Kafka on the Train

Cercanías Train, Villanueva to Atocha

One morning on the C1 train to Atocha, a good looking man sat next to me and wrote frantically, beginning at the first page of a fresh, white virginal notebook. He never stopped, as if he were racing against time. He never once looked away from his notebook, as if he were committing a shameful misdemeanor, writing in flagrante delicto. By the time we reached Atocha, he still had not come up for air. I would have loved to talk to him, but I had to respect his desire to write. How odd, I thought, he could have sat somewhere else, the train was practically empty. But I understood. Even though writing is a solitary activity, it would be unbearable in an unpopulated universe.

In Memoriam March 11, 2004 Victims of Terrorism