The sunny side of Franz Kafka
@amschelkavka.bsky.social
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amschelkavka.bsky.social
By the way, I shall be dropping by your place for a moment on Monday at five; if I happen to disturb you in the midst of your work, pretend you're not home.

Franz Kafka, 1909.
amschelkavka.bsky.social
Take care of yourself. Let everything be for a while.

Franz Kafka, 1913.
amschelkavka.bsky.social
But now, no more words, only kisses, and many of them, for a thousand reasons, since it is Sunday.

Franz Kafka, 1912.
amschelkavka.bsky.social
Doing absolutely nothing for an hour, leaning back in my armchair, in my dressing gown.

Franz Kafka, 1912.
amschelkavka.bsky.social
I'm going to sleep, I only want to greet you with a few strokes of the pen, my dearest, incomprehensibly beloved.

Franz Kafka, 1913.
amschelkavka.bsky.social
Today I should not complain at all.

Franz Kafka, 1912.
amschelkavka.bsky.social
I wish you a beautiful Sunday, friendly parents, fine food, long walks, and a clear head.

Franz Kafka, 1912.
amschelkavka.bsky.social
Yes, that would be lovely, to read this story to you, while I would have to hold your hand, for the story is a little frightening. It is called Metamorphosis.

Franz Kafka, 1912.
amschelkavka.bsky.social
I got a little lost, but it doesn't matter, because you may have come along, and now we're both lost.

Franz Kafka, 1920.
amschelkavka.bsky.social
Until midnight yesterday, I spent the evening with you, first in writing then even more in thought.

Franz Kafka, 1920.
amschelkavka.bsky.social
I was holding my head nice and high again and the next day a girl put on a white dress and fell in love with me.

Franz Kafka, 1904.
amschelkavka.bsky.social
I think of you with such love and care as if God had entrusted you to me in the clearest words.

Franz Kafka, 1913.
amschelkavka.bsky.social
The joy of helping you would have exceeded a hundred times any trouble.

Franz Kafka, 1913.
amschelkavka.bsky.social
Dearest, it's still very early, work is waiting, the boss is waiting..
but I'm still sitting here at the typewriter, spending time on you.

Franz Kafka, 1916.

(Kafka's typewriter at work:)
amschelkavka.bsky.social
Why, on these few remaining summer Sundays, don’t you go off into the country first thing in the morning?

Franz Kafka, 1916.
amschelkavka.bsky.social
Bring your head to my chest, which needs you so much more than you can imagine.

Franz Kafka, 1913.
amschelkavka.bsky.social
Stay with me entirely, dearest, stay for me as you are; I would not wish a single hair on your head to turn any way other than it does.

Franz Kafka, 1912.
amschelkavka.bsky.social
I am sending you a flash photograph of myself. I haven’t in fact got a twisted face; it’s the flash that gives me that visionary look, and I have long ago abandoned high collars.

The tie is a real showpiece; I bought it on a trip to Paris.

Franz Kafka, 1912.
amschelkavka.bsky.social
And now tonight, as I say goodnight to you, receive the flow of all that I am and have, and all that is deeply happy, to rest in you.

Franz Kafka, 1920.
amschelkavka.bsky.social
Oh, darling, it's high time to stop and kiss.

Franz Kafka, 1912
amschelkavka.bsky.social
Had you not been lying on the ground among the animals, you would have been unable to see the sky and the stars and wouldn’t have been set free.

Franz Kafka, 1915.
amschelkavka.bsky.social
I noticed her earlier when she and two friends were eating Halberstadt sausages with mustard. She was wearing a white blouse with embroidered flowers that went over her arms and shoulders.

Franz Kafka, 1912.
amschelkavka.bsky.social
So, my dearest girl, it is evening again after a sleepless afternoon, nothing more is written, only to this girl to whom one always wants to write, from whom one always wants to hear, with whom one always wants to be, in whom one would most like to disappear.

Franz Kafka, 1912.
amschelkavka.bsky.social
By the way, a terrible temptation to quickly pull you to my chest.

Franz Kafka, 1912.
amschelkavka.bsky.social
I would be quite content, my dearest one, to be allowed to stroke your hand.

Franz Kafka, 1913.