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.

Someone must have slandered Josef K., for one morning, without having done anything truly wrong, he was arrested.

The whole visible world is perhaps nothing more than the rationalization of a man who wants to find peace for a moment.

Self-control means wanting to be effective at some random point in the infinite radiations of my spiritual existence.

I carry the bars within me.

Writing is a sweet, wonderful reward.

I never imagined that so many days would ultimately make such a small life.