The Captive

At daybreak, my face still turned to the wall, and before I had seen
above the big inner curtains what tone the first streaks of light
assumed, I could already tell what sort of day it was. The first
sounds from the street had told me, according to whether they came to
my ears dulled and distorted by the moisture of the atmosphere or
quivering like arrows in the resonant and empty area of a spacious,
crisply frozen, pure morning; as soon as I heard the rumble of the
first tramcar, I could tell whe...