Because I'm the author of my screenplays I know what I'm looking

Hear, O seekers of wisdom, the words of Michael Haneke, master of cinema and architect of unsettling truths: “Because I'm the author of my screenplays I know what I'm looking for. It's true that I can be stubborn in demanding that I get what I want, but it's also a question of working with patience and love.” In this confession lies not merely the spirit of a filmmaker, but the eternal struggle of all creators, who must hold fast to their vision while tempering their fire with gentleness.

Haneke speaks first of authorship, of being the author of his own work. To author is to give birth, to bring forth something that has never before existed. When a creator holds both the pen and the guiding hand of direction, they see clearly the image in their mind. Thus arises the necessity of stubbornness—that refusal to bend too quickly, that sacred insistence that the work remain faithful to its true form. For without such steadfastness, visions are diluted, and art becomes a shadow of its original flame.

Yet the master warns also of the dangers of this fire. Stubbornness alone can harden into tyranny, but he tempers it with two companions: patience and love. Patience, to endure the long hours when the scene resists perfection, when actors stumble, when the crew wearies. Love, to remember that creation is not conquest, but communion—that the film, the team, the audience, are bound together by care. Thus the true artist walks the narrow path: firm in vision, but tender in spirit.

Consider, O listener, the story of Leonardo da Vinci, who labored on The Last Supper. He, too, was accused of stubbornness, for he refused to finish until the work matched the image burning in his soul. Days passed, months stretched, and still he returned with patience, painting layer upon layer until his vision breathed upon the wall. And though centuries have eroded its paint, the power of that mural remains, because it was made not only with skill, but with love for detail, for truth, for beauty.

Haneke’s words remind us that the act of creation is a paradox. To create is to demand—to say, “This must be so.” But to complete the journey, one must also yield—to time, to imperfection, to the humanity of those who walk alongside us. In stubbornness, we preserve the purity of our vision; in patience and love, we ensure it can be shared, not destroyed in the fire of ego.

And this lesson is not for artists alone. In the fields of business, in the labor of science, in the raising of children, the same balance is required. A leader must know clearly what they seek, and hold firmly to their mission. Yet they must also be patient with the delays of life, loving toward those who falter, generous toward those who walk beside them. Without this balance, the vision collapses into either rigidity or weakness.

Therefore, O traveler of life, remember Haneke’s counsel: be steadfast, but not cruel; be patient, but not passive; be loving, but not without conviction. When you birth a dream, protect it with the stubbornness of fire. When you labor, sustain it with the patience of earth. And when you share it, adorn it with the love of the heart. For in this union lies the true art of creation, whether in cinema, in work, or in the simple shaping of one’s days.