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“No living soul nor book to hand…” How well these words of Mahler would fit with the motif of any folk song! A travelling song…
N. had set off early that morning to wander wherever his fancy took him. He wandered the hills, sat on a tree stump, listened to the frogs and the scraggy cows, pondered herd mentality and close-knittedness. His trouser legs were soaked with dew, thorns clung to them, but he was oblivious to this and all else, and, when tiredness overpowered him, he would sleep in the shade on dry hillocks before setting off again. Sweet nostalgia was singing within him. It always lived inside him, like the sound of the sea inside a shell. “Everything might have been fine, everything could still be fine,” the warbler repeated from some abandoned garden. An apple tree was grow
