things move around

Kafka is happy!

On my way to the theater I felt well. I savored my innermost being as though it were honey. Drank it in an uninterrupted draught.

But not for long:

In the theater this passed away at once. Orpheus in the Underworld with Pallenberg. The performance was so bad, applause and laughter around me in the standing room so great, that I could think of no way out but to run away after the second act and so silence it all.

Savouring ones innermost being as though it were honey is all very well, for those of us who like honey. I prefer to savour mine as though it were crumpets. Or kedgeree.

23 July, 1913. Kafka is having doubts about his proposed marriage. His observation that “I am incapable, alone, of bearing the assault of my own life” is a palpable score in the ‘pro’ column, but not so fast with the hat, mother: “I hate everything that does not relate to literature, conversations bore me (even if they relate to literature), to visit people bores me, the sorrows and joys of my relatives bore me to my soul.”

Obviously he never tried kite-surfing. 

Franz sums up today’s entry with customary pith: “Nothing, nothing, nothing. Weakness, self-destruction, tip of a flame of hell piercing the floor.” Ouch!

I have a copy of Kafka’s diaries, which exhibit all the self-pity, despondency and earnest aloofness of your average blog. I’m going to post the highlights here. Today’s entry from Kafka’s diary:

22 December, 1910. Today I do not even dare to reproach myself. Shouted into this empty day, it would have a disgusting echo.

We’ve all been there Franz.