2024-07-11
1 小时 2 分钟Thank you for listening.
To the rest is history.
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The day was mild.
A cloudless sky lay over the broad chestnut trees.
It was a day made to be happy.
The vacation days would soon set in for the people and children, and on this holiday, they anticipated the entire summer with its fresh air, its lush green, and the forgetting of all daily cares.
I was sitting at some distance from the crowd in the park, reading a book.
Nevertheless, I was simultaneously aware of the wind in the trees, the chirping of the birds, and the music which was wafted toward me from the park.
And so it was that I suddenly stopped reading.
When the music broke off abruptly, I did not know what piece the band was playing.
I noticed only that the music had broken off.
Instinctively, I looked up from my book.
The crowd which strolled through the trees as a single, light moving mass also seemed to have undergone a change.
It, too, had suddenly come to a halt.
Something must have happened.
So that was Stefan Zweig in the world of yesterday.
And he is describing the afternoon of Sunday, the 28 June 1914.
He was reading in a park in Baden, just outside Vienna.