Letters to Milena

by Franz Kafka

  You misunderstood my remark about Laurin (what a memory!—that’s not irony but jealousy and not jealousy but just a dumb joke). It only struck me that all the people he mentioned were either ‘blockheads,’ ‘rogues,’ or ‘window-jumpers,’ whereas you were simply Milena and a very respectable Milena indeed. That made me happy and that’s why I wrote about it and not because it saved your honor, but his own. To be exact there were a few other exceptions as well: his then future father-in-law, his sister-in-law, his brother-in-law, his fiancée’s former husband, all were upright, ‘wonderful’ people, […]144

  IN THE MARGIN: So you arrive right after 9:00—since you’re an Austrian don’t let them detain you at customs; after all, I can’t go on for hours repeating to myself the words I’m planning to greet you with.

  Your letter of today is so sad and above all its pain is so tightly sealed inside that I feel completely excluded. Whenever I have to leave my room I quickly run up and down the stairs, just so I can return and find your telegram on the table: ‘I’ll also be in Gmünd Saturday.’ But nothing has come yet.

  [Prague, August 9, 1920]

  Saturday Monday afternoon (apparently I’m thinking only about Saturday)145

  I’d be a liar if I didn’t say any more than I did this morning, especially to you, with whom I can speak more freely than anyone else, since no one else has ever taken my side as knowingly and willingly as you, despite everything, despite everything (distinguish the great despite everything from the great nevertheless).

  Your most beautiful letters (and that’s saying a lot, since in their entirety as well as in almost every line, they are the most beautiful thing that ever happened to me) are the ones where you accept my ‘fear’ as justified and simultaneously attempt to explain why it isn’t necessary. Because deep down I also probably accept my ‘fear’ as justified, even if I sometimes resemble a defense lawyer whom it has bribed: it really is part of me and perhaps the best part. And since it’s the best part it may also be the only part you love. What else about me could be so loveable? But this is worthy of love.

  And when you once asked how I could have called that Saturday ‘good’ with this fear inside my heart, it isn’t difficult to explain. Because I love you (you see, I do love you, you dimwit, my love engulfs you the way the sea loves a tiny pebble on its bed—and may I be the pebble with you, heaven permitting) I love the whole world and that includes your left shoulder—no, the right one was first and so I’ll kiss it whenever I want to (and whenever you’re kind enough to pull down your blouse a little) and that also includes your left shoulder and your face above me in the forest and your face below me in the forest and my resting on your almost naked breast. And that’s why you’re right in saying we were already one and I’m not afraid of this; on the contrary, it is my only happiness and my only pride and I don’t at all restrict it to the forest.

  But between this daytime world and that ‘half-hour in bed’ you once wrote of with disdain, as if it were men’s business, there is an abyss I cannot span, probably because I don’t want to. Over there lies an affair of the night, absolutely and in every respect; here, on the other hand, is the world which I possess, and now I’m supposed to leap across into the night in order to repossess it. But can anything be repossessed? Doesn’t that imply losing it? Here is the world which I possess and I’m supposed to leap across to there, just for the sake of some black magic, some hocus-pocus, some alchemy, a philosopher’s stone, a wishing ring. Away with it; it makes me dreadfully afraid.

  To resort to black magic at night—hastily, panting, helpless, demonically possessed—in order to capture what every day gives freely to open eyes! (‘Maybe’ there isn’t any other way to have children, ‘maybe’ children, too, are black magic. Let’s skip that question for now.) This is why I’m so grateful (to you and to everything), and so it’s ‘natural’146 I am extremely calm and extremely uncalm, extremely constrained and extremely free whenever I’m next to you. This is also why, following this realization, I have renounced all other life. Look into my eyes!

  So I have to be told by Frau Kohler that the books have emigrated from the nightstand to the desk. There’s no question I should have been consulted first as to whether I approve of this emigration. And I would have said: No!

  And now be grateful to me. I have happily overcome the temptation to add something crazy in these last lines (something crazy and jealous).

  But that’s enough, now tell me about Emilie.

  [Prague, August 10, 1920]

  Tuesday

  I can’t say I’m very well prepared for your birthday, having slept even worse than usual, with my head warm, my eyes burned out, my temples causing me torment, and my cough. I don’t think I could offer congratulations of any length without coughing. Fortunately no congratulations are necessary, just a thank you for being on this Earth, where I wouldn’t have even begun to expect you might be found (you see my knowledge of the world isn’t very great either—only, in contrast to you, I admit it). And as a token of my gratitude (this is gratitude?) I kiss you just like I did at the train station, despite the fact you didn’t like it (for some reason I’m being spiteful today).

  Lately I haven’t been feeling this bad all the time, occasionally it’s also been very good, but the day of my greatest glory occurred about a week ago. I was taking the endless walk around the pool at the swimming school, as weak as always. It was almost evening, there weren’t many people left, but still quite a few, when the assistant instructor—who doesn’t know me—walks in my direction, looks around as if searching for somebody, notices me, evidently chooses me and asks: ‘Would you like to go for a row?’147 It turns out there was a gentleman (some big builder, I believe) who had come down from the Sophieninsel and wanted to be ferried over to the Judeninsel; they’re constructing something enormous on the Judeninsel. Now there’s no point in exaggerating the whole thing: the swimming instructor had simply spotted me and wanted to offer the poor boy (me) the pleasure of a free boat ride. In deference to the big builder, however, he had to choose a boy who looked not only sufficiently strong and skillful, but also reliable enough to return the boat immediately after having finished the job and not take it out for an unapproved spin. And he thought I was his man. Big Trnka (the owner of the swimming school—I should tell you about him sometime) joined us and asked if the boy could swim. The swimming instructor, who could evidently divine everything merely by looking at me, reassured him. I had hardly said a word. Next the passenger came and we set off. Being a well-behaved boy I hardly spoke. He said it was a nice evening, I agreed: ‘Yes’;148 then he added, but it’s already cool, I said: ‘Yes’; finally he observed that I row very fast, and I was too grateful to say anything. Needless to say, I pulled up to the Judeninsel in the best style, he got off, thanked me kindly, but much to my disappointment forgot to tip me (that’s the way it is when you’re not a girl). I rowed back straight as an arrow. Big Trnka was astonished to see me back so soon.—Well it’s been ages since I was as puffed up with pride as I was that evening; I felt more worthy of you, admittedly only by a tiny bit, but nevertheless a tiny bit more worthy. I’ve been waiting at the swimming school every evening since then for another passenger, but so far no one else has shown up.

  Last night, in a short half-sleep, it occurred to me that I should celebrate your birthday by visiting places that are important to you. And right afterward, I involuntarily found myself in front of the Westbahnhof. The building was very tiny; there couldn’t have been much room inside, since an express train had just arrived and one of the cars didn’t fit and was jutting out of the hall. I was very pleased that three very nicely dressed—but thin—girls (one had a ponytail) were standing in front of the station as porters. I realized that what you had done really wasn’t so unusual. Nonetheless I was glad you weren’t there now, although I was also sad. But as a consolation I found a small briefcase which a passenger had lost, and to the amazement of the passengers standing around me I started pulling
out large pieces of clothing. Unfortunately there was no coat like the one demanded in the Sunday Tribuna’s ‘Open Letter’ directed at me; I’ll have to go on and send mine after all, although it’s not the right one.149

  Particularly the second part of ‘Typus’ is excellent, sharp and angry, anti-Semitic and magnificent. I never noticed before at all what a sophisticated thing journalism is. You speak to the reader so calmly, so intimately, so urgently, you have forgotten everything else in the world, are concerned only with the reader, but in the end you suddenly say: ‘Is what I’ve written nice? Really? Nice? Well, I’m glad but I generally keep my distance and don’t accept gratitude in the form of kisses.’ And then it really is the end and you’re gone.

  By the way, did you know that you were my confirmation present (there’s also a kind of Jewish confirmation)?150 I was born in ’83, so when you were born I was 13 years old; the 13th birthday is a special celebration. In the temple I had to recite a prayer—up by the altar—I had learned with difficulty, then give a small speech (also memorized) at home as well. I also received many presents. But I imagine I wasn’t completely satisfied, since one present was still missing; I demanded it from heaven, but heaven waited until the 10th of August.

  Yes, of course I’ll be happy to read through the last 10 letters again, although I know them very exactly. But look over mine again as well, you’ll find a whole girls’ school of questions.

  We’ll talk about your father in Gmünd. As usual when faced by girls, I’m helpless confronted by ‘Grete.’ Am I supposed to have had the slightest thought at all concerning you? I can’t remember. I like holding your hand in my own, I like looking in your eyes. That’s about it, exit Grete!—

  As far as ‘not earning’ is concerned—‘I don’t understand how such a person …’—I’m faced with the same riddle myself, and I don’t think we’ll ever be able to solve it together.151 Moreover it is blasphemous. In any case I don’t intend to waste a single minute on it in Gmünd.—Now I realize you have to lie more than I would have had to lie. That depresses me. If any serious obstacle crops up, go ahead and stay in Vienna—even without informing me—I will have simply taken a trip to Gmünd and be closer to you by 3 hours. I already have my visa. You won’t be able to wire me at all, at least not today, because of your strike.152

  [Prague, August 11, 1920]

  Wednesday

  I don’t understand your asking for forgiveness. If it’s over it goes without saying that I forgive you. I was only unrelenting as long as it was going on, and then you didn’t care. How could I not forgive you for something if it’s over! How confused your head must be to even think such a thing.

  I don’t like being compared to your father, at least not at the moment. Am I supposed to lose you as well? (Besides, I don’t have the strength to be your father.) If you’re going to insist on this comparison, however, you’d better send me back the tricot.

  Incidentally, buying and sending the tricot was a 3-hour affair which thoroughly refreshed me—at the time I needed that very much—and for which I am grateful to you. I’m too tired to tell you about it today; it’s the second night I’ve hardly slept. Can’t I pull myself together enough for me to receive at least some praise in Gmünd?

  Really now, envious about the lady from Amsterdam? Of course what she does is beautiful, if she does it with conviction, but you’re making one logical mistake. For someone who lives the way she does, life is compulsion; only for someone who cannot live that way would it be freedom. It’s the same everywhere. Ultimately that kind of ‘envy’ is really just a death wish.

  By the way, where did ‘heaviness, nausea, disgust’153 come from? How was it compatible with ‘envy’? It wasn’t at all compatible. Such elements of life can only be made compatible through longing, in death.

  I said many more insidious things about ‘staying in Vienna’ than the ones you mention, but you’re right anyway. It’s striking that your father keeps gaining power—at least I feel so—compared to earlier years. (So keep the tricot.)

  Do what you like as far as Max is concerned. But since I now know your instructions to him, I will, when the end is near, have myself carried to him and discuss taking a trip together for several days ‘since I’m feeling especially strong,’ then I’ll crawl home and stretch out for the last time.

  Of course I talk this way as long as it hasn’t come to that. As soon as I reach 37.5° (38° in the rain!), however, the telegram messengers will be tripping over each other up and down your long staircase. Hopefully they’ll be on strike then and not at such an inappropriate moment as now, on your birthday!

  The post office has taken my threat to deny the man his stamps too literally. The stamp on the special delivery letter had already been removed by the time I received it. By the way, you have to understand the man correctly, he doesn’t just collect one stamp of each kind. He has a large sheet for every kind and large albums for all the sheets and when one sheet is full of a certain kind he takes out a new one and so on. And he busies himself with this every afternoon and is fat and happy and lucky. And each type provides another cause for joy, for instance today the 50 h stamps: the rates are about to go up (poor Milena!) and the 50 h stamps will become rarer!

  I like what you say about Kreuzen very much (not Aflenz, that’s a real lung sanatorium; they give injections there, pfui! It was the last stop for one of our employees before he died of consumption).154 I like that kind of countryside and it also has historic memories. But will it still be open in late autumn, and do they take foreigners, and isn’t it more expensive for foreigners, and will anyone but me understand why I’m moving to the land of hunger in order to fatten up? Nonetheless I’ll write them.

  Yesterday I spoke once again with that Stein. He’s one of those people life generally treats unfairly. I don’t know why people laugh at him. He knows everybody, knows all the personal details, but still he is modest, respectful, very careful in his judgments and endowed with a subtle mind; his worth is merely made greater by the others being a little too obvious, too innocently vain—assuming one is acquainted with people who are secretly, lasciviously, criminally vain. I suddenly started in on Haas, crept past Jarmila, then arrived at your husband and after a while—incidentally, it’s wrong to say I enjoy hearing people talk about you, not at all, I just want to keep hearing your name, again and again, the whole day long. Had I asked him he also would have told me a lot about you; since I didn’t ask him he was content to note, with sincere sorrow, that you’re scarcely alive anymore, ruined by cocaine (how thankful I was at that moment that you’re still alive).155 By the way, he also mentioned, cautious and modest as he is, that he hadn’t witnessed this with his own eyes, just heard it. He spoke about your husband as if he were a powerful magician. He claims to have been together with Jarmila, Haas, and Reiner 2 days before the suicide; Reiner was apparently very friendly to Haas and borrowed money from him. He also mentioned a name I hadn’t heard before from your Prague days: Kreidlová, I believe.—He would have gone on like that a long time if I hadn’t left,156 feeling a little nauseated, above all by myself, since I was walking beside him so silently and listening to things I didn’t want to hear and which didn’t concern me in the least.

  I repeat: Stay in Vienna if there is any obstacle that might cause you to suffer even slightly, if it can’t be helped: even without letting me know. But if you do go, then break through the border crossing immediately. Should it happen that for some unforeseen insanity I was unable to leave and could no longer reach you in Vienna (I would wire Frau Kohler), there’ll be a telegram waiting for you in the hotel at the train station.

  Did all 6 books arrive?

  Reading ‘The Café’ was like listening to Stein,157 except you tell a story much better than he does; who else can tell a story so well? But why do you tell them to anyone who buys the Tribuna? While I was reading it I felt I was walking up and down in front of the café, day and night, year after year; every time a guest came or went I would
peer in through the open door to check that you were still inside. Then I would resume the pacing and waiting. This was neither straining nor sad. And how could it be straining or sad to wait in front of a café when you are inside!

  [Prague, August 12, 1920]

  Thursday

  I’m going to Laurin’s today, telephoning is too uncertain and too difficult. Moreover, I can only reach Pick by writing and don’t even know his exact address; I probably won’t be able to find his last letter. He’s in the country, was only in Prague a few days and then went back. I’m very glad Münchhausen did his job well; admittedly he has done much more difficult things before. And will the roses be given the same care as the other flowers (an ‘armful’!)?158 And what kind of flowers were they? And from whom?

  I answered your question about Gmünd before you even asked it. The less you torment yourself, the less you’ll be tormenting me. I didn’t sufficiently consider the fact you have to lie like that. But how can your husband imagine that, having once seen you, I am not writing you and that I don’t want to see you.

  You write that you sometimes feel like testing me. That was only a joke, wasn’t it? Please don’t do it. It takes so much energy just to recognize someone; how much more would it take not to recognize!

  I’m glad you find the advertisements tasty. Go on and eat, eat! Maybe if I start saving today and you wait twenty years, when furs will be cheaper (because by then all Europe may be laid waste and furry animals will be running through the streets)—maybe then there’ll be enough money for a fur.

  And do you perhaps know when I’ll get some sleep at last—perhaps Saturday or Sunday night?

  For your information, these surcharged stamps are what he truly desires (he only ‘truly’ desires). ‘That’s beautiful, beautiful!’ he says.159 What things he must see in them!