Nothing makes time pass or shortens a trip like getting lost in one’s thoughts. Then external reality is like sleep, and our thoughts are the dream. Time loses its measure and space no longer has distance. One departs from one place and arrives at another—that’s all. We remember nothing of the interval between but a vague blur, a thousand confused images of trees, slopes, and landscapes. In the grip of such a hallucination d’Artagnan was carried, at whatever pace his horse chose, across the six leagues between Chantilly and Crèvecœur, and later he couldn’t remember a single thing he’d passed
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