Had IΒ sleptΒ as much as I thought about you, it would have been a lot.
Franz Kafka, 1913.
@amschelkavka.bsky.social
Had IΒ sleptΒ as much as I thought about you, it would have been a lot.
Franz Kafka, 1913.
Monday. I think I shall start to write again; many stories, dearest, are drumming their marching tunes in my head.
Franz Kafka, 1913.
By the way, I shall be dropping by your place for a moment on Monday at five; if I happen to disturb you in the midst of your work, pretend you're not home.
Franz Kafka, 1909.
Take care of yourself. Let everything be for a while.
Franz Kafka, 1913.
But now, no more words, only kisses, and many of them, for a thousand reasons, since it is Sunday.
Franz Kafka, 1912.
Doing absolutely nothing for an hour, leaning back in my armchair, in my dressing gown.
Franz Kafka, 1912.
I'm going to sleep, I only want to greet you with a few strokes of the pen, my dearest, incomprehensibly beloved.
Franz Kafka, 1913.
Today I should not complain at all.
Franz Kafka, 1912.
I wish you a beautiful Sunday, friendly parents, fine food, long walks, and a clear head.
Franz Kafka, 1912.
Yes, that would be lovely, to read this story to you, while I would have to hold your hand, for the story is a little frightening. It is called Metamorphosis.
Franz Kafka, 1912.
I got a little lost, but it doesn't matter, because you may have come along, and now we're both lost.
Franz Kafka, 1920.
Until midnight yesterday, I spent the evening with you, first in writing then even more in thought.
Franz Kafka, 1920.
I was holding my head nice and high again and the next day a girl put on a white dress and fell in love with me.
Franz Kafka, 1904.
I think of you with such love and care as if God had entrusted you to me in the clearest words.
Franz Kafka, 1913.
The joy of helping you would have exceeded a hundred times any trouble.
Franz Kafka, 1913.
Dearest, it's still very early, work is waiting, the boss is waiting..
but I'm still sitting here at the typewriter, spending time on you.
Franz Kafka, 1916.
(Kafka's typewriter at work:)
Why, on these few remaining summer Sundays, donβt you go off into the country first thing in the morning?
Franz Kafka, 1916.
Bring your head to my chest, which needs you so much more than you can imagine.
Franz Kafka, 1913.
Stay with me entirely, dearest, stay for me as you are; I would not wish a single hair on your head to turn any way other than it does.
Franz Kafka, 1912.
I am sending you a flash photograph of myself. I havenβt in fact got a twisted face; itβs the flash that gives me that visionary look, and I have long ago abandoned high collars.
The tie is a real showpiece; I bought it on a trip to Paris.
Franz Kafka, 1912.
And now tonight, as I say goodnight to you, receive the flow of all that I am and have, and all that is deeply happy, to rest in you.
Franz Kafka, 1920.
Oh, darling, it's high time to stop and kiss.
Franz Kafka, 1912
Had you not been lying on the ground among the animals, you would have been unable to see the sky and the stars and wouldnβt have been set free.
Franz Kafka, 1915.
I noticed her earlier when she and two friends were eating Halberstadt sausages with mustard. She was wearing a white blouse with embroidered flowers that went over her arms and shoulders.
Franz Kafka, 1912.
So, my dearest girl, it is evening again after a sleepless afternoon, nothing more is written, only to this girl to whom one always wants to write, from whom one always wants to hear, with whom one always wants to be, in whom one would most like to disappear.
Franz Kafka, 1912.
By the way, a terrible temptation to quickly pull you to my chest.
Franz Kafka, 1912.
I would be quite content, my dearest one, to be allowed to strokeΒ your hand.
Franz Kafka, 1913.
July 21: Don't despair, not even about the fact that you don't despair. When everything seems to be over, new forces still emerge; that means you're alive.
Franz Kafka, 1913.
Good advice: Put a slice of lemon into the wine.
Franz Kafka, 1924.
I am so happy to know that my book (Contemplation), no matter how much I criticize it, is now in your dear hands.
Franz Kafka, 1912.