Which (a l’il pun) makes a great first line.
Or can make a great last line.
Or could be the unexpected next line after a placid introduction of description.
Or – could be the climax!
Or – maybe – be the title.
In my novel, Kafka In The Castle, I fill in **missing** diary entries from Kafka’s real diary. He either did not fill in these days himself, or he destroyed them. It is estimated Kafka destroyed 70% – 80% of everything he wrote. I am as accurate as I can be in my timeline. On these July days in 1917, in reality, he travelled to Vienna. He filled in no diary entries, but I have him express opinions he mentioned elsewhere.
+++++++++++++++++++++++++++
17 July 1917
Vienna – a city which I hate. The forced gaiety of the people is as cloying to me as the rich desserts which gag my mouth. They live on the borderline with death, and their sweat reeks of terror. It drips onto their ghastly cakes as they peer across the table to see what their companions have. “Shit in; shit out,” as my father would say.
18 July 1917
I took a night train from Vienna. Not only was it the quickest conveyance available, but I did not have to look at the wretched city in the dark. It’s not a place of dreams, but of nightmares. But, perhaps it was foolish to flee, since my destination is a nightmare.
Paw, the cat/kitten
Black as being blind
With one foggy mitten,
Is lost,
And coughing,
In the fog.
He lets me know
Of his displeasure,
Which I can hear from him
Even if I can’t see.
It is a Friday of fog,
Which has followed a
Week of fog,
From the Monday last.
It has made Partridge Island
Disappear into the sea.
The Lighthouse light
Is so smothered, even I
Can not see it from its base.
Paw blames me for this,
And also blames me for
The incessant foghorn that
– I hope –
Penetrates the gloom to
Ships at sea.
I sit
And knit
Paw, my protesting cat,
A woolen cap
To stop up his ears.
{I’m The Lighthouse Poet Laureate of Partridge Island /1821 – 2024 / A lot of stuff have I seen / A lot of stuff to report}
Hearty renditions of “Hip Hip Hooray” echo through every major city and quiet hamlet.
I have written Franz the following letter. As yet, it is unanswered.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
My Present / Your Future
Still in this World
A Life Away
Dear F:
You would find it perverse to be wished a “Happy” birthday, but your response would be gracious. Such is the reality you understand, and how you deal with it. I have found that your reality is actually real.
Although it will give you no pleasure – well, ‘little’ pleasure – you are correct in all your observations.
Governments become the tools of the bureaucracies that run them. It doesn’t matter what type of Government, from the monarchy under which you lived, to the right wing horror of fascists that called themselves socialists, to the inept socialism pretending to be ‘for the people’. All three governments held their sway over the city where you spent your life. All three oppressed the people they ruled. All three looked after themselves first.
Writers are either writers or they aren’t. The urge to write encircles one like a snake around its prey. Feed it and it won’t quite squeeze you to death. You can not ignore it – even at your peril. It is with you every hour of every day, ever inquisitive and (sadly) always looking for something better. You have thrown up your hands to ward off the snake. Sometimes – some few times – it loosens its grip.
Love is a see-saw of extremes. Every high guarantees a low. Every low reaches for a high. Every high reaches for a high. When these hills and valleys are eventually levelled, they are still desired.
Sex is highly overrated. The thing of it is, even rated fairly, ’tis a consummation devoutly to be had. Yes – I know – you appreciate Shakespeare. On a par with Goethe, even if you can’t bring yourself to say the words.
There is no castle with walls thick enough to hide against the perils of being human. Which is why you never tried.
Except the grave, of course.
Except the grave.
Yours,
D
~~~~~~~~~~~
And, in my novel about him, Kafka In The Castle, I gave him this diary entry.
03 July 1918
The anniversary of my birth.
In celebration of the day, I did not make it my last.
In Kafka In The Castle, I fill in the ‘missing’ diary entries from Kafka’s real diary. He either did not fill in these days himself, or he destroyed them. It is estimated that Kafka destroyed 70% – 80% of everything he wrote.
Here Franz contemplates his long days to fill, after his beloved sister, Ottla, fled their parents house in Prague for a farm in a village.
******************************
01 July 1917
A weekend which stretched endlessly. Long walks, but without Ottla. I would like to avoid the places where we went – but there would be little walking left to me. Instead I take a long walk into the country, and am at least a few kilometres closer to her.
In Kafka In The Castle, I fill in the ‘missing’ diary entries from Kafka’s real diary. He either did not fill in these days himself, or he destroyed them. It is estimated that Kafka destroyed 70% – 80% of everything he wrote.
Here Franz contemplates his long days to fill, after his beloved sister, Ottla, fled their parents house in Prague for a farm in a village.
******************************
01 July 1917
A weekend which stretched endlessly. Long walks, but without Ottla. I would like to avoid the places where we went – but there would be little walking left to me. Instead I take a long walk into the country, and am at least a few kilometres closer to her.
In Kafka In The Castle, I fill in the ‘missing’ diary entries from Kafka’s real diary. He either did not fill in these days himself, or he destroyed them. It is estimated that Kafka destroyed 70% – 80% of everything he wrote.
On this day from Kafka In The Castle, Kafka spent the afternoon with his father – an unusual event. And he even had a beer – he was not much of a drinker. But his estranged sister, Ottla, was coming to visit. Her parting with her father months before had been vicious. Kafka hopes to make her visit passable.
***************************************
25 June 2017
We are rarely alone with each other, and the strain was palpable. I wanted to act as normally as possible, but since my usual conversation is what generally infuriates him, that seemed unwise.
We read the newspapers, and I managed enough comments about the articles, and elicited his tiresome opinions about the war, and didn’t argue with him too much, that the afternoon – although slow – passed with little rancour.
I even had a beer with him, and he showed his surprise. And, I even enjoyed it – but then, I had earned it.
In fact, it may have been the unaccustomed alcohol which lessened the shock of seeing Ottla enter the apartment with mother. Father stood from his chair, the newspapers falling at his feet. “Ottla has an hour before she must catch her train,” said Mother. “I have asked her in for some tea.” Father glared at her for an excessively long minute without speaking, managing however to give me an occasional menacing glance. He then abruptly sat again, gathering his papers and holding them in front of his face. “Don’t give her too much,” came his voice from behind the pages. “Too much tea can make a long journey uncomfortable.” I knew that he had already read the pages he held, and I wondered what he was thinking.
About ten minutes passed, and then mother came back and asked if we would like any tea. “Yes,” my father answered, but instead of waiting for it to be brought to him, as is his usual practice, he followed mother into the dining room.
And I followed him.
Ottla didn’t look up, but he did manage to ask some questions about the farm, and she delivered some cautious replies. She stayed another twenty minutes, then I walked her to the station. It had been mother’s idea to come home, and Ottla had not strongly resisted. I know that she and father will never apologize to each other, but at least they now speak.
Once we were out of sight of the house, she gripped my hand and held it until we reached the train.
“How can I love that monster?” she asked from the train as it pulled away.
“How can you not?” I replied. I hope the noise from the wheels drowned out my words.
26 June 1917
Fight and you die. Surrender and you die.
27 June 1917
Live and you die.
It’s illegal, of course
What Sister Darling of
The Rarefied Church of the World (Reformed)
Wants me to do:
But who am I,
Belated sinner, and open to
Any supernatural suggestion,
Going to do?
Acquiesce, of course.
Submit, of course.
As is (I am sure) God’s will.
So she has transported her beloved aunt,
Dead these past three days,
On a boat to Partridge Island.
Captained by a cousin and
A crew member who will ask no
Questions,
So they will not have
To give any answers
– If asked –
As to what might have been
In their coffin-shaped cargo.
Sister Darling’s beloved aunt
Wished – implored – to be buried
On Partridge Island as,
Over a half century ago,
It was the place of her birth.
Paw, the cat/kitten,
Black himself as Death,
With one white mitten,
Tolls a tiny bell which
Sister Darling has affixed
Around his neck.
The grave (of course)
I have already dug,
And Sister Darling is
(Of course)
Full of the appropriate prayers.
{I’m The Lighthouse Poet Laureate of Partridge Island /1821 – 2024 / A lot of stuff have I seen / A lot of stuff to report}
In Kafka In The Castle, I fill in the ‘missing’ diary entries from Kafka’s real diary. He either did not fill in these days himself, or he destroyed them. There are some estimates that Kafka destroyed 70% – 80% of everything he wrote.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
17 June 1917
I am told that you can’t lose people, that “…they will always be with you in memory.” Max is heavy with this type of comment – as if the hand of sentimentality brushed off his coat before he set out on each day. Both the intelligent and the slow of wit seem to be struck dumb by this nonsense. Emotion, I suppose – hope, I suppose – has no place for reason among its folds. But, if you can not touch, or have expectation of being touched, then the people and places are as gone as yesterday. There is no way to travel back, and the future beckons with only an empty gesture and a hollow laugh. Bowing low at the open doorway to usher you in, but the room is empty. And will remain ever so. When they are no longer there to hold their hand out to you – well, then they are no longer there.
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