I’m not for everyone. I’m barely for me.
To live is to suffer. To survive is to find some meaning in the suffering.
Try not to become a man of success. Rather become a man of value.
I saw a certain thing in rap. It started becoming acceptable. It wasn’t rebellious.
Franz Kafka died in Klosterneuburg, Lower Austria, Austria, on this day in 1924 (aged 40). His body was brought back to Prague where he was buried on 11 June 1924, in the New Jewish Cemetery in Prague-Žižkov.
“I think we ought to read only the kind of books that wound and stab us. If the book we are reading doesn’t wake us up with a blow on the head, what are we reading it for? …We need the books that affect us like a disaster, that grieve us deeply, like the death of someone we loved more than ourselves, like being banished into forests far from everyone, like a suicide. A book must be the axe for the frozen sea inside us.”
—from a Letter to Oskar Pollak (27 January 1904)
Be careful who you shares your weaknesses with. Some people can’t wait for the opportunity to use them against you.
Please don’t expect me to always be good and kind and loving. There are times when I will be cold and thoughtless and hard to understand.
Look, I don’t want to wax philosophic, but I will say that if you’re alive you’ve got to flap your arms and legs, you’ve got to jump around a lot, for life is the very opposite of death, and therefore you must at very least think noisy and colorfully, or you’re not alive.
The only people who ever get anyplace interesting are the people who get lost.
The biggest coward is a man who awakens a woman’s love with no intention of loving her.
We never talked about men or clothes. It was always Marx, Lenin and revolution—real girls’ talk.
Behind every beautiful thing there’s some kind of pain.
I didn’t need you to fix me. I needed you to love me while I fix myself.