presumption. A sick person who returns home always feels like an intruder in an area where he no longer has any business to be. It is a well-known pattern the world over: a sick person goes away, and once he is gone the healthy move in and take over the place he formerly occupied, yet instead of dying, as he was meant to do, he suddenly returns, wishing toresume and repossess his former place. The healthy are incensed, since the reappearance of this person whom they had already written off forces them back into their previous confines, and this is the last thing they want. The sick person needs the most superhuman strength if he is to resume and repossess his former place. On the other hand, it is well known that the gravely sick, once they return home, set about the
reappropriation
of their rights with the utmost ruthlessness. Sometimes they even have the strength to displace the healthy, to drive them out and even to kill them. But this very rarely happens: the normal situation is the one I have already described, in which the sick person returns home, expecting nothing but gentleness and consideration, only to meet with brutal hypocrisy, which, with a kind of clairvoyance, he is at once able to see through. A gravely sick person who returns home must be treated with gentleness and consideration. But this is difficult, and therefore rare. The healthy immediately make him feel he is an outsider and no longer one of them, and while pretending that this is not so, they do all in their power to repulse him. I met with none of these difficulties, since I returned to a completely empty house, and Paul, who was discharged before me, was fortunate in being able to return to Edith. I have hardly ever known a more helpful person than my friendâs wife; she surrounded him with loving care until one day, about six months before his death, she suffered a stroke that left her partially paralyzed. She had a long spell of hospitalization, and then for some months she would be seen in the city center, but of course she was no longer the Edith she had once been. She had lost much of her self-confidenceand insisted on doing her shopping in the immediate vicinity of their apartment, and since cooking was now such an effort, she went for lunch to the Grabenhotel in the Dorotheergasse, where the food has always been cheap but was still of excellent quality, as it no longer is. After the death of the two proprietors of the hotel, who also owned the Regina and the Royal and both died of Parkinsonâs disease, the food in all three establishments became inedible, and it is a long time since I last visited any of themâwhich is a great pity, as the Grabenhotel is the most pleasant place to sit. One day Edith died, leaving my friend Paul completely alone. He went rapidly downhill. At times he seemed like his former self, but death was
written on his face
, as they say, and he knew it. He had absolutely nothing more to lose in the world. Once or twice he tried to recuperate in the Salzkammergut, but to no avail. While Edith was alive he had left her alone most of the time in their apartment above the Bräunerhof, but now that she was dead he could no longer exist without her. He seemed
lost
, and there was no longer any way of helping him. I and various other friends often took him out for a drinkâto take him out of himself, as they sayâbut without success. Once or twice he himself invited me and my friends to the Sacher and ordered champagne, as in the old days, but this only deepened his depression. In their last years together, when he was not in Steinhof or in the Wagner-Jauregg Hospital (Wagner-Jauregg, after whom this psychiatric hospital was named, had been a relative of his), he and Edith often went to Traunkirchen. Now he went there alone, but the effect was devastating. Even at a distance one could see that he was desperate,rushing this way and that and finding nothing to cling to. In his own quarters, up on the hill
reappropriation
of their rights with the utmost ruthlessness. Sometimes they even have the strength to displace the healthy, to drive them out and even to kill them. But this very rarely happens: the normal situation is the one I have already described, in which the sick person returns home, expecting nothing but gentleness and consideration, only to meet with brutal hypocrisy, which, with a kind of clairvoyance, he is at once able to see through. A gravely sick person who returns home must be treated with gentleness and consideration. But this is difficult, and therefore rare. The healthy immediately make him feel he is an outsider and no longer one of them, and while pretending that this is not so, they do all in their power to repulse him. I met with none of these difficulties, since I returned to a completely empty house, and Paul, who was discharged before me, was fortunate in being able to return to Edith. I have hardly ever known a more helpful person than my friendâs wife; she surrounded him with loving care until one day, about six months before his death, she suffered a stroke that left her partially paralyzed. She had a long spell of hospitalization, and then for some months she would be seen in the city center, but of course she was no longer the Edith she had once been. She had lost much of her self-confidenceand insisted on doing her shopping in the immediate vicinity of their apartment, and since cooking was now such an effort, she went for lunch to the Grabenhotel in the Dorotheergasse, where the food has always been cheap but was still of excellent quality, as it no longer is. After the death of the two proprietors of the hotel, who also owned the Regina and the Royal and both died of Parkinsonâs disease, the food in all three establishments became inedible, and it is a long time since I last visited any of themâwhich is a great pity, as the Grabenhotel is the most pleasant place to sit. One day Edith died, leaving my friend Paul completely alone. He went rapidly downhill. At times he seemed like his former self, but death was
written on his face
, as they say, and he knew it. He had absolutely nothing more to lose in the world. Once or twice he tried to recuperate in the Salzkammergut, but to no avail. While Edith was alive he had left her alone most of the time in their apartment above the Bräunerhof, but now that she was dead he could no longer exist without her. He seemed
lost
, and there was no longer any way of helping him. I and various other friends often took him out for a drinkâto take him out of himself, as they sayâbut without success. Once or twice he himself invited me and my friends to the Sacher and ordered champagne, as in the old days, but this only deepened his depression. In their last years together, when he was not in Steinhof or in the Wagner-Jauregg Hospital (Wagner-Jauregg, after whom this psychiatric hospital was named, had been a relative of his), he and Edith often went to Traunkirchen. Now he went there alone, but the effect was devastating. Even at a distance one could see that he was desperate,rushing this way and that and finding nothing to cling to. In his own quarters, up on the hill
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