22nd book of the year: “The Trial" by Franz Kafka.

Someone in Bernal Heights (Bonview at or near Cortland? It was a few months ago) left a box of books on the sidewalk with “FREE” written on a flap that had a few things I grabbed, among them, DFW’s “Consider the Lobster, and other essays” which I started and abandoned (lol), and this.

I enjoy stuff like this from time to time but don’t think I’m “smart enough” for it, whatever that means (and I’m not entirely sure).

paperback cover, Schoken press edition, introduction by George Steimer, a red tinted photograph of a face—really only the right half from chin to eyebrow—peers through four black bars inset on a black cover

the copy I read, yesterday, on my blue beach towel in the foregrown, my own shadow on the patio pavers in the background, where I was working on my suntan yesterday, wondering why god gives me his toughest battles (why I chose to read this instead of a page-turner that would actually be relaxing for the weekend)