The feeling of vertigo and the constant
desire to at last be exposed.

To be seen through, cut down,
perhaps even annihilated.

Every tone of voice a lie, every gesture
a falsehood, every smile a grimace.

Commit suicide? Oh, no.
That's ugly. You don't do that.
But you can be immobile, you can
fall silent. Then at least you don't lie.

You can close yourself in,
shut yourself off.

Then you don't have to play roles,
show any faces or make false gestures.

You think...
But you see, reality is bloody-minded.
Your hideout isn't watertight.

Life seeps in everything.
You're forced to react.
No one asks if it's real or unreal,
if you're true or false.

lt's only in the theatre the question
carries weight. Hardly even there.

l understand you, Elisabet. l understand
you're keeping silent, you're immobile.

That you've placed this lack of will
into a fantastic system.

l understand and admire you.
l think you should maintain this role
until it's played out.

Until it's no longer interesting.
Then you can leave it.

Just as you bit by bit
leave all your other roles.

rs Mogler and Sister Alma moved out
to the doctor's house in late summer,

The sojourn near the sea
had a favourable effect on the actress,

The apathy that had crippled her
in hospital yields to long walks -

- fishing trips, cooking,
letter writing and other diversions,