"The new bible will be an eternal magnetic tape of a time that will have to reread itself constantly, just to know it existed."
There is no cameraman and there is no narrator. They don't have memories to misremember, they were never formed at all. Yet here they are. The Zone is what we really care about. Language is heard one sound at a time, memory constructs the soliloquy. Subdivision of integers to infinitely tiny values will still not describe…
An unreliable narrator is lost in his sumptuous memory. A memory that can't be corroborated, either willfully or honestly, by an inscrutable woman. A woman he insists to know. This prima facie fact, if any plot beat can be taken as such, is undermined by the narrator's very words. It's undermined by the cameras omniscient tracking. It's undermined by the jagged edits and the suffocating organs and the impossible geometry of every chateau our players float through. But I think…
Harold loves Maude. Maude loves Harold. I love Harold and Maude.
