I curse the humiliation and bless the annihilation, and even more valuable than the impulse toward art, I gained an inner radar for dark, hidden places where the strange ones go.
With zero malice on their part, the adults who organized the afternoon showed F. W. Murnau's 1922 film Nosferatu. They closed the blinds on the windows and projected it against a bare wall. Eight-millimeter film, clattering projector, that faint burning smell as the projector bulb ignited the microscopic dust particles. Dust particles are mostly flakes of dead human skin. So, when I was five, I watched Nosferatu with the atavistic, pagan odor of simmering flesh corkscrewing itself into my memory. The optics are dream-logic, ratman vampire imagery. The perfume is cannibal cookout. That little square light took over that darkened room, and while I and the other kids around me screamed and cried, I wanted onto the other side of that screen.
I walked away from you, Four Star, but not before seeing a print of Gone with the Wind so perfect it felt like a massive hallucination from another dimension, were humans more operatic than us found a way to make the South's defeat in the Civil War the sexiest calamity that ever crashed into history.
I wanted to be lunar, not solar.
--All from Silver Screen Fiend: Learning about Life from an Addiction to Film, by Patton Oswalt