The Good Tidings Which The Historian Of

Each Morning The Day Lies Like A Fresh Shirt On Our Bed; This Incomparably Fine, Incomparably Tightly Woven Tissue Of Pure Prediction Fits Us Perfectly. The Happiness Of The Next Twenty-four Hours Depends On Our Ability, On Waking, To Pick It Up.

To Do Justice To The Figure Of Kafka In Its Purity And Its Peculiar Beauty One Must Never Lose Sight Of One Thing: It Is The Purity And Beauty Of A Failure.

We Do Not Always Proclaim Loudly The Most Important Thing We Have To Say. Nor Do We Always Privately Share It With Those Closest To Us, Our Intimate Friends, Those Who Have Been Most Devotedly Ready To Receive Our Confession.

You Follow The Same Paths Of Thought As Before. Only, They Appear Strewn With Roses.

Any Translation Which Intends To Perform A Transmitting Function Cannot Transmit Anything But Information-hence, Something Inessential. This Is The Hallmark Of Bad Translations.