Kafka Fragments

György Kurtág, Op. 24

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The good march in step. Unaware of them, the others dance around them in dances of time.
Like a pathway in autumn: hardly has it been swept clean, it is covered again with dry leaves.
There are countless hiding places, but only one salvation; but then again, there are as many paths to salvation as there are hiding places.
Restless
Wrap your overcoat, oh lofty dream, around the child.
Nevermore, nevermore will you return to the cities, nevermore will the great bell resound above you.
“But he just won’t stop asking me” That “ah”, detached from the sentence, flew away like a ball across the meadow.
Someone tugged at my clothes but I shrugged them off.
The seamstresses in the downpourings.
The onlookers freeze as the train goes past.
Slept, woke, slept, woke. Miserable life.
My ear felt fresh to the touch, rough, cool, juicy, like a leaf.
Once I broke my leg: it was the most wonderful experience of my life.
For a moment I felt enarmoured.
On the stock of Balzac’s walking-stick: I surmount all obstacles. On mine: All obstacles surmount me. They have that “all” in common.
From a certain point on, there is no going back.
I will not let myself be made tired. I will dive into my story even if that should lacerate my face.
The flower hung dreamily on it’s tall stem. Dusk enveloped it.
Nothing of the kind, Nothing of the kind.
The true path goes by way of a rope that is suspended not high up, but rather just above the ground. Its purpose seems to be more to make on stumble than walked upon.
There is no “to have” only a “to be” longing for the last breath, for suffocation.
Coitus as punishment for the happiness of being together.
My prison cell – my fortress.
I am dirty, Milena, endlessly dirty, that is why I make such a fuss about cleanliness. None sing as purely as those in deepest hell; it is their singing we take for the singing of angels.
Slept, woke, slept, woke. Miserable life.
The closed circle is pure.
There is a destination, but no path to it; what we call a path is hesitation.
As tightly as the hand holds the stone. It holds so tight only to cast it off as far as it can. Yet even that distance the path with reach.
In the struggle between yourself and the world, side with the world.
There are countless hiding-places, but only one salvation; but then again, there are as many paths to salvation as there are hiding places.

The seamstresses in the downpourings.

Die Weissnäherinnen in den Regengüssen.

“Anyone who keeps the ability to see beauty never grows old.”
Franz Kafka

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