“Humor doesn’t cut it, or romance, or lyricism—no, no, no. Only terror works.”

Two sisters lived together in a two-room apartment. They were very poor. For lunch, they usually had a boiled potato; for breakfast, a slice of bread with a glass of hot water. 

A mother brought her girl to a sanatorium for sickly children and left. I was that girl.

The sanatorium looked over a big pond that was encircled by an autumnal park, with meadows and paths. The tall trees seemed ablaze with gold and copper; the scent of their falling leaves made the girl dizzy, after the city’s stench.