That is how I always feel in
Switzerland: the only possible living sensation is the sensation of
relief in going away, always going away. The horrible average
ordinariness of it all, something utterly without flower or soul or
transcendence, the horrible vigorous ordinariness, is too much.
So I went on a steamer down the long lake, surrounded by low grey hills.
It was Saturday afternoon. A thin rain came on. I thought I would rather
be in fiery Hell than in this dead level of average life.
I landed somewhere on the right bank, about three-quarters of the way
down the lake. It was almost dark. Yet I must walk away. I climbed a
long hill from the lake, came to the crest, looked down the darkness of
the valley, and descended into the deep gloom, down into a
soulless village.
But it was eight o'clock, and I had had enough. One might as well sleep.
I found the Gasthaus zur Post.
It was a small, very rough inn, having only one common room, with bare
tables, and a short, stout, grim, rather surly landlady, and a landlord
whose hair stood up on end, and who was trembling on the edge of
delirium tremens.
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