The Castle

by Franz Kafka

it is as if both of us had struggled too hard, too noisily, too childishly, too naively to obtain something that can be easily and imperceptibly gained through, say, Frieda’s tranquillity and Frieda’s reserve, and had done so by weeping, scratching, and tugging, just as a child tugs at the tablecloth but doesn’t gain anything and only tears down all that splendor and puts it out of his reach forever—I don’t know whether that is so, but I certainly do know that it’s more like that than as you say.” “Oh,

“You have no such knowledge,” said the landlady, “then you shouldn’t act as though you do.