Holiday is over. Must fortify myself with coffee and dreams. Ready to seize, or maybe just gently carress, the day.

Finished Godard's 'In Praise of Love,' last night. A beautiful, difficult, intelligent, haunting movie. So out of step, so out of time. Godard is an old man now. He has not lost his brittle edge, his quirkiness; he is oh so French, so sublimely maddening.

Memory, youth, old age...Godard's movie is sad, transcendant. Love is held in opposition to the State, to the strum and drang of History.

If life has become a movie, (now a TV show) Godard suggests that it's better that it be a tragedy (simple, clean, death inevitable, acceptable) as opposed to a melodrama (overwrought, too many reversals, death an accident).