"Gustav Aschenbach, or von Aschenbach as he was officially called from his fiftieth birthday onwards, had left his house on Prinz-Regenten-Strasse in Munich one spring afternoon in 19.. - a year that had shown such a threatening face to our world for months - to take a longer walk alone. Irritated by the difficult and dangerous work of the morning hours, which at that moment required maximum attention, prudence, insight, and strictness of will, the writer had not been able, even after lunch, to stop the continuous creative movement inside him, that motus animi continuus which, according to Cicero, constitutes the essence of eloquence, nor had he found the relieving sleep that, with the increasing wear of his strength, had now become necessary once a day.
So, immediately after tea, he sought the outdoors, hoping that the air and movement would refresh him and help him have a productive evening. It was early May and, after some rainy and cold weeks, a false summer had arrived. The English Garden, although it still had only its first tender green, was full of dust from the people and the carriages.
At Aumeister, where the increasingly remote paths had led him, Aschenbach had glanced at the restaurant’s garden, at the edge of which stood some carriages and taxis, had taken the road back through the fields outside the park as darkness fell, and was waiting in front of the Northern Cemetery for the tram that would take him back to the city."
