A young man writes in a notebook, on the banks of the river, while we hear, off-screen, the sentences recited by his inner voice. The waters of the Danube flow, majestic, like the sentences of Claudio Magris, for whom the young man is here the alter ego. The story begins when the traveling writer decides to turn around and go back to the mythical source of the river: a poorly closed tap, somewhere, in a house. The landscapes follow one another as he goes upstream, splendid views sensualized by the 16mm material. From Magris's Danube to Die Donau , from the text to the image, everything seems to flow naturally in the same wide and slow flow of beauty and intelligence. But from these familiar banks, the film quickly overflows to create other, far more singular relationships between the written and the image. As if 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 bursts and ellipses, as if a film were being edited in the character's head. It is at the end of the story, when the book is in the hands of the young fugitive who has become a reader, that the film reveals its true and enigmatic depth. Who writes, who speaks, what dictates and who listens? Can we, contrary to the laziness of adaptation, set out towards an older, more secret source, a source common to literature and cinema? With this falsely wise film, moving and shimmering like the surface of the river, Jaume Claret Muxart has set out on his journey.