En passion

Anna Fromm: Andreas, we should travel somewhere. We should get away from here. I know it would be good for us both.

Andreas Winkelman: When you speak of traveling, I really want to say yes.

Anna Fromm: What are you thinking?

Andreas Winkelman: That we can speak to Elis. He can lend us money. But at the same time a wall appears. I can't speak. I can't show that I'm happy. I can see your face, I know you're you, but I can't reach you. Do you understand what I mean?

Anna Fromm: I understand what you mean. I understand very well, Andreas.

Andreas Winkelman: I'm on the outside of this wall. I put myself on the outside. I fled and now I'm so far away.

Anna Fromm: I understand, Andreas. I understand how strange it seems.

Andreas Winkelman: Yes, it's strange. I want to be warm, tender and alive. I want to break free. You understand, don't you?

Anna Fromm: It's like a dream. You want to move, you know what to do, but you can't. Legs are impossible and arms heavy as lead. You want to speak, but you can't.

Andreas Winkelman: I'm terrified of being humiliated. It's constant misery. I've accepted the humiliation and let them become part of me. Do you understand what I mean?

Anna Fromm: I understand what you mean. I understand you.

Andreas Winkelman: It's terrible not being fortunate. Everybody thinks they have the right to decide over you. Their benevolent contempt. A momentary desire to trample something living.

Anna Fromm: I understand, Andreas. You don't need...

Andreas Winkelman: I'm dead, Anna. No, no, I'm not dead. No, that's wrong. Too melodramatic. I'm not dead at all. But I live without self-respect. I know it sounds silly - pretentious - since almost all people are forced to live without self-worth. Humiliated to the core, stifled and spat upon. They just live. They know nothing more. They know no alternative. Even if they did, they would never reach for it. You understand? Can you be sick from humiliation? Is it a disease we're all infected by and we have to live with? We talk so much about freedom, Anna. Isn't freedom a terrible poison for the humiliated... or is the word "freedom" only a drug the humiliated use in order to endure. I can't live with this. I've given up. Sometimes it's almost unbearable. The days drag by. I feel like I'm choking on the food I swallow, the crap I get rid of, the words I say. The light - the daylight which comes every morning and yells at me to get up. Or the sleep which always brings dreams, chasing me back and forth. Or just the darkness rattling with ghosts and memories. Has it occurred to you, Anna, that the worse off people are, the less they complain? Eventually they're silent... even though they're living creatures with nerves, eyes and hands. Massive armies of both victims and executioners. The light which rises and sinks heavily. The cold approaches. Darkness. The heat. The smell. And everyone is silent. We can never leave this place. I don't believe in escape. It's too late. Everything's too late.