I remember very little of my childhood
Charlotte, speaking to her daughter, Eva, in “Autumn Sonata” (Ingmar Bergman)
I can’t recall my parents ever touching me
neither to caress, nor to punish
I did not know anything about love
tenderness, contact, intimacy, warmth
Only through music did I have a chance to show my feelings
Sometimes, when I lie awake at night
I wonder wether I have lived at all
Is it the same for everybody
or do some people have a greater talent for living than others?
Or do some people never live?
— just exist?