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Kill me, or you are a murderer.

Franz Kafka

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.
FRANZ KAFKA

Art Deep Lying Philosophy Talk Truth Writing
A First Sign of the Beginning of Understanding is the Wish to Die.
FRANZ KAFKA

Beginning Death Understand
I’m thinking only of my illness and my health, though both, the first as well as the second, are you.
FRANZ KAFKA

Health Myself Thinking Yourself
I cannot make you understand. I cannot make anyone understand what is happening inside me. I cannot even explain it to myself.
FRANZ KAFKA

Explanation Myself Understand
Now I can look at you in peace; I don’t eat you any more.
FRANZ KAFKA

Eat Myself Peace Yourself
You are at once both the quiet and the confusion of my heart.
FRANZ KAFKA

Heart Myself Quiet Yourself
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 KAFKA

Dream Each Other Hide Myself See
I think we ought to read only the kind of books that wound and stab us.
FRANZ KAFKA

Book Kind Myself Thinking Wound
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

Avoid Freedom Hold Nature Suffering World Yourself
I have spent all my life resisting the desire to end it.
FRANZ KAFKA

Death Desire End Life Myself Resistance
I am dirty, Milena, endlessly dirty, that is why I make such a fuss about cleanliness. None sing as purely as those in deepest hell; it is their singing we take for the singing of angels.
FRANZ KAFKA

Angel Hell Myself Sing
Youth is happy because it has the capacity to see beauty. Anyone who keeps the ability to see beauty never grows old.
FRANZ KAFKA

Ability Beautiful Growth Happiness Old Youth
May I kiss you then? On this miserable paper? I might as well open the window and kiss the night air.
FRANZ KAFKA

Kiss Misery Myself Night Paper Yourself
I have hardly anything in common with myself and should stand very quietly in a corner, content that I can breathe.
FRANZ KAFKA

Breathe Myself Quiet
What am I doing here in this endless winter?
FRANZ KAFKA

End Myself Winter
Written kisses don’t reach their destination, rather they are drunk on the way by the ghosts.
FRANZ KAFKA

Destination Kiss Writing

Kill me, or you are a murderer.

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Kill me, or you are a murderer.

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