We photograph things in order to drive them out of our minds. My stories are a way of shutting my eyes.
Franz KafkaTags: writing
What is written is merely the dregs of experience.
Franz KafkaTags: writing
I can’t think of any greater happiness than to be with you all the time, without interruption, endlessly, even though I feel that here in this world there’s no undisturbed place for our love, neither in the village nor anywhere else; and I dream of a grave, deep and narrow, where we could clasp each other in our arms as with clamps, and I would hide my face in you and you would hide your face in me, and nobody would ever see us any more.
Franz KafkaI am on the hunt for constructions. I come into a room and find them whitely merging in a corner.
Franz KafkaJust think how many thoughts a blanket smothers while one lies alone in bed, and how many unhappy dreams it keeps warm.
Franz KafkaDon Quixote's misfortune is not his imagination, but Sancho Panza.
Franz KafkaThe Kafka paradox: art depends on truth, but truth, being indivisable, cannot know itself: to tell the truth is to lie. thus the writer is the truth, and yet when he speaks he lies.
Franz KafkaI think we ought to read only books that bite and sting us. If the book we are reading doesn't shake us awake like a blow on the skull, why bother reading it in the first place? So that it can make us happy, as you put it? Good God, we'd be just as happy if we had no books at all; books that make us happy we could, in a pinch, also write ourselves. What we need are books that hit us like a most painful misfortune, like the death of someone we loved more than we love ourselves, that make us feel as though we had been banished to the woods, far from any human presence, like a suicide. A book must be the axe for the frozen sea within us. That is what I believe.
Franz KafkaTags: words reading books literature
Precisamos de livros que nos afetam como um desastre, que nos magoam profundamente, como a morte de alguém que amamos mais do que a nós mesmos.
Franz KafkaThe animal wrests the whip from its master and whips itself in order to become master, not knowing that this is only a fantasy produced by a new knot in the master’s whiplash.
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