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elision, an ellipsis -- Then speak in simple, short sentences. And if he asks me what we're talking about now? I'm obligated -- That's fine. But he won't ask you immediately, and that gives us time. You're tired. What? Her hand instinctively rose to her face. Bags under the eyes, depth of a centimeter. Your posture is slightly hunched, four centimeters lower than the optimum. Your stomach -- Charming, she said. I shrugged. It's what I do. She exhaled, a long stream of half-smoke that disappeared within the short radius beyond her mouth. All you had to say is You're tired. I was explaining my reasoning --  |
Yes, I get it. I was listening to a recording all day, for the archives. An interview with a filmmaker. Filmmaker? A type of artist. He was talking about his craft. He said that once you learn the techniques, the little systems and processes behind the art, then the art loses its magic. But if you gain excellence at the craft, a funny thing happens -- it becomes second nature to you, suddenly all the artifice disappears once again, and you return to the original state of innocence, where you can appreciate the art for its magic alone, its effect. What does that mean? Her lips drew together in a quizzical frown, the expression of a little girl. I'm not sure, she said. We only observe, we don't interpret. Does anyone? I asked.  |
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