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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04 June 1917
Sometimes – with F – a kiss could make me feel l was becoming part of her.
And she into me.
I retreated.
.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?”
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.
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.”
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.
The Ghost of Kafka walks
– not stalks –
The streets
Of Prague.
Prague,
The city he would/could
Never leave
Until the last
Year of his life.
He described Prague as:
“The little Mother has claws.”
Which she did.
For him.
He managed
To escape to Berlin,
During one of
The worst times
Anyone could live
In Berlin,
Until the end of the
Second World War.
But
The Second World War
Was years away.
He escaped with a young
Lover – Dora Diamant.
She made things
So much better.
However, his Ghost only
Walks the streets of Prague.
Whereas
Kafka’s Ghost
Stalks
The rest of
The World.
DE
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.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
27 May 1917
I shall visit Ottla. She asks that I come. She has been gone six weeks to the day. I could go next Saturday morning and stay two nights. I doubt the Director would mind. I could be back by noon, and work into the evening. Perhaps bring him eggs, or other farm produce. It would be appreciated with the shortages. She wrote that she could put me to work, if I’m worried about getting in the way. I know that she’ll really let me do what I want, but I actually would enjoy some chores. Some wood chopped, some earth hoed. More than the vapour which is the only result of thought. I’m sure she could find something for which I’m competent. I should do no worse than the other dumb animals.
Dear F:
I have found your reality is actually real.
Although it will give you no pleasure – well, ‘little’ pleasure – you are correct in all your observations.
1. Governments become the tools of the bureaucracies which 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 sway over the city where you spent your life. All three oppressed the people they ruled. All three looked after themselves first.
2. 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.
3. 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.
4. 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.
5. There is no Castle with walls thick enough to hide against the perils of being human. Which is why you never tried.
6. Except the grave, of course.
7. Except the grave.
Yours,
D.
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