This can be explained by my theory that living authors have a living relationship with their books. With their very existence they fight for or against them. The true, independent life of the book doesn’t begin until the death of the author, or more correctly some time after his death, for these zealous men keep struggling for their books even a while after they have died. But then the book is left all alone and has to rely on the strength of its own heartbeat.

— Franz Kafka

Franz Kafka Quotes

One ought, Milena, to take your face in both hands and look you square in the eye, so that you would see yourself in the eyes of the other person, then you could not even think the kinds of things you wrote there.

— Franz Kafka

I can’t keep a storm in my room.

— Franz Kafka

I should stop writing out of shame, because it is so easy.

— Franz Kafka

I’d like to have all the time there is just for you, for thinking about you, for breathing in you.

— Franz Kafka

I therefore place it sealed in your hands, wholly, utterly – just as I have already placed myself in them.

— Franz Kafka

As it is I have no one, no one here except the fear, together we roll through the nights locked in each other’s arms.

— Franz Kafka

And it turns out we really do keep writing the same thing. I ask whether you’re sick and then you write about it, I want to die and then you do, I want stamps and then you want stamps, sometimes I want to cry on your shoulder like a little boy and then you want to cry on mine like a little girl. And sometimes and ten times and a thousand times and always I want to be with you and you are saying the same thing. Enough, enough.

— Franz Kafka

The less you torment yourself, the less you’ll be tormenting me.

— Franz Kafka

Your eyes seem to be expecting miracles I would be most honored and willing to perform.

— Franz Kafka

At the moment there is nothing definite to say about the question or about me. 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. Franz.

— Franz Kafka

A man is lying on his deathbed and in the independence gained by the proximity of death, he says: ‘I have spent my life fighting the desire to end it.’ Then a pupil mocks his teacher, who talks of nothing but death: ‘You’re always talking about death and yet you do not die.’ ‘And yet I will die. I’m just singing my last song. One man’s song is longer, another man’s is shorter. At most, however, they differ by only a few words.

— Franz Kafka

I wouldn’t have a thing, not even my name, since I’ve given that to you as well.

— Franz Kafka

The simile of the bird in the hand and the two in the bush has only a very remote application here. In my hand I have nothing, in the bush is everything, and yet – so it is decided by the conditions of battle and the exigency of life – I must choose the nothing.

— Franz Kafka

Leave me my books! I have nothing else.

— Franz Kafka

Whatever it’s actually been, I felt declassed; people who have not lazed away at least part of their time up to their twenty-fifth year are greatly to be pitied, for it’s my belief that it’s not the money you have earned that you take with you into your grave, but your idle time.

— Franz Kafka

It is always the same, always the same.

— Franz Kafka

Whenever I started doing something you didn’t like and you threatened me with the prospect of failure, my reverence for your opinion was so great that failure was, even if only at a later time, inevitable. I lost confidence in my own abilities. I was unsteady, doubtful. The older I got, the more material you could hold against me as proof of my worthlessness; gradually, in a certain regard, you began actually to be right.

— Franz Kafka

You wouldn’t believe the kind of person I could become if you wanted it.

— Franz Kafka

This getting up early,” he thought, “makes a man quite idiotic.

— Franz Kafka

Milena, if a million loved you, I am one of them, and if one loved you, it was me, if no one loved you then know that I am dead.

— Franz Kafka
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