Rogue 4 - Franz Kafka

Franz Kafka, Marielyst, Denmark, 1914

“Germany has declared war on Russia. Swimming in the afternoon.”

– Franz Kafka’s diary entry, Aug 2, 1914

That’s right, this is Kafka. Not what you expected? Perhaps you expected a beetle. Or a hunger artist. You expected someone Kafkaesque, didn’t you? If you’re going to have an adjective named after you, you should at least look the part.

Well, let me introduce you to Kafka the beachgoer.

Franz smiles shyly and extends you a limp hand. It’s so limp that you almost bow to kiss it. Easy now, don’t freak him out. Franz doesn’t yet know how posterity will play out for him.

You try to initiate a conversation on alienation and the futility of flesh, but his eyes keep darting to a pair of curvy sunbathers in sleeveless tank suits splayed out on towels behind you. Finally, he asks if you’re up for a swim.

He is scrawny and has a loping walk. He looks uncomfortable in his body. The sunbathers pay him no attention as he walks by.

Despite an awkwardness on land, he’s a competent swimmer. After striking out into deeper water, he rolls to his back and floats, arms out, gazing up blissfully into the sky. Then, dropping his legs and treading water, he sighs in contentment: “This sure beats the drudgery of insurance law. Or the abyss of writing.”

You seize this opening. You tell him that you too think books should affect us like a disaster. Should wound and stab us. Should be the axe for the frozen sea inside us.

His eyebrows crimp. You have, after all, just quoted from one of his private letters.

“How did you know I wrote that?” he says.

You’re unable to contain yourself: “I know everything about you! I know you think that you’re a failure as a son, as a lover, as an earner… even as a writer. Oh, the irony! No other writer goes from obscurity to such notoriety. A literary industrial complex will be built upon your works!” 

He just treads water, staring at you intently. His silence has a calming effect on you.

“I should add that all this is posthumous. You will die young and unrecognized, essentially unpublished.”

“How do I die?”

“I’m afraid you will starve to death due to tuberculosis at the age of 41.”

“That doesn’t sound that young,” he says.

“Before you die, you will instruct Max Brody to burn your writings.”

“Never too late for some housekeeping.”

“Your father will weep bitterly at your funeral.”

Franz laughs hysterically at this. When he finally recovers, he asks, “And my sisters?”

“They will all outlive you but…” You falter.

“What is it?”

“Nothing, never mind.”

“Tell me.”

“All three of your sisters will be killed in concentration camps. I’m sorry.”

“Killed? By whom?”

“The Nazis. A German fascist party led by Adolf Hitler. He will be responsible for the murder of countless millions of people, including six million Jews. Again, I’m sorry.”

“Countless millions? This Adolph, who is he?”

“At the moment, he’s an artist living in Vienna. But his painting career will fail to gain traction so he changes tack.”

Franz is eyeing you curiously.

“I sound crazy, don’t I? To claim that a failed artist becomes a mass murderer?”

“It’s the only plausible thing you’ve said.” He grins and strikes back out for the shore.

The moment he climbs out, as if out of nowhere, a crowd closes in on him. Journalists press in, shouting questions. Hordes of fans shout his name, thrusting pen and paper at him for autographs. The two young women who earlier ignored him are now on their feet, elbowing other sunbathers who are also fighting to catch his eye.

He looks back at you, his expression now Kafkaesque, then turns to attend to his fame.

He never writes again. After his death, his work and name fade into oblivion.

Franz Kafka. 1883-1924. Insurance bureaucrat. Monstrous insect. Hunger artist. Gleeful swimmer.

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