I said to myself: Stop writing, - but the hands begged. Oh, mummy my home, beloved friends! I lie in the ward - they squint, I donít sleep: I am afraid theyíd throw themselves upon me, - However beside me are quiet loonies, incurables. There are different loonies - not violent, but dirty, - They are treated, starved, beat up by the hospital orderlies. And what is astonishing here: all go without straitjackets, And then, what is brought to me, all the loonies gobble up. Where is Dostoyevsky with the famous "Memoirs", - If the deceased could see, how they beat on the doors with their foreheads! And could tell Gogol about our wretched life, - By-god, Gogol would not believe us. That is torment, - spit on them! - they are sons of bitches, violent loonies: All aim to lick me up, - by-god, Iíve no stength! Yesterday in the ward number seven One went off his head for good - shouted: "Give me America!" and beat the hospital orderlies. I donít wish for fame and until Iím not of absolute health - Reason not yet faded, but that is ahead, - There is the headphysician - a woman - if quiet, but insane, - I say: "I get out off my mind" - she to me, "Wait!" I wait, but feel - already I go on the knifeís blade: I forgot the alphabet, of the cases I only remember two And I ask my friends, That who were like I and not be me, Get him to fetch me out of here!
© Elisabeth Jelinek. Translation, 2018