Limits of Control, Jim Jarmusch’s film about art and life and what we can and cannot control, perhaps about how we know what we think we know is running at the theater next to the Bibliothèque Nationale de France, the glass towers of books that go on and on and on—that Sebold writes about in Austerlitz—and that you cannot enter unless you know the code: how I think about the doors, the maze one must follow to find them. Actually, you can buy a reader’s card, but you cannot go into the stacks, the towers that dominate the horizon on the edge of old Paris. The reading room seduces the way my solitude does.
Does my solitude reveal?
Off to the Pompidou: On exhibit: THE SUBVERSION OF IMAGES: SURREALISM, PHOTOGRAPHY, FILM—but it appears that the staff is on strike. How appropriate: unable to get in to see the surreal. Will I stand outside and look the way I stood outside the librarie?
I’ll let you know if I get in …
In the meantime: What is the code? Send in the clowns, the fools, the genies and whoever else can help.