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Last night I dreamed about you. What happened in detail I can hardly remember, all I know is that we kept merging into one another. I was you, you were me. Finally you somehow caught fire.
Franz Kafka
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Franz Kafka
Age: 41 †
Born: 1883
Born: July 3
Died: 1924
Died: July 3
Aphorist
Claims Adjuster
Diarist
Fabulist
Lawyer
Novelist
Poet Lawyer
Prosaist
Screenwriter
Short Story Writer
Translator
Writer
Praha
František Kafka
Kafka
Remember
Finally
Caught
Merging
Fire
Detail
Happened
Dreamed
Lasts
Hardly
Last
Details
Night
Somehow
Another
Kept
More quotes by Franz Kafka
Going to pieces. To go to pieces so pointlessly and unnecessarily.
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One day, a leopard stalked into the synagogue, roaring and lashing its tail. Three weeks later, it had become part of the liturgy.
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You are so vulnerably haunting. Your eeriness is terrifyingly irresistible.
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In argument similes are like songs in love they describe much, but prove nothing.
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I never wish to be easily defined.
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It is strange how little sharpsightedness women possess they only notice whether they please, then whether they arouse pity, and finally, whether you look for compassion from them. That is all come to think of it, it may even be enough, generally speaking.
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The right understanding of any matter and a misunderstanding of the same matter do not wholly exclude each other.
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This perversion of the truth, familiar to the artist though it was, always unnerved him afresh and proved too much for him. What was a consequence of the premature ending of his fast was here presented as the cause of it! To fight against this lack of understanding, against a whole world of nonunderstanding, was impossible.
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Leopards break into the temple and drink all the sacrificial vessels dry it keeps happening in the end, it can be calculated in advance and is incorporated into the ritual.
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The man in ecstasy and the man drowning: both raise their arms.
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All human errors are impatience, a premature breaking off of methodical procedure, an apparent fencing-in of what is apparently at issue.
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I hate everything that does not relate to literature, conversations bore me (even if they relate to literature), to visit people bores me, the sorrows and joys of my relatives bore me to the very soul. Conversation takes the importance, the seriousness, the truth, out of everything I think.
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God gives the nuts, but he does not crack them.
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So eager are our people to obliterate the present.
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In theory there is a possibility of perfect happiness: To believe in the indestructible element within one, and not to strive towards it.
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You do not need to leave your room. Remain sitting at your table and listen. Do not even listen, simply wait, be quiet, still and solitary. The world will freely offer itself to you to be unmasked, it has no choice, it will roll in ecstasy at your feet.
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He was a tool of the boss, without brains or backbone.
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All I am is literature, and I am not able or willing to be anything else.
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Productivity is being able to do things that you were never able to do before.
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What is meant by its nature for the highest and the best, spreads among the lowly people.
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