And besides, can't I do it the way I always used to as a child in matters, that were dangerous? I don't even need to go to the country myself, it isn't necessary. I'll send my clothed body. If it staggers out the door of my room, the staggering will indicate not fear but its nothingness. Nor is it a sign of excitement if it stumbles on the stairs, if it travels into the country, sobbing as it goes, and there eats its supper in tears. For I myself am meanwhile lying in bed, smoothly covered over with the yellow-brown blanket, exposed to the breeze that is wafted through that seldom aired room. The carrieges and people in the street move and walk hesitantly on shining ground, for I am still dreaming. Coachmen and pedestrians are shy, and every step they want to advance they ask a favor from me, by looking at me. I encourage them and encounter no obstacle.
As I lie in bed I assume the shapeof a big beetle, a stag beetle or a cockchafer, I think.
The form of a large beetle, yes. Then I would pretend it was a matter of hibernating, and I would press my little legs to my bulging belly. And I would whisper a few words, instructions to my sad body, which stands close beside me, bent. Soon I shall have done--it bows, it goes swiftly, and it will manage everything everything efficently white I rest.