It is often said, and not with lack of judgment, that the ul- timate entrance by any charac- ter in cinema was the one Lean crafted for Omar Sharif, in his ride to the well in Lawrence of Arabia. But the pond uncovered by a cherishing sister, for her distracted mother, in the ocular socket of a sleeping boy in Pa- ther Panchali established a cat- gory of entrance too absolute for comparison. When its pains- taking restoration was screened in New York and Los Angeles, ear- lier this year, the commotion at its rediscovery was natural. Film, as an implication of film in the reflections of an aqueous meniscus one could call, innocent, cannot be explored again without exchang- ing glances with Satyajit Ray.
Enter, then, the dragonfly, flit- ting on the surface in a rising storm, and the narrative is not symbolic, but simply vital, to be appraised again and again as a flight of coherent chance. All that was ever needed to redeem the word exquisite, was proof it isn't empty, as we'd thought.
Satyajit Ray Director and Screenwriter Bibhutibusan Banerjee
Book
Subrata Mitra
Cinematography
Pather Panchali 1955 i Artur Molyanets, photography ii, iii Subir Banerjee, Apu
Nietzsche said the poem is a dance In chains. Molecular life enchained by chance? The bonds of atoms formulas distill Are strains that resonate, the elements Held both far together and close apart.
I cannot turn to the work of this suspiciously academic figure without trust, possibly because of a sense I've done nothing to conceal for years, that by the provocations of inquiry, I have never felt less than embraced. The less I know, the more I am unchained; so that to wonder, is to be far and close at once.
a word formed from a verb and no long- er seen as a verb, as in guy reading.
All through the fifties and sixties the land tilted Toward the bowl of life. Now life Has moved in that direction. We taste the conviction Minus the rind, the pulp and the seeds. It Goes down smoothly. At a later date I added color And the field became a shed in ways I no longer remember. Familiarly, but without tenderness, the sunset pours its Dance music on the (again) slanting barrens. The problems we were speaking of move up toward them.
