Kafka: The Man

 

             KAFKA: THE MAN 

 

I.GETTING STARTED

 

            The stars were blinking. An aeroplane, viewed from the dimly lit sitting room of my flat on Singapore’s East Coast, descended gracefully to Changi Airport. I was at peace with myself but looked intently at The Trial by Franz Kafka. As often before, I had difficulty in reconciling the man with the writer.

For just a moment I closed my eyes. When I opened them, Theophil was sitting on a chair facing mine.  Nowadays, when he revealed himself to me, he usually assumed the form of Peppi: my late father’s bosom pal, who befriended me after I had stumbled into his antiques shop in London. On other occasions, Theophil adopted his medieval appearance of Satan or Asmodeus – the guise known in the three monotheistic religions. I had got used to this image for years and did not feel threatened by it. Currently, he appeared in an unfamiliar image.

            “What are you trying to convey to me, Maestro? I have not seen this semblance before although the image seems familiar.”

            “Undoubtedly. You saw pictures of René Descartes. Today we seek to engage in a philosophical enquiry. And he is the father of The Method and of modern philosophy.”

            “I see; but surely, I am thinking about Kafka – and he was not a philosopher!”

            “True,” replied my benefactor. “But you have written a lengthy article entitled ‘Kafka’s Feet of Clay’, in which you dealt with his writings. Today you are concentrating on his nature as a man. Usually, this is a psychological study. But your approach – weighing argument and its counter – is a philosophical enquiry. My guise is, therefore, suitable.”

            “I take your point; but the methodical enquiry you refer to appeared suitable when I discussed the man’s writings. Today, my object is to consider his nature.”

            “Would this image be more suitable?” For a few minutes I stared at the image into which he transformed himself. The middle-aged man with the goatee and the piercing eyes looked familiar.

            “I am not certain, Dr. Freud. Your method may be helpful if we encounter a stumbling block. But is this a good starting point?”

            “Isn’t it? You are trying to illuminate the personality of a given person: Franz Kafka the man. Isn’t the eye of the psychologist the most suitable one? Aren’t you trying to look behind the façade projected by your subject?”

            “We may need to resort to this type of enquiry. But – to start with – don’t we have to look at the plain facts, that is, the public image or, as you refer to it: the façade? 

            “Very well then. How about this image?” He asked as he assumed the form of Peppi.

            “Is it suitable?” I wanted to know. “How does Peppi fit in? Isn’t the investigation going to be complex and winding? Further, unlike Descartes and Freud, both of whom are famous, Peppi is an individual known to just a circle of friends.”

            “Quite so,” conceded Theophil.  “But, for that very reason, isn’t Peppi the most suitable guise? Isn’t he, in more than one sense, akin to the ‘reasonable man’ postulated by your common law?”

            For just a moment I hesitated. Then, I saw light. “I get your point,” I confirmed. “Peppi’s strength was common sense and his ability to get directly to point. He was a ‘no-nonsense’ man. I recall how he spotted a rogue or a time waster as soon as that person entered his shop.”

            “Exactly! And why is this relevant?”

“It tells us that Peppi would get straight to the plain points and that he would steer our enquiry back on track if it got out of hand.”

            “Precisely. You see, we may have to raise issues of a methodical and of psychological nature. Where this occurs, we may seek guidance from the writings of Descartes or Freud. But all in all, our enquiry rests on assessing facts in the light of commonsense or on the view taken by ordinary mortals. In this regard, Peppi is outstanding.”

            “Well, then” he continued, “let us start. In your article you argued that Kafka was neither one of the greatest writers of the 20^th century nor a contributor to Judaism or Zionism. You made your point. But how about your reference to ‘feet of clay’? Let us trace the phrase.”

            “It is inspired by chapter 2 of the Book of Daniel. King Nebuchadnezzar’s dream refers to an idol which has feet of iron mixed with clay. Daniel deciphers this as a reference to the decline of the Babylonian empire. The reign one of the great King’s successors is partly as tough as iron but ends up being as brittle as clay.”

            “Quite so,” affirmed my ephemeral friend, “but how about the rest of the body?”

            “The head is of ‘good gold’, the upper body of silver, the rest of it of copper and the legs …Oh, I see. You suggest that, when assessing Kafka the Man, we commence by discussing the head.”

            “Kafka’s early years, rather: his childhood and boyhood. And bear in mind that the dream refers to ‘good gold’. This indicates that the anonymous writer of the Book of Daniel knew full well that not everything that glitters constitutes ‘good gold’.”

            “I get the drift,” I told him. “The ‘head’, that is, the individual’s early years, may gleam. But the apparent gold may be ordinary metal gilded with a thin layer of gold.”

            “And, of course, the shining surface may turn out to be polished brass rather than gold. And don’t forget the next two parts of the idol: silver and copper.”

            “The teens and young manhood being silver?”

            “Indeed,” confirmed Theophil. “In Kafka’s case these are significant. They cover his years at the university and early employment.”

            “That means,” I interceded, “Kafka’s years prior to his literary outbreak, which eventuated in 1912. But then, he wrote a few pieces earlier on.”

            “He did,” confirmed Theophil. “Still, the writings you analysed in your paper date to his mature years, when he was becoming middle aged. And here you eventually turn to the feet: part of iron and the rest as unsteady as clay.”

            “But I can see a snag,” I observed after a short reflection. “In the case of most human beings the division works. An individual’s early years, covering his (or her) childhood and primary school, is the ‘Head’. Adolescence – covering secondary and tertiary education and early years of employment (basically the teens and early twentieth) – is akin to the statue’s silver, or upper torso. These are followed by a person’s middle age and working life, or, in the case of most women, family life. In general, an individual embarks on his (or her) working life in the mid-twenties, or if he (or she) attends a university, slightly later.  These are the ‘copper’. Years of retirement are often as tough as iron – a person gets his or her deeper insights. But they are frequently mixed with clay or, in other words, deterioration of one sort or another.”

            “An in the case of Kafka? Are your referring to his passing away at the young age of 41?” asked my friend.

            “I do, Maestro. I have no doubt that his last few years represent iron mixed with clay: impressive literary attainments undermined by ill health culminating with tuberculosis and death. But his adolescence and working life are hard to separate from each other. They overlap. An attempt to demarcate is problematic.”

            “Understood,” affirmed my counterpart. “I suggest we bear this in mind when we discuss him. ‘Silver’ and ‘copper’ may be fused in certain regards.”

 

            “So, we now have an outline,” I opined. “When I wrote my article, Kafka’s personality was relevant only in so far as it had a bearing on the compositions. Today, when we set out to discuss the man, we refer to the writings only when they have a bearing on the personality. In a sense, we reverse the process.”

            “We do,” he agreed. “But I must be careful. Franz Kafka was not a disciple. But he was special and so I observed him. As you know, I do not reveal secretive information. In consequence, I am a sounding board – a party that listens to arguments and weighs them. I cannot refute any point by relying on secret information gleaned from direct observations I had made during his lifetime.”

            “I know this, Maestro. But you can nudge me: I’ll manage to see the light!”

            “Let us hope you do. I have had my failures. But, to start with, don’t go too fast. I know that my proximity galvanises you. But if you exceed your natural speed, you could burn out or simply jump to unacceptable conclusions. If you do, you may confuse the issues.”

 

 

 

 

II.EARLY YEARS: THE HEAD

 

“Franz Kafka was born on July 3^rd, 1883,” I narrated. “His father, Hermann, was a self- made businessman, who moved to Prague from the provinces. His mother, Julie Löwy, helped her husband out in the shop he founded.”

“Let us go more slowly, Peter’le. To understand a person, we have to consider his (or her) childhood. Who shapes it?”

“That person’s environment. In turn, this depends on the nature of the parents and other circumstances. A child growing up in a diffused environment, such as an unhappy home, often has a bad start. People like Chaplin, who rose to prominence although their childhood was ghastly, are the exception.”

“Let us, then, have a good look at Franz Kafka’s parents,” summed up my ephemeral friend.”

“Kafka’s father – Hermann Kafka (born in 1853) – was the son of a Shochet [Kosher butcher] in Osek: a shtetl in rural Bohemia. He had a difficult childhood, experienced hunger and deprivation, and often had to deliver meat to his father’s clients during the freezing winters. He had very limited education, probably in a Heder. The language spoken in this part of the country was largely Czech; the Jewish population’s lingua franca was Yiddish.” 

“When did he leave his parents’ home?”

“In his teens; looking for better prospects. Eventually, he moved to Prague, began working in trade and in due course established a haberdashery (clothing/accessories) store. In 1882, he married Julie Löwy, the daughter of a successful Jewish family. Her father was a textile manufacturer and brewer, who had himself moved from the provinces to Prague.  Hermann’s marriage was initiated by a Shadchan [traditional marriage broker]. Presumably, Jacob Löwy was impressed by Hermann’s positive attitude to life. Julie’s dowry enabled Hermann to move his business to the prestigious Old Town Square location. Like many Jews, who moved to Prague from the provinces, he distanced himself from traditional Judaism. His ambition was to be fully accepted by the German speaking middle-class elitist population of Prague.”

“What do the records tell you about Kafka’s mother?”

“She came from an assimilated and affluent Jewish home. Girl schools were available in Prague from around 1848 and, in addition, Julie had private tuition. Socially and intellectually, she was a cut above Hermann. But, as a good traditional wife, she submitted to her husband’s authority and stood by him. They appear to have enjoyed a happy and lasting marriage.”

“Was Hermann’s an affluent family?” asked Theophil.

 “Not at this early stage,” I replied. “Well-off would be a more apt description. Franz was the oldest surviving child of the couple. He had three sisters: Elli, Valli and Ottla. He was particularly close to the last one.”

“You are jumping the gun,” observed Theophil. “Was his being the eldest son of particular significance?”

“It was. A Jewish family regarded the ‘first born son’ as the natural heir and expected him to carry the banner – I mean, continue moving the family from strength to strength. In more than one way, he became the family’s centre.”

“You said that Kafka’s mother was busy in the business. So, who brought Kafka up?”

“He had Czech speaking nannies. In consequence, he became bilingual. Notably, the German dialect, laced with Yiddish words, which he spoke at home was known as Mauscheldeutsch.”

“What type of stories was he told as a young boy? You see, Peter’le, children thrive on fables told to them.”

“The Brothers Grimm stories had, by then, been translated to Czech. There was also a budding Czech nationalist literature. Whilst we do not have conclusive records, it seems likely that Franz’s governesses told him the existing tales, both German and Czech. In addition, his mother would have told him common Jewish folklore stories, including Hassidic yarns. Hermann might have related tales with moral implications, such as the Golem.”

“Actually, Peter’le: how have you managed to familiarise yourself with Kafka’s childhood? You have read several biographies. What else?”

“We have Franz Kafka’s letter to his father. But I have reservations about its reliability. You see, Kafka wrote it in 1919, when he was 36 years old, that is, when he became middle aged. It is a very long communication: I have read it several times in German and have also listened to an English audiobook. The fact is that Kafka never sent it to his father. Initially, he asked his mother to deliver it but, when she declined, he kept it amongst his papers. Max Brod discovered it after Kafka’s demise.”

“What disturbs you about the letter, Peter’le? Some of Kafka’s biographers treat it as reliable.”

“I do not like its tone. Effectively, Kafka seeks to blame his father for what Kafka considered his own defects and failures. When I went through this letter, I recalled Oscar Wilde’s De Profundis, in which he seeks to blame Alfed Douglass (Bozzy) for his misfortunes. Worse still, Kafka failed to deliver the missive to his father. In a way, Kafka’s father is relegated to a position like Joseph K’s, of The Trial, who is unable to discover the nature of the charges brough against him. In a sense, Hermann is placed in even greater jeopardy: he is unaware of being ‘charged’. Franz remains as unreachable as The Castle’s authorities.”

“Any further issue respecting this letter?”

“There is, Maestro. Kafka admired Dostoevsky and was influenced by him. Hermann Kafka of the letter resembles the tyrannical pater familias – Fyodor Karamazov. I suspect Kafka was influenced by The Brothers Karamazov. In real life, Kafka’s father may  have been loud and forceful but not imposing or overbearing.”

“I get your point,” affirmed Theophil. “Well, do you have better authorities?”

“Some of the records are neatly summarised by Reiner Stach. However, I used an AI engine to access records which, without it, would have to be looked up in Prague. I found the engine excellent. It enabled me to discover details about Hermann Kafka, about Julie and, in general, about the assimilated Jews in Prague.

“You did. But then, were these people so different from other groups of assimilated Jews? Here I can augment what you have discovered. For a positive assessment, we have to reflect on the Enlightenment [dubbed Haskalah in Hebrew]. Jews in many centres in Central and even Eastern Europe made a conscious effort to integrate in their home countries. One of the leaders of this movement – J.L. Gordon – suggested that a member of the community should be a Jew at home but a Man [Adam] outside it.”

            “You are right,” I conceded. “But integration was partial even in the cases of assimilated Jews. They tended to intermarry. Hermann Kafka was furious when his third daughter, Ottla, married out. And Shalom Aleichem tells us how Tavyeh cut off his daughter Hava, when she eloped with a Cossack. Full integration was never envisaged.  The need to remain apart, was one of the factors that underscored Zionism.”

            “Let us then sum up,” approbated Theophil.  “Franz Kafka’s home was secular. In his famous letter, he complains that his father did not direct  him to Judaism. He tells us that Hermann went to the synagogue only about four times a year and, even on those occasions, kept aloof. Factually, this is correct. But is the charge sound?”

            “I don’t think so,” I averred.  “Hermann had moved away from orthodox, traditional, Judaism. If Franz were drawn to it, there was nothing to stop him from pursuing his interest.  And I can think of a vivid example. A friend of mine, M., was an atheist. His son, though, moved back to traditional orthodox Judaism. Father and son ended up by disowning one another. It is possible that both were too rigid. Still, the event shows that the road back remains open. Franz Kafka chose not to take it. Can Hermann be blamed for this? After all, he did take his son to the synagogue from time to time.”

            “I have to agree with you there,” conceded Theophil. “Further, attempts to induce Kafka to turn to Judaism and Zionism, made by friends he met later in life, were thwarted by his passive resistance. The decision not to join any movement was true to his orientation.  Well, are there any further factors of his youth which need be mentioned at this stage?”

            “I think so,” I volunteered. “You see, the family lived in rented flats for years. These were small. Kafka shared a room with his sisters until 1907, when the family moved to a very large flat. To me, Maestro, this sounds claustrophobic and oppressive.”

            “But was this uncommon? You, Peter’le, see matters through the lens of an only child of the 20^th century. Even so, when did you get a room of your own?”

            “In my early teens.”

            “Precisely,” nodded Theophil. “And in Prague of the 19^th century, children usually had to share a room. Even friends of Kafka, who were sons of more affluent parents, seldom had a room of their own. Young Franz’s lot was the norm. Still, it had certain implications. He had to do his homework in the presence of others and, when he started to write, he often had to proceed late at night when there was no noise or other interruption.”

            For a while both of kept reflecting. Eventually, Theophil restarted our investigation. Turning to Kafka’s physical condition, he pointed out that, during his early childhood, Kafka was sickly and physically weak. This reminded me that I, too, had been an unhealthy child, often confined to bed and unable to play with other children.

            “I happen to know that this had a profound effect on your own life. How about our Kafka?” asked Theophil.

            “Actually, I was lucky in one sense: the children of one of our neighbours visited me daily. In consequence, I was able to make friends and, in a sense, mix. Kafka was not so lucky. He spent most of his time with his nannies. Still, his mother taught him reading and the alphabet. This meant that when Kafka started to go to primary school he was, in a way, ahead of his contemporaries. But he did not meet other children before going to school. In consequence, he did not learn how to mix.  Worse still, his mother gave birth to two boys, who died in infancy. We do not know what sort of direct effect this had on young Franz. But undoubtedly, it drove him even closer to the centre.”

            “Quite so,” nodded Theophil.  “Right from the start, Kafka had little contact with other children. This was significant: he did not realise during his tender years that, all in all, he was just one of a crowd. I do believe that this explains a great deal about his adult life. Kafka himself sought to put the blame on his domineering father. But, like you, I have my doubts about the 1919 letter. In fact, parents tended to be disciplinarian during Kafka’s period. Notably, Kafka does not allege that his father had ever resorted to corporeal punishment.”

            “I noticed this,” I confirmed. “And look at his sisters. Ottla left the parent’ home, married out and ran a farm in Zürau. Franz remained in his parents’ flat until his married sisters, Eli and Vali, returned home as their husbands were mobilised during WWI. I surmise from this that Franz lacked the courage to leave. His salary was by then more than adequate.”

            “What are you telling me, Peter’le?”

“To my mind, the contrast is striking: Ottla acted, Franz reflected. Her gesture of autonomy became for him a mirror of the freedom he could imagine but never fully attain. His “Letter to His Father,” with its wounded tone – at times bordering on melodrama – underscores his paralysis. The difference between Franz and Ottla  defines the emotional core of Franz Kafka’s tragedy: she lived the freedom about which he could only write. I am further annoyed because, effectively, Kafka wanted to have the cake and eat it. I, too, remained in my parents’ flat even after completing my university studies. But I did not biker.”

            “You are getting emotive, Peter’le. This won’t do. Our aim is to ascertain the facts. Emotive outbursts are counterproductive.   We must pursue a distanced, analytical approach. Well, let us turn to his primary school days.”

            “Not much is known, except school records. Kafka enrolled in the German speaking Deutsche Knabenschule. He completed his five years there with distinction. He did particularly well in German language and literature. Czech language was a compulsory subject. It firmed Kafka’s reading and speaking knowledge of the tongue; but he did not acquire a genuine writing ability.”

            “Did his spell in primary school shape his future life?” asked Theophil.

            “A difficult point. Kafka was six years old when he started to go to school and was about ten years old when he moved to secondary. These years are important in the life of a growing person: the home is no longer his (or her) entire world.”

            “A sound precept,” noted Theophi. “Well, did his orientation form itself during these years?”

            “Difficult to say. By then, he might have realised that he was bound to remain an outsider. Pupils from Czech homes (and there were a few) would have regarded him as part of the German population. Those from German middle-class families, regarded him a Jew. And his father’s perfunctory approach to Judaism meant that traditional Jews would have treated his as being on the margin. I suspect that, during this period, Kafka sensed that he was an odd man out.”

            “Is there any evidence supporting you conclusion?”

            “An indirect, but significant one: there is no record of any lasting friendships he formed during these years. Further, Hermann Kafka did not foster relations with his own siblings. Franz did not know them. And there were no meaningful communications with his mother’s family.”

            “Well, you have made your point. So, in a sense, we have completed our investigation of the ‘head’ of our ‘statute’. What can we then say about it? Was it ‘good gold’?”

            “I suspect that it was gilded rather that gold. All in all, Kafka’s childhood was common but not distinguished. He was a good pupil and an obedient son. On the negative side we note his having been sickly at this early stage and, further, his feeling of alienation and segregation may be anchored in this period. So, perhaps, the ‘head’ was polished brass.”

            To my surprise, Theophil change his guise to his Freud image and said: “Well spoken; but let me emphasize one point: a child gets used to having some home comforts, such as regular meals, adequate attention and family warmth. These are often overlooked in Kafka’s case. But they are of importance: any feeling of social alienation is mitigated by the sense of having a home. Kafka, as we know, remained within its walls.”

            “I agree,” I told my mentor. “Here Kafka’s writings augment what you indicated. Joseph K (in The Trial) and K (in The Castle) remain largely unaffected by their respective entanglements. In a sense, they remain ‘at home’. And that home is traceable to Kafka’s childhood.”

 

III.ADOLESCENCE: SILVER

 

             Theophil continued to project his Dr. Freud’s image. Initially, I was surprised. It then dawned on me that, prior to our assessment of Kafka’s teens and advanced studies, we had to consider what this period usually meant in a young man’s life.

            “Well, why don’t you start the ball rolling, Maestro. I do believe that presently Dr. Freud is entitled to have his say.”

            “He does,” agreed Theophil. “In many ways, this period is Sturm und Drang. A primary school leaver is still an unformed child. During his secondary school years, he (or she) experiences puberty. His (or her) sexual urges become pronounced. All the same, he (or she) remains dependent on parents or guardians. As yet, he (or she) is not considered ready to embark on a career. In effect, he (or she) metamorphoses into a young adult. The umbilical cord becomes tenuous. In the Western World, he (or she) frequently remains a dependant even during the years of tertiary education. But, when entering a university or a college, he (or she) begins to form an independent outlook.”

            “There is also a cultural revolution,” I added. “A child is eager to listen to the stories told to him by his elders. His critical function is usually still in abeyance. For instance, he is inclined to accept tales, such as biblical stories, at face value. Usually, when a boy (or a girl) enrols in secondary school, the lens becomes sharper. Its turns into a wide angle.”

            “Why don’t you give me an illustration from your own life, Peter’le?”

            “When the primary school teacher told us about the exploits of the judges, I listened to the tales and liked them. In a way, they made me feel big: wasn’t I a scion of their heroism? The position changed in secondary school. When I read in Judges about Shamgar ben Anat, I was puzzled by the mention of the Philistines. When we covered one of the next chapters – including The Song of Deborah – I noticed that she referred to the days of that person.  So, I asked our teacher whether the compiler of the book inserted the earlier reference to render the verse comprehensible. When the teacher yelled that this was heresy, I apologised but remembered the point. In primary school, the teacher’s sharp reaction would have convinced me that I was wrong.”

            “Your reaction in secondary school was precocious,” replied Dr. Freud, “but I take your point. Your critical function started to develop and, more importantly, you realised that you were entitled to have your own voice. In this regard, your reaction was typical. With all this in mind, let us turn back to Franz Kafka.”

            “Kafka attended the Altstädter Deutsches Gymnasium, a prestigious, rigorous German grammar school, located in Prague’s Old Town Square, which admitted only the best leavers of primary. Studies stretched over eight years. Kafka was enrolled in 1893, when he was ten years old, and completed the course in 1901, graduating with a Matura.”

            “Was it a rigorous course of studies?”

            “Very much so. The curriculum included Latin, Greek, German literature, history, geography and some science subjects. Many pupils came from middle-class Roman catholic homes. Very few came from Czech speaking homes. Jewish parents liked to send their children to this school, hoping they would be integrated into the German speaking elite. In some years, Jewish pupils constituted three quarters of the intake.”

            “How about religion?” asked Theophil, who retained his Dr. Freud image.

            “The school followed the Habsburg policy, which was tolerant. Jewish pupils got tuition in the Old Testament, in ritual and even in Talmud.  The subject was entitled Wissenschaft des Judentums [Science of Judaism]. The teacher was a Dr. Hermann Wolf, a Rabbi appointed on the advice of the community. There was also some coverage of history, based on the writings of Graetz. The language of instruction, even in this subject, was predominantly German. In later years, Kafka described this course as distant and boring. His observations echoed the views of other pupils.”

            “Was there an exception?” asked my mentor.

            “There was indeed: Hugo Bergmann, who came from a similar, assimilated home.  He treated these teachings as a springboard for deeper studies of Judaism.”

            “Well spoken,” approbated Theophil. “You, Peter’le, new Hugo Bergmann and admired him. Tell me about him.”

            “Hugo Bergmann became an ardent Zionist. He visited Palestine in 1910 and finally migrated to it in 1920, after Britain obtained its mandate from the League of Nations. He became the librarian and later the rector of the Hebrew University. After retiring from full service, he continued to teach courses on logic. I enrolled in one. The man was brilliant and his Hebrew, acquired after he migrated, sparkled.”

            “Understood. Moreover, one point emerges: the subject taught in Kafka’s gymnasium drew some pupils to Judaism.”

            “Kafka blames his father for not getting him closer to the hearth. On this point, I am inclined accept the points raised in his famous letter.”

            “True,” agreed Theophil. “But Hermann never stopped his son from pursuing an interest. So, all is all, Franz is to be seen as having made his own decision. Like most youngsters of that age, he was forming his views and orientations. In other words, he became an adolescent.”

            Seeing me nod, he continued: “Up to now, we talked about the developing mind. Let us now turn to the physical aspect.”

            “Wouldn’t this be more in your own field, Dr. Freud, than in a layman’s? Why don’t you start the ball rolling?”

            “Very well, although the pattern is rather common. I believe this period in a human’s life – early to mid-teens – is when a young person (boy or a girl) reaches sexual maturity. Physically he (or she) can procreate. Social conventions (or misconceptions), though, seek to keep him (or her) from activity.”

            “This is well-known,” I agreed. “Still, most boys and girls learn about what we call ‘the facts of life’ during their primary school days. And there is a further point. Frequently, a young boy or girl has a first experience during the teens or, in rare cases, even earlier.”

            “Well,” pointed out Dr. Freud. “What can we surmise about Kafka? We do not have any clear record. Kafka seems to have destroyed materials preceding 1910. Do his biographers and writings tell us anything?”

            “Some biographers suggest that his first, purely transactional and non-romantic experience, took place in 1902 or 1904 in a hotel with an unknown girl in Prague. Kafka refers to this event but describes it as awkward and shameful. A different picture emerges from  ‘The Stoker’ – eventually incorporated into his posthumously published works as the first chapter of Amerika.   At the young age of 16, Karl Rossman is sent on his own to New York following his seduction by the family’s maid in Prague. Details of this affair are described graphically by Karl’s uncle, whom Karl meets when the ship arrives. The uncle relies on a letter, purportedly sent by the maid, who recalls Karl with warmth and wants to ensure that he would be looked after in his new abode.”

            “And you think this passage is autobiographical?” interjected Dr. Freud.

            “The point is hotly debated by Kafka scholars. Four points strike me. First, the Czech maid would not have had the temerity to write to the uncle – who had by then become a Senator – even if she had managed to get his address. Secondly, she would never have outlined the intimate details we find in the text. Thirdly, the passage in ‘The Stoker’ is far more explicit on physical encounters than any other episode in Kafka’s writings. Finally, the Kafkas employed a live-in maid, one of whose tasks was cooking. Young Franz would have encountered her frequently when his father sent him to fetch a glass of water; a detail highlighted by the uncle.”  

“And on this basis of these considerations, you conclude that the passage is autobiographic.  Actually, an instance of this sort would be quite usual. Single women like the maid, of about 35 years of age, often showed an interest in the ‘young master’. Lust, desire and dreaming are not the exclusive domain of males.”

“Do you then agree with me?” I wanted to know.

“I agree that you have a sound basis for your argument. And that’s where we ought to rest the matter. But tell me, Peter’le, why does Kafka refer to the boy being exiled? We know that Kafka remained in his parents’ home.”

“This has something to do with Hermann Kafka’s hot temper. If, in one way or another, he came to know about the affair, he would have berated Franz. But he would have never exiled his son and heir. Presumably, he bought the maid’s silence and dismissed her.”

“Is that the likely scenario? Is it supported by any circumstantial evidence?”

“I believe it is. Kafka developed into a highly introverted and reticent individual. Further, entries in his diaries indicate that he regarded sex and sexual impulses as unclean and shameful. And women characters in his writings are frequently seductive and possessive. An ugly scene with Hermann might be an explanation.”

“So now you rely on his famous letter of 1919. Isn’t this inconsistent?”

“I don’t think so. Whilst Franz Kafka’s negative accusations strike me as questionable, his basic description of his father’s hot temper and fierce manner is supported by contemporaries. I have no doubt that, up to a point, we may have to rely on this document.”

“In the ultimate, I agree,” nodded Dr. Freud. “But before concluding our psychological analysis of   Kafka’s adolescence, I must refer to one further point. In his (or her) teens a young person tends to fantasize. Masturbation is common. Where a young boy, like Kafka, shares a room with his sisters, he might do so when he alone remains awake. But frequently he feels ashamed or guilty when he gets up. In Kafka’s case, this feeling of shame might have stayed put. It explains why he took such a negative view of sexuality.”

“I have nothing to add,” I told him. Thereupon, Theophil shed the Freud image and, once again, I was in the presence of Peppi. “And now, Peter’le, let us have a good look at Kafka’s record in his gymnasium. Please start rolling the ball.”

“Kafka did well although his grades in subject other than German literature and composition were not excellent,” I told him.

“Do we have any information about his style and about the literary works he covered?” asked Peppi.

“His style was his forté. The works covered by him included the German classics – Goethe, Schiller and Kleist as well as distinguished Austrian authors, such as Grillparzer, Stifter, Theodor Storm and Heine.”

“I don’t want to jump the gun,” said Peppi. “Still, do we know which authors left an impact on him? The information can be gleaned from his diary and letters.”

“Well, there are many entries dealing with the classics. Goethe was admired by him. We know, in addition, that he was impressed by the style and clarity of Grillparzer and Stifter. In a diary entry of February 1912, Kafka expresses his admiration and distance from the latter. In a way, Stifter’s ordered serenity and Biedermeier clarity, provided Kafka with a foil against which to measure his own literary path. Grillparzer left an even deeper impression. Kafka’s “The Hunger Artist” (published in 1922) develops a theme like Grillparzer’s The Poor Minstrel (published in 1848).”

“How familiar was Kafka with contemporary authors. The point is of major importance because it tells us a lot about his general reading habit.”

“Kafka’s diary indicates that he read and watched performances of Gerhart Hauptmann’s plays and was familiar with some works of Arthur Schnitzler. But it is not clear whether he read the latter’s Der Weg in die Freie, analysing assimilated Judaism, and the works of Jacob [Jakob] Wassermann.  My impression is that during his Gymnasium years he was too occupied with German classics to devote much time to contemporary writers. Further, he spent much time reading French classics, especially Molière, Balzac and Flaubert. He refers to Zola but disapproved of that author’s naturalistic style.  And he read and admired Dostoyevsky, Tolstoy and Gogol.”

“Did his life philosophy start to form itself during this period?” asked Peppi.

“I believe it did. One of his classmates – Hugo Bergmann – kept the customary Friendship Book, in which he asked friends to make entries. Most would have cited a passage respecting friendship and loyalty. In November 1897, Kafka entered a note (in German), to the effect that there is a coming and a going, a parting and often no reunion. The phrase rhymes and is sophisticated and ironic. Kafka has, obviously, realised the impermanence or fleeting nature of life and human relationships.”

“Point taken,” agreed my friend. “But is his sense of alienation also traceable to this period?”

“I believe it is. Two remarkable legal cases would have had this effect. The first was the Hilsner affair, of 1899-1900, in which a Jewish man was accused of the ritual murder (‘blood libel’) of a young   Christian Bohemian seamstress. Despite lack of evidence, the man was convicted. The second is the sordid Dreyfus affair, of 1894 onwards, in which a Jewish-French army officer was convicted of drummed up espionage charges. Details of this sad episode were reported in newspapers in Prague. Both cases would have told Kafka all about antisemitism in Central Europe.”

“Do we have any further relevant facts?” asked Peppi.

 “I believe there were pogroms during this period. One took place in Bohemia. Kafka was not physically affected but, of course, he knew what was going on.  It would, further, appear that some racist remarks were hurled at him during his secondary school years.”

“But Peter’le, do we have any evidence about Kafka’s reaction?”

“An indirect but very telling one. Kafka formed close friendship with two Jewish classmates:  Hugo Bergmann and Oscar Pollak. His relationships with other schoolmates were transient. In my opinion, by then he had sensed that he was an odd man out and felt the need to select friends from amongst his own race.”

“Very well then,” summed up Peppi. “We conclude that Kafka’s sense of solitariness as well as his cultural orientation formed during his adolescence. One point need be added: Kafka had an extremely limited command of English. His familiarity with some English novelists, such as Dickens, stems from German translations. Notably, some important works, such as the novels of the Bronté sisters, were not available. And now, Peter’le, let us turn to Kafka’s physique during this important period.”

“Kafka was, as we know, considered an intelligent student. But he was frail and hypersensitive. This contrasted with the rigorous physical culture promoted in schools at that time. Kafka was regarded as being more studious than strong.”

“Was he often confined to sickbed? Did he have to miss classes?”

“No, Maestro. His fragile health did not prevent him from attending school regularly. His complaints were frequent headaches and migraines, some digestive troubles, insomnia and general weakness. Some biographers maintain that much of it was due to Hermann’s overbearing presence and sharp tongue. But here, as you know, I have my doubts.”

“Well, did he engage in any sports during this period?” asked Peppi.

“He did,” I told him. “Young Kafka practised swimming and took part in rowing and hiking. Sport became a source of enjoyment. His adhering to them manifested self-discipline. Notably, he pursuance of sports was at his own initiative. Later, in his diaries and letters, he stressed the importance of maintaining a healthy body.”

“The old Greek ideal of a healthy mind in a healthy body,” summed up Theophil and added: “But Peter’le, did Kafka write during this period any piece that has come down to us?”

“The earliest piece we know of was “Shamefaced Lanky and Impure Heart” attached to a letter Kafka sent to Oskar Pollack on 6 December 1902, when Kafka was already a university student. The piece shows little merit.”

“Does this strike you as significant, Peter’le?”

“Not really. Many writers publish their first works in their twentieth. Most secondary schools, in Kafka’s period and later, leave pupils little time for creative writings. Undoubtedly, many youngsters write poetry even earlier than that. For instance, Hugo von Hofmansthal published his first poem when he was just sixteen years old. But this is the exception, not the rule. Kafka’s talent, or drive to devote himself to writing, did not manifest itself during his years in the Gymnasium.”

“Let us then turn to Kafka’s years at the University,” continued Peppi. “The records show that Kafka enrolled in the German section of the Charles Ferdinand University in 1901. Initially, he studies Chemistry but quickly switched to Law. He completed his course and graduated with the degree of Doctor of Law in 1906. To qualify for legal practice or government service, a graduate was required to undertake one year of unpaid practical training, known as Gerichtsjahr [year at court]. Kafka found this period dull and stifling, an early example of his broader discomfort with bureaucratic and hierarchical structures.”

“I am struck by his initial decision to pursue Chemistry. Science was not his forté.”

“True,” said Peppi. “Well, what is the explanation?”

“I assume it had something to do with family pressure,” I replied. “His family wanted him to pursue studies leading to a career in industry. I assume further that, when he gave vent to his frustration, they, or rather his father, approved of his switch to law. Generally, assimilated Jewish families encouraged youngsters to opt for studies leading to a professional career. Such a step was in line with their pragmatic philosophy. In Kafka’s case, this would further explain the reason for his failure to opt for a Germanist course, although his own grades suggested that this would have been suitable.”

“Very well,” agreed my mentor. “We now know enough about Kafka’s studies. Let us turn to his social life during this period. I have no doubts that this was crucial: it throws light on his later, in many ways tragic, years. Well, Peter’le, I told you as much as is appropriate. Please continue.”

“On 23 October 1902, Kafka attended a lecture about Schopenhauer delivered by Max Brod to a group of students. Kafka approached him after the lecture to discuss some issues. He then accompanied Brod on the latter’s way home. This was the beginning of a lifelong friendship between the two. About a year later, a small Jewish circle started to meet regularly in coffee houses. At around 1905 it became a wider circle, comprising, in addition to Kafka and Brod, the writers Felix Weltsch and Franz Werfel, the blind music teacher Oscar Baum and the critic Willy Haas. They met regularly in the Café Arco.”

“A circle of Jewish, German speaking intellectuals. Does this shed further light on Kafka’s outlook?”

“I think it does, Maestro. Kafka entrenched his position as an assimilated Jew. Do you agree?”

“I’d like to hear your views, Peter’le,” said Theophil and to my surprise assumed the René Descartes image, he had projected earlier in the evening. “Well, aren’t you familiar with this type of circle?”

“I am, rather. But why the change in image, Maestro?”

“Because we now have to assess the situation methodically. So, this image is appropriate.”

“I understand. And you see, Maestro, my parents and grandparents belonged to the very same milieu, and I suspect so do I. As the say, the apple does not fall far from the tree. In consequence my understanding of their milieu may assist us to understand Kafka’s.”

“Why then don’t you elaborate?”

“Very well. My maternal grandfather founded in Vienna a general business, akin to Hermann Kafka’s. I do not have details but gather that neither my late father nor mother had any traditional roots. As far as I know, neither had attended   synagogue nor had links with the Jewish community. Still, they belonged to a circle of assimilated Jew. Shortly after the end of WWI, they joined a Zionist orientated club.”

“Were they then Zionists?” asked Descartes.

“Mother joined a Zionist fraternity, known as Hashomer Ha’Zair. Father didn’t. The very thought of giving up his comfortable existence in Vienna and migrating to Israel never crossed his mind. Mother was closer to the Zionist manifesto, but – like most assimilated Viennese Jews – was glad to support the ascent of others.”

“What then drove them to ascend to Palestine in 1939?”

“Nazi persecution. The same is true about many other European Jews. Earlier on, pogroms in East Europe led to exodus. But most Jewish migrants went to the United States. Shalom Aleichem tells their story. Only a trickle went to Palestine, which – until 1917 – was part of the Ottoman Empire.”

“How about your own story, mon cher Pierre?”

“I grew up in Tel Aviv, but somehow never felt fully at home. I adhered to mother’s Central European (or German) cultural outlook. I got on well with my classmates, most of whom came from East European Jewish homes. But I felt distanced. After a spell in Oxford, I opted not to return to Israel. I feel more at home in Singapore than in Tel Aviv or Jerusalem.”

 “Let us turn back to your parents’ generation, which is quite close to Kafka’s,” retorted Descartes. “Your father was born in 1900 and served in the Austrian army during WWI. Was the orientation of assimilated Jews like your parents monolithic – I mean: can all be seen as having settled on a single approach?”

“I don’t think so,” I replied after some reflections. “Some members of my parents’ club kept a foot in the traditional camp. For instance, they did not take pork, observed some traditional festivals – such as Rosh Hashanah and Passover – and some went to the synagogue from time to time. I suspect that Hugo Bergman’s family illustrates the point. Hermann Kafka distanced himself further. So did my own father.”

“And what can we conclude about Franz Kafka’s orientation?”

“Judaism remained alien to him. On 8 January 1914, he asks rhetorically: “What have I in common with Jews?”  But even earlier on, in 1900 (when he was still in his Gymnasium), he quarrelled about Judaism and Zionism with Hugo Bergman, expressing atheistic views. This led to a rift. Bergman thought Kafka was a socialist.”

“Was he?”

“I don’t think so. Basically, he existed on the fringes without ever committing himself to any cause.  ‘I have hardly anything in common with myself and should stand very quietly in a corner, content that I can breathe’: these are the concluding words of the rhetoric question he asked in 1914. They are indicative of his life philosophy. They would not be uttered by a person who embraced any cause.”

“Try to summarise his approach, Peter’le. You are on the right track.”

“The words just quoted, his letters and diary entries project a loner: a person who feels out of place wherever he goes and regardless of his transient impulses. The strength of such a human being is his open mind; but this is also his weakness. He is incapable of committing himself one way or the other. Do I make sense?”

“I think you do; you certainly have studied Kafka’s background and life carefully. Well, let us consider one interesting phase of his life during this period.”

“Do you by any chance refer to his flirtation with Yiddish?”

“Precisely, Peter’le. What do we know about it?”

“A Yiddish theatre group of Lviv (‘Levov’, currently in the Ukraine) performed shows in Prague in 1911. Kafka became a regular attendee and supporter. As most assimilated Jews looked down on Yiddish, he gave a lecture in German at the Jewish town hall. In it, he praised the language as alive, earthy and full of emotional force when compared to the more formalised German and Czech. He defended the group against condescension and presented their plays as an authentic expression of Jewish life, humour and resilience.”

“Was this a turning point in his relationship with Judaism?” asked my mentor.

“It was not. Kafka’s diary entries suggest that, after a while, he found the performances bombastic or melodramatic. Still, he remained a close friend of the group’s leader, Yitzhak Löwy, even after the group left Prague. In Isaac Bashvis Singer’s A Friend of Kafka and Other Stories it is suggested that Kafka’s interest in the theatre was grounded in his infatuation with one of the actresses, Mania Tschissik. Be this as it may, Kafka’s interest in Yiddish and its theatre waned soon after the group departed. As far as I can see, it was not a permanent or firm commitment.”

“We shall discuss later whether Kafka was capable of any commitments. Presently, let us turn to his social life during this period.”

“It centred on his intellectual circle, mentioned earlier on. But we know, in general, that he attended lectures dealing with art, literature and philosophy. Accompanied by Brod and frequently also by Felix Weltsch, he went to theatre performances and concerts, developing a particular love for Wagner.”

“Did he travel during this period, Peter’le?”

“Sometimes he took part in short university-related trips. More often, though, he travelled with friends – mainly with Max Brod and the latter’s brother (Otto) – to countryside retreats and to cultural centres in Europe, including Vienna and Berlin. He tended to visit resorts in the German speaking world, but one trip took him to North Italy.”

“What do we know about his health during this period?” asked Theophil, still retaining his Descartes image.

“He was prone to illnesses and, even prior to his contracting tuberculosis, had a weak constitution. He tried hard to ignore his frailty but had to spend stretches in health resorts and spas. His father – that alleged tyrant – made certain that his son had the means to pursue his interests.”

“How then would you describe our young Kafka?”

“In general, he was considered a shy and reserved person but, at the same time, as having a good sense of humour and a pleasant disposition. On large social occasions, he tended to be silent and withdrawn. But he was considered good company when meeting his circle.”

“What do we know about his sexual life during this period, Peter’le?”

“He did not form any lasting associations. He visited brothels – often in the company of friends – and tended to admire women passing bye. He tells all about it in one a sketch, entitled ‘Rejection,’ in which the narrator observes attractive girls, but feels rejected before he assumes the courage to introduce himself. His diary reveals also that he masturbated. The overall impression is that he regarded sexuality as shameful or even unclean. His biographers have spent much ink in discussing whether he had homosexual or bisexual drives. Whilst some diary entries indicate that he had impulses, there is no evidence supporting a positive answer.”

“Of course not,” augmented Descartes. “The trials of Oscar Wilde (1895 onwards) were covered by Newspapers in Prague and were still fresh in memory. If Kafka had any such tendencies, he would be strongly inclined to suppress and deny them. I am aware that his diary – as translated by Ross Benjmain – may raise eyebrows. All in all, though, it is best to avoid idle speculations.”

“So, this sums up Kafka’s adolescence,” he went on. “Can you hazard a guess as respects the most important moments in that period of his life?”

“On this point, we can be certain,” I replied. “The first would be his seduction by the house maid. The second is his meeting with Max Brod. The ensuing friendship shaped the remaining years of Kafka’s short life.”

 

IV.EMPLOYMENT: COPPER

 

“Well, Peter’le, we have discussed Kafka’s adolescence,” observed Theophil and reverted to his Peppi image. “We now ought to cover his years of employment. Usually – as already pointed out – an individual’s life is divided into four distinct phases. But how about Kafka?”

“Kafka died when he was forty-one years old. It is, therefore, difficult to draw a clear line between his years of employment and his years of retirement. Throughout both periods, his main occupation was writing. His two masterpieces, The Metamorphosis and The Trial were written during his years of employment. So was In the Penal Colony. The Castle, his aphorisms and some other works were composed during his short-lived retirement, when he was a very sick man. 

“I take your point. All the same, let us try to divide his remaining years into two compartments,” suggested my mentor.

“Would 1917 be a good cutting point? Up to then he worked regularly. Then, in this fatal year, he had his first haemorrhage and thereafter was diagnosed as having succumbed to tuberculosis. He remained in employment but had to take periods of sick leave, some on full payment and others on a no-payment basis.”

“I think this division is suitable,” agreed Peppi. “The suggested demarcation is not based on a chronological or biological basis; but it makes room for a division based on structure. So let us proceed on this basis.”

“Very well,” I proceeded. “Kafka completed his year of unpaid legal internship in August 1907. In September he was employed by an Italian insurance company – Assicurazioni Generali. His was perturbed by the long working hours. In July 1908, he resigned and joined the Arbeiter-Unfall-Versicherungs-Anstalt [Workers Accident Insurance Institute: ‘AUVA’]. His position, which was described as legal, involved the assessment of claims based on industrial accidents.”

“Wasn’t he entitled to practice law, for instance, as a courtroom advocate?”

“He was. His biographers suggest that he was concerned about his frail health, feared that practice would not leave him enough time for writing and, in general, preferred the stability of a salaried job to the hazard and uncertainty of launching a business of his own.”

“Do you accept this view, Peter’le?”

“I have my doubts, Maestro. Kafka was aware of his frailty. But it is not clear when he concluded that his main vocation was writing. It might have taken place later. I suspect that his main reason for settling on salaried jobs is simple: he lacked the temperament required for embarking on an enterprise of his own. I have no doubt that, if Hermann Kafka had been given the same opportunity as his son, he would have taken the risk and had become a legal practitioner. Franz Kafka lacked the drive.”

“Why did he leave the Italian insurance company and moved to AUVA?”

“The post at AUVA commanded a higher salary. Further, AUVA was a government body and working for it was prestigious. Racially, his being appointed was an achievement. Very few Jews were recruited. Yet another consideration was the shorter working hours. Kafka secured more time for the pursuit of outside activities.”  

“We have to turn to a crucial issue,” opined Theophil and reverted once again to his Descartes image. “When did Kafka make a conscious decision to treat writing as his calling?”

“The point is debated, Maestro.  Notably, Kafka published short pieces in a periodical called Hyperion. In 1908, eight saw light.  Later, these were included in his first book entitled Meditations (published in 1913). In 1909, two pieces appeared in Hyperion (later included in his ‘Description of a Struggle’). They were entitled ‘Conversations with a Supplicant’ and ‘Conversation with a Drunkard’. I have read them: they are alright, but his reputation could have never rested on them. Hyperion was a short-lived avon garde periodical. Still, it published contributions by Gide, Rilke, Hofmannsthal, Heinrich Mann (brother of Thomas)  and, of course by Max Brod. Kafka was, thus, in the company of modernist authors who were seeking to make a name for themselves.”

“Did Kafka send these pieces on his own initiative? What do we know?”

“One of the editors of the periodical, Blei, was a friend of Max Brod. Kafka, who had always been shy and unsure of himself, submitted his works in consequence of Brod’s prodding. Slightly later, still in 1909, he published, after a visit to a show in the company of Brod, a short article in a newspaper in Prague, entitled ‘The Aeroplanes at Brescia.’ Here, too, he was encouraged by his friend.”

“Was he by then fully committed?”

“Difficult to say. His breakthrough came later on, in the night of 22-23, September 1912, when he wrote the short story ‘The Judgment’ in a single setting. In a diary entry, he interprets this night as a ‘moment’ of pure creative authenticity. He ‘sensed’ that the story was not simply written but had been ‘delivered’ to him. He also experienced liberation, freeing him from his usual hesitations and critical self-doubts. Later, on 14 June 1913, in a letter to Felice Bauer, he said: ‘I am nothing but literature, and can and want nothing else.’ This was an affirmation of his stand.”

“A neat analysis,” agreed Descartes. “So, we can conclude that Kafka’s commitment to a life as an author took place no later than 1912, when he was already in full employment.  This was an important point in his life. Any further support?”

“Yes, there is,” I replied. “At one stage, Kafka showed a vivid interest in painting. Still, in a letter to Felice Bauer, of 10-12 February 1913, he avers: ‘I was once a great draftsman … but then I started to take academic drawing lessons with a bad women painter and ruined my talent’. Although he embellished some letters and diary entries with sketches, his main occupation was writing.”

“Let us then conclude our discussion of Kafka’s early publications. What can you tell me about them?”

“Max Brod prompted  Kafka to tidy his early creations  and submit them to Kurt Wolff. The latter had the set printed in 1912 and published by the Rowohlt & Kurt Wolff Verlag as Meditations [Betrachtungen]. Due to Brod’s enthusiasm and advocacy, Wolff took the financial risk. The book did not leave an immediate impact.”

“Was any other work of Kafka published at about this time?”

“Yes. Kafka submitted ‘The Judgment’ to Arkadia, a periodical of the same publishers. Here again we see the influence of Max Brod.”

“All in all,” said Theophil, metamorphosing from his Descartes image to Peppi’s, “Kafka’s friendship with Max Brod encouraged him to publish some of his works. But then, Peter’le, do you think that Kafka started to publish solely under his friends’ influence?”

“I think so. Kafka was plagued by self-doubts and insecurity. Brod helped him to overcome these scruples. Indeed, in a diary entry Kafka said that Brod believed in him more than he himself. And in his Kafka biography (of 1926), Brod observed that Kafka was a man of genius but lacked interest in self-promotion. In Brod’s own words: Kafka ‘shunned every stage. I dragged him onto it.’ The conclusion is clear: but for Max Brod’s influence, Kafka may have remained silent to the end.”

“Point taken,” agreed Peppi. “But did Kafka have the urge to be read?”

“I think he did. There may be individuals who write tomes just to get matters off their chest. Kafka was not one of them. His letters to Kurt Wolff  and his meticulous copy editing of works submitted for publication speak for themselves. So do the numerous sessions in which he  read his works out to friends and to family. He wanted to share.”

“I agree,” conceded Peppi. “Further, he kept sending stories to periodicals in Vienna and Berlin. Obviously, he wanted people to hear his voice.  Well, let us turn to his social life.”

“There is little to tell. We know that he continued to meet his circle. Also, he travelled, usually in the company of Max Brod. In 1909 he went, in his company, to Riva. Whilst there he was captivated by a Swiss girl. It is not clear whether this led to a romance. But we know that she, rather than him, initiated the short-lived friendship. This is but one example of Kafka’s pattern: a powerful attraction to women, but simultaneous paralysis when faced with the realities of emotional and physical intimacy.”

“Any others?”

“Well, in 1912 he visited, again with Max Brod, the Goethe House in Weimar. He was infatuated with the warden’s daughter but, again, it was a short-lived friendship. A diary entry shows attraction but nothing beyond looking and deep longing mixed with inhibitions.”

“So, this is the pattern,” concluded Peppi. “It manifested itself even in respect of his longest engagement, or engagements, to Felice Bauer. Let us turn to these.”

“Kafka met Felice Bauer in Max Brod’s home in August 1912. She held the post of a secretary in Berlin and came over to Prague for a visit. Kafka’s initial reaction was placid. He considered her plain. Later, he changed his mind and pursued her. During the next two years he wrote to her hundreds of letters. We have them, because she kept them. Most of her letters to him are lost.”

“You have read the letters meticulously, Peter’le. What would you say about them?”

“They puzzle me, Maestro. Undoubtedly, they show a commitment and, in some of them, Kafka says that he wants to marry her and settle down. In others, he talks about his own shortcomings and internal struggle and actually suggests that he is unfit for marriage. On an objective summing up, they are not love letters. My impression is that he wanted to back out even before they were formally engaged. Still, he kept his doubts to himself. His parents, in Prague, even located a suitable flat for the couple.”

“So, Felice seems to have tried to soothe and fortify him. Judging by some of his letters, she kept asking him to pull himself together and remained intent on proceeding. Did she confide in anybody?

“She did, rather,” I confirmed. “A friend of Felice, Grete Bloch, tried to act as intermediary, seeking to smooth out rough edges and restore harmony. Kafka kept writing her letters: a clandestine correspondence materialised. In her memoirs, Grete claimed they had an affair and that she bore him a son.”

“Do you believe her?”

“I am not certain. Perhaps it is best to regard the point as controversial. In any event, Kafka and Felice were formally engaged in a ceremony held in Berlin in April 1914. Kafka’s mother and his siter Ottla attended the function. It is believed that so did Hermann – the allegedly tyrannical father. Some six weeks later, Franz was confronted by Felice and Grete, who produced his letters to her. It was an acrimonious scene. In the event, Felice terminated the engagement.”

“What was Kafka’s reaction, Peter’le?”

“For a while he stopped writing to her. Then, in October 1914, he restarted the correspondence. By November it was resumed in full. It led to a second engagement early in 1917. Kafka terminated it after his being diagnosed to have succumbed to tuberculosis. In 1919, Felice married an investment banker. In a diary entry of 20 March 1919, Kafka observed that she had done the right thing and concluded that ‘now it is over’.”

“Let us not jump the gun, Peter’le. Please give me an outline of the major political developments of that period. We then have to consider their impact on Kafka.”

“Tensions in Europe were great during the period. The assassination of Archduke Ferdinand in Sarajevo triggered WWI. For millions, it marked the beginning of conscription and the horrid war in the trenches. Kafka was spared the draft because his employers, AUVA, considered his services essential. His two brothers in law were mobilised. When his married sisters returned to the family home, Kafka had to find premises of his own. But he continued to take meals at home. The war slogged on, with Austro-Hungary, Germany, the Ottoman Empire and Bulgaria forming one block; the United Kingdom and its Commonwealth,  France and its colonial empire, Russia (prior to its Revolution of 1917) and Japan formed the other. The historical Battles of the Somme and of Verdun took place in 1916. In 1917, the Unites States finally entered the war against the German block. The armistice was signed in 1918 and the Treaty of Versailles in 1919. It imposed heavy reparations on Germany.”

“Please tell me about the outcome of this great war, Peter’le. And do mention its effect on the intellectual climate of the period.”

“The Austro-Hungarian and Ottoman empire collapsed, Maestro. Bohemia ceased to be governed from Vienna. The world saw the birth of Czechoslovakia. In Russia, the Revolution carried the day. In due course, the Bolsheviks came to power. During the 1920s, Joseph Stalin consolidated power and, effectively, became the undisputed leader. The Soviet Union was officially established in December 1922. One further effect of WWI was the rise of the United States. It became a world power.  All in all, the early post war period was marked by condemnation of the past and hope for the future.”

“Who, in your opinion, represents this period? I know that we cannot exhaust the subject in the context of this enquiry. But do share with me the most important voices of this period.”

“Three voices seem loud and clear. First, Erich Maria Remarque tell us all about the horrors of the war in All Quiet on the Western Front. He bemoans the fate of the ‘lost generation’. Secondly, Sigmund Freud started to investigate the inner self. He is the father of psychoanalysis. Thirdly, Oswald Spengler published his famed The Decline of the West, telling us that empires rise and fall and that history is cyclical.”

“And how about Kafka?”

“He was too engrossed in his personal struggle to have a meaningful discussion of WWI. Further, his writings do not reflect the major developments of his time. For instance, in 1912 he met Albert Einstein and attended a lecture delivered by him.  But the significance of that seer’s vision is not noted by Kafka.”

“Point taken. Well did Kafka show any sympathy to WWI victims?”

“There was a stream of Galician Jewish refugees, who escaped to Prague. Kafka supported them to the best of his ability and organised aid. At the same time, he did not feel any closeness. Like other assimilated Jews of urban Prague, he regarded them as exotic aliens.”

“You note the man’s limitations, Peter’le,” observed Peppi.  Then, unexpectedly, metamorphosed into his Descartes image.  “For the sake of completion, tell me whether Kafka embraced any ideology? It is known that he embraced vegetarianism.”

“He did: on the basis ideological and health grounds. He adopted a vegetarian diet around 1910, taking the view that ethical and philosophical arguments supported his stand. Basically, he disliked the suffering of animals and expressed sympathy for them. Reportedly, when he visited an aquarium in Berlin (probably in 1912), he said: “Now I can look at you [the fish] in peace, I don’t eat you anymore.”

“He did,” confirmed Descartes. “his view was in tandem with the ideology expounded by vegetarian societies, founded both in Britain and in the Unites States during the 19th century. How consistent was Kafka?”

“Not to a large extent. On the one hand, he observed such a diet and claimed that it was medically sound. On the other hand, he did consume meat from time to time in his parents’ home. He was neither avid nor consistent. Further, he did not join, or become associated, with any society or movement in point.”

“So, Kafka accepted a pontificated ideology but was not fully committed to it in practice. I fear, Peter’le, that a rather negative pattern begins to emerge. Kafka did not commit himself to any political or ideological cause,” observed Descartes. Then, once again, he mutated into Peppi. After a moment of silence, he went on: “Well, Peter’le, we have to turn to another episode: Kafka’s role in respect of the Asbestos Manufactory. The floor is yours!”

“Late in 1911, Kafka became a partner of the Prager Asbestoswerke Hermann & Co. The managing partner was Franz’s brother-in-law, Karl Hermann. The firm did well although, right from the beginning, Kafka’s heart was not in. In a diary entry of December 1911, he observes: ‘How much time I waste on my brother in law’s factory. I am not made for commerce … every visit fills me with repulsion.’ He continued to express his dislike in entries made in 1913 and 1914.”

“What happened to the firm when Karl Hermann was mobilised?”

“For a while, Kafka purported to carry on the business but without zeal. Unsurprisingly, it went down. Karl Hermann died of tuberculosis shortly after his discharge from the army. For a while the firm struggled but, in 1917, it was dissolved.”

“This time I’ll sum up,” said Peppi. “The asbestos business shows Kafka’s ambivalence toward bourgeois life. Although he lent his name and became a partner, he reoiled from the obligations. Notably, all this time he kept his position at AUVA and immersed himself in writing. Well, what would you, Peter’le, say?”

“I cannot help feeling that, if Kafka felt no commitment to the business, he should have never stepped into it. Karl Hermann’s industry and tenacity built it up and show that the business was not a fancy investment. Kafka was not drawn to it. But he lacked the temerity and the determination to give it a miss. Some of his biographers seek to justify his behaviour on the basis of his writing and frail health. I disagree.”

“What was his record like at AUVA, Peter’le. We know that this was his bread and butter.”

“Actually, a fine record. Within a few months of his initial appointment, he was constituted an ‘Assessor’. He was advanced gradually and, in 1922, attained the position of a ‘Senior (Chief) Secretary’. During his years of service, he prepared several reports advocating the introduction of safety measures in enterprises. In all these instances, his object was to improve the lot of industrial employees. It would be fair to conclude that he was caring and responsible.”

“Did he like his job, Peter’le?”

“Numerous diary entries suggest that he did not. In particular, he was irked by the extra load resulting from the mobilisation of some of his colleagues during WWI. And I must say that I am perplexed. As the job gave him a respectable position and a sound income, why did he grumble?”

“His admirers aver that he was devoted to his writings.”

“I know. But, in that case, why didn’t he resign and concentrate on his numerous unfinished texts?”

“Once again, Peter’le, you become emotive.”

“Perhaps. But, Maestro, I find Kafka’s attitude  disturbing. Many of us give a miss to the moon and settle for sixpence. But once we make our decision, we endeavour to make the best we can.”

“Agreed, Peter’le. But many continue to hanker after the moon. You, my friend, continued to engage in Bible Critique and in creative writing, although you opted for a remunerative teaching career. So, cease being judgmental. Why not stick to your philosophy of live and let live?”

“Oh, very well,” I said after a short silence. “To continue our enquiry let us turn to a thorny issue: Kafka’s approach to the evolving Czech literature of his period. To start with we have to turn to Yaroslav Haŝek and his famous The Good Soldier Ŝvejk, which has become a cornerstone of 20^th century European literature. It is a biting satire of the old regime and its overtone.”

“Very well,” he replied. “Let us proceed with this issue. Haŝek and Kafka were contemporaries.  The Czech literary circle of Prague was however distinct from the circle in which Kafka moved. How did Kafka relate to it?”

“Haŝek was strongly connected with Czech klub maladŷch [Young Czech Club]. So was Max Brod, who induced Kafka to attend from time to time. Kafka’s diaries include no reference to it, but he may, of course, have visited it prior to the commencement of his extant diary. He might have attended the same meetings as Haŝek; but Max Brod did not introduce them. He must have surmised that a blazing extrovert like Haŝek and a shy introvert like Kafka would not see eye to eye.”

“Was Kafka oblivious of the emerging Czech culture?” asked Peppi.

“I don’t think so. He attended Czech theatre performances. Further, in a diary entry of 25 December 1911, he writes: ‘A small nation’s memory is not smaller than the memory of a large one and so can digest the existing material more thoroughly.’  He meant the emerging Czech nation. My conclusion is that he was sympathetic of the Czech cause but, of course, did not join any party, club or circle.”

“I agree and want to add a point. After the end of WWI, when Czech  replaced German as the official language in Bohemia, AUVA made a point of retaining employees proficient in this tongue. Kafka was retained and promoted.”

For a short while both of us remained silent. Then, Theophil switched once again to his Dr. Freud image. Noting my surprise, he explained: “We have to consider Kafka’s health during this period.”

“I know,” I agreed. “But why the Dr. Freud image? Surely, we are not going to embark on a psychoanalytic analysis.”

“Of course not. But remember: before Dr. Freud founded the new discipline, he was, albeit for a short while, a general medical practitioner. So, his knowledge of medicine becomes relevant.”

“Kafka’s health was poor during his years of employment. He suffered from general weakness, had feats of headache and insomnia and often had mild fever. He lived on his nerves and did his best to camouflage his ever-increasing fragility. Then, as already mentioned, he had his first haemorrhage in 1917 and was diagnosed as tubercular.”

“Precisely,” said Dr. Freud. “Like all medical men of the period I was familiar with tuberculosis. The disease was rampant all over Europe both before and after WWI.  X-ray was still underdeveloped and not in common use. Although Robert Koch isolated the tuberculosis bacteria in 1882, usually general practitioners had to rely for their diagnosis on their statoscope and the patient’s symptoms. The spitting of blood in mucus was a tell-tale indicator. Well, Kafka’s diaries do not refer to spitting blood. I suspect, he ignored this. The haemorrhage showed that the disease was already in an advanced stage.”

“When do you think Kafka succumbed to it?”

“The available records do not enable us to come down with a decisive date.”

“When diagnosed in 1917, was it incurable?” I asked.

“In that period, it was.  Rest and a suitable regime might have enabled the patient to gain time. Thomas Mann tells all about it in  The Magic Mountain and so does Remarque in Three Comrades. Kafka, however, was a disobedient patient. I suspect that his fate had been sealed by then.”

“When, do you think, he might have contracted the disease?”

“His frequent bouts of fever and fatigue suggest that 1916 or perhaps even 1915 might be in point.”

“There is a further aspect to consider,” I added. “The period 1912 to 1917 is one of Kafka’s most productive periods as writer. It will be recalled that his breakthrough came in 1912, when he wrote “The Judgment”. A few months later he began The Metamorphosis, completing it in 1913. At around this time, he started his intense correspondence with Felice. He also started writing Amerika and just after the outbreak of WWI commenced writing The Trial. In addition, he wrote shorter pieces, such as In the Penal Colony and The Country Doctor.”

“Why is this relevant as regards his health?” asked Theophil.

 “During daytime, he carried out his duties as at AUVA. His literary works and many of his letters were written during nighttime, frequently after he returned home from meeting with friends or attending an evening lecture or theatre performance. In my opinion, he did not have enough rest. His health – which was poor even without these activities – suffered.”

“I agree,” summed up Theophil. “He was badly overworked. His period as a young man was marred by internal struggle and by lack of badly needed rest. His alienation and sense of loss peaked. No wonder the disease progressed. Let us turn to the period following the diagnosis.”

 

V. THE INVALID: SOLID IRON AND CLAY

 

“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 20^th 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.”

 

VI. SUMMING UP

            “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.