However, I am not concerned here with the ending of a book, but with
its beginning; and I say that the beginning of any literary thing is
hard, and that this hardness is difficult to explain.
And I say more
than this - I say that an interminable discussion of the difficulty of
beginning a book is the worst omen for going on with it, and a trashy
subterfuge at the best. In the name of all decent, common, and homely
things, why not begin and have done with it?
It was in the very beginning of June, at evening, but not yet sunset,
that I set out from Toul by the Nancy gate; but instead of going
straight on past the parade-ground, I turned to the right immediately
along the ditch and rampart, and did not leave the fortifications till
I came to the road that goes up alongside the Moselle. For it was by
the valley of this river that I was to begin my pilgrimage, since, by
a happy accident, the valley of the Upper Moselle runs straight
towards Rome, though it takes you but a short part of the way. What a
good opening it makes for a direct pilgrimage can be seen from this
little map, where the dotted line points exactly to Rome. There are
two bends which take one a little out of one's way, and these bends I
attempted to avoid, but in general, the valley, about a hundred miles
from Toul to the source, is an evident gate for any one walking from
this part of Lorraine into Italy.
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