Kafka's Works (Volume 4) Letters

Author: Franz Kafka (Austria), translated by Zhu Yan and others
Translator: Zhu Yan, Zhang Rongchang
Country:
Publisher:
Publication Date: 2003-07-01
Features: To Oscar Polak (estimated 1903), September 6 [in Prague] I will prepare a bundle for you, it is everything I have written so far, some about me, some about others. It is all there, what is missing are some childish scribblings (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, for they are land to those who possess them, but a desert to others; finally, there is what I even do not let you see, for if a person stands naked and is stroked by another, he cannot help but tremble, even if he was originally on his knees pleading for it to be done. Moreover, in the past six months I have written almost nothing. As a result, I do not 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" will suffice. Because this is a special matter, although I am very clumsy when writing about such things in my letters (very ignorant), you may have long understood it. I do not want an answer from you, is it a joy to wait here, or can I easily and cheerfully light the pile of firewood for the pyre? I do not even want to know your attitude toward me, for even if I did, I would have to force you to reply. Therefore, what I want is both easier and more difficult; I want you to read those pages of manuscript, indifferent or filled with aversion, for indeed there is both indifference and aversion in the manuscript. Because——my request stems from this——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 become warm and lively. I have only written the words "to become warm and lively," for I am quite certain of this, 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 so many words? Not at all——I have taken a piece (for I can give you more, and I still want to give you——certainly), I have taken a piece from my heart and carefully wrapped it in several sheets of paper filled with writing and given it to you.
To Max Brod [July 5, 1922, in Prague] On this sleepless night, I let everything recurred in my mind between the two aching temples, and I once again became aware of the idea I had almost forgotten in the recent period of relative quiet, namely: how weakly I am living on this land that barely exists, beneath which lies darkness, from which that eerie violence can erupt at will, regardless of my stammering and destroying my life. Writing sustains me, but is it not more correct to say that writing sustains this kind of life? Of course, I do not mean that my life would be better if I did not write. On the contrary, it would be far worse, unbearable, and would inevitably end in madness. But this is only true under the condition: I am a writer, and this is the fact, even if I do not write, I am still a writer, and a writer who does not write is merely a ridiculous and terrible thing that stirs up madness. But what is the essence of the existence of a writer? Writing is a sweet and wonderful reward, but a reward for what? Tonight, as if I had attended a child's hands-on lesson, I clearly understood that it is a reward for serving the devil. It is to willingly descend into darkness, to free the demons bound from birth, to embrace the devilish and problematic ardor, and to all those things that may still be happening underground, and which people above the sunlit earth would never know when writing stories. There may be another kind of writing, but I only know this one; on long nights, 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. Sometimes, the innocent secretly hope, "It would be better if I died, so that people could see how they weep for me." A writer like this constantly fulfills this wish, dying (or not living) and constantly crying for himself. Thus, a terrible fear of death arises, but it does not necessarily manifest as fear of death; it may manifest as fear of change, fear of the Georgen Valley. The reasons for the fear of death can be divided into two categories. One is his terrible fear of death, for he has not truly lived. When I say this, I do not mean that one must have a wife, children, land, or livestock to live. What is needed 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 then do people regret endlessly? Is it to make themselves more beautiful or more pleasing? There is some truth to that. But apart from that, why do I always conclude on these sleepless nights that I could have lived but did not? The second main reason——perhaps there was only one reason originally, but now I find it difficult to distinguish between the two——is this consideration: the games I have played will come true. Through writing, I have not redeemed myself. For my entire 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, for such a role has no place in the world, cannot endure for long, and is not even born from dust; there is only a sliver of survival in the frantic earthly life, a mere blueprint for the desire for pleasure. This is the writer. But I myself cannot continue to live, for I have not truly lived; I have always been a lump of clay, failing to turn 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 grave. 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——with all my sensory organs. But I can no longer do this. However, why should I only talk about 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 writing——my true self, this poor, defenseless self (the existence of a writer is an argument against the soul, for the soul has clearly abandoned my true self, leaving only the writer, not becoming anything further; could separating from "I" have made the soul so weak?) being taken, twisted, and beaten by the devil for any reason, such as a small trip to the Georgen Valley, () almost grinding me to pieces. I was not at home, so what right do I have to be startled by the sudden collapse of the house? Do I even know what happened before the house collapsed? Was I not already traveling elsewhere and had already sold the house to all those evil forces? Yesterday, I wrote a letter to Oscar [Baum], mentioning my fear but agreeing to go there, but the letter has not been sent, for the night had already fallen. I may have to wait another night; if I cannot wait, I will have to rewrite it. Then it is decided: I will no longer leave Bohemia, recently my movements will be limited to Prague, then to my room, then to my bed, then to a certain posture of lying, and then 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——not me, but the matter itself is doing so——I must add one thing: in my fear of travel, there is also this consideration that for several days I will not be allowed to touch the writing desk. And this ridiculous consideration is, in fact, the only reasonable one, for the existence of a writer indeed depends on the writing desk. As long as he wants to escape madness, he must never leave the writing desk, even if he bites it with his teeth to stay close to it. The definition of a writer, such as this writer, and the explanation of his role (if he has any 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 do not understand. If the matter is settled, then my forgiveness is implied by the circumstances. I am only harsh when the matter is not settled, and you have not even concerned yourself with it. Since the matter is settled, what more could I not forgive you for! Your mind must be in chaos, for you would believe such a thing. Comparing me to your father, I do not like it, at least not now. Would I also lose you? (Of course, I do not have the strength you need for this.) But if you insist on this comparison, then you might as well return the corset. By the way, buying and sending that corset was a story that lasted three hours, and it did indeed——at the time when I needed it very much——make me feel refreshed, for which I am grateful to you. I will not tell this story today, I am too tired, almost two nights without sleep. Can I not restrain my emotions a little so that I can receive some reward in Gmunden? Really, to be envious of that Amsterdam traveler? What she does, if she does it with conviction, must be beautiful, but you are making a logical error. For someone living such a life, it is compulsory; for someone who cannot live such a life, it may be freedom. This is the case everywhere. Such "envy" is ultimately just a desire for death.
How to handle the relationship with Max is 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 several days, "because I feel particularly energetic," and then slowly make my way home, where I will finally stretch out. As long as things have not 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 does not collect a stamp of every type. He places each type 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 obtained a fifty-cent stamp: now the postal rate will increase (poor Milena!), these fifty-cent stamps will become even rarer! I like the situation of Klossen you mentioned (I do not like Affel), it is a real sanatorium for tuberculosis, 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 went to this famine-stricken country to fatten myself? But I will write to them. Yesterday, I also talked with that Stein again. He belongs to those who are generally unfairly treated. I do not know why people laugh at him. He knows everyone, knows all the personal details, yet he remains humble, makes judgments with extreme caution and intelligence, and treats others with respect; his judgments are a bit too clear, too pure and self-assured, which only adds to his prestige, provided people recognize those who are secretly self-assured, those who are lustful, reckless, and self-assured. Suddenly, I mentioned Has from Hase, slipped quietly past Jamila, and after a while, I went to your husband, and finally——incidentally, to say that 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 did not ask, 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 speaks of your husband as if he were a powerful magician. He also mentioned a name from your Prague period that I had not heard before: I remember, Klaidlová.—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 did not want to hear and that had nothing to do with me. I repeat: if any obstacle may bring you minor suffering, you should stay in Vienna, if there is no other way, you can also not inform me. But if you go, then you must do so.
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 does not collect a stamp of every type. He places each type 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 obtained a fifty-cent stamp: now the postal rate will increase (poor Milena!), these fifty-cent stamps will become even rarer! You mentioned the situation of Klossen, I like it (Affel I do not like), it is a real lung disease hospital, 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 in late autumn, is it still open, do they accept foreigners, are the fees for foreigners even higher? Except me, would anyone else understand why I went 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 do not know why people laugh at him. He knows everyone, knows all the personal details, yet he remains humble, makes judgments with extreme caution and intelligence, and treats others with respect; his judgments are a bit too clear, too pure and self-assured, which only adds to his prestige, provided people recognize those who are secretly self-assured, those who are lustful, reckless, and self-assured. Suddenly, I mentioned Has from Hase, slipped quietly past Jamila, and after a while, I went to your husband, and finally——incidentally, to say that 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 did not ask, 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 speaks of your husband as if he were a powerful magician. He also mentioned a name from your Prague period that I had not heard before: I remember, Klaidlová.—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 did not want to hear and that had nothing to do with me. I repeat: if any obstacle may bring you minor suffering, you should stay in Vienna, if there is no other way, you can also not inform me. But if you go, then you must do so.