“…I forgot to ask him how he shot the rocket launch scene, but the space station was an incredibly expensive, very detailed set, made out of thick duralumin. The cold metallic light was gleaming in silver; red, blue, and green beams intricately blinked and twisted from the lights of the various gauges lined up in a row. And above that ran two duralumin rails, from which hung a camera on small wheels, completely free to move about the entire space station set. Tarkovsky took me around, explaining everything to me, beaming with pride like a child showing off the contents of his toy box.”
A man writes because he is tormented, because he doubts. He needs to constantly prove to himself and the others that he’s worth something. And if I know for sure that I’m a genius? Why write then? What the hell for?