ABSTRACT
I was in Prague two weeks ago, it was the first time, and the only thing I absolutely wanted to see was Kafka’s tomb. But to-see-Kafka’s-tomb does not simply mean to see Kafka’s tomb. I was at last in Prague and I wanted at last to see the hand, the trace, the footprint, that is to say the natural and naked fleshy face of the author of the Letter, that is to say the eyelids of god. It is now thirtyfive years that I have fought for this day, a long combat and obscure like all combats. One never knows in the heat of the struggle who one is everything being mixed up, desire, fear, hostility of love, one fights, desire is a battle between oneself against oneself, an imagination of obstacles to stop oneself from going off to lose the war.
