In my novel, Kafka In The Castle, I fill in the missing entries of his actual diaries. There are many days to fill, as he either did not write during these days, or he destroyed the record.
Franz Kafka had his famous conflict with his father. He even wrote a book about it. In reality, his father was almost as harsh and disdainful to Franz’s sister, Ottla. She eventually left the Prague family home, and moved to a small village. But, also in reality, her father never seemed to understand his part in it.
Here I have their father, Hermann, talk about his daughter to his son.
17 April 1917
Father greeted me at the supper table today, and even – over the course of the meal – asked if I had heard from Ottla.
If it were anyone else, I would have admiration for his guile. But I honestly don’t believe that father has the cunning for such a thing.
Because his belief in his narrow opinions is so absolute, I think that our words slide off him like melting snow.
And because this happens, he does not realize the destruction his own words cause.”They are just words,” he would say. “You can’t eat them, and they don’t keep you warm.”
He asked me to say hello from him when I next write to her.
Then Came Each Actor Upon His Ass
And it was good.
So very good.
And each had food
And unto himself
The feedbag was full
The groaning board groaned
The drink was abundant
The water trough quenched
The wine barrel quenched
And it was good
And so the first day passed.