II
It was a damp April day, with long diagonal clouds over the Albishorn and water inert in the low places. Zurich is not unlike an American city. Missing something ever since his arrival two days before, d**k perceived that it was the sense he had had in finite French lanes that there was nothing more. In Zurich there was a lot besides Zurich, the roofs upped the eyes to tinkling cow pastures, which in turn modified hilltops further up, so life was a perpendicular starting off to a postcard heaven. The Alpine lands, home of the toy and the funicular, the merry-go-round and the thin chime, were not a being here, as in France with French vines growing over one’s feet on the ground.
In Salzburg once d**k had felt the superimposed quality of a bought and borrowed century of music; once in t
