Full resolution (JPEG) - On this page / på denna sida - VIII. Swedenborg
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feet, the table wobbles, the chair is unsteady,
the articles on the washing-stand clash together,
the bed creaks, and the rest of the furniture
moves whenever I cross the floor. The lamp
smokes, the ink-pot is too narrow so that the pen-
holder gets inky. The farmhouse smells of dung
and manure, ammonia, sulphuretted hydrogen,
and sulphuric acid. The whole day there is a
noise of cows, swine, calves, cocks, turkeys, and
doves. Flies and wasps worry me by day, and
gnats by night. At the village shop there is
nothing to be had. Because there is no other
sort, I must use rose-coloured ink. Strange,
too! In a packet of cigarette papers which I
buy there is a single rose-coloured one among a
hundred white. It is a miniature hell, and I,
who am accustomed to bear great sufferings,
suffer inexpressibly from these needle-pricks, all
the more that my mother-in-law believes that I
am not satisfied by her kind attentions.
*
September 17th.—I awake at night and hear
the church clock of the village strike thirteen.
Immediately I feel the electric band encircle
me, and think I hear a noise in the attic above
me.
September 19th.—I search the attic and
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