Kafka's evocations are, rather, unconscious and almost sub-archetypal, the little-kid stuff from which myths derive; this is why we tend to call even his weirdest stories nightmarish rather than surreal.

One paradox of professional writing is that books written solely for money and/or acclaim will almost never be good enough to garner either.

It did what all ads are supposed to do: create an anxiety relievable by purchase.

Lucky people develop a relationship with a certain kind of art that becomes spiritual, almost religious, and doesn’t mean, you know, church stuff, but it means you’re just never the same.

God seems to have a kind of laid-back management style I’m not crazy about.

Good literature makes your head throb heartlike

So which is the lie? Hard or soft? Silence or time?