where the writers are

So I'm past the 666 stage. Live long and prosper.

Apparently we became ousted from the Garden of Eden and into Satan's arms because we unwisely slithered to eat of the Tree of Knowledge. How we would manage to exist without knowledge I do not know. God seems full of such conundrums.

Kafka was full of knowledge (and apparently none the happier for it). There has been a lot going on about Kafka of late, one of which is a spanking new translation of his infamous Letter To His Father. I feel that Daddy Kafka gets too much bad press, rough and crude though he might have been. To be fair, it would be something of a trial to deal with Franz.

And here is an observation by Franz himself.

Once when Franz Kafka was strolling with his younger friend Gustav Janouch in Prague,
they ran into Hermann Kafka leaving his shop. As they drew near, Hermann
boomed, "Franz. Go home. The air is damp." In a whisper, Kafka
explained, "My father. He's worried about me," adding, "Love often wears
the face of violence."