I was weighed down by your mere physical presence. I remember, for instance, how often we undressed in the same bathing hut. There was I, skinny, weakly, slight. You, strong, tall, broad. I felt a miserable specimen. When we stepped out, you holding me by my hand, a little skeleton, unsteady, frightened of the water, incapable of copying your swimming strokes. I was frantic with desperation. It could hardly have been worse, except it was. Kafka finished the letter, gave it to his mother Julie to pass to Hermann, but, typical of her weakness and cowardice, she didn't. She held onto it for a few days, then returned it to France and advised that it would be better if her busy, hard-working husband never had to read such a thing. The poor son lacked the courage ever to try again.
你的存在讓我倍感沉重。例如,我記得我們經常在同一個浴池裡脫衣服。我,瘦弱,羸弱,微胖。而你,強壯,高大,寬闊。我覺得自己是個可憐的標本我們下水時,你牽著我的手,我就像個小骷髏,站不穩,怕水,無法模仿你的泳姿。我絕望得發狂。事情幾乎沒有比這更糟的了,但事實就是如此。卡夫卡寫完信,把它交給母親朱莉,讓她轉交給赫爾曼。她把信保存了幾天,然後把信寄回了法國,並建議她那忙碌而辛勤工作的丈夫最好永遠不要讀到這樣的信。可憐的兒子再也沒有勇氣嘗試了。