Wild Strawberries – Ingmar Bergman (1957)
A human being is a blend of selfishness,
pain and foolishness. Doesn’t move anyone.
A stone doesn’t move anyone. Beauty
is an ordinary hazard and presupposes death;
it’s often surrounded by folly, and if it speaks to us,
it can be frightening. Intelligence, refreshing
like a shower, feels good in the summer; but now,
when it’s forever winter, what place shall we allocate
intelligence? The one of a maid servant in the chambers
of greed. It doesn’t obviously move anybody.
Goodness does. But it’s so frail
and so rare that nobody hears it. It isn’t easy,
therefore, to find something we can love. I’ve been
searching, and swear I don’t know what to do:
everything, even music, seems to me the result of some flaw.
I wander these streets at random and don’t come across
anybody who can convince me that life could well
be different. Everything is seen under distorting mirrors,
all burns in strange acceptance. Frankly,
I wish someone would prove me wrong.
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