23 July, 1913
23 July, 1913. Kafka is having doubts about his proposed marriage. His observation that “I am incapable, alone, of bearing the assault of my own life” is a palpable score in the ‘pro’ column, but not so fast with the hat, mother: “I hate everything that does not relate to literature, conversations bore me (even if they relate to literature), to visit people bores me, the sorrows and joys of my relatives bore me to my soul.”
Obviously he never tried kite-surfing.
Franz sums up today’s entry with customary pith: “Nothing, nothing, nothing. Weakness, self-destruction, tip of a flame of hell piercing the floor.” Ouch!
This entry was posted on Thursday, December 7th, 2006 at 1:30 PM and filed under Kafka's diaries, New stuff. Trackbacks are closed.
What a beacon of positivity. If only he were still with us, I’m sure there’d be a career in best man’s speeches.
Posted on 07-Dec-06 at 3:12 pm | PermalinkMeanwhile in Kafka’s future mother in law’s diary:
“Franz seems a lovely boy. The sort I can have a little whinge to about all my problems and get a supportive nod. I have filled the diary with family visits for him so he can get to know us and all of our cousins are bringing round baby photographs for him to look at”
Posted on 10-Dec-06 at 1:43 pm | PermalinkWhat a bundle of joy and lightheartedness he was, ay? An asset to any party.
Posted on 11-Dec-06 at 8:01 am | Permalink