As he rolled forward, Tibor exulted; he had finally begun his Pilg and it would be a success; he knew it would. He did not especially fear cutpurses and highwaymen, partly because no one bothered with the highways … he could rationalize this fear away, telling himself that since no traffic passed this way, how could there be highwaymen? “O friends!” he declared aloud, translating into English the opening words of Schiller’s An die Freude. “Not these tones! On the contrary, let us sing of—” He paused, having forgotten the rest. God damn it, he said fiercely to himself, baffled by the tricks of his own mind. The sun blazed down, hot as minnows skimming in the metallic surf, the tidal rise and fall of reality. He coughed, spat, and continued on. Over everything, the sensual proximity of decay. Even the wild weeds possessed it, this abandonment. No one cared; no one did anything. O Freunde, he thought.
