Kafka stood in his own life and in the world with a philosophical-sceptical keynote, tossed into a country and era. Nothing he wrote was really bound to his time, if you free the thoughts from the robe of age, you find wisdom directed at the world, portioned inconspicuously, wrapped up in the ordinary and unremarkable with a tint of quiet absurdity.
When you read, you want to meet him, in some hotel lobby, in a corridor, or between a city’s buildings. You want to have a cup of tea with him, empty a bottle of wine and get to know this person, Kafka. How was he? Like you or maybe even like me? Would it be a good conversation, a good encounter in the oddity of the early 20th century?
He is still standing in the room, calmly leaning on the wall, the evening light in his face. In actual fact I only want to ask him one question: “Why are we here?”.