A young man writes in a notebook on the riverbank as we hear a voiceover of phrases recited by his inner voice. The waters of the Danube flow majestically, like the words of Claudio Magris, whose alter ego the young man represents. The story begins when the wandering author decides to turn back and follow the river upstream to its mythical source, a tap left running in a house somewhere. The landscapes come one after another as we travel upstream, magnificent views made sensual by the use of 16mm. Everything, from Magris’ Danube to Die Donau, from text to image, seems to flow from the same source in the same wide, slow stream of beauty and intelligence. But the film quickly overflows these familiar banks to forge other, more singular relationships between the written word and the image. As though called by the writer’s voice, a young fugitive comes to meet him. First to himself, then facing the camera, he tells the story of his escape in a hallucinatory monologue, full of flashes and ellipses as if a film were being made in his head. It’s at the end of the story, when the book finds itself in the young runaway’s hands, that the movie reveals its true and enigmatic depths. Who writes, who speaks, who dictates and who listens? Is it possible, in contrast to the laziness of adaptation, to set off towards an older, more secret source, a source common to literature and film? With this deceptively wise film that shifts and shimmers like the surface of the river, Jaume Claret Muxart has set out on a journey.