Original subtitles

I'll have you know that I'm an arm of your God.

God herself.

I was the first living being.

My upper part is the fiery Sun

in the rays of which live the Souls of the Dead.

The Sun is God itself.

The Sun shoots off millions and millions of electric beams.

Initially, as I became conscious, L started to revolve around myself.

While circulating,

an immense heat developed and compressed itself to Earth.

This is how I created the Earth and the stars.

I took God's name, but Evil resides in my cells.

Yes, Evil is reigning over the world.

Back!

I have an arm for every person through which I govern the world.

These invisible arms arrange people's fate,

their every step and smallest action.

I'm an arm of your God.

October 13, 1913, Tuesday.

A terrible and depressing thought;

I no longer have any inclination to write.

I feel no need of writing since I've been dealing with psychoanalysis.

Yet analysis only brings suffering, bitter recognition,

and disappointment,

while writing brings the joy and sustenance

I have always been longing for.

Ever since I've been incapable of writing,

I feel as if I'm not able to speak.

I feel as if I've gone dumb.

The deranged mind is just like the broken mechanism of a clock.

We must get rid of the faulty parts if we want it to work again.

With this tiny operation ,

medical science can restore health to our hopelessly suffering patients.

To put it frankly, we bring them oblivion ,

which frees them from their demons.

The next step is that we sever the nerve

and isolate the frontal lobe.

In this way, we terminate its connection to other parts of the brain

finally and irrevocably.

ls that you , Dr. Brenner? Welcome to our institute.

October 1 4, Wednesday.

The corset's tight garters hindered penetration.

However, I unfastened them.

Then I lifted up her petticoat, and she bent forward,

leaning against the side of the buffet trolley to make penetration easier.

Her sighs put me into ecstasy.

I placed a vaginal suppository in her,

and I penetrated her after five minutes.

As many times before,

I was shocked by how swiftly a girl could be ruined

and turned into a woman, at least in spirit.

Color of hair; brown; eyes; brown; height; slightly taller than average.

I got to know her just a half an hour ago in the train.

I forgot to ask her name.

When did you write this book?

Four years ago.

How do you like the book?

Before that, at dawn, I had a light breakfast on the train,

then two milligrams of morphine.

Actually, a long, never-ending journey

and depressing thoughts of my new work.

-And what else do you write about? -About things that happen to me.

Do you write everything?

Every single moment.

I'm Dr. Brenner.

Good evening.

Don't!

Enough! Enough! Enough!

Enough!

Heute rot, Morgen tot!

Enough! Enough! I don't want to write it down!

Don't you understand? I don't want to write it down!

I hate writing!

I hate writing!

All right, little girl. . .

I will take the life out of you even if I need pincers.

Don't worry, you will soon have an autopsy,

and you'll soon have a knife cut through your head.

Shit!

The essence of life is such an expensive commodity

that through the centuries,

entire generations receive a mere hour of it all told.

He who accepts this,

accepts the fact that he must die even before he is born.

But he, the one who has forever been obsessed with poison,

should extract 14 hours to himself from every day.

These 14 hours are equal to 8,000 years of life

lived by 400 generations.

But let's just say 5,000.

Which means that in the course of just one day,

I live 5,000 years.

In one year, this comes to approximately two million years.

The Evil One is constantly rummaging around in me.

He settles in my lower parts, enters my vagina.

He wants me to serve him, to be his whore,

whose lower parts will help him maintain his power.

I don't want this delight, but I struggle against him in vain,

my hands keep getting there.

The traces of the night murder had completely disappeared

by the time of the morning rounds.

If the doctors would see me at night. . .

My head and my neck hang listlessly on my breast.

If I go out on all fours,

I keep heaving over,

since it's only in my head that I have a living soul.

October 15, Thursday.

I have begun my service at the Winter Clinic.

Nothing but unfriendly people.

I still have no single rotten thought that is worth putting down on paper.

But at least I can get the morphine easily.

My first inspection went well.

Minor issues in the toilet aside, nothing special happened.

''Assuming that you start smoking opium as a strong , mature man

and pay meticulous attention to the maintenance of your health ,

best left to a good doctor, you can live 10 years.

And then , having reached the age of 20 million ,

you can lay your head down in peace on the ice-cold pillow of perdition.

Blaring accords of light roar unrestrained in the morning streets.''

If I understand correctly, this story is the confession of an opium smoker.

Congratulations.

You write extremely sensitively in your short story.

Tell me, where do you get this insight from?

I'm a doctor.

You write so authentically.

I wonder if this is pure imagination. Or reality itself?

Of course. It's just fantasy.

More tea?

Yes, please.

I have a patient. Her name is Gizella Klein.

I'd like you to examine her tomorrow.

Perhaps your methods can work in her case.

Of course, you're a man of new ideas.

Psychoanalysis, superego, penis envy.

You despise my medieval methods, don't you?

Despite that, you accepted this job.

Why?

Gizella Klein, born January 31, 1885,

a 175-centimeter-tall, relatively well-developed

and yet undernourished female patient.

According to our examinations, the girl is a virgin.

There is no trace of penetration of the hymen.

Her mother was bedridden for eight years,

dying of a prolonged bout of TB.

Gizella nursed her mother at home from early childhood

right up to her mother's death.

I remember one afternoon.

A breeze touched me lightly on the street.

The Evil One entered me.

I felt the power, with some sort of mind.

And I also felt that this force wanted to compel me

to get married and to leave my mother forever.

That evening my mother leaned up on her elbows in bed and looked at me.

She was shouting something, but I switched on the gramophone.

The music drowned out her voice.

That evening I didn't take in her supper.

Or the next day, either.

And never more thereafter.

Read it. It's very important.

And this Creature. . .

Is it saying anything to you right now?

Does it speak to you?

You can tell me.

Ich spuck dir Speichel ins Gesicht.

Good God , his days are numbered.

So the Creature speaks to you in German.

What sort of a voice does it speak in?

A male voice?

I can't say it's a male voice.

Now it's saying ,

''Empty yourself!''

Why?

It's telling you to talk

because it doesn't dare release me until you've spoken.

I don't understand.

It's scared of you executing me, yet it slashes me.

I'm a fool.

I have no more brains.

I'm totally crazy.

The Sun is God.

The Sun is God!

The Sun is God!

October 24, Friday.

So far this year I've earned 376 Koronas.

Spent; 297 Koronas and 12 Fill�rs.

Morphine total; 170 centigrams. Average per day; 0.6 centigrams.

Coitus; 142.

I still have not had a single rotten thought

that is worth putting down on paper.

To encourage myself to write, I started counting the written lines.

However, as a consequence,

I started writing in bigger and bigger letters.

Since then, I've started counting the letters.

October 27, Tuesday.

Today I was examined.

My new doctor seems to be a very knowledgeable, serious person.

A serious man.

He reminds me of the doctor who cared for my mother.

The man was seriously interested in me.

By then, my mother was very ill.

The tuberculosis had taken hold of her.

All my time was taken up with nursing her.

Don't write anymore!

I remember one day, a breeze touched me lightly on the street.

I felt the power.

It was something like electricity endowed with some sort of mind.

This force wanted to compel me to get married and leave my mother,

my poor pale mother.

Don't write anymore!

Don't write! Don't write! Don't write!

Lights out!

Stop writing now.

Stop it!

Put it down! Put it down!

-No! -Put it down!

Obsessed!

Your writings are very interesting. Do you know that?

I do.

How long have you been writing?

Since I was brought here.

Why were you brought here?

Because I'm mad.

And why did you go mad?

Why did I go mad?

Because I have no brain.

I will comment on the pictures,

and I want you to tell me the thoughts that are coming into your mind.

My life is sad.

Yes.

My heart is aching.

I don't have one.

I suffer a lot.

I'm no longer alive. Oh , God!

Misfortune awaits me.

Never.

My fate is misery.

Oh , God.

Oh , God.

I'll be reduced to a beggar.

I'm finished.

It'd be best if they buried me.

No!

If only death would come!

I want to live, but I won't be evil.

I've committed a great sin.

I've committed a great sin.

I don't remember.

Everyone despises me.

That's true, but they are lying.

October 2 7, Tuesday.

My blood pressure is 1 36/8 8.

My excretory system works faultlessly.

I am increasingly occupied by Gizella.

Her level of intelligence is undoubtedly low.

Her condition could be described as middling serious.

But in her writing, there is some sort of inexplicable, unusual force.

She inundates me with more and more pages.

She takes every opportunity to write to me.

The passion with which she puts her thoughts on paper is enviable.

Oh, if only I was able to write like this!

Field.

Wide.

Home.

Spacious.

Leaves.

Shady.

And knife?

Sharp.

Horse - Animal.

Horse - Animal.

Stove - Burns.

Cigar - Smokes.

Child - Runs.

Apple - Falls.

Bud - Opens.

Soup - Tastes.

Scythe - Glistens.

Old man - Hobbles.

Shall we begin?

Yes.

Picture?

Frame.

Home, leaves, knife.

Home, leaves, knife.

Spacious, shady, sharp.

Sun , fish , meadow, horse.

Shiny, mute, wide, animal.

Stove, cigar, child , apple, soup, scythe, old man?

Burns, smokes, runs, falls, tastes, glistens, hobbles.

You've made a mistake.

I beg your pardon?

You left ''Bud'' out.

Have you been made to do this exercise before?

I don't understand.

I mean , have you played this game before?

Perhaps with another doctor.

I don't play games with other doctors.

This morning ,

as I was gazing out of the window,

a bird looked in at me.

I don't know what kind of a bird it was.

But it was a bird.

Its eyes shone dully.

Its look was familiar from somewhere.

That's the expression my mother wore as she lay there,

looking straight through me.

First. . .

. . .it was her hands that went cold.

And then, gradually...

...her arms and shoulders, her legs.

She just stared at me...

...until she became completely cold.

As cold as metal...

...like a doorknob.

How long have you been here?

10 years, 4 months, and 12 days.

And you haven't been outside since then?

No.

You can take a look around.

Isn't the countryside beautiful?

Lean back and enjoy the drive.

Surrender yourself.

I want to go back.

I want to go back.

I want to go back.

Back! Take me back! Stop it!

Gizella, you should remain calm.

Stop it!

Behave yourself!

Stop it!

We're going back to the institute.

Gizella!

Stop!

That's enough! Gizella, that's enough!

That's enough! That's enough!

Professor Winter has decided that you will be my patient from now on.

We'll meet more often.

Gizella!

We'll meet more often in the future.

Do you understand?

Good.

Do you have any requests?

Yes.

Good.

Do tell me.

Remove my brain.

Everything is all right. Relax. Just try to sleep.

Don't let me. . .

Increase the dosage, Sister.

Don't let me die, Doctor!

October 2 7, Sunday.

Sister Hortenzia came back under the pretense

that she was feeling very dizzy and wanted an expert to examine her.

Sister Hortenzia is a 30-year-old, flashy, big-nosed woman,

with huge buttocks, slightly sagging but beautiful breasts,

masterfully formed on the whole, with velvet-smooth pink skin.

Have you been with a man?

Once. A long , long time ago.

And what do you say to trying again?

I'd permit it.

I pulled on a condom,

and there, standing by the oblique bed, I mounted her.

She raised her hips as much as she could to serve me.

She worked with ghastly pleasure.

Her legs were poking towards the ceiling,

and she leaned her huge bottom and broad thighs against my waist.

The orgasm that she produced was noteworthy

because her eyes were flashing wildly,

and her entire ugly being was transformed in a strange way,

and this excited and amazed me.

Gizella, don't you undress?

You got yourself fucked by the new doctor.

You will die for it.

What are you telling me?

What did you say?

I see your death. You are going to die.

What did you say?

November 1, 1913. All Saints Day.

My morphine doses have risen to terrible levels.

It is far beyond the largest doses so far.

Shameful failures. Zero lines, zero letters.

I spent all my time reading Gizella's diaries.

Gizella hasn't eaten for days.

''The Evil offers himself to me every day to be his whore,

and then he would turn my life into gold.''

Take her to force-feeding.

You need to eat.

You can go now.

Yes.

Why do you sit by yourself?

I want to talk to you.

What about?

You are interested , aren't you?

I don't understand.

My diaries.

I have not shown them to anyone before.

I really want you to read them.

Everything is in there.

How can you write so much?

I have time.

Don't you have any friends?

I've got a lot of friends.

Who is your best friend?

You.

Follow me, please.

I'm going to examine you. Take off your clothes.

And leave your underwear on.

Please, sit down.

Look here, please.

Follow my finger.

You have beautiful eyes.

Do you know that you write very well?

Sometimes I feel like continuing your sentences.

Tell me if you hear anything.

Time.

I can hear time passing.

Go on.

I hear it clearly.

It is time.

What about now?

I can smell it.

What do you smell?

The Devil.

He wants me. . .

. . .to serve him. . .

. . .to be his whore.

He wants my body.

He is constantly rummaging around in me,

he settles in my lower parts,

inside of me.

He lives there.

In my lower parts.

And he enters. . .

. . .my vagina.

Obsessed!

Give it back! Give it back!

Gizella!

Give it back!

-Give it back! -Stop that!

Gizella!

l know someone who loves me.

I despise him, but he loves me.

I may give in to him, nonetheless, but he loves me.

I may let him get close to me.

I may become his wife even so.

I'm seeking someone who will do it instead of me;

cut the Evil One out of me.

I'm seeking someone who is wicked enough to be good to me.

The Devil makes you an offer every day,

again and again, that you should be his,

and then your life will change into gold,

and your sufferings will cease in an instant,

and you'll get everything you want;

happiness and time.

Endless time.

I've had enough of this.

The Evil One doesn't gobble up your body in one go.

He just eats little pieces of you ,

eating your flesh day by day in tiny pieces.

He wants to destroy you by slow torture because you rejected him.

Oh , my God!

Oh , my God!

Gizella, please.

Last night, after the lights were out, in the bathroom ,

Sister Hortenzia died.

She had a heart attack.

According to an account by one of our patients, you foretold her death.

This is obvious nonsense. No one can foretell anybody's death.

Listen to me, Gizella!

Please answer me.

How did you know?

What were you thinking?

Answer me.

Concentrate, please!

Really, you can tell me.

Gizella, please! Please stop it!

Two more weeks detention! Don't give her paper or pencil!

Why did you take them away from her?

Why did you take them away from her?

It's cruel!

-Gizella is not your patient anymore. -Answer me!

An answer?

-You want an answer from me? -Yes.

Why do you interfere with my work?

At present, I'm the director of this institution.

-That doesn't entitle you to-- -Yes, it does! It entitles me!

I created this institution from nothing. On my own.

And I won't allow anyone to interfere with how I run it.

-Is there anything else you wish? -Why do you stop her from writing?

Because it makes her hysterical.

No. Being banned from writing is what makes her hysterical.

She'll die without it!

You can't be serious about that.

She'll sulk for a few days, and then she'll forget about it.

How dare you?

Paper, please.

l beg your pardon?

Give me some paper.

I'm afraid , I can't.

Give me paper.

I beg you.

I'm sorry.

All right, little girl.

I will take the life out of you even if I need pincers.

Don't worry, you will soon have an autopsy,

and you'll have a knife cut through your head.

Let me through!

My God!

I know what you want.

You want me to give you my body.

You want me to be your wife.

All right, you can have my body.

The Evil One has been gnawing at it, anyway.

For Christ's sake, stop that!

Why are you doing this to me?

I'm risking my professional career because of you.

I've had enough of your tricks.

And I'm going to leave this place today.

I don't care what you want or what you don't want.

You are draining my energy day by day.

You are. . .

I know that you have a plan , but I can't figure out what it is.

You moved into me completely!

If you try, I'll kill you.

What did you just say?

If you try to leave, I'll kill you.

January 1, Friday.

The sooty lamps glow dimly, barely giving off any light.

''Get yourself together,'' I said, ''or you are going to die, my friend.

You are going to die, my friend. ''

This afternoon I injected another dose and started to feel guilty.

Unable to write.

Zero lines, zero letters.

Come on. Don't be afraid.

Come on.

January 3, Monday.

I feel new strength within me.

I haven't even felt like taking the poison.

Today I started a new project.

The idea came like a streak of lightening,

and I wondered why it hadn't come to mind earlier.

After all, it was in front of me for months.

I took out Gizella's writings

and put new life into her stories written there.

Or did I just copy them?

It makes no difference.

Every line of the growing work is mine, every thought, my thought.

You'll know why I had to disappear forever.

Because you , you will erase me forever from your memories.

You will forget me as if I was a worthless being ,

and I'm going to vanish as if I never existed.

I remember one afternoon, a breeze touched me lightly on the street.

The Evil One entered me.

I felt the power.

It was something like electricity, equipped with some sort of mind.

This force wanted to compel me to get married and leave my mother.

By then, mother was very ill.

The tuberculosis had taken hold of her.

All my time was taken up with nursing her.

Now I know that she was only bait on the hook of the Evil One.

First, her hands went cold and then, gradually, her arms and shoulders.

She just looked at me until she became quite cold, metallic cold,

like a doorknob.

-What are you doing here? -Eating.

Go back to your seat, Gizella.

I am under the protection of Dr. Brenner.

The doctor is my husband.

Tell him.

I beg your pardon?

Inform this gentleman.

What of?

Tell them what our situation is.

And what is our situation?

We spent the night together.

We are husband and wife.

Of course. Naturally.

Well , the professor knows about it.

We spent the night together. We are husband and wife.

We are husband and wife.

We are husband and wife.

Of course.

We are husband and wife.

We are husband and wife!

Husband and wife!

Please. . .

What?

Please. . .

What?

I know you can do it.

Remove my brain.

I am eaten alive. I am slowly rotting.

Evil is chewing me up from inside.

I know you want him.

Kill me.

I'll die if you won't kill me.

What do you want from me?

Cut it out.

I can't.

I can't do that.

Please.

Please.

-I can't do that. -Please!

Please! Please! Please!

Please!

Good evening.

Good evening.

I finished your book the other day.

I wasn't wrong.

You're a monster.

I'm honored.

And now? What are you working on currently?

Have you found your next subject yet?

I think so.

And what is it, if I may ask?

I am writing about Evil.

How interesting.

Continue.

I'm getting acquainted with it.

You don't say.

What's it like?

Dim and strong.

And what about the plot?

The hero has to commit a sin to win the trust of Evil.

You writers. . .

You infect people's souls with your scribbles.

I'm giving you 2 4 hours to leave my institution.

Is there anything else you need to do?

Yes. There is something.

All right.

But then clear out. I don't want to see you again.

I know you love me.

We are husband and wife.

Sleep.