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416 pages, Paperback
First published January 1, 1858
I am very ill, and not at the beginning of the illness which lasted more than eighteen months, nor at the end of it when I was on the way to recovery: the precise point of recollection is a state of such weakness that my life was in danger every moment. Once in the early morning I woke, or became conscious, and could not recognise where I was. All was unfamiliar: the large, lofty room, the bare walls of fir planks, new and very thick, the strong smell of resin.
What an astonishing thing travel is! What an invincible power it has to calm and to heal! It detaches you suddenly from the familiar sphere – whether you like or dislike it, makes no difference – from the steady course of varied activity which constantly distracts your attention with a multitude of objects; it concentrates your thoughts and feelings upon the narrow world of a travelling carriage; it directs your attention first to yourself, then to memories of the past, and finally to dreams and hopes for the future; and all this takes place clearly and quietly, with no hurry or confusion. This was just what happened to me then.