Diaries Of Franz Kafka Quotes

This tremendous world I have inside of me. How to free myself, and this world, without tearing myself to pieces. And rather tear myself to a thousand pieces than be buried with this world within me.

April 27. Incapable of living with people, of speaking. Complete immersion in myself, thinking of myself. Apathetic, witless, fearful. I have nothing to say to anyone - never.

People label themselves with all sorts of adjectives. I can only pronounce myself as 'nauseatingly miserable beyond repair'.

Forget everything. Open the windows. Clear the room. The wind blows through it. You see only its emptiness, you search in every corner and don’t find yourself.

Should I be grateful or should I curse the fact that despite all misfortune I can still feel love, an unearthly love but still for earthly objects.

Hold fast to the diary from today on! Write regularly! Don't surrender! Even if no salvation should come, I want to be worthy of it every moment.

The person I am in the company of my sisters has been entirely different from the person I am in the company of other people. Fearless, powerful, surprising, moved as I otherwise am only when I write.

2 November. This morning, for the first time in a long time, the joy again of imagining a knife twisted in my heart.

Life's splendor forever lies in wait about each one of us in all its fullness, but veiled from view, deep down, invisible, far off. It is there, though, not hostile, not reluctant, not deaf. If you summon it by the right word, by its right name, it will come.

My condition is not unhappiness, but it is also not happiness, not indifference, not weakness, not fatigue, not another interest – so what is it then?

Being alone has a power over me that never fails. My interior dissolves (for the time being only superficially) and is ready to release what lies deeper. When I am willfully alone, a slight ordering of my interior begins to take place and I need nothing more.

Nervous states of the worst sort control me without pause. Everything that is not literature bores me and I hate it. I lack all aptitude for family life except, at best, as an observer. I have no family feeling and visitors make me almost feel as though I were maliciously being attacked.

I feel an unhappiness which almost dismembers me, and at the same time am convinced of its necessity

It would be very unjust to say that you deserted me, but that I was deserted, and sometimes terribly so, is true.

the poisonous world flows into my mouth like water into that of a drowning man

There sat I, a faded being, under faded leaves.

I am fond of lovers but I cannot love, I am too far away, am banished,

Lost among these entirely strange people.

My doubts stand in a circle around every word, I see them before I see the word, but what then! I do not see the word at all, I invent it.

There can be no more beautiful spot to die in, no spot more worthy of total despair, than one’s own novel.

Don't you want to join us?" I was recently asked by an acquaintance when he ran across me alone after midnight in a coffeehouse that was already almost deserted. "No, I don't," I said.

But I will write in spite of everything, absolutely; it is my struggle for self-preservation.

Don't despair, not even over the fact that you don't despair. Just when everything seems over with, new forces come marching up, and precisely that means that you are alive. And if they don't, then everything is over with here, once and for all.

Always only the desire to die and the not-yet-yielding; this alone is love.

My job is unbearable to me because it conflicts with my only desire and my only calling, which is literature. Since I am nothing but literature and can and want to be nothing else, my job will never take possession of me, it may, however, shatter me completely, and this is by no means a remote possibility.

Peaceful moon. I consist only of bones.

If something good has lost its way into you, it will make its escape overnight. I know you.

I didn’t want any new clothes at all; because if I had to look ugly anyway, I wanted to at least be comfortable. I let the awful clothes affect even my posture, walked around with my back bowed, my shoulders drooping, my hands and arms all over the place. I was afraid of mirrors, because they showed an inescapable ugliness.

I ought to be able to invent words capable of blowing the odor of corpses in a direction other than straight into mine and the reader's face.

Down Here and up there are all the same to me. Whether I lie here in the gutter and stow away the rain water or drink champagne up there with the same lips makes no difference to me, not even in the taste.

For I underestimate myself, and that itself means an overestimation of others

Devilish in my innocence.

There am I. I cannot leave. I have nothing to complain about. I do not suffer excessively, for I do not suffer consistently, it does not pile up, at least I do not feel it for the time being, and the degree of my suffering is far less than the suffering that is perhaps my due.

It is as if I were made of stone, as if I were my own tombstone, there is no loophole for doubt or for faith, for love or repugnance, for courage or anxiety, in particular or in general, only a vague hope lives on, but no better than the inscriptions on tombstones.

I passed by the brothel as though past the house of a beloved.

This afternoon the pain occasioned by my loneliness came upon me so piercingly and intensely that I became aware that the strength which I gain through this writing thus spends itself, a strength which I certainly have not intended for this purpose.

4 December. To die would mean nothing else than to surrender a nothing to the nothing, but that would be impossible to conceive, for how could a person, even only as a nothing, consciously surrender himself to the nothing, and not merely to an empty nothing but rather to a roaring nothing whose nothingness consists only in its incomprehensibility.

The onlookers go rigid when the train goes past.

How many days have again gone silently by; today is 28 May. Have I not even the resolution to take this penholder, this piece of wood, in my hand every day? I really think I do not. I row, ride, swim, lie in the sun.

Herr Kafka, essen Sie keine Eier." (As one and only piece of dialog K recalls from his meeting with Rudolf Steiner - "Mr. Kafka don't eat eggs.

… my joints ache with fatigue, my dried up body trembles toward its own destruction in turmoils of which I dare not become fully conscious, in my head are astonishing convulsions.

I am more uncertain than I ever was; I feel only the power of life. And I am senselessly empty.

Leave me my books! I have nothing else.

Leo en Dostoievski el pasaje que tanto se asemeja a ser desdichado

A piece like a segment has been cut out of the back of his head. The sun looks in and the whole world with it. It makes him nervous, it distracts him from his work, and moreover it irritates him that he should be the very one excluded from the spectacle.

The gesture of rejection with which I was forever met did not mean: 'I do not love you,' but: 'You cannot love me, much as you would like; you are unhappily in love with your love for me, but your love for me is not in love with you.' It is consequently incorrect to say that I have known the words, 'I love you'; I have known only the expectant stillness that should have been broken by my 'I love you,' that is all that I have known, nothing more.

When I say something it immediately and definitively loses its importance, when I write it down it always loses it too, but sometimes gains a new one.

Silent, not from embarrassment or any other reason, but simply silent.

Parents who expect gratitude from their children (there are even those who demand it) are like usurers, they are happy to risk the capital as long as they get the interest.

In general I lacked principally the ability to provide even in the slightest detail for the real future. I thought only of things in the present and their present condition, not because of thoroughness or any special, strong interest, but rather, to the extent that weakness in thinking was not the cause, because of sorrow and fear – sorrow, because the present was so sad for me that I thought I could not leave it before it resolved itself into happiness; fear, because, like my fear of the slightest action in the present, I also considered myself, in view of my contemptible, childish appearance, unworthy of forming a serious, responsible opinion of the great, manly future which usually seemed so impossible to me that every short step forward appeared to me to be counterfeit and the next step unattainable.

I have now, and have had since this afternoon, a great yearning to write all of my anxiety entirely out of me.

This evening out of boredom washed my hands three times in succession in the bathroom.

The contentment today in my room. Hollow as a shell on the beach, ready to be crushed by a footstep

Es perfectamente imaginable que el esplendor de la vida esté dispuesto, siempre en toda plenitud, alrededor de cada uno, pero cubierto de un velo, en las profundidades, invisible, muy lejos. Sin embargo está ahí, no hostil, no a disgusto, no sordo, viene si uno lo llama con la palabra correcta, por su nombre correcto. Es la esencia de la magia, que no crea, sino llama.

It is entirely conceivable that life's splendour forever lies in wait about each one of us in all its fullness, but veiled from our view, deep down, invisible, far off. It is there, though, not hostile, not reluctant, not deaf. If you summon it by the right word, by its right name, it will come. This is the essence of magic, which does not create but summons Franz Kafka, 18 October 1921 Es ist sehr gut denkbar, dass die Herrlichkeit des Lebes um jeden und immer in ihrer ganzen Fülle bereitliegt, aber verhängt, in der Tiefe, unsichtbar, sehr weit. Aber sie liegt dort, nicht feindselig, nicht widerwillig, nicht taub. Ruft man sie mit dem richtigen Wort, beim richtigen Namen, dann kommt sie. Das ist das Wesen der Zauberei, die nicht schafft, sondern ruft. Kafkas Tagebücher,18 Oktober 1921

I must be alone a great deal. What I have achieved is only a result of being alone.

Yesterday evening during a walk every little street noise, every glance directed at me, every photograph in a display case was more important to me than I was.

I avoid people not in order to be able to live in peace, but in order to be able to die in peace.

There are possibilities for me, certainly, but under what stone do they lie?

The distraction, the weakness of memory, the stupidity!

It seems so dreadful to be a bachelor, to become an old man struggling to keep one's dignity while begging for an invitation whenever one wants to spend an evening in company, having to carry one's meal home in one's hand, unable to expect anyone with a lazy sense of calm confidence, able only with difficulty and vexation to give a gift to someone, having to say good night at the front door, never being able to run up a stairway beside one's wife, to lie ill and have only the solace of the view from one's window when one can sit up, to have only side doors in one's room leading into other people's living rooms, to feel estranged from one’s family, with whom one can keep on close terms only by marriage, first by the marriage of one's parents, then, when the effect of that has worn off, by one's own, having to admire other people's children and not even being allowed to go on saying: “I have none myself,” never to feel oneself grow older since there is no family growing up around one, modeling oneself in appearance and behavior on one or two bachelors remembered from our youth.

To die would mean nothing else than to surrender a nothing to the nothing, but that would be impossible to conceive, for how could a person, even only as a nothing, consciously surrender himself to the nothing, and not merely to an empty nothing but rather to a roaring nothing whose nothingness consists only in its incomprehensibility.

Anyone who cannot come to terms with his life while he is alive needs one hand to ward off a little his despair over his fate –he has little success in this –but with his other hand he can note down what he sees among the ruins, for he sees different (and more) things than do the others; after all, dead as he is in his own lifetime, he is the real survivor. This assumes that he does not need both hands, or more hands than he has, in his struggle against despair.

Should I be grateful or should I curse the fact that despite all misfortune I can still feel love, an unearthly love but still for earthly objects. ― Franz Kafka, Diaries of Franz Kafka 1910-1923. (Schocken October 30, 1988) Originally published 1949.

Kafka regarded the end of "The Metamorphosis"- its composition in interrupted by a business trip- as "unreadable." He also wrote in his diary that he found it"bad," but of course Kafka relished his failure. Failure is precisely what he expected and resolved to accomplish- and he hid behind it.

Only those burdened with a common affliction understand each other. Thanks to their affliction they constitute a circle and provide each other mutual support. They glide along the inner borders of their circle, make way for or jostle one another gently in the crowd... There exists not the shadow of a thought to give the comforter an advantage over the comforted. Thus their conversations consist only of a coming-together of their imaginations, outpourings of wishes from one upon the other... Sometimes they will unite in faith and, their heads together, look up into the unending reaches of the sky. Recognition of their situation shows itself, however, only when they bow down their heads in common and the common hammer descends upon them.

Wie leicht Grenadine mit Selter beim Lachen durch die Nase geht (Bar vor der Opéra Comique).

can venture nothing for myself as long as I have achieved no greater work that satisfies me fully. That is certainly irrefutable.

Stauffer-Bern:[351] “The sweetness of production obscures its absolute value.

In what an effortless sleepiness I wrote this useless, unfinished thing.

To be sure, the deeper one digs one’s pit, the quieter it becomes; the less anxious one becomes, the quieter it becomes.

The most widespread individuality of writers consists, after all, in the fact that each conceals his bad qualities in an entirely particular way.

Weightlessly, bonelessly, bodilessly walked for two hours through the streets

being alone brings only punishments.

how much harmful ridiculous self-confidence arises while reading old things with an eye to publication.

This morning for the first time in a long while the pleasure again in imagining a knife twisted in my heart.

I hide away from people not because I want to live in peace but because I want to perish in peace.

It is always the same, always the same

Open yourself. Let the human person come forth. Breathe in the air and the silence.

In the past I couldn’t manage to express myself freely with new acquaintances because the presence of sexual desires unconsciously hindered me, now I’m hindered by their conscious absence.

13 September. Again barely two pages. At first I thought my sorrow over the Austrian defeats and my anxiety for the future (anxiety that appears ridiculous to me at bottom, and base too) would prevent me from doing any writing. But that wasn’t it, it was only an apathy that forever comes back and forever has to be put down again. There is time enough for sorrow when I am not writing. The thoughts provoked in me by the war resemble my old worries over F. in the tormenting way in which they devour me from every direction. I can’t endure worry, and perhaps have been created expressly in order to die of it. When I shall have grown weak enough –it won’t take very long –the most trifling worry will perhaps suffice to rout me. In this prospect I can also see a possibility of postponing the disaster as long as possible.

Would you call it a conversation if the other person is silent and, to keep up the appearance of a conversation, you try to substitute for him, and so imitate him, and so parody him, and so parody yourself.

In the diary one finds proof that, even in conditions that today seem unbearable, one lived, looked around and wrote down observations, that this right hand thus moved as it does today, when the possibility of surveying our condition at that time does make us wiser, but we therefore must recognize all the more the undauntedness of our striving at that time, which in sheer ignorance nonetheless sustained itself.

First: breakdown, impossible to sleep, impossible to stay awake, impossible to endure life, or, more exactly, the course of life. The clocks are not in unison; the inner one runs crazily on at a devilish or demoniac or in any case inhuman pace, the outer one limps along at its usual speed. What else can happen but that the two worlds split apart, and they do split apart, or at least clash in a fearful manner. There are doubtless several reasons for the wild tempo of the inner process; the most obvious one is introspection, which will suffer no idea to sink tranquilly to rest but must pursue each one into consciousness, only itself to become an idea, in turn to be pursued by renewed introspection. Secondly: this pursuit, originating in the midst of men, carries one in a direction away from them. The solitude that for the most part has been forced on me, in part voluntarily sought by me –but what was this if not compulsion too? –is now losing all its ambiguity and approaches its dénouement. Where is it leading? The strongest likelihood is, that it may lead to madness; there is nothing more to say, the pursuit goes right through me and rends me asunder. Or I can –can I? –manage to keep my feet somewhat and be carried along in the wild pursuit. Where, then, shall I be brought? ‘Pursuit,’ indeed, is only a metaphor. I can also say, ‘assault on the last earthly frontier’, an assault, moreover, launched from below, from mankind, and since this too is a metaphor, I can replace it by the metaphor of an assault from above, aimed at me from above.

I was wise, if you will, because I was prepared to die at any moment, but this was not because I had taken care of everything I was required to do, but rather because I had done none of it and also couldn’t hope ever to do any of it.

Indubitable in me is the greed for books. Not so much to own or to read them as to see them, to convince myself in a bookseller’s display of their continued existence. When there are several copies of the same book somewhere every single one gives me pleasure. It’s as if this greed came from my stomach, as if it were a misdirected appetite. Books I own give me less pleasure, whereas my sisters’ books do give me pleasure. The longing to own them is incomparably smaller, it’s almost absent.

The tremendous world I have in my head. But how to free myself and free it without being torn to pieces. And a thousand times better to be torn to pieces than to retain or bury it in me. That’s why I’m here, after all, that’s completely clear to me.

Tình bạn thật lạ kỳ. Khi yêu, người ta nói đến tình yêu. Giữa những người bạn chân chính với nhau, người ta không nói đến tình bạn. Tình bạn, người ta kết bạn mà không cần phải gọi tên hay bình phẩm gì về nó. Mạnh mẽ và yên ắng. Nó kín đáo. Rắn rỏi. Đó là sự lãng mạn của những người đàn ông. Chắc nó phải sâu sắc và bền vững hơn tình yêu để người ta không vung vãi nó một cách ngớ ngẩn bằng ngôn từ, tuyên bố, thơ văn. Nó phải đem lại sự thỏa mãn lớn hơn tình dục bởi nó tách bạch khỏi lạc thú và những lúc người ngứa ngáy vì thèm... Đàn ông và đàn bà sẽ không bao giờ yêu nhau chân thành bằng hai người bạn vì quan hệ nam nữ bị sự quyến rũ làm cho thối nát. Họ diễn kịch. Tệ hơn, mỗi người trong số họ đều tìm những vai đẹp. Sân khấu. Hài kịch. Dối trá. Trong tình yêu không có sự an toàn vì mỗi người đều nghĩ rằng mình phải che đậy, rằng có thể anh ta không được yêu như chính con người của anh ta. Bề ngoài. Mặt tiền rởm. Một tình yêu lớn là một lời nói dối thành công và luôn luôn được đổi mới. Một tình bạn, đó là một chân lý không ai phủ nhận được. Tình bạn trần trụi còn tình yêu thì được bôi son trát phấn.

My condition is not unhappiness, but it’s not happiness either, not indifference not weakness, not fatigue, not interest in anything else, so what is it then? The fact that I don’t know is probably connected with my inability to write. And this is something I think I understand without knowing its cause.

One stands painfully pinned against the wall, fearfully lowers one’s eyes to see the hand that pins and with a new pain that makes one forget the old, recognizes one’s own crooked hand, which holds you with a strength it never had for good work. One raises one’s head, again feels the first pain, again lowers one’s eyes and this up and down never ceases.

Anyone who cannot cope with life while he is alive needs one hand to ward off a little his despair over his fate . . . but with his other hand he can jot down what he sees among the ruins, for he sees different and more things than the others; after all, he is dead in his own lifetime and the real survivor.” —Franz Kafka, Diaries, entry of October 19, 1921

If I closely examine what is my ultimate aim, it turns out that I am not really striving to be good and to fulfil the demands of a Supreme Judgement, but rather very much the contrary: I strive to know the whole human and animal community, to recognize their basic predilections, desires, moral ideals, to reduce these to simple rules and as quickly as possible trim my behaviour to these rules in order that I may find favour in the whole world’s eyes; and, indeed (this is the inconsistency), so much favour that in the end I could openly perpetrate the iniquities within me without alienating the universal love in which I am held –the only sinner who won’t be roasted. To sum up, then, my sole concern is the human tribunal, which I wish to deceive, moreover, though without practising any actual deception.

В дневнике находишь доказательства того, что даже в состояниях, которые сегодня кажутся невыносимыми, ты жил, смотрел вокруг и записывал свои наблюдения, что, таким образом, вот эта правая рука двигалась, как сегодня, когда ты благодаря возможности обозреть тогдашнее состояние, правда, поумнел, но с тем большим основанием ты должен признать бесстрашие своего тогдашнего стремления, сохранившегося, несмотря на полное неведение.

Why are those who knew him, when they pass from the memory of a young man, sensitive and gay, to the work – novels and writings – surprised to pass into a nocturnal world, a world of cold torment, a world not without light but in which light blinds at the same time that it illuminates; gives hope, but makes hope the shadow of anguish and despair? Why is it that he who, in his work, passes from the objectivity of the narratives to the intimacy of the Diary, descends into a still darker night in which the cries of a lost man can be heard? Why does it seem that the closer one comes to his heart, the closer one comes to an unconsoled center from which a piercing flash sometimes bursts forth, an excess of pain, excess of joy? Who has the right to speak of Kafka without making this enigma heard, an enigma that speaks with the complexity, with the simplicity, of enigma?

Evening in the garden of the Askanischer Hof. Ate rice a la Trautmannsdorf and a peach. A man drinking wine watched my attempts to cut the unripe little peach with my knife. I couldn’t. Stricken with shame under the old man’s eyes, I let the peach go completely and ten times leafed through Die Fliegenden Blatter. I waited to see if he wouldn’t at last turn away. Finally I collected all my strength and in defiance of him bit into the completely juiceless and expensive peach.

The invention of the devil. If we are possessed by the devil, it cannot be by one, for then we should live, at least here on earth, quietly, as with God, in unity, without contradiction, without reflection, always sure of the man behind us. His face would not frighten us, for as diabolical beings we would, if somewhat sensitive to the sight, be clever enough to prefer to sacrifice a hand in order to keep his face covered with it. If we were possessed by only a single devil, one who had a calm, untroubled view of our whole nature, and freedom to dispose of us at any moment, then that devil would also have enough power to hold us for the length of a human life high above the spirit of God in us, and even to swing us to and fro, so that we should never get to see a glimmer of it and therefore should not be troubled from that quarter. Only a crowd of devils could account for our earthly misfortunes. Why don’t they exterminate one another until only a single one is left, or why don’t they subordinate themselves to one great devil? Either way would be in accord with the diabolical principle of deceiving us as completely as possible. With unity lacking, of what use is the scrupulous attention all the devils pay us? It simply goes without saying that the falling of a human hair must matter more to the devil than to God, since the devil really loses that hair and God does not. But we still do not arrive at any state of well-being so long as the many devils are within us.

The life of society moves in a circle. Only those burdened with a common affliction understand each other. Thanks to their affliction they constitute a circle and provide each other mutual support. They glide along the inner borders of their circle, make way for or jostle one another gently in the crowd. Each encourages the other in the hope that it will react upon himself, or –and then it is done passionately –in the immediate enjoyment of this reaction. Each has only that experience which his affliction grants him; nevertheless one hears such comrades exchanging immensely varying experiences. ‘This is how you are,’ one says to the other; ‘instead of complaining, thank God that this is how you are, for if this were not how you are, you would have this or that misfortune, this or that shame.’ How does this man know that? After all, he belongs –his statement betrays it –to the same circle as does the one to whom he spoke; he stands in the same need of comfort.

Suggested Reading Nuha al-Radi, Baghdad Diaries Margaret Atwood, The Blind Assassin Jane Austen, Emma, Mansfield Park, and Pride and Prejudice Saul Bellow, The Dean’s December and More Die of Heartbreak Emily Brontë, Wuthering Heights Lewis Carroll, Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland Joseph Conrad, Under Western Eyes Henry Fielding, Shamela and Tom Jones Gustave Flaubert, Madame Bovary Anne Frank, The Diary of Anne Frank Henry James, The Ambassadors, Daisy Miller, and Washington Square Franz Kafka, In the Penal Colony and The Trial Katherine Kressman Taylor, Address Unknown Herman Melville, The Confidence Man Vladimir Nabokov, Lolita, Invitation to a Beheading, and Pnin Sarah Orne Jewett, The Country of the Pointed Firs Iraj Pezeshkzad, My Uncle Napoleon Diane Ravitch, The Language Police Julie Salamon, The Net of Dreams Marjane Satrapi, Persepolis Scheherazade, A Thousand and One Nights F. Scott Fitzgerald, The Great Gatsby W. G. Sebald, The Emigrants Carol Shields, The Stone Diaries Joseph Skvorecky, The Engineer of Human Souls Muriel Spark, Loitering with Intent and The Prime of Miss Jean Brodie Italo Svevo, Confessions of Zeno Peter Taylor, A Summons to Memphis Mark Twain, The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn Anne Tyler, Back When We Were Grownups and St. Maybe Mario Vargas Llosa, Aunt Julia and the Scriptwriter Reading

The unhappiness of the bachelor, whether seeming or actual, is so easily guessed at by the world around him that he will curse his decision, at least if he has remained a bachelor because of the delight he takes in secrecy. He walks around with his coat buttoned, his hands in the upper pockets of his jacket, his arms akimbo, his hat pulled down over his eyes, a false smile that has become natural to him is supposed to shield his mouth as his glasses do his eyes, his trousers are tighter than seem proper for his thin legs. But everyone knows his condition, can detail his sufferings. A cold breeze breathes upon him from within and he gazes inward with the even sadder half of his double face. He moves incessantly, but with predictable regularity, from one apartment to another. The farther he moves away from the living, for whom he must still – and this is the worst mockery – work like a conscious slave who dare not express his consciousness, so much the smaller a space is considered sufficient for him. While it is death that must still strike down the others, though they may have spent all their lives in a sickbed – for even though they would have gone down by themselves long ago from their own weakness, they nevertheless hold fast to their loving, very healthy relatives by blood and marriage – he, this bachelor, still in the midst of life, apparently of his own free will resigns himself to an ever smaller space, and when he dies the coffin is exactly right for him.

Sợ hãi là đối thủ thực sự duy nhất của cuộc sống. Chỉ có sợ hãi mới đánh bại được cuộc sống. Nó là một đối thủ khôn ngoan và xảo quyệt, tôi biết điều này quá rõ. Nó không có liêm sỉ, không tuân thủ bất cứ một luật lệ gì, không biết thương xót. Nó tấn công chỗ yếu nhất của ta, và bao giờ cũng tìm thấy chỗ đó một cách dễ dàng. Nó luôn luôn tấn công trước hết vào tinh thần của ta. Ta đang bình tĩnh, chủ động, hạnh phúc. Đùng một cái, sợ hãi, ngụy trang dưới dạng một nghi ngờ, nhẹ nhàng, lẻn vào tinh thần ta như một tên gián điệp. Nghi ngờ gặp phải Không tin và Không tin cố đánh bật nó ra. Nhưng không tin là một anh lính quèn kém võ trang. Nghi ngờ loại anh này ra khỏi vòng chiến một cách dễ dàng. Ta bắt đầu lo lắng, bồn chồn. Lý lẽ liền xung trận bảo vệ ta. Ta thấy yên lòng lại. Lý lẽ được trang bị bằng mọi thứ vũ khí và công nghệ hiện đại nhất. Nhưng, trước sự kinh ngạc của ta, mặc dù đã có những chiến thuật siêu đẳng và một số chiến thắng không thể phủ nhận, Lý lẽ vẫn bị yếu thế. Ta lại thấy yếu lòng, hoang manh. Nỗi lo lắng và bồn chồn của ta trở thành kinh hoàng. Lúc ấy, Sợ hãi dồn toàn lực sang cơ thể ta, vốn đã lờ mờ cảm thấy có chuyện chẳng lành đang xảy ra. Lập tức, hai lá phổi ta vỗ cánh bay mất như một con chim, và ruột gan ta thì như bầy rắn hốt hoảng trườn đi. Rồi đến lưỡi ta cứng đơ lại, còn hàm thì bắt đầu phi nước kiệu tại chỗ. Tai ta điếc đặc. Cơ bắp bắt đầu run rẩy như sốt rét và hai đầu gối thì lắc như múa. Tim ta thắt lại quá nhỏ và các cơ vòng thì lỏng ra quá nhiều. Và tất cả các bộ phận khác cũng vậy. Bộ phận nào cũng hỏng, theo kiểu riêng của chúng. Chỉ có hai con mắt là vẫn chạy tốt. Chúng luôn chú ý đến Sợ hãi. Và thế là ta nhanh chóng có những quyết định rất tai hại. Ta bỏ rơi những đồng minh cuối cùng của mình là Hy vọng và Tin tưởng. Đó là lúc ta đã tự đánh bại chính mình. Và Sợ hãi, thực chất chỉ là một ấn tượng, đã đánh bại ta. Chuyện đó rất khó nói ra bằng lời. Bởi vì Sợ hãi, nỗi Sợ hãi thực sự, hằn sâu vào tận cốt tủy như khi ta phải đối mặt với cái chết, sẽ làm tổ trong kí ức ta như một ổ thịt thối: nó tìm cách làm thối mọi thứ, kể cả những lời sẽ phải dùng để nói về chính nó. Cho nên ta phải tranh đấu kịch liệt để diễn đạt nó ra. Ta phải chiến đấu đến cùng để làm rõ ràng ánh sáng của những lời dùng để nói về nó. Bởi lẽ nếu không thế, nếu nỗi Sợ hãi của ta trở thành một cõi đen tối không lời mà ta lẩn tránh, thậm chí còn có thể lãng quên, ta sẽ bỏ ngỏ chính ta cho những cuộc tấn công khác nữa của Sợ hãi, vì ta đã chưa bao giờ thực sự kháng cự kẻ đã từng đánh bại ta.