It is poignant enough to read the letter Kafka intended to give to his narcissistic father, but the grief only amplifies after learning that Kafka, in the end, could not bring himself to deliver this very letter. Families are meant to be a source of consolation, a reminder that there are people who are willing to listen and want for you to succeed. Naturally, thus, a father serves the role of a mentor, a man wiser than you, and who teaches you lessons; Kafka’s father, however, was the opposite of this. Kafka’s father belittled his son, resulting in Kafka feeling insecure not only about his body, but his writing, gestures, and thoughts. Why did Kafka’s father ignore the torture he imposed on his son? Was it done implicitly, to ease Kafka’s father’s torment or was it a brutal, bold assault on a child who just wanted to be loved. I believe the latter to be the case. His father’s smile, as Kafka remarks, was radiant, and had a quality that Kafka became lively as a result. And for a time Kafka found enjoyment in seeing this smile, realizing that even under the cloak of anger, which he knew so well, there was still something precious left — a smile; and yet Kafka, at the same time, believed himself an alien in his family, that his qualities, his stride, his height; — that everything in the world was wrong with him because he was the erratic and book-loving kid. Kafka feels more than alone; he is left only with himself in his ends — and his uncanny consciousness. Kafka in the end remarks that he cannot finish his critique — and reveal the purpose of his letter — because his agony will never end. He is to forever suffer the implications of a childhood that he himself had no control over. Kafka’s abuse, thus, transcends conscious memories, continuing to damage him to this very day.
I have flattered works, have said that one writer supersedes another, but letters, as I see it, embalm a different category of literature, for the pain is actualized, we know the events that have happened are real. It is unsettling to realize that the events written happened, and the immense torture that Kafka went through, the grief, and the silences, amounted to such beautiful works; that despite the incessant pain, Kafka turned something so horrible into works that can be enjoyed by everyone. Usually, by definition, we refer to men as such, ones who convert pain into joy, as artists, but Kafka was a novelist by definition. Yet I believe we have the right to deem him a foremost artist of twentieth-century literature. Kafka transformed the rejection of marriage, the psychological torture of his father, into beautiful works that we, as readers, can enjoy hundreds of years later — and isn’t that the point of all writing? Unknown to all, his works directed to be burned by his editor, Kafka died from tuberculosis, aged 41. Most of Kafka’s works would be published posthumously, gaining him the literary fame and subsequent acknowledgment that he had always yearned for — to be understood. Kafka is perhaps the most studied German novelist of the twentieth century. He turned his pain into ecstasy. And imagine now if we told Kafka, who had undergone so many grievances, that he is loved, and has been loved, wouldn’t that raise a smile on anyone’s face?
Kafka went through a lot. His story intensifies when he details, in the prelude, that his father cannot be blamed, and that the purpose of his interaction with his father is purely cordial, and that he solicits nothing — other than to be acknowledged by the man who ignored him the most. For Kafka’s father, the matter was simple. Kafka was a weak, pitiful creature that lacked the archetypal traits of a “Kafka”. His father was eloquent, while Kafka lacked the confidence to speak up; his father was strong, while Kafka was thin and weak; his father was intelligent, while Kafka considered himself dumb; his father was a leader of the family, a businessman, while Kafka; — could not understand why he existed. Kafka realizes his father’s abuse, but does nothing to stop him — he cannot stop him — and in the end is incapable of standing up for himself, of defending his claim verbally. Kafka cannot approach his father, he understands his imminent destruction, and so Kafka uses the only defense left — writing.
A resounding story that results from Kafka’s childhood is narrated in the letter. Kafka recounts how on one night he begged his parents for water to quench his thirst. He begs and begs, waiting for someone to fulfill his request, and give him water, although he tells that he was not actually thirsty, but wants attention. Kafka’s whining continues. Then his father comes into his room. Kafka grows scared. His father then picks him up, takes him to the balcony, closes the door, and leaves Kafka stranded in the bitter night. The scene is brutal and unsettling. And it is only after, now, in the letter that Kafka tells his real story, that after this brutal night — though the damage was not to be done physically — the psychological damage would be done. Kafka then became afraid of his father’s remorselessness; that his father was capable of doing terrible damage, and possibly enraging himself to harm Kafka worse than he had already done, while Kafka would remain helpless.
In addition, the pace at which the letter is written conveys much of Kafka’s mental state at that moment. Sentences go on for paraphrase and events are narrated sporadically, as if Kafka himself wanted rid letters, so as to remove the burden of recounting the memories. The pace of the entire letter depict the anger which Kafka carries with him, for it is not for a segment of time that Kafka’s father dominates him, but rather the residual effect of his father leaves him, in the present, as a person not able to marry, to live, and to function in society. I felt that Kafka, for most of the letter, was not composed, and one can tell quickly by the aforementioned reasons stated, but also by the personal insinuations Kafka inserts. Once Kafka concludes his letter, for instance, Kafka imagines his father’s reproach and counters it wittily. Kafka replies to his father only implicitly, that his mistrust and morbid anxiety, about marriage, of relationships with people, is a result of his father’s doing. Life is not a jigsaw puzzle, as Kafka states. There are many elements to what goes into life. But Kafka’s final blow comes from the fact that he will not elaborate anymore, that he will leave the past settled, and settle the feud, becoming the bigger man in the situation, while his father will remain the same, abusive, manipulative, and deceiving father.
Who is to blame for such a case, where a clear antagonist is at fault, and his opponent mercilessly swings blows at him? We know the abuser, and we know the abused, but yet the situation becomes more and more ambivalent throughout the letter. Kafka, as it seems, feels remorse that he has to send this letter to his father, as though it would be better for this entity, that he is, to not exist, to be something other than he is. Kafka understands that he will never be the same — that the torture imposed is done, has caused its detriments, and are everlasting scars. But yet there remains in Kafka some yearning for serenity, for a reconciliation, a reconsideration of all that has been wrong, for why, in the first place, would Kafka attempt to write a letter of such emotional magnitude? Kafka places the burden on his father, but decides to keep it from sheer cowardice; he is not able to, in the end, release such a precious part of himself, of his emotions, of his childhood, to his father, who he knows, in the end, will laugh the letter off, and continue to disgrace him. Kafka feels not only inferior in front of his father but incapable of performing actions normally, so while Kafka’s father portrays confidence and the epitome of strength, he is on the other hand feeble. To paraphrase Dostoyevsky, tell a man he is going to die and hang him instantly, he will feel little, but tell the same man he is to die and show him the entire process of setting up the rope and the procedures, and he will surely go mad before even dying. That is Kafka’s burden; he is constantly uneasy about his familial relations, anxious that he will not portray a certain role for his father, and unsure of who is really to blame for who he is. Kafka cannot explain it fully to his reader, he cannot explain it fully to himself, and he cannot explain it all to his father. His flourish of emotions seems vain, but he goes on anyway. He understands that no one will read his works, but he goes on; he has nothing other than writing, it is his final form of art, of expressing the inexpressible. And he knows this. He understands all of his pain — he acknowledges what he writes for — and gives his precious sentiments away to his father. He gives the only thing left in his life away — his writing. In the end, Kafka is left to face the bitter reality of his life, the pitiful position he is in, and that life is suffering, and to find meaning in his suffering, is improbable.
Kafka himself states that the purpose of his writing remains as a form of release from the torment he faced in his life. In The Metamorphosis, for instance, a man named Gregor Samsa, “awaking from uneasy dreams one morning,” is transformed into a massive vermin. Although absurd, Kafka reiterates in the novel his own alienation. In the end (spoilers), Gregor Samsa dies, his death grieving no one; on the other hand, his family grows happy and is happy that the monster, their own son, is gone. Gregor Samsa provided for his family — he worked, while his dad slept — and yet he enjoyed nothing in the end. His father, in the end, is the object of his rage, and after throwing an apple at the poor vermin, Samsa walks back into his room to die shortly after. While Kafka certainly did deal with the sentiments Samsa underwent, it is a message, recounted then in the form of a letter, that depicts the reality, horrible, dreadful reality, of Gregor Samsa. He is alive. He is well. And yet he is a burden to everyone, including his abusive father. His sister gives him hope, his mother is apathetic, he does not have a wife, anyoneto lean on, and yet lives on despite the torment — to die unknown amidst the daily suffering that is life.
“I cannot make you understand. I cannot make anyone understand what is happening inside me. I cannot even explain it to myself.” — Franz Kafka
Stay a winner,
D.P
