'All your stories are so touchingly young. You say far more about the impressions which things inspire in you than about the things and objects themselves. That is lyrical poetry. You caress the world, instead of grasping it.'
'So my writing is worthless?'
Kafka grasped my hand,
'I did not say that. Certainly these little stories have a value for you. Every written word is a personal document. But art…'
'Art is different,' I continued bitterly.
'Your written is not yet art,' said Kafka firmly. 'This description of feelings and impressions is most of all a hesitant groping for the world. The eyes are still heavy with dreams. But in time that will cease and then perhaps the outstretched groping hand will withdraw as if caught by the fire. Perhaps you will cry out, stammer incoherently, or grind your teeth together and open your eyes wide, very wide. But - these are only words. Art is always a matter of the entire personality. For that reason it is fundamentally tragic.'
from Conversations with Kafka by Gustav Janouch
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