By Marguerite Sechehaye, Grace Rubin-Rabson, Frank Conroy
The narrator of this publication is called Renee. Her final identify isn't printed, nor are many different conditions of her existence. what's printed, although, is much more odd, way more impressive. In excellent, virtually painfully bright language, Renee has published her trip into the depths of schizophrenia, and her step by step go back to sanity. In doing so, she has created a human rfile with out peer within the literature of insanity.
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Additional info for Autobiography of a Schizophrenic Girl
But the sound of my voice and the meaning of my words seemed strange. " and mockingly repeated what I had said. These inner voices had the aspect of the needle in the hay. They were affected, ridiculous. "Ah, ah! then the teacher said, said," and the voices dwelt stiltedly on "said, said," I struggled to repress them, to pay no attention. But they would not obey, the mocking reptitions continued. Often images were associated with the phrases. For example, if I wanted to recount that my German teacher had made some remark or that my little sister had made a row over going to school, I saw the German teacher gesticulating at his desk like a puppet, separated from everything, alone under a blinding light, waving his arms like a maniac.
In my ignorance I believed that madness was a state of insensibility where there was neither pain nor suffering nor joy, but particularly, no responsibility. Never, not for an instant, had I even imagined what "to lose one's reason" 43 ' AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF A SCHIZOPHRENIC GIRL- actually meant. And now I was in the of fighting desperately not to slip into midst not it, submerged in the "electric light/ It was in the course of the first year of analysis that I realized the danger I was in. For me, madness was definitely not a to be condition of illness; I did not believe that I ill.
Only her physical, or sensory, well-being— position, heat, cold, light, humidity— interested me. Sometimes, though, I wheeled the little carriage into the kitchen so that Riquette should not feel lonely. At times, during more lucid moments, I was frightened at the importance she had in my life, particularly when my brothers and sisters made fun of a very real solicitude. They were astonished that, loving her as I seemed to, I didn't make any clothes for her. But this was because my love for Riquette was very one-sided, and was concerned only with temperatures.