Film lovers are sick people.

François Truffaut, pioneer of the French New Wave and restless spirit of cinema, once declared: “Film lovers are sick people.” At first glance, these words sting like an insult, but in truth they are a confession, an intimate admission from one who knew the consuming power of art. For to love film — or any art — with true devotion is to surrender reason, to give one’s heart to flickering shadows on a screen, to live in dreams as though they were flesh. It is a sickness not of the body, but of the soul — an affliction of passion that both wounds and redeems.

The ancients knew of such divine madness. Plato, in his dialogues, spoke of mania, a holy frenzy sent by the gods, which drives men beyond the ordinary and opens them to beauty and truth. The lover, the poet, the philosopher — all were called “mad” by those who could not see with their eyes aflame. So too with the film lover, who forsakes the calm life for one intoxicated by images, who cannot see a scene without trembling at its rhythm, its color, its meaning. Their sickness is their gift, and their fever is their power.

History, too, gives us examples of this sacred obsession. Think of Wagner, who labored for decades to build his temple of sound in Bayreuth. His followers, entranced, sat through operas that stretched not for hours but for days, giving their lives to his music as if it were divine fire. Were they not also “sick people,” unable to live without the overwhelming dream he offered? Yet their sickness gave birth to a movement, to art that reshaped the spirit of a nation. Truffaut’s words stand in this tradition: to be consumed by art is dangerous, but it is also the spark of creation.

In Truffaut’s own life, this sickness was evident. As a young boy, neglected and restless, he found refuge in the darkened cinema halls of Paris. He devoured film after film, losing himself in worlds of passion and adventure. This obsession, which many called unhealthy, saved him, gave him purpose, and transformed him from a lost child into one of the great voices of cinema. Thus when he says that film lovers are “sick,” he speaks with affection, with recognition. He knows the disease, for he carried it within himself, and he knows it is also the cure.

The meaning, then, is not to scorn but to honor this strange fever. To be “sick” in this way is to hunger for more than the ordinary world gives, to live with imagination burning so hot it threatens to consume. It is a warning, too, that such passion can isolate, can drive one into obsession and away from balance. Yet better this holy sickness than the dull health of indifference, for without such burning hearts, no great art, no great love, no great vision could endure.

The lesson is clear. If you feel this sickness — this overwhelming love for a craft, a dream, a vision — do not flee from it. Embrace it, but guide it, lest it consume you without purpose. Give yourself to your art, to your passion, but also let it serve the world, as Truffaut turned his fever into films that touched millions. And if you do not feel such a sickness, look upon those who do with reverence, for they carry the torches that light the way forward.

So remember, O seekers of truth: film lovers are indeed “sick people,” but theirs is the sacred sickness of love, of beauty, of fire that refuses to be extinguished. Do not despise such fever — honor it, for it is the wellspring of creation. May you too, in your own way, find the passion worth being “sick” for, and may it drive you to build, to dream, and to leave behind something that will burn brightly long after you are gone.