In my novel, Kafka In The Castle, I fill in missing entries of his actual diaries. There are many days to fill, as he either did not write during these days, or he destroyed the record.
I do give him a brief recognition of Friday 13th. Kafka was not a superstitious person, and such things weighed on him lightly.
In reality, memories of the Swiss Girl he mentions (a teen he met and probably “embraced”) haunted him all his life. But pleasantly – oh, so pleasantly.
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13 April 1917
I almost wrote down the year as 1913. That was the year I met the Swiss girl. And I remember her joking about Friday the thirteenth, and how we had missed it by just a day. She was superstitious – Christians seem to be. I wonder what precautions she is taking today. It will be three years and seven months since I saw her. Yet some of the things we did could have happened last week. I think that memory must be made of rubber. You can sometimes pull it toward yourself – and sometimes it snaps away like a shot. Causing as much pain.
Q: To be or not to be? A: Who asketh the query? Q: Bond – James Bond. A: Sound and fury, it seems to me. Q: They say you’re a talker – is that true? A: More of a thinker. Q: Then a doer? A: I put many acts in play. Q: The power behind the throne? A: When the throne is rotten. Q: So, do you dither? A: Whilst thou hither. Q: What is your wish? A: To whisper in your ear. Q: To tell me what? A: Fear not, it won’t be poisonous. Q: Will it be a secret? A: More likely than not. Q: In my line of work, secrets are Death. A: You deal with Kings and Queens? Q: I’m on Her Majesty’s Secret Service. A: A double life is a double sword is a double bind. Q: How do you know that? A: I write plays. Q: And tell the truth? A: My word is my bond.
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. *********************************
15 January 1917
Dreamed that I never dream.
“That can’t be true,” said AB, dropping the papers she held. “Everybody dreams.”
“It never happens to me,” I insisted. “And what’s more, I don’t really believe that anyone else dreams, either.”
“Of course people dream,” said AB, dropping bunches and pots of flowers on the floor. “I dream all the time. I’m full of dreams every night.”
“Even tonight?” I asked, excited, because I had some power, some type of knowledge, although I didn’t know what it was. “Tonight,” she repeated. “Especially tonight,” she said, dropping bowls of snow on the floor. “It is right now, right here.” Her voice was also full of excitement. “I am dreaming about you.”
“Me?” I said. “You can’t be dreaming about me. I’m right here – I’m not in your dream.”
“Not only are you in my dream,” she said, dropping automobiles and tram cars on the floor, “but you’re talking in your usual obstinate way. You’re cross, and you’re silly, and you’re shaking your hands at me.”
“I’m doing no such thing,” I said, wringing my hands and starting to yell.
“You’ve taken your absurd thoughts,” she said, dropping pieces of Prague on the floor, “and you’re forcing me to be part of them.”
“Even if it’s true – all true,” I said, trying to sweep Prague into the river, “it still isn’t me. You’re the one having the dream.”
AB snatched the broom out of my hand, and dropped it to the floor. “Then try to wake me,” she said.
16 January 1917
I have the feeling, that what I really am doing at the office, is committing suicide. And doing a good job.
