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

14 August. Letter to Rowohlt.

Dear Mr. Rowohlt,

I am enclosing the little prose pieces you wanted to see; they will probably be enough to make up a small book. While I was putting them together towards this end, I
sometimes had to choose between satisfying my sense of responsibility and an eagerness to have a book among your beautiful books. Certainly I did not in each
instance make an entirely clear-cut decision. But now I should naturally be happy if the things pleased you sufficiently to print them. After all, even with the greatest
skill and the greatest understanding the bad in them is not discernible at first sight. Isn't what is most universally individual in writers the fact that each conceals his bad
qualities in an entirely different way?

FaithfullyЧ



15 August. Wasted day. Spent sleeping and lying down. Feast of St. Mary on the Altstфdter Ring. The man with a voice that seemed to come from a hole in the
ground. Thought much ofЧwhat embarrassment before writing down namesЧF. B. [Felice Bauer, later Kafka's fiancee]. O. has just been reciting poems by
Goethe. She chooses them with right feeling. УTrost in Trфnen.Ф УAn Lotte.Ф УAn Werther.Ф УAn den Mond.Ф


Again read old diaries instead of keeping away from them. I live as irrationally as is at all possible. And the publication of the thirty-one pages is to blame for
everything. Even more to blame, of course, is my weakness, which permits a thing of this sort to influence me. Instead of shaking myself, I sit here and consider how I
could express all this as insultingly as possible. But my horrible calm interferes with my inventiveness. I am curious as to how I shall find a way out of this state. I don't
permit others to push me, nor do I know which is Уthe right path.Ф So what will happen? Have I finally run aground, a great mass in shallow water? In that case,
however, I should at least be able to turn my head. That's what I do, however.



16 August. Nothing, either in the office or at home. Wrote a few pages in the Weimar diary.


This evening the whimpering of my poor mother because I don't eat.



20 August. Outside my window, across the university building site partly overgrown with weeds, the little boys, both in blue blouses, one in light blue, the other, smaller
one in darker blue, are each carrying a bundle of dry hay that fills their arms. They struggle up a slope with it. Charm of it all for the eyes.


This morning the empty open wagon and the large, emaciated horse pulling it. Both, making a final effort to get up a slope, stretched out to an unusual length. Seen at
an angle by the spectator. The horse, front legs raised a little, his neck stretched sideways and upwards. Over him the whip of the driver.


If Rowohlt would send it back and I could lock it up again as if it had all never happened, so that I should be only as unhappy as I was before.


Miss F. B. When I arrived at Brod's on 13 August, she was sitting at the table. I was not at all curious about who she was, but rather took her for granted at once.
Bony, empty face that wore its emptiness openly. Bare throat. A blouse thrown on. Looked very domestic in her dress although, as it later turned out, she by no means
was. (I alienate myself from her a little by inspecting her so closely. What a state I'm in now, indeed, alienated in general from the whole of everything good, and don't
even believe it yet. If the literary talk at Max's doesn't distract me too much, I'll try to write the story about Blenkelt today. It needn't be long, but I must hit it off right.)