Werner Herzog Quotes

In the face of the obscene, explicit malice of the jungle, which lacks only dinosaurs as punctuation, I feel like a half-finished, poorly expressed sentence in a cheap novel.

me fascinan las cajetillas de cigarrillos al borde del camino, sobretodo cuando no están estrujadas, entonces se hinchan ligeramente, adquieren cierto aspecto de cadáveres, los cantos ya no están tan definidos y el celofán se empaña desde dentro, es vapor condensado en gotitas de agua por el frío.

There are deeper strata of truth in cinema, and there is such a thing as poetic, ecstatic truth. It is mysterious and elusive, and can be reached only through fabrication and imagination and stylization.

Not far from Ten House, a footbridge has been thrown across the swamp. There Kozuka encounters a piece of chewing gum stuck to the underside of one of the bamboo poles used as bridge rails. The chewing gum is used. The question is: Has a local stuck the piece of gum there, or was it a GI? Onoda and his men know that Filipino villagers don't chew gum-that would be highly improbable. But they have observed that this vice is common among American soldiers. So are there American soldiers still stationed on Lubang? How long has the piece of gum been there? Days? Months? How does gum behave when exposed to tropical conditions? On closer inspection, and with a little imagination, it is possible to see the imprint of a molar, and beside it that of another tooth, slightly deformed. Everything suggests a wisdom tooth, but do Americans have wisdom teeth? Are they at all like other men? Are their voices not louder than those of the normal run of human beings? And is it perhaps conceivable that the gum was deliberately placed there, to mislead the guerrilla fighters? What to do? Akatsu is inclined to try chewing it to gain a sense of what this gum is like. What does it feel like, to be chewing gum? What do Americans feel — if, that is, they are even capable of feeling? Onoda orders the gum to be left exactly where they found it.

Let me speak of Son of Sam. He has been called a mad dog. He is not a mad dog ‐- he is a mad human being, perhaps only a step removed from the rest of us. One has to acknowledge him as a human being and to respect his dignity even in his madness. Otherwise, there is the danger that people may start to kill each other like mad dogs.

Civilization is like a thin layer of ice upon a deep ocean of chaos and darkness.

Americans believe that they are normal, that they make sense, and that the rest of the world is exotic. They do not seem to understand that they are the most exotic people in the world right now.

Only if this were a film would I consider it real.

No one, not a soul, intimidating stillness. Uncannily, though, in the midst of all this, a fire is blazing, lit, in fact,with petrol. It's flickering, a ghostly fire, wind. On the orange-coloured plain below I can see sheets of rain, and the annunciation of the end of the world is glowing on the horizon, glimmering there. A train races through the land and penetrates the mountain range. Its wheels are glowing. One car erupts in flames. The train stops, men try to extinguish it, but the car can no longer be extinguished. They decide to move on, to hasten, to race. The train moves, it moves into fathomless space, unwavering. In the pitch-blackness of the universe the wheels are glowing, the lone car is glowing, Unimaginable stellar catastrophes take place, entire worlds collapse into a single point. Light can no longer escape, even the profoundest blackness would seem like light and the silence would seem like thunder. The universe is filled with Nothing, it is the Yawning Black Void. Systems of Milky Ways have condensed into Un-stars. Utter blissfulness is spreading, and out of utter blissfulness now springs the Absurdity. This is the situation.

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I'm completely aware and utterly aware that Russia [the Soviet Union] lost 25 million people for winning the war, and I know that Russian troops were the ones who liberated concentration camps, Auschwitz and others, and I'm aware that there's an incredible sacrifice on the side of Russia, and I do believe that it's ignored because of course of political interests. It's very much the question what are the facts, maybe 600 or so thousand American soldiers lost their lives in the Second World War, 25–26 million Russian. Those are facts that cannot be ignored, and today it's not that really important what really happened, it's more the question who owns the narrative, and occupying the narrative has created some sort of lopsided ideologies in lopsided information, that we see every day.

I'm quite convinced that cooking is the only alternative to film making. Maybe there's also another alternative, that's walking on foot.

Fact creates norms, and truth illumination.

May I propose a Herzog dictum? Those who read own the world, and those who watch television lose it.

Roll up your sleeves and work as a bouncer in a sex club or a warden in a lunatic asylum or a machine operator in a slaughterhouse. Drive a taxi for six months and you'll have enough money to make a film. Walk on foot, learn languages and a craft or trade that has nothing to do with cinema. Filmmaking — like great literature — must have experience of life at its foundation. Read Conrad or Hemingway and you can tell how much real life is in those books.