If The Book Is A Mystery To

Franz Kafka Is Dead. He Died In A Tree From Which He Wouldn't Come Down. "come Down!" They Cried To Him. "come Down! Come Down!" Silence Filled The Night, And The Night Filled The Silence, While They Waited For Kafka To Speak. "i Can't," He Finally Said, With A Note Of Wistfulness. "why?" They Cried. Stars Spilled Across The Black Sky. "because Then You'll Stop Asking For Me."

The Fact That You Got A Little Happier Today Doesn't Change The Fact That You Also Became A Little Sadder. Every Day You Become A Little More Of Both, Which Means That Right Now, At This Exact Moment, You're The Happiest And Saddest You've Ever Been In Your Whole Life.

Even Among The Angels, There Is The Sadness Of Division.

...we Take Comfort In The Symmetries We Find In Life Because They Suggest A Design Where There Is None.

Even Now, All Possible Feelings Do Not Yet Exist, There Are Still Those That Lie Beyond Our Capacity And Our Imagination. From Time To Time, When A Piece Of Music No One Has Ever Written Or A Painting No One Has Ever Painted, Or Something Else Impossible To Predict, Fathom Or Yet Describe Takes Place, A New Feeling Enters The World. And Then, For The Millionth Time In The History Of Feeling, The Heart Surges And Absorbs The Impact.