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Franz kafka is dead. he died in a tree from which he wouldn't come down. "come down!" they cried to him. "come down! come down!" silence filled the night, and the night filled the silence, while they waited for kafka to speak. "i can't," he finally said, with a note of wistfulness. "why?" they cried. stars spilled across the black sky. "because then you'll stop asking for me."
-Nicole Krauss
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Franz Kafka Is Dead. He Died In

Nicole Krauss
Franz kafka is dead. he died in a tree from which he wouldn't come down. "come down!" they cried to him. "come down! come down!" silence filled the night, and the night filled the silence, while they waited for kafka to speak. "i can't," he finally said, with a note of wistfulness. "why?" they cried. stars spilled across the black sky. "because then you'll stop asking for me."
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Stars Night Sky

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But deep down she said to herself, franz maybe strong, but his strength is directed outward; when it comes to the people he lives with, the people he's loves, he's weak. franz's weakness is called goodness. franz would never give sabina orders. he would never command her, as tomas had, to lay the mirror on the floor and walk back and forth on it naked. not that he lacks sensuality; he simply lacks the strength to give orders. there are things that can be accomplished only by violence. physical love is unthinkable without violence.
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Sometimes i come across a tree which seems like buddha or jesus: loving, compassionate, still, unambitious, enlightened, in eternal meditation, giving pleasure to a pilgrim, shade to a cow, berries to a bird, beauty to its surroundings, health to its neighbors, branches for the fire, leaves for the soil, asking nothing in return, in total harmony with the wind and the rain. how much can i learn from a tree? the tree is my church, the tree is my temple, the tree is my mantra, the tree is my poem and my prayer.
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Christians, of all people, should not be destroyers. we should treat nature with an overwhelming respect. we may cut down a tree to build a house, or to make a fire to keep the family warm. but we should not cut down the tree just to cut down the tree. we may, if necessary, bark the cork tree in order to have the use of the bark. but what we should not do is to bark the tree simply for the sake of doing so, and let it dry and stand there a dead skeleton in the wind. to do so is not to treat the tree with integrity.
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People have stars, but they aren't the same. for travelers, the stars are guides. for other people, they're nothing but tiny lights. and for still others, for scholars, they're problems... but all those stars are silent stars. you, though, you'll have stars like nobody else... since i'll be laughing on one of them, for you it'll be as if all the stars are laughing. you'll have stars that can laugh!... and it'll be as if i had given you, instead of stars, a lot of tiny bells that know how to laugh.
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We look up and we hope the stars look down, we pray that there may be stars for us to follow, stars moving across the heavens and leading us to our destiny, but it's only our vanity. we look at the galaxy and fall in love, but the universe cares less about us than we do about it, and the stars stay in their courses however much we may wish upon them to do otherwise. it's true that if you watch the sky-wheel turn for a while you'll see a meteor fall, flame and die. that's not a star worth following; it's just an unlucky rock. our fates are here on earth. there are no guiding stars.
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Or perhaps a widow found him and took him in: brought him an easy chair, changed his sweater every morning, shaved his face until the hair stopped growing, took him faithfully to bed with her every night, whispered sweet nothings into what was left of his ear, laughed with him over black coffee, cried with him over yellowing pictures, talked greenly about having kids of her own, began to miss him before she became sick, left him everything in her will, thought of only him as she died, always knew he was fiction but believed in him anyway.
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