“We are most of us like Don Quixote, to whom a windmill was a giant, and Dulcinea a magnificent princess: all more or less the dupes of our own imagination, though we do not all go so far as to see ghosts, or to fancy ourselves pipkins and teapots.”
“And as for fortune and as for fame
I never invited them in
Though it seemed to the world they were all I desired
They are illusions
They’re not the solutions they promised to be
The answer was here all the time
I love you and hope you love me
Don’t cry for me Argentina”
“I came from the people, they need to adore me
So Christian Dior me from my head to my toes
I need to be dazzling, I want to be rainbow high
They must have excitement, and so must I
Eyes, hair, mouth, figure
Dress, voice, style, image
I’m their product, it’s vital you sell me
So machiavell me, make an Argentine rose
I need to be thrilling, I want to be rainbow high
They need their escape, and so do I
Eyes, hair, mouth, figure
Dress, voice, style, movement
Hands, magic, rings, glamour
Face, diamonds, excitement, image
All my descamisados expect me to outshine the enemy
I won’t disappoint them
I’m their savior, that’s what they call me
So Lauren Bacall me, anything goes
To make me fantastic, I have to be rainbow high
In magical colors
You’re not decorating a girl for a night on the town
And I’m not a second-rate queen getting kicks with a crown”
“We were liars, cheats, she began—none of it was real. The trees had been made to move by a trick, it was only the branches. someone was filming from a helicopter, circling around. The poplars hadn’t moved at all, but the viewer would think they were leaping about dancing, that the whole forest was spinning round. The was sheer deception; it was disgusting.
I defended myself. ‘You’re quite wrong,’ I said. ‘The tree really was dancing because that is how the viewer will experience it. What matters was the effect we achieved, not whether the tree moved or if a technician created the idea of movement. Did you think the forest could walk around, when the trees are held by their roots? Don’t you think it’s a function of art to create the illusion of reality?’
’Art,’ she repeated bitterly. ‘If that’s what you were—artists—then everything would be real, even the dance, because you would know how to make the leaves move to your words, not to a wind machine or whatever it was. But you people can’t do anything like that—not you, or the others. You’re all clowns, and more contemptible than clowns. You’re worse than con men.’”