"Kafka, Franz - Diaries 1914" - читать интересную книгу автора (Kafka Franz)

fine. A small shoal floated by in an upwards-mounting chain and disappeared in the green. Bells borne back and forth by the drifting of the tide-wrong.



9 March. Rense walked a few steps down the dim passageway, opened the little papered door of the dining-room, and said to the noisy company, almost without
regarding them: "Please be a little more quiet. I have a guest. Have some consideration."


As he was returning to his room and heard the noise continuing unabated, he halted a moment, was on the verge of going back again, but thought better of it and
returned to his room.


A boy of eighteen was standing at the window, looking down into the yard. "It is quieter now," he said when Rense entered, and lifted his long nose and deep-set eyes
to him.


"It isn't quieter at all," said Rense, taking a swallow from the bottle of beer standing on the table. "It's impossible ever to have any quiet here. You'll have to get used to
that, boy."


I am too tired, I must try to rest and sleep, otherwise I am lost in every respect. What an effort to keep alive! Erecting a monument does not require the expenditure of
so much strength.


The general argument: I am completely lost in F.


Rense, a student, sat studying in his small back room. The maid came in and announced that a young man wished to speak to him. "What is his name?" Rense asked.
The maid did not know.


I shall never forget F. in this place, therefore shan't marry. Is that definite?


Yes, that much I can judge of: I am almost thirty-one years old, have known F. for almost two years, must therefore have some perspective by now. Besides, my way
of life here is such that I can't forget, even if F. didn't have such significance for me. The uniformity, regularity, comfort, and dependence of my way of life keep me
unresistingly fixed wherever I happen to be. Moreover, I have a more than ordinary inclination toward a comfortable and dependent life, and so even strengthen
everything that is pernicious to me. Finally, I am getting older, any change becomes more and more difficult. But in all this I foresee a great misfortune for myself, one
without end and without hope; I should be dragging through the years up the ladder of my job, growing ever sadder and more alone as long as I could endure it at all.


But you wanted that sort of life for yourself, didn't you?


An official's life could benefit me if I were married. It would in every way be a support to me against society, against my wife, against writing, without demanding too
many sacrifices, and without on the other hand degenerating into indolence and dependence, for as a married man I should not have to fear that. But I cannot live out
such a life as a bachelor.


But you could have married, couldn't you?