December 12, 1900 [Cyrano de Bergerac]

 I did not know it, but I've been waiting for this Cyrano de Bergerac. But it isn't (simply) the colors, or even the wax cylinder giving us the sound of Benoit Constant Coquelin's voice—although it was a pleasure; it's been many years since I've been to Paris and enjoyed one of his performances.

All that, however, is secondary—auxiliary—to the accumulated effect. At last, the cinema casts me into an oneiric state, the pale colors and tinny voice like something I will understand only later—in part, literally: my French is not what it should be. But more than a language barrier is a dreaming veil—and I mean that: the veil itself dreaming, not only me, the clicking contraption at last muffling itself in its own flickering insistence. I was awake, but only insofar as I knew it—I did not feel it.

I'm not sure what I mean. All I know is that I felt something actual: the shadowy fleeting glimpse made only to fall away as I leave it behind.