I wrested from Kafka nearly everything he published either by persuasion or by guile.
This is not inconsistent with the fact that he frequently during long periods of his life
experienced great happiness in writing, although he never dignified it by any other name
than “scribbling.” Anyone who was ever privileged to hear him read his own prose out
loud to a small circle of intimates with an intoxicating fervor and a rhythmic verve beyond
any actor’s power, was made directly aware of the genuine irrepressible joy in creation and
of the passion behind his work.
If he nevertheless repudiated it, this was firstly because certain unhappy experiences had
driven him in the direction of a kind of self-sabotage and therefore also toward nihilism as
far as his own work was concerned; but also independently of that because, admittedly
without ever saying so, he applied the highest religious standard to his art; and since this
was wrung from manifold doubts and difficulties, that standard was too high. It was
probably immaterial to him that his work might nevertheless greatly help many others who
were striving after faith, nature, and wholeness of soul; for in his inexorable search for his
own salvation, his first need was to counsel, not others, but himself.
That is how I personally interpret Kafka’s negative attitude toward his own work. He
often spoke of “false hands” beckoning to him while he was writing; and he also
maintained that what he had already written, let alone published, interfered with his further
work. There were many obstacles to be overcome before a volume of his saw the light of
day. All the same, the sight of the books in print gave him real pleasure, and occasionally,
too, the impression they made. In fact there were times when he surveyed both himself and
his works with a more benevolent eye, never quite without irony, but with friendly irony;
with an irony which concealed the infinite pathos of a man who admitted of no
compromise in his striving for perfection.
No will was found among Kafka’s literary remains. In his desk among a mass of
papers lay a folded note written in ink and addressed to me. This is how it runs:
DEAREST MAX, my last request: Everything I leave behind me (in my bookcase, linen-cupboard, and my desk Loth at home and in the office,
or anywhere else where anything may have got to and meets your eye), in
the way of diaries, manuscripts, letters (my own and others’), sketches, and
so on, to be burned unread; also all writings and sketches which you or
others may possess; and ask those others for them in my name. Letters
which they do not want to hand over to you, they should at least promise
faithfully to burn themselves.
Yours,
FRANZ KAFKA
A closer search produced an obviously earlier note written in pencil on yellowed paper,
which said:
DEAR MAX, perhaps this time I shan’t recover after all. Pneumonia
after a whole month’s pulmonary fever is all too likely; and not even writing
this down can avert it, although there is a certain power in that.
For this eventuality therefore, here is my last will concerning
everything I have written:
Of all my writings the only books that can stand are these: The
Judgment, The Stoker, Metamorphosis, Penal Colony, Country Doctor and
the short story: Hunger-Artist. (The few copies of Meditation can remain. I
do not want to give anyone the trouble of pulping them; but nothing in that
volume must be printed again.) When I say that those five books and the
short story can stand, I do not mean that I wish them to be reprinted and
handed down to posterity. On the contrary, should they disappear altogether
that would please me best. Only, since they do exist, I do not wish to hinder
anyone who may want to, from keeping them.
But everything else of mine which is extant (whether in journals, in
manuscript, or letters), everything without exception in so far as it is
discoverable or obtain- able from the addressees by request (you know most
of them yourself; it is chiefly . . . and whatever happens don’t forget the