Isabelle, the child story-teller, you must wonder what happened to her, after watching attentively Trolösa, Liv Ullmann's dream of Ingmar Bergman. Isabelle, who never really speaks, a child dancing on the margin of a motion picture, or weeping, or curled up in fear, not a thread that holds the story together; rather unravels it, undoes everyone's stories they tell of themselves.

There is in the midst of happiness an empty point, a speck of nothing, like the period of a sentence (you thought it was what came at the end, but the period is right there in the middle, even before the beginning, a bud of a phrase) into which it slowly folds, coveting the bitter taste of this nothingness that makes happiness, suddenly, incomplete.

A jealous story is haunted by the knowledge of its ghost. Jealousy holds on to empty points, to loose threads, and has this uncanny knack for turning the hero out of his own story, for kicking him out the door, and making him watch, with perverse satisfaction, another take the place he gave up for the sake of setting watch.

A dying vision of a stage director. You didn't believe in his existence, at first. It was only the asymetry of a window that made real the invention of his memory.

Actors playing actors: you doubted their fidelity to the script until you realized that it was up to you to write it.

Isabelle left the room in order to retell the story in a different color.