by Franz Kafka
No I can’t forget the flowers. The Käntnerstrasse, now that is a ghost story or a dream dreamt on a nightlike day, but the flowers are real, they fill the vase (an ‘armful’ you say and hold them close to you) and they can’t even be touched because they are your ‘favorite flowers.’122 Just wait, when Milena finally leaves the room I’ll tear you out and toss you down into the courtyard.
Why are you gloomy? Did something happen? And you aren’t telling me? No, that is impossible.
IN THE MARGIN: And why are you sad?
You ask about Max, but he answered you a long time ago—I don’t know what he said, but I saw him mail the letter Sunday. By the way, did you get my Sunday letter?
Yesterday was an extremely restless day—not agonizingly restless, just restless, maybe I’ll tell you about it soon. Above all, I had your telegram and there was something special about walking around with it in my pocket. There is a particular human kindness which people do not realize exists. For instance I’m walking toward the Czech Bridge, and I take out the telegram and read it (it’s always new; once it has been read, absorbed, the paper is empty—but as soon as it’s back in my pocket it is immediately rewritten). Then I look around, expecting to see mean faces; not exactly envy, but nonetheless faces that say: ‘What? You of all people received this telegram? We’ll have to report this higher up at once. At the very least, flowers (an armful) will be sent to Vienna right away. In any case, we are determined not to simply accept the telegram unchallenged.’ But instead of this, all is calm as far as the eye can see: the fishermen go on fishing, the onlookers go on looking, the children are playing soccer, the man at the bridge is collecting his kreuzers. If you look a little more closely you can detect a certain nervousness, as people force themselves to concentrate on what they’re doing, so as not to betray any of their thoughts. But it is precisely this which makes them so lovable, this voice which comes out of the whole, saying: ‘It’s all right, the telegram belongs to you, we agree, we’re not questioning your right to receive it, we’ll just look the other way, and you can keep it for yourself.’ And when I take it out again a little later, you’d think they’d be annoyed that I don’t at least keep quiet and hide myself—but they’re not annoyed, they remain as they were.
This evening I once again spoke with a Palestinian Jew. It’s impossible for me to describe him to you in a letter, to explain his importance for me—a small, almost tiny, weak, bearded man with one eye. But thinking about him cost me half the night. More on this later.
So you don’t have your passport and won’t be getting one?
IN THE MARGIN: And why are you sad?
[Prague, July 31, 1920]
Saturday
At the moment I’m distracted and sad; I lost your telegram—that is, it can’t be lost, but it’s bad enough that I have to look for it. Incidentally, it’s all your fault; if it weren’t beautiful I wouldn’t have had it in my hands constantly.
However, what you say about the doctor gives me consolation. So the blood didn’t mean anything: I said the same thing myself, old physician that I am. Now what does he say about the defect in your lung? I’m sure he didn’t prescribe fasting or carrying suitcases. And did he concur that you should go on being good to me? Or wasn’t I mentioned at all? But how can I claim to be satisfied if the doctor didn’t even come up with a trace of me? Or is it my defect, supposedly, that he found in your lung?
And it really isn’t serious? And he has nothing more to say except send you to the country for four weeks? That really isn’t very much.
No, I don’t have much more against the trip than I do against your life in Vienna. Go ahead and leave, please, leave Vienna. You wrote somewhere about how much hope you have in this trip, to me that’s reason enough to wish it for you.
IN THE MARGIN: Do I read correctly? Is there a large T on the envelope? The postmark is right on top and I can’t make it out exactly.
Once again you mention my traveling to Vienna. It’s worst of all when you write about it seriously: then the ground here actually begins to quiver and I wait anxiously to see whether it will eject me. It doesn’t. I’ve already written about the outward obstacle—I don’t want to discuss the ones on the inside, for even though they are stronger than I am I don’t think they would restrain me; not because I’m strong, but because I’m too weak to let myself be held—I could only travel if I lied, and I’m afraid of lying, not like a man of honor, but like a schoolboy. And besides I have a feeling or at least a premonition that I might someday—absolutely, inevitably—have to go to Vienna for my sake or yours, but I wouldn’t be able to lie a second time (even like a silly schoolboy). Thus this possibility of lying is my reserve; I live off it as I do off your promise to come immediately. That’s why I’m not coming—instead of being certain for just 2 days that I have the constant possibility. But please do not describe these 2 days, Milena; that would practically torture me. It’s not necessity yet, only infinite desire.
And the flowers? Naturally they’ve already wilted? Have you ever had flowers go down the ‘wrong pipe,’ the way these did to me? It’s very unpleasant.
I’m not going to meddle in the fight between you and Max. I’m staying off to the side; I acknowledge that each person is right, and am safe. What you say is undoubtedly correct, but now let’s trade places. You have your homeland and can renounce it, and that may be the best thing one can do with a homeland, especially because in doing so one doesn’t give up that which cannot be renounced. But he does not have a homeland and therefore has nothing to renounce and must constantly think about it, search for it or build it—whether he’s taking his hat off the rack or lying in the sun next to the pool or writing the book which you will translate (here he may even be least tense of all—but you poor dear, how much work you burden yourself with from a sense of guilt; I see you bent over your work, your neck bared, I’m standing behind you, but you don’t know it—please don’t be frightened if you feel my lips on the back of your neck, I didn’t mean to kiss it, it’s only love which can’t be helped)—yes, Max, so he has to think about it constantly, even when he’s writing you.
And it’s strange how he defeats you in details although in general your defense against him is correct. He apparently wrote you about my living with my parents and about Davos. Both wrong. Certainly living at home is very bad, but it’s not just the living there—it’s the life, the sinking into this circle of kindness, of love—you don’t know the letter to my father—the buzzing of the fly on the lime-twig. Of course it has its good side as well. It’s just that one man fights at Marathon, the other in the dining room, while the god of war and goddess of victory are omnipresent. But what purpose would it serve for me to move out physically, even if I were to eat at home, where it is certainly best for me at the moment. Next on the subject of Davos. The only thing about Davos I approve of is the kiss before I leave.
IN THE MARGIN: Yes, please send me ‘Unhappiness,’ I wanted to ask you before. Having someone at Tribuna look it up is unpleasant.
[Prague, July 31, 1920]
Saturday, later
However one chooses to look at today’s lovely happy auspicious letter, it’s still a ‘savior’ letter. Milena among the saviors! (If I were one of them would she then be with me? No, in that case assuredly not.) Milena among the saviors, Milena who is constantly discovering in herself that the only way to save another person is by being there and nothing else. Moreover she has already saved me once with her presence and now, after the fact, is trying to do so with other, infinitely smaller means. Naturally, saving someone from drowning is a very great deed, but what good is it if the savior then sends the saved a gift-certificate for a swimming course? Why does the savior want to make it so easy for himself, why does he not want to continue saving the other through his constant presence, his constant willingness to be there? Why does he want to shirk his duty and leave it with the swimming instructors and hotel owners of Davos? And besides, I weigh 55.40 kg! And how can I fly away
if we are holding hands? And what good is it for us to both fly away? And besides—this is actually the main thought of the above—I’ll never go so far away from you again. After all, I’m only now escaping from the ‘Leads’ of Meran.
Saturday evening
That was already written—today I had once again intended to write about something else, but now there’s no point. I came home and in the darkness I saw the unexpected letter lying on the desk. I skimmed over it, although I was constantly being called to supper, then ate something which unfortunately refused to disappear from the plate unless it were swallowed. Afterward I read the letter thoroughly, slowly, quickly, wildly, happily, once in amazement, and finally in desperation, so desperate that my heart was pounding. It absolutely defies belief, but there it is; still, it cannot be believed. And still one swoons over it, and swooning counts as believing. ‘I can’t come’—I knew that with the first line and with the last line, but in between I was in Vienna several times the way one has ten dreams—each lasting about a half minute—during an overly wakeful, sleepless night. Then I went to the post office, sent you a telegram, calmed down a little and now I am sitting here. Sitting here with the pitiable task of proving to you that I cannot come. Well, you say I’m not weak, so maybe I’ll succeed; above all, maybe I’ll succeed in getting through the next weeks, when every hour will be grinning at me (as it is right now) with the question: ‘You mean you didn’t go to Vienna? You received this letter and didn’t go to Vienna? You didn’t go to Vienna? You didn’t go to Vienna?’ I do not understand music but unfortunately I understand this music better than all musical people combined.
I cannot come because I am unable to lie at the office. There are only 2 reasons for me to lie at the office: fear (in which case it’s actually part of the job, it belongs there, at work I lie unprepared, by rote, inspired) or else out of dire need (in case ‘Else’ should fall ‘ill,’123 Else, Else—not you, Milena, you won’t be sick, that would be the direst need of all, I won’t even talk about that). Thus I could lie at once if I really needed to, in which case a telegram wouldn’t be necessary—genuine need can hold its own against the office—since I would go whether I had permission or not. But I can’t lie in any other cases, in cases where my happiness would be among the reasons for doing so, where the main reason is my own need for happiness. I cannot do this the same way I cannot lift dumbbells weighing 20 kg. If I took the Else-telegram to the director, I’m sure it would drop out of my hand, and if it dropped I’m sure I would step on it, step on the lie, and having done that, I’m sure I would run away from the director without asking for anything. Consider, Milena, that the office is not just some arbitrary, stupid institution (although it is and very much so, but that’s not the point; as a matter of fact it’s more fantastic than stupid) but up to now it has been my life. Of course I can tear myself away from it, and that might not be a bad idea; nevertheless it has been my life up to now. I can shirk off and work less than anyone (I do); I can make a mess of things (I do), while still making myself important (I do); I can calmly accept the most special treatment imaginable as my due: but to lie just so I can suddenly leave—as a free man, since I’m just an employee after all—to go where ‘nothing else’ is sending me except the natural beating of my heart—I just can’t lie like that. Before I had received your letter, however, I had intended to write that I plan to renew or otherwise update my passport this very week, so that I can come immediately if I must.
I’m reading this over and didn’t mean it like that at all, and I must not be ‘strong’ after all, since I couldn’t say it correctly. (One more thing: it is possible that I’m a worse liar in the office than someone else who—like most clerical workers—considers himself a constant victim of injustice, who is convinced he’s overworked—for me that thought would be tantamount to an express train to Vienna—someone who views the office as a stupidly run machine—he would run it much better—a machine in which he is in the wrong place precisely as a result of this stupidity. According to his abilities he should be a big-big-wheel and yet he is condemned to being a little-little-wheel, etc. To me, however, the office is a human being—just like elementary school, high school, university, family, everything—watching me with innocent eyes wherever I am, a living person to whom I have become attached in some way unknown to me. In reality this person is more of a stranger to me than the people I now hear driving their cars across the Ring—so much a stranger it’s absurd, in fact. But this is exactly why I have to be considerate, and consequently I make virtually no effort to conceal the fact that I, too, am a stranger. But does such innocence ever realize this? And so you see I cannot lie.) No, I am not strong and I cannot write and cannot do anything. And now, Milena, on top of this you are turning away from me, not for long, I know, but remember a human can’t last for long without a heartbeat, and as long as you are turned away how can my heart go on beating?
If you could send me a telegram after this letter! That is an exclamation and not a request. But do so only if you can do it freely. Only then—you see, I’m not even underlining that.
I forgot a third possible occasion on which I could lie: if you were next to me. But then it would be the most innocent lie in the world, for in that case the only person standing in the director’s office would be you.
[Prague, August 1, 1920]
Sunday
I still don’t know what you’re going to say to the letter of Saturday evening and I won’t know for a long time; in any event I am now sitting in the office on Sunday duty (another strange institution: it’s enough just to sit here, so other people on Sunday duty do less work than usual—I do exactly as much). It’s dreary outside; one minute it’s about to rain, the next there’s light coming through the clouds, disturbing my writing; that’s exactly the way things are, too—sad and heavy. And though you write that I have a true desire for life, it’s hardly true today; what does today matter to me, or tonight? Nevertheless (please keep coming back every now and then, good word), I essentially have this desire, but little of it is on the surface. Moreover I like myself so little: I’m sitting here in front of the director’s door, the director isn’t in, but I wouldn’t be surprised if he came out and said: ‘I don’t like you either, and that’s why I’m firing you.’ ‘Thank you,’ I would say, ‘I really need that so I can go to Vienna.’ ‘In that case,’ he would say, ‘now I like you once again and am retracting your dismissal.’ ‘Oh,’ I would say, ‘so now once again I can’t go.’ ‘Oh yes you can,’ he would say, ‘because once again I don’t like you and you’re fired.’ And so it would go, a story without end.
Today I dreamt about you for the first time since returning to Prague, I think. A dream toward morning, short and heavy, something like sleep caught after a bad night. I don’t remember much of it. You were in Prague, we were walking down the Ferdinandstrasse, somewhere across from Vilimek, heading toward the docks. Some acquaintances of yours passed us on the other side, we turned around to face them, you spoke with them, you may have also discussed Krasa124 (I know he’s not in Prague; I’ll find out his address). You spoke the way you usually do, but there was something you were concealing, something that was impossible to grasp, some element of rejection. I didn’t mention it at all but I did curse myself, although in so doing I was merely repeating the curse already on me. Next we were in a café, probably in the Café Union (it was on our way; moreover it was Reiner’s last café that evening). A man and a girl were sitting at our table, but I can’t remember them at all, then there was a man who looked very much like Dostoyevsky—but young—with his deep black beard and hair, and everything incredibly pronounced, for example the eyebrows, the bulges above the eyes. Then you were there and so was I. Again nothing betrayed your inner attitude, but the rejection was there. Your face was—I couldn’t take my eyes off this agonizing peculiarity—powdered, and what’s more, too much so, clumsily, badly; it was probably also hot and whole designs of powder had formed on your cheeks; I can still see them. I
kept bending over to ask why you were powdered; whenever you saw this question coming you would obligingly meet me halfway—as I said, the rejection was impossible to notice—and say, “What do you want?” But I couldn’t ask; I didn’t dare, and I had the feeling that this being powdered was a test for me, a very crucial trial, that I really should ask, I actually wanted to, but just didn’t dare. In this way the sad dream rolled on over me. The Dostoyevskyman also tormented me. In his behavior toward me he resembled you; still, he was a little different. Whenever I asked him something he was very friendly, concerned, bent-over, candid, but when I ran out of things to say—which happened every minute—he would jerk back, sink into his book, and forget the entire world and me in particular as he vanished into his beard and hair. I don’t know why I couldn’t stand this; time and again I had to lure him over with a question, and time and again I lost him through my own fault—I couldn’t help it.
I have one small consolation, you can’t deny me this today; the Tribuna is lying in front of me, I didn’t even have to disobey orders and buy it, I borrowed it from my brother-in-law—no, my brother-in-law lent it to me.125 Please grant me this pleasure. Anyway, I’m not even concerned about what’s inside, but I hear the voice, my voice! Grant me this pleasure, surrounded as I am by the din of the world. And the whole article is so beautiful, too! I don’t know how it happens, after all I only read it with my eyes, so how did my blood find out so quickly, so quickly that my veins are already hot from circulating its words? And it’s fun. Naturally I belong to the second group; this weight on the feet is really my own property and I do not at all consent to the publication of matters of mine which are strictly private; someone once said I swim like a swan, although that was no compliment. But it is exciting. I feel like a giant who’s keeping the public away from you with outstretched arms—it’s difficult for him, he’s supposed to hold the public back but, at the same time, he doesn’t want to miss a single word or a single second of seeing you—this public which is probably pig-headed and utterly dumb—moreover female—which is probably shouting: ‘Where’s the fashion? When’s the fashion finally going to show up? So far we’ve “only” seen Milena.’ Only, and I am living off this Only. In reality, I’ve taken the rest of the world and flung it into the mighty sea like Münchhausen did the gun-carriages of Gibraltar. What? The whole rest? What was that about telling lies? That you can’t lie in the office? Well, so here I sit, it’s just as dreary as before and tomorrow there won’t be any letter and the dream is the last news I have from you.
