—I inhabited not life but death. As far back as I can remember cadavers rose up before me: “You turn away, hide, renounce in vain … you are part of the family and you will join us this evening.” They held forth, tender, amiable and sardonic, or else in the image of Christ the eternally humiliated one, the insane executioner, they held out their arms.
From east to west, country to country, city to city I walked among graves. Soon the ground, whether grassy or paved, failed me, I floated, suspended between heaven and earth, between ceiling and floor. My eyes, rolled back in pain, presented their fibrous orbs to the world; my hands, mutilated hooks, carried a senseless heritage. I rode the clouds a madwoman or a beggar of friendship. Feeling somewhat of a monster, I no longer recognized the humans I nevertheless liked. Finally, I slowly petrified until I became the perfect ornament.
Laure, Story of a Little Girl