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?
Franz Kafka, “Letter to Oskar Pollak (27 January 1904)” (via philosophybits)
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?