May 25, 1963 [Pickpocket]
I'm reminded of Bresson's Diary of a Country Priest from about ten years ago. The priest is a saint: filled with resolve but emptied by humility, his flesh mortified, his enemies many. He loves God, but gets nothing in return—except for his saintliness, virtue its own reward (oh yes, that one still haunts me); and Bresson calls those ghosts from the wells into which they had been dropped, the walls in which they had been sealed, the dead-end streets along which they make their weary way. He gathers them like the dead in J'Accuse!, at the end of the first World War, a pale green mass on the open field; and he sympathizes with them—no: He leaves them to themselves, to explain themselves to us. It's our fault if we don't love them, or fear for them (or simply fear them) because they've already done all they can.