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Kafka In The Castle

27 August 1917 Kafka Take His Leave

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. 

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27 August 1917

             Max has arranged for me to see a specialist a week from tomorrow. My protestations are necessarily weak, since it is an effort not to cough during most of our conversations. Even my breathing proves to be more difficult. Perhaps some treatment or some medicine can be found. Some palliative. With luck a cure – the cure? – will be to get me out of Prague. Even if Prague had grand entrance gates, and I lived just on the other side – had my cot in the dust just an arms length from the wall – I could sleep easily. Even without a mattress on the springs.

     As it is, I have no use for the furniture, so I may as well be rid of it. There is no need or place for it in my apartment, and Ottla has expressed no interest. Or even curiosity . A solution – and the one which was done next door – is just to leave everything. I suspect, in this day and age, the people who really have to live in this type of house, will find a use for it. Even the bamboo pieces. I think I’ll keep the lamp.

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26 August 1917 “The Kindest Refuge” from “Kafka In The Castle”

26 August 1917

              My last Sunday in this tiny house. All those months passed since I needed to be cautious about Ottla. This tiny house on Alchemist Lane has been the kindest refuge. And I have not quite outstayed my welcome. The lamp is friendly across the floor, the sweep of the Stag Moat beckons at my back. Even now its breezes cool in the warmth of this late summer night. The light from my desk brushes against the leaves of the trees as I peer past the reflections and the shadows. Tonight, some of the old magic lingers, smiling from the darkened corners. I will lose myself to it – tip back my chair and let the comfort ease itself across my well-swept floor.

     I will close my eyes, and let it still even my memories.

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“Kafka Moves On” from “Kafka In The Castle “

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 August 1917

             When change comes into life, it never seems to come alone. Are we pawns in this, or are we the hand moving the pieces across the board? Max arranges for me to see a specialist, where there will be more probing, more questions, and more X-Rays. I find it repulsive – though admittedly fascinating – to see my own interior. And when the word tuberculosis is finally spoken – even by Max – then I can go on to some rest. Some release. Escape for a time from the Institute – perhaps be allowed to resign. And then – a trip out of Prague, to the mountains or to the see. Maybe stay with Ottla for a few weeks.

     Autumn in the country can be very nice; I could even help her with the harvest. Give worth to my freedom. And while I am leaping from my past life, I’ll mail another letter to Felice. What is the use of an engagement now?

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Kafka Takes A “Mistake” Train To Prague As The War Begins To End

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.

Franz Kafka did not shy away from writing horror, and you are forwarned.

14 February 1918

              The grip of evil showed tenfold times the horror.

               The train to Prague – late and slow because it had made a stop in Hell.

              “A mistake train,” said the Stationmaster. “But we had no other choice because of the shortages.” I looked through the windows, and hesitated. “There may be no other train today, if it’s Prague you want.” He rubbed off the chalkboard with the spittle on his finger. “No evening train. Perhaps there will be something after mid-night.” He wiped his hand on his soiled jacket. “Perhaps not.”  “You do not even dare look into the compartments,” I said. “And yet you expect me to enter.”

     “I’ve seen worse.” He wrote down a new time, and his hand did not shake. “In the dark of the night, these trains come through.” He put the stubby piece of chalk back into his coat pocket. “But -no. I don’t get used to it.” He looked in my direction, his face as expressionless as before. “I would advise you to try the coaches after the engine. Most of them there can at least sit up.”

     His advice was good.

     That is where the other civilians were clustered. Huddled – almost literally – away from the sounds and the stench. And they readily made room for me, moved even closer together so they could add me to their number. In my suite and tie, overcoat and hat, I was a Godsend of normality. The gentlemen nodded, and the ladies tried to smile. But then the train started, with its usual jumble of jolts, and the moaning which followed turned their faces blank and ashen.

     One of the soldiers, across the aisle behind me – a Hungarian captain with a weeping bandage obscuring his neck – gulped and slid to the floor. I looked around for a doctor, or an orderly, but there were none. I went back and placed him – as best I could – onto his seat. He mouthed some words – he obviously couldn’t speak – and I patted his hand. Further back still, I saw an Austrian corporal grabbing and grasping over his head. I went to him, and smelled the blood before I saw it. One leg ended in a jagged stump of bandages, the other ceased inches below the hip. He kept grasping at the air even as I steadied him, and he finally seemed to realize I was there. He made motions toward his mouth, gesturing with both hands. “Have you got a fag for us, Sir?” he said, and I realized what his movements had meant. “You’re bleeding,” I began, but he smiled with a finger to his lips. “Don’t tell them, Sir. Don’t tell them. A cigarette is all I need. I’ll keep quiet. I confessed that I didn’t smoke, but a voice behind me spoke with a shrill deliberateness. “I have some – a box of them.” I turned, and it was one of the men I had been sitting with. The soldier held out his hand, and I changed places with the man. “I’m going to find help,” I said. “It won’t do any good,” replied the man, lighting the cigarette. “We’ve tried.” Terror was trapped in his eyes. “You shouldn’t go any further.”

     And I should have listened to him.

     I can not – or perhaps, even now, I dare not – reveal the monsters which I saw. For that is what these men had become, by no choice of their own. Terrifying, repulsive creatures who were more frightening the more human they appeared. One man had his arm melted into his side by and explosion. Another had his ribs piercing through his chest. And what flame can do to faces. The last cars had sacks of dead – too many for the coffins. And any official, any officer, any nurse I met, would only say that they’ll be tended to in Prague.  Treated.  Looked after.  The best care available. 

     And I remembered something from my childhood – a saying perhaps even from my parent’s parents: “A dead man doesn’t care what suit he’s buried in.”

     But I did not tell them this.

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After A Funeral Kafka Dreams Of The Dead

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.

21 March 1917

             Dreamed I was standing in a galleria with him. In a town in Northern Italy. We could see across the rooftops, to a plain slipping gently toward the foothills of the mountains. The day was clear – a cool spring morning – and the touch of sun was welcome on our skin. He pointed to a laden waggon passing beneath us. A curtain of dust rose from its wheels as it squeezed through a narrow lane. We watched it for awhile, then he turned to me, his body a silhouette against the vivid sky. “I enjoyed my funeral. I wish we could have talked about it after – it was one of those things to share.”  “We did share it,” I pointed out. “I was there.”  “But I was not,” he said.

     Then he eased himself over the balcony, and without effort, we were sitting in the back of the waggon, perched upon boxes and equipment. We rattled out of the village toward the countryside. “I loved the outdoors,” he said. “I still remember my last walk in the fields.”  We moved slowly through the country side, the waggon rarely being jostled along the rutted road. The teamster must have been an expert, but he never turned his face to us. Intent upon his business, I suppose.  “You forget that I am dead; for which I thank you.”  “Sometimes I do,” I replied.  “It is at those times, I sometimes think I’m still alive.”

     He occasionally pointed to things behind me. Once there was a rabbit. The countryside spread endlessly, without another person in sight. I mentioned this, and he nodded. “It will be crowded at our destination. But I’ll want to meet my wife.” He then leaned toward me, across the waggon. “You helped me, you know – in our final dance.” He smiled, then sighed, then pointed beneath me.   “My destination is close, I must return.” I looked down, and saw I was sitting on a coffin – the polished brown one of his funeral. I moved, then bent over, prepared to open it. His fingers touched the wood beneath my hand. “No. Do not look. You would not like what you found.” His smile seemed forced, there were more teeth showing than usual. “I embrace my new world. But for you, I am well and truly dead.”

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Kafka Takes The Train In His Dreams

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.

04 April 1917

             Dreamed I was to take a train journey. I tried to find my travel papers, but all the drawers were jammed shut. The cupboard doors refused to open. My wallet was stuffed with money   – colourful bills worth thousands of marks – yet no passport, no police clearance. I could find no proof of who I was, and no permission to cross borders. I feared I was going to be late, so I put on an overcoat, grabbed a small bag off the bed, and hurried from the room.

     The door led directly to the station platform, and I was quickly caught in lines of people. A man in uniform  harshly requested to see our tickets, but when I explained I had been unable to find any of my documents, he pointed to my case. Inside were passports and papers from every country in Europe. I handed him one, but over my name was a photo of hog. Another had a picture of a donkey. A third showed sheep. Rodents, insects, and finally an ape, all appearing over my name and signature. “You are Doktor Kafka?” he demanded. “Yes,” I answered. I was terrified – what face did I have now? “You are the veterinarian,” he said, finally satisfied. “Down to the end of the train.” He pointed the way, and I hurried along.

     I walked and walked, but the train just became longer. Box cars and cattle cars were filled with the most terrible animal clamour, and reeking of filth. And I wondered, as I searched in vain for the end of this endless train, where would my destination finally be?

20 September 1917

               Dreamed a mixture. I walked – a desolate figure trudging the vast Steppes. Yet I rode wildly – a madman with my forehead pressed against the compartment window. And I saw myself as the train raced by, outlined by the yellow light of the coach; and then a slender body turning to stare at the racing train. We both hollered, but noise and distance obscured our voice. The vast Steppes turned into a castle, but the castle was displayed in the photos of a magazine, which I held on my lap in the flickering light of the compartment, as the train became engulfed  by the large buildings on either side of the tracks. In the magazine there was a railway at the base of the castle, and as I looked out the window the stone walls filled the frame, each giant block wedged securely to the others, their facing protruding and rough. It was as if the train had entered a tunnel, except there was still light from the distant sky.

     I turned a page, and had to squint to see the pictures. Along the whole bottom of the magazine pages, a train obscured part of the castle wall, almost becoming a part of the stones. Black and white, light and shade, blending into a sepia which smudged all the details. Was there a figure in the window?

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Kafka Meets A Gypsy And Coin Is Exchanged

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. 

$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$

08 June 1917

A Gypsy 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 Gypsy,” 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 Gypsy woman, instead of barter? That would make you suspiciously like one of us.” She said this with a growl in her throat.

“The Gypsy 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.

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Franz Kafka Tells The Truth Without A Second Thought

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.

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06 March 1917

In the midst of a conversation with P, I was  suddenly asked what I would do  “if I discovered that all my beliefs were false”.

P. is generally quite a bore, but because his mind can occasionally take an interesting turn, I do not avoid his company.

The question took me aback.

“My beliefs all false?” I asked.

“Yes.” P. has no sense of humour, but he looked more serious than ever. “If you were given evidence to prove that all your beliefs were wrong.” 

“Irrefutable evidence?” I asked. 

“Yes. Proof beyond doubt.” 

“Then I would have to believe the opposite,” I replied.

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Franz Kafka Exposed In His Newly Translated Unexpurgated Diary

Franz Kafka  has just had an updated version of his Diaries translated and released in English.

Of course, he is being touted as a rather naughty fellow, with various sexual observations (and perhaps desires) revealed. Comments about gentlemen’s private members seem to lead the reviews (much as reviews of Prince Harry’s Spare were quick to point out his frostbitten, er, Willie).

It really took a more free-wheeling translation to show Kafka was a very sexual (and sexy) fellow. He liked the ladies, had numerous lovers, and enjoyed the paid ministrations of  – as he referred to them – ‘shop girls’. His last lover had to be restrained from leaping into his open grave.

None of this is really new. I have read all of his diaries published before this edition. Most of it was already there.

The editor of his diaries was his best friend, Max Brod. Brod also removed references to Kafka’s real opinions about his contemporaries. And other socially doubtful observations.

I have written a book, Kafka In The Castle, where I fill in all of the diary entries missing from his diaries, imagining what he might have been doing on those days. As it is assumed that Kafka, himself, destroyed about 80% of all his own writings, it is assumed he destroyed these entries himself.

I don’t know what this new addition might do for my Kafka manuscript. But, as they say, any publicity is good publicity – it’s publicity.

Here is a link to an interview with the translator of the new diaries:

https://slate.com/culture/2023/01/kafka-diaries-uncensored-homoerotic-ross-benjamin-interview.html

And below are entries from my manuscript.

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07 December 1916

                Max takes the fact I always tell the truth as a virtue. He takes my protestations as a virtue. But I am capable of nothing else. Max even says he is envious of me, and I actually laughed in his face. Me, so envious of everyone living their real lives. He was much taken by surprise.

08 December 1916

                 I have not admitted something to Max. It is the closest I come to lying – not saying everything I think. So I have not told him I see envy on the faces of many people. Even my father. It is a power which I do not want. A power which frightens me. 

17 May 1917

           Dreamed I was in Florence, after a long train journey. I was supposed to meet M. upon the bridge with all the goldsmith shops. I had the feeling we had chosen the place as an equivalent to the Alchemist’s Lane. And as I walked along the river, it was indeed Prague I saw on the other shore. I wondered if I might be in this tiny house, scratching out these words upon the page – this page. But I continued toward the bridge, and tried to ignore the Prague of my dreams. Much as in real life.

     The bridge was in a precarious state, the abutments pocked and stained. Mortar fell away in handfuls. I looked up to see M. standing at the top of the steps. There were double handrails made of gold, and the steps themselves seemed burnished with use. “Hurry,” she implored, leaning toward me and pointing to the river. This movement deepened the cleavage between her generous breasts, and I was distracted. I imagined my hand slipping beneath the confines of her blouse, and my fingers retrieving a heated nugget of gold. But finally I turned to where she was pointing, and saw that the river was nearly at my heels. I moved adroitly, and was soon standing beside her. “Must you meet me in such a place?” I asked. “It’s your dream. And, you weren’t so concerned a minute ago.”  “But we’re here for the gold?” I asked.  “No.” She took my hand. “We’re here for the view.”

     She led me into one of the shops where the goldsmiths were shaping sheets of gold around molds, tiny hammers going tap tap tap across the rich, dull surface. I could smell the scent of warm gold from between her breasts. I wanted to taste it, going flick flick flick with the tip of my tongue. Yet another button had unhooked from the strain, and I could glimpse the gold piece, damp with sweat. “Are you after my treasure?” asked M. “Even if we are in Florence,” I said, feeling very clever with myself, “that doesn’t mean all the treasures are ones of art.” M. was kind enough to smile. She then gestured. “Look – to left and right.”

     As I looked from one bank of the river to the other, I saw that the cities were vying for my attention. Florence was bowing on my left, while Prague was undulating from the right. The buildings shook, the towers nodded, and the river tore between. At my side, M. was joining in with a dance of her own, her nearly exposed breasts swaying with little restraint. “You’re not helping,” I said. “You watch what you want,” she replied. The river was now so turbulent that music escaped from the waves, and the two cities attempted to outdo each other. Florence beckoned with the raised steps of a gavotte, while Prague hipswung with the new American jazz. “Which city?” asked M., her hair in a swirl, and the last button defeated. “Which city is to be your partner?” And my eyes left her wild hair and the flashing nugget of gold, and I stepped onto the river, its music around my knees. And I held out my hands toward Prague.

20 May 1917

           But of course, it was just a dream.

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