"<p>In the terrible race of life, most people only rest when they are sick. Sickness, in the words of the French poet, is not only the journey of the poor but also the holiday of the poor, the winter Riviera, the Tatras, and Egypt. To feverish spirits, illness sends a real fever to calm them down a little. The ambitious and insatiable man on the run, who, like the poet Kleist, 'changes cities like a fever-patient changes pillows', only recalls his true desires and hopeless passions in his sickbed.</p> <p>Illness is also rest, it is a cliché. Therefore, anticipate nature's command, the forced sick leave, and add small, artificial illnesses to the rhythm of your life to rest. Keep your bed in good health for a day at a time. Thou hast a wolf's appetite, thou wouldst chew the nail: fast a day or two voluntarily. Your heart isn't nagging you about nicotine yet: reward it by giving up cigarettes for three days without a compelling need. Your body is so grateful for the slightest attention! And these tiny, artificial states of illness and recovery, voluntary diets, withdrawals, and rests, recalled without the command of the disease, are the equivalent of an Oriental trip or an appendectomy. Try it. You will see miracles.</p>"