I can love only what I can place so high above me that I cannot reach it.
FRANZ KAFKAWas 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.
More Franz Kafka Quotes
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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.
FRANZ KAFKA -
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.
FRANZ KAFKA -
Writing is utter solitude, the descent into the cold abyss of oneself.
FRANZ KAFKA -
I’m doing badly, I’m doing well, whichever you prefer.
FRANZ KAFKA -
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 -
The right understanding of any matter and a misunderstanding of the same matter do not wholly exclude each other.
FRANZ KAFKA -
Please — consider me a dream.
FRANZ KAFKA -
Many a book is like a key to unknown chambers within the castle of one’s own self.
FRANZ KAFKA -
Youth is happy because it has the capacity to see beauty. Anyone who keeps the ability to see beauty never grows old.
FRANZ KAFKA -
They’re talking about things of which they don’t have the slightest understanding, anyway. It’s only because of their stupidity that they’re able to be so sure of themselves.
FRANZ KAFKA -
You can choose to be free , but it’s last decision you’ll ever make
FRANZ KAFKA -
People label themselves with all sorts of adjectives. I can only pronounce myself as ‘nauseatingly miserable beyond repair’.
FRANZ KAFKA -
You are the knife I turn inside myself; that is love. That, my dear, is love.
FRANZ KAFKA -
All I am is literature, and I am not able or willing to be anything else.
FRANZ KAFKA -
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.
FRANZ KAFKA







