Freiburg's destroying us. Last night, we worked our way through all the wines on the menu, glass by glass. In the end, the waiter sat down with us and told us the bar was terrible. He was Polish and keen to try his English: 'my heart, how do you say it? (he makes the gesture, and we say 'aches') aches for you. Go somewhere else'.
Where should we go? In moments of crisis, W. always asks himself what Kafka would do. What would Kafka do in our place? What would he make of it all? But that's the point: Kafka would never find himself in our place; he would never have made the mistakes we've made.
Kafka was at least a man of Europe, of old Europe. A Europe in crisis, but Europe nonetheless. And us? We are men without contexts, without roots, men in space who float endlessly in a fog of the intellect.
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