When I die, please pile all of my creative work high on the pyre.

Burn it all down.

Please don’t go through it all, re-edit and assemble it for sale,

and then make a million dollars from my sad,

overworked corpse.

Kafka was firmly of the opinion that if they don’t want it now,

while it can do me some good to sell it,

they can’t have it later,

the bastards.

He worked full-time, NOT as a writer, throughout his life. He would come home tired from long workdays and stay up all night writing.

I’d have been pissed too. They always blame his lack of confidence in his own work- but I think, deep down, it was his fury that he had had to work so goddamn hard all the time while lesser authors had the leisure and funds to write, and to enjoy their lives.

Every time you think “I wish he had written more” ask yourself- when is the last time you PAID A CREATIVE PERSON for something, and spread the word, so they’d have time to write or paint more? People didn’t pay HIM either, so there’s your answer. He never had time, because he had to pay the rent. That’s how most creative people tend to live- I am lucky because my day job is art too, but even so, it’s not free, it’s not MY WORK wholly. Even so.