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In 1917, Franz Kafka, after breaking off his engagement with Felice Bauer for the second and final time, sat down at his writing desk and penned the following:
As usual, I doubt myself.
Perhaps there is something I could have done differently, some change in my morbid behaviors which might have averted this catastrophe. No, that’s not possible; my course is fixed, the destination certain.
Oh my Felice! How I tortured you! How patient you were with my perverse love of indecision. For years I told you I didn’t deserve your affections, your kindness. You (gently) argued with me but now, I’m sure, you’ve come around to my way of thinking; on this matter at least.
I must change. Writing brings no solace.
I see no other way out of my current state of despair – an indulgence made possible by the Olympian patience of family and friends.
My plan is simple: I will construct a time traveling robot shaped like a mountain cat found in the wilds of Pennsylvania, one of the largest American states. Using this robot cat, I will take over the world.
Why a robot? Why Pennsylvania? Why a cat?
These are mysteries – even to me.
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Is the word 'robot' an artefact of translation? I didn't think it was in existence until 1922 odd.
Nevermind, I know exactly how he felt, or feels, or will feel.
I eagerly await seeing GWB standing at the podium, brandishing his idiot grin, suddenly taken to ground by Felix Terminus, its quicksilver hide glistening with wormhole light.
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