Franz Kafka - Letters to Milena (7)

The Talkative Crow reading one of Franz Kafka's letters to Milena.
Dear Frau Milena,
Just a few words, I'll probably write you again
tomorrow, today I'm writing just for my own sake,
just to have done something for myself, just to
dispel a little the impression your letter made on
me; otherwise it would weigh on me day and night.
You really are unusual, Frau Milena, living there
in Vienna where you have to put up with this and
that, and still finding time in between to wonder
that other people-for instance myself-aren't doing
especially well, and that one night I sleep a little
worse than the night before. In this matter my 3
girlfriends here (3 sisters, the oldest 5 years old)
have a healthier outlook, they want to throw me
into the water at every opportunity, whether we're
by the river or not, and not because I did something
mean to them, far from it. When grown-ups
threaten children that way then of course it's all
in play and love and means something like:
Now let's go ahead and say the most impossible
things just for fun. But children take everything
seriously and do not recognise impossibility, they
can fail ten times in an attempt to knock
something over and still be convinced that the
next try will succeed; they don't even realise that
their earlier attempts were unsuccessful. Children
become uncanny whenever their words and
intentions are furnished with the wisdom of an
adult. When such a small four-year-old girl-still
a little baby-bellied, at the same time strong as a
bear-who doesn't seem to be there for any other
purpose than to be kissed and hugged, attacks, and
her two sisters join in on the right and on the left,
and any retreat back is cut off by the railing, and
when the friendly father and the soft pretty fat
mother (standing by the stroller of her fourth) just
smile from afar without wanting to help, then it's
practically all over and it's virtually impossible to
describe how one managed to escape after all.
Without any apparent reason, these sensible or
intuitive children wanted to knock me over, maybe
because they considered me superfluous, even
though they knew less about me than your letters
and my replies.
You don't have to be scared by the "well meant" of
my last letter. It was a time of complete insomnia,
by no means the only such time here. I had written
down the story, this story I have often thought
through in connection with you, but once I was
finished I no longer knew why I had told it, with
all the tension spanning my temples right and left;
besides, most of what I wanted to tell you, as I sat
outside on the balcony, had not yet crystallised in
my mind, and so all I could do was refer to my
basic feeling; even now there isn't much else I can
do.
You have everything of mine which has appeared
except the last book, Country Doctor, a collection
of short stories which Wolff will send to you; at
least I wrote to him about that a week ago.
Nothing is being printed at the moment, nor do I
have any idea what might appear later. Whatever
you want to do with the books and translations
will be fine, it's a pity they aren't worth more to
me, so that in leaving them in your hands I could
really express my trust in you. On the other hand
I am happy to be able to make a small offering
with the few notes you requested on "The Stoker";
this will serve as a foretaste to that torment of
hell which consists in having to review one's entire
life with the knowledge that comes of hindsight,
where the worst thing is not the confrontation
with obvious misdeeds but with deeds one once
considered worthy.
Despite all this, writing really is a good thing; I
am now calmer than I was 2 hours ago outside on
the balcony with your letter. While I was lying
there a beetle had fallen on its back one step away
and was desperately trying to right itself; I would
have gladly helped-it was so easy, so obvious, all
that was required was a step and a small shove-
but I forgot about it because of your letter; I was
just as incapable of getting up.
Only a lizard again made me aware of the life
around me, its path led over the beetle, which was
already so completely still that I said to myself,
this was not an accident but death throes, the
rarely witnessed drama of an animal's natural
death; but when the lizard slid off the beetle,
the beetle was righted although it did lie there a
little longer as if dead, but then ran up the wall of
the house as if nothing had happened. Somehow
this probably gave me, too, a little courage; I got
up, drank some milk and wrote to you.
FranzK