If this is what you came for, then I didn't send for you. Kafka (note to himself in journal)

The state we find ourselves in is sinful quite independent of guilt.

Love is a drama of contradictions.

It is comforting to reflect that the disproportion of things in the world seems to be only arithmetical.

It is strange how little sharpsightedness women possess; they only notice whether they please, then whether they arouse pity, and finally, whether you look for compassion from them. That is all; come to think of it, it may even be enough, generally speaking.

The Kafka paradox: art depends on truth, but truth, being indivisable, cannot know itself: to tell the truth is to lie. thus the writer is the truth, and yet when he speakes he lies.

What am I doing here in this endless winter?