words...
you are exchanging with one another,
and why are you sad?"
And one of them, named...
Are you awake?
You were speaking of the meaning...
of our... life...
of the unselfishness of art...
Take music, for instance.
Less than anything else,
it is connected to reality,
or if connected at all, it's done
mechanically, not by way of ideas,
just by a sheer sound, devoid of...
any associations.
And yet, music, as if by some miracle,
gets through to our heart.
What is it that resonates in us in
response to noise brought to harmony,
making it the source
of the greatest delight
which stuns us and brings us
together?
What's all this needed for?
And most important, who needs it?
You would say,
"No one. And for no reason."
Unselfishly.
No.
I don't think so.
After all,
everything has some sense.
Sense and reason.
Do we have to go there?
Unfortunately, yes.
There's no other way.
It looks morbid, don't you think,
Professor?
I don't feel like going there first.
And Chingachgooks
can never be volunteers.
I think we'll have to draw lots.
Do you mind?
For this, I would rather have
a volunteer.
Have you got matches?
Thanks.
The long one will go.
Pull it.
The long one.
No luck this time.
Why don't you throw one of your nuts
at least?
Sure. As you wish.
One more?
All right... I'll go.
Hurry up, Professor!
There's... There's a door here!
Go that way!
Open the door and go in!
Me again?
Do I have to go in first again?
You've drawn the lot.
Go! People don't wait here.
What have you got there?
No guns here!
You'll have yourself killed,
and us too!
Don't you remember the tanks?
Drop it, I beg you.
Don't you understand?
If something happens,
I can save you, but not this way...
I beg you!
Who are you going to fire at?
Go, we haven't got much time!
There's water here!
Hold on to the handrail and go down.
But don't go anywhere!
Wait for us outside!
I hope you haven't got anything
like that?
- Like what?
- Like a gun.
No. As a last resort
I've got an ampule.
- What ampule?
- Implanted ampule. Poison!
Oh, God! Did you come here to die?
No, it's just in case.
Writer! Come back!
Come back! You want to get yourself
killed?
I told you to wait by the exit!
Stop! Don't move!
That's all your pipe.
- Why?
- You should've gone in there first.
He was so scared that he went
the wrong way.
One more experiment.
Experiments, facts,
truth of the highest instance.
There's no such thing as facts.
Especially here.
All this is someone's
idiotic invention.
Don't you feel it?
But you, of course, must find out
whose invention it is.
And why.
What good can your knowledge do?
Who is going to get guilty conscience
because of it? Me?
I've got no conscience.
I just got nerves.
Some bastard would criticize me,
I get wounded.
Another would loud me,
I get wounded again.
I would put my heart and soul in it,
they gobble up both my heart and soul.
I would relieve my soul of filth,
they gobble it up too.
They're all so literate.
They all got sensory deficiency.
And they're all swarming around,
journalists,
editors, critics,
some endless broads.
And they all demand:
more, more!
What hell of a writer am I
if I hate writing?
If it's constant torment for me,
a painful, shameful occupation,
sort of squeezing out a hemorrhoids.
I used to think that someone would
get better because of my books.
No, nobody needs me!
In two days after I die they'll start
gobbling up someone else.
I wanted to change them,
but it's they who've changed me.
Making me in their own image.
The future used to be just
a continuation of the present,
with all the changes looming far
behind the horizon.
Now the future and the present
are one.
Are they ready for it?
They don't want to know anything!
All they know is how to gobble!
Gosh, how lucky you are!
My goodness, now...
You're going to live a hundred years!
Yes. But why not forever?
Like the eternal Jew.
You are