"Nada disso - atravessando as palavras há restos de luz."

Tens de enfiar a cabeça pela parede. Não é difícil atravessá-la, ela é de papel fino. O difícil é não nos deixarmos iludir pelo facto de que o papel já traz pintado, da forma mais enganadora, o modo como tu atravessas a parede. Isso leva-te irresistivelmente a dizer. "Mas não estou eu permanentemente a atravessá-la?"

F. Kafka
in Parábolas e Fragmentos

Tired of opinionating, standing for every little thing, could you ever stop it. could you ever get off of you and mute it. Because you know where good is, and where bad can be found and why bad is bad is bad is bad. And why it comes out. and you can see through and it exhausts the life out of you. E agora a leitura da noite.

Franz Kafka's Letter to his Father

Dearest Father,

You asked me recently why I maintain that I am afraid of you. As usual, I was unable to think of any answer to your question, partly for the very reason that I am afraid of you, and partly because an explanation of the grounds for this fear would mean going into far more details than I could even approximately keep in mind while talking. And if I now try to give you an answer in writing, it will still be very incomplete, because, even in writing, this fear and its consequences hamper me in relation to you and because the magnitude of the subject goes far beyond the scope of my memory and power of reasoning.

To you the matter always seemed very simple, at least in so far as you talked about it in front of me, and indiscriminately in front of many other people. It looked to you more or less as follows: you have worked hard all your life, have sacrificed everything for your children, above all for me, consequently I have lived high and handsome, have been completely at liberty to learn whatever I wanted, and have had no cause for material worries, which means worries of any kind at all. You have not expected any gratitude for this, knowing what "children's gratitude" is like, but have expected at least some sort of obligingness, some sign of sympahty. Instead I have always hidden from you, in my room, among my books, with crazy friends, or with crackpot ideias. I have never talked to you frankly; I have never come to you when you were in the synagogue, never visited you at Franzensbad, nor indeed ever shown any family feeling; I have never taken any interest in the business or your other concerns; I saddled you with the factory and walked off; I encouraged Ottla in her obstinacy, and never lifted a finger for you (never even got you a theater ticked) , while I do everything for my friends. If you sum up your judgement of me, the result you get is that, alhtough you don't charge me with anything downright improper or wicked (with the exception perhaps of my latest marriage plan), you do charge me with coldness, estrangements and ingratitude. And, what is more, you charge me with it in such a way as to make it seem my fault, as though I might have been able, with something like a touch on the steering wheel, to make everything quite different, while you aren't in the slightest to blame, unless it be for having been good to me.

The whole text to read, here.