"Franz_Kafka_-_Diaries_1912" - читать интересную книгу автора (Kafka Franz)

My incompetence in the presence of my mother, in the presence of Miss T., and in the presence of all those in the Continental at that time and later on the street.


Mam'zelle Nitouche on Monday. The good effect of a French word in a dreary German performance. Boarding-school girls in bright dresses, with their arms
outstretched, run into the garden behind a fence. Barracks-yard of the dragoon regiment at night. Some officers in a barracks in the background are having a farewell
celebration in a ball that is reached by going up a few steps. Mam'zelle Nitouche enters and is persuaded by love and recklessness to take part in the celebration. The
sort of thing that can happen to a girl! In the morning at the convent, in the evening a substitute for an operetta singer who couldn't come, and at night in the dragoons'
barracks.


Today, painfully tired, spent the afternoon on the sofa.



18 March. I was wise, if you like, because I was prepared for death at any moment, but not because I had taken care of everything that was given to me to do, rather
because I had done none of it and could not even hope ever to do any of it.



22 March. (The last few days I have been writing down the wrong dates.) Baum's lecture in the lecture hall. G. F., nineteen years old, getting married next week.
Dark, faultless, slender face. Distended nostrils. For years she has been wearing hats and clothes styled like a hunter's. The same dark-green gleam on her face. The
strands of hair running along the cheeks, just as in general a slight down seems to cover all her face which she has bowed down into the darkness. Points of her elbows
resting lightly on the arms of her chair. Then on the Wenzelsplatz a brisk bow, completed with little energy, a turn, and a drawing erect of the poorly dressed, slender
body. I looked at her much less often than I wanted to.



24 March. Sunday, yesterday. Die Sternenbraut [The Star Bride] by Christian von EhrenfelsЧLost in watching. The sick officer in the play. The sick body in the
tight uniform that made health and decisiveness a duty.

In the morning in the bright sun at Max's for half an hour.


In the next room my mother is entertaining the L. couple. They are talking about vermin and corns. (Mrs. L. has six corns on each toe.) It is easy to see that there is
no real progress made in conversations of this sort. It is information that will be forgotten again by both and that even now proceeds along in self-forgetfulness without
any sense of responsibility. But for the very reason that such conversations are unthinkable without absent-mindedness, they reveal empty spaces which, if one insists,
can be filled only by thinking, or, better yet, by dreams.



25 March. The broom sweeping the rug in the next room sounds like the train of a dress moving in jerks.



26 March. Only not to overestimate what I have written, for in that way I make what is to be written unattainable.



27 March. Monday, on the street. The boy who, with several others, threw a large ball at a servant girl walking defenselessly in front of them; just as the ball was