Oswald. But that isn't what is the matter. It is no ordinary
fatigue--

Mrs. Alving (trying to get up). You are not ill, Oswald!

Oswald (pulling her down again). Sit still, mother. Do take it
quietly. I am not exactly ill--not ill in the usual sense. (Takes
his head in his hands.) Mother, it's my mind that has broken
down--gone to pieces--I shall never be able to work anymore!
(Buries his face in his hands and throws himself at her knees in
an outburst of sobs.)

Mrs. Alving (pale and trembling). Oswald! Look at me! No, no, it
isn't true!

Oswald (looking up with a distracted expression). Never to be
able to work anymore! Never--never! A living death! Mother, can
you imagine anything so horrible!

Mrs. Alving. My poor unhappy boy? How has this terrible thing
happened?

Oswald (sitting up again). That is just what I cannot possibly
understand. I have never lived recklessly, in any sense. You must
believe that of me, mother, I have never done that.

Mrs. Alving. I haven't a doubt of it, Oswald.

Oswald. And yet this comes upon me all the same; this terrible
disaster!