My parents took an interest in nothing, at home no books, no

In the words of Vincent Gallo, “My parents took an interest in nothing, at home no books, no records. My mother and my father are the emblem of indifference, dryness and bad taste. My father is also terribly stingy, in life as well as in feelings: I have never seen him filling up the bathtub.” — we hear not mere complaint, but the wounded echo of a soul born into emotional desolation. His words are the cry of one who grew up surrounded not by violence or cruelty, but by the subtler and more poisonous air of indifference — the silence that stifles dreams, the emptiness that starves the heart. Beneath his bitterness lies a universal lament: that love denied in youth becomes the ache that shapes the spirit forever after.

The meaning of his words is not confined to family, but speaks to the very nature of nourishment — emotional, intellectual, and spiritual. Gallo paints a portrait of a house devoid of vitality: no books to feed the mind, no music to awaken the heart, no curiosity to stir the soul. In such a home, the child learns not what to love, but what it means to live without love. His father, “stingy in life as well as in feelings,” becomes a symbol of those who withhold warmth, not only from others but from themselves — who mistake austerity for virtue and indifference for strength. The bathtub that is never filled becomes the image of emotional drought, of a life too fearful or barren to overflow.

The origin of this suffering lies not only in one man’s story, but in an age-old truth about the human heart. Love, if it is not given, withers in both the giver and the receiver. The ancients spoke of this in their myths and philosophies: when the gods withdrew their favor, the earth itself grew dry and lifeless. In the Greek myth of Demeter and Persephone, when the mother’s heart was broken by separation, the world fell into winter — a season of hunger and emptiness. So too, in Gallo’s words, we see the winter of a childhood without warmth. His parents’ indifference is not just a personal failure, but a symbol of a larger human tragedy: the loss of wonder, art, and tenderness that makes life sacred.

Yet out of such barrenness, the spirit often forges its own fire. History remembers those who, deprived of beauty and affection, turned their pain into creation. Consider Vincent van Gogh, whose family saw him as a failure and whose father — a preacher — could not understand his restless yearning. Out of rejection, van Gogh painted the world as he wished it to be — luminous, alive, overflowing with color and compassion. So too does Gallo’s lament reveal the paradox of the wounded soul: that from the emptiness of one’s beginnings, one may build a temple of self-expression. Those who are denied love often learn to create it from nothing — to fill the empty bathtub with the waters of art, music, or meaning.

But we must not mistake Gallo’s bitterness for mere resentment. His tone, though sharp, is not the hatred of a son — it is the mourning of a seeker. For to grow up unloved is to spend one’s life searching for warmth in a cold world, to wander in pursuit of connection that others take for granted. When he speaks of “no books, no records,” he names the absence of imagination — the death of inner life. His grief is the grief of all who have lived among the emotionally poor, among those who possess material things but lack the capacity for joy, generosity, and art. In this, his sorrow is not personal, but universal, echoing through every generation where hearts grow silent and souls go unfed.

There is, however, a quiet power in his confession. By naming his pain, Gallo transforms it into truth — and truth, once spoken, becomes liberation. To recognize the emptiness of one’s upbringing is the first act of freedom; to refuse to inherit that same indifference is the second. In speaking of his father’s stinginess, he declares that he will not be the same — that he will pour what others withheld. His bitterness is the soil of rebirth, for through honesty comes clarity, and through clarity comes renewal. In this way, his lament becomes a kind of offering — a warning against the inheritance of emotional poverty.

Thus, the lesson of his words is this: where there is no love, create it. Where there is no beauty, build it. Where there is no generosity, let your heart overflow. You may have been born into silence, but you are not bound to remain there. Do not repeat the sins of indifference; instead, fill the world with what your parents could not give. Read the books they never opened, play the music they never heard, express the tenderness they never knew how to show. For even if your roots grew in arid soil, you can still bear fruit — fruit of compassion, art, and awakening.

And so, my children, remember this teaching: you are not the sum of what was withheld from you. You are the beginning of what can still be given. The indifference of others may wound, but it cannot define you — unless you let it. Be the one who fills the bathtub, who brings warmth to the cold, who breaks the chain of dryness with the flood of feeling. For from the barren hearts of the past, it is the courageous who will water the earth again.