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

house. A young man stepped to the lighted window on the fourth floor, opened it, and looked down into the street. In the moonlight.


It was already late in the evening. The student had lost all desire to continue working. Nor was it at all necessary, he had really made great progress the last few
weeks, he could probably relax a little and reduce the amount of work he did at night. He closed his books and notebooks, arranged everything on his little table, and
was about to undress and go to sleep. By accident, however, he looked towards the window, and when he saw the bright full moon it occurred to him that he might still
take a short walk in the beautiful autumn night and somewhere or other, perhaps, refresh himself with a cup of black coffee. He turned out the lamp, took his hat, and
opened the door to the kitchen. Usually it did not matter to him at all that he always had to go through the kitchen, this inconvenience also considerably reduced the rent
of his room, but now and then, when there was an unusual amount of noise in the kitchen, or when, as today, he wanted to go out late in the evening, it was annoying.


In despair. Today, in the half-asleep during the afternoon: in the end the pain will really burst my head. And at the temples. What I saw when I pictured this to myself
was really a gunshot wound, but around the hole the jagged edges were bent straight back, as in the case of a tin can violently torn open.


Don't forget Kropotkin!



20 October. The unimaginable sadness in the morning. In the evening read Jacobsohn's Der Fall Jacobsohn. This strength to live, to make decisions, joyfully to set
one's foot in the right place. He sits in himself the way a practiced rower sits in his boat and would sit in any boat. I wanted to write to him.


Instead of which I went for a walk, erased all the emotion I had absorbed in a conversation with Haas, whom I had run into, women excited me, I am now reading УThe
MetamorphosisФ at home and find it bad. Perhaps I am really lost, the sadness of this morning will return again, I shall not be able to resist it for long, it deprives me of
all hope. I don't even have the desire to keep a diary, perhaps because there is already too much lacking in it, perhaps because I should perpetually have to describe
incompleteЧby all appearances necessarily incompleteЧactions, perhaps because writing itself adds to my sadness.


I would gladly write fairy tales (why do I hate the word so?) that could please W. [Gerti Wasner, the girl he met in Riva] and that she might sometimes keep under
the table at meals, read between courses, and blush fearfully when she noticed that the sanatorium doctor has been standing behind her for a little while now and
watching her. Her excitement sometimesЧor really all of the timeЧwhen she hears stories.


I notice that I am afraid of the almost physical strain of the effort to remember, afraid of the pain beneath which the floor of the thoughtless vacuum of the mind slowly
opens up, or even merely heaves up a little in preparation. All things resist being written down. If I knew that her commandment not to mention her were at work here
(I have kept it faithfully, almost without effort), then I should be satisfied, but it is nothing but inability. Besides, what am I to think of the fact that this evening, for a long
while, I was pondering what the acquaintance with W. had cost me in pleasures with the Russian woman, who at night perhaps (this is by no means impossible) might
have let me into her room, which was diagonally across from mine. While my evening's intercourse with W. was carried on in a language of knocks whose meaning we
never definitely agreed upon. I knocked on the ceiling of my room below hers, received her answer, leaned out of the window, greeted her, once let myself be blessed
by her, once snatched at a ribbon she let down, sat on the window sill for hours, heard every one of her steps above, mistakenly regarded every chance knock to be the
sign of an understanding, heard her coughing, her singing before she fell asleep.



21 October. Lost day. Visit to the Ringhoffer factory, Ehrenfels's seminar, at Weltsch's, dinner, walk, now here at ten o'clock. I keep thinking of the black beetle, but
will not write.


In the small harbor of a fishing village a barque was being fitted out for a voyage. A young man in wide sailor-trousers was supervising the work. Two old sailors were