My novel. Kafka In The Castle, fills in Kafka’s missing diary entries. This is how I imagine Kafka’s best friend, Max Brod, reacts to one of the many times Kafka burned his own manuscripts.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
19 April 1917
Max was horrified when I told him about last night.
“You burned your stories? Are you crazy?”
“I wrote them, so I must be.”
He smiled at that. Max’s anger can be easily deflected, for it is never deep. Max is a very good man, and cares for me more than I do myself.
“And the novel? The Amerika novel?”
I told him that many chapters of that must have been burned. Probably right from the start – they were no doubt the first things I grabbed from the chair. “Anything else?”
“There were a couple of plays. I remember pages of dialogue.”
Max’s voice became hollow. He might no longer be angry, but neither was he happy. “I didn’t know you had written any plays. You have secrets even from me.”
“I keep secrets from myself. Don’t be offended.”
“What else?”
I could picture him writing down an inventory.
“Some diary entries – those were deliberate.”
“And was that the end of your pyromaniac obsession?”
“Of my own work – yes.”
He looked at me questioningly – he didn’t need another secret.
“There were a couple of bundles of letters from Felice. Neatly tied with string. They burned slowly. I have not had such warmth from her for a long time.”
[image] https://quelibroleer.files.wordpress.com/2011/05/libo-quemandose1.jpg
WHEN IN ROME!
There was:
an Abyssinian (I made her),
an Albanian,
a Bolshevik,
a Brataslzvian (he was worst),
a Brazilian,
a Canadian,
a Cannibal (uh-oh),
a Colombian (smoking hot),
a Cynic (she didn’t believe the Canadian),
a Dominican,
a Druid (he prayed for the Dominican),
a Druze,
an Eatonian,
an Estonian,
a Fool (ha ha),
a Freizen,
a Gazian,
a Graduate,
a Haligonian,
a Helgolandian (he was and gone),
an Israeli,
an Iranian,
an Iraqi (they three went into a bar),
a Jamaican,
a Japanese,
a Kazistanian,
a Kurd,
a Lithuanian,
a Lush (one in every crowd),
a Mongolian,
a Monster (them is the odds),
a Nederlander,
a Norwegian,
an Olympian (he was game),
an Opportunist (coulda been me),
a Pole (he vaulted over the rest – *joke*),
a Quebecois (I’ll never forget her / Je me souviens),
a Russian (great dancer – he had the steps),
a Scandinavian,
a Southerner (I melt when she says ‘Y’all) ,
a Stevedore,
a Transvalanian (out for blood),
an Ukrainian,
an Unitarian,
a Vulcan (he was eerie),
a Waalloon,
a Wisenheimer,
an Xanaduian (and on her dulcimer she played),
an Xaverian (he shot daggers at the Dominican),
a Yugoslavian
and
a Zarahthustain (thus he spoke a lot)
The Canadian won the first game.
(image) cdn.makeuseof.com/wp-content/uploads/2014/11/qwerty-keyboard-840×420.jpg?7497b8
Franz Kafka inches toward being dead for 100 years.He died on this day, 03 June, in 1924. he did not go gently into that good night, though he probably was just as happy to be gone. It was difficult to satisfy Kafka,
I wonder what Kafka would think about the worldwide communication and information of today. He was a rigid fixture of the staid (he hated using the telephone). He also was a keen observer of the world around him (he wrote the first newspaper report about aeroplanes, and he invented the safety helmet). It was more this deep divide in his personality which caused him his problems, about which he so famously wrote.
He did not fit into his personal world, yet he fit into the real world perfectly. He was adored by his friends and by many ladies. He was respected at his work and rose to a position of power. His stories were published to acclaim in his lifetime.
Kafka lived a Kafkaesque life. He died a Kafkaesque death (he caught tuberculosis because he drank “pure” unpasteurised cow’s milk). He was rigid in his personal beliefs (until proved wrong), yet he was a beacon of compassion to others.
Kafka was always on a tightrope. He looked at things with such accuracy that his comments can seem bizarre. Supposedly his last words were: “Kill me, or you are a murderer.” They were to his doctor, as Kafka beseeches for an overdose of morphine.
I have written much about Kafka. I will share but two.
This is the diary entry I had him write in my fictional novel “Kafka In The Castle”:
03 July 1917
The anniversary of my birth. In honour of the day, I do not make it my last.
And this is a short story.
The old Rabbi moved slightly on his bed, and the young man raced over.
“Yes, Rebbe?”
The old Rabbi opened his eyes, showing the cast of death which had almost consumed him. “Ka … ” he groaned.
The young man had been told the dying Rabbi would never regain his senses, and he did not know what to do. He was scared, almost horrified, but he leaned closer.
“What is it? What do you want?”
The old Rabbi struggled for breath. “Ka … Kaf …”
The young man gazed at the face, saw its pallid features and the clouded eyes. He touched a shrunken cheek, raised his voice to a shout. “What is it? What can I do?” He could hear wheezing, the struggle for air. He put his ear directly over the gaping mouth.
“Ka … Ka …” One last ragged breath, a low hollow whisper. “Kafka died for your sins.”
My two gals, Alison Alexandra and her friend, Amanda, went on a sea voyage. A voyage via a freighter, and not a cruise ship. They stop in the ports where the freighter stops, and they take visits of the town if they so desire.
On one of their times on shore, they decide to visit a Police Museum. One of the exhibits is a Death Mask of a hanged murderer. They take great interest in this, noting the repose of the face.
I once taught a workshop on Supernatural writing. For my workshop I took advantage to take my students on a field trip to see the death mask of a historically known poet. The death mask was conveniently on view in a display case in a near-by building.
None of them had even heard of ‘death masks’, let alone seen one. I invited them to incorporate the idea into their writing exercises. Some did, some did not.
However, it’s possible this visit to Death elicited the following story from one of my students.
My student and her husband had purchased a new house. Cleaning and renovations eventually took them to the back loft area, which was piled high with decades of accumulated detritus from a long life.
They cleared out beds and boxes and newspaper piles and magazines and bundles of clothes and on and on. Near the end of this process, my student noticed a “clump of something”on one of the wooden beams of the loft.
Getting ladder and flashlight her husband climbed to see what it was.
It was the end of a number of knotted bed sheets.
I have a *new* message
From a “ghostwriter”
Who
Whom(?)
Will make my BOOK
look
BRILLIANT
Will this give me
A ghost of a chance?
{Image} https:/cdn.writermag.com/2017/10/shutterstock_715257643.jpg
1: Write regularly. Daily might be extreme, but try to be extreme.
2: When in doubt / take it out.
3: At the end of your writing day, do not complete the action/description/dialogue – but know what it is. Start with this known at your next writing time. 90% of the time you will slide right back into the work.
4: Eschew, Ignore and Abandon All Hope Ye Who Enter Here, the notion that there are no rules. There are rules to everything. Artistic Creation demands rules.
5: Follow your characters.
6: Follow your characters.
7: Follow your characters.
(image) https:/c1.staticflickr.com/5/4252/34743456922_7b4deab196_b.jpg