Franz Kafka, the story goes, encountered a little girl in the park where he went walking daily. She was crying. She had lost her doll and was desolate.
Kafka offered to help her look for the doll and arranged to meet her the next day at the same spot. Unable to find the doll he composed a letter from the doll and read it to her when they met.
"Please do not mourn me, I have gone on a trip to see the world. I will write you of my adventures." This was the beginning of many letters. When he and the little girl met he read her from these carefully composed letters the imagined adventures of the beloved doll. The little girl was comforted.
When the meetings came to an end Kafka presented her with a doll. She obviously looked different from the original doll. An attached letter explained: “my travels have changed me… “
Many years later, the now grown girl found a letter stuffed into an unnoticed crevice in the cherished replacement doll. In summary it said: “every thing that you love, you will eventually lose, but in the end, love will return in a different form.”
May Benatar, Kafka and the Doll: The Pervasiveness of Loss
For me there are two wise lessons in this story: Grief and loss are ubiquitous even for a young child. And the way toward healing is to look for how love comes back in another form. - May Benatar
(Source: easyreadingisdamnhardwriting, via add-an-axe)
"We’re more of the love, blood, and rhetoric school. Well, we can do you blood and love without the rhetoric, and we can do you blood and rhetoric without the love, and we can do you all three concurrent or consecutive. But we can’t give you love and rhetoric without the blood. Blood is compulsory. They’re all blood, you see."
— Tom Stoppard, Rosencrantz and Guildenstern are Dead (via soemily)
(Source: lostsometime, via emergencysalt)
"Your naked body should only belong to those who fall in love with your naked soul."
— Charlie Chaplin in a letter to his daughter, Geraldine (via rivaiomine)
(Source: goldveil, via solaceandsolitude)
"Maybe all wondrous books appear in our lives the way Milo’s tollbooth appears, an inexplicable gift, cast up by some curious chance that comes to feel, after we have finished and fallen in love with the book, like the workings of a secret purpose. Of all the enchantments of a beloved book the most mysterious – the most phantasmal – is the way they always seem to come our way precisely when we need them."
— Michael Chabon, Afterward to The Phantom Tollbooth
"You’ll never know everything about anything, especially something you love."
— Julia Child
"I have hated words and I have loved them, and I hope I have made them right."
— Markus Zusak, The Book Thief