You are glad to be in Trintignant’s company tonight, since you hold his acting in great esteem, and when you think of the films you have seen him play in ( Bertolucci’s The Conformist, Rohmer’s Ma Nuit chez Maud, Truffaut’s Confidentially Yours, Kieslowski’s Red – to cite just some of your favorites), you are hard pressed to come up with the name of another european actor whose work you admire more.
You also feel tremendous compassion for him, since you know about the brutal, highly publicized murder of his daughter some years back, and are keenly aware of terrible suffering he has lived through, continues to live through. Like many the actors you have know and worked with, Trintignant is a shy and reticent person. Not that he doesn’t exude an aura of goodwill and friendliness, but the same time he is closed in on himself, a man who finds talking to others difficult.
(…)
at one point, apropos of nothing, Trintignant turns to you and asks how old you are. Fifty seven, you say, and then, after a brief pause, you ask him how old he is. Seventy -four, he replies, and then , after another brief pause, you both go back to work.
(…)
You are sitting in a chair and not talking to anyone, just sitting in silence and looking at the people in the room, and you see Trintignant, who is about ten feet away from you, is sitting in silence as well, looking down at the floor with his chin cupped in his hand, apparently lost in thought. Eventually, he looks up, catches your eyes, and says, with unexpected earnestness and gravity:
“Paul, there ‘s just one thing I want to tell you. At fifty-seven, I felt old. Now, at seventy four, I feel much younger than I did then.”
***
acest fragment face parte din cartea autobiografica Winter Journal a lui Paul Auster. pilda din aceasta povestire este felul meu de a va multumi tuturor pentru sutele de urari de la multi ani .
