The Night Was A Time

In View Of The Fact That I Surround Myself With Numbskulls Now, I Shall Die Among Numbskulls, And On My Deathbed Shall Be Surrounded By Numbskulls Who Will Not Understand What I Am Saying ... Whom Am I Sleeping With These Days ? Franz Kafka.

And No Book, And Possibly No Painting, When It Is Finished, Is Ever Exactly Like The First Dream Of It.

For Neither Life Nor Nature Cares If Justice Is Ever Done Or Not.

But There Were Too Many Points At Which The Other Self Could Invade The Self He Wanted To Preserve, And There Were Too Many Forms Of Invasion: Certain Words, Sounds, Lights, Actions His Hands Or Feet Performed, And If He Did Nothing At All, Heard And Saw Nothing, The Shouting Of Some Triumphant Inner Voice That Shocked Him And Cowed Him.

I Should Love To Do A Novel, About One Abnormal Character Seeing Present-day Life, Very Ordinary Life, Yet Arresting Through It, Abnormality, Until At The End The Reader Sees, And With Little Reluctance, That He Is Not Abnormal At All, And That The Main Character Might As Well Be Himself.