«I understand, all
right. The hopeless dream of being—not seeming, but being. At
every waking moment, alert. The gulf between what you are with others and what
you are alone. The vertigo and the constant hunger to be exposed, to be seen
through, perhaps even wiped out. Every inflection and every gesture a lie,
every smile a grimace. Suicide? No, too vulgar. But you can refuse to move,
refuse to talk, so that you don’t have to lie. You can shut yourself in. Then
you needn’t play any parts or make wrong gestures. Or so you thought. But
reality is diabolical. Your hiding place isn’t watertight. Life trickles in
from the outside, and you’re forced to react. No one asks if it is true or
false, if you’re genuine or just a sham. Such things matter only in the theatre,
and hardly there either. I understand why you don’t speak, why you don’t move,
why you’ve created a part for yourself out of apathy. I understand. I admire.
You should go on with this part until it is played out, until it loses interest
for you. Then you can leave it, just as you’ve left your other parts one by one.»
Ingmar Bergman