And he took my hand.  And kissed with cold lips.

Mabel Meier

It was late.  I heard the sounds of trucks passing frequently.  In the distance I saw people.  On a corner two people were standing who... felt ashamed as I drew near.

Girls came, who were late.  A few, who wanted to earn money.  I saw the tall whore, who worked this area every night.  I recognized her by her slip.

A detective was watching me.  In front of me a woman was walking, who stood still often and wailing.

I did not think about it.  I looked up at the stars and found nothing to wish for.  I looked at myself with indifference, like a foreign object.  I shook my head, that the old man was walking alone so late... and murmured to the stars.. and it’s so strange.

I met a woman who said:  “Ah—­” I said:  “may I accompany you?” The woman said:  “Please.”  It was quite dark.

We went along together; the woman said that her name was Meier; but her first name was Mieze.  She lived with relatives; they employed a doorman.  In addition, she sang in a chorus.

The woman was neither beautiful nor young, but she seemed approachable.  I had no reason to be shy.

In front of the house in which the woman lived we stopped.

I suggested that we look for a hotel.  The woman was not averse; she said:  “No-” I said:  “Why?” The woman said:  “Papa” I said:  “The you don’t want—­” A smile came over the woman’s face.  She looked at a street lamp—­

Siegmund Simon

Nine doctors claim that Samuel Simon is suffering from delusions.  I am of the same opinion.

For 29 years I have been in the mental institute.  They are friendly to me.  I can do what I want.  When it’s warm, I go into the garden and listen to the hours die.  When it is cold, I sit at the window and let my mind drift towards the sky.  Often I watch the people, when they call or work or are sad...  I am glad that I am far away.  I do not miss life.  I am glad if no one does anything to me or wants anything from me.  I don’t envy people.

Nine times a year my pale wife brings me flowers.  My son Siegmund never comes.  The last time I saw him was when I was buried.  On my 49th birthday-I lay in a plain wooden coffin.  I was placed on a wagon-like catafalque.  Nine pall-bearers dressed in black walked beside me.  Behind me was the pastor, Leopold Lehmann, and at his side my wife Frieda and my nineteen-year-old son Siegmund.  Behind them were a few relatives, who were contented, and were speaking about the plague of caterpillars.

The sun cast warm light.  Wind blew from time to time.  It crawled over the gravel, tickling the women’s breasts and calves.  We stopped before the open grave.  The coffin was lowered, and a few formalities and