Today, I finished the book Brain on Fire: My Month of Madness by Susannah Cahalan.
While this book deserves it's own blog post because it is an absolutely amazing, riveting book, one part that stuck with me is the poem inside, by Franz Wright. It is called 'Intake Interview' Wheeling Motel. It is nonsense, but I love it. It would make more sense if you had read the book Brain on Fire (which I have, if anyone would like to borrow it!)
What is today's date?
Who is the President?
How great a danger do you pose, on a scale of one to ten?
What does "people who live in glass houses" mean?
Every symphony is a suicide postponed, true or false?
Should each individual snowflake be held accountable for the avalanche?
Name five rivers.
What do you see yourself doing in five minutes?
How about some lovely soft Thorazine music?
If you could have half an hour with your father, what would you say to him?
What should you do if I fall asleep?
Are you still following in his mastodon footsteps?
What is the moral of "Mary Had a Little Lamb"?
What about his Everest shadow?
Would you compare your education to a disease so rare no one else has ever had it, or the deliberate extermination of indigenous populations?
Which is more puzzling, the existence of suffering or its frequent absense?
Should an odd number be sacrificed to the gods of the sky, and an even to those of the underworld, or vice versa?
Would you visit a country where nobody talks?
What would you have done differently?
Why are you here?