Coming to auction next week is Franz Kafka’s signed Czechoslovak passport. The author was born in Prague in 1883. This 32-page booklet with various manuscr
Source: Kafka’s Passport at Auction
Much is made – again and again – about Kafka’s famous request to his friend, Max Brod, that all his manuscripts be burned unread. That included all his fiction, all his letters, and all his diaries. Consigned to the flames and removed from the earth.
Had this been done, most of the work for which Kafka is famous would never be known, for little was published during his life. His skewed yet realistic outlook on life, now famously known as Kafkaesque, would not be classed in every dictionary. A touchstone, known the world over, would have been lost. Kafka might, at best, been remembered as the man who wrote about the bug.
I will point out that Brod gets a bum rap about defying Kafka’s direction to burn all his manuscripts. Yes, Kafka did indeed make this request of Brod. He apparently made it a few times, both verbally and in writing. Each time, Bord told him outright he would not follow Kafka’s request. “It ain’t” – if I might slip into a vernacular it is unlikely the erudite Brod would ever use – “going to be me, chum.”
And I will also point out the obvious. If Kafka really wanted all his manuscripts burned, he could have just as easily (indeed – more easily) done it himself. He certainly did burn much of what he wrote. Brod once found him doing it.
Kafka might have renewed this written request near the end of his life, but he made it to a man whom he know would not do it. That was Kafka.
DE
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There is a relatively new and very long pier at one of the container terminals in Halifax. It seems to go out a quarter of the way into the harbour. It offers the best view of the mouth of the harbour, along with some (now) unique views back into the harbour itself.
As I was standing at the end, jutting into the harbour and watching the passing ship traffic (hello, cruise ship), I noticed a man with a fishing pole, casting away. He did not seem too successful, but did toss the occasional fish (mackerel) into a large pail. As I watched my ships, he cast away. Sometimes his fish leaped from the pail and flopped about on the pier. He did not seem concerned, though I rather hoped one of them would slide under the fence and return to the water far below.
I stayed about an hour and was preparing to leave. So was the fisherman. He called me over and asked me if I wanted any fish. I did have interest, but, in addition to transporting fish on a bus, and also having to gut and clean them, I declined. It was then he offered the grandest of shows.
He reached into his pail and started tossing the fish over the high, barbwire-topped fence which enclosed the container terminal. On the other side was a vast platform, upon which waited a flock of seagulls. As each mackerel sailed over the fence, and slid across the cement, the gulls descended. I anticipated many bird fights. I was surprised to see each gull that reached a fish first, just swallowed the mackerel whole.
Gulp.
Slide into gullet.
Fly away gull.
The other gulls then turned their attention to the next flying fish.
It was quite the entertainment.
DE
Halifax is significant to the Titanic, and vice versa. It is the port where 209 of the victims from the Titanic were brought after being retrieved. 150 of these bodies were eventually buried in Halifax. I live a short city bus ride from one graveyard where many Titanic victims are buried. I am also a longer bus trip to another graveyard where more of the dead are buried. I usually visit each once a year.
When cruise ships come to Halifax, one of the ‘tours’ offered the passengers is a visit to the Titanic graveyard. I assume the irony of this is lost, but I do wonder about the ‘tempting fate’ aspect of such an excursion.
One year I went to a Titanic “parade” down on the waterfront. The event started one hour late. The horse-drawn “hearse” was really a waggon from a local farm. The candles were fake electric. Still, the team of Percheron horses was wonderful, and the folk in period costume were well done.
The ‘undertaker’ driving the team had a black frock coat and black top hat but – alas – no black riband around the hat. There was a plain, grey wooden box in the back.
Whatever the reason, a half dozen present-day undertakers from Snow’s Funeral Home (the funeral home which had tended to the actual Titanic victims) marched behind the waggon.
As a macabre aside (and I generally favour the macabre, but I found this creepy) there were meals to be had in some of the downtown restaurants which featured the menu of the last meal eaten on the Titanic.
One of these restaurants was The Five Fishermen. At the time The Titanic sank, Snow’s Funeral Home was in the building The Five Fishermen now occupies. So – literally – the coffins were once stacked in the same room where present day patrons were chowing down on The Titanic’s last meal.
I did learn one new thing. One of the people crowded around the ‘hearse’ opined there would have been no women undertakes in 1912. The group following the waggon did have one woman. A member of the real undertaker group said that was not true. Indeed, two women embalmers from the city of Saint John (a port city in the adjoining province of New Brunswick) were brought in by train to help with the vast numbers of dead.
This memorial parade took nearly three hours, and I did not stay for the events happening later in the Parade Ground. I later read that the memorial bells for 12:15 were themselves an hour late. Anyway, I go by the day of the week and not the date, so for me the Titanic hit the iceberg on a Sunday night and sank on a Monday morning. That is how all those people would have been thinking about it.
DE
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Dusk had already fallen as I stepped from a bus. I was intent about making a close connection to another bus. Haste, in this case, not making waste.
It was an articulated bus – some refer to them as accordion buses – segmented in the middle with three exit doors. They actually do bend in the middle and hold more passengers. I left the bus by the front door and was walking quickly along its length. I was just passing the middle door when, from the last door, two young men (I don’t think they were teenagers) tumbled and shuffled out of the third door onto the sidewalk. They were a few steps in front of me.
One of them was yelling and shoving and swinging at the other.
“Do you want me?”
“Were you looking at me?”
“What is it with you?”
These were the type of questions from the aggressor. He was dressed decently and had a cap. The other fellow (they looked the same age) had a bag over his shoulder and headphones on his head. He was more decently dressed and wore glasses. I took him as a university student. As could have been the other chap.
It appeared something had happened on the bus, though there certainly had been no altercation there. The aggressor was shoving the other one across the sidewalk to the grass verge. His headphones were knocked off and he had trouble holding to his briefcase. The aggressor seemed to just repeat variants of what he was saying. Angry questions.
I was in a hurry. I also did not want to get in the middle of a fight. The police tell us to steer clear and to contact authorities. City fistfights can quickly turn to weapons. I was aware of all this but … I was thinking, well, if that were an elderly person being hit, or a child, or a female, I would have felt obligated to do something. Intervene verbally, at least. Make some commotion to perhaps diffuse the situation. If it was a person being struck who was beyond self-defence, I would have intervened with the supposition that someone else would come to assist. Such thoughts jumbled through my head.
The fellow with the briefcase was on the grass verge, and down he went. He lost his grip on the briefcase. I don’t know if he was struck with such force to make this happen, or if he slipped on the grass, or if he slipped attempting to get out of the way. The aggressor was standing over him and yelling, but he did not (as they say around here) ‘take his boots to him”. The fellow on the ground said: “Corbin, I don’t want to fight with you.”
All this, of course, took place in less than twenty seconds. I had slowed my stride and I was watching, but I had not stopped. That they knew each other (as they say around here) “changed the water on the beans”. In retrospect, I realise I had noticed an element of ritual”about this event. The aggressor had not gone for a blow to the face, and did not take undue advantage now. However, he was still furious.
“You earned it.” He was sputtering. “You deserve it.”
The fellow on the grass scrambled after his briefcase and his headphones. As he got to his feet the other fellow shoved him again. He skittered, but retained his footing and dashed out into the street. The aggressor started to give pursui, but some traffic slowed him just a bit. The other fellow ran along the sidewalk on the other side, then started to walk more normally. The aggressor did not cross the road.
I did get my bus.
DE
When In Rome
There was an Abyssinian (I made her),
an Albanian,
a Bolshevik,
a Bratislavian (he was worst),
a Brazilian,
a Canadian,
a cannibal (uh-oh),
a Colombian (smoking),
a cynic (she didn’t believe the Canadian),
a Dominican,
a Druid (he prayed for the Dominican),
a Druze,
an Etonian,
an Estonian,
a fool (ha ha),
a Frieslandian
a Gazaian (she stripped),
a graduate (he smoked),
a Haligonian,
a Helgolandian (he was gone),
an Israeli,
an Iranian,
an Iraqi {they three went into a bar},
a Jamaican,
a Japanese,
a Kazakhstanian,
a Kurd,
a Lithuanian,
a lush (one in every crowd),
a Mongolian,
a monster (them’s the odds),
a Nederlander,
a Norwegian,
an Olympian (I liked her),
an opportunist (coulda been me),
a Pole (he vaulted over the rest – *joke*),
a Québécoise (I’ll never forget her),
a Russian (great dancer – he had the steps),
a Scandinavian,
a Southerner (I melt when she says ‘Y’all)
a stevedore,
a Transylvanian (out for blood),
an Ukrainian,
an Unitarian,
a Vulcan (he was eerie),
a Walloon,
a wisenheimer,
a Xanaduian (she played on her dulcimer),
a Xaverian (he shot daggers at the Dominican),
a Yugoslavian
[and]
a Zarahthustrain (he spoke a lot).
The Canadian had the soup.
DE
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I’ve lived long enough that all of my favourite restaurants are gone except two. Don’t worry, I still manage to eat out – I adapt.
Of those two, one is the long-lasting Ardmore Tea Room. And if I didn’t enjoy this place enough already, when I dined there yesterday I was asked “Would you like fried onions on your hash browns?” I was tempted to answer “Is The Pope Argentinian?” but, instead, I just gleefully said “Yes!” Gleeful – in part – because they were accompanying Eggs Benedict. {You can note a bit of food = religion theme.}
As far as I know the Ardmore has been in the same location, and has been there for decades. It opens at 5:00 AM and closes at 8:00 PM. You don’t open this early in the morning if you don’t get steady customers. People on their way to work, and people coming home from work. A restaurant of the people, it is obvious.
The seating is at booths, and I have never been there when at least half of the booths were not occupied. The age range of the diners covers the decades, and I’d guess their economic backgrounds are just as diverse. I’ve never seen anyone encouraged to depart as soon as the check was paid, and as far as I know the coffee is bottomless.
By the way – the food is great!
There is an array of diner staples, plus dinner selections ranging from lasagna to chipolte chicken wraps. You can get shakes and sundaes. And rice pudding.
$Cash$ only – no credit cards.
As I sat over my third coffee and empty plate, listening to the murmur of many conversations and bursts of laughter, I finally realized what I had noticed during my meal. Noticed by its absence, so it took a while to register.
Not one person was using their cell phone.
DE
As a child, sometime before Grade One, I encountered a radio/gramophone combination that frightened the music right out of me.
I assume I must have heard the radio before. And I would think I had heard music before. But maybe not to this degree. And certainly not in such volume.
My visual memory is of the odd configuration to the house. We lived in a flat over a commercial garage. There had to be a number of rooms, but I only remember two large connected rooms, going the length of the house. They were each elongated as it was, and were the stuff of apprehension at the best of times. At dusk, or in the evening, there was the feeling of entering some other world. Not a forest perhaps, but a place of shadows where animals and other assorted unpleasant surprises could stalk my passage. And then – presumably – they could leap out, regardless of how carefully one manoeuvred through the gloom. I don’t know if I ever told my parents of this gauntlet I had to face at certain times of the day. But it certainly gave me pause at the best of times. And dusk was not the best of times. Or a weekend family get together after supper. Which is what I believe this was.
I know I was part way through one of the rooms, and getting ready to enter the other. There was still a distance to walk when a loud noise filled the air. I was frightened, but did not run or duck. I froze. It was music. It would not have been an unknown sound, so that is probably why I did not flee.
However, it was music as I had never heard it. I peered the length of the second room, but saw nothing different. I saw my parents seated – as they often were – beside the radio. They were obviously happy and not frightened by the ‘noise’. I was both stock-still and confused. Since they were not troubled I decided to run to them.
I don’t know if the music was in some manner explained to me (I presume it would have been). What they were listening to was an LP of orchestral classical music. My knowledge now makes me imagine it was something wonderfully bombastic by Tchaikovsky. I presume they might have been playing it louder than their usual radio programs. But it made a stirring impression on me, lasting decades.
DE
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Budapest Classical Music Concerts
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