Letters to Milena

by Franz Kafka

She is a living fire, such as I have never seen; incidentally, a fire that, despite everything, burns only for him.

I wanted to read you in Czech because, after all, you do belong to that language, because only there can Milena be found in her entirety

Milena's Entirety

the trumpets of sleepless night will soon sound again.

Trumpets

I would be lying if I said I missed you: it’s the most perfect, most painful magic, you are here, just as I am and even more so; wherever I am, there you are too,

You are here, Just as I am.

(you belong to me, even if I should never see you again)

You belong to Me

And despite everything, I think that if it is possible to die of happiness then I will certainly do so. And if someone destined to die can be kept alive by happiness, then I will stay alive.

Death

don’t underestimate the strength I derive from being close to you.

Strength.

I am your real misfortune, and no one else but myself—

Real Misfortune

(you see, I do love you, you dimwit, my love engulfs you the way the sea loves a tiny pebble on its bed—and may I be the pebble with you, heaven permitting)

The sea loves the pebble

I keep trying to convey something which cannot be conveyed, to explain something which cannot be explained, something in my bones, which can only be experienced in these same bones.

Only in these bones.

I can’t explain to you or to anybody what it’s like inside me. How could I begin to explain; I can’t even explain it to myself.

What's inside of me?