by Franz Kafka
WRITTEN DIAGONALLY ACROSS THE TOP OF TWO PAGES, IN LARGE LETTERS: I’m only babbling like this because I feel so good with you in spite of everything.
Just one possibility is missing—this is clear beyond all babble—for you to walk in right now and be here and for us to have a thorough discussion about how you will regain your health: and precisely this possibility is the one most urgently needed.
There was a lot I had wanted to tell you today, before I read the letters, but what can be said in the face of blood? Please write to me at once what the doctor said, and what kind of man is he?
Your description of the scene at the station is incorrect; I didn’t hesitate a moment, it was all so obviously sad and beautiful and we were so completely alone that it seemed incomprehensibly comic how the people—who weren’t there, after all—suddenly rose up in protest and demanded that the gate to the track be opened.
But in front of the hotel it was exactly as you say. You were so beautiful there! Maybe it wasn’t you at all; in fact, it would have been unusual if you had gotten up so early. But if it wasn’t you then how do you know so exactly the way it really was.
It’s good that you also want stamps, for two days now I’ve been reproaching myself about my own request; even while writing it I was doing so.
[Prague, July 26, 1920]
Monday later
Oh, so many documents have just arrived. And what am I working for, and with an unrested head, at that? What for? The kitchen stove.
And now on top of everything else, the poet, the first one—he also makes woodblocks,118 etchings, and doesn’t leave and is so full of life that he unleashes everything on me and watches me tremble with impatience; watches my hand trembling over this letter, my head is already lying on my chest and he still won’t leave, the good, lively, happy-unhappy, extraordinary boy who happens to be a terrible nuisance just right now. And you have blood coming out of your mouth.
And it turns out we really do keep writing the same thing. I ask whether you’re sick and then you write about it, I want to die and then you do, I want stamps and then you want stamps, sometimes I want to cry on your shoulder like a little boy and then you want to cry on mine like a little girl. And sometimes and ten times and a thousand times and always I want to be with you and you are saying the same thing. Enough, enough.
And there’s still no letter about what the doctor said, you slowpoke, you bad letter-writer, you wicked one, you lovely one, you—well, now what? Nothing—to rest in your lap, still.
[Prague, July 27, 1920]
Tuesday
Where’s the doctor? I’m skimming through your letter without reading it just to find the doctor. Where is he?
I’m not sleeping, I don’t mean to say I’m not sleeping because of that; true worries cause unmusical people to lose less sleep than do other things, but even so I’m not sleeping. Is the trip to Vienna already too long ago? Did I praise my luck too highly? Aren’t milk and butter and salad any help at all, and do I have to have the nourishment of your presence? The reason is probably none of these, but these days are not very pleasant. Moreover for 3 days now I haven’t been enjoying the happiness of the empty apartment and am living at home (which is also why I received the telegram right away). Maybe it’s not at all the emptiness of the apartment which makes me feel so good, or maybe that’s not the main thing; it might be having two apartments at once, one for the day and another, further away, for the evening and night. Do you understand this? I don’t, but that’s how it is.
Yes, the wardrobe. It will probably be the object of our first and last fight. I’ll say: ‘We’re throwing it out.’ You’ll say: ‘It’s staying.’ I’ll say: ‘Choose between it and me.’ You’ll say: ‘Just a second. Frank and Schrank,fn10 they rhyme. I’ll take the Schrank.’ ‘Fine,’ I’ll say and slowly walk down the stairs (which?) and—if I still haven’t found the Danube Canal, I’ll be living happily ever after.
And incidentally I’m all in favor of the wardrobe—you just shouldn’t wear the dress. You’ll wear it out and what will be left for me then?
The grave is strange. I was actually (vlastně) looking for it in that place, but too timidly, then I very boldly started making bigger and bigger and then huge circles around it and finally mistook another chapel for the right one.
So you’re going away and you don’t even have your visa. And with that my assurance is lost that you’d come in the night if it were necessary. And nonetheless you expect me to sleep.
[…]119
And the doctor? Where is he? Still not there?
There weren’t any special congress-stamps, I was also under the impression that there had been some, and was disappointed today when someone brought me those ‘congress-stamps’—they’re just ordinary stamps, only with the postmark from the congress. Even so, it is precisely this postmark which supposedly makes them quite valuable, but the boy won’t understand that. From now on I’m only going to enclose one stamp at a time, first because of their cost and second so that I’ll be thanked every day.
You see, you need a new pen nib, why didn’t we make better use of our time in Vienna? Why didn’t we spend the whole time in the stationer’s shop, for example; it really was so beautiful inside and we were so close to one another.
And I trust you didn’t read my dumb jokes aloud to your wardrobe? You know I love almost everything in your room to the point of swooning.
And the doctor?
Do you see the stamp collector often? There’s nothing sly about the question although it looks that way; after a bad night’s sleep one just asks who knows what. And one would like to go on asking forever; after all, not-sleeping means asking; if one had the answer, one would sleep.
And this declaration of not being responsible for one’s actions is really very bad. You did get the passport, didn’t you?
[Prague, July 28, 1920]
Wednesday
Do you know Casanova’s escape from ‘The Leads’? I’m sure you do. It contains a brief description of the most horrifying form of incarceration: down in the cellar, in the dark, in the dank, on a level with the lagoons, one crouches on a narrow board—the water is almost up to it, and will actually reach it with the tide—but worst are the wild water rats, their screaming in the night, their tugging, tearing, and gnawing (I believe the prisoner has to fight them for his bread), and worst of all is their impatient waiting for the prisoner to weaken and fall from the board. That’s exactly what these stories in your letter are like. Horrifying and incomprehensible and above all as close and as distant as one’s own past. And there one crouches, not the best thing for the back, and one’s feet get cramps as well, and one is terrified but can do nothing except watch the great dark rats—their presence is blinding in the middle of the night—and in the end one no longer knows whether one is still on top or already down below, baring one’s teeth, hissing through an open snout. Come on, don’t tell stories like that, what for. I’ll let you have these “little beasts,” but only on condition you chase them out of the house.
IN THE MARGIN: The ‘trotzdem’ on these letters really was necessary—but isn’t the word itself also beautiful? The ‘trotz’fn11 contains collision, some ‘world’ is still there; in ‘dem’ one sinks, then there is nothing.
And now there’s no longer even any mention of the doctor? And yet you promised expressly that you’d go to the doctor and, after all, you always keep your word. Are you not going because you no longer see any blood? I’m not citing myself as an example; you are incomparably healthier than I am, I’ll always just be the gentleman who has his suitcases carried (which still doesn’t indicate any difference in rank, for first comes the gentleman who flags down the porter, next comes the porter, and only then the gentleman who asks the porter to carry the suitcase, because he would otherwise collapse. When I was recently—recently!—returning home from the train station, the attendant carrying my trunk began to comfort me—of his own accord, without my having said a thing about it. H
e was sure that I understood some things that were beyond him, he said, and carrying luggage was his job and he didn’t mind it at all, etc. Now that was the—entirely insufficient—answer to things I had been thinking about but which I had not expressed clearly)—anyway, I’m not comparing myself to you with all this, but I can’t help thinking about how it was with me and that makes me worried and you should see the doctor. About 3 years ago: my lungs had never shown any signs of illness, nothing made me tired, I could walk endlessly and never reach the end of my strength (although thinking always exhausted me) and suddenly around August—it was hot and beautiful; everything was fine except my head—at the public swimming pool I spit up something red. You will agree that was unusual and interesting. I looked at it a while and forgot it immediately. And then it started occurring more frequently, and generally whenever I wanted to I could spit out something red. At that point it was no longer interesting but boring and I forgot about it once again. Had I gone to the doctor’s right away—well everything would have probably happened exactly as it did without the doctor; just that no one knew about the blood back then, not even me, really, and no one was worried. But now someone is worried, so please, go to the doctor.
IN THE MARGIN: Why are you also getting Jílovský mixed up in the stories? On my blotter I still have a drawing of his that concerns you.
It’s strange of your husband to say he’ll write me this and that. And what about beating and strangling? I really don’t understand this. Of course I believe you completely, but it’s so utterly impossible for me to imagine that I can’t feel anything about it, as if it were an extremely remote, extremely alien story. As though you were here saying: ‘Right now I’m in Vienna and there’s shouting going on, etc.’ And we would both look out the window toward Vienna and naturally there wouldn’t be the slightest reason to get excited.
But there is one thing: When you talk about the future, don’t you sometimes forget that I’m Jewish? (jasné, nezapletenéfn12) Even at your feet, Jews and Judaism remain dangerous.
[Prague, July 29, 1920]
Thursday
That’s a very nice note from Staša. But there’s no indication she was any different then than she is now; she’s not even in the note, she’s speaking for you. There’s an incredible accord between her and you, something practically spiritual, like someone who simply passes on what he has heard, something he alone was allowed to hear and understand (and his awareness of this fact is also significant, since it accounts for the pride and beauty of the whole). He himself doesn’t dare do anything more than mediate, and remains virtually unmoved. But I don’t think she’s changed since then; under similar circumstances, she might be able to write a note like that today.
It’s strange about those stories. They oppress me, but not because they’re Jewish, nor because each Jew has to take his share from the common, repugnant, poisonous—but also ancient and basically eternal—food, once the dish is placed on the table, that’s not the reason. Won’t you reach out across those stories to me, and leave your hand with me for a long, long time?
Yesterday I found the grave. If you look for it timidly it really is impossible to find; I didn’t realize it was the plot belonging to your maternal relatives. Moreover the inscription can only be read if you bend down attentively—the gold has almost all peeled off. I was there a long time: the grave is so beautiful, so indestructible in its stone, although completely devoid of flowers—but what’s the good of all the flowers on graves, I’ve never really understood it. I laid a few bright carnations on the very edge. I felt better in the cemetery than in the city; this feeling lasted, too—for a long time I walked through the city as if it were a cemetery.
Jeníček, was that your little brother?
And are you well? In the picture from Neu-Waldegg you’re actually visibly ill; I’m sure it is exaggerated, but nonetheless only exaggerated. I still don’t have any real picture of you. One shows a young distinguished delicate well-dressed girl, who will soon—in 1 or 2 years—be taken out of the convent school (as a matter of fact the corners of your mouth are bent down a little, but that’s merely refinement and religious piety), and the second picture is exaggerated propaganda: ‘This is how we live in Vienna.’ Incidentally in this second picture once again you look uncannily like my mysterious first friend; someday I’ll tell you about him.
No, I won’t come to Vienna, outwardly it would only be possible by lying, by calling in sick at work—or else on two adjacent holidays. But those are only the outward obstructions, my dear boy (soliloquy).
Staša spent that much time with you in Veleslavín?
I’ve written daily, you’ll probably still receive the letters.
The telegram, thank you, thank you, I retract all my reproaches, besides they weren’t even reproaches to begin with, merely caresses with the back of my hand, since it has been jealous for so long. Just now the poet and graphic artist (but mainly he’s a musician) dropped by; he keeps coming to visit, today he brought me 2 woodcuts (Trotsky and an Annunciation, you can see his world isn’t small). For his own sake and to gain a better understanding of the things, I quickly produced a connection to you and said that I’d send them to a friend in Vienna, which had the unexpected result that instead of one copy I received two (I’m keeping yours here or do you want them right away?). But then your telegram arrived; while I was reading it and reading it and finding no end to my joy and gratitude, he continued talking to me unperturbed (although without wanting to disturb me in the least, not at all; whenever I say I have something to do and say it loudly enough to wake him, he breaks off in midsentence and runs away, without taking the slightest offense). All your news is very important; the details, however, will be even more important. But above all: how are you supposed to take it easy, that’s impossible, a doctor could not utter any greater nonsense, at least not to my mind. Oh, it is bad after all, but thank you in any case, thank you.
[Prague, July 29, 1920]
Thursday, later
Just so there isn’t any doubt, Milena:
Maybe my condition isn’t the best it could be, maybe I could stand a little more happiness, a little more security, a little more abundance, although that is by no means certain, even in Prague. However, in any case I’m generally happy and free and doing well—completely undeservedly—so well it scares me, and if current conditions hold a while, if the upheavals aren’t too great, and if I receive a word from you each day and see that this doesn’t cause you too much torment, then this word will probably be enough to make me halfway healthy. And now please, Milena, don’t torture yourself anymore, and I have never understood physics (or at most just the pillar of fire, that’s also physics, isn’t it?) and I do not understand the “scales of the world”120 and I’m sure they don’t understand me any better (what could my 55 kilograms, undressed, begin to do with such monstrous scales; they wouldn’t even notice, much less move), and I am here just like I was in Vienna and your hand is in my own as long as you leave it there.fn13
Werfel’s poem is like a portrait that stares at everyone, including me, and above all at the Evil One, who has moreover written it himself.
I don’t understand what you wrote concerning your vacation. Where would you go?
[Prague, July 30, 1920]
Friday
You’re always wanting to know, Milena, if I love you,121 but after all, that’s a difficult question which cannot be answered in a letter (not even last Sunday’s letter). I’ll be sure to tell you the next time we see each other (if my voice doesn’t fail me).
But you shouldn’t write about my traveling to Vienna; I’m not going, but every time you mention it you hold a little fire up to my bare skin, which is already a small pyre, one which burns and burns but never burns down; in fact the flames are even growing. I’m sure you don’t want that.
I’m very sorry about the flowers you received—so sorry I can’t even decipher what kind of flowers they were. And now they’re in your room. If I really were
your wardrobe I’d suddenly shove myself out of the room in broad daylight and wait in the front hall at least until the flowers wilted. No, that isn’t nice. And everything is so far away and still I see the handle on your door as close before my eyes as my inkwell.
IN THE MARGIN: No, the man is odd; he’s only interested in Austrian stamps, maybe you could use smaller denominations, 25 h, etc., if you can’t find the stamps for 1 K. But no, just forget it, please forget it.
Well, yes of course I have your telegram from yesterday, no, from the day before, but even then the flowers had not wilted. And why do they make you happy? If they are your ‘favorites,’ then all the flowers of this species on earth should make you happy, so why these in particular? But perhaps that question is also too difficult and must be answered orally. Right, but where are you? In Vienna? And where is that?