Realism is always subjective in film. There's no such thing as cinema verite
I close my eyes and black out the day. The exhaustion of living through it, surviving.
Cut the ending. Revise the script. The man of her dreams is a girl.
. . . the man of my dreams is a girl.
Me? I had no dreams. No longings. Dreams only set you up for disappointment. Plus, you had to have a life to have dreams of a better life.
Is that all I am? A friend?" "Of course not," I say. "I love you. " "Am I the only one?" she asks. "Yes. Completely. " First, last, and always.
Your failures and your faults, they stick with you. They glob into ugly, cancerous growths inside you and make you want to die.
War is not the only arena where peace is done to death.
I love her bare legs from a distance. When she's standing by a pool. When she's facing the water, thinking. Her legs are white as watermelon rind, veined blue from cold. There's that 'H' shape behind her knees. The H trembles softly with the swimming-water cold.
The discriminations that are found in the Muslim majority countries are more Cultural than Islamic. . . . . I have always said to the Muslim women, please do not nurture the victim mentality. Stand up for your rights.
If man had a sense of proportion, he would die of shame.