I admit I often tear up letters myself: one can’t, even at my age, believe that other people want affection or admiration; yea one knows that there’s nothing in the whole world so important. Why is it? Why are we all so tongue tied and spellbound? Why do we live three streets off and yet never meet? I think human beings are fundamentally crushed by a sense of their insignificance.
—Virgina Woolf, carta para Philip Morrell, 3 de Fevereiro de 1938
I was very separated. My words got across to people, but it was all verbal. At a deeper level, some level of needs and responses to needs, I was separated from everybody.
—Larry McMurtry, All My Friends Are Going to Be Strangers, Liveright, 2018 (1972)
— Estás acordado?
— Sim.
— Estou mesmo contente por estares comigo. Sozinha teria enlouquecido.
— E apanhado gripe!
— Gripe?
— Sim, estar sozinha, cortisol e isso tudo… Isso não enfraquece o sistema imunitário?
— É verdade! Por falar nisso, um toque gentil mata milhares de hormonas do stress.
303 (2018) de Hans Weingartner.
— Oh, I just wanted to say how nice it is not to be alone.
The Power of the Dog (2021) de Jane Campion.
— Acho que está a acontecer alguma coisa connosco.
— As coisas não acontecem assim… Num dia.
— Às vezes sim.
Celle que vous croyez de Safy Nebbou, 2019.