Forgive me," he went on. "For a long time I have had the peculiar habit of not arriving but appearing.

I cannot hate them because nothing binds me to them; I have nothing in common with them.

The moment Kafka attracts more attenetion than Joseph K., Kafka's posthumous death begins.

The basis of shame is not some personal mistake of ours, but the ignominy, the humiliation we feel that we must be what we are without any choice in the matter, and that this humiliation is seen by everyone.

Even in the game there lurks a lack of freedom; even in a game is a trap for the players.

And therein lies the whole of man's plight. Human time does not turn in a circle; it runs ahead in a straight line. That is why man cannot be happy: happiness is the longing for repetition.

Fidelity gives a unity to lives that would otherwise splinter into thousands of split-second impressions.