Since I crossed the Rhine, I seem to be dead inside, not a single feeling comes the surface. I'm an auomaton; my soul has been removed…. There are no mountains here with an open view. Hill after hill and broad valleys, everywhere a hollow mediocrity; I can't get used to this landscape, and the city is abominable…. Incessant headaches and fever, barely a few hours of inadequate rest. I don't go to bed before two A.M. and then constant sudden awakenings, a sea of thoughts that consume my senses… My mental faculties are completely worn out. Work is impossible…. I'm afraid of my own voice – and of my mirror…. I'm alone, as in a grave; when will your hand awaken me?

Buechner, letter, anticipating the prose style of Lenz.