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amandasbookclub's review against another edition
3.0
3.5 stars. In the best way, this reminded me of A Confederacy of Dunces, mostly in its heavy-handedness, “nudge nudge,” don’t you get it?-ness. There were a handful of descriptions that took my breath away, and many that also made me jot in the margins: “this character has no idea what real life is.”
jonfaith's review against another edition
4.0
Think of Knut Hamsun. Now think of him drinking and being a pacifist. The Walk explores modernity's challenges to a quiet life. The bookseller, the tax office and the tailor are among the riptides encountered by our humble man of letters, out to fill his lungs and prime his mind for poetic fomentation. There is an ache among the laughter. The rumble of not-so-distant war perists. Students are thrashed by zealous teachers. Our protagonist carries unrequited love in his breast and eventually ponders madness and suicide.
chairmanbernanke's review against another edition
4.0
A great extended metaphorical work on moving through life.
nataliaoliver10's review against another edition
emotional
funny
inspiring
lighthearted
reflective
medium-paced
- Plot- or character-driven? Character
- Strong character development? Yes
- Loveable characters? Yes
- Diverse cast of characters? No
- Flaws of characters a main focus? No
5.0
read this
zahraareads's review against another edition
emotional
reflective
sad
fast-paced
- Plot- or character-driven? Character
- Loveable characters? Yes
5.0
rvanderweele's review against another edition
3.0
Dit is het tweede werk van de auteur, dat ik gelezen heb. Misschien was het niet verstandig om beide werken, de Tanners en dit werkje, kort achter elkaar te lezen. Beviel de toon mij bij de Tanners nog heel erg, nu kreeg ik wel af en toe het gevoel dat Walser wel heel erg koketteert. Wat eerst aangenaam aandoet, gaan na een tijd mij irriteren.
Dit is dan ook de reden dat ik er zo lang overgedaan heb. Het is maar zo’n 50 pagina’s, maar na een pagina of 20 besloot ik het even ter zijde te leggen.
Bijvoorbeeld de ‘gebeurtenis’ in de boekwinkel. Eerst moest ik er een beetje om grinniken, maar achteraf deed het mij toch wat flauw studentikoos aan.
Dit is dan ook de reden dat ik er zo lang overgedaan heb. Het is maar zo’n 50 pagina’s, maar na een pagina of 20 besloot ik het even ter zijde te leggen.
Bijvoorbeeld de ‘gebeurtenis’ in de boekwinkel. Eerst moest ik er een beetje om grinniken, maar achteraf deed het mij toch wat flauw studentikoos aan.
ilse's review against another edition
5.0
I walk, therefore I am
And then I see a darkness
“Did I pick flowers to lay them upon my sorrow?” I asked myself, and the flowers fell out of my hand.
Modernism, romanticism, melancholia, irony: it is all there, in the few pages of this bittersweet fairy-tale. As this was my first acquaintance with Walser’s prose, and there is plenty left to discover, here is a happy reader.
The narrator, a poet, flees from his writing room, “or room of phantoms”, and goes out for a stroll. Crossing the path of a variety of passers-by, he gives a tragi-comical account on his impressions, thoughts, futile undertakings and encounters on his walk through a nameless little town and the countryside. As in a manic frenzy, he natters on, slowing down his walking pace, almost stumbling over his own words in his eagerness to report on every detail hitting his eye or striking his mind.
It is a walk without a purpose or destination. As the day and the walking progress, the hypersensitive narrator experiences a multitude of mood swings, changing from frantic happiness and ecstatic joy, an almost neurotic rapturous state, to defeatism, indignation and back to euphoria: the hues of four seasons in one day. In a state of jubilant exultation, the narrator/poet loses himself, he coincides with nature, becomes one with the world soul, Anima Mundi:
The exuberant torrent of words is obviously hiding something. Behind this sprightly verbosity, there is despair, loneliness and angst. Which demons is the voluble narrator running from? The blank page, a writer’s block? The critics? Himself?
The dark thoughts that the narrator so skilfully tries to keep at bay on his stride, slowly obfuscate the pleasure he takes in the Arcadian scenery. His bumping into the pitiable giant Tomzack, an allegoric alter ego of himself, could be seen as a first gloomy omen:
Walser’s prose bristles with exaggerations and reprises; he accumulates pointless tautologies (pun intended) resulting in baroqueness and pomposity, which creates an alienating and deranging effect to the reader at first. Once one becomes used to his curvy, hyperbolic style, the whimsical, syntactically almost derailing sentences turn out strikingly appropriate and functional, as a cunning mimicry of moving, funny ineptitude. At times his prose reminded me of Hrabal’s, yet less gaudy.
In his encounters with the outer world, the narrator/poet behaves himself in a most peculiar, awkward way. He profuses with uncongenially solemn courtesy, is obsequiously polite, while inwardly (or in writing) scolding and disdaining the high and mighty, oscillating from self-disparaging and cowardice to elation; self-destructive recklessness, supercilious megalomania and delusions of grandeur. Facing settled society’s intolerance for day-thieving artists, lazybones, vagrants, ‘unproductive’ dreamers – and the weak and destitute – he exhausts himself in justifying his observant life, his vocation, his very existence. Presenting his narrator/poet – actually himself - as the gentle village idiot, a queer, enigmatic and eccentric figure, Walser considers the relation between the artist and society. In all its jocularity and irony, this relation, for Walser, could only be one of torment, according to his friend Carl Seelig.
Often the narrator directly addresses the reader, seeking his approval and legitimating himself to the point of absurdity. While on the one hand he attempts to ingratiate himself with the reader, he simultaneously lectures the reader on the radical freedom of the artist, making crystal clear that writing is not a game of give and take to oblige the reader. As a “serious writer” he doesn’t feel called upon to jump at the reader’s fancies, at the same time giving a firm sneer at rising consumerism (rather visionary, it’s 1917):
And so Walser throws his pearls, his graceful sentences, at us, like “delectable, luscious tidbits”.
Ambulo ergo sum – I walk therefore I am (Pierre Gassendi)
Walser, the walker, fits in the long tradition of numerous walking writers and philosophers (Kant, Nietzsche, Rousseau, Sebald, Woolf, the Dutch philosopher Ton Lemaire, the list is endless). For the narrator, and for Walser, walking is not only stimulating aesthetical and philosophical reflection. However complex and strained the artist’s relation towards the wilful outside world, the outing is a vital need, social interaction is required for inspiration; walking is living, is being in the world, like writing is.
A ragged soul, Sebald called him, quoting from Walser’s [b:The Tanners|6081631|The Tanners|Robert Walser|https://i.gr-assets.com/images/S/compressed.photo.goodreads.com/books/1348421619l/6081631._SX50_.jpg|6154056] (in Sebald’s essay on Walser that was published in [b:A Place in the Country|13541957|A Place in the Country|W.G. Sebald|https://i.gr-assets.com/images/S/compressed.photo.goodreads.com/books/1358967964l/13541957._SY75_.jpg|21961845], Le Promeneur Solitaire: A Remembrance of Robert Walser). A part of this essay (which however does not relate much to The Walk) can be found here.
And then I see a darkness
“Did I pick flowers to lay them upon my sorrow?” I asked myself, and the flowers fell out of my hand.
Modernism, romanticism, melancholia, irony: it is all there, in the few pages of this bittersweet fairy-tale. As this was my first acquaintance with Walser’s prose, and there is plenty left to discover, here is a happy reader.
The narrator, a poet, flees from his writing room, “or room of phantoms”, and goes out for a stroll. Crossing the path of a variety of passers-by, he gives a tragi-comical account on his impressions, thoughts, futile undertakings and encounters on his walk through a nameless little town and the countryside. As in a manic frenzy, he natters on, slowing down his walking pace, almost stumbling over his own words in his eagerness to report on every detail hitting his eye or striking his mind.
It is a walk without a purpose or destination. As the day and the walking progress, the hypersensitive narrator experiences a multitude of mood swings, changing from frantic happiness and ecstatic joy, an almost neurotic rapturous state, to defeatism, indignation and back to euphoria: the hues of four seasons in one day. In a state of jubilant exultation, the narrator/poet loses himself, he coincides with nature, becomes one with the world soul, Anima Mundi:
The soul of the world had opened and I fantasized that everything wicked, distressing and painful was on the point of vanishing….all notion of the future paled and the past dissolved. In the glowing present, I myself glowed. The earth became a dream; I myself had become an inward being, and I walked as in an inward world.
The exuberant torrent of words is obviously hiding something. Behind this sprightly verbosity, there is despair, loneliness and angst. Which demons is the voluble narrator running from? The blank page, a writer’s block? The critics? Himself?
The dark thoughts that the narrator so skilfully tries to keep at bay on his stride, slowly obfuscate the pleasure he takes in the Arcadian scenery. His bumping into the pitiable giant Tomzack, an allegoric alter ego of himself, could be seen as a first gloomy omen:
Without motherland, without happiness he was; he had to live completely without love and without human joy. He had sympathy with no man, and with him and his mopping and mowing no man had sympathy. Past, present and future were to him an insubstantial desert, and life was too small, too tiny, too narrow, for him. For him there was nothing which had meaning, and he himself in turn meant something to nobody. Out of his great eyes there broke a glare of grief in overworlds and underworlds. Infinite pain spoke from his slack and weary moments. A hundred thousand years old he seemed to me, and it seemed to me that he must live for eternity, only to be for eternity no living being. He died every instant and yet he could not die. For him, there was no grave with flowers on it.
Walser’s prose bristles with exaggerations and reprises; he accumulates pointless tautologies (pun intended) resulting in baroqueness and pomposity, which creates an alienating and deranging effect to the reader at first. Once one becomes used to his curvy, hyperbolic style, the whimsical, syntactically almost derailing sentences turn out strikingly appropriate and functional, as a cunning mimicry of moving, funny ineptitude. At times his prose reminded me of Hrabal’s, yet less gaudy.
In his encounters with the outer world, the narrator/poet behaves himself in a most peculiar, awkward way. He profuses with uncongenially solemn courtesy, is obsequiously polite, while inwardly (or in writing) scolding and disdaining the high and mighty, oscillating from self-disparaging and cowardice to elation; self-destructive recklessness, supercilious megalomania and delusions of grandeur. Facing settled society’s intolerance for day-thieving artists, lazybones, vagrants, ‘unproductive’ dreamers – and the weak and destitute – he exhausts himself in justifying his observant life, his vocation, his very existence. Presenting his narrator/poet – actually himself - as the gentle village idiot, a queer, enigmatic and eccentric figure, Walser considers the relation between the artist and society. In all its jocularity and irony, this relation, for Walser, could only be one of torment, according to his friend Carl Seelig.
Often the narrator directly addresses the reader, seeking his approval and legitimating himself to the point of absurdity. While on the one hand he attempts to ingratiate himself with the reader, he simultaneously lectures the reader on the radical freedom of the artist, making crystal clear that writing is not a game of give and take to oblige the reader. As a “serious writer” he doesn’t feel called upon to jump at the reader’s fancies, at the same time giving a firm sneer at rising consumerism (rather visionary, it’s 1917):
Perhaps there were a few repetitions here and there. But I would like to confess that I consider man and nature to be in lovely and charming flight from repetitions, and I would like further to confess that I regard this phenomenon as a beauty and a blessing. Of course, one finds in some places sensation-hungry novelty hunters and novelty worshippers, spoiled by overexcitement, people who almost every instant covet joys that have never been seen before. The writer does not write for such people, nor does the composer compose for them, nor does the painter paint for them. On the whole I consider the constant need for delight and diversion in completely new things to be a sign of pettiness, lack of inner life, of estrangement from nature, and of a mediocre or defective gift of understanding. It is little children for whom one must always be producing something new and different, only in order to stop their being dissatisfied. The serious writer does not feel called upon to supply accumulations of material, to act the agile servant of nervous greed; and consequently he is not afraid of a few natural repetitions, although of course he takes continual trouble to forfend too many similarities.
And so Walser throws his pearls, his graceful sentences, at us, like “delectable, luscious tidbits”.
Ambulo ergo sum – I walk therefore I am (Pierre Gassendi)
Walser, the walker, fits in the long tradition of numerous walking writers and philosophers (Kant, Nietzsche, Rousseau, Sebald, Woolf, the Dutch philosopher Ton Lemaire, the list is endless). For the narrator, and for Walser, walking is not only stimulating aesthetical and philosophical reflection. However complex and strained the artist’s relation towards the wilful outside world, the outing is a vital need, social interaction is required for inspiration; walking is living, is being in the world, like writing is.
A ragged soul, Sebald called him, quoting from Walser’s [b:The Tanners|6081631|The Tanners|Robert Walser|https://i.gr-assets.com/images/S/compressed.photo.goodreads.com/books/1348421619l/6081631._SX50_.jpg|6154056] (in Sebald’s essay on Walser that was published in [b:A Place in the Country|13541957|A Place in the Country|W.G. Sebald|https://i.gr-assets.com/images/S/compressed.photo.goodreads.com/books/1358967964l/13541957._SY75_.jpg|21961845], Le Promeneur Solitaire: A Remembrance of Robert Walser). A part of this essay (which however does not relate much to The Walk) can be found here.
spenkevich's review against another edition
4.0
The earth became a dream; I myself had become an inward being, and I walked as in an inward world.
The joys, clear-headed thinking, and sheer beauty of a walk through the world come alive in Robert Walser’s The Walk. This is a sentiment that I too share, as I find I do my best thinking and arrive at my best inspirations while out on a run—I never review a book without getting at least one run in between the completion of the novel and sitting down to write so I can contemplate what it is I want to say and formulate at least one satisfactory statement to include in the review. There is a certain clarity that seems to accrue with my heart thumping out in the greater world as I attempt to conduct phrases to the rhythm of my footfalls down the paths cut between the trees, a clarity and rejuvenation of heart and soul that the narrator of The Walk seems to enlist as a canvas for his literary creations. Leaving behind his ‘room of phantoms’ where he was ‘brooding gloomily over a blank sheet of paper’, the narrator embarks on foot through the open air where ‘everything I saw made upon me a delightful impression’. Chronicling his walk through the town and countryside, Walser’s narrator builds an introspective portrait of an artists creation process and philosophical musings through the allegorical, and often surreal, events that transpire along the way.
It is his encounters with other people that send the narrator into a downward spiral of anger and grief. While the sight of a pretty woman inspires great confidence and loquacious praise to her talents, his encounters with the wealthy or those with airs of power get his blood boiling. Each event chronicled into text becomes an exceptional allegory for the society around him, and Walser emphasizes the comical grotesqueries in each scene to give an absurdly surreal look at the people and places that pass before the narrator. The upper class and those with power are typically the ones that most come under his satirical aim. He describes the any actions that ‘gratify the thirst for money’ as ‘the vilest thing on earth’ and is constantly furious at any signs of one displaying themselves as above anyone else. Even the sight of golden lettering on a bakery inspires a vitriolic rant. The narrator reflects an uneasy sense of alienation from those with wealth, those who ‘think themselves important because they are inconsiderate and discourteous, who think themselves powerful because they enjoy protection.’ He rejects these people, and their pleasures, for they are the ones he sees as holding down him and fellow artists of letters. He enters a bookshop to ‘cold-bloodedly’ dismiss the most popular and widely read novel that he request the bookseller to find, He insists that critics are nothing but injurious to the lives and livelihoods of artists. His sources of income are few and far between, and even then, they are suffocating.
The narrator makes a plea for the author and artists. He compares an author to a military general because of their ‘laborious preparations before they dare march to the attack and give battle: in other words, fling their book or artistic or shoddy product into the book market, an action which sometimes vigorously provokes very forceful counterattacks.’ He argues that a true lover or art appreciates even the most dull and inferior forms because they acknowledge that heart, soul and passion went into its creation.
The narrator writes in an engaging, highly descriptive style that often switches tenses to occasionally accommodate a present tense. As he often addresses the reader, pontificating and apologizing to the reader at times in an attempt to appear as a cordial, good natured narrator, these shifts in tense help build a sense that the reader is out on the walk with them, with the narrator occasionally overtaking them or walking along-side them. It also helps highlight the difference between the narrator-on-the-walk and the narrator-writing-the-book, with the reader always conscious that the narrator must return to his gloomy room and battle with the blank page before him to wrangle his experiences into words. While the reader is aware of the joys experienced by the walking narrator, they are always besieged by the omnipresent melancholy of the authorial narrator locked away in his shadowy studio—despite the comedic nature of most events, on the fringes lurks a vicious sadness that keeps the reader in a state of unease even in the most jovial of passages knowing that the narrator must leave the warm inward world or the outdoors to enter the vicious introspection behind closed doors. The final pages of the book are sure to break the readers heart, hinting at a looming sadness and allowing them to feel the burden of his painful self-criticisms. While the novel is a blend of both images of the narrator, the interplay between both mindsets it what brings out the sheer brilliance of this short book.
Originally written in 1917 but then heavily edited in 1920, this new translation by Susan Bernofsky is mostly a reworking of the Christopher Middleton translation in accordance with Walser’s own revisions. Apparently, Walser altered nearly every sentence, cutting out the superfluous to achieve his incredible minimalism, ensuring that every sentence maintained an eloquent flow, and ‘minimizing the divide between the walking protagonist and the writing protagonist’ (from Bernofsky’s introduction). Although I have never read the original translation—The Walk being Walser’s only work to be translated into English during his lifetime—what appears in print here is a darkly comedic masterpiece of subtlety. While this short novel initially didn’t strike me as anything special, about halfway though (and while out on a run, which seems fitting) I realized the incredible depths that hid within each carefully crafted sentence. Walser has a very special story to tell about being an author and offers a very positive plea for those who appreciate art to be good to one another and to not drown authors in negative criticism or suffocate them with elitism. This is a wonderful little book (the New Directions Pearl edition is 96pgs and about the size of a checkbook) with a wide wealth of ideas to ponder on your next walk. I will certainly be back for more Walser. I’ll take you out [with dedication to the lovely (ifer) of course] on this seemingly appropriate song. Now I need to go for my own walk with my dogs.
4.5/5
’I would like to confess that I consider nature and human life to be a solemn and charming flow of fleeting approximations, which strikes me as a phenomenon which I believer to be beautiful and replete with blessings.’
The joys, clear-headed thinking, and sheer beauty of a walk through the world come alive in Robert Walser’s The Walk. This is a sentiment that I too share, as I find I do my best thinking and arrive at my best inspirations while out on a run—I never review a book without getting at least one run in between the completion of the novel and sitting down to write so I can contemplate what it is I want to say and formulate at least one satisfactory statement to include in the review. There is a certain clarity that seems to accrue with my heart thumping out in the greater world as I attempt to conduct phrases to the rhythm of my footfalls down the paths cut between the trees, a clarity and rejuvenation of heart and soul that the narrator of The Walk seems to enlist as a canvas for his literary creations. Leaving behind his ‘room of phantoms’ where he was ‘brooding gloomily over a blank sheet of paper’, the narrator embarks on foot through the open air where ‘everything I saw made upon me a delightful impression’. Chronicling his walk through the town and countryside, Walser’s narrator builds an introspective portrait of an artists creation process and philosophical musings through the allegorical, and often surreal, events that transpire along the way.
’Walking is for me not only healthy, it is also of service—not only lovely, but also useful.’The walks around town have become an essential component of the narrators writing process, a segment he holds in higher regard than the actual act of writing. ‘Without walking I would be dead, and would have long since been forced to abandon my profession,’ he writes. ‘A pleasant walk most often veritably teems with imageries, living poems, attractive objects, natural beauties, be they ever so small.’ It is a time for inspiration, of intense soul searching, where one can appreciate their small place in a world so great and beautiful. Although others question his walks as being the sign of a lazy man, he is proud of them and considers them a high point of industriousness. The reader sees how his emotional and intellectual state is so tied to his walks and the world around him as the bright, welcoming sky raises his spirits, while oppressive encounters with offensive others instantly plunge him into fear and sadness. It is in the solitude of nature where he finds himself most at peace, and the ineffable beauty of the natural world quickly assuages any dark thoughts and pulls him to ecstatically aware of his place in the present.
The soul of the world had opened and I fantasized that everything wicked, distressing and painful was on the point of vanishing….all notion of the future paled and the past dissolved. In the glowing present, I myself glowed.These walks instill a near-religious experience in him and allow him to comfortably—and without the fear of shadows, pain and phantoms but guided by warmth and love instead—move inward into his soul and true self where he can extract the essentials needed to produce his literature. ‘In the sweet light of love I believed I was able to recognize—or required to feel—that the inward self is the only self which really exists.’
It is his encounters with other people that send the narrator into a downward spiral of anger and grief. While the sight of a pretty woman inspires great confidence and loquacious praise to her talents, his encounters with the wealthy or those with airs of power get his blood boiling. Each event chronicled into text becomes an exceptional allegory for the society around him, and Walser emphasizes the comical grotesqueries in each scene to give an absurdly surreal look at the people and places that pass before the narrator. The upper class and those with power are typically the ones that most come under his satirical aim. He describes the any actions that ‘gratify the thirst for money’ as ‘the vilest thing on earth’ and is constantly furious at any signs of one displaying themselves as above anyone else. Even the sight of golden lettering on a bakery inspires a vitriolic rant. The narrator reflects an uneasy sense of alienation from those with wealth, those who ‘think themselves important because they are inconsiderate and discourteous, who think themselves powerful because they enjoy protection.’ He rejects these people, and their pleasures, for they are the ones he sees as holding down him and fellow artists of letters. He enters a bookshop to ‘cold-bloodedly’ dismiss the most popular and widely read novel that he request the bookseller to find, He insists that critics are nothing but injurious to the lives and livelihoods of artists. His sources of income are few and far between, and even then, they are suffocating.
The narrator makes a plea for the author and artists. He compares an author to a military general because of their ‘laborious preparations before they dare march to the attack and give battle: in other words, fling their book or artistic or shoddy product into the book market, an action which sometimes vigorously provokes very forceful counterattacks.’ He argues that a true lover or art appreciates even the most dull and inferior forms because they acknowledge that heart, soul and passion went into its creation.
Is not all music, ever the most niggardly, beautiful to the person who loves the very being and existence of music? Is not almost any human being you please - even the worst and most unpleasant - loveable to the person who is a friend of man?What he argues for is a polite society where we accept we all have weaknesses.
I here implement a policy of softheartedness, which has a beauty that is not to be found anywhere else; but I consider a policy of this sort to be indispensible. Propriety enjoins us to be careful to deal as severaly with ourselves as with others, to judge others as mildly as we judge ourselves…The narrator attempts to practice what he preaches and always checks himself when he lets his indignation get out of hand and apologizes to the reader. ‘Abuses of writing should not be practiced,’ he often says, and keeps his promise to return to criticize himself just as he does those around him. When this moment arrives, it is utterly heart wrenching and leaves the reader drenched in sorrow and pity, yet full of blossoming adoration.
The narrator writes in an engaging, highly descriptive style that often switches tenses to occasionally accommodate a present tense. As he often addresses the reader, pontificating and apologizing to the reader at times in an attempt to appear as a cordial, good natured narrator, these shifts in tense help build a sense that the reader is out on the walk with them, with the narrator occasionally overtaking them or walking along-side them. It also helps highlight the difference between the narrator-on-the-walk and the narrator-writing-the-book, with the reader always conscious that the narrator must return to his gloomy room and battle with the blank page before him to wrangle his experiences into words. While the reader is aware of the joys experienced by the walking narrator, they are always besieged by the omnipresent melancholy of the authorial narrator locked away in his shadowy studio—despite the comedic nature of most events, on the fringes lurks a vicious sadness that keeps the reader in a state of unease even in the most jovial of passages knowing that the narrator must leave the warm inward world or the outdoors to enter the vicious introspection behind closed doors. The final pages of the book are sure to break the readers heart, hinting at a looming sadness and allowing them to feel the burden of his painful self-criticisms. While the novel is a blend of both images of the narrator, the interplay between both mindsets it what brings out the sheer brilliance of this short book.
Originally written in 1917 but then heavily edited in 1920, this new translation by Susan Bernofsky is mostly a reworking of the Christopher Middleton translation in accordance with Walser’s own revisions. Apparently, Walser altered nearly every sentence, cutting out the superfluous to achieve his incredible minimalism, ensuring that every sentence maintained an eloquent flow, and ‘minimizing the divide between the walking protagonist and the writing protagonist’ (from Bernofsky’s introduction). Although I have never read the original translation—The Walk being Walser’s only work to be translated into English during his lifetime—what appears in print here is a darkly comedic masterpiece of subtlety. While this short novel initially didn’t strike me as anything special, about halfway though (and while out on a run, which seems fitting) I realized the incredible depths that hid within each carefully crafted sentence. Walser has a very special story to tell about being an author and offers a very positive plea for those who appreciate art to be good to one another and to not drown authors in negative criticism or suffocate them with elitism. This is a wonderful little book (the New Directions Pearl edition is 96pgs and about the size of a checkbook) with a wide wealth of ideas to ponder on your next walk. I will certainly be back for more Walser. I’ll take you out [with dedication to the lovely (ifer) of course] on this seemingly appropriate song. Now I need to go for my own walk with my dogs.
4.5/5
’I would like to confess that I consider nature and human life to be a solemn and charming flow of fleeting approximations, which strikes me as a phenomenon which I believer to be beautiful and replete with blessings.’