Notes from a Room

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.

— Bergman, Persona

‘I tell myself I have the ability to love, but it’s all been shut up in a locked room. The life I’ve led has limited my life more and more. And the time has come to change it. The first step is to get a divorce. I think my husband and I hinder each other in some deadly way.’

‘That sounds frightening.’

‘Yes, it’s frightening. Something strange is happening. My senses, sight, hearing, touch are starting to fail me. This table for example, I can see it and touch it. But my feeling is dried-out, shrunken. Do you understand what I mean?’

‘I think I understand.’

‘It’s the same with everything. Music, smells, faces and voices. Everything seems smaller, greyer, without dignity.’

— Bergman, Scenes from a Marriage