W. thinks of the young in Robert Bresson’s films, full of life, full of beauty, but hopelessly lost in the devil’s playground of the world.
He thinks of the young suicides of Bresson’s films, driven to death because there is nothing for them in life, choosing to die by their own hand rather than live under tyranny.
They die of the truth, W. says. They die because of what they see in themselves of the world. They die because of the sense of the corruption of their innocence, because they are angels and because they’re tarnished, W. says.
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