Arnon Grunberg



Day fifteen in the mental institution – around 2 p.m. I left my ward. My last engagement was a conversation with the art therapist. She looked at my drawings and she said: “You are pissed off. You are angry.” “Probably,” I answered. “But I’ve been angry for a long time.” Around 5 p.m. I sat under the awning in my mother’s garden – the extension of therapy by other means.

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