by Ingmar Bergman Sweden, United States, 1976

Mrs. Isaksson: And it's so horrible when faces change so that you don't recognize them.

Mrs. Isaksson: Do you think we're a one million army of emotionally crippled people, wretches who wander around, shouting to each others with words we don't understand and that make us even more scared?

Thomas: I don't know.

Thomas: I wish that someone or something will strike me, so I can become real. I repeat over and over, may I some day be real.

Mrs. Isaksson: What do you mean by "real"?

Thomas:  To hear a human voice and trust that it comes from a human who is made like touch a pair of lips and at the same time know that it is a pair of lips.