Don't Struggle So Much, The Best Things

The Weak Would Never Enter The Kingdom Of Love.

She Would Walk Through The Kitchen At Any Hour, Whenever She Was Hungry, And Put Her Fork In The Pots And Eat A Little Of Everything Without Placing Anything On A Plate, Standing In Front Of The Stove, Talking To The Serving Women, Who Were The Only Ones With Whom She Felt Comfortable, The Ones She Got Along With Best.

Then He Knew That They Had Rounded The Cape Of Good Hope, And He Took Her Large, Soft Hand Again And Covered It With Forlorn Little Kisses, First The Hard Metacarpus, The Long, Discerning Fingers, The Diaphanous Nails, And Then The Hieroglyphics Of Her Destiny On Her Perspiring Palm.

And It Was Always Without Pretensions Of Loving Or Being Loved Although Always In The Hope Of Finding Something That Resembled Love But Without The Problems Of Love.

One Night A Friend Lent Me A Book Of Short Stories By Franz Kafka. I Went Back To The Pension Where I Was Staying And Began To Read The Metamorphosis. The First Line Almost Knocked Me Off The Bed. I Was So Surprised. The First Line Reads, “as Gregor Samsa Awoke That Morning From Uneasy Dreams, He Found Himself Transformed In His Bed Into A Gigantic Insect. . . .” When I Read The Line I Thought To Myself That I Didn’t Know Anyone Was Allowed To Write Things Like That. If I Had Known, I Would Have Started Writing A Long Time Ago. So I Immediately Started Writing Short Stories.