Letters to Milena

by Franz Kafka

  ‘Wiener Wald’ may be closer, but the difference in distance can’t be very great. The sanatorium isn’t in Leobersdorf but further out and to get from the station to the sanatorium takes another half-hour by carriage. So if I could easily have gone from there to Baden—naturally against regulations—I can just as easily travel from Grimmenstein to Wiener-Neustadt, it probably doesn’t make a great difference either to you or me.

  How is it, Milena, that you’re still not afraid of me or disgusted by me or something like that? Is there any limit to the depth of your sincerity, your strength!

  I’m reading a Chinese book, Ghost Book, which I mention because it deals exclusively with death.206 A man is lying on his death-bed and in the independence gained by the proximity of death, he says: ‘I have spent my life fighting the desire to end it.’ Then a pupil mocks his teacher, who talks of nothing but death: ‘You’re always talking about death and yet you do not die.’ ‘And yet I will die. I’m just singing my last song. One man’s song is longer, another man’s is shorter. At most, however, they differ by only a few words.’

  That’s true and it’s unfair to laugh at the lead singer in the opera who sings an aria while lying on the stage, mortally wounded. We lie on the ground and sing for years.

  I also read Mirror Man.207 What immense vital energy! Just a little sicklied over in one place, but it is all the more exuberant everywhere else and even the illness itself is exuberant. I finished it greedily in one afternoon.

  What is tormenting you now ‘there’? Before I always thought myself powerless to help you but it’s only now that I really am. And you are sick so often.

  [Prague, October 22, 1920]

  Milena, I received this letter meant for Vlasta. Maybe it’s a mix-up, a small misfortune, evidently designed to have me torment you this way once I’ve exhausted all other possibilities. At first I wanted to rush the letter to Vlasta, but that would have been extraordinarily dumb, since she would have realized she had my letter, if that were indeed the case. In any event it was extraordinarily intelligent of me not to do so or really not quite so intelligent, as it was mostly just the trouble involved holding me back. Anyway, the whole thing isn’t all that bad, just a small entry in my catalog of faults.

  Today, Friday, I received the enclosed letter from Illový;208 it’s completely insignificant in and of itself, but it can be seen as a slight intervention in our affairs and consequently I would have tried to stop it had I known about it earlier. (Illový, an exaggeratedly modest, quiet person—‘and even little Illový’ as it recently said in Červen,209 when they were listing the Jews of the rightist party—was in some of my classes in high school;210 I haven’t spoken with him in many years and this is the first letter I’ve ever received from him.)

  Now it’s almost certain I will leave. My cough and shortness of breath are forcing me to do so. I’m also sure I’ll stay in Vienna and that we will see one another.

  [Prague, October 27, 1920]

  You made me happy with the train schedule, which I’m studying like a map. At least one thing is certain. Nonetheless, I know I won’t come for another 2 weeks, probably later. There are still some things in the office holding me up; the sanatorium, which used to answer me readily and willingly, is now silent on the subject of vegetarian diets. What’s more, I am literally rising to the trip like a nation, calling for a little more determination here and there, giving a little more encouragement to this person or that, until finally everyone is ready, but unable to set out only because a child is crying. What’s more, I’m almost afraid of traveling; who, for instance, will put up with me in a hotel if I’m coughing the way I was yesterday, from 9:45 to about 11 without stopping? (For the first time in years I was in bed as early as 9:45.) I then fall asleep but toss about in bed and around 12 I again start coughing and continue till 1:00. I wouldn’t dream of taking a sleeping car, although I did last year without any problem.

  Do I read correctly? Littya? I don’t recognize the name.

  It isn’t exactly like that, Milena. The person writing to you now is the person you know from Meran. After that we were one, there was no more talk of knowing one another, and then once again we were split.

  I’d like to say more about that, but I’m choking and can’t get it out of my throat.

  ‘But perhaps you are right,211 perhaps other people can translate it better’—I’m only repeating this sentence here so it won’t get lost so unceremoniously.

  Incidentally I received Illový’s letter Friday, and it’s strange that ‘Before the Law’ appeared on Sunday.212

  It’s not my fault, at least not entirely, that the ad was not in Sunday’s paper. Today is Wednesday, a week ago yesterday I gave the ad to the advertising office (incidentally I had received your letter the day before). If the office had sent the ad in right away, as they had promised, it would have been in Vienna on Thursday and in the paper on Sunday. I was almost sad when I didn’t see it Monday. Then yesterday they showed me the note from the Presse saying it had arrived too late. Since it’s supposed to run on a Sunday, and because it’s probably again too late for this Sunday, it will appear the Sunday after.

  [Prague, November 8, 1920]

  Yes, there was a slight lag, apparently because one of your letters got lost. So the ad finally appeared yesterday. It seems you wanted ‘Czech’ up in the middle by itself; unfortunately this is impossible, instead they prefer putting a senseless comma between practicing and teacher. Incidentally, I treated the advertising office unfairly, I just came back from there and must admit: it’s difficult to know human nature.

  I accused the women working there of the following:

  1) that despite the fact I’ve given them enough ads already, they take payment apparently well in excess of the actual price, which they claim not to know, and they cannot be brought to calculate it correctly.

  2) that it was their fault this ad was delayed.

  3) that they didn’t give me any receipt at all for the last payment, that is, for a payment on an announcement that is constantly being delayed and already half forgotten.

  4) that they didn’t pay any attention to me at all two weeks ago when I requested the ad finally appear on Nov. 8 and in bold type—although admittedly the office was full of people.

  So I went there today convinced the ad had not appeared; I furthermore thought I’d have to go to great lengths to clarify the unconfirmed payment, that they wouldn’t believe me and that I’d wind up having to go to another office, where I would be cheated even more.

  Instead of that: the ad did appear, correct, almost the way I wanted it, and when I started to order further ads the girl said I didn’t have to pay anything more at the moment, they’d settle accounts with me after the ad appeared. Isn’t that wonderful? One decides to keep on living a little while, at least through the afternoon, until the matter is once again forgotten.

  [Prague, mid-November, 1920]

  Milena, forgive me, I may not have written enough lately, upset as I was about reserving the room in the sanatorium (which now turns out not to have happened). I really am intending to go to Grimmenstein, but there are still some slight delays which a man of average strength (who wouldn’t be going to Grimmenstein in the first place of course) would have taken care of long ago—just not me. I’ve also now learned that, contrary to what the sanatorium had maintained, I do need a residence permit from the local authorities, who will probably grant it, but certainly not before I’ve sent off the application.

  I’ve been spending every afternoon outside on the streets, wallowing in anti-Semitic hate.213 The other day I heard someone call the Jews a ‘mangy race.’214 Isn’t it natural to leave a place where one is so hated? (Zionism or national feeling isn’t needed for this at all.) The heroism of staying on is nonetheless merely the heroism of cockroaches which cannot be exterminated, even from the bathroom.

  I just looked out the window: mounted police, gendarmes with fixed bayonets, a screaming mob dispersing, and up here
in the window the unsavory shame of living under constant protection.

  This has been lying around for some time; I just couldn’t bring myself to mail it, I was so locked up inside myself, besides I can only think of one reason why you aren’t writing.

  I’ve already sent away the application for my residence permit; if it’s granted, everything else (room reservation and passport) will go quickly and I will come. My sister wants to accompany me as far as Vienna;215 she may come along, she wants to stay in Vienna for one or two days to take a small trip before she has her child, which is already in its fourth month.

  Ehrenstein—well, according to what he wrote you, he’s sharper than I thought.216 In light of this I’d be happy to revise my impression of him, but since I won’t be able to see him anymore this won’t be possible. I felt very much at ease with him—although it wasn’t much more than a quarter of an hour—not at all like a stranger, although we didn’t reach the loftiest spheres either; it was something like the feeling I had in school about the boy sitting next to me, a feeling of being relaxed and not a stranger. I was good for him, he was indispensable to me, we were allied against all the terrors of the school, I pretended less with him than with anyone else—but it was essentially a very pathetic relationship. It was similar with E, I didn’t feel any exchange of strength. He means very well and speaks well and puts in a lot of effort, but even if speakers like that were installed on every street corner, they still wouldn’t make the Day of Judgment come any sooner, although they would make the present day more unbearable. Do you know Tanya,217 the conversation between the Russian Orthodox priest and Tanya? It is—without meaning to be—a paragon of such helpless help. We watch Tanya die under this incubus of consolation.

  In himself I’m sure E is very strong; what he read aloud last night was uncommonly beautiful (again excepting a few passages in the book on Kraus). And as I said, he’s also very observant, very sharp. By the way, E has almost grown fat—in any case he’s massive (and downright beautiful; how could you fail to notice that!) and knows little more about thin people than that they’re thin. But I’m sure that knowledge suffices for most people, including me for instance.

  The journals are late; I’ll explain why when I get a chance, in any case they will arrive.

  No, Milena, we do not have the shared possibility we thought we had in Vienna, not by any means. We didn’t have it then either: I had been looking ‘over my fence,’ holding myself up with just my hands, and then I fell back down, my hands completely lacerated. There must be other shared possibilities, the world is full of possibilities, only I still don’t know what they are.

  [Prague, mid-November 1920]

  That’s the way it is with me too. I often think: I have to write you this or that, but then it turns out I can’t. Maybe Sergeant Perkins has hold of my hand and only when he lets go for just a moment can I write you a quick word in secret.218

  The fact you chose precisely this passage to translate is a sign we have similar tastes. Yes, torture is extremely important to me—my sole occupation is torturing and being tortured. Why? For much the same reason as Perkins and, just as thoughtlessly, mechanically, and in line with tradition; namely, to get the damned word out of the damned mouth. I once expressed the stupidity contained in this as follows (it doesn’t help at all to recognize the stupidity): ‘The animal wrests the whip from the master and flails itself in order to become the master, unaware that this is only a fantasy created by a new knot in the master’s thong.’219

  Torturing is pathetic too, of course. After all, Alexander didn’t torture the Gordian knot when it wouldn’t come untied.

  Incidentally this also seems to be in keeping with a Jewish tradition. The Venkov,220 which is now printing very much against the Jews, recently ran a lead article demonstrating that Jews ruin and corrupt everything, even! […]221 flagellantism of the Middle Ages. Unfortunately it didn’t explain in greater detail, only cited an English text. I’m too ‘heavy’ to go to the university library, but I’d really like to know what the Jews were supposed to have in common with that (medieval) movement, which, after all, must have been very remote to them. Maybe some learned acquaintance of yours knows something about it.

  I sent the books. I state expressly that it does not annoy me—in fact it’s the only even slightly sensible thing I’ve done in a long time. Aleš is out of print, and won’t be available again until around Christmas, I took Chekhov instead.222 On the other hand, Babička is printed so badly it’s practically illegible, had you seen it you might not have even bought it.223 But I had my instructions.

  I’m only sending the rhymed spelling book to satisfy your immediate needs; first I have to find a good book for spelling and shorthand.

  Did you receive the letter I wrote explaining why the ad was delayed?

  Did you read any more about the sanatorium fire? In any case, Grimmenstein will now become overcrowded and arrogant. How can H. visit me there? After all, you wrote he’s in Meran.

  Your wish that I not meet your husband cannot possibly be stronger than my own. But unless he decides to come visit me—which he will hardly do—it is virtually impossible for us to meet.

  My trip is being postponed a little longer because I have things to do in the office. You see I’m not ashamed to write I ‘have things to do.’ Of course, this could be work like any other; in my case it’s half-sleep, and just as close to death as sleep. The Venkov is very correct. Emigrate, Milena, emigrate!

  [Prague, November 1920]

  You say, Milena, you don’t understand it. Try to understand it by calling it a disease. It’s one of the many manifestations of disease which psychoanalysis claims to have discovered. I do not call it a disease and consider the therapeutic part of psychoanalysis a helpless mistake. All these alleged diseases, sad as they may seem, are matters of faith, anchorages in some maternal ground for souls in distress. Consequently, psychoanalysis also maintains that religions have the same origin as ‘diseases’ of the individual. Of course, today most of us don’t feel any sense of religious community; the sects are countless and limited to individuals, but perhaps it only seems that way from our present perspective.

  On the other hand, those anchorages which are firmly fixed in real ground aren’t merely isolated, interchangeable possessions—they are performed in man’s being, and they continue to form and re-form his being (as well as his body) along the same lines. And this they hope to heal?

  In my case one can imagine 3 circles: an innermost circle A, then B, then C.224 The center A explains to B why this man is bound to torment and mistrust himself, why he has to give up (it isn’t giving up, that would be very difficult—it’s merely a having-to-give-up), why he may not live. (Wasn’t Diogenes, for instance, very sick in this sense? Which one of us would not have been happy, when at last favored with Alexander’s highly radiant gaze? But Diogenes pleaded desperately to let him have the sun, this terrible Greek sun—constantly burning, driving people mad. That barrel was full of ghosts.) Nothing more is explained to C, the active human being; he simply takes orders from B. C acts under the greatest pressure, in a fearful sweat (is there any other sweat that breaks out on the forehead, cheeks, temples, scalp—in short, around the entire skull? That’s what happens with C). Thus C acts more out of fear than understanding; he trusts, he believes that A has explained everything to B and that B has understood everything and passed it on correctly.

  [Prague, November 1920]

  I am not insincere, Milena (although I do have the feeling my handwriting used to be clearer and more open, am I right?). I am as sincere as ‘prison regulations’ allow and that’s a lot; also the ‘regulations’ are becoming more and more lax. But I can’t keep up ‘with that’; it’s impossible to keep up ‘with that.’ I have one peculiarity which distinguishes me from all the people I know, not in essence, but very much in degree. After all, we both know numerous typical examples of the Western Jew; as far as I know I’m the most Western-Jewish of them all. In oth
er words, to exaggerate, not one second of calm has been granted me; nothing has been granted me, everything must be earned, not only the present and future, but the past as well—something which is, perhaps, given every human being—this too must be earned, and this probably entails the hardest work of all. If the Earth turns to the right—I’m not sure it does—then I would have to turn to the left to make up for the past. But as it is I don’t have the least bit of strength for all these obligations; I can’t carry the world on my shoulders—I can barely carry my winter coat. By the way, this lack of strength is not necessarily something to be lamented; what strength would be enough for tasks like these! Every attempt to get through that on my own power is madness and is repaid with madness. That’s why it’s impossible to ‘keep up with that,’ as you write. On my own, I can’t go the way I want—I can’t even want to do so. I can only be quiet; I can’t want anything else, and I don’t want anything else.

  It’s a little as if instead of just having to wash up, comb one’s hair, etc.; before every walk—which is already difficult enough—a person is constantly missing everything he needs to take with him, and so each time he has to sew his clothes, make his boots, manufacture his hat, cut his walking stick, etc. Of course it’s impossible to do all of that well; it may hold up for a few blocks, but then suddenly, at the Graben, for example, everything falls apart and he’s left standing there naked with rags and pieces. And now the torture of running back to the Altstädter Ring! And in the end he runs into an angry mob on the Eisengasse, hot in pursuit of Jews.225

  Don’t misunderstand me, Milena, I’m not saying such a man is lost, not at all, but he is lost the minute he goes to the Graben where he is a disgrace to himself and the world.

  I received your last letter on Monday and wrote you back the same day.

  I hear that your husband wants to move to Paris. Is this a new development within the old plan?