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Letter To Kafka, Soon One Hundred Years Dead

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.

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Dignity Is A Cheap Suit Of Clothes

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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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.

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Will Kafka Slip/Slide His Way Through May?

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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22 May 1917

          There was even some snow. 

         They spoke of it at the office. Further down the river some snow and thunder together. 

               Hysteria traced the words of one man, who claimed he had good information – which he could not reveal – that the enemy has a great machine which can control the weather. That is how they are going to win the war. Freeze us in May, and destroy all our crops. 

                “And where are these giant weather engines?” somebody asked. 

                “In France,” was his reply, but he said it with such hesitancy that I knew it was a guess. 

                 “No machine could cause us trouble from that far away,” said another, and there was laughter before work resumed. 

                  Laughter without a touch of mirth.

DE

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What Happens When Kafka And Trump Walk Into A Bar (Though Neither Drink)?

~ Frank. Welcome to your world.

~ Thanks, DT. I’ve been living it all my life.

~ I’ve taken some pages out of your books, Frank.

~ I did try to get them burned.

~ You didn’t try too hard.

~ Well – no.

~ You know – neither did I.

~ I know. They all ran to your tune.

~ They did.

~ You were the Pied Piper of Havoc.

~ Worked like a charm, Frank.

~ Yes, DT – yes, it did.

~ They thought I was a bug.

~ Yes.

~ But I turned them into bugs.

~That you did, DT. And turned them against each other.

~ Yes.

~ And stood back, and watched.

~ Pretty well.

~ To the victor goes the spoils.

~ I was astounded – believe me.

~ And they keep making the same mistakes.

~ I know, Frank. I’d laugh if it wasn’t so funny.

~ The one-eyed man is King in the land of the Blind.

~ Yes, Frank – yes. But you know what?

~ What?

~ I’ve got great vision in both eyes.

DE

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If Kafka Welcomes Spring, Can Summer Be Far Behind?

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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08 April 1917

I seem to end in the most absurd situations. This afternoon, before Sunday dinner, Ottla took me away for some gardening. Rooting around in the earth, with the frost barely gone. Only Ottla could find such a plot of ground in Prague, or expect me to grub about in it like some hungry animal.

It was obviously some sort of communal land – such places are popular during this war. There were even families at work. Children also. One small boy was caught between his interest in the garden, and his desire to be a small boy. And what a dilemma it was. He’d work in the ground for awhile, following the example of his mother, then suddenly race around, exploring like a small boy. He came over to Ottla and me, and hunkered down beside us. He shook his head with a sigh of exasperation, and reached over to put his hands on mine. “Mummy says that’s wrong,” and with great patience and determination, began to show me how to prepare the earth. I thought there could be no better proof to Ottla of how inept I was.

I followed the movements of his hands, and between us, we dug quite a hole. At last the little fellow stood, obviously satisfied. “I go now,” he said, and ran away to see some other entertaining oddity. Ottla hadn’t laughed for fear of offending the boy, but she didn’t show such restraint when we were finally alone.

It fell to me to find the flowers.

Such things prove God’s sense of humour, for I have no interest or understanding for flowers. There was a fellow at university who could talk about flowers for hours. Otherwise, he was quite pleasant to be with. So it seems a joke that I would find them, between a pile of rubble and the wall of a house.

I had been exploring, much as the little fellow had done. In fact, he was running past when I found them, so I showed him also. They were white, with frail leaves close to the ground. Quite nondescript. But the boy was fascinated. He put his face close, although he didn’t touch them.

“Can I tell Mummy?” He obviously thought they were my flowers. “Yes,” I said, and he ran to get her. She followed him as he chattered all the way, and then she too hesitated, looking at me cautiously. “Perhaps your wife would like to see them,” she suggested. It took a moment to realize she was referring to Ottla. The flowers had become my possession. “Yes,” I said, “And tell anyone you like.”  “The first flowers of Spring,” she said, and she went to tell the others, taking care to stop at Ottla first.

Tiny white flowers.

I can still not believe the looks upon their faces, as they crowded around. Even the children were silent.

The relief they showed.

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Kafka Finds Out The Dying Know No More Than We Do

 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.

11 March 1917

             To the country again.

To the dying.

The family questions why it has not yet happened. Friends take their place in the background. There seem as many social obligations here as elsewhere. I look for something profound, but the dying know no more than we. He does, however, gather his strength for a formal leave-taking. Apologizes to his sons for being a poor father, then expresses his surprise that they take the time to show him so much concern and attention.

They are confused, and wonder why he says such things. They insist his fears are groundless. I can tell their shock is honest, and that they tell the truth. The old man can not smile, but tells them he is glad they say what they say.

And I wonder, if I were in their place, how I could twist the truth to appease the dying.

DE

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Kafka Decides To Keep His Day Job

Franz Kafka (although a trained lawyer) had plans other than his job at The Workers’ Accident Insurance Institute for the Kingdom of Bohemia in Prague. He eventually found it was a good place to be.

Kafka was press-ganged to be a ‘silent partner’ and part-time manager for his brother-in-law’s asbestos factory, Prager Asbestwerke Hermann & Co. In his diary of 28 December 1911, he complains of ‘the torment that the factory causes me’. He also commented to his friend, Max Brod, that “. . . after writing well Sunday night [. . .] I had to stop for the following reason: my brother-in-law, the manufacturer, this morning left for a business trip.”

Needless to say, Kafka’s enthusiasm was not pure. The Factory did not survive.

Also, Kafka had the idea of moving to Berlin and opening a Café. He was to be owner, chef, and waiter. This idea sustained him a number of years, but happily (for everyone) it never came to fruition.

But, as this following story from The Goethe Institute reveals, Kafka has some plans to actually make money from his talent as a writer.

Making money as an author :

“Together with his mate Max Brod, Kafka wanted to publish a commercial bestseller series. Kafka wrote: “We had the idea of creating a new type of travel guide. It was to be called BILLIG or ON THE CHEAP. For example, On the Cheap through Switzerland, On the Cheap in Paris and so on.” It would only ever recommend one thing – the cheapest hotel, the cheapest restaurant, the cheapest means of transport. Linked to this was the idea of the On the Cheap language guide, which, given the impossibility of learning a foreign language completely, teaches the wrong thing straight away. In the end, the idea remained just a dream. Talks with publishers failed, and so Kafka did not become a millionaire. https://www.goethe.de/ins/pk/en/kul/mgz/ros/25439440.html “

DE

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Kafka Greets February, The Shortest Month Of The Year, With Absolutely No Enthusiasm

This entry seems to be a favourite with folk, so who am I to argue? Mind you – Kafka might argue with that.

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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01 February 1917

A particularly tedious day at the office, which stretched like a bridge over an abyss.

Perhaps to mock yesterday’s comments – the month so short and the day so long.

I am sometimes afraid of the white, and sometimes of the black, but my deepest horror is for the destroying grey of life.

When it is grey and senseless, it starves your feelings of oxygen, and then you really and truly die.

It is said that Jesus raised the dead (though I never understood why), and our own Prague rabbi created the Golem to help out in this world.

All I can do is scratch ink upon the page.

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A Dream By Kafka About Kafka’s Dreams In Dreamland

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. He mentioned is dreams often, but they were rarely as coherent as those I give to him.

*********************************

03 May 1918

Dreamed I had found out the reason for dreams.

I was not to reveal the secret, so I was being pursued. I imagined they were the dream police, and I wondered which was the worst punishment they could give. From their point of view, would it be worse to make me wake up, or worse to keep me asleep. At times, even I would not like to choose.

As I attempted to elude them, I wondered how I threatened anything by revealing the secret of dreams. It was indeed very simple, for the truth I discovered was that we are all having the same dream.

When we went to sleep, we all entered the same place. The same land. The confusion arose because we were only in a small part of this dream world at any given time. And it was so vast, that we could never see it all, even if we slept straight through fifty lifetimes.

When I was having my dream in my little section, no one else could use it. The people in my dreams – if they were sleeping – were dreaming of somewhere else.

In my own dream, they were awake, and so didn’t remember any of the things they were doing as a dream. When I awoke, someone else could use the place I had just left. It was all concise and simple, and gave me a great feeling of comfort.

And – so I thought – would please any one who found out. So I was anxious to wake up and tell everyone, particularly – for some reason – my uncle in Madrid.

I had underestimated how cunning the dream police could really be.

I had expected that all the obstacles, all the signs which said `stop’, all the attempts to grab at my coattails, would occur within the dream itself. But, after awhile, I realized their pursuit was not an attempt to apprehend me. It was the very contrary.

They had no intention of laying hands upon me. Instead, they were chasing me away. I was being forced to flee, and it was only as I was at the entrance of wakefulness that I realized what was happening. My eyes were about to open when I managed to ask `why’. And the voice – if voice it was, nestled somewhere firmly inside my ear – replied too late for me to hear.

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