“If one were only an Indian, instantly alert, and on a racing horse,
leaning against the wind, kept on quivering jerkily over the quivering
ground, until one shed one’s spurs, for there needed to spurs, threw
away the reins, for there needed no reins, and hardly saw that the land
before one was smoothly shorn heath when horse’s neck and head would
already be gone.”

—Franz Kafka, The Wish to Be a Red Indian, in its entirety, translated by Willa and Edwin Muir. From Franz Kafka; The Complete Stories, 1971.