Little Poems in Prose

XLVIII ANYWHERE, ANYWHERE OUT OF THE WORLD THIS life is a hospital where every sick man is possessed with the desire to bear his suffer- ings in front of the stove, and another thinks that he will get better beside the window. It seems to me that I should always be well wherever I am not; and this question of re- moval is one which I ceaselessly discuss with my soul. Say, my soul,—poor deluded soul, what do you think of going and living in Lisbon? It must be warm there, and you would become as lively as a lizard. It is on the waterside; they say that it is built of marble, and that the peo- ple have such a hatred of vegetation that they pluck up all the trees.—Ah! there is a land- scape to your liking; a landscape made with light and mineral, and a liquid mirror to reflect them! My soul replies nothing.