Thursday, July 7, 2011

My friend Kafka

Lately, I haven't been writing at all. The Shelf has been woefully neglected. I'm not sure if this neglect has brought any real static to any one's life. Either way, I am now skulking back to you. There has been a tapestry of consternation that has kept me from you dear reader, and I can only describe as 'Kafka-esque'.

Some weeks ago, I went to my magnificent, taxpayer-supported public library and picked up Kafka's Dairies 1914-1923. My only lament was that I had to return this book which I have now decided is an essential text for me as I continue with you all on this planet, trudging through our collective mortal coil. Again and again, Kafka's inner thoughts echo my own: I can't do it, I can't do it, there's just no way...

Kafka's diaries absolutely and beautifully articulate a pain, doubt, ennui and anger that keeps any artist from executing a consistent and constructive product. Kafka was a beautiful spirit, burdened by his inability to escape life's banalities and dark spots. Yet somehow, through some blessed intervention, his voice has been heard.

A note on this copy - bought off of Amazon for $.01 plus $3.99 shipping. It's old and smelly. Just as it should be.

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