Notes for On Certainty, written April 26, 1951–3 days before his death:
660. I might ask: “How could I be making a mistake about my name being L.W.?” And I can say: I can’t see how it would be possible.
661. How might I be mistaken in my assumption that I was never on the moon?
662. If I were to say, “I have never been on the moon–but I may be mistaken,” that would be idiotic.
For even the thought that I might have transported there, by unknown means, in my sleep, would not give me any right to speak of a possible mistake here. I play the game wrong if I do.
663. I have a right to say, “I can’t be making a mistake about this,” even if I am in error.
“A young man,” said K. “Right,” said the landlady, “and what is he doing?” “It seems to me he’s lying on a board stretching himself and yawning.” The landlady laughed. “Quite wrong,” she said. “But here’s the board and he’s lying on it,” persisted K. on his side. “But look more carefully,” said the landlady, annoyed, “is he really lying down?” “No,” said K. now, “he’s floating, and now I can see it, it’s not a board at all, but probably a rope, and the young man is taking a high leap.”
Kafka, The Castle
I’ll start with the Jew who went to the Rabbi and complained about his neighbor. “You are right,” the Rabbi declared. Then came the neighbor and denounced the complainant. “You are right,” the Rabbi announced. “But how can that be,” exclaimed the Rabbi's wife. “Only one of the two can be right!” “You are right, too,” the Rabbi said.