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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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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.
In my novel, Kafka In The Castle, I fill in the lost diary entries that he either ignored, or destroyed.
Kafka made this walk hundreds of times (and I managed a few, myself).
The following is the entry I made of Kafka crossing the Bridge, and what he pondered.
Excerpt From Kafka in the Castle
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29 August 1917
I strolled the Charles Bridge a long time tonight, before coming on to the castle. I have the feeling that the river air helps my lungs.
I also like the city lights reflecting from the racing water. And the occasional boat, lanterns stern and bow.
I have once or twice steered my own boat through the dark, the flickering light dripping through the gloom before me. If I could have reached the sea while it was still dark, I would have tried to do so. But I was younger then. And could breathe deeply.
Fantasy fuelled this escape, from my Moldau island and then along the Elbe, through Dresden, Magdeburg and Hamburg, to the freedom of Helgoland Bay. Further into the North Sea, if I wanted. Perhaps to Iceland, where I could become lost in the snow and white.
All this, from my perch upon the Charles Bridge, as I strolled from side to side, and one end to the other. My last smile reserved for the statues staring down on me.
Their stony expressions etched upon their faces, as is mine to me.
My father, Byron Caleb Estey, served in the Canadian Army for the entirety of the Second World War. He was 31 when he signed up, and was a decade or more older than most of the soldiers he served with. At the end of the war, he was offered an instant promotion from Corporal to Sergeant Major.
He declined. He had had enough.
He was with the 90th Anti-Tank Battery. He was the member of the crew who calculated the coordinates to aim the gun and destroy targets. He did this up through Sicily and Italy, except for those times when he grabbed his rifle to shoot at soldiers shooting at him.
I imagine I could write pages repeating the anecdotes he told – and maybe some day I will. He didn’t talk all that much about the war, and when he did, I’d guess 80% of his stories were humorous. The other 20% were not.
I regret not discussing his war experiences more with him, but he did not encourage it. I once asked how close he got to the German soldiers. He said, close enough to kill them.
He hated Germans and Japanese all of his life. I understand that this is not the way of most soldiers. They mellow. They come to understand that soldiers on the other side were doing a job, just as they were. My father was not one of these. Those 20% of his stories explained his attitude to me.
He fought in – arguably – the most horrific and bloodiest battle in the war, the Battle of Ortona over Christmas week of 1943. He marched over piles of bodies, and crawled over piles of bodies. Such were the details he would tell. He didn’t speak of his feelings, or use words like “horror”.
On Remembrance Day he would march in the community parade. He rarely lingered for a meal or beer or camaraderie at The Legion. He did not seem affected by the memorial event, and did not talk any more or less about his experiences just because it was 11 November.
Because his tales were more funny than not, I’ll close on what might have been his last funny story.
At his death, the Royal Canadian Legion wanted to conduct a small ceremony at the funeral parlour. They requested that his medals be pinned to his chest. But, the medals could not be found. This was odd, because they were important to him, and he always wore them for the Remembrance Day parade.
It is excessive to say that the whole house was searched – but not by much. Drawers, shelves, boxes, closets, clothes, were repeatedly searched. Nothing. The Last Post was played over a Veteran with no medals.
Months later, when the house was being sold and possessions were being removed, his clothes were searched before being given away. In the side pocket of a jacket he never wore were the medals, all spiff and shiny.
He would have smiled at that.
Dale Estey
I have shared this tale before, and feel encouraged to do so again. It is an odd milestone in my own writing odyssey, and when Margaret Atwood achieves a profound feat, as her new memoir reveals, I do take note. I have about forty pages of my own memoir done, and years to go before I sleep.
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It was not my intent to piss off Margaret Atwood.
The opposite, in fact. I wanted her to know she was an inspiration.
She was giving a reading at the University of New Brunswick in my student days. I attended, but there was quite the gathering and she was whisked away at the end. However, I overheard there was a ‘gathering’ in her honour. Invitation only, of course. Academia and literati.
I crashed the party (that was the term used by the professor who clapped his sturdy hand upon my shoulder but – happily – did not thrust me into the night).
But Ms. Atwood was kept deep in many a learned conversation and I had no opportunity to converse. I did, however, overhear where she would be spending next afternoon – the historic University Observatory.
Next day I knocked upon the Observatory door.
It was not a cheerful Margaret Atwood who answered, and answered with alacrity.
She asked my name.
She asked my business.
And she asked how the hell I knew where she was. She had stolen the day to do some writing. Some ‘real’ writing, in this window-of-opportunity grudgingly offered on the book tour.
At least I was there to praise Atwood and not to bury her with some essay question.
Nor had I a manuscript to hand to her.
I might not have garnered a smile, but her curt thank you was reward enough.
For me, at least.
DE
It’s easy enough – and takes no planning.
You decide to take a walk in the sunshine in the afternoon, and plan to sit on a park bench. You do have a reasonably simple route, where you make a circuit of your neighbourhood. There are not many park benches, but you aim for one, fifteen minutes away. You sit, but it is not really in the sun, and even if it were your would not really be warm. So, you sit a short time, and continue on your way.
You are in a residential neighbourhood, Placid streets. Upscale houses. Not much traffic (except for one major thoroughfare, where you cross with the help of a pedestrian light. Then you are in a different neighbourhood, and continue on your way.
However, you come to one corner, and realize it is crowded with what appears to be white utility vehicles. There are many folk with armbands, helmets, and Walkie-Talkies. There are folk directing traffic. After turning one corner, the people, vehicles, and mounds of equipment increase. There are also a notable number of onlookers. There are also (quite a surprise) soldiers in uniform. However, there seems to be no alarm, no urgency, and next to no noise.
Upon turning onto another street, it becomes obvious that there is a film being shot in front of a particular house. There has been no attempt to stop pedestrians, so it is difficult to tell who might be there doing a job, and who are there attracted by the situation.What is most unusual of all is how quiet the whole scene is.
I do approach one lady with headset and Walkie-Talkie and clipboard. She is happy to talk. There is a murder mystery being shot for the streamer, Acorn TV. A series called “You’re Killing Me” starring Brooke Shields. I am asked to walk on the other side of the street. I am told to be careful walking through the leaves piled next to the curb, They are hiding the equipment cables. The show is to appear next year.
I did not (as far as I know) see Brooke Shields.
Later that night (to be accurate – very early the next morning), I awoke from sleep. It was around the time of a radio newscast, which I turned on, mainly to see who won the World Series Game. The news about it was that it was still on. So, I turned on the television, and got to watch the last hour of the longest baseball game. I was rooting for the other fellas.
DE UEL
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10/24/2025
As the Lighthouse Keeper on Partridge Island,
I have to make a monthly inspection
Along the shore of the whole island.
Of course, I make reports, and haul the
Moveable trash off the shore, and put it
Above the tide line (which is high),
So it won’t set sail again.
All this is true,
But,
What I’m really supposed
To report,
Are the bodies I find.
There are generally three or four a year,
Mostly beyond recognition.
I can spread out this chore if I desire,
But – generally – I prefer to do it over a
Couple of days.
Paw, my cat/kitten,
Black as deep tide pools
With one white mitten,
Always wants to come along.
He always regrets it,
When we reach the ocean tip,
Where he is surrounded,
On three sides,
By water.
He doesn’t like that.
And he always complains,
But he soldiers on.
Today was no different.
Although the day was beautiful,
With clear sky and pleasant wind,
The ocean had an odd, opaque shimmer.
It was like looking at the coated side
Of a mirror.
Paw – who has been known to step
Over a dead body to see what
Was on the other side –
Avoided the shore,
And stayed above the
High tide mark.
I guess he didn’t want to see
Something he couldn’t see.
He was impatient for me to haul ass.
And he let me know it.
{I’m The Lighthouse Poet Laureate of Partridge Island /1821 – 2025 / A lot of stuff have I seen / A lot of stuff to report}
DE BA UE
Paw, the cat/kitten,
Black as agate
With one white mitten,
Is turning into Narcissus.
He is gazing at himself
In a quiet pool of water,
Becalmed along the shore
Of Partridge Island.
He does – sometimes – look
Into the mirror,
And lingers.
I assume he sees
What I see.
But I know cats,
And many of the other animals,
Also look with their noses,
And ears.
Perhaps that is why
He gazes so intently,
Not being able to recognize
What he sees.
I’m The Lighthouse Poet Laureate of Partridge Island /1821 – 2025 / A lot of stuff have I seen / A lot of stuff to report. DE BA. UEL
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