Love is, that you are the knife which I plunge into myself.
FRANZ KAFKAJust think how many thoughts a blanket smothers while one lies alone in bed, and how many unhappy dreams it keeps warm.
More Franz Kafka Quotes
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Every revolution evaporates and leaves behind only the slime of a new bureaucracy.
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He was a tool of the boss, without brains or backbone.
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A book must be the axe for the frozen sea within us.
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Written kisses don’t reach their destination, rather they are drunk on the way by the ghosts.
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A First Sign of the Beginning of Understanding is the Wish to Die.
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I’m thinking only of my illness and my health, though both, the first as well as the second, are you.
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You are at once both the quiet and the confusion of my heart; imagine my heartbeat when you are in this state.
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I cannot make you understand. I cannot make anyone understand what is happening inside me. I cannot even explain it to myself.
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First impressions are always unreliable.
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It is not necessary to accept everything as true, one must only accept it as necessary.’ ‘A melancholy conclusion,’ said K. ‘It turns lying into a universal principle.
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I am always trying to convey something that can’t be conveyed, to explain something which is inexplicable, to tell about something I have in my bones, something which can be expressed only in the bones.
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Kill me, or you are a murderer.
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You misinterpret everything, even the silence.
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I usually solve problems by letting them devour me.
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For myself I am too heavy, and for you too light.
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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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The limited circle is pure.
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Nothing unites two people so completely, especially if, like you and me, all they have is words.
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Just think how many thoughts a blanket smothers while one lies alone in bed, and how many unhappy dreams it keeps warm.
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Slept, awoke, slept, awoke, miserable life.
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You are at once both the quiet and the confusion of my heart.
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They say ignorance is bliss, they’re wrong
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I am in chains. Don’t touch my chains.
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Was he an animal, that music could move him so? He felt as if the way to the unknown nourishment he longed for were coming to light.
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Writing is utter solitude, the descent into the cold abyss of oneself.
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I have spent all my life resisting the desire to end it.
FRANZ KAFKA