/lit/ - Literature

For me, its Kafka
Intelligent, Kafkaesque , and a wicked sense of humor

> Children are all over the church steps as if in a playground, calling to one another in vulgar terms they of course do not understand but merely take in their mouths, the way infants suck on a pacifier. The priest comes out, brushes the back of his surplice, and sits down on a step. He wants to calm the children, since their noise is audible in his church. All he's able to do, however, is pull the occasional child to himself, the mass eludes him and continues to play all around him as before. He does not understand how their game functions, not remotely. Like balls repeatedly bounced on the ground, they are hopping and skipping indefatigably and effortlessly on all the steps and have no more connection than through their shouts, it's tiring to watch. As though overcome by sleep, the priest reaches out for the nearest child, a little girl, undoes the top of her dress--which she requites by smacking him playfully in the face--sees some signal he wasn't expecting or perhaps was expecting, exclaims Aha! pushes the girl away, calls out Yuck! and spits and makes the sign of the cross and gets up to dash back inside. There in the doorway he runs into a young gypsy-looking woman, she is barefoot, has a red-and-white patterned skirt and a half-unbuttoned white blouse and wild tangle of hair. "Who are you?" he exclaims, his voice still irate on account of the children. "Emilie, your wife," she replies softly, and presses herself against his chest. He is quiet and listens to her heart beat.