Ingmar Bergman // "I understand, all right. The hopeless dream of being...not seeming, but being. Conscious at every moment. Vigilant. At the same time, the chasm between what you are to others and to yourself. The feeling of vertigo and the constant desire to, at last, be exposed...to be seen through, cut down, perhaps even annihilated. Every tone of voice is a lie, every gesture a falsehood, every smile a grimace. Commit suicide? No, that’s vulgar. You don’t do that. But you can be immobile. You can fall silent. Then, at least, you don’t lie. You can close yourself in, shut yourself off. Then you don’t have to play roles, show any faces, or make false gestures. Or so you thought. But reality is bloody-minded. Your hiding place isn’t watertight. Life seeps in everything. You’re forced to react. No one asks if it’s real or unreal, if you’re true or false. Such things matter only in the theatre, and hardly there either. I understand your keeping silent, your immobility. That you’ve placed this lack of will into a fantastic system. I understand. I admire you. You should go on with this until it’s played out, until it’s no longer interesting. Then you can leave it, just as you’ve left your other parts one by one."