(no subject)

[dodont]

Muahahahahaha!

I am undefeated.

The guitar has strings. And they're bloody going to stay there. Bloody bloody.

While I'm here ...



The Aeroplanes at Brescia
p4: "But remorse shall not mar our joy on the airfield, that would only bring fresh remorse, and into the aerodrome

we spring rather than walk, with that inspiration of every limb which sometimes takes hold of us here,one after the

other, under this sun. [Paragraph] We come past the hangars, which stand there with their curtains drawn like the

closed stages of travelling players. On their pediments stand the names of the aviators whose machines they conceal,

and above them the flags of their homeland."
p6: "He turns his eyes slowly in our direction, turns them away from us and then in another direction, but his look

he always keeps to himself. Now he is going to fly, nothing could be more natural."
p8: "Over our heads, twenty metres above the earth, is a man entangled in a wooden frame, defending himself against

an invisible danger that he has freely taken on. But we stand down below, quite left behind and insignificant and we

watch this man."

Meditation: Children on the country road
p11: "Then birds flew up like a shower of sparks, I followed them with my eyes and saw how they rose in a single

breath, until they seemed no longer to be rising but I to be falling, and holding fast to the ropes I began to swing

a little out of faintness. Soon I was swinging more strongly as the air grew cooler and in place of the flying birds

trembling stars appeared."
p14: "'They're strange folk there! Just think, they never sleep!' / 'And why's that?' / 'Because they don't get

tired.' / 'And why's that?' / 'Because they're fools.' / 'Don't fools get tired?' / 'How could fools get tired!'"

Meditation: The excursion into the mountains
p19: "'How these Nobodies crowd together, all these manifold arms, stretched out crosswise and linked together, all

these manifold feet with tiny paces between them. It goes without saying they all wear evening dress. We don't get

along too badly, the wind blows through the gaps that we and our limbs leave open. Our throats become clear in the

mountains! It's a wonder we don't start singing.'"

Meditation: Unhappiness
p34: "'And for another thing, I don't know you everywhere and all the time, especially not in this darkness. It

would be much better if you were to light up. No, perhaps not.'"

Metamorphosis
p117: "Was he an animal, that music could move him so? It seemed to him as if the way were opening towards the

unknown nourishment he craved."

In the penal colony
p129-30: "'Yes, the harrow,' said the officer, 'it's a good name for it ... '"
p141: "'In any case, the machine still operates and it is effective on its own. It is effective even if it stands

all alone in this valley.'"
p144: "'I have a plan that is bound to succeed. You believe the influence you have is not enough. I know that it is.

But even granted you are right, surely it is necessary to try all means, even possibly inadequate ones, in order to

preserve the old system? So let me tell you my plan.'"

A country doctor: Little tales: The new advocate
p154: "We have a new advocate, Mr Bucephalus. In his outward appearance there is little to recall the time when he

was still the war-horse of Alexander of Macedon ... Today - it cannot be denied - there is no Alexander the Great.

There are indeed plenty of those who know how to murder; even the skill required to spear a friend across the

banqueting table is not lacking; and many find Macedonia too constricting, so that they curse Philip the father -

but no one, no one can can lead the way to India. Even in those days the gates of India were beyond reach, but the

royal sword pointed to where they stood. Today the gates have been carried off to some quite other, remoter and

loftier places; no one shows the direction; many hold swords in their hands, but only to brandish them, and the eye

that tries to follow them grows confused. [Par] So perhaps it really is best to do what Bucephalus has done, and

immerse oneself in the books of the law. Free, his flanks unconstrained by the grip of his rider, in the still light

of the lamp, far from the din of the Battle of Issus, he reads and turns the pages of our ancient books."

A Country Doctor
p159: "Thus from the distance. A closer look reveals a further complication. Worms, as thick and as long as my

little finger, rose-red themselves and blood-spattered in addition, held fast in the depths of the wound, are

wriggling with their little white heads and their numerous legs towards the light. Poor boy, you are past helping. I

have found your great wound, this flower in your side is destroying you."
p160: "'You know,' says a voice in my ear, 'I have very little faith in you. You're just another one who's been

wafted in from somewhere, you didn't get here on your own two feet.'"

A leaf from an old manuscript
p164: "If the nomads were to get no meat, who knows what might occur to them; who knows, for that matter, what will occur to them even if they do get their daily meat."

Before the law
p165: "'If it tempts you so, then try entering despite my prohibition. But mark: I am powerful. And I am only the lowest doorkeeper. In hall after hall stand other doorkeepers, each more powerful than the last. The mere sight of the third is more than even I can bear.'"
p166: "Finally his sight begins to fail and he does not know whether it is really growing darker around him or whether his eyes are just deceiving him. But he can indeed perceive in the darkness a radiance that streams out unquenchably from the doorway of the law ... 'No one else could ever have been admitted here, since this entrance was intended for you alone. Now I am going to close it.'"

Jackals and Arabs
p168: "'It seems to be a most ancient feud; so it probably runs in the blood; so maybe blood will be needed to end it.'"
p169: "'Master, you are to end the strife that is dividing the world. You are exactly the man our ancients described as the one to accomplish it.'"

A message from the emperor
p175: "The Emperor — so they say — has sent a message, directly from his death bed, to you alone, his pathetic subject, a tiny shadow which has taken refuge at the furthest distance from the imperial sun. He ordered the herald to kneel down beside his bed and whispered the message in his ear. He thought it was so important that he had the herald speak it back to him. He confirmed the accuracy of verbal message by nodding his head. And in front of the entire crowd of those witnessing his death — all the obstructing walls have been broken down, and all the great ones of his empire are standing in a circle on the broad and high soaring flights of stairs—in front of all of them he dispatched his herald. The messenger started off at once, a powerful, tireless man. Sticking one arm out and then another, he makes his way through the crowd. If he runs into resistance, he points to his breast where there is a sign of the sun. So he moves forwards easily, unlike anyone else. But the crowd is so huge; its dwelling places are infinite. If there were an open field, how he would fly along, and soon you would hear the marvellous pounding of his fist on your door. But instead of that, how futile are all his efforts. He is still forcing his way through the private rooms of the innermost palace. Never will he win his way through. And if he did manage that, nothing would have been achieved. He would have to fight his way down the steps, and, if he managed to do that, nothing would have been achieved. He would have to stride through the courtyards, and after the courtyards through the second palace encircling the first, and, then again, through stairs and courtyards, and then, once again, a palace, and so on for thousands of years. And if he finally burst through the outermost door — but that can never, never happen—the royal capital city, the centre of the world, is still there in front of him, piled high and full of sediment. No one pushes his way through here, certainly not someone with a message from a dead man. But you sit at your window and dream of that message when evening comes."

A problem for the father of the family
p176-7: "There are some who say that the word Odradek is of Slavonic origin, and they try to account for its formation on that basis. Others again believe that it derives from the German and is merely influenced by Slavonic. The uncertainty of both interpretations, however, probably justifies the conclusion that neither is correct, especially since neither permits one to attach a meaning to the word. / No one, of course, would occupy himself with such studies if a creature such as Odradek did not in fact exist. At first glance it looks like a flat, star-shaped spool for thread, and it does actually seem to be wound with thread; or rather what appears to be just odds and ends of old thread, of the most various kinds and colours, all knotted together and even tangled up with one another. But it is not simply a spool, for projecting from the middle of the star is a small wooden crossbar, and to this another little bar is attached at a right angle. By means of this latter bar on one side and one of the points of the star on the other, the whole thing is able to stand upright as if on two legs. / One might be tempted to suppose that this object had once been designed for some purpose or other and was now merely broken. But this does not seem to be the case; at least there are no indications of it; nowhere are there stumps or fractures visible that might suggest anything of the kind; the whole thing certainly appears senseless, and yetand yet in its own way complete. It is not possible to state anything more definite on the matter since odradek is exceptionally mobile and refuses to be caught. / He resides by turns in the attic, on the stairs, in the corridors, in the entrance hall. Sometimes he is not to be seen for months; so presumably he has moved into other houses; but then he invariably comes back to our house again. Sometimes when one comes out of one's room and he happens to be propping himself up against the banisters down below, one feels inclined to speak to him. Naturally one doesn't ask him any difficult questions, one treats him -- his diminutive size is itself sufficient encouragement to do so -- like a child. 'What's your name?' one asks him. 'Odradek,' he says. 'And where do you live?' 'No fixed abode,' he says, and laughs; but it is the only sort of laughter that can be produced without lungs. It sounds something like the rustling of fallen leaves. That is usually the end of the conversation. Even these answers, by the way, are not always forthcoming; often he remains dumb for a long time, like the wood he appears to consist of. / It is in vain that I ask myself what is likely to become of him. Is he capable of dying? Everything that dies has previously had some kind of goal, some kind of activitiy, and at this activity it has worn itself away; in the case of Odradek that does not apply. Can it be, then, that he might one day still be rolling down the stairs. with ends of thread trailing after him, before the feet of my children and my children's children? He obviously does no harm to anyone; but the idea that he might also outlive me I find almost painful."

Eleven sons ..

A dream
p186: "At this untimely moment a little bell began to toll from the cemetery chapel, but the artist gesticulated with his raised hand and the bell stopped. After a little while it began again; this time quite softly, and breaking off again without special request; it was as if it just wanted to test its sound."

Josefine, the songstress, or: The Mouse People
p220: "Our songstress is called Josefine. Anyone who has not heard her has never felt the power of song. There is not one of us whom her singing does not transport ..."
p223: "Sometimes the shoulders of a thousand tremble under a burden that was really made for one alone."
p225: "To be sure, the strength of the people is so vastly much greater than the strength of the single person that it has only to draw the one committed to its charge into the warmth of its immediate presence and there he will find protection enough.
p228: "Among our people there is no such thing as youth, and hardly even the briefest spell of childhood."

Comments

[eviljammy.livejournal.com]

Have you ever read "The Trial"? The Before the Law story makes an appearance in that too.

[andabusers.livejournal.com]

I have indeed. I noticed that, but couldn't remember if I'd dog-eared it. Turns out I have anyway, but ah well.