From Bergman's Autumn Sonata:

Erik drowned the day before his fourth birthday. But you know that. It was too much for Viktor. I grieved a lot, outwardly. Deep inside, I felt like he was still alive, that we were living close to each other.
All I have to do is concentrate, and he's there. Sometimes, as I'm falling asleep, I can feel him breathing on my face and touching me with his hand. He's living another life, but we can reach one another. There's no dividing line, no insurmountable wall.
I wonder what reality looks like where my little boy is living. I know it can't be described. It's a world of liberated feelings. Do you know what I mean?

To me, man is a tremendous creation, an inconceivable thought. In man, there is everything, from the highest to the lowest. Man is God's image, and in God there is everything. So human beings are created, but also the demons and the saints, the prophets and artists and iconoclasts. Everything exists side by side. It's like huge patterns changing all the time. Do you know what I mean?

In the same way, there must also be countless realities. Not only the reality we perceive with our dull senses, but a tumult of realities arching above each other inside and outside. It's just fear and priggishness to believe in limits. There are no limits.

I loved you, Mama.  As a matter of life and death. But I distrusted your words. They didn't match the expression in your eyes. You have a beautiful voice. When I was little, I could feel it all over my body. But I knew instinctively you didn't mean what you said.

We may as well have this out for once. Then we won't refer to it again.

You're shut up inside yourself and always put yourself first. You managed to injure me for life, just as you are injured. Everything that was sensitive and delicate, you attacked. Everything that was alive, you tried to smother.

You talk of my hatred. Your hatred was no less. Your hatred is no less. I was little and malleable and loving. You bound me because you wanted my love, just as you want everyone else's love.

Do you mind if I lie down on the floor? It's the only thing that helps.

I remember very little of my childhood. Sometimes, when I lie awake at night ... I wonder whether I've lived at all. Is it the same for everybody ... or do some people have a greater talent for living than others?

Leonardo drank too much and played all the Bach solo suites. He wasn't himself, heavy and gentle, as if he were enlarged. He played badly but beautifully.

I can't die now. I'm afraid to commit suicide ...  and one day maybe God will have a use for me. Then he'll set me free from my prison.

Are you stroking my cheek? Are you whispering in my ear? Are you with me now?