Not Profound.

No wonder we cannot appreciate the really central Kafka joke: that the horrific struggle to establish a human self results in a self whose humanity is inseparable from the horrific struggle. That our endless and impossible journey toward home is in fact our home.

So you know that painting of The Death of Socrates?

When a person can’t find a deep sense of meaning, they distract themselves with pleasure.

The only consolation would be it happens whether you like it or not. And what you like is of infinitesimally little help. More than consolation is: You too have weapons.

I like people who dream or talk to themselves interminably; I like them, for they are double. They are here and elsewhere.

What if everything in the world were a misunderstanding, what if laughter were really tears?