can think about nothing at all and just laze mindlessly, time belongs to you, not the reverse. You’re not driven onward by that frantic mill wheel of hours and seconds, you glide through time, eyes closed, as though in a rowboatwith oars pulled in. Christine lies there, enjoying this new feeling, her blood pulsing pleasantly in her ears like faraway Sunday church bells.
But no (she sits up energetically)—this is no time for daydreaming . Don’t waste any of this time, this time that brings more wonders every second. At home you can dream for months, years on end, in the creaky, broken-down wooden bed with the hard mattress at night, and at the ink-spotted worktable while the peasants are off in the fields, the clock on the wall like a sentinel, ticking inexorably and punctiliously. There, dreaming is better than being awake; here in this celestial world, sleep is a waste of time. She’s out of bed with a final decisive movement and splashes some cold water on her face and neck; now, refreshed, into the new clothes. Overnight her skin has forgotten their soft rustle and shimmer. The clinging caress of the luxurious fabric is a new pleasure. But don’t linger on these small delights, don’t waste time. Time to leave now, get out of this room, go somewhere, anywhere; sharpen this feeling of happiness and freedom, stretch your limbs, fill your eyes, be awake, wider awake, vividly awake in every sense and every pore. She pulls on her sweater, jams on her hat, and dashes downstairs.
The corridors are still gray and empty in the cold morning light, but in the lounge downstairs shirtsleeved hotel workers are cleaning the runners with electric carpet sweepers. The puffy-eyed night clerk shows ill-humored surprise at the sight of this excessively early guest, but sleepily doffs his cap. Poor fellow, so here too there’s hard work, unseen labor, ill-paid drudgery, there’s such a thing as having to get up and be on time. But let’s not think about that. What’s it to me? I don’t want to be aware of anyone but me, me, me. Go on, go on by. Outside the cold air pounces, scrubs eyelids, lips, and cheeks like an icy cloth. This mountain air does chill you, down to the bone. The only thing for that is to run, that’ll get the blood circulating.This path must go somewhere. It doesn’t matter where. Up here anywhere is as magical and new as anywhere else.
Christine sets off at a vigorous pace, surprised that no one is out yet. At six in the morning the swirl of people that thronged the paths at midday yesterday must still be packed away in the great stone crates of the hotels, and the very landscape lies in a kind of gray trance. The air is soundless, the moon, so golden yesterday, is gone, the stars have vanished, the colors have faded, the misty cliffs are as drab and colorless as cold metal. Only high up, among the highest peaks, are there thick clouds moving restlessly, as if some invisible force were stretching them, pulling them. Now and then a cloud separates from the dense mass, floating up like a fat white cotton ball; it changes form as it climbs, suffused with a light from nowhere, bordered with gold. The sun must be nearby, already at work somewhere behind the peaks—not yet in sight, but warming the turbulent atmosphere. So move toward it, then, upward, higher! This trail here, perhaps, graveled, as gently winding as a garden path, it can’t be hard; and in fact it’s plain sailing. She’s not used to this sort of thing and is surprised by the joyous spring in her step. The path’s gradual turns and the buoyancy of the air draw her upward. A sprint like this warms the blood in no time. She tears off her gloves, sweater, hat: the skin should have a chance to breathe in this rousing chill, not just the lips and lungs. As she quickens her pace she becomes more confident, lighter on her feet. She should really stop (her heart is hammering in her chest, her pulse pounding in her ears, her temples throbbing ), and
But no (she sits up energetically)—this is no time for daydreaming . Don’t waste any of this time, this time that brings more wonders every second. At home you can dream for months, years on end, in the creaky, broken-down wooden bed with the hard mattress at night, and at the ink-spotted worktable while the peasants are off in the fields, the clock on the wall like a sentinel, ticking inexorably and punctiliously. There, dreaming is better than being awake; here in this celestial world, sleep is a waste of time. She’s out of bed with a final decisive movement and splashes some cold water on her face and neck; now, refreshed, into the new clothes. Overnight her skin has forgotten their soft rustle and shimmer. The clinging caress of the luxurious fabric is a new pleasure. But don’t linger on these small delights, don’t waste time. Time to leave now, get out of this room, go somewhere, anywhere; sharpen this feeling of happiness and freedom, stretch your limbs, fill your eyes, be awake, wider awake, vividly awake in every sense and every pore. She pulls on her sweater, jams on her hat, and dashes downstairs.
The corridors are still gray and empty in the cold morning light, but in the lounge downstairs shirtsleeved hotel workers are cleaning the runners with electric carpet sweepers. The puffy-eyed night clerk shows ill-humored surprise at the sight of this excessively early guest, but sleepily doffs his cap. Poor fellow, so here too there’s hard work, unseen labor, ill-paid drudgery, there’s such a thing as having to get up and be on time. But let’s not think about that. What’s it to me? I don’t want to be aware of anyone but me, me, me. Go on, go on by. Outside the cold air pounces, scrubs eyelids, lips, and cheeks like an icy cloth. This mountain air does chill you, down to the bone. The only thing for that is to run, that’ll get the blood circulating.This path must go somewhere. It doesn’t matter where. Up here anywhere is as magical and new as anywhere else.
Christine sets off at a vigorous pace, surprised that no one is out yet. At six in the morning the swirl of people that thronged the paths at midday yesterday must still be packed away in the great stone crates of the hotels, and the very landscape lies in a kind of gray trance. The air is soundless, the moon, so golden yesterday, is gone, the stars have vanished, the colors have faded, the misty cliffs are as drab and colorless as cold metal. Only high up, among the highest peaks, are there thick clouds moving restlessly, as if some invisible force were stretching them, pulling them. Now and then a cloud separates from the dense mass, floating up like a fat white cotton ball; it changes form as it climbs, suffused with a light from nowhere, bordered with gold. The sun must be nearby, already at work somewhere behind the peaks—not yet in sight, but warming the turbulent atmosphere. So move toward it, then, upward, higher! This trail here, perhaps, graveled, as gently winding as a garden path, it can’t be hard; and in fact it’s plain sailing. She’s not used to this sort of thing and is surprised by the joyous spring in her step. The path’s gradual turns and the buoyancy of the air draw her upward. A sprint like this warms the blood in no time. She tears off her gloves, sweater, hat: the skin should have a chance to breathe in this rousing chill, not just the lips and lungs. As she quickens her pace she becomes more confident, lighter on her feet. She should really stop (her heart is hammering in her chest, her pulse pounding in her ears, her temples throbbing ), and
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