![]() Hans Castorp-such as the young man’s name-sat alone in his little grey-upholstered compartment, with his alligator-skin handbag, a present from his uncle and guardian. You mount a narrow-gauge train and as the small but very powerful engine gets underway, there begins the thrilling part of the journey, a steep and steady climb that seems never to come to an end.įor the station of Landquart lies at a relatively low altitude, but now the wild and rocky route pushes grimly onward into the Alps themselves. Here, after a long and windy wait in a spot devoid of charm. You take the train again, but only as far as Landquart, a small Alpine station, where you have to change. For The Magic Mountain is a work of sick-lit par excellence: a novel that convincingly portrays illness as a state of mind as well as of body (though Mann does not shy away from the more. It crosses all sorts of countries, goes uphill and down dale.ĭescends from the plateau of Southern Germany to the shore of Lake Constance, over its bounding waves and on across marshes once thought to be bottomless.Īt this point, the route, which has been so far over trunk lines, gets up. ![]() AN UNASSUMING young man was traveling, in midsummer, from his native city of Hamburg to Davos-Platz in the Canton of the Grisons, on a three weeks’ visit.įrom Hamburg to Davos is a long journey – too long, indeed, for so brief a stay. ![]()
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