#classic literature

So instead of giving in to despair I chose active melancholy, in so far as I was capable of activity, in other words I chose

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I am powerless toward you as well as toward myself—1000 letters from you and 1000 desires from me will not convince

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Awake, my dear. Be kind to your sleeping heart. Take it out into the vast fields of Light And let

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I felt a Funeral, in my Brain, And Mourners to and fro Kept treading – treading – till it seemed That Sense was

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Please, Milena, come up with another way for me to write you. Sending fake cards is too dumb; also I don’t always know

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I’m not saying goodbye. There isn’t any goodbye, unless gravity, which is lying in wait for me, pulls me down entirely. But

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God, you don’t mind if I bring all my kitchens? They hold the family laughter and the soup.

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It was odd, she thought, how if one was alone, one leant to inanimate things; trees, streams, flowers; felt they expressed one;...

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For now she need not think of anybody. She could be herself, by herself. And that was what now she often felt the need of -

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Do you remember that poem in Second of April which says, “Life is a quest & love a quarrel, Here is a place for me to lie!”? —...

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I am wonderfully free I love no one and nothing

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In my dreams I am always saying goodbye and riding away, Whither and why I know not nor do I care.

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Fortunate is he whose mind has the power to probe the causes of things and trample underfoot all terrors and inexorable fate.

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The truth may be stretched thin, but it never breaks, and it always surfaces above lies, as oil floats on water.

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I don't think I can sleep now, as these lines will continue to haunt me tonight :'(...

"I have the choice of being constantly active and happy or introspectively passive and sad. Or I can go mad by ricocheting ...

But when Kafka said Even in my strong times I wasn't very strong it broke something in me....

Do you know what a poem is, Esther?' No, what?' I would say. A piece of dust.' Then, just as he was smiling and starting to ...

Love looks not with the eyes, but with the mind. And therefore is winged Cupid painted blind....

Franz Kafka Rumi Haruki Murakami Theodore Dreiser Sigmund Freud Rudyard Kipling Henry Miller...

- Franz Kafka...