A book must be the ax for the frozen sea within us.

I lack nothing. I only needed myself.

We are separated from God on two sides; the Fall separates us from Him, the Tree of Life separates Him from us.

I can’t think of any greater happiness than to be with you all the time, without interruption, endlessly, even though I feel that here in this world there’s no undisturbed place for our love, neither in the village nor anywhere else; and I dream of a grave, deep and narrow, where we could clasp each other in our arms as with clamps, and I would hide my face in you and you would hide your face in me, and nobody would ever see us any more.

May I kiss you then? On this miserable paper? I might as well open the window and kiss the night air.

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.

Idleness is the beginning of all vice, the crown of all virtues.