"Franz_Kafka_-_Diaries_1913" - читать интересную книгу автора (Kafka Franz)

I think it does. I lack all aptitude for family life except, at best, as an observer. I have no family feeling and visitors make me almost feel as though I were maliciously
being attacked.

A marriage could not change me, just as my job cannot change me.



30 August. Where am I to find salvation? How many untruths I no longer even knew about will be brought to the surface. If they are going to pervade our marriage as
they pervaded the good-bye, then I have certainly done the right thing. In me, by myself, without human relationship, there are no visible lies. The limited circle is pure.



14 October. The little street began with the wall of a graveyard on the one side and a low house with a balcony on the other. In the house lived the pensioned official,
Friedrich Munch, and his sister, Elizabeth.


A herd of horses broke out of the enclosure.


Two friends went for a morning ride.


УDevils, save me from this benightedness!Ф shouted an old merchant who had wearily lain down on the sofa in the evening and now, in the night, got up with difficulty
only by calling upon all his strength. There was a hollow knock at the door. УCome in, come in, everything that is outside!Ф he shouted.



15 October. Perhaps I have caught hold of myself again, perhaps I secretly took the shorter way again, and now I, who already despair in loneliness, have pulled myself
up again. But the headaches, the sleeplessness! Well, it is worth the struggle, or rather, I have no choice.


The stay in Riva was very important to me. For the first time I understood a Christian girl and lived almost entirely within the sphere of her influence. I am incapable of
writing down the important things that I need to remember. This weakness of mine makes my dull head clear and empty only in order to preserve itself, but only insofar
as the confusion lets itself be crowded off to the periphery. But I almost prefer this condition to the merely dull and indefinite pressure the uncertain release from which
first would require a hammer to crush me.


Unsuccessful attempt to write to E. Weiss. And yesterday, in bed, the letter was boiling in my head.


To sit in the corner of a tram, your coat wrapped around you.


Prof. G. on the trip from Riva. His German-Bohemian nose reminding one of death, swollen, flushed, pimpled cheeks set on the bloodless leanness of his face, the blond,
full beard around it. Possessed by a voracious appetite and thirst. The gulping down of the hot soup, the biting into and at the same time the licking of the unskinned
heel of salami, the solemn gulps of the beer grown warm, the sweat breaking out around his nose. A loathsomeness that cannot be savored to the full even by the
greediest staring and sniffing.


The house was already locked up. There was light in two windows on the second floor, and in one window on the fourth floor as well. A carriage stopped before the