Difficult work in a popular medium: Godard on ‘Hitchcock's method’
2009; Wiley; Volume: 51; Issue: 3 Linguagem: Inglês
10.1111/j.1467-8705.2009.01875.x
ISSN1467-8705
Autores Tópico(s)Italian Fascism and Post-war Society
ResumoIn the next-to-last episode of his video series Histoire(s) du cinéma (1988–98), Godard recombines familiar images from Hitchcock's films in a demonstration of what he calls ‘Hitchcock's method’, an all-powerful form of montage. In titles and voiceover, Godard makes several grand assertions: that Hitchcock is the ‘greatest creator of forms of the twentieth century’; that he is the only director, apart from Dreyer, to ‘film a miracle’; that he is the only ‘poète maudit’ to achieve major commercial success; and that during his Hollywood prime he ‘took control of the universe’ and ‘succeeded where Alexander, Julius Caesar, Hitler, and Napoleon had all failed’. We hear and read these claims while Godard manoeuvres between Hitchcock's images, each clip separated from the next by a black screen. Speaking in a low, gruff voice, Godard contends that ‘we’ don't remember the plots of Hitchcock's films: why Joan Fontaine leans over the edge of a cliff, why Joel McCrea goes to Holland, why Janet Leigh stops at the Bates Motel. Instead, ‘we’ recall a handbag, a bus in the desert, a glass of milk, the sails of a windmill, a hairbrush, a row of bottles, a pair of spectacles, a sheet of music, a bunch of keys. Godard lists these things in a different order than he shows them, but his videographic montage works to suggest that the power of ‘Hitchcock's method’ lies in its intense orchestration of details. The basic thrust of the segment seems to be a salute to Hitchcock's fascinating command of objects through film form – simple, quotidian objects that float free from their narratives and linger in collective memory. Godard's itemising voiceover indicates as much, and so far this has indeed been a common reading of the segment by critics. Laura Mulvey, in her book Death 24x a Second, refers to Godard's ‘fetishization of Hitchcock's things’” and points out that Dominique Païni's 2001 museum exhibition Hitchcock et l'art, which displayed several of the same physical objects on red velvet pillows, carefully lit and encased in glass, took Godard's exercise in Histoire(s)‘to its logical conclusion’.1 But this view, however encouraged by Godard's own statements, gives us a limited sense of what's going on in this complex sequence. It's important to observe that we are not dealing with a highlight reel of ‘object images’ that illustrate the voiceover. Take, for instance, the Pommard bottle in Notorious (1946): when it appears in Histoire(s), first it totters forward on the shelf at a gradual, uneven pace that suddenly accelerates; then it falls, according to Hitchcock's original speed, past Cary Grant shown in close-up as he inspects the other bottles; then, in slow motion again, the bottle shatters on the floor and its granular content spills out; then, with the speed still slowed, we see a low-angle shot of Ingrid Bergman responding. What we're given is an event in four parts. Hitchcock's original découpage is left intact, but the rhythm is adjusted so as to stress not just the bottle but the ensemble of shot-units that renders it acutely memorable. If the black screens have the effect of isolating each fragment, they also open up new connective streams. To stay with the same example, the shots of the shattering wine bottle sustain a motif of objects dropping to the feet of a performer: the eyeglasses of the strangled wife in Strangers on a Train (1951), the key nudged into a floor vent with the toe of a high-heeled shoe in Marnie (1964), the key dropped and kicked under a table in Notorious after one hand transfers it to the other with the dexterity of a pickpocket. The bottle also initiates a textural association across three scattered fragments: the substance spreading at Devlin's feet finds an echo in the black dye rinsing from Marnie's hair in the sink, then another in the blood collecting at Marion Crane's feet in the shower, all three shots slowed and given a slight turbulence with video stop–starts. As the segment unfolds, we see that ‘Hitchcock's method’ has to do with the recombination of images according to formal resonances – repetitions, contrasts – across separate films. And we see that this method depends on performance gestures as much as it does objects. Godard makes this evident when, in three consecutive fragments, he links the slashing movements of Rose Balestrero from The Wrong Man (1956) frantically raising her hairbrush into the air, the wiper blades on Marion's windshield, and the downward stabs of ‘Mrs Bates’ through the shower mist. As Marion, defenceless, tries to avoid the attack, Godard repeats the title of the episode in voiceover, ‘Control of the universe …’ The more closely we examine this segment in Histoire(s), the more difficult it becomes to reconcile what Godard is doing with what he is saying. Questions stack up without easy resolutions. How did Hitchcock achieve this degree of control? What, for Godard, constitutes a miracle, and when did Hitchcock film one? Just who are the ‘we’ mentioned in Godard's voiceover? Is this ‘method’ even Hitchcock's in the first place? Godard, after all, seems to claim it as his own: rhythmically altering the speed of motion, tinkering with the colour and texture, ‘matching-on-action’ across multiple works – all these efforts open Hitchcock's images to new forms of linkage. And yet, in keeping with the funereal tone of Histoire(s), Godard implies that the force of this method is now lost and irretrievable. This in turn begs the question, no less complicated than the others, of what Godard is trying to accomplish for his own practice through Hitchcock's images. Jacques Rancière, in a number of recent essays that concern Histoire(s), has explored this question at length and made the case that ‘Hitchcock's method’, as Godard presents it, is essentially a matter of ‘inter-expression’– as Rancière puts it, a poetic principle by which each image, as a ‘pure sensory block’ indifferent to its place and function in an unfolding plot, can be made to recombine with all other pure images that together form a boundless continuum. For Rancière, the lost power of montage that Godard ascribes to Hitchcock is, in effect, the same power Godard resurrects in Histoire(s) as a means of imposing a sense of historical ‘co-belonging’ among unrelated elements.2 Though I will eventually take up Rancière's account in greater detail, I want to contend at the outset that Godard is, in fact, profoundly ambivalent about the power of montage and the ‘control of the universe’ he attributes to Hitchcock's cinema, and that part of Godard's work in this segment is to differentiate his own montage practice so as to forge ahead with his videographic investigations. Certainly a ‘method’ is at stake, and also the manner of seeing and thinking to which it orients us. Yet this method ultimately comes down to something more specific than an ‘inter-expressive’ poetics. As I hope to show, Godard works towards a point of divergence from Hitchcock's montage, and this point hinges on the device of superimposition, which in Histoire(s) is a privileged form of discovering connections between more or less disparate fragments. Paying attention to this undercurrent of criticism on Godard's part will not bring us closer to a ‘main thesis’ that explains all the mysteries of this segment, but it will, I believe, reveal a deeper sense of how Hitchcock matters to Godard in the series and how this puzzling tribute has strong implications for Godard's own historical project. Given that ‘method’ and ‘control’ are pivotal terms in the segment – and in the episode more broadly – it is worth remembering that Godard's intense engagement with Hitchcock's cinema itself has a complex history that traces back to Godard's formative stages as a critic and filmmaker. That topic warrants a thorough examination in its own right, but here I will only stress that Godard, across his many dealings with Hitchcock's work, has wavered on the issue of methodic control. Initially, in his writings for Cahiers du cinéma in the 1950s, Godard turns to the work of Hitchcock as a way to challenge the aesthetic notions handed down from André Bazin, in particular the ‘evolution’ towards greater realism that spans silent and sound eras and reaches its high point with the long-take, composition-in-depth styles of Welles and Renoir, and also with the neorealists De Sica and Rossellini, who likewise ‘respect’ what Bazin calls the inherently ‘ambiguous’ nature of reality.3 Godard took interest in Hitchcock's films because they had no part in this trajectory (as Bazin's sceptical reception of Hitchcock would confirm): they blended aspects of the two main traditions that Bazin's evolution rejected – Soviet montage and German expressionism – and they showed that classical découpage, far from being a mechanical, uniform style that had run its effective course by the 1940s, was still amply equipped to seize and accentuate the emotional realities that a long-take aesthetic would play down.4 In his reviews of Hitchcock's films, and in two of his most notable essays of the period, ‘Defence and Illustration of Classical Construction’ (1952) and ‘Montage My Beautiful Care’ (1956), Godard admires and defends the way in which Hitchcock structures events with a view to controlling their affective impact. Hitchcock, he argues, gives reality ‘the style it lacks’, and if he employs ‘clever and violent effects’, he does so only to ‘transmit the drama to the spectator at its highest level’ (pp. 24–5). But Godard, in his last stretch of articles for Cahiers leading up to À bout de souffle (1960), becomes more and more interested in chance and spontaneity, and he makes a basic distinction between ‘the cinema of freedom’ and ‘the cinema of rigour’: Broadly speaking there are two kinds of film-makers. Those who walk along the streets with their heads down, and those who walk with their heads up. In order to see what is going on around them, the former are obliged to raise their heads suddenly and often, turning to the left and then the right, embracing the field of vision in a series of glances. They see. The latter see nothing, they look, fixing their attention on the precise point which interests them. When the former are shooting a film, their framing is roomy and fluid (Rossellini), whereas with the latter it is narrowed down to the last millimetre (Hitchcock). With the former (Welles), one finds a découpage which may be loose but is remarkably open to the temptations of chance; with the latter (Lang), camera movements not only of incredible precision in the set but possessing their own abstract value as movements in space. In his lengthy 1962 interview with Cahiers, given not long after the release of Vivre sa vie (1962), Godard elaborates on this general split. There, he claims that for Demy, Resnais, Eisenstein, and Hitchcock, making a film is just the ‘practical application’ of a concept already fully imagined and worked out in the planning stages. ‘The others, people like Rouch’, he continues, ‘don't know exactly what they are going to do, and search for it. The film is the search. They know they are going to arrive somewhere – and they have the means to do it – but where exactly?’ Citing the example of Renoir, he allows for the integration of these approaches, and he surely has his own practice in mind here as well (p. 180). From his early films to his late videos, Godard has brought ‘rigour’ and ‘freedom’ into convergence. Accounts of his production methods, such as Alain Bergala's Godard au travail: Les années 60, and the materials compiled in the Documents book released in connection with Godard's 2006 exhibit at the Centre Pompidou, give the lie to the view that the French-Swiss director merely improvises on the spot.5 And yet for Godard the film is still resolutely ‘a search’, an attempt, a rough sketch: less the application of preconceived ideas than an open-ended continuation of the thinking process. This deep tension between ‘rigour’ and ‘freedom’ is very much alive in Godard's Histoire(s), which oscillates in mode from sequences that come to us with the fragments precisely (not to say unambiguously) organised by a set of ideas, events, and propositions to sequences that seem half-willed, half-accidental and operate more in a lyrical register of feeling and imagination. The issue here is not just how the work is created but how it impresses on and involves the spectator, and Godard's ambivalence towards Hitchcock's ‘control of the universe’ is tied to this question. To be sure, the segment is a reverential tribute, entirely genuine in the way it situates Hitchcock as a supreme formal innovator, and in the way it implicitly reaffirms his importance to the New Wave figures at Cahiers. In fact, the segment is an hommage not just to Hitchcock but to the kind of criticism his work inspired. The claim for Hitchcock as the century's ‘greatest creator of forms’ is a rephrased line from the conclusion to Rohmer and Chabrol's 1957 book-length study on the director, the first of its kind: ‘Hitchcock is one of the greatest inventors of form in the entire history of cinema.’6 While it's often glossed as a one-note thesis on the ‘exchange of guilt’ theme, Rohmer and Chabrol's Hitchcock is nothing if not a nimble and diligent exercise in mapping out the formal architectures in Hitchcock's work, within and across films. This meticulous attention is what Bazin finds so intriguing in his 1958 review of the monograph: not being a Hitchcockian, he is unconvinced by the argument, but what strikes him as a major critical achievement is the manner in which Rohmer and Chabrol, through their ‘micrometric’ description of patterns and transferences, summon up for the reader a spectacle that is just as intricate as ‘the best Hitchcock film’.7 Godard's handling of Hitchcock's images in Histoire(s) alludes to and animates this diligent criticism, its acuity of perception, its impulse to achieve ‘material intimacy’ with the cinematic work.8 Yet Godard's attentiveness has a more contentious edge to it. Even as he exalts the power of Hitchcock's cinema, Godard works carefully against the logic that underpins it. We can sense this ulterior project in the two moments in which we hear Hitchcock speak in the segment. First, over a succession of black-and-white stills of other esteemed directors – Bresson, Lang, Cocteau, Rohmer, Truffaut, Rivette, Visconti, Garrel, Fassbinder – we hear Hitchcock assert: ‘Sometimes you find that a film is looked at solely for its content, without any recourse to the style or manner in which the story is told, and after all this basically is the art of the cinema.’ Godard's voice abruptly intrudes on Hitchcock's last few words. ‘Images first’, he says, ‘but the ones Saint Paul mentions, which are a death, therefore a resurrection.’ This interruption seems to be a correction of sorts, since Godard's claim – contrary to Hitchcock's – is that we forget the content and remember specific details, gestures, objects, patterns, moments. But the variance here is not simply an issue of form and content. Hitchcock's remarks concern public perception of the film during its phenomenal unfolding, whereas Godard's claim has to do with the film as it hangs in our heads afterwards, dissolved into remembered fragments. This tension resurfaces a few moments later, when Hitchcock says: We have rectangular screen in a movie house, and this rectangular screen has got to be filled with a succession of images. That's where the ideas come from. One picture comes up after another. The public aren't aware of what we call montage, or in other words the cutting of one image to another. They go by so rapidly, so that they are absorbed by the content that they look at on the screen. Here Godard works counter to Hitchcock's statement by decelerating and reshaping the fireworks-embellished kiss from To Catch a Thief (1955): enclosed in a diamond-shaped frame, Grace Kelly and Cary Grant, in a profile two-shot, gradually lean towards each other. Godard re-edits the shot so that it's bracketed by explosions of light and colour situated elsewhere in the original. After a black screen, we see, as if an extension of the previous action, James Stewart and Kim Novak (as Judy made over as Madeleine for a second time) already entwined in a kiss in Vertigo (1958), this image irised and slowed more drastically, her arm reaching up and around his shoulder in short, staggered spurts. Precisely when Hitchcock says audiences don't notice the workings of montage due to the speed of succession and narrative absorption, Godard takes measures to enable the viewer of Histoire(s) to concentrate on each image and the resonances between images. In fact, Godard transforms these scenes into explicit ‘embodiments’ of montage, of two elements converging and igniting a ‘spark’. In other words, the intra-image content, the action depicted, corresponds to what Godard is doing in formal terms (and he repeatedly uses human gestures in this fashion in his video work, as corporeal figures of montage9). Godard thus undoes Hitchcock's hypnotic power even as he celebrates it. Hitchcock isn't bothered that audiences are ‘absorbed’– for him it seems a point of pride. His montage, its regulated rhythm, its particular organisation of stimuli, depends on this condition for its subliminal effects. Godard, however, needs us to notice and notice acutely the binding forces and structures, the material intensity of the process.10 Immediately after the slowed embrace taken from Vertigo, we see two separate superimpositions involving the sequoia forest scene of the same film: in both fragments (originally structured on Scottie's look, in shot–countershot alternations, as ‘Madeleine’ recedes into the landscape), a flickering black-and-white still of Hitchcock with his hand raised merges with the graphic contours of the composition. His face (the sides of which are blackened with a magic marker) fits congruously in an opening between trees, where sunlight spills into the forest. From one fragment to the next, it looks as though he makes ‘Madeleine’ vanish behind a tree, then makes her reappear. The titles breaking up these images announce: ‘the only one, with Dreyer, who knew how/to film/a miracle’. This leads directly into the last image of the segment – the superimposition from The Wrong Man in which the face of Manny Balestrero (Henry Fonda) overlaps with and dissolves into the facial features of his double, the ‘right man’. But Godard adds a third layer to the ensemble: the same still photo of Hitchcock, flashing as before, his hand now seeming to call into existence this unlikely revelation of truth. In Histoire(s) the shot is given an even stronger touch of the epiphanic, as it coincides with the one moment of harmonic uplift in the sparse, volatile music that plays throughout the segment, the Georgian composer Giya Kancheli's Abii ne viderem (1992) for viola and string orchestra.11 The shift from successive to simultaneous juxtaposition towards the end of the segment is less abrupt than it might seem. Godard prefigures this shift with two earlier, short-lived superimpositions that are less conspicuous: first, the composite image that begins his demonstration of ‘Hitchcock's method’, the eerie shot of Marion's rearview mirror framing a police car on the barren highway behind her (which in Histoire(s) calls to mind Godard's own irising techniques); and second, the cross-fade from the carpet of Alex's bedroom, where Alicia has just hidden his key to the wine cellar, to the virtuosic overhead shot of the ballroom – but Godard cuts to a black screen before the initial layer of the cross-fade disappears and before the shot swoops down into a tight close-up of the key in Alicia's hand, as in Hitchcock's film (and this in turn allows the chandelier lights to rhyme graphically, across the black screen, with the fireworks from To Catch a Thief). Neither of these two moments stands out as a superimposition in its original situation: the rearview reflection, a point-of-view shot in Psycho (1960), is integrated into the series of events concerning Marion's flight; and the cross-fade in Notorious indicates the passage of time and softens the change of scene. But in Histoire(s), where their narrative function is diminished, they figure primarily as composite structures, and they work to position the double exposure from The Wrong Man as a culminating shift into simultaneity. Here again there is a deeper historical context for what Godard is doing than he makes apparent in the segment. This superimposition in The Wrong Man held a special significance for the French Hitchcockians at the time of the film's release. As Jonathan Rosenbaum has pointed out, this image constituted ‘a miracle in relation to the struggles of French Hitchcock criticism of the 1950s’ because it so strikingly confirmed their claims about the transference of guilt and the motif of the double.12 Truffaut called it a gorgeous summation of Hitchcock's entire oeuvre, and Rohmer and Chabrol said it put The Wrong Man in company with other magisterial explorations of the miraculous in postwar cinema (namely Rossellini's Viaggio in Italia (1954), Dreyer's Ordet (1955), and Bresson's Un condamnéà mort s'est échappé (1956)).13 Godard, for his part, wrote a detailed review of the film in Cahiers entitled ‘Le Cinéma et son double’, and there he describes not one but ‘two miracles happening on Fonda's face’. To get a clearer sense of how Godard revises Hitchcock's superimposition in Histoire(s), we need to consult this 1957 article, which is already concerned with matters of succession and simultaneity. Godard, in fact, directs us back to the article not just by revisiting the film and its miraculous revelation, but also by repeating a certain line from the earlier piece, a quotation from André Malraux's Les Voix du silence: ‘What is art if not that through which forms become style?’14 In ‘Le Cinéma et son double’, Godard observes that Hitchcock's film is intricately composed on the principle of repeated shots: ‘Each crucial shot in The Wrong Man has in effect its respondent, its “double”, which justifies it on a narrative level while at the same time “redoubling” its intensity on the dramatic level’ (p. 53). Godard identifies a number of repeated elements (‘two imprisonments; two handwriting tests at the police-station; two conversations with Rose in the kitchen; two hearings …’) and argues that these narrative echoes are bound up with other repetitions at the micro-level of shot design. He describes how the shot of Manny finding out he's to be released on bail – where the camera at first ‘pushes him’ into his prison cell, watches him through the rectangular eye-slot, but then suddenly retreats along the same path – doubles and negates a previous moment in which Manny, seated in a cramped automobile and surrounded by police officers, sees the driver coldly observing him in the rectangular rearview mirror. ‘A first miracle enters the lists’, says Godard. ‘The film seesaws completely’ (p. 52). Here we should bear in mind that this ‘miracle’– as Hitchcock handles it and as Godard describes it – is more nuanced than the mere staging of Manny's release, or the graphic resonance between the eye-slot and the rearview mirror. The moment in the car is structured as a series of point-of-view shots as Manny passively and helplessly takes in his situation, the impersonal cops on either side of him, the driver watching him in the mirror. Together the shots impart a dreadful sense of enclosure and entrapment. The prison cell image counters this moment by temporarily reversing the grim, mechanistic force implied in its shot construction. We're dealing here not with foreshadowing and fulfilment but with ‘positive’ and ‘negative’ pairings that collect in progression (or, as Hitchcock might prefer, that pile up subliminally). Godard points to a second ‘miracle’ that crystallises this logic of doubling, the scene in which Manny heeds his mother's advice to pray not for help but for strength. Getting dressed for work, he looks at a portrait of Christ on the bedroom wall. In a point-of-view shot, we see the painting superimposed with his heavy shadow, and the camera pushes in, enthralled by its object. In a countershot we return to Manny in close-up as he mouths the words of a prayer. Suddenly, in a double exposure, we see a long shot of the ‘right man’, the actual criminal, strolling down the street into the foreground: the distance between the two figures collapses and their faces merge in a composite of close-ups, until Manny dissolves and we are left with a robbery scene in which the double is captured. Godard, unlike Rohmer and Chabrol, is uninterested in the Catholic overtones of the scene. He regards this shot as a miracle because it ruptures the chain of false sightings and false evidence –‘the machine grinding inexorably on’ (p. 49) – that has suppressed the truth. As with the earlier miracle in the prison cell, it spares Manny from the narrative of entrapment, and it does so through a gesture of doubling and negating, only this time the juxtaposition is simultaneous. ‘The transition here’, Godard asserts, ‘is no longer a hinge articulating the story, but the mainspring of the drama whose theme it paraphrases’ (p. 54). In Hitchcock's film, the shot is confirmed as a miracle by the ensuing events: the double is caught while holding up a grocery store, and his arrest absolves Manny of all criminal charges. This turn of fortune seduces us into thinking that Manny's trials are over, but as Godard observes in the review, this is no simple case of Hitchcockian guilt transference. ‘In The Wrong Man, the transference no longer resides in the innocent man's assumption of the real murderer's crime, but in the exchange of Manny's liberty against Rose's’ (p. 52). Indeed, Manny's misfortune, in spite of being absolved, is that he cannot share his freedom with Rose. ‘That's fine for you’, she says to him at the sanatorium. Manny, dejected, tells the nurse, ‘I guess I was hoping for a miracle.’ Yet Godard's notion of the miraculous in the article has little to do with this narrative logic by which a miracle is confirmed or not confirmed. In a sense, the double exposure, as he describes it, is less a miracle for Manny than it is for the spectator. As an ostentatious gesture of revelation, it makes visible what no look internal to the story world has seen. It divides us from the witnesses in the fiction whose failures of vision have led to Manny's predicament. It offers us a composite image that has only a weak equivalent in the diegesis: two photographs printed in the newspaper side by side, above the headline ‘Suspect in Holdups Cleared by Double’. When Godard reworks this superimposition in Histoire(s) and again considers it as a miracle, the basis for this designation is not the narrative turn of events that follows. After all, if we follow Godard's general claim in the segment, we don't actually recall the circumstances of Manny's misfortune anyway. Godard doesn't remind us by showing the double's failed holdup and arrest. Nor does he show the painting of the Sacred Heart to which Manny is praying – for Godard, the divinely providential aspects of this moment are not sufficient grounds to call it miraculous. In Histoire(s), we are witness only to the convergence of facial features, with the still of Hitchcock flashing at an erratic rate, then fading along with the close-up of Manny. The addition of Hitchcock to the ensemble has two distinct purposes. It celebrates the control of the director, the creator of forms, and in this sense it fittingly concludes the segment. However, the flickering third layer is also a creative act of montage on Godard's part, and it signals a crucial point of difference from Hitchcock's use of superimposition. As with the rearview shot in Psycho and the routine cross-fade in Notorious, Hitchcock rigorously integrates the composite of figures into a narrative scheme. But Godard ‘remembers’ the same moment in Histoire(s) as a stunning gesture of rapprochement, of two separate elements brought together for inspection: the dramatic causes and effects are stripped away so as to situate the ‘miracle’ as a potential one, dependent on a process of looking and judging (fig. 1). Godard is drawn here, above all, to the possibility of an unforeseen discovery through montage. And this is why the diegetic complications in The Wrong Man– from the possible innocence of the double (since we only see him attempt a single robbery, we can't be sure that he is guilty of the crimes for which Manny is accused) to the psychic collapse of Rose – have no immediate bearing on his description and appropriation of this moment as a miracle. Godard recasts Hitchcock's double exposure by bringing it into alliance with his own investigative methods in the series. As an image formed of heterogeneous elements, it becomes an elegant demonstration of what Godard, following Pierre Reverdy's notion of the poetic image, calls ‘the rapprochement of two more or less distant realities./The more distant and just the relations between these realities, the stronger the image will be – the more emotional force and poetic reality it will have’.15 In Histoire(s), Godard carries this principle over into history, using it as a means to detect affinities between disparate materials. And by aligning the superimposition in The Wrong Man with this practice, he also reaffirms his own particular investments in miraculous disclosure – a possibility he raises in the first episode of the series, where, over the much-discussed superimpositions involving the young Elizabeth Taylor, corpses at Auschwitz, and Giotto's fresco Noli me tangere (1304–6), he says in a half-whisper, ‘O how marvelous to be able to look at what one cannot see. O sweet miracle of our blind ey
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