Away
FAR Away
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.
This particular entry from the life I created for Kafka is one of my favourites.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
08 June 1917
A Gypsie confronted me today, and I was in the mood for a bit of sport. Her age was difficult to tell – certainly a decade older than me. In her swirl of shawls and dangling jewellery, heavy make-up on her face, she could almost have been in disguise. She peered at me with an intense sigh, attempting – I am sure – to penetrate my own disguise. “You are a Jew,” she said. “And you a Gypsie,” I replied. She seemed pleased with my response, for her professional smile became real. “You state the obvious,” she said. “As becomes a Doktor of Laws,” I replied. “But to your eyes, do you not state the obvious?” “Are you going to banter with a poor old Gypsie woman, instead of barter? That would make you suspiciously like one of us.” She said this with a growl in her throat. “The Gypsie and the Jew,” I said, feeling the challenge which I so miss. “Perhaps an opera – but I think it’s been done to death.”
“They will try to do us all unto death,” she said harshly, and turned away. I had the fear she was going to leave me without another word, but what she did was to spit fulsomely onto the street. “They can’t kill us all,” I said, but I knew she heard the doubt in my voice. She slowly faced me again. “So. Even a Doktor of Laws can have hope. That is refreshing – but foolish.” She took my hand and felt my palm roughly with her thumb, although all the while her eyes never left my face. “You are going to travel.” “Travel is a vague word. One can go on many types of voyage.” “And reach many destinations,” she added, still holding my hand. “If you take away my vagueness, you take away my trade.” “Then let me pay you for your services right now.”
This transaction would make her loose my hand, which is what I wanted most of all. She had frightened me, for her eyes and face were full of truth. I know the truth. I know it when it presents itself, stark and unobscured. I search out truth endlessly, yet still can flee at its approach. As in her eyes. But she gripped me more fiercely, and pulled my hand up. “The coin, Herr Doktor.” Her voice was now soft. “The coin can wait.” She at last lowered her eyes and looked closely at my palm. She rubbed the lines and whorls of my skin. She touched her finger to her lips, and spread the moisture along my hand. “Your lifeline, Herr Doktor,” she took a quick look in my eyes, “of Laws. You deceive with the youth upon your face. Is that not so?” “If your eyes stop at the mask, then no, the years have not etched themselves deeply.” “Not on your face, Herr Doktor of Laws.” Her grip was intense. “But on your palm…” She hissed. “You will soon embark upon that final voyage.”
She released my hand, rubbed her fingers across her sleeve. “But you will not go in haste. There will be many stops along the way.” Suddenly her face was full of the most beautiful smile, and her laughter was genuine. “I see you do not complain of vagueness now.” She held out her hand. “The coin, Herr Doktor of Laws. This time I have truly earned it.” I dug deeply into my pocket, and feared that I may have overpaid her. But, perhaps, that is not possible.
The Ghost of Kafka walks
– not stalks –
The streets
Of Prague.
Prague,
The city he would/could
Never leave
Until the last
Year of his life.
He described Prague as:
“The little Mother has claws.”
Which she did.
For him.
He managed
To escape to Berlin,
During one of
The worst times
Anyone could live
In Berlin,
Until the end of the
Second World War.
But
The Second World War
Was years away.
He escaped with a young
Lover – Dora Diamant.
She made things
So much better.
However, his Ghost only
Walks the streets of Prague.
Whereas
Kafka’s Ghost
Stalks
The rest of
The World.
DE
Dear F:
I have found your reality is actually real.
Although it will give you no pleasure – well, ‘little’ pleasure – you are correct in all your observations.
1. Governments become the tools of the bureaucracies which 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 sway over the city where you spent your life. All three oppressed the people they ruled. All three looked after themselves first.
2. 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.
3. 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.
4. 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.
5. There is no Castle with walls thick enough to hide against the perils of being human. Which is why you never tried.
6. Except the grave, of course.
7. Except the grave.
Yours,
D.
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.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
24 May 1917
Even with all the shortages of the war, I’m told no one wants to move into the house next to me. I’m just as pleased if it remains vacant, but I do wonder at the qualms of other people. Death is nothing but a liberator. It gives a blessing.
There may be no dignity in the type of death my neighbour chose, but dignity is a cheap suit of clothes. It is of no importance as you undress for Eternity.
But maybe this hesitation of moving next door is not from disgust. Maybe the fear is that it can happen again – that the house has taken on such powers of persuasion.
The door of the evil eye.
If I could believe such a thing, I would move in before the night was out. But I fear I don’t believe in anything which is not inside of me.
Paw, the cat/kitten,
Black as good-bye,
With one white mitten,
Has disappeared.
I sent a note,
By boat,
To Sister Darling of
The Rarified Church of the World (reformed)
To come and help me search
Partridge Island.
She arrived with a
Boatful of Evangelists to assist.
Now, put their proselytizing beliefs aside,
And you can’t do better than
A boatful of Evangelists
To get a job done.
They packed seventeen adherents of
The Rarified Church of the World (reformed)
Onto a fishing boat,
And faster than you can say Holy Roller,
A search of Partridge Island began.
They – like me – first started at the Lighthouse,
But to no avail.
Nor any luck at my Lighthouse Keepers House.
So,
They broke into three groups,
One up each side and shore of the island,
And the biggest group up through the centre.
It’s not a big island,
But – Jesus –
It’s big enough.
Sister Darling and I
Moved from group to group.
Five and one half hours and four minutes later,
There was a yell,
From the direction of the left shore.
“Come!” “COME!”
Sister Darling and I ran.
I stumbled, and she pulled me up.
And we ran again.
When we got to the searchers,
They just gaped and pointed.
I hesitated, but Sister Darling
Pulled me again.
And when we reached the place
I gaped myself.
That miserable, cantankerous, intransigent cat.
That insistent insistent insistent animal,
Was guarding a brood of baby rabbits,
Their pecked and ravaged mother at their side.
Paw had become a feral protector.
And would let nothing near.
Until Sister Darling spoke, and cooed his name.
When she touched him, he almost fell over from fatigue.
Those Blessed Evangelists picked up each baby,
And snuggled them carefully into a pocket.
Sister Darling handed Paw to me and
– Sweet Jesus, I confess it –
I was crying.
I’m The Lighthouse Poet Laureate of Partridge Island /1821 – 2024 / A lot of stuff have I seen / A lot of stuff to report}
DE BA. UEL
kafkaestblog 