Saturday, September 7, 2013


I am in the habit of relying on my coachman in everything.  When we came past a high white wall, slowly bulging at the sides and at the top, and ceased to drive ahead, driving along the wall, touching it, the coachman finally said:  "It is a forehead."

Franz Kafka, The Blue Octavo Notebooks, The Eighth Notebook, Cambridge, Exact Change, 1991.

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