Archive for the 'Kafka' Category

Franz Kafka, 1920

29 agosto 2008

Il mondo degli uomini confezionati è un inferno, una fossa di letame puzzolente, un nido di cimici.

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Franz Kafka, 1917

13 giugno 2008

Many years ago, I sat one day, in a sad enough mood, on the slopes of the Laurenziberg (Petrin)… I went over the wishes that I wanted to realise in life. I found that the most important or the most delightful was the wish to attain a view of life (and – this was necessarily bound up with it – to convince others of it in writing), in which life, while still retaining its natural full-bodied rise and fall, would simultaneously be recognised no less clearly as a nothing, a dream, a dim hovering. A beautiful wish, perhaps, if I had wished it rightly. Considered as a wish, somewhat as if one were to hammer together a table with painful and methodical technical efficiency, and simultaneously do nothing at all, and not in such a way that people could say: “Hammering a table together is nothing to him,” but rather “Hammering a table together is really hammering a table together to him, but at the same time it is nothing,” whereby certainly the hammering would have become still bolder, still surer, still more real, and if you will, still more senseless. But he could not wish in this fashion, for his wish was not a wish, but only a vindication of nothingness, a justification of non-entity, a touch of animation which he wanted to lend to non-entity, in which at that time he had scarcely taken his first few conscious steps, but which he already felt as his element. It was a sort
of farewell that he took from the elusive world of youth; although youth
had never directly deceived them, but only caused him to be deceived by the utterances of all the authorities he had around him. So is explained the necessity of his “wish”.

Franz Kafka, 1917

18 gennaio 2008

Ero teso e freddo, ero un ponte, stavo steso sopra un abisso, da una parte stavano conficcate le punte dei piedi, dall’altra parte le mani, mi tenevo aggrappato con le unghie e con i denti all’argilla friabile. I lembi della mia giacca mi sventolavano sui lati. Nel profondo scrosciava il gelido torrente con le trote. Nessun turista veniva a smarrirsi a quelle altezze impercorribili, il ponte non era nemmeno segnato sulle carte. Stavo così e attendevo; dovevo attendere; se non precipita, un ponte,
una volta che è stato costruito, non può smettere di essere un ponte.

Franz Kafka, 1918

7 dicembre 2006

Prima non capivo perché la mia domanda non ottenesse risposta, oggi non capisco come potessi credere di poter domandare. Ma io non credevo affatto, domandavo soltanto.

Franz Kafka, 1918

15 ottobre 2006

La vera via passa per una corda che non è tesa in alto, ma appena al di sopra del suolo. Sembra destinata a far inciampare più che a essere percorsa.