Alexander Sokurov - Hubert Robert; A Fortunate Life (1996)
Slowly, quietly. The smallness of silence pierces the world of noise, of largesse. The bold and fast, whose hurried movements expand and fill the air, leaving no gap, no hollow, no reprieve - are suddenly, quietly pierced. The pure surface of noise is not a sheet, nor a blanket. It does not cover, for it does not leave a hollow, an underneath. It permeates; it is atmosphere. It is in the air, it amplifies itself through vapour, through clouds. It is not broken by the moving interstices of human bodies, but uses them as second skins, stirring over their surfaces and through their bones. Pierced by the quiet, we are stilled. It is only now that we enter. There is not something behind the surface of noise, no special essence. We are terrified, it is infinite. We are in ekstasis, standing outside ourselves. Noise holds and holds in; surrounds, comforts. And yet in silence we are home.