The “Headquarters of Noise”

Kafka, in his Diaries, cheekily names his room as a “headquarters of noise”. He complains about the slamming of doors, the trotting of hurried footsteps, the dragging of robes, the scraping of ashes, the shouting… Oh, my dear Mr. Kafka, it was God who freed you from the sertanejo music, from the mad cursing of referees, central defenders and side-backs! You never knew what it was like to interrupt a composition with punches on the wall, with the heavy heels of an elephant just above your ceiling! To read with the unbearable sound of the drums of a gospel band, memorizing the chants of the cult instead of understanding the lines read! Be thankful, my dear! You lived when there was not yet this mobile phone crap, when churches did not have microphones, amplifiers, and did not set up on every corner, especially yours, no matter how many times you changed your address!…