Kafka's Works. Volume 4. Letters

Author: Franz Kafka (Austria), translated by Zhu Yan and others
Translator: Zhu Yan, Zhang Rongchang
Country:
Publisher:
Publish Date: 2003-07-01
Features: To Oscar Polak (estimated 1903), September 6 [in Prague] I will prepare a bundle of things for you, which is everything I have written so far, some about me, some about others. It's all there, what's missing are some childish scribbles (you see, misfortune has weighed heavily on me from an early age), secondly, things I no longer have; then there are those I believe cannot even serve as a bridge between works; then there are the plans, because for those who possess them, they are like land, but for others, they are just a wasteland; finally, there is what I won't even show you, because if a person stands bare before another and is caressed, he can't help but tremble all over, even if he was originally kneeling and begging for it to be done. Besides, in the past six months, I have written almost nothing. As a result, I don't know how much is left, but I give it all to you, as long as you agree to my request, whether through a letter or a simple word, just tell me "yes." Because this is a special matter, though I am very clumsy when writing about such things in my letters (very ignorant), you may have already understood it. I don't want an answer from you; waiting here is a joy, or perhaps it's like lighting a pile of firewood for a pyre. I don't even want to know your attitude toward me, because even if I did, I would have to force you to reply. Therefore, what I want is something both easier and more difficult; I want you to read those pages of manuscript, indifferent or even repulsed, because the manuscript does indeed contain indifference and disgust. Because—my request stems from this—that my affectionate yet harsh nature remains cold even under the sun, and I know that if a stranger's eyes gaze upon it, everything will warm up and come alive. I have only written the words "warming up" and "coming alive," because this is certain, as the book says: "The feeling of independence is beautiful, but the feeling of responding to things can have a greater effect." But why bother with all this? Not at all—I will take a piece (because I can give you more, and I will give you—certainly), take a piece from my heart, and wrap it carefully in several pages of manuscript and give it to you.
To Max Brod [July 5, 1922, in Praga] In this sleepless night, I let everything replay in my mind between the two aching temples, and I once again became aware of the idea I had almost forgotten in this recent period of quiet: that I am living on such a weak, almost non-existent land, beneath which lies darkness, from which that eerie violence can erupt at will, indifferent to my stammering and destroying my life. Writing sustains me, but isn't it more accurate to say that writing sustains this kind of life? Of course, I don't mean that my life would be better if I didn't write. On the contrary, it would be much worse, unbearable, and would inevitably end in madness. But this is only true under one condition: I am a writer, and the fact is that even if I don't write, I am still a writer, and a writer who doesn't write is merely a ridiculous and terrible thing that stirs up madness. But what is the very essence of a writer's existence? Writing is a sweet, wonderful reward, but a reward for what? Tonight, as if I had taken a lesson in elementary, I clearly understood that it is a reward for serving the devil. It is to willingly descend into darkness, to loosen the chains of demons born bound, to embrace the devilish and problematic ardor of demons, and to all those things that may still be happening underground, which people above the sun would never know when writing stories. There may be another kind of writing, but I only know this one; in the long night, whenever fear keeps me from sleeping, I only write this kind. The demonic nature of this writing is clear to me. It is a vanity and a desire for pleasure, which buzz around their own and a stranger's image, enjoying it—this movement is repeated and renewed, giving rise to a solar system formed by vanity. An innocent person sometimes whispers to himself, "I wish I were dead, so you could see how people mourn me." A writer like this is constantly fulfilling this wish, dying (or not living) and constantly crying for himself. Thus, a terrible fear of death arises, though it doesn't necessarily manifest as fear of death but may be fear of change, fear of the Georgen Valley. The reasons for the fear of death can be divided into two categories. One is that he fears death terribly because he has not truly lived. I don't mean to say that one must have a wife, children, land, or livestock to live. What life requires is to give up self-indulgence; to move into a house, not to admire it, but to crown it with flowers. On the contrary, one might say: this is fate, it is not handed to anyone. But why do people then regret, why do they endlessly regret? To make themselves more beautiful, more pleasing? There is that intention. But beyond that, why do these sleepless nights always lead to the conclusion: I could have lived but didn't. The second main reason—perhaps there was only one reason originally, and now I can no longer distinguish between the two—this consideration: the games I have played will come true. Through writing, I have not redeemed myself. For the rest of my life, I have been a dead man, and now I am truly dying. My life was sweeter than others', so my death will be even more terrible. The writer in me will surely die immediately, because such a role has no place in the world, cannot endure in the world, and is not even born from dust; there is only a sliver of survival in the mad, worldly life, a mere blueprint for the desire for pleasure. This is the writer. But I myself cannot continue to live, because I have not lived; I have always been a lump of clay, without turning a spark into fire, merely using it to illuminate my corpse. That would be a strange funeral, the writer—that is, something that does not exist—placing that old corpse, that which has always been a corpse, into the ground. I am a fully qualified writer, and I would very much like to enjoy or narrate (both are the same thing) this funeral in a state of complete self-forgetfulness—forgetting that I am not awake, for it is the primary prerequisite for the life of a writer—but I can no longer do so. But why limit myself to true death? It is the same death in life. I sit here in the comfort of a writer, ready to write all the beautiful things, forced to do nothing but watch—because what else can I do besides write?—my true self, this poor, defenseless self (the existence of a writer is an argument against the soul, because the soul has clearly abandoned my true self, leaving only the writer, not becoming anything else; could it be that being separated from "I" has made the soul so weak?)—how the devil uses any excuse, like a small trip to the Georgen Valley, to throttle, twist, punch, and kick me almost to the point of shattering. I wasn't at home, so what right do I have to be shocked by the sudden collapse of the house? Do I even know what happened before the house collapsed? Am I not already traveling elsewhere and have sold the house to all those evil forces? I wrote a letter to Oscar [Baum] yesterday, mentioning my fear but agreeing to go there, but the letter hasn't been sent yet, because night fell. I may have to wait another night; if I can't wait, I will rewrite it. Then it's decided: I will no longer leave Bohemia for trips, recently my movements will be limited to Prague, then to my room, then to my bed, then to a certain posture of lying, and later to a void. At that time, I may be able to voluntarily give up the happiness of writing, the key being voluntary and joy. To highlight the crucial point of this entire story—as it is not I who is highlighting it, but the matter itself—in I must add that in my fear of travel, there is even this consideration that for several days I will not touch the writing desk. And this absurd consideration is, in fact, the only reasonable one, because the existence of a writer indeed depends on the writing desk. As long as he wants to escape madness, he cannot leave the writing desk, not even by biting it to stay close to it. The definition and explanation of a writer, such as this writer, and his role (if he has a role at all) are: he is a scapegoat for humanity, allowing people to enjoy sin without guilt, almost without guilt. You ask for forgiveness, I don't understand. If the matter is settled, then my forgiveness for you is self-evident, it's the way of things. I am only harsh when the matter is not settled, and you have not even worried about it. Since the matter is settled, what more could I not forgive you for! Your mind must be in chaos, to believe such a thing. Comparing me to your father, I don't like it, at least not now. Would I also lose you? (Of course, I don't have the strength you father has for this.) But if you insist on this comparison, you might as well send the corset back. By the way, buying and sending that corset was a story that lasted three hours—it did indeed—make me feel refreshed at the time, and for that, I am grateful to you. I won't tell this story today; I am too tired, almost two nights without sleep. Can't I just restrain my emotions a little so I can receive some praise in Gmunden? Really, to be jealous of that Amsterdam traveler? What she does, if she does it with conviction, must be beautiful, but you are making a logical mistake. For someone living such a life, it is a compulsion; for someone who cannot live such a life, it may be freedom. This is the case everywhere. Such a "jealousy" is ultimately just a desire for death.
How to handle the relationship with Max—up to you. But since I now know what you have entrusted him with, once the matter is settled, I will go to him and discuss the possibility of traveling together for a few days, "because I feel particularly energetic," and then slowly make my way home, to stretch out one last time in my home. As long as it hasn't reached that point, I will naturally speak this way. But once my temperature reaches 37.5℃ (38℃ on rainy days!), then the telegraph messenger will stumble and run up your long stairs one after another. I hope they will go on strike then, not now, not on your birthday! I threatened to refuse to give that person stamps, and the post office took it too seriously. When I received that letter, the stamp had already been torn off. Incidentally, you must understand that person correctly—he probably doesn't collect one of every stamp. He places each stamp on a large page of a stamp album, binds all the pages into a large album, and once a page is full, he uses a new one, and so on. He sits there every afternoon, tinkering with this, plump and content. Every time he collects a new stamp, he has a new reason for joy, for example, today he got a fifty-cent stamp: now the postage will increase (poor Milena!), these fifty-cent stamps will become even rarer! I like what you said about the situation with Kroszen (I don't like Afra), it's a real tuberculosis sanatorium, where they give injections, pah! For us civil servants, this is a stage before death from tuberculosis, and I like such a country, a country with historical traces. But is it still open in late autumn, do they accept foreigners, are the fees for foreigners even higher? Except me, would anyone else understand why I go to this famine-stricken country to fatten myself? But I will write to them. Yesterday, I talked with that Stein again. He belongs to those who are generally unfairly treated. I don't know why people laugh at him. He knows everyone, knows all the personal details, yet he is humble, makes judgments extremely cautiously and wisely, and treats others with respect; his judgments are a bit too clear, too pure and arrogant, which only increases his prestige, provided people know those who are secretly arrogant, those who are lustful, reckless, and arrogant. Suddenly, I mentioned Has from Hase, slipped quietly past Yasmine, and in a while, I went to your husband, and finally—I might as well say, saying I enjoy hearing people talk about you is wrong, completely wrong, I just keep wanting to hear your name, all day long. If I asked him, he would tell me many things about you, but since I didn't, he merely made this sincere remark that you are almost no longer alive in the world, ruined by cocaine (how grateful I am that you are still alive). Moreover, like his character, he added cautiously that he did not witness this himself but only heard about it. He spoke of your husband as if he were a powerful magician. He also mentioned a name from your Prague days that I had not heard before: I remember, Klaidlova. He could have told me much more, but I left, somewhat displeased, mainly with myself, because I walked silently beside him, listening to things I didn't want to hear and that had nothing to do with me. I repeat: if there is any obstacle that may bring you minor suffering, you should stay in Vienna, and if there is no other way, you can do so without notifying me. But if you go, then you must do so.
Note: The asterisks () in the original text have been retained as they are, as per the instruction to leave them unchanged.