The memory of reading Werner Herzog’s autobiography will remain connected to the ground floor apartment I inhabited by myself for a couple weeks in late Summer, and the light that fell onto its wooden furniture between five and six in the evening. Herzog’s resilience is expressed with loving belligerence. It stems from a feeling of kinship with the elder world, its animals and phenomena and their direct relation to the world of thoughts and images. His perspective skips the tiresome social layer and directly connects the heart to the sun, to decaying stone, to the soft chirping of chicklets, the big river and my mind when it is free.
