There is something that drives me to dissect a certain state, one of the components of my sense of life: this is the absurd and insatiable craving for community, the futile attempts to overcome distance and isolation. And no matter how much I ponder it in my mind, I can never see it as a closed whole. Most of all, it evokes in me the image of some dark, flowing stream of water: faces, movements, voices, shouts, light and shadow, moods and dreams, where nothing is solid and completely tangible. A dream, a desire, perhaps just hope or fear, in which no one utters the terrible truth.
Three women await the death of a fourth one.
Ingmar Bergman
(Translated by János Csatlós)
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