At a film screening at MoMA: after I’ve taken my seat a young couple sits down next to me, the woman to my right, the man next to her. I notice that they’re speaking an eastern European language I don’t recognize. Croatian? Hungarian? The film begins, and I find myself distracted by a low-pitched scratching noise, and after a while I steal a glance to my right: the man is writing intently in a notebook spread out on his lap. Is he taking notes to the film? He continues this activity throughout the duration of the picture, stopping now and then to watch the film, then going back to his writing. More questions pile up: Is he a student? A film critic? Or simply a writer preoccupied with his text? But what sort of writing could be so important that it has to take place in the middle of the film, and in an otherwise pitch-black auditorium? Every so often he whispers something to the woman and she leans over and whispers something back to him. When the film ends they have a brief conversation, she gets up and leaves, while he continues writing. He’s still sitting there writing – this dedicated foreign scribe – when I exit the theater several minutes later.