kafka’s wish

If one were only an Indian, instantly alert, and on a racing horse, leaning against the wind, kept on quivering jerkily over the quivering ground, until one shed one’s spurs, for there needed no spurs, threw away the reigns, for there needed no reigns, and hardly saw that the land before one was smoothly short heath when horse’s neck and head would already be gone.
Franz Kafka, The Wish to be a Red Indian (posthumously in 1971).
(hat tip to Mat. A)

%d bloggers like this: