Kafka Letters To Milena Quotes

I have spent all my life resisting the desire to end it.

I miss you deeply, unfathomably, senselessly, terribly.

You are the knife I turn inside myself; that is love. That, my dear, is love.

I’m tired, can’t think of anything and want only to lay my face in your lap, feel your hand on my head and remain like that through all eternity.

In a way, you are poetry material; You are full of cloudy subtleties I am willing to spend a lifetime figuring out. Words burst in your essence and you carry their dust in the pores of your ethereal individuality.

Yours (now I'm even losing my name - it was getting shorter and shorter all the time and is now: Yours)

I am constantly trying to communicate something incommunicable, to explain something inexplicable, to tell about something I only feel in my bones and which can only be experienced in those bones. Basically it is nothing other than this fear we have so often talked about, but fear spread to everything, fear of the greatest as of the smallest, fear, paralyzing fear of pronouncing a word, although this fear may not only be fear but also a longing for something greater than all that is fearful.

Written kisses don't reach their destination, rather they are drunk on the way by the ghosts.

Do you know, darling? When you became involved with others you quite possibly stepped down a level or two, but If you become involved with me, you will be throwing yourself into the abyss.

I am dirty, Milena, endlessly dirty, that is why I make such a fuss about cleanliness. None sing as purely as those in deepest hell; it is their singing we take for the singing of angels.

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

I’m doing badly, I’m doing well, whichever you prefer.

For myself I am too heavy, and for you too light.

I want in fact more of you. In my mind I am dressing you with light; I am wrapping you up in blankets of complete acceptance and then I give myself to you. I long for you; I who usually long without longing, as though I am unconscious and absorbed in neutrality and apathy, really, utterly long for every bit of you.

I long for you; I who usually longs without longing, as though I am unconscious and absorbed in neutrality and apathy, really, utterly long for every bit of you.

I’m thinking only of my illness and my health, though both, the first as well as the second, are you.

I am always trying to convey something that can’t be conveyed, to explain something which is inexplicable, to tell about something I have in my bones, something which can be expressed only in the bones.

If I could drown in sleep as I drown in fear I would be no longer alive.

Dear Milena, I wish the world were ending tomorrow. Then I could take the next train, arrive at your doorstep in Vienna, and say: “Come with me, Milena. We are going to love each other without scruples or fear or restraint. Because the world is ending tomorrow.” Perhaps we don’t love unreasonably because we think we have time, or have to reckon with time. But what if we don't have time? Or what if time, as we know it, is irrelevant? Ah, if only the world were ending tomorrow. We could help each other very much.

I can’t feel a thing; All mournful petal storms are dancing inside the very private spring of my head.

Go on caring for me.

Nor is it perhaps really love when I say that for me you are the most beloved; In this love you are like a knife, with which I explore myself.

It seems to be a fact that man, tortured by his demons, avenges himself blindly on his fellow-man.

And don't demand any sincerity from me, Milena. No one can demand it from me more than I myself and yet many things elude me, I'm sure, perhaps everything eludes me.

I can't think of anything to write about, I'm just walking around here between the lines, under the light of your eyes, in the breadth of your mouth as in a beautiful happy day, which remains beautiful and happy, even when the head is sick and tired.

When one is alone, imperfection must be endured every minute of the day; a couple, however, does not have to put up with it. Aren’t our eyes made to be torn out, and our hearts for the same purpose? At the same time it’s really not that bad; that’s an exaggeration and a lie, everything is exaggeration, the only truth is longing. But even the truth of longing is not so much its own truth; it’s really an expression for everything else, which is a lie. This sounds crazy and distorted, but it’s true. Moreover, perhaps it isn’t love when I say you are what I love the most - you are the knife I turn inside myself, this is love. This, my dear, is love.

I'm on such a dangerous road, Milena. You're standing firmly near a tree, young, beautiful, your eyes subduing with their radiance the suffering world.

You are so vulnerably haunting; Your eeriness is terrifyingly irresistible.

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.

it was like this. the brain could no longer bear the worries and pains that were imposed on it. it said: "i'm giving up; but if there is anyone else here who is interested in preserving the whole, let him assume part of my burden and it will be alright for a bit.

Either the world is so tiny or we are so enormous, in any case we fill it completely.

you are the knife i turn inside myself; that is love, that, my dear, is love

German is my mother tongue and as such more natural to me, but I consider Czech much more affectionate, which is why your letter removes several uncertainties; I see you more clearly, the movements of your body, your hands, so quick, so resolute, it’s almost like a meeting.

And actually it is not you at all I love, but rather the existence you have bestowed on me

Sometimes I have the feeling that we're in one room with two opposite doors and each of us holds the handle of one door, one of us flicks an eyelash and the other is already behind his door, and now the first one has but to utter a word ad immediately the second one has closed his door behind him and can no longer be seen. He's sure to open the door again for it's a room which perhaps one cannot leave. If only the first one were not precisely like the second, if he were calm, if he would only pretend not to look at the other, if he slowly set the room in order as though it were a room like any other; but instead he does exactly the same as the other at his door, sometimes even both are behind the doors and the the beautiful room is empty.

But what shall I do when instead of a heart this fear is beating in my body?

Milena - what a rich heavy name, almost too full to be lifted, and in the beginning I didn't like it much, it seemed to me a Greek or Roman gone astray in Bohemia, violated by Czech, cheated of its accent, and yet in colour and form it is marvellously a woman, a woman whom one carries in one's arms out of the world, and out of the fire, I don't know which, and she presses herself willingly and trustingly into your arms.

If you come to me you will be leaping into the abyss.

Milena, if a million loved you, I am one of them, and if one loved you, it was me, if no one loved you then know that I am dead.

كتابة الرسائل .. تعني أن تعري نفسكَ أمام الأشباح ، و هو شيء لطالما كانوا ينتظرونه بفارغ الصبر. كتابة القُبل فيها لا يعني أنها ستصل إلى مكانها المقصود ، بينما على العكس ، يتخطفها الأشباح على طول الطريق." (كافكا إلى ميلينا)

And I close my eyes to gaze into those depths, and am almost engulfed in you.

I was reading my destiny inside your eyes without knowing it.

لست أقوى على حمل الدنيا فوق كتفي، ولا أنا أحتمل حتى ثقل معطفي فوقهما

إن المرء يكون بالغ الأنانية عندما يكون متعبًا

فهل يوجد يا ميلينا، ثمة مكان في هذه الدنيا يسعه أن يطيق معي صبرًا

أنا عندما أتحدث إليك أنسي كل شيء حتى أنت

I don't need any proofs for you; there is nothing in my mind as clear and certain as you....

Auch ist es vielleicht nicht eigentlich Liebe wenn ich sage, daß Du mir das Liebste bist; Liebe ist, dass Du mir das Messer bist, mit dem ich in mir wühle. An Milena Jesenska (14. September 1920)

I can't hold enough of you in my hands.

Gece gündüz, uykuda olsun, uyanık olsun, vücuduna saplanmış bir oku taşımak demek. Çekilir şey değil bu.

And actually it's not at all you I love, but rather the existence you have bestowed on me.

Rolling country, not yet quite mountainous, with woods and lakes, is what I like best.

You cannot love me, much as you would like; you are unhappily in love with your love for me, but your love for me is not in love with you.

I sink into your eyes whenever I'm looking at you. and feel your eyes on me whenever I'm walking around the room and all the time I am aware, with a pride I can no longer contain, that I am living for you, that I am allowed to do so ......

I sink into your eyes whenever I'm looking at you

I always succeed in not being jealous but only sometimes in comprehending the pointlessness of jealousy.

When one is alone, imperfection must be endured every minute of the day.

I'd like to have all the time there is just for you, for thinking about you, for breathing in you.

All right then, I’ll be mad at you on this score, which incidentally is no great misfortune, as things balance out quite well if there’s a little anger for you lurking in one corner of my heart.

He advertido, de pronto, que en realidad no recuerdo su rostro en detalle. Sólo creo ver aún su figura, su vestido, mientras usted se alejaba entre las mesas del café.

my world is collapsing, my world is rebuilding itself; wait and see how you (meaning me) survive it all. I'm not lamenting the falling apart, it was already in a state of collapse, what I'm lamenting is the rebuilding, I lament my waning strength, I lament being born, I lament the light of the sun.

Yetkin, ama acı veren bir büyü ile buradasınız! Benim burada olduğum gibi, daha da elle tutulur biçimde; ben neredeysem siz de oradasınız, benim olduğum kadar, daha da belirli.

Milena who is constantly discovering in herself that the only way to save another person is by being there and nothing else.

it's impossible to understand how my breast could expand and contract to breathe this air, it's impossible to understand how you can be far away.

no one else has ever taken my side as knowingly and willingly as you, despite everything, despite everything

You aren't tired at all, just restless, just afraid of taking one step on this Earth teeming with pitfalls, which is why you always keep both feet in the air at once, you aren't tired, just afraid of the terrible fatigue which will follow this terrible restlessness ...

لو أمكنني أن أستغرق في النوم كما أغرق في خوفي علي هذا النحو فلن أكون حينئذ علي قيد الحياة

Written kisses never arrive at their destination; the ghosts drink them up along the way.

I'm tired, can't think of anything and want only to lay my face in your lap, feel your hand on my head and remain like that for through all eternity.

Your eyes seem to be expecting miracles I would be most honored and willing to perform.

Yesterday I advised you not to write me every day, I still hold the same opinion today and it would be very good for both of us, and so I repeat my advice today even more emphatically - only please, Milena, don't listen to me, and write me every day anyway

This afternoon I couldn't get out of bed, not because I was too tired but because I was too "heavy" - again and again that word, it's the only one that fits me, do you understand this at all? It's something like the “heaviness” of a ship which has lost its rudder and which says to the waves: "I'm too heavy for myself and for you too light".

(...) when I try to write down something like the following, the swords whose points surround me in a circle, begin slowly to approach the body, it's the most complete torture; when they begin to graze me, I don't mean pierce, when they merely begin to graze me it's already so terrible that I immediately, at the first scream, betray you, myself, everything.

الألم يكمن في صدغي متربصًا، فهل كانت نبلة كيوبيد قد صوبت في اتجاه صدغي بدلًا من تصويبها نحو قلبي

If I could drown in sleep as I drown in fear, I would be no longer alive.

Sometimes I have the feeling that we're in one room with two opposite doors and each of us holds the handle of one door, one of us flicks an eyelash and the other is already behind his door, and now the first one has but to utter a word ad immediately the second one has closed his door behind him and can no longer be seen. He's sure to open the door again for it's a room which perhaps one cannot leave. If only the first one were not precisely like the second, if he were calm, if he would only pretend not to look at the other, if he slowly set the room in order as though it were a room like any other; but instead he does exactly the same as the other at his door, sometimes even both are behind the doors and the the beautiful room is empty." Franz Kafka (in a letter to Milena Jesenska)

Ocurrió que el cerebro no pudo soportar más las preocupaciones y dolores que le habían sido impuestos. Y entonces dijo: "Me doy por vencido; pero si alguien sigue interesado en mantener la unidad, que me alivie y recoja parte de mi carga; así tiraremos un poco más".

Amore è il fatto che tu sei per me il coltello col quale frugo dentro me stesso.

Il sogno è l'ultima notizia che possiedo di te.

You are the knife I turn inside myself; that is love. That, my dear, is love” - Letters to Milena

الحب بالنسبة لي هو أنك السكين التي أديرها مغروسة في داخلي

But that is past and should remain deep in the past

I will cross hundreds of seas and oceans without sinking to reach you, see your eyes and sink completely into their depths.

I see you more clearly, the movements of your body, your hands, so quick, so resolute, it’s almost like a meeting; even so, when I then want to raise my eyes to your face, in the middle of the letter -fire breaks out and I see nothing but fire.

Y, sin embargo, mentiría si dijera que la extraño. Es el hechizo más perfecto y más doloroso. Usted está aquí, igual que yo y con mayor intensidad aún; allí donde yo estoy, está usted, como yo y más intensamente aún. No bromeo. A veces imagino que usted -que está aquí- extraña mi presencia y pregunta: "¿Pero dónde está? ¿Acaso no escribía diciendo que estaba en Merano? [...] El día es tan corto. Transcurre y termina con usted y fuera de usted sólo hay unas pocas nimiedades. Apenas me queda un rato para escribirle a la verdadera Milena, porque la Milena más verdadera aún ha estado aquí todo el día, en la habitación, en el balcón, en las nubes.

Non spaventarti se senti le mie labbra sul collo, non volevo baciarti, è soltanto amore impacciato.

Milena lütfen bana yardım edin! Söyleyebildiklerimden daha da fazlasını anlamaya çalışın.

İki saatlik yaşam iki sayfalık bir yazıdan daha iyidir diye emin olmayın. Yazı yoksuldur ama daha temizdir.

Moreover, perhaps it isn’t love when I say you are what I love the most – you are the knife I turn inside myself, this is love. This, my dear, is love.

now I'm even losing my name - it was getting shorter and shorter all the time and is now: Yours

The less you torment yourself, the less you'll be tormenting me.

It follows, perhaps, that we are now both married, you in Vienna, I to my fear in Prague, and that not only you, but I too, tug in vain at our marriage.

Cara signora Milena, la giornata è molto breve, con Lei e soltanto con qualche altra inezia è bell'e passata e terminata. E' molto se rimane un po' di tempo per scrivere alla vera Milena perché quella ancor più vera era qui tutto il giorno nella camera, sul balcone, nelle nuvole.

The correspondence on this subject brings one again and again to the conclusion that you're united by an all but sacramental indissoluble marriage (...) to your husband, and I by a similar marriage to - I don't know whom, but the eye of this terrible wife often lies on me, I feel it.

One can think about someone far away and one can hold on to someone nearby; everything else is beyond human power. Writing letters, on the other hand, means exposing oneself to the ghosts, who are greedily waiting precisely for that. Written kisses never arrive at their destination; the ghosts drink them up along the way. It is this ample nourishment which enables them to multiply so enormously. People sense this and struggle against it; in order to eliminate as much of the ghosts’ power as possible and to attain a natural intercourse, a tranquility of soul, they have invented trains, cars, aeroplanes—but nothing helps anymore: These are evidently inventions devised at the moment of crashing. The opposing side is so much calmer and stronger; after the postal system, the ghosts invented the telegraph, the telephone, the wireless. They will not starve, but we will perish.

Mientras estaba tendido allí, a un paso de mí yacía un escarabajo, patas arriba, desesperado. No podía enderezarse, me habría gustado ayudarlo, era tan fácil hacerlo, bastaba un paso y un empujoncito para brindarle una ayuda efectiva. Pero lo olvidé a causa de la carta. Además no podía ponerme de pie. Por fin, una lagartija logró que volviera a tomar conciencia de la vida que me rodeaba. Su camino la llevó hasta el escarabajo, que ya estaba totalmente inmóvil. De modo que no fue un accidente, me dije, sino una lucha mortal, el raro espectáculo de la muerte natural de un animal. Pero la lagartija al deslizarse por encima del escarabajo, lo enderezó. Por uno instantes continuó inmóvil, como muerto, pero luego trepó la pared como la cosa más natural. Es probable que eso me haya brindado, de alguna manera, un poco de coraje. Lo cierto es que me puse de pie, bebí leche y le escribí a usted.

A man is lying on his deathbed and in the independence gained by the proximity of death, he says: 'I have spent my life fighting the desire to end it.' Then a pupil mocks his teacher, who talks of nothing but death: 'You're always talking about death and yet you do not die.' 'And yet I will die. I'm just singing my last song. One man's song is longer, another man's is shorter. At most, however, they differ by only a few words.

I'm not suggesting that you don't master German. Most of the time you master it surprisingly well and if once in a while you don't, it bows before you of its own accord, and this is particularly pleasing, for this is something a German doesn't dare to expect from his language, he doesn't dare to write so personally.

There's another thing. You write about the people who have their evenings and mornings together and those who haven't. Just the position of the latter seems to me the more favourable. They have done something bad, certainly or possibly, and the dirt of this scene derives, as you rightly say, essentially from their being strangers, and it's physical dirt, like the dirt of an apartment which has never been inhabited and suddenly ripped wide open. This is bad indeed, or on Earth, it's actually nothing but a 'play with a ball' as you call it. It's as though Eve, having indeed plucked the apple from the tree (sometimes I believe I understand the Fall of Man as no one else), did so nevertheless only in order to show it to Adam - because she liked it. It was the biting into it that was decisive - the playing with it was, though not permitted, not forbidden either.

Hace ya mucho que no le escribo, señora Milena, y también hoy le escribo por una casualidad. En realidad no tengo que disculparme de mi silencio, usted ya sabe cómo odio las cartas. Toda la desdicha de mi vida – no quiero con esto quejarme, sino hacer una observación de interés general- proviene por así decir de las cartas o de la posibilidad de escribirlas. Las personas casi nunca me han traicionado, pero las cartas siempre, y en verdad no las ajenas, sino justamente las mías. En mi caso es una desgracia muy especial, de la que no quiero seguir hablando, pero al mismo tiempo es una desgracia también general. La sencilla posibilidad de escribir cartas debe de haber provocado -desde un punto de vista meramente teórico- una terrible desintegración de almas en el mundo. Es en efecto una conversación con fantasmas ( y para peor no sólo con el fantasma del destinatario, sino también con el del remitente) que se desarrolla entre líneas en la carta que uno escribe, o aun en una serie de cartas, donde cada una corrobora la otra y puede referirse a ella como testigo. ¿De dónde habrá surgido la idea de que las personas podían comunicarse mediante cartas? Se puede pensar en una persona distante, se puede aferrar a una persona cercana, todo lo demás queda más allá de las fuerzas humanas. Escribir cartas, sin embargo, significa desnudarse ante los fantasmas, que lo esperan ávidamente. Los besos por escrito no llegan a su destino, se los beben por el camino los fantasmas. Con este abundante alimento se multiplican, en efecto, enormemente. La humanidad lo percibe y lucha por evitarlo; y para eliminar en lo posible lo fantasmal entre las personas y lograr una comunicación natural, que es la paz de las almas, ha inventado el ferrocarril, el automóvil, el aeroplano, pero ya no sirven, son evidentemente descubrimientos hechos en el momento del desastre, el bando opuesto es tanto más calmo y poderoso, después del correo inventó el telégrafo, el teléfono, la telegrafía sin hilos. Los fantasmas no se morirán de hambre, y nosotros en cambio pereceremos.