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Anna Kavan

Asylum Piece

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First published sixty years ago, Asylum Piece today ranks as one of the most extraordinary and terrifying evocations of human madness ever written. This collection of stories, mostly interlinked and largely autobiographical, chart the descent of the narrator from the onset of neurosis to final incarceration at a Swiss clinic. The sense of paranoia, of persecution by a foe or force that is never given a name evokes The Trial by Franz Kafka, the writer with whom Kavan is most often compared, though Kavan's deeply personal, restrained and almost foreignaccented style has no true model. The same characters who recur throughout — the protagonist's unhelpful 'advisor', the friend/lover who abandons her at the clinic, and an assortment of deluded companions — are sketched without a trace of the rage, selfpity or sentiment that have marked more recent prozac memoirs.
Эта книга сейчас недоступна
120 бумажных страниц
Дата публикации оригинала
2014
Год выхода издания
2014
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Цитаты

  • b3394811670цитирует3 года назад
    he sun was shining, it was a lovely, calm day, one of those premature spring days which sometimes come to encourage us towards the end of a long, hard winter.
  • b3394811670цитирует3 года назад
    In the hall, which is dimly lit, someone moves out of the shadows and approaches the group. It is Miss Swanson who has waited a long time patiently for this moment. Dressed now in a blue knitted dress of exactly the same style as the mauve one which she wore earlier in the day, she comes up to the girl and, ignoring the nurses entirely, enfolds her in a compassionate and triumphant embrace.
  • b3394811670цитирует3 года назад
    There is dead silence inside the car. Even he, unimaginative and withdrawn as he is, feels the burden of silence. ‘Why doesn’t she say something?’ he wonders, peering at the averted whiteness that is her face. The car takes the final bend sharply and her body is thrown against his.
    Suddenly she grasps his shoulders with both hands; he is surprised at the strength of her fingers, he feels her pointed fingers nipping into his flesh through the jacket and shirt.
    ‘You can’t leave me here ... You must take me back with you!’ she cries shrilly, against his chest.
    ‘Now, Freda, do try and be reasonable. You know perfectly well that I can’t take you – that the doctors say you must stay here for the present.’
    He tries to disengage her fingers; but he cannot capture her hands which, like desperate sparrows, are beating all about him, clawing at his sleeve, his lapels, his tie, even his face. He can do nothing except dumbly defend himself against those clawing, beating hands, his ears deafened and appalled by the broken treble that fills the interior of the closed car with ceaseless, inarticulate lamentation.
    They have come now to the entrance of the clinic.

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