A question of words

December 27, 2013

My strength no longer suffices for another sentence. Yes, if it were a question of words, if it were sufficient to set down the word and one could turn away in the calm consciousness of having entirely filled this word with oneself.

I slept part of the afternoon away, while I was awake I lay on the sofa, thought about several love experiences of my youth, lingered in a pique over a neglected opportunity (at the time I was lying in bed with a slight cold and my governess read me The Kreutzer Sonata, which enabled her to enjoy my agitation), imagined by vegetarian supper, was satisfied with my digestion, and worried whether my eyesight would last all my life.

—Franz Kafka, December 27, 1910, from Diaries 1910–1923


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