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Kafka In The Castle

03 June 1917 & 03 June 1918 From “Kafka In The Castle” In Memory of Kafka’s 100th Death Date

  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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03 June 1917

 A day trip to visit Ottla. I went half the way, and so did she. I had an extra hour’s wait for the connection back to Prague, but really a minor inconvenience. It was a lovely day, perhaps hotter than one would expect, but certainly not the heat of Prague. It was a pretty village to stroll around, and we even walked an hour into the countryside. Had a decent meal in a tavern. Men in uniform – with guns – even there. Ottla has put on weight, which is something I did not expect. I joked about it, and she said it was muscle from all the work of the farm. I guessed it was from all the fresh food she can get on the farm.  The advantages of being in the country. She said that there were other advantages to being out of Prague, but then spoke no more about it. She didn’t mention father, and I didn’t tell her I had kept this visit to myself. Sometimes you have to dance without touching anyone.

03 June 1918

           There was a meeting at the Institute today, although it was not classed as a meeting. It was held during the usual lunch period, although nobody ate. It was apparently well planned, although a surprise to most of those present. It was about paper and documents, although no notes were kept. The Director himself invited the specifically chosen – came into our offices with a smile and a few choice words. The Director himself locked the door behind us.

     “When the war ends, there will be changes.” This was a safe statement, for the war must eventually end. Even Ottla could not find fault with that. But, for the rest of the hour, it would have been best to have one’s ears stopped up with wax, if one did not want to flirt with treason. We would be prudent, suggested the Director, if we excised our papers and our files. To let our judgement lean toward the heavy-handed approach. To assume that victors within and without the country will be after their pound of flesh. To realize that those who desire the Republic of Czechoslovakia, will have the desire to eradicate all visages of the Austro-Hungarian Empire. That those in positions of power, when that power is removed, will have no position at all. “Where does one go,” asked a man, to no one in particular, as we filed from the office, “when your country leaves you?”

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Why Does Kafka Ponder His Fine Dining At The Sanatorium Frankenstein?

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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02 June 1918

           I took an evening train back to Prague, so I was able to have Sunday dinner at the Sanatorium Frankenstein. Much more restful than at my father’s table. The officials – and the officious – knew of my opinions. And know that I will be back on other trips for the Institute. Changes will be made, and those changes will be kept. With all these understandings in place, the meal was reasonably cordial.

     I chose to sit with the patients. There was, of course, unspoken control here – those whom they can’t control eat in other rooms. My wish-granting colonel was not to be seen, let alone heard. And if staff questions were not answered, then “Do you like the meals?” became “Tell Doktor Kafka if you like the meals.” I did hear one bandaged patient respond; “Why, is he the cook?” I chose – like everyone else – to ignore the comment. The food, if somewhat scant and overdone, was decent enough country fare. Better than many Prague cafes. There was no need for any fond good byes – I will be back.

     I paced the station platform for awhile, thinking of the places I’ve been, and the sights I’ve seen. The people I have met. I occasionally, in Prague, go just to watch the trains arrive and depart. All that hectic bustle, noise and confusion, and then – emptiness. It is at such times that I am tempted to think that the meaning of life is movement. And, eventually, my train came, and I was the one in motion.

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Is It Best To Speak Exactly To The Insane?

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 June 1918

          I was walking some distance from the Sanatorium, lost to my usual thoughts and memories, when a voice from behind startled me. “You’re the Herr Doktor from Prague?” I was turning, ready to agree and put on my smile, when the voice continued. “You’re not like the rest of them – thank God.” He barely stopped for breath. “I can grant you three wishes. But you have to be quick, for they will soon be after me.” And I must have been thinking of his previous offer, for my requests came without hesitation. “Make me worthwhile,” I said. “Give me someone to love,” I said. “Grant me oblivion,” I said. And he looked past me, seeing white coats in the distance – or, perhaps, French and American soldiers. Or – perhaps – he could just not look into my eyes. “They are yours.” He spoke, preparing to flee. “The wishes are yours. But…” he paused, just long enough to add, “…not necessarily in that order.”

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A Question From Kafka: “Me, Myself, and I – Who are we?”

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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30 May 1918

          If wishes were horses; K, The Herr Doktor of Laws, and Frankie – perhaps, most of all, poor Frankie – would mount and ride toward the mountains, toward the sea, toward that place where we would not be we.

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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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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 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.

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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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The New Year Prods Kafka To Think Of His Youth

03 January 1917

I still have fantasies about the Swiss girl – although not the type one might suppose.

(My father says I already have too many fantasies, and that I deal with them “too long, and too often” – he is certainly right.)

I make a mixture of what I shared with the Swiss girl, and what I imagine we would be like today. This is certainly more fantasy than not, for what would being together have done to us? Done to her?

But, in this tiny house – could she not join me?

Be here by the window, as I write this?

But she was so young, and such a girl, where I fear that I was never such a boy.

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