A cry of Kafka

Franz Kafka felt a burst of surprise and horror when he realized that writing might have been forced on some level.

on Wednesday morning in September 1920, Franz Kafka woke up.

Last night's sleep was the best in recent days, so when the dull pain in his chest and the tetany in his head intensified in the blink of an eye, he fell into the boredom of the day. Everything is still the same, he thought, no matter how deep sleep is just a little scam at night, and the morning light can easily expose the swindler through the cracks in the curtains.

the curtains are closed. In the dim light, he could not see the distant door. Yes, he felt that the door was far away, and because of pain, weakness, and rejection of the cool early autumn morning, lifting the duck down quilt, putting on slippers, and walking to the door had almost become the most difficult thing in recent days.

The mother knocked at the door. Kafka trembled, sat up from under the quilt, and shouted to the door, "just a moment, I'm up!" He was habitually stuck at the most appropriate point when he said this: he could make his mother hear her clearly and prevent her from pushing open the door and coming in or looking in. This is not to say that he does not want to see her, but that every time he comes from sleep to reality, he feels the need to re-recognize the whole of Prague, which is a difficult task for him.

of course, even with little effort, he can quickly reproduce in his mind the appearance of the small town where he has lived for more than 30 years. The lines of those buildings, the reflection of the walls in the autumn light, and the bright appearance of the stone pavement have long been trampled on. Even the wrinkles of the arms of thieves hanging from chains in Jacob's church, the foggy handrails of the Charlie Bridge, the spires of St. Witt's church piercing the woods in the castle area and focusing on the gloomy sky.

the real difficulty of getting up in the morning is that he has to recover all his memories carefully and quickly, and walk out of the room with this huge invisible bag and go to the industrial accident insurance bureau or wherever else he needs to go. Under this feeling, he no longer had the strength to express proper patience and love in the face of his mother.

when Kafka had finished his breakfast, he got up and went to the window and stared at the street where there were not many pedestrians. In a few minutes, he had to go out to the office of the Industrial accident Insurance Bureau. Today, Tremor, who was sitting opposite, was on vacation. He was going to spend the whole morning alone in the office. He felt a little more relaxed when he thought of it. He even smiled and went back to the living room to pick up his briefcase and get ready to go out. But before he left, he thought of Janosch , hesitated for about half a minute, turned back to the desk, and looked in three stacks of books all about half a meter high. He found the new issue of New Review and Tree Trunk Magazine. Among the poems published in the latter, he felt it necessary to keep it at hand when the young man Janosch came next time (maybe today, he came to him on his convenience and a whim) Let him read it. In the end, he pulled out the newly completed manuscript of Poseidon from the folder, feeling that if he was not very busy today, he could make some changes. Then he went out and went to the office.

he will be slower when crossing the Charlie Bridge, and although in his present constitution he always coughs in the gauze-like mist of the Vltava River, it is his habit to walk slowly across the Charlie Bridge. The Charlie Bridge has been his favorite place since he had an impression of the real streets and buildings in Prague. He likes the current of the Vltava River to flow through the bridge hole under his feet, constantly moving in one direction. How can there be such endless water that you can rest assured that it flows all the time without drying up? Where did it go? It was as if Prague was just a bead on the rope of the moving earth and a cage, holding the cage of a jackdaw named Kafka, and when it was impossible to fly out of the cage, all that was left was to carefully observe the crisscross of its grids, and the streets of the old city not far away were spinning and crisscrossing in this way. So, sometimes it can be said that it is not a bad thing to wake up every day to remember and know Prague, and there is always an opportunity for discovery, even if you discover what you already know in the past, at every moment of deja vu, it's still new. Since he came back from recuperation in the plum woodland, he has also tried to observe the town more actively.

after arriving at the office, Kafka continued the thinking brought by the self-examination bridge, so he put his briefcase on the table, and instead of sitting down immediately, he walked up and down the room. At the moment, he thought of hammers and gardening shovels, unconsciously stroking his trousers with one hand and his face and chin with the other, sometimes pressing down his thin, firm lips. Hammer and shovel, the transformation of metal, and the maintenance of soil and plants have always been his interest, if he can choose not to be the son of a grumpy rich businessman, or if the haunting tuberculosis is gone, blacksmiths and gardeners are the ideal choices for work, and just as I thought of this, the door of the office was pushed open.

Janosch's head reached in for a quick tour, and with his unstopped panting and sweaty face, he asked intermittently, "Mr. Doctor , are you alone?"

Kafka replied, "Yes, Janosh."

"Great!" Josh slammed the door rashly and rushed straight to the chair next to Kafka's desk. Kafka was a little uncomfortable, but he still restrained himself from showing it. The shyness of the teenager at the first meeting was gone because they became familiar with each other, Kafka thought, if it were not for that he was a young man who didn't do much better. This kind of recklessness will bring great pain and worry to you.

Janosch lifted the bag and slapped it on the table, unbuttoned it, lifted the cloth cover, and then picked up the two lower corners of the bag in both hands. Crashing, he dumped a pile of books on his desk. "look, Doctor, I've bought a lot of books, and I'm going to read them all in the next two months!"

Kafka frowned, but still smiled discernibly: "if you ask me, dear Janosh, you have read too much, and I have noticed that you have bought a lot of books by new writers."

Janosch: "maybe you're right, Mr. Doctor, but you criticized my poems last time, saying they were too noisy. I think reading a lot of books will make me quieter. Don't you think so? "

Kafka: "Dear Janosh, I happen to see a poem in the trunk magazine and I'm going to read it to you." Kafka sat in the office chair, but the back of the chair, which was the right size for the average person, looked cramped under his tall head. He took the books out of his bag, then pulled out the tree trunk, turned to the four on the first page, pressed the long index finger of his right hand next to the title of the song "humility" , and then turned the book with his left hand. the poem is like turning an elegant circle around his index finger and stopping in front of the audience (Janoche) in a beautiful dancing posture, waiting for applause.

Janosch stretched out his head and unconsciously read:

I grow shorter and shorter, grow smaller and smaller,

become the shortest person in the world.

early in the morning, I come to the grass in the sun.

reach out to pick the smallest flower,

cheek close to the flower, and whisper: my child, you have no clothes and shoes,

holding a sparkling dewdrop,

the blue sky supports your body.

in order not to let its mansion collapse.

Kafka watched and listened to Janosh's reading, and he appreciated his enthusiasm and serenity in front of the poem, which may be the reason why he was able to associate with this young man twenty years his junior without feeling particularly uncomfortable. It is generally safe to associate with such a young poet (or, more accurately, a literature lover). Not in terms of popular safety, but in terms of the strength of the image of "Solitude", although Janosh is often reckless, he does not get to the bottom of it, and more importantly, he can see that this young man has a tragic consciousness similar to himself. Kafka has long been deeply aware of the dilemma of choosing from the perspective of popular emotion and life and the perspective of writing, and he can even bluntly conclude that staying lonely is the only thing that matters to writing. Every time he thought about it, he couldn't help thinking of his pain every time he broke off his engagement at the last minute, and soon fell in love again and again, which for him was an emotional river of permanent movement, the Vltava River inside him. He even had a premonition that Janosch would spend his life in pain, similar to his prospects. However, I may soon reach that gloomy ending.

"Dear Janosh, you'll have to be alone for a while. I'm going to do something, but I promise I'll be back as soon as possible." Kafka said.

Janosch, still immersed in Falk's poems, said hello in a trance, and as Kafka walked out of the office, he flipped through the issue of the magazine, trying to find more good works.

in the next hour or so, young Janosh first finished what he was interested in in the Tree Trunk, then flipped through the New Review and found the manuscript of Poseidon. It was the first time he had seen Kafka's manuscript. He was attracted by the elegant and smooth handwriting. He read it quickly and read it several more times until Hertov Redbeard (his father's assistant) pushed the door and interrupted him: "Hello, Mr. Janosh. Dr. Kafka asked me to give you a message. He was waiting for you at the end of the Charlie Bridge. He said to express his apology for keeping you waiting." He will treat you to lunch at the Old Town Cafe. It's lunchtime. "

Janosch saw Kafka under the bridgehead tower and felt very different from what he looked like in the office. The office, which has been in use for many years, is not very spacious and the light is not good, and Kafka's tall stature always looks a little too conspicuous in it. On the other hand, Kafka looked weak on the streets of the old city, his slender figure and elven eyes were squashed in the slits of larger urban buildings, and his exposure to the outdoor air made him cough frequently. Janosh became anxious and uneasy. Maybe I should go. I shouldn't keep pestering Mr. Doctor and let him get more rest.

Kafka saw Janosh's kind hesitation, closed his hand and coughed twice, waited for them to pass, straightened up as much as possible, and used slender, admirable gestures to assist in persuading Janosch to have lunch with him. "We haven't finished talking about poetry, Janosh. Don't you want to hear what I think about reading?" Like every time before, Janosh stayed.

take a walk on the circular island in the old city after dinner, and they continue their discussion. Janosch said, "I didn't think you would like Dickens."

"Why can't you like him, Janosh? It is precisely the full goodness and hope in his works that writers like us lack. "

"but don't you think hope and kindness are so false? The reality is much crueler as if God no longer looks after us. "

"shouldn't we take care of ourselves, though it's hard?"

"well, just like Dostoevsky told us."

"We've already discussed Dostoevsky, Janoshi, and I'd rather suggest you look at earlier classics, such as Flaubert if you agree that it's so important to find literary serenity and firmness."

"Doctor, what do you think of the new literature? don't you think it's interesting? Aren't they already starting a new era? "

"Dear Janosh, if anything new will happen, it will not happen in literature. You should read Goethe again, the great Goethe, we are just repeating him in some way, and you know, in literature, form is never important."

"then what is important?" Janosch asked, and immediately added, "if the form doesn't matter, why did you write Metamorphosis?"

they had reached the Old Town Square and came under the statue of Huth. Kafka looked up at the face of the statue but bent down with a flood of coughing. When the pain was over, he said to Janosh, "now that you have mentioned it, dear Janosch, I want to say that it may be my worst work, and if you are a little more careful, you may find that it is not at all and does not care whether it is new or not. it should be something older and more real, in other words, something lasting. Dear Janosch, this is also the meaning of reading Goethe. "

"I happened to see your manuscript Poseidon this morning. If I remember correctly, I like that story very much. Poseidon is too busy to patrol the sea. I think you achieve eternity through rhetoric. Besides, Poseidon must be your self-portrayal. I know you are tired of your work, which is too obvious! "

do you remember humility? For eternity, we only have wishes, and generally speaking, there is nothing we can do about it. To eternity, we are short. As for your weariness, I can't deny it, but for the short bouquet, how can he be entitled to be tired of the prairie? " Perhaps because he was not feeling well, or because he felt that the conversation had crossed certain boundaries, Kafka said goodbye: "Dear Janosh, I'm so happy to be with you, but I'm sorry." my body has asked me to go home. Let's talk about it next time. "

they parted in the open space at the entrance of St. Vita's Cathedral in the castle district and went back separately.

Franz Kafka has been sleeping in bed since dusk. During the time before falling asleep, he tried to ignore the pain and concentrate on sleep, but the more he put aside his thoughts, the louder the noise in the quiet room became. Franz Kafka, in the dim light of the September twilight in Prague, tries to go to sleep, trying to mask a lasting sense of helplessness, which is made up of the participation of almost everything in life. such as boredom of work, worry about communicating with people, fear of precarious persistence, powerlessness about one's own short and bleak future life, and so on.

Franz Kafka is finally asleep. The idea that he had planned to continue writing tonight was not achieved because he slept too long this time. When he woke up the next morning, his doubts deepened, and he wondered, what was the reason? Is today more desperate than yesterday? Today is more painful than yesterday. Are you forced to write something you didn't write yesterday? Franz Kafka felt a burst of surprise and horror when he realized that writing might have been forced on some level.

Franz Kafka felt hungry at the same time when his mother knocked on the door again. There was such a loud sound that he could not stop bowing his head and crying.

[1] Kafka wrote debunking a liar, which was included in his first collection, observation (published by Lowater Press in 1913).

[2] Gustav Janosh, son of Kafka colleague (1903-1968), later author of Kafka talk.

[3] Kafka received a doctorate in law and worked as a legal consultant in the Industrial accident Insurance Bureau until he finally retired early.

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[4] by the Czech poet Kiri Falk, published in the Trunk in September 1920.