“It will be recalled that Kafka had his first haemorrhage on 11 August 1917. He referred to it in letters to Felice, Ottla and Max Brod. In the last he expresses a mixed feeling of having been punished, of facing doom and of relief. In none of these letters does he express surprise or bitterness. It sounds almost as if he had anticipated it. In a diary entry of 2 August 1914, in which he mentioned that Germany had declared war on Russia, he also said: ‘I doubt I shall reach the age of 40.’ ‘The Judgment’ suggest that he might have head his first admonition of death as early as 1912.”
“What did he do after the diagnosis?” asked Theophil, assuming the guise of Peppi.
“An entry in his diary, made shortly after the diagnosis, he says: ‘Perhaps I am already dead, and this experience is only a lingering of my disintegration.’ In this spirit, he took leave from AUVA and from the autumn of 1917 to April 1918 resided in Zürau, in the farm run by his siter Ottla. Whilst there, he lived a simple rural life. After leaving Zürau, he attempted to resume his office work in Prague. But his work was interrupted by bouts of illness. He needed long periods of sick leave, spent in sanatoria.”
“Were these resorts expensive places?”
“They were, rather. Hermann Kafka footed the bills.”
“You, Peter’le, approve of Hermann, don’t you?”
“I prefer to use the word ‘understand’ to ‘approve, Maestro.”
“No need to mince words. Please tell me why you approve of or understand him? Is it because he reminds you of your own maternal grandfather?”
“Partly. Both were go-getters and built up their own enterprises. Further, both became highly assimilated and gave a miss to traditional Judaism and Yiddish culture. But there is more to it than that!”
“Please, tell me!”
“Hermann Kafka gave Franz a fine education. I have no doubt that this was instrumental in enabling our Franz to settle on his writing career. And there is one further point: notwithstanding Franz’s failure as businessman and his broken engagements, Hermann kept supporting him to the end. True, Hermann was, I believe, loud and overbearing. But he was a devoted family man, and – notwithstanding Kafka’s letter of 1919 – I regard Hermann a good and tolerant father. He was a rough diamond. Franz Kafka’s biographer and admirers emphasise the ‘rough’ and overlook ‘the diamond’. To my mind, they are unfair!”
“They would disagree with your conclusions,” observed Peppi. “And don’t forget that, at least one of them – Max Brod – was an eyewitness.”
“I am aware of this. I also know that Dora Diamant, who lived with Kafka during his final years, tried to paint him as a Hassidic Zadik. She even told unbelievable anecdotes about him, like to doll story.”
“The doll story?” asked Peppi.
“Yes, according to this fable, Kafka encountered a little girl in the park who cried because she had lost her doll. Kafka is supposed to have written to her letters, purporting to be the doll’s, telling all about the doll’s travels. He is then supposed to have given the little girl a new doll, explaining that she looked different because she had changed.”
“A charming story,” averred Peppi. “What do you have against it?”
“Kafka was far too wrapped in himself and his problems to have embarked on such a sentimental venture. Kafka did not finish any of his novels. Even The Trial had to be copy-edited by Max Brod. I do not believe that Kafka would have started and finished the correspondence entailed by the episode invented by Dora. On this point, I agree with his biographers.”
“You sure have it in for poor Franz Kafka. Why, Peter’le? I want to hear it from your own mouth.”
“Basically, because of his carryings on during his last few years.”
“Let us then turn to them,” said Peppi.
“As already indicated, Kafka did not feel bitter. In a strange way, he felt liberated. He thought that his debilitating weakness exonerated him from observing human decencies. During his stay in 1919 in a convalescent resort, he met a fellow sufferer, Julie Wohryzek, the daughter of a Jewish shoemaker. In his diary entries, Kafka describes her as simple minded and ordinary. But he courted her. They got engaged, set a date for their wedding and even located a suitable rental flat in Prague. It is not clear whether Hermann objected to the union or approved it grudgingly. Be this as it may, Franz cancelled this engagement. Far from doing this in person, he did so, in March 1920, by instructing a notary to send a formal letter to his fiancée’s sister.”
“What do Kafka’s biographers say about this episode?”
“They suggest that, when cancelling the match, Kafka succumbed to his family’s pressure. They also emphasized that Julie’s working-class background was lower than Kafka’s.”
“And you reaction?” asked Peppi.
“Candidly speaking: disgust. I can understand Franz Kafka’s reservations and fears of getting married. His letters and diary entries, indicate that ordinary family life was unsuitable for him. Further, I am not going to judge any person for backing out of a life-long commitment. Early separation is to be preferred to a divorce, following a failed marriage.”
“So, what are you objecting too?”
“The way it was done. The man – our Herr Doctor Franz Kafka – lacked the courage to do so in personam: instead of having a frank chat with Julie – who had the right to have expectations – he did so by means of the notarial letter sent to her sister. How gutless can you get?”
“Do you then condemn him for the absence of morality?”
“Not really. He knew that morally he acted wrongfully. But he did not have the courage to follow the dictates of common decency: he knew what he ought to do and failed to perform. That is Franz Kafka for you.”
“Once again, Peter’le, you are judgemental. Can you really blame a person for being unable to assume the gumption to do the right thing? I am sure that Dr. Freud would disagree with you,” said Peppi and without further ado metamorphosed into his Dr. Freud image.
“I know this, Dr. Freud. Human beings often know they ought to carry out or refrain from doing an act but are paralysed or driven by emotive reactions. Franz Kafka is a direct case in point,” I conceded. “Actually, Kafka tried to explain his behaviour by writing his famous letter to his father.”
“Oh, yes,” retorted Dr. Freud, “the letter praised by his admirers and scorned by you. Well, let us have another look at it.”
“Kafka wrote it when he felt the need to jilt Julie. The letter functioned as his farewell to the very possibility of domestic life. It is an admission that his father’s alleged dominance and his own self-scrutiny rendered intimacy and normal family life unattainable.”
“It sounds like it,” agreed Theophil, assuming once again the guise of the street wise Peppi. “But then, Peter’le, did Kafka simply fade away resignedly?”
“Far from it. It is not clear whether Julie turned away or hoped that he would return. In any event, In April 1920, Kafka received Milena Jesenská’s letter asking for his consent to her translating his work into Czech. She was the wife of Ernst Pollak, whom Kafka had met in the Prague circle. Milena, who was a Roman Catholic, lived at that time in Berlin and the correspondence between them intensified. In June 1920, they met in Vienna. In the ensuing exchange of letters, he romanticised her. In a sense, she was the woman he dreamt of. The letters – later published as Letter to Milena – reveal the emotional intensity experienced by him. They met again in Gmünd (on the border-town between Austria and Bohemia) in August. Kafka’s health was declining at that time. Milena indicated that she was still in love with her husband. And she told Kafka: ‘You think of me as salvation, but you will not let yourself be saved.’ Thereafter the correspondence cooled, although it continued as a philosophical exchange. In November, Kafka accepted that the closeness, which was platonic, was at its end. They continued to exchange letter sporadically.”
“Tell me what you know about Kafka’s next few years.”
“By then he was a very sick man. But he took his lot philosophically. In a diary entry of February 1921, he wrote: ‘Illness is the most honest part of me; it reveals everything that is hidden.’ But he stuck to his writings. He tells us: ‘Writing is a form of prayer.’ Still in 1921, he laments: ‘All I am is literature, and I am not even that.’ His elf-doubts are manifest.”
“Was 1921 then a sterile period in his life?”
“Difficult to say. He spent much of the year on sick leave, residing mainly in small villages near Prague and in his sister’s farm in Zürau. He experienced spells of despair and depression. Whilst he did not write any major work, he revised the aphorisms written in 1917. Some Kafka scholars consider 1921 a transitional phase in his life, when his focus shifted from storytelling to spiritual and psychological introspection. But I have my doubts. In 1921, he still hoped to see some improvement of his health and a return to active service in AUVA. Further, he was still writing, tough sporadically, to Milena. Is it possible that he still had some hope as regards a relationship?”
“Actually, what happened to Milena?”
“She did not have any further emotive entanglement with Kafka. But she sorted her life out. In the mid-twenties she severed her relationship with her estranged husband and devoted herself to her socialist vocation. Inter alia, she tried to save Jews and engaged in anti-Nazy propaganda. She was incarcerated in a concentration camp, where she died in 1944.”
“Well, let us turn back to Kafka. The period is important both for him and for posterity. At this stage, Peter’le, the man and the author merge: they have to be discussed in tandem,” said Peppi and resumed his Descartes image. The change was called for: we were getting close to formulating our conclusions.
“You gave me the outline, Maestro. 1922 was a year of intense literary activity but also of creative despair. Kafka spent a few months in Spiendelmühle in the Bohemian mountains. In January he started The Castle. He wrote intensively, describing the process as feverish yet exalting: the very process we recall from his composition of ‘The Judgment’ in 1912. His body, though, was not up to it. In March he collapsed whist in mid-sentence. Shortly, thereafter he returned to Prague, for his last spell at AUVA. Later, on 15 January 1923, he explained in a letter to Max Brod, that he had to abandon the project. He never came back to it. In my assessment, the very work on this unfinished novel was misguided: Kafka came to recuperate but the fervid writing and ensuing lack of rest was counterproductive.”
“You, Peter’le, have serious doubts about the novel. Please explain.”
“Very well. First, the novel remained unfinished. Indeed, Max Brod read Kafka’s abovementioned letter as a statement that the novel would not be completed. But he averred that Kafka intimated to him that he the proposed end was K’s demise shortly after his being advised that, although no residential approval could be given, he would not be asked to leave. To my way of thinking, this is a most unlikely ending because it describes the authorities as taking a stand. A far more Kafkaesque ending would be K’s demise followed months later by a letter, carried by Barnabas (the messenger), in which Klam commends the land surveyor’s excellent work during the last few weeks.”
“I have to agree,” grinned Descartes. “It would be absurd. But then, Kafka often highlights the absurdity of the establishment. Well, let us turn to your remaining reservations. In a way, the unfinished structure mirrors the futility of seeking any meaning in an irrational order. Max Brod’s proposed ending side steps this point. Your proposed ending underscores it.”
“My second point concerns the message. As it stands, what does The Castle add to the clear message of The Trial? To my way of thinking the available passages of The Castle are redundant. The authority’s absurdity and ineffectiveness are vividly described not only in The Trial but also In The Penal Colony. The result is simple: an ordinary reader who works his way through The Castle is bound to ask himself: quo vadis? The critics come up with varying answers. But did Kafka write for them?”
“You sure have it in for the critics, mon cher Pierre,” grinned Descartes. “Point taken, but please proceed.”
“My third argument concerns the characters and episodes. Many are not needed. And some episodes add little to the narrative. Finally, I have serious reservations about the style. It is not as lucid as in previous works. Whilst The Metamorphosis is conceptually disturbing, the style is outstanding. Odd to say, the style in Kafka’s later works, such as The Burrow and The Hunger Artist are excellent: as good as in his earlier work. He seems to have made a comeback. Reading The Castle is painful: it is belaboured.”
“Some modern scholars agree with you. Well, how does all this reflect on Kafka the Man?”
“I need to be careful here, Maestro. I am aware that Max Brod and Kafka’s last consort, Dora Diamant, see in The Castle a turning point: a return to or the embarking on a spiritual dream. As you know, I disagree. The Castle was written when Kafka was isolated and lonesome. Like most human beings, Franz Kafka needed an audience or a dream. His failure as regards The Castle is explainable because these were absent at this specific stage of his life.”
“So much for The Castle. Well, what did Kafka do after giving up on it?”
“He returned to his parents’ home in Prague. In July 1922, AUVA agreed to pension him off. In the spring of 1923, he moved to Berlin. Later, in July he met Dora Diamant in a resort on the Baltic Sea. She was the daughter of a Hassidic Polish family, who had left her home, changed her outward orientation, became a Zionist and was, at that time, working at a Jewish children’s camp. They quickly became close. She moved with him to Berlin. Their relationship gave Kafka emotional warmth although his illness continued to worsen.”
“Did she bring him closer to Judaism and Zionism?”
“The point is debatable. As already stated, Dorra painted him as a Hassidic Zadik. Max Brod canonised him as a great writer and a latent Zionist. But I have my doubts.”
“Why?”
“To his very end, Franz Kafka remained a man wrapped in himself and in his alienation issue. Dora weaved pious tales about him, like the above mentioned Doll Story. She also span the myth of his wishing to ascend with her to Palestine and open a restaurant or coffee house. There is no doubt that she gave him lessons in Hebrew, which he had actually studies in 1917. His teacher during that year, Phua Ben-Tovim – Hugo Bergman’s protégé – spent some time in Prague to further her studies in mathematics. She was an ardent Zionist and taught Hebrew in her spare time. So, Dora’s lessons were a follow up. All the same, I entertain serious doubts about his awakening: did the leopard change his spots?”
“You better treat carefully, Peter’le. I can think of many instances in which people – even great thinkers – changed their orientation late in life,” observed Descartes.
“True,” I agreed. “But let us have a close look at the facts. During Kafka’s lifetime modern Hebrew was in a stage of development. As yet, it had not become the lingua franca of the Yishuv in Palestine. Yiddish, Ladino and East European languages remained prevalent. The Hebrew revival eventuated mainly after 1922. Moreover, German was still widely used in Zionist congresses. Notably, neither Theodor Herzl nor Max Nordau had any command of Hebrew. In the circumstances, Kafka’s interest would appear to have been intellectual rather than political.”
“And how about his plan to migrate to Palestine?”
“We know that in 1923 Kafka planned to accompany Hugo Bergmann’s wife on her trip back to Palestine. The ship, though, was booked out. Kafka decided to stay put and indicated to her that his wish to migrate was a fantasy. I am inclined to accept this as fact. Kafka had talked about migrating to America and, later on, to move to Berlin with Felice. His proposed plans must be taken with a pinch of salt.”
“Let us then turn back to his Dora Diamant period. The records confirm that she lived with him and looked after him.”
“Correct,” I confirmed. “But was it bed of roses? In diary entries and letters to Max Brod, Kafka confirmed Dora’s devotion and his renaissance. But he also said that he felt as if in prison and lamented his dependence. In March 1924, he writes: ‘D. guards me like an angel; I love her for it and wish she would go.’ Then, in April, he took a train back to Prague. Dora did not accompany him. To me it looks odd that he embarked on a seven-hour trip on his own, presumably to distance himself.”
“We know she trailed him after a few days,” confirmed Descartes. “You suspect that she followed him without summons. As you know, I can neither confirm nor deny this; but the pattern fits. When affection turns anxious, it seeks proximity by any means. Dora’s care was genuine, but it had the texture of conquest: tenderness enforced by will.”
“Some of Kafka’s biographers claim that the flat in Berlin was poorly heated and ventilated. They seek to explain his move back to Prague on this basis.”
“Do you accept this?”
“Not really. It fails to explain why he did not take her with him.”
“Do you, then, suspect that she imposed herself?”
“I wouldn’t go this far. Kafka was a man who yielded to strength; and he did so quietly and gracefully. I suspect that Dora did not appreciate that, even in respect of her, he remained ambivalent. She believed that she was saving him. He, on his part, allowed himself to appear to be saved. In plain word: he did not enlighten her.”
“But did he, in the very least, change his orientation, Peter’le? Did he really become a believer or a conscious Jew?”
“He did not! In aphorism 80, he tells us: ‘The Messiah will come only when he is no longer necessary; he will come only the day after his arrival.’ This is an agnostic paradigm. It denies that prayers can ever be answered. I know that Kafka wrote it in Zürau, in 1917 or 1918, but he kept revising his sayings. To my way of thinking, he stood his ground. To the very end, he denied redemption and hope.”
“Did he return to Berlin?”
“He didn’t. His last destination was a sanatorium on the outskirts of Vienna, known as Kierling. Dora looked after him. By then his tuberculosis had penetrated his throat. He was no longer able to swallow solid food. He died on 3 June, 1924 and was buried in Prague.”
“Was he well known at that time?” asked Theophil still maintaining his Descartes image.
“He was not. He could have been aptly described as a penny a liner: a composer of some articles, short stories and novellas. He would have been forgotten. The efforts of Max Brod, who edited his unfinished manuscripts and published them posthumously is too well known to deserve repetition. Further, Brod had to rely on the support of Thoman Mann and Hermann Hesse. Even so, Kafka remained relatively obscure until after the end of WWII, when Sarter and Camus lauded him and the Jewish lobby tried to cast him as a great Jewish writer. At around 1960-70 he became famous. People have heard about him; but not many have read him.”
“Why is that?” asked Descartes. “Was his style obscure?”
“No, Maestro. Even The Castle is readable. I think two major factors contribute to this. First, to understand him, readers have to familiarize themselves with his epoch. People are too engrossed in current affairs to look back. Secondly, his themes are dark: man cannot prevail. The system crushes him. Kafka does not leave room for hope. Gregor Samsa is discarded by his family; Joseph K is executed ‘like a dog’; K never reaches The Castle: his efforts are in vain.”
“Is Kafka then a nihilist?”
“I don’t think so. Kafka depicts a nihilistic universe but is not himself a nihilist. He’s better described as a tragic existentialist or sceptic – someone haunted by the absence of meaning, not celebrating it.”
“Please elaborate. I tend to agree. But would like to hear more.”
“Kafka’s heroes – if you call them that – are defeated by the system. But they do struggle to the end. A nihilist accepts his impotence right from the start; and he celebrates it. Kafka and his characters accept defeat but do not glorify it. To the contrary – the system is as absurd as the struggle against it.”
“Does Kafka then believe in redemption? Does he see light at the end of the existence tunnel?”
“He does not; and I suspect that this explains why people do not like reading him. In a sense, his stand is puzzling. His literary idol – Fyodor Dostoyevsky – believed in the eventual victory of the human spirit. Raskolnikov is redeemed by Sonya and by his own wakening. Ivan and Demitri Karamzov eventually see light. Further, great 20th century authors firmly believe that hope is always attainable. James T. Farrell wrote his Studs Lonigan trilogy in 1932 to 1935. He tells all about the weakness, moral decay and brutality of an impecunious strata in Chicago of his time. But even Studs has moments of tenderness, redemption and tribal loyalty. You sense that, if had been privileged to enjoy better education and life experience, he could have developed into a positive member of society.”
“Any other examples?”
“Yes, indeed. In his The Spark of Life, written in 1952, Erich Maria Remarque tells us that even after years of torture and starvation in a concentration camp, a prisoner continues to hope for a better life. And in 1962, Alexander Solzhenitsyn relates in One Day in the Life of Ivan Denisovich that even the spirit of a dissident, exiled to a labour camp in the Gulag, is not crushed by the hard conditions. Kafka, in contrast, talks about the ultimate defeat. His message is negative.”
“I do agree with you,” averred Descartes. “Of the many books in point, I see the need to refer to just one: Arthur Kötler’s Darkness at Noon. It tells the story of a hardened communist, who is being purged. But although he knows that the end is close, he uses a code, developed by another detainee, which enables him to converse by tapping the wall that separated their cells. Even in the face of the impending end, he shares his thoughts and anxieties with another human being. This, Peter’le, depicts the human spirit. It remains intact even in adverse and hopeless situations.”
I had nothing to add. Then, after a short pause, he continued: “Often humans even learn to be satisfied with an oppressive and negative existence. In The Old Man, William Faulkner tells us how an escaped prisoner returns to the prison he is used to. Further, Albert Camus tells us how Sisyphus came to like his lot. And many Jews chose to remain in the shtetl despite the prevailing poverty and the rigid and even suffocating regime. Escapees, like Hermann Kafka, were the exception.”
“Maestro,” I heard my voice, “you conclude, like myself, that Kafka’s failure to detect rays of hope, renders his final years as brittle as clay? I agree but need to highlight one further point. Kafka’s letters and diary entries show that, even during his final years, he was aware of the commands of morals and decent behaviour but lacked the gumption and the will to stand by them and act in tandem. To me, this is yet a further fault.”
“True. But Nebuchadnezzar’s dream, as construed by Daniel, refers to a period marked not only by clay but also by ‘solid’ iron. Is it displayed in Kafka’s final years?”
“I believe it is. His Zürau aphorisms are as brilliant as the sayings of the Ecclesiast. They are sharp, pointed and succinct. Undoubtedly, Quohelet [Kohelet] softens his thesis that everything is vanity, by advising people to enjoy their lot. Kafka does not ameliorate the negative stand, gleaned from the Messiah aphorism. But the quality and the precision of his sayings is outstanding.”
“Any other arguments in support of the ‘solid’ iron?”
“Yes: his entire writings of that period and his devoted proof correction when all hopes of recovery were gone, testify to his strength and perseverance in the face of calamity. I have covered these writings in detail in my ‘Kafka’s Feet of Clay’ paper. But I consider it necessary to revisit ‘The Burrow: [Der Bau]’. Kafka wrote it during his spell in Berlin. The narrator – a borer – tells us how he constructed underground labyrinths that would misdirect intruders. At the same time, he is cognizant that some unnamed, superior, being lurks about with a view to entrapping and destroying him. Dora Diamant suggested that he completed the story by describing the borer’s final defeat during a battle with this mysterious enemy.”
“Why do you doubt her words? It is a matter of record that the Gestapo confiscated and destroyed papers she had retained?”
“I know this but am convinced that such an ending would be alien to Kafka’s orientation. It would imbue the enemy – the system – with a design. But in Kafka’s view, the system itself was absurd. In my opinion, the mid-sentence ending of the story is a befitting end.”
“So much then for his last years. But you disapproved of The Castle,” pointed out Descartes. “How can you nevertheless refer to ‘solid iron’?”
“The ‘solid iron’ is Kafka’s outstanding performance in shorter text. Indeed, with the exception of The Trial all of Kafka’s master pieces are short. In the case of longe pieces, that is, full length novels, he lost track and abandoned them. The Trial differs because, in my opinion, Kafka settled on the sad end as he kept writing.”
“Please elaborate!”
“Kafka composed The Trial between August 1914 and January 1915. But he did not write sequentially. His diary entries and letters of that period show that the book was written spontaneously, with no fixed plan or outline. Whilst he might not have envisages the ending right at the start, he kept working on this tome consistently during the period. In a diary entry of 11-12, August 1914. He observed: ‘The story came to me suddenly, with no forethought, only the first sentence was clear to me.’ This establishes that the writing process was intuitive – not predetermined. But the inspiration pressed him until he finished writing. Whilst he did not copy-edit The Trial, the substance was complete. Hence, I regard it a completed text although it had to be copy edited.”
“Point taken,” agreed Descartes. “So, when all is said, you conclude that Kafka’s genius is demonstrated mainly by his short pieces, many of which were written in the years following his sad diagnosis. Accordingly, you aver that these years are marked by solid iron interspersed with brittle clay.”
“I do,” I affirmed. “Nebuchadnezzar’s dream does explain the progress of Kafka’s short life.”