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He, too, was alone when he wrote that, feverish, somnolent, in that semitorpid condition which precedes the last great sleep: he sat dreaming by the fireside: all round him were heavy drowsy melodies, like stagnant water: he dwelt on them, like a child half-asleep delighting in some self-told story, and repeating some passage in it twenty times: so sleep comes, then death.... And Christophe heard fleetingly that other music, with burning hands, closed eyes, a little weary smile, heart big with sighs, dreaming of the deliverance of death: the first chorus in the Cantata of J. S. Bach: "Dear God, when shall I die?"... It was sweet to sink back into the soft melodies slowly floating by, to hear the distant, muffled clangor of the bells.... To die, to pass into the peace of earth!... Und dann selber Erde werden.... "And then himself to become earth...."
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