You don't notice the dead leaving when they really hoose to leave you. You're not meant to. At most you feel them as a whisper or the wave of a whisper undulating down.

I&#39;m opening a store at the end of the month in the New York meatpacking district. I&#39;m launching a line of bedding this summer, and I am writing a book that will be out next January.

She hated the love she had been given, because it had asked for nothing in return, which was absurd, unreal, against the laws of nature

A book should serve as the ax for the frozen sea within us.

Written By Franz Kafka

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