On the consequences of feeling literally any emotion for those most undeserving of creatures, that is to say men, that is to say flakes, that is to say people. A lucid love turns destructive, but it's never unjust. Not a paradox. Truffaut, king of repression: His classical style reached a peak in the 1970s; starting from Two English Girls onwards, his films on love start resembling dispatches from a journalist bogged down by the feet of the dead in altarpieces.
"Since I can't have the smile of love, I condemn myself to its grimace."
"I'm young, yet it sometimes seems to me that I've reached the autumn of my life."
"One can still be in love with a man and despise everything about him."
Fireworks in the background were the sounds that Truffaut had to bury.