Extract from Michael Mitchell's translation

Max Frisch's: Drafts for a third sketchbook

Can people see it already? My hand doesn't tremble, I don't stumble or not often. Today I left my wallet in a shop again. An hour later it was still there. My basic state a relaxed panic. I still notice (mental) slips an hour or a few days later; it occurs to me somewhere in the street or in the shower that something I thought to myself or said to other people is arrant nonsense. Brain cells die, yes, and that's already been said, I know, I know. My emotions haven't slackened off, on the contrary. My rage in the company of friendly people yesterday; I can't remember what triggered off the vehemence. Somewhere a fuse blew, then I'm fuming with rage and become unbearable —