#*reblogs

me over all ur recent rebagels

I don’t know I think I like the idea of calling them rebagels now 😂

The Decisive Years, by Reiner Stach. Transcript below:

On February 19, 1911, Dr. Kafka, an executive at the firm, stayed home. His supervisor Eugene Pfohl found a letter of apology on his desk, the likes of which this office had surely never seen:

When I wanted to get out of bed today, I simply collapsed. The cause is very simple: I am absolutely overworked. Not by the office, but by my other work. The office has an innocent part in it only because if I did not have to go there, I could just live for my work and would not have to spend those six hours a day there, which have tormented me so much that you cannot imagine it, especially on Friday and Saturday, because I was full of my own concerns. In the end, as I am well aware, that is just talk; I am at fault and the office has the clearest and most justified claims on me. However, for me it is a horrible double life from which there is probably no way out except insanity. I am writing this in the good morning light and would surely not be writing it if it were not so true and if I did not love you like a son. Incidentally, I will certainly be myself again by tomorrow and will come to the office where the first thing I hear will be that you want me out of your department.