The poet crossed the stony court, happy that the darkness distinguished at its sight the pathetic efforts of the vegetation to answer the call of spring, the autumn, it had planet of seeds of hyacinths and tulips, the jacenthis started with flower and their optimism made him shame to have entrusted to such a lugubrious framework.
In the house of the garden, A completed by after midday of winter, it finished the small masterpiece, it had to recopy with ink, a poem of circumstances, each page was illustrated landscapes of snow made of hundreds of small crystals, carefully stuck one by one, the wood of the reindeers, had been cut out in tiny coupeaux stays extremely proud of its work.
While turning over to the living room in front of the chimney, the fire refilled with long pieces of wood, the twilight of this long day of summer was transformed little by little into a marvellous starlight night, the horizon was split in the dark velvet of the sky, somebody confined a song, by group of three or four, other voices joined his and soon everyone sings, and by the window, in the moonlight, the sandy road resembled
Workshop of art
On all the ground one starts to understand that the cinema is an art still tortured by dreadful divagations and inevitable revolutionary spasms, but finally an art which in little year will be essential beside the other means of expression like painting, the book, the sculpture the music and will surely continue has to supplant in the universal favour since it has this higher force to be the only irreversible language, the only form of universal expression, the only universal platform, far from us the idea to condemn those which too a long time saw in the cinema only one average original to record images, it is with those which us let us must of knowing that the machine with film is workshop of art.
In is readily laid out to think that the development of this new light followed the curve normalist, and when you attend a film of dramatic intrigue, you consider certainly it as the improvement of very old times not where the cinematographists embroidered hasty variations on the old melodramas or the novels of cape and the sword, although the film of psychological nature would be still well far from carrying out its destinies, the true dramatic film and if the day or somebody compared that the transposition with the screen of the actors of theatre and their plastic telegraphy was to be erased in front of nature.