In the film, before his train is intercepted and parboiled by a band of hooligans, a woman is seen ascending the marble stairs of a casino in the resort town of Deauville, which, as many cinephiles know, is the name of the little station where a French writer was scheduled to disembark. Their costumes ran the gamut, from mid 19th century aristocrat with sword to a Crow with rifle and binoculars taken from a dead cavalryman. When the water rose further, the crew battened down the hatches, and the flooding of outside influences took hold.
They had started the wildest leg of their journey, and, from now until they reached what some scholars conveniently designate as the terminal departure point, the situation would become increasingly fraught with potential disasters -- tornado of radioactive locusts, small machine full of tiny flecks of poison, etc.
The suspension bridge with its missing slats and frayed rope would have proved a welcome distraction, but it was, sadly enough, inserted rather early in the first crucial sequence. All was in turmoil. Entire villages and towns cursed the night and whatever else befell them, including dust and rain. Blame was assigned, and firing squads were dispatched to all parts of the fading empire.
Volcanoes stir their vats of inoculated pyres.
Fires race down the mountains and clouds.
He was part of the first wave of immigrants to climb the rope ladder they (and "they" will always be called that) dangled down the wall of success. They said it was slippery, but that is only the tip of the iceberg, what gets put down on paper.
I sometimes refer to him as my "father," but that only serves to indicate a biological relationship. There are many kinds of bonds, and these have been dated and preserved in the appropriate places. It's not that this story is different. It's not even that this story is the same. About the rest, I will not say more.
She was raised to be in the background but its flowers did not suit her. If you need be told, she is (was) my mother. Dead now and part of the wallpaper with a floral motif interrupted by disasters, sickness, and war.
After winding its way through the lower Alps, the train descended the slopes and began chugging through the rainforest until, after many days, the coast became visible. That, the engineer thought, is where the beaches are, and where I first saw my bride-to-be standing alone under the sun. Unbeknownst to the passengers sitting in their compartments, Eugene Boudin was at the beach that fateful afternoon, and his painting has become known as The Engineer's Dream among a select few. This group is not universally recognized because, as a minor character in the author's masterpiece points out, it was too big and unselective to be memorable.
Things turn out very differently, which is a necessary condition of starting out, though this sticking point is never mentioned in any contract. Amidst the beginning of an era, end of an epoch, turning of the steering wheel. We declare these groups and groupings to be self-evident, which preoccupies later generations of scholars and judges, some of whom carry shotguns under their robes. Seeing eye to eye is fruitless since mine are crossed and one of yours is missing.