AND now we are confronted by a phenomenon upon which the
author himself may well comment, lest the reader do so in his
stead. Our account of the first three weeks of Hans Castorp's
stay with "those up here" -- twenty-one midsummer days, to
which his visit, so far as human eye could see, should have been
confined -- has consumed in the telling an amount of time and
space only too well confirming the author's half-confessed ex-
pectations; while our narrative of his next three weeks will
scarcely cost as many lines, or even words and minutes, as the
earlier three did pages, quires, hours, and working-days. We
apprehend that these next three weeks will be over and done with
in the twinkling of an eye.

Which is perhaps surprising; yet quite in order, and conform-
able to the laws that govern the telling of stories and the listen-
ing to them. For it is in accordance with these laws that time
seems to us just as long, or just as short, that it expands or con-
tracts precisely in the way, and to the extent, that it did for young
Hans Castorp, our hero, whom our narrative now finds visited
with such an unexpected blow from the hand of fate. It may
even be well at this point to prepare the reader for still other
surprises, still other phenomena, bearing on the mysterious ele-
ment of time, which will confront us if we continue in our hero's
company.

For the moment we need only recall the swift flight of time --
even of a quite considerable period of time -- which we spend in
bed when we are ill. All the days are nothing but the same day
repeating itself -- or rather, since it is always the same day, it is
incorrect to speak of repetition; a continuous present; an identity,
an everlastingness -- such words as these would better convey the
idea. They bring you your midday broth, as they brought it yes-
terday and will bring it to-morrow; and it comes over you -- but
whence or how you do not know, it makes you quite giddy to see

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