《I Love Those Who Are Beautiful》 Author: [Austria] Franz Kafka Publisher: Hunan Literature and Art Publishing House

“I love people who love each other, but I cannot love, I am too far away, banished.” — Kafka, January 29, 1922

Kafka began writing diaries in 1910 and continued until 1923, which was also the most prolific period of his life. Compared to his novels, he was more honest and free in his diaries, allowing us a glimpse into his unique and rich inner world.

This book collects Kafka's diaries written from 1914 to 1923, as well as his travel diaries from 1911 and 1912. During this period, he recorded the changes in his emotional relationship with Felice, his most passionate love affair, his reflections on the state of existence amidst the war, and his insights into life during his illness. At the same time, it also shows us fragments of his inspiration, unfinished drafts, and his complete weakness and loneliness.

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Presenting the deepest loneliness, life dilemmas, and identity anxiety of the 20th century, Kafka in his middle age was still trapped in love, marriage, family, sleep, and the office, contemplating the freedom of spiritual life in his final years.

Based on the German edition compiled by Brod, this is a classic translation by the renowned German translator Ji Jianmei. It includes detailed annotations for characters and backgrounds unfamiliar to readers; for complete creative fragments and dreams in the diaries, index titles are added and listed in the table of contents; an overview of the year's events is provided at the beginning of each year, which can be cross-referenced with the diaries; Kafka's manuscript doodles are included, restoring the original appearance of his creations.

The hope of the morning is buried in the afternoon. It is impossible to love such a life, no one has ever been able to. — Kafka, January 24, 1922

My incompetence is even worse in the office. If I don't save myself in a creative act, I'm finished. — Kafka, July 28, 1914

I woke up confined in a square enclosed by a wooden fence, its length and width only allowing me to take one step. — Kafka, July 4, 1916