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every time it rains i think of that raymond carver poem. poetry is like prayer to me methinks. or an incantation
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it has become fashionable to go "he's just like me fr" about franz kafka. here, then, is your checklist for being just like franz kafka: - jewish, but weird about it (load-bearing) - central european - effectively stateless - natural talent for melancholy that both defines and transcends the goth aesthetic - has jokes (most would-be kafkas do not) - absurdly paranoid - sex machine - riven with guilt about being a sex machine - hypochrondriac - genuinely afflicted with horrible diseases - impoverished - starving to death - gender if all of these apply to you, congratulations: you are in fact just like franz kafka. you should probably see a doctor about it. if some but not most of these apply to you, what you consider being "just like [franz kafka] fr" is, more likely, early warning signs of an artistic syndrome known as "boneless Lord Byron", and should not be encouraged
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Sappho, from If Not, Winter: Fragments of Sappho; tr. by Anne Carson
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margaret atwood / louise glück
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- September 22, 1917
- The diaries of Franz Kafka, 1914-1923
[ID: September 22. Nothing. End ID]
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can we like, have adaptations made by people who care about the thing they're adapting
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unfortunately i will be thinking about this moby dick cabinet for the foreseeable future
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“The number of hours we have together is actually not so large. Please linger near the door uncomfortably instead of just leaving. Please forget your scarf in my life and come back later for it.”
— Mikko Harvey, from "For M," Foundry (no. 9, September 2018)
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