One day my name is Aldous, another day it is Ismael, then Akira, Theodor, Cassius, Hiawatha, Caius, Isayah, Zorion. My names matter, and they don’t. I am my names, they are me; given to me in the dark, by powers I do not understand, though I try to wield them. I am a name, I am a voice, I am a thousand names, I am a thousand voices. Some speak through me, some I speak myself. In tongues, in languages, known to man and beast and the burning stars. I speak the unspoken and hold the universe within me. I am of this earth and beyond. I am what you are and what they are not. There is the meaning of fate in my name. Something fatal in my name. I am what I am; an abyss of everything and nothing. I can be your savior, your judge and your executioner; all at once. I can be the air that surrounds you or the dark matter you breathe in the black of the night. The moon shining uncovers my name as I speak. Look, my friend! There I appear; as a phantom of your imagination and dreams, with flesh cold and warm, soft and hard, tenderly I envelope myself around you and make you matter. Briefly. Eternally.

Fanny & Alexander1
Fanny and Alexander, Ingmar Bergman, 1982.

 

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