It is herself she remembers, her emotions, her reactions. Not him.

She is talking only to herself, as always.

Imagination is so much easier than reality for these two, who can never get beyond the make-believe life of the amusement-park train trips – because they do not wish to. 

These two share a disease, not a love: a total despair.

Max Ophuls: A New Art - But Who Notices?

os 20

And the thing whose sublimity I wanted to reach when I was young was a gesture that is human--that's to say, necessitating more and more the utmost humility. It's true that I didn't know there was something there that would lead me to a certain poverty.

JEAN-LOUIS SCHEFER on Roland Barthes' death, his menthor