I’m tired, can’t think of anything and want only to lay my face in your lap, feel your hand on my head and remain like that through all eternity.
FRANZ KAFKABooks are a narcotic.
More Franz Kafka Quotes
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Logic may indeed be unshakeable, but it cannot withstand a man who is determined to live.
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Slept, awoke, slept, awoke, miserable life.
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Many a book is like a key to unknown chambers within the castle of one’s own self.
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All language is but a poor translation.
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I write differently from what I speak, I speak differently from what I think, I think differently from the way I ought to think, and so it all proceeds into deepest darkness.
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I am a cage, in search of a bird.
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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.
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Love is a drama of contradictions.
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The person I am in the company of my sisters has been entirely different from the person I am in the company of other people. Fearless, powerful, surprising, moved as I otherwise am only when I write.
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Paths are made by walking
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What am I doing here in this endless winter?
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No, said the priest, you don’t need to accept everything as true, you only have to accept it as necessary. Depressing view, said K. The lie made into the rule of the world.
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I do not read advertisements. I would spend all of my time wanting things.
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He was a tool of the boss, without brains or backbone.
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Sleep is the most innocent creature there is and a sleepless man the most guilty.
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So eager are our people to obliterate the present.
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Forget everything. Open the windows. Clear the room. The wind blows through it. You see only its emptiness, you search in every corner and don’t find yourself.
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You can choose to be free , but it’s last decision you’ll ever make
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In a way, you are poetry material; You are full of cloudy subtleties I am willing to spend a lifetime figuring out. Words burst in your essence and you carry their dust in the pores of your ethereal individuality.
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The 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.
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They say ignorance is bliss, they’re wrong
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Writing is utter solitude, the descent into the cold abyss of oneself.
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Youth is happy because it has the capacity to see beauty. Anyone who keeps the ability to see beauty never grows old.
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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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People label themselves with all sorts of adjectives. I can only pronounce myself as ‘nauseatingly miserable beyond repair’.
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You can hold yourself back from the sufferings of the world, that is something you are free to do and it accords with your nature, but perhaps this very holding back is the one suffering you could avoid.
FRANZ KAFKA