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Franz Kafka & Sweet Love For Valentine’s Day

Contrary to popular belief, Kafka had a very full love life. He was rarely without a lady friend during any part of his life. When one left, another soon took her place.

The following is a part of a letter he wrote to Felice, the woman he was engaged to – twice. It is fair to say that she was long-suffering. The sentiments Kafka expresses might have given her second thoughts. Perhaps that is partly why there were two engagements.

Think what one will about Kafka’s romantic abilities, he was a chick magnet. Right to the end. After his funeral, his last lover had to be restrained from leaping into his grave to be with him.

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11 November, 1912

Fräulein Felice!

I am now going to ask you a favor which sounds quite crazy, and which I should regard as such, were I the one to receive the letter. It is also the very greatest test that even the kindest person could be put to. Well, this is it:

Write to me only once a week, so that your letter arrives on Sunday — for I cannot endure your daily letters, I am incapable of enduring them. For instance, I answer one of your letters, then lie in bed in apparent calm, but my heart beats through my entire body and is conscious only of you. I belong to you; there is really no other way of expressing it, and that is not strong enough. But for this very reason I don’t want to know what you are wearing; it confuses me so much that I cannot deal with life; and that’s why I don’t want to know that you are fond of me. If I did, how could I, fool that I am, go on sitting in my office, or here at home, instead of leaping onto a train with my eyes shut and opening them only when I am with you?  … Franz

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While Kafka was in the first year of his ‘love-of-a-lifetime’ affair with Felice Bauer,  he met “The Swiss Girl”. In his diaries, she was only referred to as W. or G. W. They were together for ten days in a spa on Lake Garda.

She was a Christian. He was thirty, she was eighteen. However, the relationship (apparently sexually consummated) made a great impression on him for the rest of his life.

Research over the years  finally revealed her name is Gerti Wasner. However, very little else (as far as I can find) is known about her.

Where did her life lead after an encounter with Kafka?

Here are some of Kafka’s actual diary entries about the incident.

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20 October 1913

I would gladly write fairy tales (why do I hate the word so?) that could please W. and that she might sometimes keep under  the table at meals, read between courses, and blush f

22 October 1913.

Too late. The sweetness of sorrow and of love. To be smiled at by her in the boat. That was most beautiful of all. Always only the desire to die and the not-yet-yielding; this alone is love.

Translated by Joseph Kresh

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Sister Darling Saves A Soul For Valentine’s Day

Sister Darling, of

The Rarefied Church of the World (reformed),

Stepped onto the dock of

The Partridge Island Lighthouse

This Valentine Day morning,

From an outgoing fishing boat,

To spend the day (and night)

On behalf of my religious studies.

Provisions she brought, beyond

Usual Lighthouse Keeper fare,

Incl. chocolates and bottles o’ wine.

There were even finely cut

Fresh fish fillets for

Paw, my cat/kitten,

Black as soot

With one white mitten.

And when my religious instructions

Were done,

And before our festive feast,

We greeted each other with

Such enthusiasm,

That her hair-holding bun

Became undone,

And cascaded across her shoulders,

Giving Paw, the cat/kitten,

A place to hide.

I’m The Lighthouse Poet Laureate of Partridge Island /1821 – 2023 / A lot of stuff have I seen / A lot of stuff to report}

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Buddy’s Ghost Was At The Theater And I Almost Said Hello

I once related the story of seeing my long-dead uncle driving past in a car. A learned, and much older gentleman, told others that I had had the common experience of seeing dead people. Up to that point, I didn’t know it was common. I’m not sure it is, as no one else has mentioned it to me.

But, at any rate, I saw Buddy’s ghost at the theater last night. It still takes me by surprise, though it no longer startles me. And I didn’t say “Hello”, because I thought it would startle the person, dead or not.

And a theater was the right place, for Buddy was an actor. A professional actor in his younger days, with a country-wide reputation. When I knew him, he had settled into being a theater/acting/directing teacher, affiliated with a university. He still did some turns on the stage. His advice was sought. His company was enjoyed. His personality was appreciated. Never boring. Never a bore.

And he was a damn good chef.  And a great story-teller over his meals.

And, at the theater, when I saw his ghost, there was his hat. Buddy could be a snazzy dresser. This guy was a snazzy dresser – stood out in the crowd – though I only saw him but the once. Not unusual that. I didn’t expect to see him again. I never saw my uncle again, either.

And – when all is said and done – I didn’t really have anything to say.

“How’s it going?”

“Well – you know.”

“How’s it going?”

“Well – you know. Much as you expect.”

“How’s it going?”

“You’ll know soon enough.”

I didn’t really expect to be told of Elysian Fields or Thrones of Gold or What is in Shakespeare’s tomb.

So, I didn’t approach him, and say “Hello”. And make him turn around.

And – in truth – a day later, I’m not so sure about the hat.

DE

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What Would You Title The Chapters Of Your Autobiography? #Bloganuary

What would you title the chapters of your autobiography?

Born and Bored

Looking Around

Who Are These People

School Leaves Much To Be Desired

The Broken Eggs Of The Robin

Girls

Rubbing The Plates

University Engulfs

Working On A Farm In Germany

On The Way To Dachau

Women

First Novel

The Ice House

252 Charlotte

Gov Doc And Mrs Colson

A Lost Tale

DE

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Franz Kafka Exposed In His Newly Translated Unexpurgated Diary

Franz Kafka  has just had an updated version of his Diaries translated and released in English.

Of course, he is being touted as a rather naughty fellow, with various sexual observations (and perhaps desires) revealed. Comments about gentlemen’s private members seem to lead the reviews (much as reviews of Prince Harry’s Spare were quick to point out his frostbitten, er, Willie).

It really took a more free-wheeling translation to show Kafka was a very sexual (and sexy) fellow. He liked the ladies, had numerous lovers, and enjoyed the paid ministrations of  – as he referred to them – ‘shop girls’. His last lover had to be restrained from leaping into his open grave.

None of this is really new. I have read all of his diaries published before this edition. Most of it was already there.

The editor of his diaries was his best friend, Max Brod. Brod also removed references to Kafka’s real opinions about his contemporaries. And other socially doubtful observations.

I have written a book, Kafka In The Castle, where I fill in all of the diary entries missing from his diaries, imagining what he might have been doing on those days. As it is assumed that Kafka, himself, destroyed about 80% of all his own writings, it is assumed he destroyed these entries himself.

I don’t know what this new addition might do for my Kafka manuscript. But, as they say, any publicity is good publicity – it’s publicity.

Here is a link to an interview with the translator of the new diaries:

https://slate.com/culture/2023/01/kafka-diaries-uncensored-homoerotic-ross-benjamin-interview.html

And below are entries from my manuscript.

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07 December 1916

                Max takes the fact I always tell the truth as a virtue. He takes my protestations as a virtue. But I am capable of nothing else. Max even says he is envious of me, and I actually laughed in his face. Me, so envious of everyone living their real lives. He was much taken by surprise.

08 December 1916

                 I have not admitted something to Max. It is the closest I come to lying – not saying everything I think. So I have not told him I see envy on the faces of many people. Even my father. It is a power which I do not want. A power which frightens me. 

17 May 1917

           Dreamed I was in Florence, after a long train journey. I was supposed to meet M. upon the bridge with all the goldsmith shops. I had the feeling we had chosen the place as an equivalent to the Alchemist’s Lane. And as I walked along the river, it was indeed Prague I saw on the other shore. I wondered if I might be in this tiny house, scratching out these words upon the page – this page. But I continued toward the bridge, and tried to ignore the Prague of my dreams. Much as in real life.

     The bridge was in a precarious state, the abutments pocked and stained. Mortar fell away in handfuls. I looked up to see M. standing at the top of the steps. There were double handrails made of gold, and the steps themselves seemed burnished with use. “Hurry,” she implored, leaning toward me and pointing to the river. This movement deepened the cleavage between her generous breasts, and I was distracted. I imagined my hand slipping beneath the confines of her blouse, and my fingers retrieving a heated nugget of gold. But finally I turned to where she was pointing, and saw that the river was nearly at my heels. I moved adroitly, and was soon standing beside her. “Must you meet me in such a place?” I asked. “It’s your dream. And, you weren’t so concerned a minute ago.”  “But we’re here for the gold?” I asked.  “No.” She took my hand. “We’re here for the view.”

     She led me into one of the shops where the goldsmiths were shaping sheets of gold around molds, tiny hammers going tap tap tap across the rich, dull surface. I could smell the scent of warm gold from between her breasts. I wanted to taste it, going flick flick flick with the tip of my tongue. Yet another button had unhooked from the strain, and I could glimpse the gold piece, damp with sweat. “Are you after my treasure?” asked M. “Even if we are in Florence,” I said, feeling very clever with myself, “that doesn’t mean all the treasures are ones of art.” M. was kind enough to smile. She then gestured. “Look – to left and right.”

     As I looked from one bank of the river to the other, I saw that the cities were vying for my attention. Florence was bowing on my left, while Prague was undulating from the right. The buildings shook, the towers nodded, and the river tore between. At my side, M. was joining in with a dance of her own, her nearly exposed breasts swaying with little restraint. “You’re not helping,” I said. “You watch what you want,” she replied. The river was now so turbulent that music escaped from the waves, and the two cities attempted to outdo each other. Florence beckoned with the raised steps of a gavotte, while Prague hipswung with the new American jazz. “Which city?” asked M., her hair in a swirl, and the last button defeated. “Which city is to be your partner?” And my eyes left her wild hair and the flashing nugget of gold, and I stepped onto the river, its music around my knees. And I held out my hands toward Prague.

20 May 1917

           But of course, it was just a dream.

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Kafka Takes Praise With – Not A Grain – But A Bag Of Salt

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 with the timeline.

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12 January 1917

I have heard that Max has been praising me again. Excessively.

He not only praises my scribbling, but also imbues me with the fortitude and honesty of the Christian saints. He will next want me to open my own rabbinical school.

It is neither easy nor expedient to be honest, and causes much resentment. People do like to know they can trust you, but are generally wary about the truth.

Especially if it is truth about them.     

Particularly if it is my truth about them.

It is generally acceptable however, to be truthful about other people.

Yes, my writings are the truth – a total truth. But, I do not know how to write any other way.

I may as well be praised for being born with two arms and black hair, my choice in the matter is the same.

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Franz Kafka Ponders On New Year’s Eve

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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31 December 1916

The festivities down in the city are certainly subdued, which makes me one with the coming of the year. There were a few shots fired into the air – which is a mockery, considering what is happening in the world. And some dismal fireworks.

Max wanted me at his party, but even he saw little point in celebration, and his entreaties were totally for form.

I understand form quite well – most of my life consists of doing the expected.

Mouthing the proper words.

My letters to Felice have turned to such vehicles of propriety.

In such a way do all our days, and then our lives, acquire the necessary postmarks.

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Kafka Warms Himself With His Own Manuscripts

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.

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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.”

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One Small Step 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

March 1917

               A trail of wet footprints across one of the court yards. Tiny footprints. A child’s. Perhaps a woman’s. Starting and stopping as if out of nothing and into nowhere. She must have walked through a puddle, or some melting snow. This little waltz by an invisible dancer. I held out my arms, a partner at last.

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