A monologue from the screenplay by Woody Allen
RENATA
My impotence set in a year ago. My paralysis. I suddenly found I couldn’t write any more. Rather, I shouldn’t say suddenly.
Actually, it started happening last winter. Increasing thoughts about death just seemed to come over me.
Um, these, uh… A preoccupation with my own mortality. These… feelings of futility in relation to my work.
I mean, just what am I striving to create anyway? I mean, to what end? For what purpose, what goal?
I mean… Do I really care if a handful of my poems are read after I’m gone? Is that supposed to be some sort of compensation?
I used to think it was, but… now, for some reason… I can’t…
I can’t seem to… I can’t seem to shake the real implication of dying. It’s terrifying. intimacy of it embarrasses me.