On a spring afternoon in 19—, a year that had been glowering so ominously at our continent for months, Gustav Aschenbach (or von Aschenbach, as he had been officially called since his fiftieth birthday) left his home on Prince Regent Street in Munich in order to take a rather long walk by himself. During this period in particular, the difficult and debilitating work that he did every morning demanded utmost caution and prudence, urgency and precision from his willpower; but even after lunch, the writer, overwrought from his labor, had failed to halt the forward thrust of the engine producing, inside him, that motus animi continuus that Cicero views as the essence of eloquence; nor had Aschenbach managed to fall asleep, even though he so badly needed his daily nap to counteract the growing depletion of his strength. And so, shortly after tea, he had sought the outdoors, hoping that fresh air and exercise would restore his energy so that he might enjoy a fruitful evening.
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