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.