Whenever one turns a corner in England, it looks different from how one expected, and that’s how it is with the old district around Shepherd’s Market, just behind Piccadilly. One can best recognize that it belongs there by the fact that it doesn’t fit in at all. And there is an already half-demolished house, with something black on top of it, like a roof tarpaulin. The whole thing makes a sad impression, and there are curtains behind some of the windows, so it is occupied. Still occupied downstairs and already demolished upstairs? What is that all about? It’s about a stubborn-headed man.
In Wells… No, not Wales – Wales is when he is well-dressed. In Wells… although, no, not that either: well is what the English say just to get a sentence going, because nobody here starts a sentence with what it’s about. What it’s about is in the subordinate clause.
The car drove along Lago Maggiore. The sky was clear blue, downright insolently blue for December.
Würzburg; Saturday. Early in the morning, the two madmen break into my room in the ›White Lamb‹. »Get up! Police!«, and »How can you sleep in this air?« Jakopp in a new suit, dreadful to behold, Karlchen, baring his teeth and grinning in a mixture of mock derision and schadenfreude. The walking tour, which was announced a year ago, and has been repeatedly organized, arranged, and postponed, has finally come to pass. My God!