Film: Bergman’s “Såsom i en spegel” crippled me for days afterwards, as did Haneke’s “La pianiste”. It seems that I can only connect with art if it leaves me scarred in some way (which is all too rare a thing).
Book: In non-fiction, Simone de Beauvoir’s “Mémoires d’une jeune fille rangée” moved me spectacularly at a young age, and I revere it still. Similarly, Dostoevsky’s “Notes from Underground” mirrors my own vital philosophies in a manner only capable by Russian nihilism.