I have a photograph of Kafka in that dear little derby of his that I love so much, as I love him, it occurs to me. And how strange, I can't help thinking, to feel so much for somebody I never met—more than for people I know, living people who might [...]
I thought all of them were important, every one,
though what I meant was that I was important,
my feelings for them, my feelings.
Over a period of years they have emerged
from the cloud of passion and anguish.
I have begun to see their faces,