Kafka, from a letter:

When I opened my eyes after a short afternoon nap, still not quite certain that I was alive, I heard my mother calling down from the balcony in a natural tone: ‘What are you up to?’ A woman answered from the garden, ‘I’m having tea in the garden.’ I was amazed at the ease with which some people live their lives.

But now think of Henry Green, who is able to write with such expressions as ‘I’m having tea in the garden’. What kind of gift is his?