Angst
As soon as the telephone thrummed, I knew. I was in the back bedroom. It was the last room in the world. At that time, the stories that came were telling me what they wanted. I could believe anything, for I’d stopped believing myself. Lying there, defenceless, without papers. Without remedy strong enough to keep me alive. Without being dead. But prey to the ache of hope. All the languages were spoken in the world except mine. All the books were writing to me, except the one I’d have liked to read. No one ever wrote that.
Read an extract from Angst by Hélène Cixous, translated by Sophie Lewis.