We are his thoughts; the mountains, and the river, and the
wild-flowers are his thoughts. It's just as if an author writes a
story. In the story, all the people and the things which concern them
are real, but you close the volume and they simply don't exist. Only
God doesn't close the volume, I think, until the next is ready."
"I wonder whether we'll both come into the next story?"
"Who knows? Perhaps you'll wander into one story, and I'll get lost in
another."
A certain sadness fell upon me, born partly of our talk, partly of the
poignant beauty of the night. We came to the Cantine de Proz, fast
asleep in its lonely valley, and so we went on and on, our souls tuned
to music and poetry by the song of the stars and the beauty of the
night: But slowly a change stole over us. For a long time I was only
dimly conscious of it, in a puzzled way, in myself. Why was it that my
spirit stood no longer on the heights? Why did the moonlight look cold
and metallic? Why had the rushing sound of the river got on my nerves,
like the monotonous crying of a fretful child? Why did our frequent
silences no longer tingle with a meaning which there was no need to
express in words? Why was my brain empty of impressions as a squeezed
sponge of water? Why, in fact, though everything was outwardly the
same, why was all in reality different?
"Oh, Man, I'm so hungry!" sighed Boy.
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