/lit/ - Literature

this is what redpill overdose looks like

>Förster led me into Nietzsche’s room before breakfast. He lay sleeping on a sofa. The mighty head rested, as if too heavy for his neck, sunk on his chest, hanging halfway to the right. The forehead is quite colossal, the mane of his hair still dark brown, and also the shaggy, swollen moustache. There are wide, black-brown shadows sunk deep under his eyes into his cheeks. In his flat, loose face deep furrows from thought and desire are engraved but gradually fading and becoming smooth again. The hands are like wax, with greenish-violet veins, and somewhat swollen, like those of a corpse. A table and a high stool had been shoved against the sofa so that the heavy body would not fall down in case of a sudden movement. He was exhausted by the muggy, thunderstorm atmosphere and would not awaken, despite his sister stroking him several times and calling to him, “Darling, darling” caressingly. Thus he resembles not someone sick or crazy but rather a dead man.

>About Nietzsche’s current situation she spoke with more hope since the move. The new house pleases him. When he arrived he looked very carefully at the decoration, wandered everywhere without having to be supported, saying always, “Palazzo, palazzo.” He constantly repeats that everyone is so good here, enjoys it when she reads poems to him, especially because of the rhythm, and even chimes in frequently with a verse when they are his own poems. When he has slept poorly he often has short spells of temper which then end when he closes his eyes and says, “My sister is very good.” When Förster relates all of this, it sounds as if she is talking of a child who is just learning how to speak. She seems to have become so accustomed to treating her brother as a stammering child that she no longer seems to feel the horrible tragedy of it all. She enjoys his childish smiles and stammers.

>After dinner a moment upstairs with Nietzsche. He lay on the sofa like the last time but awake and watching what was going on. He extended his hand to me when I stretched mine out to him. The fingers are strikingly long and finely built, only the color is corpse-like. He looks at one firmly and steadily. There is nothing mad about his look. I would prefer to describe the look as loyal and, at the same time, of not quite understanding, of a fruitless intellectual searching, such as you often see in a large, noble dog, a St. Bernard. The bushy eyebrows hanging over the eyelids, a little unkempt, heightens the resemblance. Once he clutched his head as one does with a headache or when remembering something. In general the impression is more painful than frightening or unpleasant in any way.