El mundo estaba lleno de maravillas.
Ben remembered reading about curators in “Wonderstruck”, and thought about what id meant to curate your own life, as his dad had done here. What would it be like to pick and choose the objects and stories that would go in your own cabinet? How would Ben curate his own life? And then, thinking about his museum box, and his house, and his books, and the secret room, he realized he’d already begun doing it. Maybe, thought Ben, we are all cabinets of wonders.
Maybe the play wasn’t about miracles. No, maybe it was about the passage of time, and the need for patience, and the ability to forgive. Maybe Shakespeare was saying that even in a world where miracles can happen, there’s still going to be pain, and loss, and regret. Because sometimes people die and you can’t bring them back. That’s what life is Joseph realized, miracles and sadness, side by side.
But there are other stories waiting to be told, and they will be lost one day, too. Whatever the case, it’s all beneath your feet, right now.
What would it be like to pick and choose the objects and stories that would go into your own cabinet?
You either see it or you don’t.
Albert casually tossed everything back into the water. “Walking along the shore here is like walking on history,” he said. “It’s like walking on an endless catalogue of lost stories waiting to be told, and they will be lost one day, too. Whatever the case, it’s all beneath your feet, right now.
A museum is an institution like a library where everything has a place, everything belongs.
Albert shrugged, but Joseph could sense a world of things his uncle wasn’t saying.
Maybe time is like that insect,” Blink said, “trapped beneath the crystal of your watch.
Even a broken watch is correct twice a day.
Remember, Little Nightingale, you can always stop doing dangerous things. And you can prove yourself trustworthy, right? Start by forgiving your uncle for his anger. That would be a nice gift.
He often took me to the studio where the movies were made and I remember it as if it were yesterday. I remember how the sun shone through all the windows. I thought it looked like a fairytale palace. One afternoon your husband appeared and shook my hand. And he told me something I never forgot. He crouched on one knee and whispered to me, “If you ever wanted to know where dreams come from when you’re sleeping at night, you just have to look around you, that’s where they are made.
The machine was so intricate, so complicated, that he almost got dizzy looking at it. Even in its sad state of disrepair, it was beautiful.
Did you ever notice that all machines are made for some reason?′ He asked Isabelle. ‘They are built to make to make you laugh, like the mouse here, or to tell the time, like clocks, or to fill you with wonder, like the automaton. Maybe that’s why a broken machine always makes me a little sad, because it isn’t able to do what it was meant to do.
I like the pages to turn. I like the bookness of the book.
A good parent always gives their children roots and wings. Roots to settle down, and wings to bravely go where you need to go.
If the entire world is a big machine, I have to be here for some reason. And that means you have to be here for some reason too.
There would just be... answers. You don’t feel wonder at things you know the answer to. Life without wonder seems sad.
I soon found out that I wasn’t the only magician to turn to cinema. Many of us recognized that a new kind of magic had been invented, and we wanted to be part of it.