I take a shower, look in the mirror, and think to myself that I am only twenty years old, and that it feels like I have been married for a generation. It feels like life beyond these green rooms is rushing by for other people as if to the sound of kettledrums and tom-toms. Meanwhile I am only twenty years old, and the days descend on me unnoticeably like dust, each one just like the rest.

The Young Artists Club is now a reality and my life has regained color and substance. Every Thursday evening about a dozen of us meet, in a room in the Women’s Building that we got permission to use as long as we each buy a cup of coffee. It costs one krone per person, without cake, and those who don’t have money borrow it from those who do. The meeting starts with a lecture by a famous older artist – a ‘Big Fish’ – who thereby does Viggo F. a friendly favor. I never hear a word of the lecture, because I’m too preoccupied with having to stand up and thank them when it’s over. I always say the same thing: Let me thank you for that excellent lecture. It was very kind of you to come. Usually, to our relief, the Big Fish declines our offer to stay for coffee. Then the rest of us pass the time, chatting cheerfully about everything under the sun, but rarely naming who brought us together. [...]

[...] And I realize more and more that the only thing I’m good for, the only thing that truly captivates me, is forming sentences and word combinations, or writing simple, four-line poetry. And in order to do this I have to be able to observe people in a certain way, almost as if I needed to store them in a file somewhere for later use. And to be able to do this I have to be able to read in a certain way too, so I can absorb through all my pores everything I need, if not for now, then for later use. That’s why I can’t interact with too many people; and I can’t go out too much and drink alcohol, because then I can’t work the next day. And since I’m always forming sentences in my head, I’m often distant and distracted when Ebbe starts talking to me, and that makes him feel dejected. [...]

[...] Come here, she said gently, leading me to a sink. Wash your hands. See if you can do it yourself. When I raise my head, I see myself in the mirror, and I put my hand over my mouth to hold back a scream. That’s not me, I cry, I don’t look like that. That’s not possible. In the mirror I see a worn-out, aged, stranger’s face with gray, scaly skin and red eyes. I look like I’m seventy, I sob, clinging to the nurse, who leans her head in on my shoulder. There, there, she says. I didn’t think of that, but don’t cry. When you start getting insulin it will be much better. You’ll get more meat on your bones and you’ll look like a young woman again. I promise. It happens all the time. When I’m in bed again, I lie there looking at my toothpick arms and legs, and for a moment I’m full of rage at Carl. Then I remember that I carry my share of the blame as well, and my rage disappears.

You look like an odalisque, he said, and he had to explain to me what an odalisque was.