“Well, Peter’le. We have by now assessed Kafka the Man. Let us try to reach some common sense conclusions about the man and the author,” suggested Theophil, and assumed his Peppi guise.

“Isn’t Descartes a more suitable image?”

“I don’t think so Peterle. First, we now have to revert to the reactions of a common reader or ordinary yet well-read member of society. Peppi is the right man. Secondly, you relate to my Peppi image. When you see him, you recall your late friend, Peppi Stölzl, to whom you transferred your deep love for your late father. His very presence will aid you to remain detached, analytical and yet warm and kindly. Well, let us start by looking at Kafka posthumous fame. Don’t you think that his decision to constitute Max Brod his literary executor tells us a great deal about Franz Kafka, the man?”

“As a matter of fact, I do. Kafka was a shrewd observer and knew his friends well. He was fully aware that Max Brod believed in him. He also knew that, from all his associates, Brod was the least likely to destroy his unpublished work.”

“And your conclusion?”

“As already indicated, I am convinced that Franz Kafka wanted to be read. He knew full well that his best chance of having his works circulated was by entrusting them to Max Brod. Max Brod’s posthumous publication of his late friend’s oeuvre was not a betrayal. He complied with Kafka’s hidden wish.”

“What should Kafka have done if he really wanted them destroyed?”

“He could have just left them scattered around. They would have been discarded or destroyed by the ‘mob’ just as Himmelfarb’s and Alf Dubbo’s paintings in Patrick White’s Riders in the Chariot. Alternatively, he could have appointed his last consort – Dora Diamant – as literary executor and entrusted the task to her. She would have obeyed.”

“Kafka’s biographers would disagree, Peter’le!”

“I know this. At times, though, Kafka’s biography has become as mythologized as his fiction. The fanciful notion that the tubercular writer, shuttling between Prague and Berlin, somehow played a role in the 1923 teachers’ strikes in Palestine, is a perfect example of how myth overtakes fact. In my opinion, Kafka did not demand or seek blind reverence, but discrimination — the capacity to tell fiction from truth. Accordingly, I believe that by refusing to follow his biographers’ myth I remain true to Kafka’s own spirit.”

“Very well,” affirmed Peppi. “Let us now turn to another point. In your article you concluded that Kafka did not make a contribution to Jewish literature or Judaism. But was Kafka the Man affected by his Jewish origin?”

“A difficult point, Peppi,” I replied after a brief hesitation. “I am satisfied that his outlook, world philosophy and sense of alienation can be traced back to his origin. But I am not certain whether this can be traced to his background as a Jew or simply to his belonging to a minority group. In other words, might he have developed the way he did, if he been a member of any minority group.”

“Any evidence to support this tentative view?”

“There is circumstantial evidence. In 1921 Jacob Wasserman published Mein Weg als Deutscher und Jude [My was a German and Jew]. He manifests in it his ideal of being both culturally and ideologically both German and Jewish. He does not embrace the Zionist dream of a Jewish self-ruled country but postulates integration in the Diaspora. The book was available in Prague and it most likely the Kafka read it. But he did not comment on it in his diary or in any letter. This suggests to me that he did not feel involved in the ensuing debate. He did not sense that the subject was of crucial importance to him.”

“Not strong evidence in point,” retorted Peppi. “It is, as you say circumstantial and hence has to viewed with care. On this basis, it remains tentative or, more precisely, inconclusive. Do you have any other relevant evidence?”

“Actually, I do. No character in Kafka’s oeuvre is Jewish. This suggests to me that Judaism as a whole remained an academic and alien subject.”

“Some Kafka scholars maintain that both Gregor Samsa and joseph K. are Jewish.”

“Kafka does not say so!” I protested.

“Oh well,” said Peppi, “when we take your two points together, they carry weight. Perhaps it is best to regard the subject as open ended. This leads me to the conventional conclusion: it concedes Kafka’s failures as a man and recognises that, in his dealings with friends and women, he was frequently callous and perhaps even cruel. He lacked the backbone to follow the dictates of his conscience. His redemption is the outstanding quality of his writings. Well, Peter’le, I suspect you disagree with this assessment.”

“I do. In my opinion, his writings do not excuse his behaviour. As pointed out in my paper, in these too we sense his feet of clay. Whilst many of his short pieces are outstanding, too much of his work – especially novels other than The Trial – are fragmented and incomplete. The ordinary reader finds it hard to related to them. He may use the phrase Kafkaesque to describe absurd bureaucratic system. But he does not read Kafka.”

“Do you regret having read him and getting absorbed in his work?”

“No, Maestro. My assessment and misgivings are explainable. My reading highlights the fragile coherence and moral courage within his fragmented world. To acknowledge the difference from received wisdom is not to claim finality, but to assert the need for continual re-examination – an act that Kafka himself, restless and questioning, would have surely approved.”

“Will you continue reading him?”

“I shall do so. After all, he wanted to be read. By doing so I am giving in to his neatly camouflaged will.”

Feeling tired I closed my eyes for a moment. When I opened them, Theophil was gone. I was alone in my spacious sitting room. A glance at the wall clock told me that it was passed 11.30 p.m. Sensing that it was time to retire, I proceeded to my bedroom. Shortly thereafter I switched off the lights.