand?
This is why I'm here.

Put that back in your pocket
or I'll take you out back
and kick the shit out of you.

This is not a payoff.
This is all I could
get out right now,

but it's all yours. I'm gonna
take my name off the book.

I'm gonna tell everybody
the truth.

Then you're even more of a fool
than I thought you were.

- What is all this about then?
- What is it about?

It's about my life.

It's about my wife,
about my child.

It's about the joy and the pain
that gave birth to those words.

You take those words,
you take the pain.

Now, why don't you buy
a plant with that money?

Here, a Plectranthus,
since you love them so much.

You take your plant and your
money and you get out of here.
Get out of here. Go on.

Hey, I wanna make things right.

You can't just make
things right.

Things are just things.

You understand? No matter how
you try and martyr yourself.

I've got work to do.
This place doesn't run itself.

Sir, sir. Please. Sir.

Please.

I did see her one more time.

You did?

I was on my way to work.

Over all those years,

I thought about her every day.

Broken because of
what I did to her.

And then all of a sudden,
there she was.

She seemed happy.

Well, if I was to tell you
that realization didn't
cause me pain, I'd be lying.

But, in some ways, it helped me.

Helped me turn a corner.

Pick up again without looking
back all the time.

Ah, you think I ruined my life
because I never wrote again.

- Just because I lost
a book of stories.
- No, I just...

God, you had
so much more to do.

Oh, I've done enough.
Believe me.

I've done what I can
the best that I can.

That's all you
can ask of a person.

No,

my tragedy was
that I loved words

more than I loved the woman
who inspired me to write them.

- You wanna do something for me?
- Anything at all.

Walk away, don't look back.

We all make choices in life.

The hard thing
is to live with them.

And there ain't nobody
can help you with that.

Go on.

Sir?

I do love your book.

Finally, Rory Jansen
knew what he had to do.

The Window Tears

by Rory Jansen.

And the old man?

A few weeks
after Rory went to visit him,

the old man died.

And the secret died with him.

Whatever he had to do,
whatever he had to lose,
he would seal it off.

It was as if by locking off
the secret of one man's life
forever,

he had unveiled another much
deeper and darker secret within
himself.

And that's it. The end.

Poof.

No moral, no incredible
gain of knowledge,

other than the belief that
one can, after making a terrible
mistake in life,

continue to live
and perhaps even live well.

Bullshit.

Everyone has to sleep at night.

What really happened, Clay,
after he tells himself all that?

- What happens to Rory?
- I already told you.

He goes on. He lives, he writes,
as well as he can,

he's a big success.

I'm not talking about the book.
You're just avoiding.
Tell me the truth.

Come on, Clay...

Look, why don't you tell me?

- What?
- I wanna know what you think.

You got yourself in here,
you got me talking.

It's your turn to talk.
I wanna know what you think.

- I...
- No, no, no.

You tell me what happens
to Rory and Dora.

He's fucked.

Wait.

That's a good start.

Now go on.

Maybe he can forget,
maybe he can write, create,

but it doesn't matter because
he'll never, ever believe it.

He's robbed himself
of the chance to find out.

Not bad.

Or maybe he can't write,
although he's been able
to fool a few people.

Even better.

Maybe his marriage falls apart
because for him and his wife
to look at one another

is for them to look
at the truth.

Maybe when he goes in public,

he can wear that mask of
confidence and sophistication,

but back when he's alone
late at night, he can't sleep,

because when he closes his eyes
he still sees the face of that
old man.

Maybe...

he sees his own face,

and the old man
is just a story he made up.

At some point, you have to
choose between life and fiction.

The two are very close,
but they never actually touch.

They're two very,
very different things.

What is it?

I, um...

You never let her go.

You should leave.

Is that what
you really want, Clay?

Life or fiction?

Which do you choose?

Remember the first time we met?

Remembering the quiet?

You had on that shirt...

The one you never took off.
The one with the stripes
and the hole in the elbow.

I looked at you
and I had a flash.

That never happened
with any guy.

I jumped ahead
and I saw our lives together.

We're gonna be fine.