“And what I really wish to record – as if otherwise I might forget it – is merely that there has not always been snow outside, that much else has occurred during this past year, bloom and harvest and the fragrance of resin throughout the woods, water dripping and trickling down over the rocks of the face of the Kuppron, wind blowing from afar and dying away, light that flamed and faded, and skies that changed from day to night and back again to day. All this occurred while my heart was beating, while wind and sun and clouds were there, all of them flowing through my hands and my heart.”

(Hermann Broch, The Spell, trans. H. F. Broch de Rotherman, p. 6.)