Translated cit. from Hans W. Fischer's book “Das Schlemmerparadies”

Be nude; feel your own body's surface, feel your own skin – truly, uneducated is, who does not know this enjoyment.

Even dressed, you sometimes get a hunch. For instance, when rain drops from a heavy thunderstorm drip through the clothes one at a time, or even when a falling downpour overwhelms you, as long as you keep on trotting, until you slightly start steaming, and you reach the place, where a fresh shirt trickles upon you. The wind, too, mops it by lashing your face and hands with needles, and blows through your clothes, all Adam's tinglingly overflowing; if you step into the lee, you stand by a thin fire.

And the dear sun: It thrills its rays so cleverly through the gear, that you make a cat's arched back in comfort. Every time you are spotted, the blood responds to the touch – you dance, you do somersaults, your blood boils quietly, and the skin becomes tight under pressure and counter-pressure.

But an inner voice admonishes: "Man, be thou uncovered! Tear off your clothes so that air, light, and water can touch you! This call seems to me sufficient reason, to get rid of my trousers and shirt as quickly as possible. It is unnecessary, to embellish this primitive need aesthetical or explain it as hygienical.

Naturist culture is something terrible, as it encourages hanging bellies and rachitic legs to shamelessly expose themselves to others. And the simple conscientiousness, that the happiness of being nude, while holding a watch in the hand, is reserved for the subaltern officers of pleasure. No, together with our clothes, we throw away all our intentions and considerations and enjoy in unbiasedness, what is good for us.

The feeling of happiness rises from the sole when the foot steps into dewy grass, feeling the elastic resistance of each stalk, ticklish panicles dripping over the toes, touching upon the calf and the hollow of the knee – and then the body threwn into it, that it is all over sprayed, a damp bush shaken above it.

Or suddenly standing on sand in the sea breeze, bathing in even wind, the arms aired, that the cool stream strokes through the fluffy warmth of the armpits. Or stretched out on stone, which is completely glowing, always feeling new warmth with every movement, breathing the dry stone scent of thyme and small strawberry perennials and crumbly moss, a summer cloud high above it, melting into blue; all devoted to the radiation, which seeps through the skin into the blood, until it foams softly, fine sweat penetrates from the pores and the heart becomes pleasantly weak; then the cooling of the milk-white brook, whose water the hand carefully scoops and atomises, before the body plunges into the wave.

Or sleeping in the heather, silently hummed over, feel the small squarrose-ness of the pliable stems, the roughness of the tea-dried leaves and the crawling of the knobbly inflorescences, which press light pits, a whole wallpaper pattern into the skin, which has become soft and whose scent remains stuck on you for days, so that you can quickly sniff your rejuvenated flesh, when changing shirts in the evening.

Or sinking into a meadow, flooded with bittercress, overshadowed by umbels, woven into the swelling juiciness of the ground in such a way, that its power runs into your own veins and you feel it as natural, when a lemon butterfly on the nipple or the dazzling dragonfly takes a seat on your knee and flaps its wings – you feel its flaps.

Or finally, a moss cushion under your head, on a smooth, resilient mattress of pine needles, on which you can sledge with your whole body, in floating heat resinously breathed around. All this is beautiful alone, of course also beautiful in pairs: But only, if this second being is completely adapted to the outside and related by blood. More likely – yes, it is more likely alone.

Man, have you ever jumped headfirst into a blazing heap of withered leaves just because you enjoyed it? Most people only know the pleasures of nudity from bathing. They only have a part, if only a substantial part. You have to lie down in the water like in a bed.

Who swims with pleasure, swims completely horizontally, so that with the advance the flowing back flood touches the whole body. You lie down a little on your side, just one arm forward, the whole form as pointed as possible, and withstand every push until you begin to sink still. The best way to get into the water, is a very shallow header, so that you shoot along just below the surface like a fish, silverly torn through the coolness.

Whoever cannot swim, does not know what open water is; you remain a stranger, even if you stand up to your neck. The pleasures of permanent and sports swimming are no subject here, they are work. But you must feel completely safe, which does not break through the waves with a broad-chested, zealous snort, but trust the load-bearing capacity calmly.

You must be able to wallow and to loll, nose in the water, to stretch all fours alternately, you must be able to roll smoothly like a seal, you must allow a rising wave to lift you and slide with the sinking one to the valley like a piece of wood, you must float in the water. Romping is an extra pleasure, it must not be mandatory. Swimming is devotion. You receive, you open yourself up to the element.