#Letters to Milena (1952)

[princessofmistake]

Cara Milena, vorrei il mondo finisse domani. Così potrei prendere il primo treno, arrivare alla tua porta a Vienna e dirti: Vieni con me, Milena. Ci ameremo senza scrupoli, paure o restrizioni. Perché il mondo finirà domani. Forse non agiamo, non amiamo deliberatamente perché pensiamo di avere tempo o dover tenerne conto. Ma se non avessimo tempo? O se il tempo, così come lo intendiamo e conosciamo, fosse irrilevante? Ah, se solo il mondo finisse domani. Potremmo aiutarci davvero.

[arylleth]

“Dear Milena,

I wish the world were ending tomorrow. Then I could take the next train, arrive at your doorstep in Vienna, and say: ‘Come with me, Milena. We are going to love each other without scruples or fear or restraint. Because the world is ending tomorrow.’ Perhaps we don’t love unreasonably because we think we have time, or have to reckon with time. But what if we don't have time? Or what if time, as we know it, is irrelevant? Ah, if only the world were ending tomorrow. We could help each other very much.”

–Franz Kafka, Letters to Milena (1952)

[lineffability]

Kiss Roulette: 25. A kiss that's an accident <3

—but you poor dear, how much work you burden yourself with from a sense of guilt; I see you bent over your work, your neck bared, I'm standing behind you, but you don't know it—please don't be frightened if you feel my lips on the back of your neck, I didn't mean to kiss it, it's only love which can't be helped . . .

Franz Kafka · July 31, 1920, Letters to Milena (1952)

-;-;-;-

"It- it was an accident?"

"An accident? Crowley, dear, you-" Aziraphale wrung his hands, his face as red as Crowley's hair - as Crowley's face, too. They stood awkwardly, like startled deer, Crowley leaning backwards, Aziraphale tall as a statue risen from his desk chair. "You kissed me."

"Only on the neck," Crowley protested weakly, regretting the words immediately: they were an admission. Because of course Aziraphale was right - he had kissed him.

The thing was, both of them had only realized this after the kiss had been placed and left there, forlornly, while Crowley had drawn back in shock and bared his guilty, rogue lips.

Slowly, Crowley had blinked. Slowly, Aziraphale had turned his head.

Frantically, they had jolted into action - and frozen in it.

He had kissed him.

On that soft neck, the nape of it, where cloudy tufts of hair gave way to soft skin, and a little scrub, too, harder hair which had pressed against his lips, which had touched the angel ever so reverently.

Why had he done that?

Aziraphale had been deep in thought, concentrated on his work, but that was not it: he had looked guilty, repentant, with his head bowed so low and his tea not even touched, even though Crowley had taken care to keep it warm for him.

Aziraphale had not apologized for leaving. Crowley had not apologized for staying behind.

But here they were now, back together, feeling both wrong and so very right, and it was different.

Aziraphale showed his repentance even if he didn't voice it, choosing instead to throw himself into the task of averting the Second Coming. Crowley showed his regret even if he didn't voice it, staying close wordlessly, never leaving his side, ready to protect them both if need be.

But that's not the thing that was different - they'd drawn apart and then close again more times than humans could count, ever so hopeful about their inevitable togetherness. Even if this time had hurt more than ever before.

It had hurt more than ever before because it was different, afterwards.

Feelings had been voiced - lips touched - bodies shaken.

And then they had been thrown back together, and it had happened again. Just once more. Lips touched. The bodies shook differently, the second time, a soft trembling that gave way to tears no longer held back. Softer, gentler. They hadn't voiced any feelings that time, but they had kissed them.

And then they were back together: a team.

But they still hadn't spoken about it. Not the first kiss, not the second.

And now the third? Did it count? Crowley wanted to evaporate into a drain.

He'd just wanted to alleviate the pain, to take a little weight off the heavy, heavenly head. Aziraphale's skin tasted of ambrosia. Still of Heaven, not of him. Still an Archangel.

Never all his.

But Aziraphale smiled. There, before him, after he had thoughtlessly kissed his neck, Aziraphale was smiling at him through his embarrassment, and his wringing hands stilled as he took a step and placed them on Crowley's arms. His gaze was open, almost curious.

"Why did you do that?"

Crowley squirmed. "Don't- c'mon, do I have to- why?" He took a breath. "You know why."

"I do?"

"You do."

Aziraphale nodded slowly, once, a small smile still on his lips. He didn't press on. Instead, he moved his hands along Crowley's arms, upwards. They came to a rest on the nape of his neck.

"Will you do it again? In... in the future?"

"In the future?" Crowley's voice came out a little thin. Future sounds good. The future of the world we will save. Our future.

Aziraphale assented. "On the neck."

"Y- y..."

"Like this." Carefully, Aziraphale leaned forward, into him, and ghosted his lips across the nape of Crowley's neck. He heard him inhale.

Their lips hadn't even touched, this time, but Crowley trembled. Shook. Needed to voice it.

"I will. I will do it again."

"Good."

Aziraphale pulled back. He exhaled, shakily.

"I kissed you," Crowley admitted at last, if a little unnecessarily, and lifted his shoulders helplessly. "I didn't mean to, but it... it can't be helped. It's only..."

"Love?"

"Yeah. Yeah, that."

They kissed again, then: lips on lips, gently, contently, as if the world wasn't ending. Briefly, Crowley wondered if it counted as their third or fourth kiss, but decided it didn't really matter. He was feeling optimistic: he hoped he would lose count soon enough.

[metamorphesque]

Who published his letters? How did they find them? I’m so confused

After Kafka's death, his father Hermann Kafka signed a contract and gave Max Brod the right to publish Franz’s works posthumously. This includes all of Kafka’s unpublished novels, short stories, diary entries and letters. Later on, Milena gave her copies of Kafka's letters to Brod, who then published them in 1952 in the collection "Letters to Milena".

[damagedsouul]

“Dear Milena,

I wish the world were ending tomorrow. Then I could take the next train, arrive at your doorstep in Vienna, and say: ‘Come with me, Milena. We are going to love each other without scruples or fear or restraint. Because the world is ending tomorrow.’ Perhaps we don’t love unreasonably because we think we have time, or have to reckon with time. But what if we don't have time? Or what if time, as we know it, is irrelevant? Ah, if only the world were ending tomorrow. We could help each other very much.”

–Franz Kafka, Letters to Milena (1952)

[gatzbright]

some previsa dnf coded kafka love letters // Franz Kafka, 'Letters to Milena', (1952)

[haveyoureadthispoll]

[25rabbits]

1. Fuller, Bryan. “Mizumono.” Hannibal s02e13, May 2014. 2. Browning, Robert. “Porphyria’s Lover.” 1836. 3. Fuller, Bryan. “Mizumono.” Hannibal s02e13, May 2914. 4. Kafka, Franz. “Letters to Milena.” 1952.

[camila0413]

Sleep is the most innocent creature there is and a sleepless man the most guilty.

Franz Kafka, Letters to Milena (1952)

[diamondintheice]

Dear Milena, I wish the world were ending tomorrow. Then I could take the next train, arrive at your doorstep in Vienna, and say: 'Come with me, Milena. We are going to love each other without scruples or fear or restraint. Because the world is ending tomorrow.' Perhaps we don't love unreasonably because we think we have time or have to reckon with time. But what if we don't have time? Or what if time, as we know it, is irrelevant? Ah, if only the world were ending tomorrow. We could help each other very much. - Franz Kafka, Letters to Milena (1952)

[heartistolovewith]

“Yesterday I dreamt about you. I hardly remember the details, just that we kept on merging into one another, I was you, you were me.”

Franz Kafka from “Letters to Milena” originally published c. 1952

[princessofmistake]

Siccome amo te (e ti amo dunque, […] come il mare ama un sassolino sul fondo, proprio così il mio amore ti inonda – e possa io essere ancora accanto a te il sassolino, se i cieli lo permettono), amo il mondo intero, e di questo fa parte anche la tua spalla sinistra, no, fu prima la destra e perciò la bacio se mi piace (e tu sei tanto gentile da scostarvi la camicetta), e di esso fa parte anche la spalla sinistra e il tuo viso sopra di me nel bosco, e il tuo viso sotto di me nel bosco, e il riposo sul tuo petto quasi nudo. E perciò hai ragione quando dici che già eravamo uno e io non ne ho alcuna angoscia, ma questa è la mia unica felicità, unico orgoglio, e non lo limito affatto al bosco.

[der-abschied]

إنك توجدين هنا، مثلما أنا هنا، إن وجودك مؤكد أكثر من وجودي، إنك تكونين حيث أكون، وجودك كوجودي، وأكثر كثيرًا من وجودي.

- رسائل إلى ميلينا، ١٩٥٢

[chiaradantuono]

"Il mio posto è precisamente nella quiete più quieta, così va bene per me."

Franz Kafka - Lettere a Milena (1952)

[metamorphesque]

https://at.tumblr.com/metamorphesque/metamorphesque-metamorphesque-memberships/x2bd8h541c82

How did these letters got released? Shouldn’t they have been in their private property?

After Kafka's death, his father Hermann Kafka signed a contract and gave Max Brod the right to publish Franz’s works posthumously. This includes all of Kafka’s unpublished novels, short stories, diary entries and letters. Later on, Milena gave her copies of Kafka's letters to Brod, who then published them in 1952 in the collection "Letters to Milena".

[ragazzoarcano]

“Domenica saremo insieme, cinque, sei ore, troppo poco per parlare, abbastanza per tacere, per tenerci per mano, per guardarci negli occhi.”

— Franz Kafka - Lettere a Milena, 1952