Franz Kafka: Up in the Gallery

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Zirkusreiterin: Ernst Ludwig Kirchner, 1913 (Pinakothek der Moderne, München; image by Rufus46, 2008)

If some frail tubercular lady circus rider were to be driven in circles around and around the arena for months and months without interruption in front of a tireless public on a swaying horse by a merciless whip-wielding master of ceremonies, spinning on the horse, throwing kisses and swaying at the waist, and if this performance, amid the incessant roar of the orchestra and the ventilators, were to continue into the ever-expanding, gray future, accompanied by applause, which died down and then swelled up again, from hands which were really steam hammers, perhaps then a young visitor to the gallery might rush down the long staircase through all the levels, burst into the ring, and cry “Stop!” through the fanfares of the constantly adjusting orchestra.

But since things are not like that—since a beautiful woman, in white and red, flies in through curtains which proud men in livery open in front of her, since the director, devotedly seeking her eyes, breathes in her direction, behaving like an animal, and, as a precaution, lifts her up on the dapple-gray horse, as if she were his grand daughter, the one he loved more than anything else, as she starts a dangerous journey, but he cannot decide to give the signal with his whip and finally, controlling himself, gives it a crack, runs right beside the horse with his mouth open, follows the rider’s leaps with a sharp gaze, hardly capable of comprehending her skill, tries to warn her by calling out in English, furiously castigating the grooms holding hoops, telling them to pay the most scrupulous attention, and begs the orchestra, with upraised arms, to be quiet before the great jump, finally lifts the small woman down from the trembling horse, kisses her on both cheeks, considers no public tribute adequate, while she herself, leaning on him, high on the tips of her toes, with dust swirling around her, arms outstretched and head thrown back, wants to share her luck with the entire circus—since this is how things are, the visitor to the gallery puts his face on the railing and, sinking into the final march as if into a difficult dream, weeps, without realizing it.

Franz Kafka: Up in the Gallery (Auf der Galerie), 1916/1917, translated by Ian Johnston, 2009

Franz Kafka: Resolutions

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Eyes (Jewgienij Bal): photo by Anna Bal, 2005

To lift yourself out of a miserable mood, even if you have to do it by strength of will, should be easy. I force myself out of my chair, stride around the table, exercise my head and neck, make my eyes sparkle, tighten the muscles around them. Defy my own feelings, welcome A. enthusiastically supposing he comes to see me, amiably tolerate B. in my room, swallow all that is said at C.'s, whatever pain and trouble it may cost me, in long draughts.

Yet even if I manage that, one single slip, and a slip cannot be avoided, will stop the whole process, easy and painful alike, and I will have to shrink back into my own circle again.

So perhaps the best resource is to meet everything passively, to make yourself an inert mass, and, if you feel that you are being carried away, not to let yourself be lured into taking a single unnecessary step, to stare at others with the eyes of an animal, to feel no compunction, in short, with your own hand to throttle down whatever ghostly life remains in you, that is, to enlarge the final peace of the graveyard and let nothing survive save that.

A characteristic movement in such a condition is to run your little finger along your eyebrows.

Franz Kafka: Resolutions (Entschlüsse), written between 1904 and 1912, from Betrachtung (Meditation), 1913, translated by Willa and Edwin Muir in The Penal Colony: Stories and Short Pieces, 1948

Franz Kafka: Bachelor's Ill Luck

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The Painter's Servant (detail): William Hogarth, 1750-1755 (Tate Gallery, London)

It seems so dreadful to stay a bachelor, to become an old man struggling to keep one's dignity while begging for an invitation whenever one wants to spend an evening in company, to lie ill gazing for weeks into an empty room from the corner where one's bed is, always having to say good night at the front door, never to run up a stairway beside one's wife, to have only side doors in one's room leading into other people's living rooms, having to carry one's supper home in one's hand, having to admire other people's children and not even being allowed to go on saying: 'I have none myself,' modeling oneself in appearance and behavior on one or two bachelors remembered from one's youth.

That's how it will be, except that in reality, both today and later, one will stand there with a palpable body and a real head, a real forehead, that is, for smiting on with one's hand.

Franz Kafka: Bachelor's Ill Luck (Das Unglück des Jungegesellen), written between 1904 and 1912, from Betrachtung (Meditation), 1913, translated by Willa and Edwin Muir in The Penal Colony: Stories and Short Pieces, 1948

Walter Benjamin: Franz Kafka's Left Ear

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Franz Kafka as a young child: photographer unknown, n.d.

There is a childhood photograph of Kafka, a supremely touching portrayal of his “poor, brief childhood.” It was probably made in one of those nineteenth-century studios whose draperies and palm trees, tapestries and easels, placed them somewhere between a torture chamber and a throne room. At the age of about six the boy is presented in a sort of greenhouse setting, wearing a tight, heavily lace-trimmed, almost embarrassing child’s suit. Palm branches loom in the background. And as if to make these upholstered tropics still more sultry and sticky, the subject holds in his left hand an oversized, wide-brimmed hat of the type worn by Spaniards. Immensely sad eyes dominate the landscape arranged for them, and the auricle of a large ear seems to be listening for its sounds.

The ardent "wish to become a Red Indian" may have consumed this great sadness at some point... A great deal is contained in this wish.

Franz Kafka at the age of five, with his favourite horse: photographer unknown, c. 1888

Walter Benjamin: A Childhood Photograph (excerpt), from Franz Kafka: On the Tenth Anniversary of His Death, in Judaische Rundschau, December 1934, translated by Harry Zohn in Selected Writings: Volume Two, 1927-1934, 1999

Franz Kafka / Edward S. Curtis: Divestment (The Wish to Be a Red Indian)

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Sioux Chiefs: very often two or three men would form themselves into a war-party and ride away to be gone weeks or months; sometimes they returned with scalps or horses, or women; and again the war-party, whether large or small, met defeat and none survived to bring back to anxious wives and children the story of the disaster: photo by Edward S. Curtis (1868-1952), 1905, from Curtis: The Teton Sioux: The Yanktonai, 1908 (Northwestern University/Library of Congress)

If one were only an Indian, instantly alert, and on a racing horse, leaning against the wind, kept on quivering jerkily over the quivering ground, until one shed one's spurs, for there needed no spurs, threw away the reins, for there needed no reins, and hardly saw that the land before one was smoothly shorn heath when horse's neck and head would be already gone.

The Scout -- Apache: photo by Edward S. Curtis , c. 1911, from Curtis: The Apache: The Jicarillas: The Navaho, 1910 (Northwestern University/Library of Congress)

Wenn man doch ein Indianer wäre, gleich bereit, und auf dem rennenden Pferde, schief in der Luft, immer wieder kurz erzitterte über dem zitternden Boden, bis man die Sporen ließ, denn es gab keine Sporen, bis man die Zügel wegwarf, denn es gab keine Zügel, und kaum das Land vor sich als glatt gemähte Heide sah, schon ohne Pferdehals und Pferdekopf.

Night Scout -- Nez Perce: photo by Edward S. Curtis , c. 1910, from Curtis: Nez Perces: Wallawalla: Umatilla: Cayuse: The Chinookan tribes, 1911 (Northwestern University/Library of Congress)

Artisan Ch’ui could draw as true as a compass or a T-square because his fingers changed along with things and he didn’t let his mind get away… The fish trap exists because of the fish; once you’ve gotten the fish, you can forget the trap. The rabbit snare exists because of the rabbit; once you’ve gotten the rabbit, you can forget the snare. Words exist because of meaning; once you’ve gotten the meaning, you can forget the words. Where can I find a man who has forgotten words so I can have a word with him?

-- Chuang Tzu (Zhuangzi), 19

Franz Kafka: The Wish to Be a Red Indian (Wunsch, Indianer zu werden), written between 1904 and 1912, from Betrachtung (Meditation), 1913, translated by Willa and Edwin Muir in The Penal Colony: Stories and Short Pieces, 1948

Issa: Spring begins again

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Wild Cherry (Prunus avium) in flower: photo by Benjamin Gimmel, 2004

.....Spring begins again;
Upon folly,
.....Folly returns.

Catkin of a Pussy Willow (either Salix discolor, Salix caprea or a hybrid), Lancaster Country, Pennsylvania: photo by Derek Ramsey, 19 May 2007

.....A time of congratulation, --
But my spring
.....Is about average.

Dandelion (Taraxacum officinale) in spring: photo by Benjamin Gimmel, 2004

.....The spring day closes,
Lingering
.....Where there is water.

River Aire, near the bottom of Gordale Scar, North Yorkshire: photo by David Benbennick, 24 April 2005

.....A little bit of a nuisance,
These flowers blooming, --
.....The sleeping Buddha.

Bed of tulips and pansies: photo by 3268zauber, 27 April 2009

.....The spring rain;
A little girl teaches
.....The cat to dance.

Neoregelia concentrica var. plutonis, with water collection around buds at center of plant typical of the Bromeliaceae family, Botanic Garden, Berlin: photo by Hanson59, 2004

.....In the spring rain,
A beautiful maiden
.....Gives a great yawn.

Neoregelia (Tricolor), United States Botanic Garden: the collection of water typical to the Bromeliaceae family as well as buds within the water can be seen at the plant's center: photo by Appellative, 14 June 2007

.....Spring rain;
The still remaining, uneaten ducks
.....Are quacking.

A mother goose (Branta canadensis) shading her young from the spring rain (goslings don't yet have waterproof feathers): photo by Lucy, May 2007

.....Spring departs,
Rustle, rustle,
.....In the grasses of the field.

Poppy seed field, Toscana, Italy: photo by Jürgen Kopfler, 19 May 2002

Spring begins again (and other spring haiku): Kobayashi Issa (1763-1827), translated by Reginald Horace Blyth, 1949

Empty Boat (Purple Swamphen)

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Purple Swamphen (Porphyrio porphyrio), subsp. poliocephalus, Bueng Boraphet, Nakhon Sawan, Thailand: photo by J.J.Harrison, 4 February 2011

If you can empty your own boat crossing the river of the world,
no one will oppose you, no one will seek to harm you....

Who can free himself from achievement, and from fame, descend and be lost amid the masses of men?
He will flow like Tao, unseen, he will go about like Life itself with no name and no home.
Simple is he, without distinction. To all appearances he is a fool.
His steps leave no trace. He has no power. He achieves nothing, has no reputation.

Since he judges no one, no one judges him.
Such is the perfect man:
His boat is empty.

Purple Swamphen (Porphyrio porphyrio), Singallanur Tank, Coimbatore, Tamil Nadu, India:: photo by K. Mohan Raj, 2009

Purple Swamphens (Porphyrio porphyrio), near Hodal, Faridabad, Haryana, India: photo by J.M. Garg, 2009

Purple Swamphen (Porphyrio porphyrio), near Hyderabad, India: photo by J.M. Garg, 2009

Purple Swamphen (Porphyrio porphyrio), near Hodal, Faridabad, Haryana, India: photo by J.M. Garg, 2009

Purple Swamphen (Porphyrio porphyrio), near Hodal, Faridabad, Haryana, India: photo by J.M. Garg, 2009

Purple Swamphen (Porphyrio porphyrio), Mallorca: photo by J.Dietrich, 2009

Purple Swamphen (Porphyrio porphyrio), Thol Sanctuary, Gujarat: photo by Ravi Vaidyanathan, 2007J

Purple Swamphen (Porphyrio porphyrio), National Aviary, Pittsburgh: photo by Derek Ramsey, 2007

Purple Swamphen (Porphyrio porphyrio), in flight: photo by Dhuvaraj S, 2009

The Book of Chuang Tzu (Zhuangzi), c. 4th c. BC, xx.2,4 (excerpt), translated by Thomas Merton as The Empty Boat in The Way of Chuang Tzu, 1965