Letters To Felice Quotes

I am not well; I could have built the Pyramids with the effort it takes me to cling on to life and reason.

You are at once both the quiet and the confusion of my heart; imagine my heartbeat when you are in this state.

It certainly was not my intention to make you suffer, yet i have done so; obviously it never will be my intention to make you suffer, yet I shall always do so.

Nothing unites two people so completely, especially if, like you and me, all they have is words.

There are times when I am convinced I am unfit for any human relationship.

You wouldn't believe the kind of person I could become if you wanted it.

One has either to take people as they are, or leave them as they are. One cannot change them, one can merely disturb their balance. A human being, after all, is not made up of single pieces, from which a single piece can be taken out and replaced by something else.

I mustn't look at you too much, or I won't be able to take my eyes off you at all.

The fact that no one knows where I am is my only happiness. If only I could prolong this forever! It would be far more just than death. I am empty and futile in every corner of my being, even in my unhappiness.

There are times when my longing for you overwhelms me […] so often I can think of you only with teeth clenched.

You will get to know me better; there are still a number of horrible recesses in me that you don’t know.

Each of us has his own way of emerging from the underworld, mine is by writing. That's why the only way I can keep going, if at all, is by writing, not through rest and sleep. I am far more likely to achieve peace of mind through writing than the capacity to write through peace.

No, I didn't imagine my being alone with you the way you do. If I want the impossible, I want it in its entirety. Entirely alone, dearest, I wanted us to be entirely alone on this earth, entirely alone under the sky, and to lead my life, my life that is yours, without distraction and with complete concentration, in you.

...how could I, fool that I am, go on sitting in my office, or here at home, instead of leaping onto a train with my eyes shut and opening them only when I am with you?

I am so miserable, there are so many questions, I can see no way out and am so wretched and feeble that I could lie forever on the sofa and keep opening and closing my eyes without knowing the difference.

I have no memory for things I have learned, nor things I have read, nor things experienced or heard, neither for people nor events; I feel that I have experienced nothing, learned nothing, that I actually know less than the average schoolboy, and that what I do know is superficial, and that every second question is beyond me. I am incapable of thinking deliberately; my thoughts run into a wall. I can grasp the essence of things in isolation, but I am quite incapable of coherent, unbroken thinking. I can’t even tell a story properly; in fact, I can scarcely talk.

But when I want to draw close to someone, and fully commit myself, then my misery is assured. Then I am nothing, and what can I do with nothingness? I must admit that your letter this morning (by the afternoon it had changed) arrived at just the right moment; I was in need of those very words.

All the love in the world is useless when there is a total lack of understanding.

All the love in the world in the world is useless when there is a total lack of understanding.

When dealing with myself I am powerless.

I am a very unhappy human being and you, dearest, simply had to be summoned to create an equilibrium for all this misery.

Silence, I believe, avoids me, as water on the beach avoids stranded fish.

Once again I have told you so little, and have asked no questions, and once again I must close. But not a single answer and, even more certainly, not a single question shall be lost. There exists some kind of sorcery by which two people, without seeing each other, without talking to each other, can at least discover the greater part about each other’s past, literally in a flash, without having to tell each other all and everything; but this, after all, is almost an instrument of Black Magic (without seeming to be) which, although never without reward, one would certainly never resort to with impunity. Therefore I won’t say it, unless you guess it first. It is terribly short, like all magic formulas. Farewell, and let me reinforce this greeting by lingering over your hand. Yours, Franz K.

In order for men to partake of the fruit of felicity,they must plant the seeds thereof.

If you can laugh into the telephone, you must be a very accomplished telephonist. The very thought of the telephone makes me forget laughter.

The trouble is, I am not at peace with myself; I am not always "something," and if for once I am "something," I pay for it by "being nothing" for months on end.' —Kafka, quoted by Canetti

Hollindrake once wrote to me that the men who fight for a cause, a noble one, have more honor than any mere gentleman. – Felicity Langley (heroine)

I read the letter once, put it aside, and read it again; I pick up a file but am really only reading your letter; I am with the typist, to whom I am supposed to dictate, and again your letter slowly slides through my fingers and I have begun to draw it out of my pocket when people ask me something and I know perfectly well I should not be thinking of your letter now, yet that thought is all that occurs to me—but after all that I am as hungry as before, as restless as before, and once again the door starts swinging merrily, as though the man with the letter were about to appear again. That is what you call the “little pleasure” your letters give me.

I wish I had a strong hand for the sole purpose of thrusting it into this incoherent construction that I am. And yet what I am saying here is not even precisely my opinion, not even precisely my opinion at this moment. When I look into myself I see so much that is obscure and still in flux that I cannot even properly explain or fully accept the dislike I feel for myself.

[Philip's death was] beyond comparison the most afflicting of my life.... He was truly a fine youth. But why should I repine? It was the will of heaven and he is now out of the reach of the seductions and calamities of a world full of folly, full of vice, full of danger, of least value in proportion as it is best known. I firmly trust also that he has safely reached the haven of eternal repose and felicity. (Alexander Hamilton letter to Benjamin Rush about the death of his 19-year old son from mortal wounds inflicted from a duel.)

I am sitting down to write in a state of some confusion; I have been reading a lot of different things that are merging into one another, and if one hopes to find a solution for oneself by this kind of reading, one is mistaken; one comes up against a wall, and cannot proceed. Your life is so very different, dearest. Except in relation to your fellow men, have you ever known uncertainty? Have you ever observed how, within yourself and independent of other people, diverse possibilities open up in several directions, thereby actually creating a ban on your every movement? Have you ever, without giving the slightest thought to anyone else, been in despair simply about yourself? Desperate enough to throw yourself on the ground and remain there beyond the Day of Judgment? How devout are you? You go to the synagogue; but I dare say you have not been recently. And what is it that sustains you, the idea of Judaism or of God? Are you aware, and this is the most important thing, of a continuous relationship between yourself and a reassuringly distant, if possibly infinite height or depth? He who feels this continuously has no need to roam about like a lost dog, mutely gazing around with imploring eyes; he never need yearn to slip into a grave as if it were a warm sleeping bag and life a cold winter night; and when climbing the stairs to his office he never need imagine that he is careering down the well of the staircase, flickering in the uncertain light, twisting from the speed of his fall, shaking his head with impatience. There are times, dearest, when I am convinced I am unfit for any human relationship.

Friends are the balm that soothes the heart. – Nanny Tasha (former nanny to Felicity and Tally Langley)

I belong to you; there is really no other way of expressing it, and that is not strong enough.

Beni engelleyenin olgular olduğu pek söylenemez, bir korku, aşılabilmesi olanaksız bir korku var: mutlu olmaktan korkmak, daha yüce bir amaç için kendine acı verme tutkusu ve buyruğu.

For him [Kafka], the most tormenting thing about his notion of marriage must have been its ruling out the possibility of one's ever becoming so small as to be able to vanish: one has to be there.

The other day in connection with my uncle’s letter you asked me about my plans and prospects. I was amazed by your question, and am now reminded of it again by this stranger’s question. Needless to say I have no plans, no prospects; I cannot step into the future; I can crash into the future, grind into the future, stumble into the future, this I can do; but best of all I can lie still. Plans and prospects, however—honestly, I have none; when things go well, I am entirely absorbed by the present; when things go badly, I curse even the present, let alone the future! -Franz

The freedom to fail is preserved, as a sort of supreme law, which guarantees escape at every fresh juncture. One is inclined to call this the freedom of the weak person who seeks salvation in defeat. His true uniqueness, his special relation to power, is expressed in the prohibition of victory. All calculations originate and end in impotence.

There is, in Kafka, a sort of sleep-worship; he regards sleep as a panacea.

With warmest goodbyes, and I kiss your hand, if that is permitted.

First of all, I am delighted that you are a vegetarian at heart. I don’t like strict vegetarians all that much, because I too am almost a vegetarian, and see nothing particularly likable about it, just something natural, and those who are good vegetarians in their hearts, but, for reasons of health, from indifference, or simply because they underrate food as such, eat meat or whatever happens to be on the table, casually, with their left hand, so to speak, these are the ones I like.

For a good part of his [Kafka's] work consists of tentative steps toward perpetually changing possibilities of future. He does not acknowledge a single future, there are many; this multiplicity of futures paralyzes him and burdens his step.

You once said you would like to sit beside me while I write. Listen, in that case I could not write (I can’t do much, anyway), but in that case I could not write at all. For writing means revealing oneself to excess; that utmost of selfrevelation and surrender, in which a human being, when involved with others, would feel he was losing himself, and from which, therefore, he will always shrink as long as he is in his right mind—for everyone wants to live as long as he is alive —even that degree of selfrevelation and surrender is not enough for writing. Writing that springs from the surface of existence— when there is no other way and the deeper wells have dried up—is nothing, and collapses the moment a truer emotion makes that surface shake. This is why one can never be alone enough when one writes, why there can never be enough silence around one when one writes, why even night is not night enough. This is why there is never enough time at one’s disposal, for the roads are long and it is easy to go astray, there are even times when one becomes afraid and has the desire—even without any constraint or enticement—to run back (a desire always severely punished later on), how much more so if one were suddenly to receive a kiss from the most beloved lips! I have often thought that the best mode of life for me would be to sit in the innermost room of a spacious locked cellar with my writing things and a lamp. Food would be brought and always put down far away from my room, outside the cellar’s outermost door. The walk to my food, in my dressing gown, through the vaulted cellars, would be my only exercise. I would then return to my table, eat slowly and with deliberation, then start writing again at once. And how I would write! From what depths I would drag it up! Without effort! For extreme concentration knows no effort. The trouble is that I might not be able to keep it up for long, and at the first failure—which perhaps even in these circumstances could not be avoided—would be bound to end in a grandiose fit of madness.

Oh the moods I get into, Fräulein Bauer! A hail of nervousness pours down upon me continuously. What I want one minute I don't want the next. When I have reached the top of the stairs, I still don't know the state I shall be in when I enter the apartment.

My powers of reasoning are incredibly limited; to sense the development in the results, that I can do, but to ascend from the development of the results or step by step to reconstruction it from the results, that is not given to me. It is though as I were falling down upon these things, and caught sight of them only in the confusion of my fall.

In this couple defects were multiplied, as if by a dangerous doubling; weakness fed upon itself without a counterstrength and they were trapped, defaults, mutually committed, left holes everywhere in their lives. When you read their letters to each other it is often necessary to consult the signature in order to be sure which one has done the writing. Their tone about themselves, their mood, is the fatal one of nostalgia--a passive, consuming, repetitive poetry. Sometimes one feels even its most felicitious and melodious moments are fixed, rigid in experession, and that their feelings have gradually merged with their manner, fallen under the domination of style. Even in their suffering, so deep and beyond relief, their tonal memory controls the words, shaping them into the Fitzgerald tune, always so regretful, regressive, and touched with a careful felicity.

one must not prostrate oneself before the minor impossibilities, otherwise the major impossibilities would never come into view.

The present is a fleeting moment, the past is no more; and our prospect of futurity is dark and doubtful. This day may possibly be my last: but the laws of probability, so true in general, so fallacious in particular, still allow about fifteen years. I shall soon enter into the period which, as the most agreeable of his long life, was selected by the judgement and experience of the sage Fontenelle. His choice is approved by the eloquent historian of nature, who fixes our moral happiness to the mature season in which our passions are supposed to be calmed, our duties fulfilled, our ambition satisfied, our fame and fortune established on a solid basis. In private conversation, that great and amiable man added the weight of his own experience; and this autumnal felicity might be exemplified in the lives of Voltaire, Hume, and many other men of letters. I am far more inclined to embrace than to dispute this comfortable doctrine. I will not suppose any premature decay of the mind or body; but I must reluctantly observe that two causes, the abbreviation of time, and the failure hope, will always tinge with a browner shade the evening of life. ...The warm desires, the long expectations of youth, are founded on the ignorance of themselves and of the world: they are generally damped by time and experience, by disappointment or possession; and after the middle season the crowd must be content to remain at the foot of the mountain: while the few who have climbed the summit aspire to descend or expect to fall. In old age, the consolation of hope is reserved for the tenderness of parents, who commence a new life in their children; the faith of enthusiasts, who sing Hallelujahs above the clouds; and the vanity of authors, who presume the immortality of their name and writings.

Eppure l'amore all'inizio è una cosa bella, una cosa dolce e cara. Ma proprio come un gattino, che da piccolo ti delizia con i suoi modi teneri e amabili, con la sua innocenza, morbidezza e mansuetudine, si trasforma con spaventosa rapidità in un gatto che ti artiglia crudelmente. Vorrei sapere se esiste una sola persona al mondo, all'apparenza felice e indifferente, che non abbia ben nascosti sotto abiti e ornamenti i segni degli artigli dell'amore. Credo anche che si tratti di graffi così profondi che sanguinano a lungo, senza rimarginarsi; e quando, dopo anni, finalmente guariscono, rimane sempre una cicatrice, rossa e terribile, che fa trasalire quando inavvertitamente la si tocca.

Antipater, in a letter written upon the death of Aristotle, the philosopher, observes, "Amongst his other gifts he had that of persuasiveness"; and the absence of this in the character of Marcius made all his great actions and noble qualities unacceptable to those whom they benifited: pride, and self-will, the consort, as Plato calls it, of solitude, made him insufferable. With the skill which Alcibiades, on the contrary, possessed to treat every one in the way most agreeable to him, we cannot wonder that all his successes were attended with the most exuberant favour and honour; his very errors, at time, being accompanied by something of grace and felicity. And so in spite of great and frequent hurt that he had done the city, he was repeatedly appointed to office and command; while Coriolanus stood in vain for a place which his great services had made his due. The one, in spite of the harm he occasioned, could not make himself hated, nor the other, with all the admiration he attracted, succeed in being beloved by his countrymen.

მე, როგორც ზედმიწევნით არათავისთავად ადამიანს, მუდმივად გამაჩნია უსაზღვრო მოთხოვნილება, ყოველმხრივ თავისუფალი და დამოუკიდებელი ვიყო. სჯობს საკუთარი გზა ბოლომდე ბრმად, მარტომ განვლო, ვიდრე გარს მშობლიური ხროვა გეხვიოს და თავგზას გიბნევდეს. აქედან გამომდინარე, ყოველი სიტყვა, რაც ჩემი მშობლებისადმი მითქვამს, ან მათ უთქვამთ, ყოველგვარ ინტერესსაა მოკლებული და არც მანაღვლებს

Il massimo bene è la prudenza. Per questo la prudenza è anche più pregevole della filosofia, e da essa hanno origine anche tutte le altre virtù, perché insegna come non è possibile una vita felice che non sia una vita saggia, bella e giusta, e non è possibile una vita saggia, bella e giusta che non sia felice. Le virtù sono infatti connaturate alla vita felice e la vita felice è da esse inseparabile.

It is not, however, only the word, it is also the thing, in all its infinite complexity, that he [Kafka] articulates with unrivaled courage and clarity. For, since he fears power in any form, since the real aim of his life is to withdraw from it, in whatever form it may appear, he detects it, identifies it, names it, and creates figures of it in every instance where others would accept it as being nothing out of the ordinary.

We have abundant reason to rejoice, that, in this land, the light of truth and reason has triumphed over the power of bigotry and superstition, and that every person may here worship God according to the dictates of his own heart. In this enlightened age, & in this land of equal liberty, it is our boast, that a man's religious tenets will not forfeit the protection of the laws, nor deprive him of the right of attaining & holding the highest offices that are known in the United States. Your prayers for my present and future felicity are received with gratitude; and I sincerely wish, Gentlemen, that you may in your social and individual capacities taste those blessings, which a gracious God bestows upon the righteous. Letter to the the members of The New Church in Baltimore (22 January 1793), published in The Writings Of George Washington (1835) by Jared Sparks, p. 201

En todas las experiencias que pueden hacerles mejores o más felices sólo los hechos físicos son “reales”, mientras que los elementos espirituales son “subjetivos”; en todas las experiencias que pueden desanimarles o corromperles, los elementos espirituales son la realidad fundamental, e ignorarlos es ser un escapista. Tu paciente, adecuadamente manipulado, no tendrá ninguna dificultad en considerar su emoción ante el espectáculo de unas entrañas humanas como una revelación de la realidad y su emoción ante la visión de unos niños felices o de un día radiante como mero sentimiento.

Everything is estimated by the standard of its own good. The vine is valued for its productiveness and the flavour of its wine, the stag for his speed. We ask, with regard to beasts of burden, how sturdy of back they are; for their only use is to bear burdens. If a dog is to find the trail of a wild beast, keenness of scent is of first importance; if to catch his quarry, swiftness of foot; if to attack and harry it, courage. In each thing that quality should be best for which the thing is brought into being and by which it is judged. And what quality is best in man? It is reason; by virtue of reason he surpasses the animals, and is surpassed only by the gods. Perfect reason is therefore the good peculiar to man; all other qualities he shares in some degree with animals and plants. Man is strong; so is the lion. Man is comely; so is the peacock. Man is swift; so is the horse. I do not say that man is surpassed in all these qualities. I am not seeking to find that which is greatest in him, but that which is peculiarly his own. Man has body; so also have trees. Man has the power to act and to move at will; so have beasts and worms. Man has a voice; but how much louder is the voice of the dog, how much shriller that of the eagle, how much deeper that of the bull, how much sweeter and more melodious that of the nightingale! What then is peculiar to man? Reason. When this is right and has reached perfection, man's felicity is complete. Hence, if everything is praiseworthy and has arrived at the end intended by its nature, when it has brought its peculiar good to perfection, and if man's peculiar good is reason; then, if a man has brought his reason to perfection, he is praiseworthy and has readied the end suited to his nature. This perfect reason is called virtue, and is likewise that which is honourable.

There is a party of 100 high-powered politicians. All of them are either honest or liars. You walk in knowing two things: - At least one of them is honest. - If you take any two politicians, at least one of them is a liar. From this information, can you know how many are liars and how many are honest? Answer 243.     A very famous chemist was found murdered in his kitchen today. The police have narrowed it down to six suspects. They know it was a two man job. Their names: Felice, Maxwell, Archibald, Nicolas, Jordan, and Xavier. A note was also found with the body: '26-3-58/28-27-57-16'. Who are the killers? Answer 244.     A smooth dance, a ball sport, a place to stay, an Asian country, and a girl's name. What's her name? Answer 245.     To give me to someone I don't belong to is cowardly, but to take me is noble. I can be a game, but there are no winners. What am I? Answer 246.     There are several books on a bookshelf. If one book is the 4th from the left and 6th from the right, how many books are on the shelf? Answer 247.     How many letters are in the answer to this riddle? Answer

Are these questions ridiculous? My face is quite serious, and if you are laughing, please laugh in a friendly way and answer me in detail.

And is my request not sincere? Certainly it is sincere. And is it not perhaps also insincere? Of course it is insincere, and how insincere it is!

And even if all three of my directors were to stand around my table looking straight down my pen, I would have to write to you at once, for your letter has descended upon me as from the clouds, to which I have been gazing up in vain for three weeks.

I did something I hadn't done for a long time, I arrived in the office humming.

Please understand why that first letter has assumed such importance for me. It is because you answered it with the letter that lies here beside me, which has made me absurdly happy and upon which I am now laying my hand to be conscious of owning it. Please write me another one soon.

If I were the Immanuelkirchstrasse mailman delivering this letter to your house, I wouldn't allow myself to be detained by any astonished member of your family, but would walk straight through all the rooms to yours and put the letter in your hands; or, better still, I would stand outside your door and keep on ringing the bell for my pleasure, a pleasure that would relieve all tension!

I read the letter once, put it aside, and read it again; I pick up a file but am really only reading your letter; I am with the typist, to whom I am supposed to dictate, and again your letter slowly slides through my fingers and I have begun to draw it out of my pocket when people ask me something and I know perfectly well I should not be thinking of your letter now, yet that thought is all that occurs to me—but after all that I am as hungry as before, as restless as before, and once again the door starts swinging merrily, as though the man with the letter were about to appear again. That is what you call the "little pleasure" your letters give me.

Kissing gave a man all sorts of immoral ideas. Such ideas were, in Madame Hera's world, the province only of men. That Ainsley herself had had ideas - her mind boggled, trying to imagine what Madame would say to that. In fact, those very ideas cropped up in several of the letters Felicity had forwarded to her, variously referred to as 'unnatural desires,' 'longing,' 'carnal stirrings,' fever of the blood,' 'indecent thoughts' and even, memorably, 'an irrepressible need to scratch an itch.

invece di educarli a una vita normalmente felice, da cristianizzare con qualche virtù o trucco tipicamente quaresimale, bisognerebbe abituarli a una vita dolorosa, che deve essere incessantemente trasformata in gioia, fintanto che sarà possibile.

In tribunale il valore del diario di Isabella rimase dubbio. Come ogni altro libro dello stesso genere, oltre che di ricordi era fatto anche di aspettative: era provvisorio e instabile, si situava al confine tra pensiero e azione, desiderio e realtà. Ma, come cruda testimonianza emotiva, era un’opera che lasciava attoniti, che poteva destare entusiasmo o allarme. Il diario diede ai suoi lettori vittoriani un’immagine del futuro, come offre a noi un’immagine del nostro mondo plasmato sul passato. Sicuramente non ci dice ciò che accadde nella vita di Isabella, ma ci dice ciò che lei desiderava. Il diario dipingeva un ritratto delle libertà a cui le donne avrebbero potuto aspirare, se avessero rinunciato a credere in Dio e nel matrimonio: il diritto ad avere delle proprietà e del denaro, a ottenere la custodia dei figli, a sperimentare dal punto di vista sessuale ed intellettuale. Accennava anche al dolore e alla confusione che queste libertà avrebbero generato. Nel decennio in cui la Chiesa rinunciò al proprio controllo sul matrimonio e Darwin gettò nel dubbio più profondo le origini spirituali dell’umanità, quel diario era un segno dei tumulti che si sarebbero verificati. In una pagina senza data Isabella si rivolgeva esplicitamente a un futuro lettore. «Una settimana del nuovo anno se n’è già andata, - esordiva. – Ah! Se avessi la speranza dell’altra vita di cui parla mia madre (oggi lei e mio fratello mi hanno scritto delle lettere affettuose), e che il signor B. ci ha sollecitato a conquistarci, sarei allegra e felice. Ma, ahimé!, non ce l’ho, e non potrò mai ottenerla; e per quanto riguarda questa vita, la mia anima è invasa e lacerata dalla rabbia, dalla sensualità, dall’impotenza e dalla disperazione, che mi riempiono di rimorso e di cattivi presentimenti». «Lettore, -scrisse – tu vedi la mia anima più nascosta. Devi disprezzarmi e odiarmi. Ti soffermi anche a provare pietà? No; perché quando leggerai queste pagine, la vita di colei che “era troppo flessibile per la virtù; troppo virtuosa per diventare una cattiva fiera e trionfante” sarà finita». Era una citazione imprecisa dall’opera teatrale The Fatal Falsehood (1779) di Hannah More, in cui un giovane conte italiano – un «miscuglio di aspetti strani e contraddittori» – si innamora perdutamente di una donna promessa al suo migliore amico. Quando Edward Lane lesse il diario, fu questo passaggio in particolare a suscitare la sua rabbia e il suo disprezzo: «Si rivolge al Lettore! – scrisse a Combe – Ma chi è il Lettore? Allora quel prezioso diario è stato scritto per essere pubblicato, o, almeno, era destinato a un erede della sua famiglia? In entrambi i casi, io affermo che è completa follia – e se anche non ci fossero ulteriori pagine, in questo guazzabuglio farraginoso, a confermare la mia ipotesi, a mio parere questa sarebbe già sufficiente». Eppure il richiamo di Isabella a un lettore immaginario può, al contrario, fornire la spiegazione più limpida del perché avesse tenuto il diario. Almeno una parte di lei voleva essere ascoltata. Coltivava la speranza che qualcuno, leggendo quelle parole dopo la sua morte, avrebbe esitato prima di condannarla; che un giorno la sua storia potesse essere accolta con compassione e perfino amore. In assenza di un aldilà spirituale, noi eravamo l’unico futuro che aveva. «Buona notte, - concludeva, con una triste benedizione: - Possa tu essere più felice!».

Perfect felicity is not the property of mortals, and no one has a right to expect uninterrupted happiness.

Per me, chissà perché, ricordare equivale a soffrire, e mi succede perfino che più è felice il ricordo suscitato, più forte è la sofferenza. Nello stesso tempo, nonostante tutto quel che ho perduto, la vita mi piace moltissimo: mi piace la vita per la vita, e, sono serio, mi preparo, ogni momento, a cominciarla, la mia vita. Presto avrò cinquant’anni, e ancora non sono riuscito a stabilire: sta per finire, la mia vita, o è appena cominciata.

Ne m'écrivez plus qu'une fois par semaine, et de telle sorte que je reçoive votre lettre le dimanche. Car je dois vous le dire, je ne supporte pas vos lettres quotidiennes, je ne suis pas en état de les supporter. Je réponds pas exemple à votre lettre et ensuite, je suis apparemment bien tranquille dans mon lit, mais des palpitations me traversent tout le corps et mon cœur ne connaît que vous. Voilà pourquoi je ne veux point savoir que tu es bien disposée pour moi; car alors pour quelle raison, fou que je suis, restai-je à mon bureau ou chez moi, au lieu de me jeter dans le train les yeux fermés pour ne les réouvrir que lorsque je serai près de toi. Vraiment j'ai parfois l'impression de me repaitre comme un fantôme de ton nom porte-bonheur. mais maintenant y'a-t-il une solution de paix? A quoi bon ne plus nous écrire qu'une fois par semaine. non, il serait bénin le mal que l'on pourrait supprimer par de telles moyens et je le prévois ces lettres du dimanche, je ne pourrai pas non plus les supporter. C'est pourquoi voulant réparer ce que je négligeais samedi, je t'en prie avec la force qui faiblit déjà un peu a la fin de cette lettre renonçons à tout cela, si nous tenons a notre vie. Aurai-je eu l'intention de me dire "tien" en signant, rien ne serait plus faux. Non, Je suis mien et éternellement lié à moi, voilà ce que je suis, et il faut que je tache de m'en accommoder.

Ne m'écrivez plus qu'une fois par semaine, et de telle sorte que je reçoive votre lettre le dimanche. Car je dois vous le dire, je ne supporte pas vos lettres quotidiennes, je ne suis pas en état de les supporter. Je réponds pas exemple à votre lettre et ensuite, je suis apparemment bien tranquille dans mon lit, mais des palpitations me traversent tout le corps et mon cœur ne connaît que vous. Voilà pourquoi je ne veux point savoir que tu es bien disposée pour moi; car alors pour quelle raison, fou que je suis, restai-je à mon bureau ou chez moi, au lieu de me jeter dans le train les yeux fermés pour ne les réouvrir que lorsque je serai près de toi. Vraiment j'ai parfois l'impression de me repaitre comme un fantôme de ton nom porte-bonheur. mais maintenant y'a-t-il une solution de paix? A quoi bon ne plus nous écrire qu'une fois par semaine. non, il serait bénin le mal que l'on pourrait supprimer par de telles moyens et je le prévois ces lettres du dimanche, je ne pourrai pas non plus les supporter. C'est pourquoi voulant réparer ce que je négligeais samedi, je t'en prie avec la force qui faiblit déjà un peu a la fin de cette lettre renonçons à tout cela, si nous tenons a notre vie. Aurai-je eu l'intention de me dire “tien“ en signant, rien ne serait plus faux. Non, Je suis mien et éternellement lié à moi, voilà ce que je suis, et il faut que je tache de m'en accommoder.

To aim at a greater share of political felicity, to make the world believe we were slaves, to make us exchange the silken cords of our ancient government for the rattling chains of our timocracy, is perhaps the most monstrous instance of perfidy, ingratitude, and successful hypocrisy that ever was exhibited in the world before.

Ecco, mia cara ragazza, di nuovo è sera dopo un pomeriggio passato vegliando (pomeriggio passato vegliando ha un suono peggiore che notte passata vegliando), non scrivo più nulla, tranne che a questa ragazza alla quale vorrei scrivere di continuo, della quale vorrei sempre sentir parlare, e stare sempre con lei e spegnermi in lei.

Unfortunately, I cannot. It is improper for a gentleman to write letters to ladies, and it is improper for ladies to receive them.

Stranger, I discern neither sloth nor folly in you, and yet I see that you are poor and wretched: from which I gather that neither wisdom nor industry can secure felicity; only Jove bestows it upon whomsoever he pleases. He perhaps has reduced you to this plight. However, since your wanderings have brought you so near to our city, it lies in our duty to supply your wants. Clothes and what else a human hand should give to one so suppliant, and so tamed with calamity, you shall not want. We will shew you our city and tell you the name of our people. This is the land of the Phæacians, of which my father Alcinous is king.

«Il bene non è nella natura, non è nelle prediche di apostoli e profeti né nelle teorie di grandi sociologi o capi di Stato, né nell’etica dei filosofi... La gente comune ha nel cuore l’amore per gli esseri viventi, ama la vita e ne ha cura in modo naturale e spontaneo, è felice del calore della propria casa dopo una giornata di lavoro e non accende roghi e falò sulle piazze. «E dunque oltre al bene grande e minaccioso esiste la bontà di tutti i giorni. La bontà della vecchia che porta un pezzo di pane a un prigioniero, la bontà del soldato che fa bere dalla sua borraccia un nemico ferito, la bontà della gioventù che ha pietà della vecchiaia, la bontà del contadino che nasconde un vecchio ebreo nel fienile. La bontà delle guardie che, a rischio della propria libertà, fanno avere a mogli e madri – non ai loro sodali, questo no – le lettere dei prigionieri. «È la bontà dell’uomo per l’altro uomo, una bontà senza testimoni, piccola, senza grandi teorie. La bontà illogica, potremmo chiamarla. La bontà degli uomini al di là del bene religioso e sociale. «A ben pensarci, però, ci si accorge che la bontà illogica, fortuita e del singolo uomo, è eterna. Che si estende a tutto quanto è vivo, a un topo o al ramo che un passante si ferma a sistemare perché possa attecchire meglio al tronco. «In quest’epoca tremenda, un’epoca di follie commesse nel nome della gloria di Stati e nazioni o del bene universale, e in cui gli uomini non sembrano più uomini ma fremono come rami d’albero e sono come la pietra che frana e trascina con sé le altre pietre riempiendo fosse e burroni, in quest’epoca di terrore e di follia insensata, la bontà spicciola, granello radioattivo sbriciolato nella vita, non è scomparsa.

Any life is laughable if one knows it well enough. It is something serious and terrible if one knows it even better.

If anyone was ever cognizant of the need and function of 'litanies', it was Kafka.

Mi ha parlato delle avversità che a volte si abbattono sugli umani e del dolore generato dalla persistenza della memoria che solo la morte riesce a cancellare. Ha alzato la testa e mi ha indicato la stella che occupa una posizione fissa sulla verticale del Polo, intorno alla quale girano senza sosta le costellazioni del Cielo. [...] Allo stesso modo, disgrazie, fortune, gioie e dolori girano intorno alle nostre vite, e se oggi sei infelice, domani sarai di nuovo felice. Questa verità così semplice, così netta, la conosco da sempre, eppure non so più cosa significhi, perché è fatta solo di parole , di lettere ammassate senza più senso, nient'altro che cenere, farina nella mia bocca. [...] Io sono questo vagone senza pareti, né tetto, né mercanzie, alla mercé del vento, spinto, trainato da una locomotiva di cui non conosco né la destinazione né il conducente. Ma pazienza. Non ho più niente da temere. Andrò fino in fondo ai binari, anche se la nebbia mi sembra di uno spessore infinito.

Non riesco a credere che tu le abbia detto di me! Sono sbalordito, ma anche incredibilmente felice. So che sembra pazzesco, ma è come una conferma che ciò che provo è reale. E che lo provi anche tu. Non riesco a immaginare di dirlo ai miei, e mi rendo conto che sia estremamente ingiusto nei tuoi confronti. Ma spero tu capisca che questa è una riflessione su di loro e non sui miei sentimenti per te. Non ho più avuto notizie dai miei genitori. Non posso dire di essere sorpreso. Di nuovo, di’ a tua madre che la ringrazio. Sembra una persona incredibile. Come te. Mi stai mantenendo sano di mente, qui, che tu te ne renda conto o meno. Alcuni giorni, quando le cose vanno male, è pensare a te, rileggere le tue lettere e guardare la tua foto che mi fa andare avanti. Sei come la mia ancora di salvezza

The reduction of the universe to a single being, the expansion of a single being even to God, that is love. (...) What a void in the absence of the being who, by herself alone fills the world! Oh! how true it is that the beloved being becomes God. One could comprehend that God might be jealous of this had not God the Father of all evidently made creation for the soul, and the soul for love.(...)God is behind everything, but everything hides God. Things are black, creatures are opaque. To love a being is to render that being transparent. Certain thoughts are prayers. There are moments when, whatever the attitude of the body may be, the soul is on its knees. Parted lovers beguile absence by a thousand chimerical devices, which possess, however, a reality of their own. They are prevented from seeing each other, they cannot write to each other; they discover a multitude of mysterious means to correspond. They send each other the song of the birds, the perfume of the flowers, the smiles of children, the light of the sun, the sighings of the breeze, the rays of stars, all creation. And why not? All the works of God are made to serve love. Love is sufficiently potent to charge all nature with its messages. Oh Spring! Thou art a letter that I write to her. The future belongs to hearts even more than it does to minds. Love, that is the only thing that can occupy and fill eternity. In the infinite, the inexhaustible is requisite. Love participates of the soul itself. It is of the same nature. Like it, it is the divine spark; like it, it is incorruptible, indivisible, imperishable. It is a point of fire that exists within us, which is immortal and infinite, which nothing can confine, and which nothing can extinguish. We feel it burning even to the very marrow of our bones, and we see it beaming in the very depths of heaven. Oh Love! Adorations! voluptuousness of two minds which understand each other, of two hearts which exchange with each other, of two glances which penetrate each other! You will come to me, will you not, bliss! strolls by twos in the solitudes! Blessed and radiant days! I have sometimes dreamed that from time to time hours detached themselves from the lives of the angels and came here below to traverse the destinies of men. God can add nothing to the happiness of those who love, except to give them endless duration. After a life of love, an eternity of love is, in fact, an augmentation; but to increase in intensity even the ineffable felicity which love bestows on the soul even in this world, is impossible, even to God. God is the plenitude of heaven; love is the plenitude of man.