Don’t psychoanalyze me. I pay a doctor for that.
Hey, you call that guy that you talk to a doctor? I mean, you don’t get suspicious when your analyst calls you at home at three in the morning and weeps into the telephone?
Alright, so he’s unorthodox. He’s a highly qualified doctor.
He’s done a great job on you, y’know. Your self esteem is like a notch below Kafka’s.
“My grandfather became senile when I was six. The word Alzheimer’s did not yet exist and no one in my family or in our community understood what had happened to him. His forgetfulness began with pestering my mother to serve meals we had just finished eating. Gradually he began to lose his way on familiar streets and had to be escorted home by the local police. One day, he no longer recognized our faces. Finally he could not recognize his own. As a child, I comprehended little of what I saw, but I remember thinking that people forgot everything when they died. I now understand how critical memories are to our identity, to a sense of self.”
(director Hirokazu Kore-eda)