Kafka

I gave Trung my Facebook.

Trung typed and swiped on his phone. “I saw your photo. Ah, I have read quite a few from you. Um hum, Pham Cong Thien, it sounds the name I have also heard somewhere else before.”

“Yeah, a philosopher and writer in the South before 1975. I like him very much.”

“What did he write?”

“Poems, among others. He wrote about Viet Nam, his pain as a Vietnamese, an artist and a dreamer.”

“Sounds tempting. What book do I need to read of him?” Trung asked.

“New Concept in Art and Philosophy. A should read book; he wrote it when he was under 20 years old. And he admired his youth, a little bit too much.” I smiled slightly.

“What is it in the book?”

“He wrote about different authors. About Kafka and Hemingway, for example.”

“How is that Kafka, a strange name?”

“A German writer. Kafka wrote about human failure facing its destiny, about our loneliness and about our lost in the bureaucratic maze of life.”

“I have to go. I have an important party organizational committee meeting at 10 am.”

“Good, then go. Drive carefully.”

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