Franz Kafka’s letters. . .

“But I still can’t comprehend it. Why did I get up back then and, only half-awake, walk over to the bookshelves? Why did I pull out the volume with Franz Kafka’s letters, which revived the moment of my birth in me, and everything else? No, for as long as I can stand it I won’t read any more, for as long as even the shadow of a memory brushes me as I walk past the shelf with his books I won’t take out another volume, I won’t open another page. And this shadow will brush me for as long as I’m still breathing and see the books standing there. No, I won’t read any more. For as long as I’m still breathing, I won’t keep on reading. One thing or the other.”

Ilse Aichinger, Breathing as an Imposition

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