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163 pages, Paperback
First published January 1, 1955
In Loosdrecht we got off and walked until we came to the lake. There my uncle Alexander opened the suitcase and took out an old piece of canvas that he spread out on the wet grass. We sat down facing the moon, which quivered greenly in the water before us, and we could hear the shuffling of cows in the meadows on the other side of the dike. Strands of mist hung above the water, and there were strange little noises in the night, so that at first I did not notice that my uncle Alexander was perhaps crying softly.
“You were born old” – she ran her fingers over my lips – “you will never experience anything but memories, you will never meet anyone except to say goodbye, and you won’t live a single day without thinking of the evening or the night.”
There are big cities on that route, dirty cities that you are afraid of and that you ought to draw only with a gray pencil. When you arrive or leave early in the morning with the sun, a gray light spreads and the first people outdoors head for the trams and buses.
"That evening the valley was created afresh with the hands of a lunatic who had come into possession of the moon and who painted and struck the rocks and the trees with the light of the moon until an unbearable madness seized control of the landscape, and all things began to breathe and live together with her, unbearably."