Franz Kafka was born on this day in 1883. He wrote:
"Life's splendor forever lies in wait about each one of us in all its fullness, but veiled from view, deep down, invisible, far off. It is there, though, not hostile, not reluctant, not deaf. If you summon it by the right word, by its right name, it will come."
I’m reading Kafka. We’ll be passing through Prague at some point soon and perhaps I can visit his grave. Gregor thinks of his family with tenderness and love, and then just before sunrise comes “the last faint flicker of his breath.” The sun is rising out of the sea here and in a couple of hours we’ll have breakfast, which Pinto, that old dung beetle, plans to attend. Giving us our marching orders, I presume. Some day, on my deathbed maybe, I’ll think back on Pinto with tenderness and love. -- Chapter 30, The Misforgotten.