Kafka In The Castle

Kafka Walks The Charles Bridge In Prague And Ponders The World

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.

12/03/2025 0

What Goes Around Does NOT Necessarily Come Around On Friday 13th

In my novel, Kafka In The Castle, I fill in the 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.

Kafka did have occasion to ponder Friday 13th. The date was connected to “The Swiss Girl”, whom he met at a resort. She was eighteen and he was thirty-four. It is unclear how intimate their relationship became.

Twice, I give him a brief recognition of Friday 13th. In reality, The Swiss Girl haunted him (pleasantly) all his life.

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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, 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.

13 July 1917

Friday the 13th again. What better time to think of the Swiss girl, than with F. I don’t know if such memories help sustain me, or if they revel how intolerable the future can sometimes be. I can not imagine the Swiss girl’s face across the table from me, nor her voice singing one of her quiet songs. If I must be trapped, then why can’t I be trapped in the past?

[The Swiss Girl ~ Gerti Wasner] p8.storage.canalblog.com/89/52/207513/106933578_o.gif

06/13/2025 0

Franz Kafka Dies June 03, 1924

Franz Kafka died on 03/06/1924. He was a young man – a month short of his 41st birthday. However, his death was preordained years earlier. In my novel, “Kafka In The Castle“, I fill in the missing days of his diary. These are the entries I imagine concerning the days he actually found out his fate.

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04 September 1917

A death sentence.

05 September 1917

Max is saying all the right things. All the nice things. And he is saying them all in the right way. An earnest, matter-of-fact truthfulness which sounds plausible. If he does not tread from a very narrow path. Sometimes I find myself a part of his hopeful speculations. And sometimes I find that I am trying to keep his spirits up. If he is going to all this trouble, then shouldn’t I do my part? But: it isn’t his blood. And anyway – he was the one who insisted on the specialist. Chose the renowned Dr. Pick. And heard – almost as soon as myself – the verdict. Tuberculosis. Tuberculosis engaged in both lungs. Like a preparation for marriage. The engaged man now flirting with another lover. And planning a marriage which will be far more permanent that any I could have had with Felice.

06/03/2025 0

How Does Kafka Feel When He Becomes A Dead Man Walking?

11 August 1917

I went to the office as usual. I was still coughing, and took extra handkerchiefs. The Director asked if I had a cold, and I told him I wasn’t sure. That certainly was true – I wasn’t sure what I had. When I met Max in the afternoon, he was horrified when I told him what had happened to me. And angry with me – genuinely angry. He told me that I was stupid.

I’m sure it’s a word he has never used in relation to me. Stupid.

I was astounded, and my surprise was such that I started coughing again. This made Max propel me all the more rapidly to the doctor. I feel that doctors are never really to be trusted. But sometimes, they are necessary. There had been so much blood.

I suppose that is what woke me – the coughing – or else I might have choked on it. Or even drowned in my own blood.

I had to sit on the edge of the bed and grope for the light cord, to find out what this wetness was on my face and hands. Even then, I was more surprised than startled. I was wondering more how to stop the mess, than anxious about its cause. Blood from my throat, pumping out of my mouth. I slipped off the pillowcase, and tried to use it as a gag, coughing and spitting into it while trying to wipe my face. This gushing stream from my mouth did not seem to be stopping however, so I warily made my way to the sink. Even the usually chattering maid was subdued this morning, as she tried to scour the porcelain and the walls. “Herr Doktor,” she said. “You don’t have long for this world.” But at the time, the minutes had certainly seemed long when I had been leaning over the sink, one hand steadying myself against the wall while my gasping and spitting seemed to turn everything red. It was a relief to finally get to sleep. I felt I had really earned it.

Of course, this afternoon the doctor took his time prodding and peering, asking the most obvious questions while Max fretted like a parent. And took the doctor seriously. The questions about the blood seemed to disturb him. And the doctor was full of questions – wanting to know about the pain, and the amount of blood, and its duration. Had anything like this happened before? Any incidents in my family? Had I received any recent blows to the face or neck? Had I tried to eat or drink since it happened? Was I dizzy, or short of breath? Did I have headaches? Actually, this was the only time he seemed to take an interest in my answers. I mentioned that after the incident had happened, a headache which I had for days finally disappeared. I was able to sleep peacefully the rest of the night.

He then rattled off words like thoracic dual apices, hemorrhage, and catarrh, and gave me two bottles of medicine to take at alternate times of the day. And that was that. Examination over and we’re out in the street. Max also expressed some reservations about the diagnosis, and suggested I should see a specialist. As he walked me back to work at the Institute, I at least had reason for not taking an active part in the conversation. I noticed that one prominent word was prominently absent from all discussion.

Tuberculosis.

08/11/2024 0

Kafka Hauls Ass Out Of Vienna, A City He Had A Deep Hate For

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. On these July days in 1917, in reality, he travelled to Vienna. He filled in no diary entries, but I have him express opinions he mentioned elsewhere.

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17 July 1917

Vienna – a city which I hate. The forced gaiety of the people is as cloying to me as the rich desserts which gag my mouth. They live on the borderline with death, and their sweat reeks of terror. It drips onto their ghastly cakes as they peer across the table to see what their companions have. “Shit in; shit out,” as my father would say.

18 July 1917

I took a night train from Vienna. Not only was it the quickest conveyance available, but I did not have to look at the wretched city in the dark. It’s not a place of dreams, but of nightmares. But, perhaps it was foolish to flee, since my destination is a nightmare.

07/15/2024 0

Kafka Goes On The Road To See Death

18 February 1917

A drive to the country, to see the dying.

A man from my childhood. We could have been porters in the station, with other people’s luggage, so little did he care.

There was no pretence at conversation, he did not even feign an interest. He had gone into himself, and death patiently awaited his return.

07/09/2024 0

03 July Is Kafka’s Birthday Celebrations Run Rampant

Hearty renditions of “Hip Hip Hooray” echo through every major city and quiet hamlet.

I have written Franz the following letter. As yet, it is unanswered.

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My Present / Your Future

Still in this World

A Life Away

Dear F:

You would find it perverse to be wished a “Happy” birthday, but your response would be gracious. Such is the reality you understand, and how you deal with it. I have found that your reality is actually real.

Although it will give you no pleasure – well, ‘little’ pleasure – you are correct in all your observations.

Governments become the tools of the bureaucracies that 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 their sway over the city where you spent your life. All three oppressed the people they ruled. All three looked after themselves first.

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. You have thrown up your hands to ward off the snake. Sometimes – some few times – it loosens its grip.

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.

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.

There is no castle with walls thick enough to hide against the perils of being human. Which is why you never tried.

Except the grave, of course.

Except the grave.

Yours,

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And, in my novel about him, Kafka In The Castle, I gave him this diary entry.

03 July 1918

The anniversary of my birth.

In celebration of the day, I did not make it my last.

07/04/2024 0

How Will Kafka Fill In The TIME 01 July 1917

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. It is estimated that Kafka destroyed 70% – 80% of everything he wrote.

Here Franz contemplates his long days to fill, after his beloved sister, Ottla, fled their parents house in Prague for a farm in a village.

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01 July 1917

A weekend which stretched endlessly. Long walks, but without Ottla. I would like to avoid the places where we went – but there would be little walking left to me. Instead I take a long walk into the country, and am at least a few kilometres closer to her.

07/01/2024 0

Will Kafka Save His Sister From Their Father?

In this entry, Franz’s father, after vicious opposition to his daughter moving out of the family house, asks Franz to help coax her back.

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29 June 1917

Felice is insistent. The heat is intolerable. The Institute drags me in like a bad novel, and smothers me in verbiage.

Max threatens to walk out on his wife. Of course, it is to me he gives this threat – I doubt he would ever tell her.

Father, with time to think about it, has declared Ottla is too thin and weakened. He was right, he says, the farm work is too much for her. We must all band together to get her back into Prague. “Isn’t that right, Franz?” No `Herr Son’ when he wants something.

Bring her back to Prague? After she has escaped? No and never.

I would attempt to free the vilest creature crawling in the sewers of Prague.

06/30/2024 0

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