A Bridge Made of Diamonds
I think there’s often an elephant in the room in discussions of Kafka, which is the fact that we may like his work more than we otherwise would because he has this personal mystique, he’s this platonic ideal of what a writer should be in the crazy modern world. I find myself wishing I were more like him so I could have a mystique like that too—which is nuts, Kafka was miserable, I don’t want to be like him! I just want to write good books!
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