We Have Decid to Go the Minutes

A world that Franz Kafka a century ago – he was born in 1883 and di in 1924 – had prefigur in his narrative. This world is the anonymous machinery, the faceless power that the small Czechoslovakian writer turn into a shadowy and omnipresent character in The Trial and also in texts such as The Castle and The Condemnation , and, in general and with various nuances, in all his work, load with ominous forebodings about the sinister character that our civilization was going to adopt. In the process, Kafka tells the story of a gray bank clerk nam

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Josef K, who one morning, inexplicably, sees an agent break into his room and order him to report to police headquarters to answer for certain charges against him and who never knows what they consist of. He walks through dark corridors, again and b2b leads again, in search of the magistrate who will judge him, but only receives convolut notifications and meaningless requests that lengthen his wait agonizingly: no one ever tells him clearly what he is accus of or who is doing it. Waiting for him is always in vain. Until, as absurdly as that process was open, he was cruelly murder at the hands of his accusers.

Cogs of the Enormous Transportation

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This atmosphere of anguishing disorientation, of quiet desperation in the face of what already seems to be a state of terminal social crisis, is what seems to be spreading in our country, in the world, in these times of faceless transnational corporations, of exhausting work carri out carri out from blurr purposes under the impersonal DJ USA leadership of ghostly directorates, of savage competition and desire for excessive profit. Add to this (so as not to clash with the national situation) corruption on a global scale, as demoralizing as it is ubiquitous, and you will begin to experience a feeling of almost existential orphanhood,


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