Letters to Milena

by Franz Kafka

It occurs to me that I really can’t remember your face in any precise detail. Only the way you walked away through the tables in the café, your figure, your dress, that I still see.

sleep is the most innocent creature there is and a sleepless man the most guilty.

If an uninitiated stranger were to read it, he’d have to think: “What a man! He must have moved mountains here.” But meanwhile he hasn’t done a thing, hasn’t lifted a finger (except to write), is living off milk and good things—without always (although often) seeing “tea and apples”—and in general he lets things take their course and leaves the mountains alone. Do you know the story of Dostoyevsky’s first success? It encompasses a great many things; what’s more, I cite it only because the great name makes it easy to do so, for a story from next door or even closer would have the same significance. Incidentally my memory of the story, and even the names, is inexact. When Dost wrote his first novel Poor Folk, he was living with his friend Grigoriev, a man of letters. The latter watched for months as the written pages accumulated on the desk, but didn’t receive the manuscript until it was finished. He read the novel, was delighted and took it to Nekrasov, a famous contemporary critic, without saying anything to D. That night at 3 o’clock the doorbell rings at D’s. It’s Gr and N, they push their way into the room, embrace and kiss D. Nekrasov, who hadn’t known him before, calls him the hope of Russia, they spend one or two hours talking mostly about the novel and don’t leave until morning. D, who always described this night as the happiest in his life, leans out the window to watch them leave, loses control and starts to cry. His basic feeling at that moment, which he describe...

It looked like the Last Judgment was at hand, the coffins had just been opened, but the dead were still lying there, motionless.

Don’t you know that fat people alone are to be trusted? Only in strong-walled vessels like these does everything get thoroughly cooked, only these capitalists of airspace are immune from worry and insanity, to the extent it is humanly possible, and only they can go calmly about their business and, as someone once said, they are the only useful citizens of this planet, for they provide warmth in the north and shade in the south. (Of course this can be twisted around, but then it isn’t true.)

I don’t want (this isn’t stuttering) to come to Vienna, because I couldn’t stand the mental stress. I am spiritually ill, my lung disease is nothing but an overflowing of my spiritual disease.

this endless white paper burns out one’s eyes, which is why one writes.