‘We ought to get away from here’

‘Andreas. We ought to take a trip somewhere. We ought to get away from here. It would do us both good.’
‘I want so much to say yes.’
‘I want to say l’ll ask Elis to lend us the money. At the same time, a wall grows up. I can’t speak or show you I’m happy. I know it’s you, but l can’t reach you. Do you understand?’
‘I understand very well.’
‘I’m outside that wall. I’ve shut myself out. I’ve fled. Now I’m so far away.’
‘I understand. I know how strange it feels.’
‘Yes, it is strange. I want to be warm and tender and alive. I want to make a move. But you know how afraid – ‘
‘It’s like a dream. You want to move but can’t. Your legs and arms are as heavy as lead. You try to talk but can’t.’
‘I’m afraid of humiliation. It’s an everlasting misery. I’ve accepted the humiliations and let them sink into me. Do you understand?’
‘Yes, I understand.’
‘It’s terrible to be a failure. People think they have the right to tell you what to do. Their well-meaning contempt. That brief desire to trample on something living.’
‘You needn’t – ’
‘I’m dead. No, that’s wrong. Melodramatic. I’m not dead at all. But I live without self-respect. I know – it sounds ridiculous, pretentious. Most people have to live without a sense of self-esteem. Humiliated at heart, stifled and spat upon. They’re alive, and that’s all they know. They know of no alternative. Even if they did, they’d never reach out for it. Can one be sick with humiliation? Or is it a disease we’ve all caught? We talk so much about freedom. Isn’t freedom a poison to anyone who is humiliated? Or is that word a drug the humiliated use to be able to endure? I’m past living with this. I’ve given up. Sometimes I can’t stand it any more. The days drag by. I’m choked by food, by the shit I expel, the words I say. The daylight that shouts at me every morning to get up. The sleep which is only dreams that chase me. Or the darkness that rustles with ghosts and memories. Has it ever occurred to you that the worse off people are, the less they complain? In the end, they’re quite silent. They’re living creatures, with nerves, eyes, and hands, vast armies of victims and hangmen. The light that rises and falls heavily. The cold that comes. The darkness. The heat. The smell. They are all quiet… We can never leave here. I don’t believe in moving on. It’s too late. Everything’s too late.’

— Bergman, The Passion of Anna

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