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Psychiatric hospitals

· Daniil Charms: Verzameld werk in Nederlandse vertaling · Oliver Sacks: Dankbaarheid. Essays · François Audouy: Antonin Artaud le sur-vivant. Essai · Boris Cyrulnik & Patrick Lemoine: Histoire de la folie avant la psychiatrie · Antonin Artaud: Anthology · Luigi Zoja: Paranoïa. La folie qui fait l’histoire · Carmen Giménez Smith: Cruel Futures · The River of Consciousness by Oliver Sacks · John Clare: Written in Northampton County Asylum · Barbara Zoeke: Die Stunde der Spezialisten · NELLIE BLY: Ten days in a Mad-house (Chapter IV: Judge Duffy and the Police) · Museum Dr. GUISLAIN: Een andere wereld. Laboratorium van waan en fantasie

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Daniil Charms: Verzameld werk in Nederlandse vertaling

Het Russische absurdisme laat zich gemakkelijk terugbrengen tot één man: Daniil Charms. “Charms is kunst,’ schreef een vriend over hem.

Met zijn opvallende verschijning, zijn excentriciteit, zijn creatieve tegendraadsheid was hij een fenomeen en groeide hij na zijn dood uit tot een wereldwijd bekende cultschrijver. “Mij interesseert alleen “onzin”,’ schreef hij ooit, “alleen dat wat geen enkele praktische zin heeft.’

Charms blinkt uit in het tonen van de onsamenhangendheid van het bestaan en de onvoorspelbaarheid van het lot. Hij zoekt naar een ongefilterde verbeelding van de chaos die wij voortbrengen, los van zingeving en in de hoop op nieuwe ervaringen en aha-erlebnissen. In zijn werk laat hij willekeur vergezeld gaan van een stevige dosis, vaak zwartgallige, humor.

Voor het eerst verschijnt een grote uitgave van Charms’ werk in de Russische Bibliotheek, samengesteld uit proza, toneelteksten, gedichten, autobiografisch proza en kinderverhalen, en rijkelijk aangevuld met avantgardistische illustraties.

Auteur: Daniil Charms
Verzameld werk
Vertaald door Yolanda Bloemen
Russische Bibliotheek (RB)
Uitgeverij van Oorschot
Verschijningsdatum januari 2018
Taal Nederlands
1e druk
Bindwijze: Hardcover
Afmetingen 20,3 x 12,8 x 3,4 cm
736 pagina’s
ISBN 9789028282353
€ 44,99

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Oliver Sacks: Dankbaarheid. Essays

Oliver Sacks (1933 – 2015), befaamd neuroloog, wetenschapper en arts. Sacks studeerde medicijnen in Oxford, woonde sinds 1965 in New York en werkte als hoogleraar aan de NYU School of Medicine.

Oliver Sacks verwierf internationale roem met zijn populairwetenschappelijke boeken over de belevingswereld van zijn patiënten. Hij is de auteur van internationale bestsellers als Migraine, Ontwaken in verbijstering, De man die zijn vrouw voor een hoed hield, Stemmen zien, Een antropoloog op Mars, Musicofilia en Hallucinaties. In 2015 verscheen zijn autobiografie Onderweg. In augustus 2015 overleed hij in zijn woonplaats New York.

“Ik heb van mensen gehouden en zij hebben van mij gehouden, ik heb veel gekregen en ik heb iets teruggegeven, ik heb gelezen, gereisd, nagedacht en geschreven. Ik heb in contact gestaan met de wereld en de bijzondere uitwisselingen ervaren tussen een schrijver en zijn lezers. Maar in de eerste plaats ben ik op deze prachtige planeet een bewust denkend wezen geweest, een denkend dier, en dat alleen al was een enorm voorrecht en avontuur.”

In februari 2015 maakte Oliver Sacks, in een aangrijpend stuk in The New York Times, bekend dat hij ongeneeslijk ziek was. Eind augustus overleed hij in New York, 82 jaar oud. Sinds het bericht van zijn ziekte werkte hij met grote gedrevenheid verder aan de boeken die hij nog wilde afmaken. Intussen publiceerde hij een reeks essays waarin hij probeerde grip te krijgen op het verloop van zijn ziekte en de betekenis van zijn naderende dood.

In Dankbaarheid zijn deze stukken bijeengebracht. Het is een boek dat getuigt van een grote veerkracht en menselijkheid: het laat zien hoe iemand die geconfronteerd wordt met het naderende einde toch het leven kan vieren en dankbaar kan zijn.

Auteur: Oliver Sacks
Titel: Dankbaarheid
Taal: Nederlands
Hardcover
2015
1e druk
80 pagina’s
ISBN13 9789023497912
Uitgever De Bezige Bij
Vertaald door Luud Dorresteijn
€ 12,99

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Oliver Sacks
Dankbaarheid. Essays

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François Audouy: Antonin Artaud le sur-vivant. Essai

Artaud, poète de la survie et de la sur-vie ?

C’est l’angle d’approche de cet essai, qui revisite cet être hors-normes et haut en couleurs.

L’impatient patient Artaud se trouve ici confronté à ses foisonnantes références, religieuses et philosophiques, remis dans son contexte actuel, attaqué et fouillé au corps pour en extraire sa substantifique moelle : celle d’un nouveau-né éternel, d’un trompe-la-mort, d’un tueur de verbe. D’un sur-vivant.

Antonin Artaud, de son vrai nom Antoine Marie Joseph Artaud, est né à Marseille le 4 septembre 1896 et mort à Ivry-sur-Seine le 4 mars 1948. Poète, romancier, acteur, dessinateur, dramaturge et théoricien du théâtre. Dans son essai Le Théâtre et son double, Artaud invente le concept du “théâtre de la cruauté”

François Audouy
Antonin Artaud le sur-vivant.
Essai
Broché
Editions L’Harmattan Paris
Format : 13,5 x 21,5 cm
ISBN : 978-2-343-09048-1
2016
92 pages
€ 12,00

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Antonin Artaud le sur-vivant
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Boris Cyrulnik & Patrick Lemoine: Histoire de la folie avant la psychiatrie

Absurdités, dérives, abus et même maltraitances ont jalonné l’histoire de la folie.

Comment comprendre autrement le succès de Mesmer et de son baquet ? Comment rendre compte de l’attribution à Saturne des troubles de l’humeur et au démon des tourments de l’âme ? Comment justifier l’enfermement psychiatrique des dissidents sous Staline ?

Entourés d’une dizaine d’experts – des psychiatres mais aussi une historienne, un interniste ou un neurologue – Patrick Lemoine et Boris Cyrulnik débattent du passé de la psychiatrie. Ils nous proposent de nous concentrer sur quelques questions très actuelles et pour le moins épineuses : quelle nécessité de fonder une nouvelle psychiatrie aujourd’hui, et quel avenir pour cette discipline, longtemps branche folle de la médecine ?

Boris Cyrulnik est neuropsychiatre et directeur d’enseignement à l’université de Toulon. Il est l’auteur de très nombreux ouvrages qui ont tous été des best-sellers, parmi lesquels, tout récemment, Psychothérapie de Dieu qui est un immense succès.

Patrick Lemoine est psychiatre. Spécialiste du sommeil, docteur en neurosciences, professeur associé à l’Université de Pékin, il a publié plus d’une trentaine d’ouvrages, parmi lesquels Le Mystère du placebo.

Avec Patrick Clervoy, Jean Furtos, Jacques Hochmann, Danielle Jacquart, Pierre Lamothe, Pierre Lemarquis, Stéphane Mouchabac, Gérard Ostermann.

Boris Cyrulnik & Patrick Lemoine
Histoire de la folie avant la psychiatrie
Édition brochée
12 septembre 2018
256 pages
EAN13 : 9782738145130
145 x 220 mm
Éditions Odile Jacob
€ 23.90

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Boris Cyrulnik & Patrick Lemoine
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Antonin Artaud: Anthology

“I am the man,” wrote Artaud, “who has best charted his inmost self.” Antonin Artaud was a great poet who, like Poe, Holderlin, and Nerval, wanted to live in the infinite and asked that the human spirit burn in absolute freedom.

To society, he was a madman. Artaud, however, was not insane, but in luciferian pursuit of what society keeps hidden. The man who wrote Van Gogh the Man Suicided by Society raged against the insanity of social institutions with insight that proves more prescient with every passing year. Today, as Artaud’s vatic thunder still crashes above the “larval confusion” he despised, what is most striking in his writings is an extravagant lucidity.

This collection gives us quintessential Artaud on the occult, magic, the theater, mind and body, the cosmos, rebellion, and revolution in its deepest sense.

Title Artaud Anthology
Author Antonin Artaud
Edited by Jack Hirschman
Publisher City Lights Publishers
Format: Paperback
Nb of pages 256 p.
First published 1963
ISBN-10 0872860000
ISBN-13 9780872860001
$15.95

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Antonin Artaud
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Luigi Zoja: Paranoïa. La folie qui fait l’histoire

Le paranoïaque est souvent convaincant. Charismatique, même. La folie qui l’habite ne se manifeste pas au premier coup d’œil. Incapable de regarder en lui, il part de la certitude inébranlable que le mal vient toujours des autres.

Un mécanisme insensé mais qui ne perd jamais l’apparence de la raison.

Une « folie lucide » dépourvue de toute dimension morale, qui représente un danger pour la société. Car la paranoïa atteint une intensité explosive dès qu’elle sort de la pathologie individuelle pour contaminer la masse. Elle peut alors marquer l’histoire de son empreinte, du massacre des Indiens d’Amérique à la Grande Guerre en passant par les pogroms, les totalitarismes monstrueux du XXe siècle et les guerres préventives des démocraties de notre temps. Il manquait une étude globale sur ce mal collectif, à cheval entre psychiatrie et histoire.

Pour la première fois, le psychanalyste Luigi Zoja explore la dynamique, la perversité, l’absurdité mais aussi la puissance de cette contamination psychique à grande échelle. De quoi nous faire regarder d’un autre œil des événements que nous pensions connaître. Des horreurs définitivement révolues ? Rien n’est moins sûr. La lumière de la conscience n’est jamais totale, ni définitive. La paranoïa peut encore affirmer à bon droit : « L’histoire, c’est moi. »

Luigi Zoja, intellectuel italien, sociologue et avant tout psychanalyste jungien, vit et travaille à Milan ; il a notamment été président de l’Association internationale de psychologie analytique (IAAP). Dans ses nombreux ouvrages, il analyse les travers collectifs des sociétés contemporaines, en les mettant en perspective dans la longue durée culturelle. Il a publié Le Père. Le geste d’Hector envers son fils. Histoire culturelle et psychologique de la paternité (coédition Les Belles Lettres / La Compagnie du Livre rouge, 2015).

Luigi Zoja
Paranoïa.
La folie qui fait l’histoire
Traduit de l’italien par Marc Lesage
Langue: Français
Société d’édition Les Belles Lettres Paris
540 pages
Bibliographie
Livre broché
15.1 x 21.6 cm
Parution : 15/06/2018
Langue : Français
ISBN-10: 2251448152
ISBN-13: 978-2251448152
CLIL : 3378
€25,90

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Carmen Giménez Smith: Cruel Futures

A Latina feminist State of the Union address at the intersection of pop culture and interiority.

Cruel Futures is a witchy confessional and wildly imagistic volume that examines subjects as divergent as Alzheimers, Medusa, mumblecore, and mental illness in sharp-witted, taut poems dense with song. Chronicling life on an endangered planet, in a country on the precipice of profound change compelled by a media machine that produces our realities, the book is a high-energy analysis of popular culture, as well as an exploration of the many social roles that women occupy as mother, daughter, lover, and the resulting struggle to maintain personhood—all in a late capitalist America.

Born in New York, poet Carmen Giménez Smith earned a BA in English from San Jose State University and an MFA in creative writing from the University of Iowa. She writes lyric essays as well as poetry, and is the author of the poetry chapbook Casanova Variations (2009); the memoir Bring Down the Little Birds: On Mothering, Art, Work, and Everything Else (2010); and the full-length collections Odalisque in Pieces (2009), Milk and Filth (2013), finalist for the National Book Critics Circle Award, and Cruel Futures: City Lights Spotlight No. 17 (City Lights Publishers, 2018).

Giménez Smith’s work explores issues affecting the lives of females, including Latina identity, and frequently references myth and memory. With the publication of Odalisque in Pieces, Giménez Smith was featured as a New American Poet on the Poetry Society of America’s website. Her poems have been included in the anthologies Floricanto Si! U.S. Latina Poets (1998) and Contextos: Poemas (1994).

Giménez Smith is the editor-in-chief of Puerto del Sol and publisher of Noemi Press. She was appointed as poetry co-editor (along with Steph Burt) at The Nation in 2017 and teaches at Virginia Tech University.

Title Cruel Futures
Author Carmen Giménez Smith
Collection City Lights Spotlight
Publisher City Lights Publishers
Format Paperback
ISBN-10 0872867587
ISBN-13 9780872867581
Publication Date 15 April 2018
Main content page count 88
List Price $15.95

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The River of Consciousness by Oliver Sacks

From the best-selling author of Gratitude, On the Move, and Musicophilia, a collection of essays that displays Oliver Sacks’s passionate engagement with the most compelling and seminal ideas of human endeavor: evolution, creativity, memory, time, consciousness, and experience.

Oliver Sacks, a scientist and a storyteller, is beloved by readers for the extraordinary neurological case histories (Awakenings, An Anthropologist on Mars) in which he introduced and explored many now familiar disorders–autism, Tourette’s syndrome, face blindness, savant syndrome.

He was also a memoirist who wrote with honesty and humor about the remarkable and strange encounters and experiences that shaped him (Uncle Tungsten, On the Move, Gratitude).

Sacks, an Oxford-educated polymath, had a deep familiarity not only with literature and medicine but with botany, animal anatomy, chemistry, the history of science, philosophy, and psychology.

The River of Consciousness is one of two books Sacks was working on up to his death, and it reveals his ability to make unexpected connections, his sheer joy in knowledge, and his unceasing, timeless project to understand what makes us human.

Oliver Sacks was born in 1933 in London and was educated at Queen’s College, Oxford. He completed his medical training at San Francisco’s Mount Zion Hospital and at UCLA before moving to New York.

Familiar to the readers of The New Yorker and The New York Review of Books, Dr. Sacks spent more than fifty years working as a neurologist and wrote many books, including The Man Who Mistook His Wife for a Hat, Musicophilia, and Hallucinations, about the strange neurological predicaments and conditions of his patients.

The New York Times referred to him as “the poet laureate of medicine,” and over the years he received many awards, including honors from the Guggenheim Foundation, the National Science Foundation, the American Academy of Arts and Letters, The American Academy of Arts and Sciences, and the Royal College of Physicians. His memoir On the Move was published shortly before his death in August 2015.

The River of Consciousness
By Oliver Sacks
Hardcover
Oct 24, 2017
256 Pages
$27.00
Published by Knopf
5-1/2 x 8-3/8
ISBN 9780385352567

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John Clare: Written in Northampton County Asylum

 

 Written in Northampton County Asylum

I am! yet what I am who cares, or knows?
My friends forsake me like a memory lost.
I am the self-consumer of my woes;
They rise and vanish, an oblivious host,
Shadows of life, whose very soul is lost.
And yet I am–I live–though I am toss’d

Into the nothingness of scorn and noise,
Into the living sea of waking dream,
Where there is neither sense of life, nor joys,
But the huge shipwreck of my own esteem
And all that ‘s dear. Even those I loved the best
Are strange–nay, they are stranger than the rest.

I long for scenes where man has never trod–
For scenes where woman never smiled or wept–
There to abide with my Creator, God,
And sleep as I in childhood sweetly slept,
Full of high thoughts, unborn. So let me lie,–
The grass below; above, the vaulted sky.

John Clare
(1793-1864)
Written in Northampton County Asylum

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Barbara Zoeke: Die Stunde der Spezialisten

1940 ist Max Koenig Professor für Kunstgeschichte. Ein vererbtes Nervenleiden reißt ihn aus seinem be­ruflichen Leben und fort von seiner italienischen Frau und der kleinen Tochter. Er kommt in eine Heilanstalt nach Berlin ­Wittenau.

Trotz seiner Hinfälligkeit wird er zum Mittelpunkt einer kleinen Gruppe: einem Schizophrenen, der eine Litanei auf die Farbe »Schwarz« komponiert, einer jungen Pianistin, einer zierlichen Alzheimer frau und schließlich Oscar, einem Jungen mit Trisomie 21. Der Alltag auf der Station und die rassenhygienischen Kommentare der medizinischen »Spezialisten« werden nur durch kleine Freuden, wie die gelegentlichen Besu­che von Frau und Schwägerin, erträglich. Als die Patienten erfasst und klassifiziert werden, schließt sich die kleine Gruppe noch enger zusammen.

Alle hoffen darauf, sich nach dem Krieg im Traumland Italien wiederzufinden. Doch Max Koenig und Oscar werden verlegt und ihren Angehörigen entzogen. Töten wird sie Dr. Friedel Lerbe, Mediziner und SS­Mann. Als Leiter einer Tötungsanstalt führt er das NS ­»Euthanasie« ­Programm mit büro­kratischer Präzision aus – jedes Detail des Ablaufs wird von ihm kontrolliert.

Ein ganzer Stab von »Pflegern«, Se­kretärinnen, Technikern und Leichen brennern steht diesem »Spezialisten« bei seinem Handwerk zur Seite.

Barbara Zoeke wuchs im thüringischen Vogtland auf und studierte in Köln und Münster Psychologie. Sie ist habilitierte Psychologin und Schriftstellerin.
Barbara Zoeke lebt seit 2008 in Berlin.

Barbara Zoeke
Die Stunde der Spezialisten
Roman
Ca. 300 Seiten
Originalausgabe, nummeriert und limitiert
Gestaltung: Lars Henkel.
Kunstvolle Collage für Cover, Bezug, Vor- und Nachsatzpapier.
Fadenheftung, Lesebändchen.
September 2017
Band 393
€ 42
ISBN 978­3­8477­0393­8
DIE ANDERE BIBLIOTHEK 2017/18

Empathisch und erschütternd klar: In Barbara Zoekes Roman kommen Opfer und Täter eines der verdrängten Verbrechen der Nationalsozialisten zu Wort

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NELLIE BLY: Ten days in a Mad-house (Chapter IV: Judge Duffy and the Police)

bly_madhouse14Ten Days in a Mad-House
(Chapter IV: Judge Duffy and the Police)
by Nellie Bly

But to return to my story. I kept up my role until the assistant matron, Mrs. Stanard, came in. She tried to persuade me to be calm. I began to see clearly that she wanted to get me out of the house at all hazards, quietly if possible. This I did not want. I refused to move, but kept up ever the refrain of my lost trunks. Finally some one suggested that an officer be sent for. After awhile Mrs. Stanard put on her bonnet and went out. Then I knew that I was making an advance toward the home of the insane. Soon she returned, bringing with her two policemen–big, strong men–who entered the room rather unceremoniously, evidently expecting to meet with a person violently crazy. The name of one of them was Tom Bockert.

When they entered I pretended not to see them. “I want you to take her quietly,” said Mrs. Stanard. “If she don’t come along quietly,” responded one of the men, “I will drag her through the streets.” I still took no notice of them, but certainly wished to avoid raising a scandal outside. Fortunately Mrs. Caine came to my rescue. She told the officers about my outcries for my lost trunks, and together they made up a plan to get me to go along with them quietly by telling me they would go with me to look for my lost effects. They asked me if I would go. I said I was afraid to go alone. Mrs. Stanard then said she would accompany me, and she arranged that the two policemen should follow us at a respectful
distance. She tied on my veil for me, and we left the house by the basement and started across town, the two officers following at some distance behind. We walked along very quietly and finally came to the station house, which the good woman assured me was the express office, and that there we should certainly find my missing effects. I went inside with fear and trembling, for good reason.

A few days previous to this I had met Captain McCullagh at a meeting held in Cooper Union. At that time I had asked him for some information which he had given me. If he were in, would he not recognize me? And then all would be lost so far as getting to the island was concerned. I pulled my sailor hat as low down over my face as I possibly could, and prepared for the ordeal. Sure enough there was sturdy Captain McCullagh standing near the desk.

He watched me closely as the officer at the desk conversed in a low tone with Mrs. Stanard and the policeman who brought me.

“Are you Nellie Brown?” asked the officer. I said I supposed I was. “Where do you come from?” he asked. I told him I did not know, and then Mrs. Stanard gave him a lot of information about me–told him how strangely I had acted at her home; how I had not slept a wink all night, and that in her opinion I was a poor unfortunate who had been driven crazy by inhuman treatment. There was some discussion between Mrs. Standard and the two officers, and Tom Bockert was told to take us down to the court in a car.

In the hands of the police.

“Come along,” Bockert said, “I will find your trunk for you.” We all went together, Mrs. Stanard, Tom Bockert, and myself. I said it was very kind of them to go with me, and I should not soon forget them. As we walked along I kept up my refrain about my trucks, injecting occasionally some remark about the dirty condition of the streets and the curious character of the people we met on the way. “I don’t think I have ever seen such people before,” I said. “Who are they?” I asked, and my companions looked upon me with expressions of pity, evidently believing I was a foreigner, an emigrant or something of the sort. They told me that the people around me were working people. I remarked once more that I thought there were too many working people in the world for the amount of work to be done, at which remark Policeman P. T. Bockert eyed me closely, evidently thinking that my mind was gone for good. We passed several other policemen, who generally asked my sturdy guardians what was the matter with me. By this time quite a number of ragged children were following us too, and they passed remarks about me that were to me original as well as amusing.

“What’s she up for?” “Say, kop, where did ye get her?” “Where did yer pull ‘er?”

“She’s a daisy!”

Poor Mrs. Stanard was more frightened than I was. The whole situation grew interesting, but I still had fears for my fate before the judge.

At last we came to a low building, and Tom Bockert kindly volunteered the information: “Here’s the express office. We shall soon find those trunks of yours.”

The entrance to the building was surrounded by a curious crowd and I did not think my case was bad enough to permit me passing them without some remark, so I asked if all those people had lost their trunks.

“Yes,” he said, “nearly all these people are looking for trunks.”

I said, “They all seem to be foreigners, too.” “Yes,” said Tom, “they are all foreigners just landed. They have all lost their trunks, and it takes most of our time to help find them for them.”

We entered the courtroom. It was the Essex Market Police Courtroom. At last the question of my sanity or insanity was to be decided. Judge Duffy sat behind the high desk, wearing a look which seemed to indicate that he was dealing out the milk of human kindness by wholesale. I rather feared I would not get the fate I sought, because of the kindness I saw on every line of his face, and it was with rather a sinking heart that I followed Mrs. Stanard as she answered the summons to go up to the desk, where Tom Bockert had just given an account of the affair.

“Come here,” said an officer. “What is your name?”

“Nellie Brown,” I replied, with a little accent. “I have lost my trunks, and would like if you could find them.”

“When did you come to New York?” he asked.

“I did not come to New York,” I replied (while I added, mentally, “because I have been here for some time.”)

“But you are in New York now,” said the man.

“No,” I said, looking as incredulous as I thought a crazy person could, “I did not come to New York.”

“That girl is from the west,” he said, in a tone that made me tremble. “She has a western accent.”

Some one else who had been listening to the brief dialogue here asserted that he had lived south and that my accent was southern, while another officer was positive it was eastern. I felt much relieved when the first spokesman turned to the judge and said:

“Judge, here is a peculiar case of a young woman who doesn’t know who she is or where she came from. You had better attend to it at once.”

I commenced to shake with more than the cold, and I looked around at the strange crowd about me, composed of poorly dressed men and women with stories printed on their faces of hard lives, abuse and poverty. Some were consulting eagerly with friends, while others sat still with a look of utter hopelessness. Everywhere was a sprinkling of well-dressed, well-fed officers watching the scene passively and almost indifferently. It was only an old story with them. One more unfortunate added to a long list which had long since ceased to be of any interest or concern to them.

Nellie before Judge Duffy.

“Come here, girl, and lift your veil,” called out Judge Duffy, in tones which surprised me by a harshness which I did not think from the kindly face he possessed.

“Who are you speaking to?” I inquired, in my stateliest manner.

“Come here, my dear, and lift your veil. You know the Queen of England, if she were here, would have to lift her veil,” he said, very kindly.

“That is much better,” I replied. “I am not the Queen of England, but I’ll lift my veil.”

As I did so the little judge looked at me, and then, in a very kind and gentle tone, he said:

“My dear child, what is wrong?”

“Nothing is wrong except that I have lost my trunks, and this man,” indicating Policeman Bockert, “promised to bring me where they could be found.”

“What do you know about this child?” asked the judge, sternly, of Mrs. Stanard, who stood, pale and trembling, by my side.

“I know nothing of her except that she came to the home yesterday and asked to remain overnight.”

“The home! What do you mean by the home?” asked Judge Duffy, quickly.

“It is a temporary home kept for working women at No. 84 Second Avenue.”

“What is your position there?”

“I am assistant matron.”

“Well, tell us all you know of the case.”

“When I was going into the home yesterday I noticed her coming down the avenue. She was all alone. I had just got into the house when the bell rang and she came in. When I talked with her she wanted to know if she could stay all night, and I said she could. After awhile she said all the people in the house looked crazy, and she was afraid of them. Then she would not go to bed, but sat up all the night.”

“Had she any money?”

“Yes,” I replied, answering for her, “I paid her for everything, and the eating was the worst I ever tried.”

There was a general smile at this, and some murmurs of “She’s not so crazy on the food question.”

“Poor child,” said Judge Duffy, “she is well dressed, and a lady. Her English is perfect, and I would stake everything on her being a good girl. I am positive she is somebody’s darling.”

At this announcement everybody laughed, and I put my handkerchief over my face and endeavored to choke the laughter that threatened to spoil my plans, in despite of my resolutions.

“I mean she is some woman’s darling,” hastily amended the judge. “I am sure some one is searching for her. Poor girl, I will be good to her, for she looks like my sister, who is dead.”

There was a hush for a moment after this announcement, and the officers glanced at me more kindly, while I silently blessed the kind-hearted judge, and hoped that any poor creatures who might be afflicted as I pretended to be should have as kindly a man to deal with as Judge Duffy.

“I wish the reporters were here,” he said at last. “They would be able to find out something about her.”

I got very much frightened at this, for if there is any one who can ferret out a mystery it is a reporter. I felt that I would rather face a mass of expert doctors, policemen, and detectives than two bright specimens of my craft, so I said:

“I don’t see why all this is needed to help me find my trunks. These men are impudent, and I do not want to be stared at. I will go away. I don’t want to stay here.”

So saying, I pulled down my veil and secretly hoped the reporters would be detained elsewhere until I was sent to the asylum.

“I don’t know what to do with the poor child,” said the worried judge. “She must be taken care of.”

“Send her to the Island,” suggested one of the officers.

“Oh, don’t!” said Mrs. Stanard, in evident alarm. “Don’t! She is a lady and it would kill her to be put on the Island.”

For once I felt like shaking the good woman. To think the Island was just the place I wanted to reach and here she was trying to keep me from going there! It was very kind of her, but rather provoking under the circumstances.

“There has been some foul work here,” said the judge. “I believe this child has been drugged and brought to this city. Make out the papers and we will send her to Bellevue for examination. Probably in a few days the effect of the drug will pass off and she will be able to tell us a story that will be startling. If the reporters would only come!”

I dreaded them, so I said something about not wishing to stay there any longer to be gazed at. Judge Duffy then told Policeman Bockert to take me to the back office. After we were seated there Judge Duffy came in and asked me if my home was in Cuba.

“Yes,” I replied, with a smile. “How did you know?”

“Oh, I knew it, my dear. Now, tell me were was it? In what part of Cuba?”

“On the hacienda,” I replied.

“Ah,” said the judge, “on a farm. Do you remember Havana?”

“Si, senor,” I answered; “it is near home. How did you know?”

“Oh, I knew all about it. Now, won’t you tell me the name of your home?” he asked, persuasively.

“That’s what I forget,” I answered, sadly. “I have a headache all the time, and it makes me forget things. I don’t want them to trouble me. Everybody is asking me questions, and it makes my head worse,” and in truth it did.

“Well, no one shall trouble you any more. Sit down here and rest awhile,” and the genial judge left me alone with Mrs. Stanard.

Just then an officer came in with a reporter. I was so frightened, and thought I would be recognized as a journalist, so I turned my head away and said, “I don’t want to see any reporters; I will not see any; the judge said I was not to be troubled.”

“Well, there is no insanity in that,” said the man who had brought the reporter, and together they left the room. Once again I had a fit of fear. Had I gone too far in not wanting to see a reporter, and was my sanity detected? If I had given the impression that I was sane, I was determined to undo it, so I jumped up and ran back and forward through the office, Mrs. Stanard clinging terrified to my arm.

“I won’t stay here; I want my trunks! Why do they bother me with so many people?” and thus I kept on until the ambulance surgeon came in, accompanied by the judge.

Ten Days in a Mad-House
(Chapter IV: Judge Duffy and the Police)
by Nellie Bly (1864 – 1922)

fleursdumal.nl magazine

More in: Archive A-B, Bly, Nellie, Nellie Bly, Psychiatric hospitals


Museum Dr. GUISLAIN: Een andere wereld. Laboratorium van waan en fantasie

guislaine-anderewereldWaar ligt de grens tussen fantasie en werkelijkheid? Hoe onderscheid je droom van delirium, waan van wens, hallucinatie van inzicht? Op welke manier kan je onderzoeken of verbeelden wat zich ergens anders afspeelt? De tentoonstelling neemt, vertrekkend van de vele vragen rond psychose, hallucinatie en waan, twee eeuwen in ogenschouw. Niet om een historisch verhaal te vertellen, maar om uit die periode vijf eigenzinnige oeuvres te lichten die balanceren tussen kunst, kunde en wetenschap. J.J. Grandville, Gustav Mesmer, Gerard Heymans, Jean Perdrizet en Mathew Kneebone schiepen of brachten elk een ander universum in kaart en trachtten zo het ongrijpbare op hun eigen manier te vatten. Het zijn werelden waarin potloden wandelen, fietsen zweven, de afstand tussen twee evenwijdige lijnen variabel is, typemachines in contact staan met de overledenen en straatlichten stoppen met schijnen wanneer je er voorbijwandelt. Een andere wereld creëert passages: van deze naar de andere, tussen die andere onderling, en – misschien – ook van die andere terug naar deze wereld.

Een andere wereld
Laboratorium van waan en fantasie
22.10.16 – 28.05.17

Museum Dr. Guislain
Jozef Guislainstraat 43
B-9000 Gent
+32 (0)9 216 35 95
info@museumdrguislain.be

# meer informatie op website Museum Dr. Guislain

fleursdumal.nl magazine

More in: Art & Literature News, DICTIONARY OF IDEAS, Exhibition Archive, Psychiatric hospitals, Spurensicherung


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