The first day they rode through high mountains. Bluish-black masses of rocks reached towards the train with their pointed wedges. They leaned out of window searching in vain for their peaks while dark, narrow, torn valleys opened. With their fingers they traced the direction that disappered, wide streams flowed violently in large waves across hilly soil and carried thousands of foamy ripples, plunging under bridges as the train passed. They were so close that their faces twitched under their cold breath.
Franz Kafka, Amerika