Night Film

“I love to put my characters in the dark, it's only then that I can see exactly who they are”

“Before you embark on a journey of revenge, dig two graves.’ ”

“Everyone has a Cordova story, whether they like it or not.”

“I hate how the people who really get you are the ones you can never hold on to for very long. And the ones who don’t understand you at all stick around.”

“We’re living longer, we social network alone with our screens, and our depth of feeling gets shallower.”

“With the iPiano, anyone can be an iMozart. Then, you could compose your own iRequiem for your own iFuneral attended by millions of your iFriends who iLoved you.”

“This is New York. If people found out worshipping the devil actually worked, every ambitious type A would be practicing it in their studio apartments.”

“God, the boring relative everyone ignores—no one calls, no one writes—until they need a serious favor.”

“It appeared in the Internet age, pianos, like physical books, were fast becoming culturally extinct. They'd probably stay that way unless Apple invented the iPiano, which fit inside your pocket and could be mastered via text message. With the iPiano, anyone can be an iMozart. Then, you could compose your own iRequiem for your own iFuneral attended by millions of your iFriends who iLoved you.”

“Have you seen the world lately, McGrath? The cruelty, the lack of connection? If you're an artist, I'm sure you can't help but wonder what it's all for. We're living longer, we social network alone with our screens, and our depth of feeling gets shallower. Soon it'll be nothing but a tide pool, then a thimble of water, then a micro drop.”

“Mortal fear is as crucial a thing to our lives as love. It cuts to the core of our being and shows us what we are. Will you step back and cover your eyes? Or will you have the strength to walk to the precipice and look out? Do you want to know what is there or live in the dark delusion that this commercial world insists we remain sealed inside like blind caterpillars in an eternal cocoon? Will you curl up with your eyes closed and die? Or can you fight your way out of it and fly?
—STANISLAS CORDOVA Rolling Stone, December 29, 1977”

“It's a terrible thing, to lie. It's a field you keep seeding and watering and plowing, but nothing will ever grow on it.”

“Don’t cook for me. Or clean. This is a black-and-white working relationship.”
“It’s just eggs.”
“I’m forty-three. I don’t need help feeding myself.”
“Not yet. There was this man, Cody Johnson, at Terra Hermosa? He showed signs of dementia around thirty-nine.”
“I think I’ve heard this story before. He died alone?”
“Everyone dies alone.”
There was little to add to that. Whenever the girl brought up Terra Hermosa it was like spraying DDT on the conversation—an instant killer.

“You remind me of this man back at Terra Hermosa.”
“What the hell’s Terra Hermosa?”
“A retirement community. His name was Hank Weed. At mealtimes he’d always take the good table by the window and put his walker against the empty seat so no one else could sit down and see the view. He died like that.”
I didn’t answer, silenced by the sudden realization that I had absolutely no idea if any of what came out of this girl’s mouth was true. Maybe she was really good at improv. I couldn’t be certain she was nineteen or that her name really was Nora Halliday.

“A Tornado knocks a house down, killing the owner, and it’s a tragedy. Then you learn a serial killer lived there and the same act becomes a miracle. The truth about what happens to us in this world keeps changing. Always. It never stops. Sometimes not even after death.”