Franz Kafka Sad Quotes

I am not actually tired, but numb and heavy, and can’t find the right words. All I can say is: Stay with me, don’t leave me.

He looked sadly down at the street, as though it were his own bottomless sadness.

In general I lacked principally the ability to provide even in the slightest detail for the real future. I thought only of things in the present and their present condition, not because of thoroughness or any special, strong interest, but rather, to the extent that weakness in thinking was not the cause, because of sorrow and fear – sorrow, because the present was so sad for me that I thought I could not leave it before it resolved itself into happiness; fear, because, like my fear of the slightest action in the present, I also considered myself, in view of my contemptible, childish appearance, unworthy of forming a serious, responsible opinion of the great, manly future which usually seemed so impossible to me that every short step forward appeared to me to be counterfeit and the next step unattainable.

My health is only just good enough for myself alone, not good enough for marriage, let alone fatherhood. Yet when I read your letter, I feel I could overlook even what cannot possibly be overlooked.

It is possible that some people are sorry for me, but I am not aware of it.

Oh well, memories, said I. Yes, even remembering in itself is sad, yet how much more its object! Don't let yourself in for things like that, it's not for you and not for me. It only weakens one's present position without strengthening the former one - nothing is more obvious - quite apart from the fact that the former one doesn't need strengthening.

I was ashamed of myself when i realized life was a costume part, and i have attended with my real face.

Amalia smiled, and that smile, although a sad one, lit up her sombre face, made her silence eloquent and her strangeness familiar. It was like the telling of a secret, a hitherto closely guarded possession that could be taken back, but never taken back entirely.

I was convinced you wouldn't write me anymore, but I was neither surprised nor sad about it. Not sad because it seemed necessary beyond all sadness and because there probably aren't enough weights in the whole world to raise my poor small weight, and not surprised because I wouldn't really ever have been surprised before if you had said: "I've been friendly to you up to this point, but now I'm going to stop and leave you.

December 9, 1911 But what is true for us is not true for the stranger. For if our letters are incapable of giving a satisfactory expression to our own feelings, we are forced to resort to expressions like "unspeakable" or even "so sad" or a "so beautiful" followed by a quickly crumbled sentence… we are rewarded by the faculty given to us of grasping the account of others with the quiet precision which, at least to this degree, we lack in our own letters.

Whenever I write to you, sleep is out of the question, both before and after; when I don't write, I at least get a few hours of shallow sleep. When I don't write, I am merely tired, sad, heavy; when I do write, I am torn by fear and anxiety.

And yet his sister was playing so beautifully. Her face was inclined to the side, and sadly and searchingly her eyes followed the columns of notes. Gregor crept a little closer and held his head close to the ground, so as to be prepared to meet her gaze. Could he be an animal, to be so moved by music? It was as though he sensed a way to the unknown sustenance he longed for.

Drops of rain could be heard hitting the pane, which made him feel quite sad. "How about if I sleep a little bit longer and forget all this nonsense", he thought.

facts are facts, which is very sad for me but also advantageous, since an ignorant man will dare to do more, so I will happily go about in my ignorance with what I am sure are its unfortunate consequences for a little longer, as long as my strength allows.

In the collective prosecutorial mind our apologies are also apparently characterized as “so-called.” Though I find this insulting. It causes me suffering and moral harm. Because our apologies were sincere. I am so sad that we have said so many words and you have not understood any of them. Or are you lying when you talk of our apologies as though they were insincere? I don’t understand: What more do you need to hear? For me, only this trial can rightly be referred to as “so-called.” And I am not afraid of you. I am not afraid of lies and fictions and of poorly coded deception in the verdict of this so-called court, because all you can do is take away my so-called freedom, the only sort that exists in the Russian Federation. But no one can take away my inner freedom. It lives in my words and it will survive thanks to the public nature of my statements, which will be heard and read by thousands. This freedom is already multiplying, thanks to every caring person who hears us in this country. Thanks to everyone who has found splinters of this trial in themselves, as Franz Kafka and Guy Debord once did. I believe that openness and public speech and a hunger for the truth make us all a little bit freeer. We will see this yet. The

Oh well, memories," said I. "Yes, even remembering in itself is sad, yet how much more its object! Don't let yourself in for things like that, it's not for you and not for me. It only weakens one's present position without strengthening the former one — nothing is more obvious — quite apart from the fact that the former one doesn't need strengthening. Do you think I have no memories? Oh, ten for every one of yours.

Yes, they are hounding me.

When I sit down at the desk I feel no better than someone who falls and breaks both legs in the middle of the traffic of the Place de l'Opera. All the carriages, despite their noise, press silently from all directions in all directions, but that man's pain keeps better order than the police, it closes his eyes and empties the Place and the streets without the carriages having to turn about. The great commotion hurts him, for he is really an obstruction to traffic, but the emptiness is no less sad, for it unshackles his real pain.

The Strugglers" He was born on a Friday. And it was raining that day. He still does not know whether the Gods were happy or sad at his arriving on earth. He saw the world. He saw sadness. He saw misery. He saw the struggle of his dad and mom. They both struggled to give a good life to their children. He started becoming serious in life. He started winning awards in academics and in quiz competitions to begin with. Then he tried essay competitions and debates. His sole aim was to win awards to make his parents feel proud of him. He wanted to become an IAS officer to make his family (uncles, aunts, cousins) feel proud of him. He came to Delhi to prepare for the Civil Services. He thought he will do a job and not be dependent on his parents, and still clear the Civil Services. It did not happen. He lost out on becoming a Civil Servant of the people. He tried a few odds jobs. He eventually became a Teacher, Poet, and Writer. His inspirations to writing - his Mom who manages to writer Poetry even now along with her struggles of life, Sylvia Plath, Maya Angelou, Franz Kafka, Roald Dahl, Jack Kerouac, Charles Bukowski, Ernest Hemingway, and all the other poets, artists, writers, and strugglers in Life.

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

The Strugglers" He was born on a Friday. And it was raining that day. He still does not know whether the Gods were happy or sad at his arriving on earth. He saw the world. He saw sadness. He saw misery. He saw the struggle of his dad and mom. They both struggled to give a good life to their children. He started becoming serious in life. He started winning awards in academics and in quiz competitions to begin with. Then he tried essay competitions and debates. His sole aim was to win awards to make his parents feel proud of him. He wanted to become an IAS officer to make his family (uncles, aunts, cousins) feel proud of him. He came to Delhi to prepare for the Civil Services. He thought he will do a job and not be dependent on his parents, and still clear the Civil Services. It did not happen. He lost out on becoming a Civil Servant of the people. He tried a few odds jobs. He eventually became a Teacher, Poet, and Writer. His inspirations to writing - his Mom who manages to write Poetry even now along with her struggles of life, Sylvia Plath, Maya Angelou, Franz Kafka, Roald Dahl, Jack Kerouac, Charles Bukowski, Ernest Hemingway, and all the other poets, artists, writers, and strugglers in Life.

Sunday noon, December 16, 1911 I wasted the whole morning sleeping and reading the journal. [...] This fear of writing always expresses itself in the same way, I accidentally find beginning sentences that immediately turn out to be unusable, dry, interrupted long before the end and which, from their fragments that come out, point me to a sad future.

When I found myself alone and my sadness had ceased to be disturbed by conversation […] my despair grew so much that it began to desintegrate my thoughts.

I’m so sad deep inside and this will never go away

kabhi kabhi mere dil mei khayal aata hai, aur aake chala jaata hai *sad pikachu face*

Kill me, or else you are a murderer" - Franz Kafka

Kill me, or else you are a murderer