Railroad Flats

In my best moments, I do resemble Bruno S. playing Bruno Stroszek, of Herzog's film. In my best moments, W. emphasises. Otherwise I resemble no one but myself, more's the pity.

But sometimes I achieve a kind of pathetic grandeur, W. says, almost despite myself. There I sit, in the squalor. There I am, a squalid man, amidst the squalor, a bottle and a glass close at hand, some discounted sandwich boxes lying empty around me, and I'll say something truly striking. I'll make some pronouncement. I'll speak as though from the apocalypse, W. says. I'm like a savant. It's like a possession.

Bruno Stroszek speaks of himself in the third person, that's the secret. Haven't I told W. that everyone around me ends up speaking of themselves in the third person? That's the effect I have on people, W. says. Alienation. I turn them from themselves. From their seriousness. Which can be a good or bad thing, depending. Didn't I lighten W. up? Certainly. But there's such a thing as being too light. There's such a thing as being in danger of floating away.

Stroszek. W. supposes he can only resemble Bruno's elderly neighbour – what was his name? Scheitzer. Scheitzerhund. Just Scheitz, I tell him. Scheitz had an interest in animal magnetism, W. remembers. He bothered people with it. He confused them. Just like him with his interests, which are equally improbable, equally irrelevant. Messianism – who wants to know anything about that?

What was that town they ended up in?, W. says. Railway Flats – was that it? Railroad Flats, in the middle of America, right in the middle, equally far from any coastline. And why are we going to America?, W. asks. why did we accept the invitation? Wasn't the film a warning to us? Couldn't we see how it'd end up?