Letters to Milena

by Franz Kafka

Isn’t one letter enough, isn’t one knowing enough? Of course it is, but nevertheless I am tilting my head way back, drinking the letters, aware only that I don’t want to stop drinking.

I’m just walking around here between the lines, underneath the light of your eyes, in the breath of your mouth like in some beautiful happy day, which stays beautiful and happy even if my head is sick, tired,

could anything coming from you be hard to bear?

know my relationship to you (you belong to me, even if I should never see you again) […] these I know, insofar as they do not fall into the indistinct realm of fear, but I don’t know your relationship to me at all; this belongs entirely to fear. Nor do you know me—I repeat this, Milena.

we’re misunderstanding one another out of fear,

no one with plump cheeks could be so cruel.

One is a lot brighter unrested than after a good night’s sleep.

You think I wanted to help you, but it was me I was trying to help.

Could you be what you are to me if I weren’t sure?

(I am against this because I have you; if I were alone, nothing could stop me from such ruminations)

There is a lot I’d have to say about this letter, but I’m not going to say anything to such a tired person—I am tired as well;

is there anything nicer, any greater honor you can show me than simply being with me and allowing me to sit in front of you?).

Why am I not, for example, the happy wardrobe in your room, which has you in full view whenever you’re sitting in your chair or at your desk or when you’re lying down or sleeping

Behold the stupidity of an unrested man!

It is your inability to make other people suffer. Not out of pity, but just because you can’t.