Quotes About Kafka

At least descriptive psychology is probably, taken as a whole, a form of anthropomorphism, a nibbling at our own limits.

Loneliness is my only goal, my greatest temptation, my possibility and, if you can say that I have 'organized' my life, then it has been organized to make loneliness feel good.

K. knew that there was no threat of actual compulsion, he had no fear of that, especially not here, but the force of these discouraging surroundings and of the increasing familiarity with ever more predictable disappointments, the force of scarcely perceptible influences at every moment, these he certainly did fear, but even in the face of this danger he had to risk taking up the struggle.

Now, her bedside table had been pulled into the middle of the room to be used as a desk for these proceedings, and the supervisor sat behind it.

Karl, oh my Karl!' she cried, as if by gazing at him she were confirming her possession, while Karl saw absolutely nothing and felt uncomfortable in the warm bedding that she seemed to have piled up specially for his benefit.

don't make such a fuss about how innocent you feel; it disturbs the otherwise not unfavorable impression you make.

Kafka earned his doctorate in law in 1906 but decided against practicing, to the disappointment of his father.

Kafka's fiction examines a universe largely unexplored in the literature preceding him, one full of implications that venture into the remote regions of human psychology. It's a universe with different rules than those governing our reality. And there's no map.

If anything, his parables guarantee the failure not only of his characters, but of readers wishing to abstract any lessons applicable to their own lives. Failure, it seems, is Kafka's true subject.

Why do you have to go to the cathedral?' said Leni. K. tried to explain briefly, but he had hardly begun when Leni suddenly said: 'They are hounding you.' K., who could not bear anyone feeling sorry for him unexpectedly or gratuitously, broke off abruptly with just two words; but as he hung up the receiver he said, half to himself and half to the distant woman who could no longer hear him: 'Yes, they are hounding me.

A non-writing writer is a monster courting insanity

he couldn't refrain from contributing his own mite of experience, thereby convincing himself more clearly of its existence as well as his own.

Pe cine nu mai cheam?, pe acela îl uit? cu des?vârÈ™ire. N-am vrut s? vorbesc despre asta de fa?? cu Frieda. Dar nu e numai uitare, e mai mult decât atât. C?ci pe cine ai uitat, poÈ›i s?-l cunoÈ™ti din nou. În cazul lui Klamm asta nu e posibil. Pe cine nu mai cheam?, pe acela l-a uitat complet, nu numai pentru trecut, dar, ca s? zic aÈ™a, È™i pentru viitor.

By the time the lawyer had finished, K. had completely regained his composure; he even nodded emphatically at his final words, which reconfirmed his original conviction that the lawyer, now as always, was attempting to divert his attention from the main question by conveying general information having nothing to do with the matter at hand, which was what he had actually accomplished in K. case.

Committing suicide would be so irrational that even had he wished to, the irrationality of the act would have prevented him.

Sunday, 19 July, slept, awoke, slept, awoke, miserable life.

You see, Willhem, he admits that he doesn't know the Law and yet he claims he's innocent. You're right there, but he can't seem to understand anything, said the other. K. said nothing more; why should I let the idle talk of these lowly agents - they admit themselves that's what they are - confuse me further? he thought. After all, they're discussing things they don't understand. Their confidence is based solely on ignorance.

In passing: may I say that all too often men are betrayed by the word freedom. And as freedom is counted among the most sublime feelings, so the corresponding disillusionment can be also sublime.

Writing sustains me. But wouldn't it be more accurate to say that it sustains this kind of life? Which does not, of course, mean that my life is any better when I don't write. On the contrary, at such times it is far worse, wholly unbearable, and inevitably ends in madness. This is, of course, only on the assumption that I am a writer even when I don't write — which is indeed the case; and a non-writing writer is, in fact, a monster courting insanity.

Thus spake Schubal. It was, to be sure, a clear and manly statement, and from the altered expression of the listeners one might have thought they were hearing a human voice for the first time after a long interval.

Whenever K. started shouting they became calm, almost sad, confusing him or, in a way, bringing him back to his senses.

in my opinion something has been achieved which so closely approximates the truth that it might reassure us both a little and make our living and dying easier

all of the great writers drank, except for Kafka and Nietzsche, neither of whom you exactly wanted to be when you grew up.

Why do we complain about the Fall? It is not on its account that we were expelled from Paradise, but on account of the Tree of Life, lest we might eat of it.