away from himself--to make a new man of him; and this trick can be
done only by switching him off from his usual environment, his usual
habits. The ordinary rest-cure, by its very harshness, intensifies a
man's personality at first, drives him miserably within himself; and
only by its long duration does it gradually wear him down and build
him up anew. There is no harshness in the vast hotels which I have
recommended. You may eat there as little as you like, especially if
you are en pension. Letters may be forwarded to you there; though,
unless your case is a very mild one, I would advise you not to leave
your address at home. There are reading-rooms where you can see all
the newspapers; though I advise you to ignore them. You suffer under
no sense of tyranny. And yet, no sooner have you signed your name in
the visitors' book, and had your bedroom allotted to you, than you
feel that you have surrendered yourself irrepleviably. It is not
necessary to this illusion that you should pass under an assumed name,
unless you happen to be a very eminent actor, or cricketer, or other
idol of the nation, whose presence would flutter the young persons at
the bureau. If your nervous breakdown be (as it more likely is) due to
merely intellectual distinction, these young persons will mete out to
you no more than the bright callous civility which they mete out
impartially to all (but those few) who come before them. To them you
will be a number, and to yourself you will have suddenly become a
number--the number graven on the huge brass label that depends
clanking from the key put into the hand of the summoned chambermaid.
You are merely (let us say) 273.

Up you go in the lift, realising, as for the first time, your
insignificance in infinity, and rather proud to be even a number. You
recognise your double on the door that has been unlocked for you. No
prisoner, clapped into his cell, could feel less personal, less