I recently picked up a copy of an out-of-print volume of Kafka's letters, Letters to Friends, Family, and Editors (1977), and on casually opening it, the first line I saw was this, a postscript to a letter to Kafka's friend Oskar Baum in June 1920:
I notice that I have slipped far too much into gloom. It's really not all that bad.There's a part of me that doesn't even want to read any more of the book: how could what's still to come possibly improve on the perfection of this moment?
It is raining here today and has been for a couple of weeks. On and off, but almost every day. Unusual for the DC area. I have been very comfortable with the gloomy weather and find myself rather relaxed. Sleeping in, reading, listening to music. It is rather mellow.
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