Excerpt from my novel: Kafka In The Castle
31 December 1916
The festivities down in the city are certainly subdued, which makes me one with the coming of the year.
There were a few shots fired into the air – which is a mockery, considering what is happening in the world. And some dismal fireworks.
Max wanted me at his party, but even he saw little point in celebration, and his entreaties were totally for form.
I understand form quite well – most of my life consists of doing the expected. Mouthing the proper words.
My letters to Felice have turned to such vehicles of propriety.
In such a way do all our days, and then our lives, acquire the necessary postmarks.