I
Often enough the lover of cities tires of their unceasing noise; the din
of the traffic buzzes perpetually in his ears, and even in the silences
of night he hears the footfalls on the pavement, the dull stamping of
horses, the screeching of wheels; the fog chokes up the lungs so that he
cannot breathe; he sees no longer any charms in the tall chimneys of the
factory and the heavy smoke winding in curves against the leaden sky;
then he flies to countries where the greenness is like cold spring
water, where he can hear the budding of the trees and the stars tell him
fantastic things, the silence is full of mysterious new emotions. And so
the writer sometimes grows weary to death of the life he sees, and he
presses his hands before his eyes, that he may hide from him the endless
failure in the endless quest; then he too sets sail for Bohemia by the
Sea, and the other countries of the Frankly Impossible, where men are
always brave and women ever beautiful; there the tears of the morning
are followed by laughter at night, trials are easily surmountable,
virtue is always triumphant; there no illusions are lost, and lovers
live ever happily in a world without end.