To Willing Conflators Of Franz Kafka And Jeremy Todd (two hundred and forty first letter)

Dear Reader,


When it looks as if you’ve made up your mind to finally stay at home for the evening, when you’ve put on your favorite t-shirt and flannel pajama pants, having sat down after supper with your laptop to the piece of work or news scanning that usually precedes your going to bed, when the rain and wind outside are unpleasant so that staying indoors seems natural, and when you have already been lounging quietly on the couch for so long that your departure must occasion surprise to everyone,

when, besides, the apartment hallway is in darkness and the front door bolted and locked, and in spite of all that you have started up in a sudden fit of restlessness, changed out of your shut-in clothes, abruptly dressed yourself for the street, explained that you must go out and with a few curt words of leave-taking actually go out, leaving all devices, phones etc where you left them upon last coming home, banging the flat door more or less hastily according to the degree of displeasure you think you have left behind you,
and when you find yourself once more in the street with limbs swinging extra freely in answer to the unexpected liberty you have procured for them, when as a result of this decisive action you feel concentrated within yourself all the potentialities of decisive action,
when you recognize with more than usual significance that your strength is greater than your need to accomplish effortlessly the swiftest of changes and to cope with it, when in this frame of mind you go striding down the long streets –
– then for that evening you have completely got away from your family, which fades into insubstantiality, while you yourself, a firm, boldly drawn black figure, slapping yourself on the thigh, grow to your true stature.
All this is still heightened if at such a late hour in the evening you look up a friend to see how he is getting on.