Explore "A Mediterranean Mystery" by Fred E. Wynne on Textopian. Read with annotations and highlights.
As I got used to the apparent insecurity of my position and the rocking motion which the camel's gait imposes on one, I began to find something soothing in the slow but dignified progression. The vast monotony of the desert had a hypnotic effect, and I was even anxious lest I might fall asleep and slip from my lofty perch.
The heat was most oppressive, and I noticed a new quality in the slight wind. It was from the south, a quarter it had not blown from before, and it came in puffs like a breath from the opened door of a furnace; a dry fierce heat that burned one's cheek and made the eyes smart. In the full glare of the afternoon sun, the desert was disappointing in its monotony. I had read novels full of "word-painting" and gush about the "mystery and wonder" of the desert. I had seen it in a moment of iridescent loveliness at dawn. But now there was neither mystery nor beauty: it was just sand, sand and loose stones, stretching everywhere in billows to the ring of the horizon. The ridges of sand hid nothing but other ridges, and hollows full of sand. I found I hated it.