The Burrow, by Franz Kafka

Perhaps it is The burrow the strongest work of Kafka. In this concise and powerful story, Kafka vertically explores despair, in a technique similar to that used in The Judgment, but reaching the summit in very few pages. The following happens: a mouse builds, in a work of a lifetime, his own house (the burrow). Extremely cautious, he diligently devises a structure that protects him from invaders. He thinks of all the possibilities, defends himself from all of them, thus structuring an extremely complex constructive plan. The place is the first of the precautions: aiming tranquility, he selects a quiet place, away from the movement. But can somewhere be far enough away that no one will ever find it? Difficult… anyway, there is no such certainty. Then it is necessary a camouflage at the entrance of the burrow; so even if possible invaders approached, they would not notice the door of the abode. But what if they did? What if, for once, an invader noticed it and entered the building? It is a huge risk that would compromise everything. A single invader has the power to destroy the work of a lifetime. Thus, a defense mechanism is required after entry… Reasoning in this way, imagining always possible situations, fearing the risk and desirous of eliminating the possibility of invasion, the mouse builds a gigantic labyrinth, divided into sections, full of corridors and crossroads, practically impenetrable. However, tranquility does not come. Obsessively, the mouse begins to imagine increasingly unlikely situations. He comes out of the building, start monitoring it and taking notes. He imagines that, when looking for food, he can be seen: and draws up a plan for leaving and entering the burrow. When, exhausted and still undecided, he decides to give himself a rest. He enters the burrow and nap. When he wakes up, however, he hears a noise. Small, yes; but it is necessary to know where it comes from. Would that be a threat? He needs to find out. But our mouse built around him an endless, gigantic maze, and the inspection work would take days, maybe weeks. For now, only uncertainty: it may be nothing, but it may be the end. The mouse despairs, it is no longer possible to tranquility; the noise continues, it is no longer possible to know where it comes from. Thus Kafka, with unusual mastery, presents us with a character who, to defend himself an uncertain threat, due to constant and insurmountable fear, dedicates his life to build a defense mechanism, dedicates his life in search for peace. He encounters, however, terror, disbelief: in his world, peace is impossible, the threat is constant noise and his building will always be about to collapse.

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More Lines About Love…

What is called “love” necessarily requires an active attitude of the beloved. This to me is so obvious that sometimes I wonder where the forgery is: if in the word, in the concept, or if precisely this generation subverted the feeling that for centuries was called “love”. Modern love, above all, presents itself as a necessity, a desire of being the target of an effort of others, to feel valuable, accompanied, stroked by someone who undertakes to please. If the beloved takes his apathy, then “love” fades. Petty this non-literary love, whose suppression — whether by distance or disruption — hurts only by the finding of the lack of pleasures (effect) generated by the active attitude of the beloved… I know, I know… I am exaggerating, but as I said: in my sparse and brief experience, I have never seen a lover who loved a tree, nor a  a stone…

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Love: Highlight of Selfishness

In my limited and brief experience, I have never seen anything that came close to the selfless conception of love. On the contrary, the examples that life tried to provide me have always enhanced love as a highlight of selfishness. Moreover, I easily identify love when I see it converted into hatred, in a very natural process, when pride, wounded, dispenses with the scruples and shows up in greatest vigour.

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Freedom or Slavery?

It is Monday. The guy wakes up early, and he is headed for work, where he spends the day. He turns home, exhausted, where he have a few hours left before bed. The next day, he repeats the routine, and then and then, waiting at the end of the month a salary. Weekends: if the money is plentiful — or lacks, — it is time to employ it to get some pleasure. One, two, twenty years passes, and the guy remains in the routine, already eager for the day when the state will pay him the monthly costs. I ask: freedom, if in homeopathic doses, would not be slavery? Or: not realizing being slave would not, in essence, be a brain pathology? Anyway, I recognize: it is better that everything stays as it is, either because of the calmness of the routine or the scarcity of antidepressants in the market.

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