Silent cinema is the image. And what is the image? It is a diamond. A diamond which men learned to cut, polish and set off to advantage, but which always retains its irreducible nature. The sound film is an alloy. It is a ceramic. How can one fuse these two things?
When I lecture, I sometimes take the liberty of cutting off a film’s soundtrack. If you do this to M (Fritz Lang, 1931), the images become flat; switch it on again, and they regain their tone. This shows that M is a true talking picture. Deprived of sound, The Most Dangerous Game (Ernest B. Schoedsack and Irving Pichel, 1932) reveals what its soundtrack conceals. You see people whose lips move but whose eyes and faces are expressionless. They are in effect people talking, but saying what? They make a pretence of speaking, they imitate people talking. Do you see what I mean? It was through experimenting like this that I realised Gabin was nothing without sound. Why? Because he wanted to seem natural, and since the stress was laid on the dialogue, the result was naturalism.
There is one man, just one, who succeeded in making a homogeneous whole out of talking pictures, and he is dead. Vigo. He took sound, image, music and dialogue and merged them –and I mean merged, not mixed. The result was L’Atalante (1934). Seeing this film you see why the cinema is dying from a horrible disease: naturalism. By naturalism I mean a servile imitation of reality. No film seems more naturalistic than L’Atalante. But only seems: in fact it is a stained glass window.
The cinema is a means towards the acquisition of knowledge in the manner of St. Thomas: by touch. Read all you like about love, but if you haven’t made love your idea of it will be totally false.
Referring to the Méliès exhibition I arranged at the Musée des Arts Décoratifs, a film-maker’s wife paid me the most wonderful compliment imaginable: ‘You guide people into a book which is no book. You have re-created an ambience which enables them, by plunging into it, to under-stand everything through a sort of osmosis.’ I would like the Musée du Cinéma to serve the same purpose. I do not believe in education in the form which we call education. True education is osmosis. Latin, mathematics and so on are useful as mental gymnastics, but art is a subject that cannot be taught. It is learned through osmosis.
Among the Eskimos, all his games prepare the child for living. He plays, but in fact he is preparing himself for the hunt, for fishing. He imitates his father and gradually, through his play, he learns. This is the opposite of a university education. Whether one likes it or not, moreover, education is still a master of class. Someone whose borne contains an extensive library, or who grows up in artistic surroundings, is enriched even if he rejects the environment which formed him. He is already a step ahead of a poor boy who learns everything he knows at school. Dumas did more for History than all the teachers put together.
For years, all exhibitions have been based on the idiotic system of education by explanation, because people like to learn what they should think. But art cannot be explained, it is felt. If there is to be a bond between art and man, we must re-create umbilical cord. 
The cinémathèques, the archives around the world, are the places where you as film buffs, as serious students, as participants in the art of making films, can go to attach yourselves to films, to reject or revolt against other films, or to contradict that process. Thanks to cinémathèques and archives, works that you feel attached to are preserved, so that you can exploit the opportunities they offer for your own artistic growth.
I would like to help create a new concept of film as a living, continuously breathing thing, so you see the molecules of thought and emotion and experience working all the time, and in a kind of wonderful disorder that permits the audience to participate in creating its own order and drawing their own conclusions from what they experience.
I long for the day when I can be certain there’s a filmmaker in every family, when the form of communication is not limited to the word or the page, when each kid can have a crack at giving a full expression to something of himself. How much richer the neighborhood would be, just one square block. We should be equipped and surrounded with the materials that creative activity calls for.
I’m very happy teaching. I love the process of discovery in other people, and when it happens to me I feel I’ve had a great big gift. And I want to make films, desperately. But not any film. I don’t want to make a film that looks like all-weather paint splashed against a barn wall. 
Editorial. Pedagogies of the Creative Process
Gonzalo de Lucas
The Goodwill for a Meeting: That's cinema
Excerpts by Henri Langlois, Jean-Louis Commolli, Nicholas Ray
In Praise of Love. Cinema en Curs
Núria Aidelman, Laia Colell
A Daring Hypothesis
The Transmission of the Secret. Mikhail Romm in the VGIK
The Biopolitical Militancy of Joaquín Jordá