donderdag 2 december 2010

The Way Home - Franz Kafka, 1913

See what a persuasive force the air has after a thunder-
storm! My merits become evident and overpower me,
though I don't put up any resistance, I grant you.
I stride along and my tempo is the tempo of all my side
of the street, of the whole street, of the whole quarter. Mine
is the responsibility, and rightly so, for all the raps on doors
or on the flat of a table, for all toasts drunk, for lovers in
their beds, in the scaffolding of new buildings, pressed to
each other against the house walls in dark alleys, or on the
divans of a brothel.
I weigh my past against my future, but find both of them
admirable, cannot give either the preference, and find
nothing to grumble at save the injustice of providence
that has so clearly favoured me.
Only as I come into my room I feel a little meditative,
without having met anything on the stairs worth meditating
about. It doesn't help me much to open the window wide
and hear music still playing in a garden.

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