How did I do it?

I don’t know. All right, I don’t know. I made it. Con­sci­en­tiously, from day to day. This line, that piece of music, one had to enrich it, to hook voices on either side of it, define its bound­aries. There were so many voices. I had to choose. Every­one talked about her, wanted her. Anna-Marie Guardi. And about him. I had to choose among the voices. It wasn’t pos­si­ble to rep­re­sent or use them all. The recep­tion was enor­mous at first. Then the num­bers dimin­ished. Peo­ple spoke less. And when less was said, the park stood out more. Alleys were formed, dark, always dark toward the ten­nis courts and toward the gray build­ings, the offices of the French Embassy. On the one side, the Ganges car­ried along the yel­low earth of the rice pad­dies. Day and night. It was abom­inably hot in Paris in August. It was in August. I was pre­oc­cu­pied with ques­tions of money. Hounded even as I worked. I have been mak­ing films with­out a salary since 1969. I am going to talk about this film. Don’t be impa­tient, let me get rid of my annoy­ance, purify myself of wasted words. So I hated money, and the world. And the heat. And myself for being so stu­pid, for hav­ing always been that way, yes. Don’t inter­rupt. I hated. This film that no one would see. No one sees my films. Why make them? Voices tor­ment me. Another voice speaks to me when I wake up, say­ing, get out of here, get out of France, drop the whole thing. The voices waited to be heard. I no longer expected any­thing. At this point, I begin to come out of it, to see myself fac­ing the film. I am doing it. Yes, fac­ing the film. I am doing it. Each day, from morn­ing until night. For three months.

- Mar­guerite Duras

Duras as Philoso­pher : a lec­ture by Mar­cus Steinweg